The Dead Saint

by Marilyn Brown Oden

  107

  A gray-haired woman, her two braids twisted into a bun, opened the apartment door without hesitation. Her eyes were red and swollen.

  "Mrs. Darwish?" asked Galen.

  She nodded.

  Lynn remembered her own eyes after Lyndie's death and knew that for Elie's mother the days were endless nightmares. Longing to reverse his death. To give her own life instead. Wondering how and why to go on living. There were moments when Lynn still wondered.

  Galen introduced each of them by pointing and saying their names.

  "Bubba Broussard," she repeated, smiling for the first time.

  "English?" he asked.

  "A little, please," she said modestly. "My sons moved to America. My big surprise for them." Under her breath she added, "Foolish."

  "Not foolish at all, ma'am," said Bubba. "Elie appreciated it. He spoke of you often with great love and respect."

  "Thank you." The heaviness of grief dulled her voice.

  "We are his friends." He circled his hand to include Galen and Lynn.

  "Yes, please. His letters name you, Bubba Broussard."

  She invited them in, and they moved from the institutional green of the corridor to the institutional green of her three-room apartment. The south-facing windows brightened the small living room. Lynn noted the yellow flowers out her front window, dots of hope offered in the midst of despair. Neat and sparsely furnished, the living area took up the front half of the apartment. The back half was divided. The open door on the east side revealed a little kitchen with a table for two. She assumed the other room with the closed door was her bedroom.

  Mrs. Darwish gestured to the two chairs. "Sit, please. I will bring more chairs." She started into the kitchen.

  "I'll get them," said Galen, ever the gentleman.

  Huge and sensitive Bubba followed him, eyes down, stooped by the weight of Elie's mother's incomparable pain added to his own.

  "Tea, please?"

  "No, thank you," said Galen, habitually prone to avoid inconveniencing anyone.

  "Yes, please," Lynn said, knowing that all of them would feel more comfortable if their hands had something to hold.

  Mrs. Darwish looked at Lynn and nodded with mutual understanding.

  While Galen and Bubba shaped a square by adding the two wooden chairs across from the other pair, Lynn offered to help her hostess with tea. As they started toward the kitchen, Lynn noticed a small wall shelf displaying three pictures. She glimpsed the old photograph of a teenage boy and the newer one of a girl. But it was the one of Elie that caused her throat to catch. He smiled proudly in his Saints uniform. She paused. "I am so sorry, Mrs. Darwish."

  "Yes."

  The single syllable emitted an agony that Lynn understood. She shared softly, "I lost a child also. My daughter."

  Elie's mother looked from the picture to Lynn, that terrible hurt in her eyes. Simultaneously, they put their arms around each other in the universal embrace of mothers who know what it is to lose what is most precious.

  In time her trembling ceased. She straightened, gold-bar rigid, and backed up a step. Her gaze aimed toward the apartment door as though someone lingered there. After a moment she looked away. "I am sorry, please," she mumbled with a heavy sigh. "I lost both my sons, only one of them through death."

  As Mrs. Darwish busied herself making tea, absorbed in her thoughts, Lynn stood nearby quite comfortable with their silence together. The space between them was filled with mutual understanding that didn't need words. But Lynn was terribly uncomfortable about the apology she must make regarding Elie's medal. Not now, she decided, putting it off. Tea first. They carried the steaming cups and joined the men sitting across from each other. Lynn sat beside Galen, Mrs. Darwish across from her beside Bubba. A briefcase stood between them. Bubba gestured toward it. "These things were Elie's. They are mementos of honor and important papers."

  "I will see them later, please."

  Lynn marveled at Bubba's gentleness and tenderness toward this woman he had never seen before. He was caring for her as if she was his own mother.

  "Do you have someone to help you with the papers?" he asked.

  "Vikolaj, my son-in-law. I practice English with him."

  Bubba smiled the relief that Lynn felt, glad Mrs. Darwish had someone close. "I wrote you a letter." He placed the envelope containing his note and money on top of the white crocheted doily decorating a small table beside his chair. "You can read it later also."

  But he can't give her the medal, thought Lynn. I didn't protect it. Time to begin the dreaded confession and apology. "Bubba did not know that he would be able to come here to see you. He asked me to bring you something else that was very important to Elie."

  "It was lost from Lynn's pocket," Galen interrupted gently. She realized that he was being kind, not obstinate. There was no need to risk upsetting Mrs. Darwish by saying it was stolen.

  Elie's mother frowned. "Lost, please?"

  "Bishop Lynn couldn't help it," Bubba said with grace.

  I should have helped it, Lynn thought. Somehow. "I am very, very sorry. We wanted so much for you to have Elie's medal."

  "His medal, please?" Mrs. Darwish smiled.

  Surprised, Lynn wondered how she could smile about the memento's loss. Evidently she didn't understand. "He wore it around his neck," she explained, demonstrating with her fingers and feeling terrible. "His name was on the back."

  Mrs. Darwish rose, and they watched her walk stiffly to the kitchen table. She picked up a small box that stood on shiny purple paper, a glossy gold bow beside it. She carried it with both hands, pressing it to her heart. When she sat down with them again, she brushed her hand across the box in a gentle caress, as though absorbing the touch of the one who had touched it before her. She slowly removed the lid. With the reverence of a Catholic for a rosary, she took out something shiny and laid it tenderly on her palm. Still smiling, she held out her open hand. Two amazonite crescent moons overlapped vertically in the center of a silver circle. "You see, please? Elias's medal."

  108

  When Fillmore reported in as directed, the Patriot barely restrained hurling his cell phone across the synagogue. He learned that the elite had the target's destination, courtesy of the taxi driver, and was across the street within clear range. The information spewed hot lava into the tranquil synagogue. It was the address that slammed his world off its axis. His mother's apartment! Oh, Jahweh-Christ-Allah! Lynn Peterson had access to his mother! His mother, who knew too much and was not sophisticated enough to discern when to lie! This visit to his mother eradicated any remaining doubt about justification for killing this wayward bishop.

  No collateral damage, he commanded and punched End. Fillmore would assume it was a cell phone malfunction and go back to his waiting. And now the Patriot must also wait, filled with trepidation until he received word that his nemesis, Lynn Peterson, was dead.

  He rose and paced irately down the aisle, hands behind his back. The medal and his business card lurked in his mother's apartment, ready to expose him. Leaving his card had been a childish gesture of sibling rivalry. See how successful I am, Mother. She might even show it to these guests from America, a proud parent bragging about her son. One little visit could wipe out all his years of meticulous planning and progress for the sake of righteous justice. All put in jeopardy if Lynn Peterson saw Elias's medal and connected it to his shooter and his mother told her it was a gift from her son and showed her his business card. All he'd done—even the termination of his mother's other son—could prove pointless. All lost because of his compassion for his mother, a compassion that had impeded his logic.

  He hated St. Sava with a passion that set his soul aflame. The ancient society had caused the problem originally with their present to him on his sixteenth birthday—the death of his father. The nightmare lingered even after all these years. His father's death cried out for the dimension of justice he valued most: vindictive retribution. He held no vendetta against the Israe
lis who committed the act, but against St. Sava for assigning his father to help the Christian Palestinians, an assignment that cost him his life.

  St. Sava had also caused today's problem: assigning Elias Darwish to discover the Patriot's identity. The kicker should never have been born. His birth had always been a thorn in the Patriot's flesh. He faulted him on two counts: being born and committing suicide by joining St. Sava. He doubted that Darwish had any idea he was tracking his mother's son. "Irony gnaws at life with shark's teeth," she had said. His mother was wise. He had to give her that. What would Darwish have done when he put the last pieces in place, linking the Patriot to John Adams to Adam Ristich and discovering whom he was trapping? Would he have continued and broken her heart? Or backed off? Prudence forced the Patriot not to take a chance. Undesirable but necessary.

  "Justice, and only justice, you shall pursue," his beloved grandfather had taught him from the Torah. He sought justice against St. Sava. Over the centuries the ancient society had always eluded official discovery. The CIA heard whispers, but without concrete evidence they gave its rumors the same level of credibility as the Loch Ness monster. St. Sava was as stealthy and smart as the CIA, but it operated from a code of honor rather than expediency. Honor kept secrets. Expediency sprang leaks. For the first time since entering the synagogue, he smiled. St. Sava eluded the world, but he eluded St. Sava.

  John Adams sat back down, took some deep breaths, and focused on the synagogue's beauty, gradually calming himself. His thoughts turned to his own goodness. Despite his mother's betrayal through remarriage, he still protected her. No collateral damage, he'd ordered. He took pride in being a good son and a good man. Yet this very minute his mother might be learning that he was behind the termination of her other son. He dropped his head in his hands. "How could I bear it!" he cried out in despair. Elias dead was as much trouble as Elias alive.

  109

  You have Elie's medal!" Bubba's voice boomed, thunder ending a drought. He put his arm around Mrs. Darwish.

  Lynn stared, dumbfounded.

  Mrs. Darwish held up the medal and then turned it over. "See? His name, please. My son gave it to me."

  Zeller? Surely not even Zeller could kill his own brother, Lynn!

  "My first son, please. Adam."

  How did he get it? Lynn wondered. Before she could ask, the bedroom door creaked open.

  "Viktor!" said Lynn, astonished.

  He bent to kiss Mrs. Darwish on the cheek. She patted his arm fondly. "This is Lynn Peterson, Galen Peterson, and Bubba Broussard," she said, gesturing to each in turn, carefully pronouncing their foreign names. "They are Elias's friends. And this is Vikolaj Machek, my Milcah's husband. They gave me two grandchildren." A smile broke through the sadness in her eyes. "Vikolaj is more like my son than my son-in-law." Her eyes lovingly embraced him. "My only son now," she muttered, the hurt back in her eyes.

  Their mutual kindness and trust in each other increased Lynn's trust in Viktor. Obviously he hadn't lied about being close to Elie. Maybe everything he'd told them was true.

  OK, Lynn, the little discrepancy in his name—Viktor/Vikolaj—that's understandable. But what about the little episode of scaring you to death at the safe house? Not to mention his little obsession with Elie's data.

  He smiled at Lynn. "Once again Rooster Cogburn meets Baby Sister."

  "Rooster Cogburn?" Mrs. Darwish looked confused but when he did not respond, she didn't pursue it. "Vikolaj was resting, please," she explained. "He has been working hard in Skopje."

  "We know," said Galen affably. "We caused some of it, Viktor—I'm sorry. I mean Vikolaj."

  "I go by either. Viktor is often easier for people. Most of my friends call me Vik."

  "I think you will always be Viktor to me," said Lynn. "Or Rooster."

  He grinned and sat down on the floor, folding his body nimbly into the lotus position.

  "Have you learned anything more today about President Dimitrovski's death?" Galen asked. "Do you still think it was sabotage? Are there suspects?"

  Viktor hesitated, eyeing Bubba, then spoke straightforwardly. "Frank Fillmore is at the top of the list."

  Lynn sucked in air. They'd flown to Skopje on the same plane—even carried on a conversation with the man suspected of killing President Dimitrovski! She felt bone-deep shivers.

  "He has skated above suspicion by governments, but St. Sava has observed that money tends to change his loyalties, and time his identities. We know he often works for the Patriot."

  "Blaise Pascal's words come to mind," said Galen. " 'There is an infinite chaos that separates us. A game is being played . . .' "

  " 'In which heads or tails must come up,' " finished Viktor. "Fillmore is a master player."

  "I don't understand, please. If he does bad things and you know his name, Vikolaj, why is he not in jail?"

  Viktor sighed with resignation. "That happens sometimes, Mother Darwish." He looked at Lynn and Galen. "Zechariah Zeller and the Patriot come to mind."

  "And the long, massive search for Osama bin Ladin," added Galen.

  "We know that Fillmore received clearance to fly to Mostar on the President's plane. He arrived early and apparently had solitary access to the cabin." Enraged, he spat the words. "Then he deplaned at the last minute! Supposedly due to illness!"

  "Vikolaj," said Mrs. Darwish, concern in her eyes, "you are angry, please?"

  He made a visible effort to calm down.

  "Adam was angry today too." She looked longingly toward the apartment door, then lowered her eyes and said desolately, "He blames St. Sava for his father's death."

  Viktor's eyes locked on her as he spoke gently to her in their native tongue.

  "What harm can be done when both sons are . . . lost?" she responded in English, her voice catching on the last word. "My first husband, Iliya Ristich," she explained to the trio, "was a member of St. Sava." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "He died helping them with a mission. My Elias was also a member."

  "I am sorry." To Lynn, death's pall draped Mrs. Darwish's life, setting joy in parentheses.

  "Mother Darwish is speaking candidly and confidentially. I will speak candidly also." Viktor stood and focused on Bubba. "Elie was close to identifying a man he considered—to use his words—the choreographer behind our international dance with death.' He did not risk sending any part of the information before completion because he feared detection. So we have nothing." He opened his empty palms. "All of his hard work is wasted unless we get his investigative results." He bent his head over Bubba and spoke with the power of conviction. "You and I both know he left that information with you."

  Bubba stood also, looking down at the shorter Viktor. "He didn't tell me anything."

  "He wouldn't have talked about it." His eyes narrowed and Lynn saw the ignitable, compact energy that could defend against four men armed with Uzis. "You play games on and off the football field, Bubba Broussard."

  "Vikolaj! Please! Bubba Broussard is Elias's friend. Our friend." She dashed the fire with the soothing waters of five words: "He is my guest, Vikolaj."

  "I am sorry, Mother Darwish. But this is very important to me. So much is at stake." He turned to Bubba. "Let me try again," he said with calm persuasion, gesturing toward Bubba's chair and sitting down again in lotus position. "If Elie began to feel worried about his safety, the procedure called for him to leave the accumulated data with someone he trusted. He would have followed that procedure. I can tell that he chose well in trusting you. Instead of using the name of a person to trust with the data, he would have used a symbol." Viktor pulled out a silver chain beneath his collar and revealed a medal identical to Elie's. "This symbol." He waited, expectant.

  Bubba took a long moment to decide. He looked from Viktor to Mrs. Darwish and back again, then nodded slowly. "Elie did leave something with me that might be helpful."

  Lynn understood Bubba's reaction, but she felt wary of Viktor. She had felt his pain and grief when he mentioned being Elie
's mentor. Not even Tom Hanks could have play-acted it that well. But a moment of sympathy did not automatically mean she bought his story. She looked into the eyes of a shrewd man capable of deceit. But the capacity to lie did not automatically mean his story was false. She glanced at Galen, frowning his own concern. Instead of moving toward a solution, she thought, we are going in circles like trunk-to-tail elephants.

  "Where is the data?"

  "Here."

  A subtle shift crossed Viktor's eyes. "With you now?"

  "I brought it to Sarajevo."

  Viktor exhaled with a whistle of relief. "Well done! Maybe you should join St. Sava, Bubba." It was not clear whether this was a joke or an invitation. "At seven o'clock this evening I am attending a commemoration service to honor President Dimitrovski. It is sponsored by Sarajevo civil and military officials."

  Commemoration service. The end of a life that was bigger than life, thought Lynn.

  "I could pick up the data at your hotel on my way," Viktor suggested.

  "That'll work."

  "If you will excuse me, I need to clean up." Viktor rose and went into the bathroom.

  No need for him to stay longer, Lynn. He's confident he'll get what he wants.

  Viktor went into the bathroom and locked the door, commending himself for the hunch that Elie would have entrusted Bubba Broussard with the data. His leaving New Orleans to join the Petersons here in Sarajevo was a piece of luck. Even luckier was discovering that they were coming to Mother Darwish's this afternoon. Luck plus patient persistence—like bugging the Skopje safe house. Viktor smiled. The discovery had given him time to arrive and plan. As expected, Mother Darwish had helped evoke their trust in him. Viktor felt a sense of urgency to get it. Soon! Very soon!

  He began running water to avoid being overheard and flipped open his cell phone. Bubba Broussard had no idea what power Elie's data gave its possessor! St. Sava would value it in order to discover the Patriot's identity. And to prevent identification, the Patriot would pay an exorbitant fee to get it first.