The Dead Saint

by Marilyn Brown Oden

  Radmila's second piece of information—that President Benedict had arranged to include Lynn Peterson in a call with President Dimitrovski—unlocked the liaison conundrum. How had he missed it? Selecting Lynn Peterson was brilliant—he had to give Benedict that. She had international connections and the capacity to make contacts. She had links to high places and a broad range of associations with all classes of people. He realized that part of the reason for his mistake was that she was a female bishop. His traditional stereotype of women had blinded him. Another reason was that Viktor Machek, his trusted Balkan connection, had cleared her. Did his investigative elite fall victim to the same stereotype?

  He strung together the evidence that indicted her. First, tomorrow's call, though he doubted that it would occur in light of this afternoon's disaster. Additionally, two of President Benedict's emails: Lynn Peterson's forwarded one, via Ambassador Whitcomb, regarding a conversation with Manetti that appeared merely complimentary and innocent; and the President's response to the Ambassador, interestingly not directed to Lynn Peterson, but notable because of her swift reply and another false denial of her friendship with the major. To let Peterson go free for the same action that cost Manetti his life would show partiality. Partiality defamed justice.

  Darwish, Manetti, and now Lynn Peterson. Too many too soon, thought John Adams.

  But the Patriot shrugged. The bottom line, as always, was zero tolerance. Besides, the bishop was guilty of involving herself in governmental affairs—mixing church and state! Nothing galled the Patriot more than an affront to the Constitution.

  He reviewed her travel itinerary obtained by Lone Star. The Petersons would arrive in Sarajevo around noon on Friday. He couldn't risk using Zeller again and giving him too many pieces of the puzzle. Despite his loss of respect for Fillmore, he needed him one more time. He was in Skopje and could easily get to Sarajevo. The Patriot retrieved his secure phone and left Fillmore a brief encrypted message:

  Be at the Sarajevo Airport by noon Friday.

  Wait there for instructions. Come prepared for target practice.

  You have been busy with a weighty Macedonian matter.

  The last line was more than a veiled threat to remove potential reluctance. It was a declaration of knowledge. He owned Frank Fillmore now!

  With a heavy sigh he swiveled his chair toward the bust of JFK, opened the hidden panel, and replaced the secure phone he'd failed to use to save President Dimitrovski—God rest his good soul.

  But it was time to move on. Justice, and only justice, you shall pursue. Retaining the power to do justice sometimes mandated death. Onerous but honorable. President Benedict, kiss your liaison goodbye!

  79

  Lynn looked at her watch and realized they should be hungry. "Let's see if there's anything to eat in the kitchen, Love." Food, the often-sought filler of voids. Their exploration of the kitchen resulted in a round loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, and a sealed carton with a picture of reddish soup on the front. Tomato, she assumed. She took a saucepan down from the open shelf, lit the back burners, and refilled the teakettle—more methodical and mindless tasks. Galen found a couple of bowls and spoons and rinsed out their tea mugs. They ate in front of the TV, staring blankly at the screen. The next BBC update came shortly after 7:30. In the background was a picture of the President boarding his plane, taken from files for a different trip. They listened, stunned:

  The earlier Search and Rescue Team report about finding Macedonian President Basil Dimitrovski's crashed plane and bodies—with no survivors—was inaccurate. At 19:30, an SFOR spokesman denied that the plane had been found. The plane carrying Macedonian President Basil Dimitrovski and his delegation has not—repeat, has not—been located.

  BBC cut to a video of the spokesman's announcement:

  SFOR Search and Rescue teams searching for the plane and the President's remains found no evidence of the crash at the site announced earlier by BiH officials. They have stopped the investigation in that location.

  The next video showed the spokesman for President Dimitrovski's cabinet:

  There is no official report of the fate of President Basil Dimitrovski and his associates.

  The reporter added:

  SFOR has moved the search to other areas on Versnik Mountain. The aerial search is expected to be suspended within the hour because of nightfall and bad weather conditions. Foot patrols will continue, but they are hindered by fog and landmines.

  Lynn and Galen absorbed the news in numb silence. Galen spoke first. "A rescue team found the crash site and the plane's remains in the region of Bitunje," quoted Galen from the earlier report, "and now there's no evidence of the crash at that site!"

  Lynn embraced hopefulness. "But if the President's plane has not been found after all, maybe he's alive!"

  "You're crawling into a cave of denial. The plane fell off the radar screen."

  "Maybe there are survivors."

  "There would have been radio contact."

  "Maybe the radio shattered, Love."

  "Perhaps you noticed that tomorrow's National Day of Mourning was not canceled."

  She gave up. Not on hoping, but on getting Galen to hope with her. Now Gonka Dimitrovska would be hopeful that her husband was alive. May it be so! Lynn wanted to bring her comfort and knew that no one could. She remembered the spacious, grace-filled sea that had kept her own little sailboat afloat despite the storms when Lyndie died. She knew the true Comforter would be with Gonka and help her bear whatever had to be borne.

  The absurdity of the earlier report troubled Lynn less than the delay it caused in a broad search. How could a team report its discovery of plane debris and dead bodies that were nonexistent? What a horrible mistake!

  A mistake, Lynn?

  80

  It was General Thornburg who stood at full command presence in Stolac. "I WANT YOU . . ." In three words, he took control of the bedlam in the improvised headquarters at Stolac. The room went silent. All motion ceased.

  "No, I COMMAND YOU to establish communication with every VILLAGE, every HAMLET, every Gypsy CAMPSITE within a fifty-kilometer radius from here. I EXPECT you to be ORGANIZED, EFFICIENT, and THOROUGH. And I don't care about the weather and the dark! Do you UNDERSTAND me?"

  His fierce eyes circled the room, deliberately intimidating, confident that no one would dare disobey him. "This is your procedure: The circle will be divided into four sections like a clock. Due north is 1200 hours. Each of my four aides will be responsible for a section." They stood at attention.

  "MANZANARES, take 1200 to 300 hours."

  "Yes, sir." He saluted.

  "CARVER, 300 to 600. KAWASAKI, 600 to 900.AWAD, 900 to 1200."

  The aides acknowledged their orders in turn, saluted, and remained at attention.

  Again the general's eyes circled the room. His voice took on a persuasive tone. "The people in this room who know these mountains are the key." His translator stopped spitting his commands and took on a similar tone. "You know the terrain. Your expertise in communicating with the locals is essential. They will trust you." The general swept the room, making eye contact with each man who looked like he knew the area. "YOU are tonight's heroes." He paused. The silence held. The energy in the room began to build. He could feel it. "Move to the officer in charge of the geographic area you know best. NOW!"

  When the division was complete, General Thornburg gave two final orders before leaving the room: "Avoid areas known for landmines. You are to report to me by 2300 hours. GO!"

  81

  Lynn and Galen lay restlessly awake in a strange bed in a now unprotected safe house in an isolated area, their minds muddled by the found/unfound crash-site reports. A thought whispered unrelentingly through her mind: Was it on purpose? "Love," she whispered in the dark, "do you think the false report could have been deliberate?"

  "Why?"

  "I don't know. But it delayed searching for the real site." She thought he would charge her with being a conspiracist. But he didn't. H
e didn't respond at all. She found his silence more discomfiting than the expected accusation. She began to tremble. "I feel we're rowing a little pirogue in the dark on mile-high tidal waves."

  "The storm will end. They always do," he added softly. "You taught me that, my darling Lynn." He saved that phrase for anniversaries and deep moments when words were inadequate. He wrapped her in his strong arms. Held her. Kissed her hair.

  She huddled in his refuge, a still cove safe from the world's stormy seas. Gratitude for him welled up in her heart, leaving no empty space where fear could crouch. Wrapped in the solace and ecstasy of each other's arms, they staved off the nightmare of reality.

  It was midnight when Lynn awoke with a start. The memory of the President's plane descended like an avalanche on a lone skier. The storm had abated, replaced by an eye-of-the-storm eeriness in this remote and unguarded safe house. Careful not to awaken Galen, she reached for her blue silk robe beside the bed. Her toes brushed across the floor for unseen slippers. She felt her way to the bedroom door, puzzled that no light beamed from the lamp she'd left on downstairs. Feeling the wall along the way, she padded through the hall to the staircase. She gripped the banister, each foot groping in the dark for the next step.

  As she neared the bottom, she had an eerie sensation of another presence. She paused. Remembered seeing Galen lock the door and hearing Major Nedelkovski say, "No one can follow our drivers." She repressed her fear.

  She took the last step, then closed her eyes and opened them again, desperate to adjust to the darkness. Shadowy shapes loomed. Black against blacker. She felt for a light switch on the wall but couldn't find one. Her breath came loud in the noiseless night. She held it. Her heart beat like a kettledrum. Picturing the room, she extended her arms to keep from bumping into something and crept forward in cautious silence toward the lamp she remembered on a table. The sense of another presence, like the keen awareness of unseen bats in a dim, dank cave, grew stronger. The sniper's eyes revisited her in full-screen memory. She suppressed a shiver.

  A powerful hand jammed across her mouth. A Rambo arm pinned her back against the man's chest. His chin pressed down on the top of her head. Terror sparked a scream.

  His hand muffled the sound. His palm crushed her nose. Blocked her breath. His mouth bent to her ear. "You must not scream!"

  She recognized the voice. Viktor! The Russian/non-Russian. Who'd crashed the President's coffee. Who'd heard her utter St. Sava. Who'd rushed away immediately. Terrified, she hunkered down in the chain mail of silence.

  82

  As Bubba drove his silver 'Vette to his favorite bookstore in the Quarter, he reran Lynn's email. When he'd first read it this afternoon, he'd felt angry with her for not telling him immediately about the stolen medal. He thought about it as he drove. She'd blame herself for it. She cared more for people than anyone he knew and wouldn't forgive herself for not getting Elie's medal to his mother. And she'd beat up on herself something fierce for letting him down. She probably hadn't told him sooner because she dreaded disappointing him. "I shouldn't have laid that on her," he said into the wind. But he hadn't realized what he was asking. He didn't know then what he knew now.

  The tone of her email bothered him far more than her delay in telling him. "Stay alert. Watch yourself. Imperative to guard words in emails." She wasn't a fearful person and didn't talk that way. But what really disturbed him was that she hadn't risked putting in an email the meaning of the symbol.

  He parked and made a call on his cell as he walked toward the bookstore. "Cy Bill? Bubba here."

  "I've already taken care of your little package, Bubba. Safe and unofficial. For your eyes only. No need to get into the unless part."

  Unless something happens to me, Bubba finished mentally. "I need to talk to you."

  "Do you want to grab a sandwich and call it dinner?"

  "I'd suggest the Acme Oyster House, but we need some privacy. How about a bench at the Moonwalk? I'll pick up a couple of muffalettas."

  "I can be there in half an hour."

  Bubba pocketed his cell as he entered the bookstore and looked for a book on the Cyrillic alphabet and the languages that used it. He found one and looked forward to the challenge. He liked to learn new things. Maybe, like Lynn, he, too, would soon be able to read Elie's name in Cyrillic.

  His mind went back to Lynn's email. He wasn't scared for himself but he was for them. Something had scared her, and she didn't scare easy. No telling what they faced in the Balkans. The unsafest place on the planet right now. Worrying about them was like wringing his hands on the sidelines. He made a decision: here comes Broussard, an army-of-one. First he called Fay Foster at the bishop's office to check out their itinerary.

  "They're in Macedonia, Bubba. In Skopje."

  "Where the President's plane crashed!"

  "Is missing," she corrected. "I guess in the Balkans, they see things like a crashed plane and dead passengers that turn out not to be there! Maybe it's their version of the Easter resurrection story!" She paused for breath. "I tell you what, Bubba, I'll be so glad when the bishop and Dr. Peterson get back home!"

  "Me too. Do you know when they go to Sarajevo?"

  "Tomorrow morning."

  "Thank you."

  "Take care, Bubba."

  He started to call Bishop Lynn's cell and remembered the time difference. Seven hours, he thought. He looked at the world clock on his phone. A bit past midnight. They'd be asleep. Soundly, he hoped. And safely.

  He picked up the muffalettas and joined Cy Bill. They sat on a bench facing the river. Sunlight caught the water like rippling diamonds, and the sky celebrated the day in a sweep of blazing color. Bubba handed Cy Bill the email from Lynn. He read it through twice before speaking. "Do you think she's right about the sniper?"

  "I'd bet a deep-sea fishing trip in the Gulf that he's alive and stole that medal. She knew the mime did the shooting before Chief Armstrong made the announcement. I was at their house that night."

  "Why didn't she report the stolen medal?"

  "Maybe she was afraid she'd be asked how she got it. That would lead straight to me."

  "How did you get it?"

  "Are you off duty?"

  "Absolutely, bro."

  "I removed it from the crime scene."

  Cy Bill's eyebrows went up.

  "The chain broke. I didn't want it to get lost." He swallowed and shoved the words out around the lump in his throat. "I wanted to give it back to him as soon as he . . . regained consciousness." Cy Bill looked away to give Bubba time to collect himself. Bubba dropped a mask over his grief and grinned. "Last I heard, dead men can't steal medals."

  "I know she's reliable. But I've been doing my best on this investigation. If the sniper is alive, why haven't we found something? Anything. It's like he disappeared."

  "Well, he didn't disappear. That . . ." Furious, Bubba said, "Even I can't think of words bad enough for him. And he's still walking around on God's good earth," he ranted. "Stealing things and scaring folks." For the first time in his life Bubba understood how someone could kill another human being.

  "We need to talk to her."

  "I'm planning to call them around midnight. Morning for them. I'll call you about the conversation after I run in the morning."

  "Don't you generally run at six along the levee?"

  "So?"

  "So routines are predictable. They are helpful to people who want to harm us. You might want to vary it, Bubba."

  He recalled Elie's warning. There are people willing to kill for it. The attorney's warning. And Lynn's. Now Cy Bill's. An epidemic of warnings.

  83

  I apologize for scaring you." Viktor Machek lightened the pressure of his palm against Lynn's mouth. "Don't scream. I won't hurt you. If ill-wishers are nearby, I want surprise on my side." He released his hand to turn on the lamp. The sudden light blinded her. He removed his night goggles.

  She saw his briefcase by the sofa and remembered that the palace bomb was in a
briefcase with President Nausner's initials. Panic seized her.

  "Let's sit down." He gestured to the sofa.

  She stepped to the wingback chair instead, farther from the briefcase. He took the chair's twin close by. Too close.

  "You are a remarkable woman. I underestimated you in the beginning. Connecting Natalia's symbol with St. Sava was amazing. You note details and fit them together like working a jigsaw puzzle in a nanosecond."

  She had succumbed to his flattery before. No more. His navy blazer fell open and she saw a shoulder holster against his blue shirt, the black gun handle visible.

  He followed her eyes. "I would never hurt you, Lynn Peterson."

  Right, Lynn! That's why he carries a pistol in his holster and probably a bomb in his briefcase.

  Lynn heard noise from the stairs and turned. Galen jumped the banister. Rushed at Viktor.

  Viktor drew. Aimed. "Halt!"

  Galen crouched for a flying tackle.

  "No!" Lynn shouted. "The pistol!"

  "I mean you no harm!" Viktor held the weapon steady in a two-handed aim.

  Galen paused, still poised to lunge.

  "If I planned to shoot you, you'd be dead now." Slowly Viktor lowered the gun and gestured toward the sofa. "Please sit down."

  "First, give me the gun."

  "You're unarmed! And you dare to demand my weapon!" A twinkle replaced the invincibility in his eyes. "I need to change my image of bishops' spouses."