The Dead Saint

by Marilyn Brown Oden

  "It is safe," stated the general with compelling authority.

  Milosh stared out the window toward the distant treeline and spoke rapidly, getting rid of the words that might in turn get rid of the guilt he felt for being powerless to help the victims: "We picked our way toward the site."

  He glanced at the general, his eyes troubled. "We tried to hurry. But the terrain is rugged, and the storm made it more difficult. We are always slowed by landmines. We have to be careful."

  "Very careful," said General Thornburg as images of maimed children filled his mind. He detested landmines. "The coward's weapon!"

  Milosh nodded vehement agreement. "Finally we reached the treeline. We were so close that we could hear people groan." He paused thoughtfully. "Three, I think. One sounded like a woman."

  His voice caught. "When I heard their suffering, I moved toward them as fast as I could. All of us did. We came to a chasm. On the other side I could see part of a plane wing. We had to climb down and back up again to get across. All the time I could hear the groans. The terrible groans." He paused again, reliving it, as though they echoed in his mind. Perhaps they always would.

  General Thornburg lived it with him.

  Milosh continued. "I heard the second plane before I saw it. Its noise drowned out all the other sounds. I hoped it was a rescue plane, not a war plane. We never know about the planes." He looked away from the treeline toward the general.

  "These are hard times," the general said, encouraging him as Marsh would have.

  Milosh gazed once more into the distance. "A helicopter in camouflage colors flew overhead. I saw it dip to land. We kept going so we could help. Three SFOR soldiers suddenly appeared. They wore camouflage uniforms with French insignias. This is what I don't understand."

  He glanced furtively at the translator and back again at the general, frowning. General Thornburg nodded encouragement.

  Milosh lowered his eyes. "They aimed their guns at us. We explained that we wanted to help, but they refused to let us pass. It sounds weak . . ." He hesitated.

  "Nothing you say shows weakness. It is all very important."

  "I thought they might kill us."

  "If you tried to advance?" asked the general.

  Milosh raised his eyes and shook his head. "No. Even if we turned to go."

  General Thornburg nodded. "Sometimes our inner warnings keep us alive."

  "They argued among themselves. Loud. Explosive. Then one—the leader, I think—shouted at us to return to our homes. He spoke our language, but with a heavy accent. He warned us fiercely not to report anything." Milosh's lips curled into a sneer as he mimicked: " 'It's a matter of national security.' Whose national security?" He fell silent, then shrugged. "We came back to Huskovici."

  The story was over. "Are you sure that is all, Milosh?"

  The younger man hesitated. Once again his eyes darted cautiously toward the translator.

  "There is more?"

  Milosh released a heavy sigh. "That is all that we saw. But," he looked timidly at the general. "I could not get out of my mind what had happened. Their actions made no sense. Later that day I realized something I had not noticed at the time."

  The long pause tried General Thornburg's patience. He remembered Marsh's interrogation style and urged gently, "Go on, please."

  "The soldiers wore French insignias but did not argue in that language."

  "You speak French?"

  Milosh nodded. "Oui, monsieur. I did not recognize the language they spoke, but it was not French."

  The general's mind had been running various plots. Peacemakers make many enemies because war serves self-interests: financial ones for arms dealers and weapons manufacturers, psychological ones for bullies and the power-hungry and the arrogant, political ones for manipulative leaders who use fear to gain votes. A key question was whether President Dimitrovski's death was plotted inside or outside Macedonia. "Milosh, would you recognize the Macedonian language?"

  Milosh shook his head. "I know Bosanski, of course. Serbian, Croation, French. But not Macedonian." His shoulders sank. "I am sorry."

  "To speak four languages is something to be proud of," General Thornburg replied, thinking that Marsh would have said something like that. "Macedonian is only spoken by about two million people." He felt a bit of pride in himself as he saw Milosh sit up straight and lift his chin. He decided it was time to take the interview in for a landing. "I understand some of the villagers heard a blast later and saw smoke."

  "All of us did. We heard it. We saw it. We smelled the smoke."

  Exactly as he had feared.

  "The smoke puffed into the sky like a mushroom cloud."

  "Tell me again, Milosh. I want to be sure I understand. When the President's plane came over, something was wrong with the wing."

  "That is correct."

  "But there was no explosion when it crash-landed? No smoke at that time?"

  "No explosion. No smoke."

  "That came later?"

  "Much later. After the soldiers sent us away." Milosh looked down at his hands, finished. He'd told the story in full, the story of what had happened that should not have happened.

  General Thornburg thanked him, feeling most unthankful himself. President Dimitrovski had been killed—and not by the storm as officials claimed. Someone had deliberately taken the world a giant step toward instability. And the United States government needed to know the details. The problem was that since Marsh's death he had no trust in anyone—on either side of the pond.

  92

  During breakfast Lynn encouraged Mihail to spend his day with the President's family instead of accompanying them for the area church meetings. Gratefully he concurred and arranged for Andrej, a layperson from the Strumica church, to drive them and lead the brief liturgy at the meetings. Andrej was pleasant and helpful, understandably subdued on this Day of National Mourning. The outpouring of grief was as tumultuous as yesterday's storm. Hearts were heavy, and it was good to be with others.

  But Lynn was distracted during the first morning meeting. She didn't know what to do about the phone call scheduled on President Dimitrovski's secure line at one o'clock. She shuddered at the insensitivity of barging in on this horrendous day. She also worried about simply not showing up. Yet, if President Benedict had scheduled the call—a big IF—her caring image precluded the coldness of expecting business to be done as usual in President Dimitrovski's office today. Lynn settled for the default decision of not deciding.

  They were on their way to their second meeting when her cell phone rang. "Hello." Uncomfortable that the conversation in the car ceased, she felt cautious about words.

  Look at yourself, Lynn! You don't trust a nice man like Andrej, highly regarded by Mihail. And you don't even trust Galen with the whole truth.

  "Bishop Peterson?"

  "Yes."

  "This is President Dimitrovski's secretary."

  Lynn could hear exhaustion and grief in her voice. "I remember you, Dimka."

  "There are so many messages! I cannot keep up."

  "This is a painful time, especially for those of you who worked so closely with him."

  Silence. When she spoke again, her voice wavered. "It is very difficult."

  "My prayers are with you, Dimka." She wished she could transmit her care by phone as easily as her words.

  "Thank you. With God's help, I will get through it."

  "Yes." Lynn's one-word affirmation said it all. She heard a voice in the background.

  "Excuse me one moment, please." Muffled words sounded as though Dimka had placed her hand over the phone. "Thank you for your offer, Radmila. But I will care for these messages." There was silence except for the click of heels distancing themselves. "I am sorry, Bishop. Radmila has been here forever. She is always good about offering to help." She sighed, and Lynn wondered if this Radmila was a little too helpful. "I know you and Dr. Peterson were important to the President because he invited you for Tursko Kafe. He loved to do that
. But only with people he . . ." her voice cracked. ". . . he valued as friends." She cleared her throat and shut down her emotions, returning to the business at hand. "A message came here for you, and I want to be sure you get it."

  "How kind of you, Dimka." She caressed her name in lieu of the hug she would have offered had they been together.

  "It has to do with Vini McGragor."

  Lynn's breath caught. President Benedict's note to Marsh had used the codename Vini McGragor. Don't react, she told herself.

  "It came at 8:30 this morning."

  Lynn translated the time—2:30 a.m. for the President. She must have instructed someone to wake her if conclusive information was received about the plane crash.

  "I remember that the message canceled a one o'clock call today. But there is also something about Friday. That's . . . tomorrow afternoon," Dimka added.

  Lynn understood how grief muddles time. "Thank you, Dimka." She fought impatience to get to the point and asked gently, "What is it?"

  "I have it right here."

  Lynn waited for the words, registered the feel of the hard phone against her ear, noted the colors of cars in the traffic, smelled fumes from the old truck ahead, heard the sound of a horn somewhere behind. Alert. Anxious. Remembering to be on guard.

  "It is brief: 'Vini McGragor will call your cell phone Friday, 1:00 p.m.' "

  93

  Unsettled by the phone conversation with Lynn, Bubba had slept little all night. He'd heard desperation in her voice. He volleyed pro-ball epithets for those scaring his friends. But it didn't decrease his rage. A killer tackle would be very cathartic. The bishop was a courageous woman, fearless in taking on the powerful on behalf of the powerless, and behind Galen's scholarly reserve was a quiet force emitting a sonar warning not to mess with his wife. Bubba wondered what had happened that had made Lynn afraid for them. The Petersons were his friends, and he intended to be there for them. His game plan took shape before his feet hit the floor.

  He phoned his sister who, like him, rose at dawn. The best travel agent in the city, she assured him she'd take care of everything and he'd be on a flight to Sarajevo tonight. He loved New Orleans. The Big Easy meant it was easy to get what you needed, no matter how big. A smile here, a call there, sometimes a little financial gift of appreciation. This friendly way of doin' bidness suited him.

  "I'll do it for you," said his sister. "But the Balkans? You've been hit one too many times!" They laughed together. They often did. He loved his sister. "Be careful, little brother."

  "Not to worry." He threw on his togs and walked to the levee for his morning run. It would save time to drive, but he didn't like putting his sweat-dripping body in his shiny silver car.

  After a shower and shave, he folded himself accordion style into his 'Vette and drove to the office of Boudreau Guidry ATietje, attorney-at-law. "I'm heading for Sarajevo," he told him. "I'm going to visit Mrs. Darwish. I'll probably arrive before the things you sent her."

  "That's for sure—it's all still here."

  As expected. "Would you like for me to take it?"

  "Bubba, that would be a super blessing, like pulling a Maine lobster out of the bayou. I've been afraid those goons will come back and catch me with that stuff. And I'm even more afraid they'll catch me mailing it since I . . . left the impression it was already gone."

  "How much 'stuff' is there?"

  "It'll fit in a briefcase."

  "How about you just getting on it? I bet you even have a spare briefcase."

  "I don't know if I have time just now."

  "I bet you can find it. You wouldn't want to contribute to the delinquency of a Saint—I need to answer that security question truthfully about no one giving me something I haven't seen." He added some body language that said, Boudreau Guidry Tietje, Esquire, time out is over. "Don't forget to include Mrs. Darwish's address."

  On his way to his sister's office to pick up his flight packet, the full briefcase in hand, he thought about Elie's mother. He looked forward to meeting her, disappointed that he couldn't give her Elie's medal but glad he could take her the briefcase. It felt right to go there and offer his condolences in person.

  As the wind blew across his shaved head while he drove the 'Vette, he made a mental list of what he needed to take. Tickets and passport. The briefcase. A few clothes. And Elie's flash drive. He didn't know anything about the gibberish on it. But he did know that he'd never go anyplace without it—and he'd never admit, under any circumstances, he had it on him.

  As he pulled into a parking space in front of his sister's office, he called Cy Bill and gave him a brief rundown on his call to Lynn. "All of you are so scared for me, I decided I better go to the Balkans where it's safe."

  Cy Bill offered one piece of advice: "Watch your back, bro!"

  94

  Mihail called Lynn between her afternoon sessions. "How are the meetings going?"

  "Very well, Mihail. The question is how are Gonka and the children?"

  "Gonka is devastated but coping." He muffled a deep sigh. "The funeral is difficult to plan. Not only must protocol be followed, but some people want to use this occasion to promote themselves. The politically ambitious are already competing to take his place." His voice notched up in anger. "As though someone can take his place!"

  "I'm glad Gonka has you for support, Mihail. Please tell her that we have been holding her and the children in our prayers at each meeting today. Thank you for the liturgy you prepared. It has been very helpful."

  "Good. Agent Nedelkovski," his voice became businesslike as though he was shifting to the purpose of his call, "asked me to give you and Galen a message. First he deeply apologizes for neglecting you."

  "We understand!"

  "He thought you would. He knows Andrej is driving you and is glad you are in his hands today. Andrej works for Agent Nedelkovski for special security details."

  "I noticed that he seems watchful of our surroundings."

  "Agent Nedelkovski said Viktor Machek offered to drive you back to the safe house and stay tonight since you have no security. Machek told him that the President had given him the location."

  Another lie from Viktor—not surprising. She remembered his explanation last night: I followed your driver here. She didn't want to alarm Mihail, however. He had enough pecans to shell. She realized that he had called Viktor "Machek," the first time she'd ever heard him refer to anyone simply by the last name with no title. She read disrespect into it. Perhaps unfairly. But perhaps not. Maybe he resented Viktor's intrusion into their coffee together in the President's garden. Or didn't approve of his rude interrogation. Or didn't trust his abrupt departure after she identified the St. Sava symbol. Or maybe she was taking leaps into fantasy.

  "He will come for you following the dinner meeting. He has to leave very early in the morning. Agent Nedelkovski trusted me with the safe house address, and I will take you to the airport tomorrow." Mihail paused. "Bishop Peterson, please call me at any time tonight if you become concerned. About anything. Whatever the time."

  "Thank you, Mihail, but there is no need for worry."

  "I will keep my cell phone on and nearby."

  "Galen and I will continue to pray for you and the President's family."

  That night in the safe house Galen fixed coffee for Lynn, Viktor, and himself, all of them bruised by grief. They kept their conversation cordial, their voices gentle. Viktor held his cup with both hands, gazing silently into it as the clock struck nine. Then he raised his eyes to Lynn. "You asked about St. Sava, and there wasn't time this morning. I will tell you the story now." His tone was reverent. "It began here in Macedonia over a thousand years ago, when the Orthodox Christians suffered from religious and political oppression. Ten young men came together to form a secret brotherhood to help them. They called it the Society of St. Sava."

  "Why St. Sava?" asked Galen.

  "He was their patron saint."

  "Which one?" When Viktor hesitated, Lynn orated in the tone s
he'd learned from listening to Galen's history sketches. "The first St. Sabbas—or Sava in Slavic—was a Cappadocian who fled to Palestine in the fifth century and founded the Mar Saba monastery in a mountainous desert between Jerusalem and the Dead Sea. It's still active."

  What a show-off you are, Lynn!

  Undeterred by Ivy, she continued. "Seven centuries later, another St. Sava founded the Serbian Orthodox Church, promoted education, and built many churches. He was a diplomatic statesman as well as a skillful archbishop, and he wove together Serbian religion and nationalism." So, Viktor Machek, she thought smugly, don't expect lies to cut it! We're not interested in another of your tales!

  "Once again I underestimated you, Baby Sister."

  She didn't confess that the only other saints she knew much about were the New Orleans Saints.

  "To answer your question, the Society's patron saint was the first St. Sava. The second one joined the Society before becoming a monk."

  He's full of it, Lynn.

  "Eventually the Orthodox Christians moved from oppressed victims to oppressing victors." He looked at her. "Power corrupts, even in the church."

  "We can't disagree with that observation," Galen replied.

  "St. Sava, under oath to use its power on behalf of the powerless, began assisting all persecuted Christians. Catholic and Protestant as well as Orthodox. Over the centuries, St. Sava cells have protected various religious branches from each other—different ones at different times."

  St. Sava cells, Lynn. Is he talking about equal opportunity terrorism?

  "During Hitler's reign, St. Sava recognized the plight of the Jews and reached out to non-Christians for the first time. More members of the brotherhood were killed helping Jews escape than in any other endeavor in its history."

  Lynn strained to discredit the story. But she found nothing in his demeanor that gave her reason. No averting his eyes. No twitch. No stammer.

  He deceived you on the plane, too, Lynn. Remember his Russian act?