The Dead Saint (12 page)

on Monday Morning a groggy Lynn opened her eyes and tried to remember where she was. Ah, Vienna! A beam of sunlight filtered through the lace curtains of the hotel room. Intricate shadows fell in a pattern on the wood floor, duplicating the lace. She glanced at the dual-time travel clock. Her first mistake of the day—midnight in New Orleans, seven here. The conference began at nine. She reached over and tenderly touched Galen, who sat on the edge of the bed staring at his slippers, trying to wake up.

Drawn by the sun that overcame yesterday's darkness, she went to the window and pulled the curtains apart. They framed a dazzling morning sky, cloudless except for drifting wisps arcing behind jet planes. "It would be lovely to take a quick walk and watch the city wake up."

"Let's go." He abandoned meticulous appearance for running togs. She skipped makeup, trying to beat him dressed. But donning the waist wallet with the President's letter slowed her down. The President's letter. Before, she'd at least known its destination. Now she didn't know what to do or where to turn, sure only that being its courier made her responsible for it. The burden bent her with anxiety. They avoided the elevator and took the two flights of stairs to the ballroom level and another to the lobby. Not a phobia, Ivy, just good exercise.

The charming area around the hotel invited a stroll, but time ruled. Lynn set a power-walk pace for herself to keep up with Galen's long legs. The scent of flowers in small gardens and second-story window boxes wafted through the morning air. Workers swept sidewalks in front of stores. Some washed doors and windows. The water splashed on the old, uneven walkway and ran in crooked lines toward freedom. Lynn and Galen followed the ancient way of the fortress moat along the Graben toward Kärntner Strauße. Shops in ornate buildings from far-off centuries spanned both sides of the street. The Pestsäule stood in the center, an old pillar that still mourned the devastating plague in the seventeenth century.

"Do you know what today's plague is, Love?"

"No," Galen grinned, "but I bet you're going to tell me."

"A malaise of the spirit."

He sobered. "And just as contagious."

She looked at her dual-time watch. "Elie's funeral is at St. Mark's this morning at ten. Five, actually, Vienna time."
Elie.

He took her hand. "I wish we could be there."

"Me too. But we'll be there in spirit. Maybe we can say a prayer while it's going on."

"I brought a CD of the Olympia Brass Band. Afterwards we could kick up our heels a little with our own New Orleans second line."

She smiled. "I wonder what the Viennese would think of dancing in the street in a second line. I love New Orleans! I already miss it."

Galen pointed to the date on the old plague pillar. "Built in 1687. On our side of the globe that year, we had the story of the Charter Oak. England had consolidated the colonies into the Dominion of New England. The governor demanded the Connecticut charter, but Captain William Wadsworth prevailed. He hid it in a hollow oak tree."

She enjoyed hearing him connect historical timeframes. "New Englanders can be as stubborn as a rose stem clinging to a bush." She looked with appreciation up and down the ancient street. "These old monuments remind me how young our nation is."

"Perhaps that explains the adolescent arrogance of some politicians."

"Some bishops too." She meant it as a joke. Sort of.

"Are spouses exempt?"

"I wish, Love!" They hurried on to St. Stephen's Cathedral and stopped, fascinated by the multicolored roof-tile mosaic that formed the coat-of-arms. "I think I saw this roof from the airplane window but couldn't make out what it was."

Galen gestured toward the Stephensturm nearby. "Vienna's major landmark. One of the greatest achievements in Gothic architecture. I'd bet an entire fortune of one euro that President Nausner will mention it this afternoon."

She craned her neck to follow the lines of the 450-foot tower. Suddenly she felt an uneasy déjà vu sensation of being watched, as at Café du Monde. She thought of the man wearing sunglasses in the mist at Lueger's statue, and her fingers brushed her waist wallet. She looked around warily. An eerie thought prowled through the shadows of her mind: seeing the mime's cold gray eyes here in Vienna—or not seeing them as they watched her standing here. She felt centipedes crawl on her skin and shuddered.

"Are you cold?" asked Galen.

"No. But I think it's time to get on back," she said as she power-paced away. This is ridiculous, she told herself. Be logical.

Logic has its limits, Lynn.

Zeller stood at his apartment window and took a sip of coffee. In the distance a man whose height made him notable stared up at the Stephensturm. He stood at least a third of a meter taller than the woman beside him. An image tugged at Zeller's mind. Deciding to get a close-up view, he smashed his cigarette stub in the ashtray and removed the false panel in the wall. He opened his rifle case, took out the scope, and returned to the window. The woman from New Orleans! Again! And the tall man who had followed her off Manetti's plane. Her husband, he assumed. He remembered noticing her wedding ring on the streetcar in New Orleans. She did not seem the type to go gallivanting around the world with someone besides her husband.

He watched the couple for a few moments before they turned and left at a quick pace. Both their pace and lack of a camera distinguished them from the ambling tourists. He stored the man's face in his mental file beside hers. Never to be forgotten.

After pouring another cup of coffee, he sat down at the table to read Vienna's
Österreich Journal.
Most people read newspapers for pleasure. He read them for research. Broad information and small details ensured a contract completed with his success and survival. As he flipped to the second page, the woman gazed at him. Stunned, he read the caption: Bishop Lynn Peterson opens International Conference of Bishops with keynote address. He stared at her picture, a backdrop for his startling thought: I picked the pocket of a bishop!

A
woman
bishop? Perhaps only men are bona fide, he reasoned, cautious about getting on the wrong side of any god that might exist. It was not superstition. No. But he needed all the luck he could get.

He also needed every piece of background information
Mutter
could give him. He patted his computer.
Mutter
and
Freund.
What other friends did he need!

He began a thorough search. Frau Peterson was indeed a bishop, one with many credits. Yet he could not get his mind around her title. He assumed that a bishop's profession was made up of extreme fundamentalists. Ergo easy targets for manipulators. Ergo unwitting allies of the corrupt. Ergo a dangerous group. Simply convince them that you speak for their god and you can get them to silence their doubts or even support your aim: Spread hate. Steal land. Take lives
en masse.
It seemed to him that whatever their professed religion, people could excuse any act if they based it on the belief that it is for their god. Not so with his elite profession. Aces didn't
worship
gods; they
were
gods, holding the power to bring death or permit life at their will. His thoughts trailed again to
Frau
Peterson and her kind face on the streetcar. He had not seen the traits of a demagogue in her. No. Besides, he didn't like bishops. She would remain Frau Peterson to him.

Her husband was Galen Lincoln Peterson.
Mutter
found him: Ph.D. in history, professor at Tulane University in New Orleans. His record, like hers, included many outstanding credits. He read carefully through all the details. Thank you,
Mutter.
Now he knew everything he needed to about this tall man who had appeared twice in his life and might be his enemy.

The international conference explained Frau Peterson's presence in Vienna. But what about Herr Peterson? Was he simply her traveling companion, or did he have his own agenda? Could he have been on Manetti's plane because of a connection with him? Did they work together on something that ran counter to the Patriot's interests? If so, one of these days the Patriot would raise one eyebrow and speak Peterson's name to Zeller with a gossiping tone, contracting
the biggest surprise of his life.
Like Darwish and Manetti. But he would not share these suspicions of a Manetti-Peterson partnership with the Patriot. No. He took a sip of coffee. My aim is for hire, not my mind.

Galen Peterson's presence near his home agitated him. Was he observing the apartment instead of admiring the Stephensturm? Did he see me watching out the window? Is that why they left abruptly? Is he after me? If Peterson knows where I live, maybe I need to change locations. No! You terminate insects! You don't let them drive you away!

He warned himself not to become paranoid and shoved his dangerous anger back into his mental cooler. Perhaps everything related to Galen Lincoln Peterson was happenstance. Yet caution required him not to risk discovery.
Freund
and I will not act yet.

Time will tell,
Mutter.
Time will tell.

After the bishops' meeting and luncheon Lynn, agitated, rushed into the hotel room.

"What's the matter?" asked Galen.

"We spent the morning listening to reports from all around the world. Most of them troubling. Something is not right, but I can't put my finger on it." She glanced at her watch and abruptly changed the subject, along with her blouse. "We have to hurry. President Nausner's aide wants two bishops and spouses from each continent to be first in the greeting line at the reception."

"I take it you were selected for North America?"

"And Booker, of course. Government cars will take us to Schönbrunn Palace ahead of the buses. We're to meet in the lobby in ten minutes." She attached her clerical collar to her shirt of traditional episcopal purple and glanced at Galen. He wore his gray suit, a red tie, and silver cuff links. She smiled at him. "You look sharp."

"Thought I'd move upscale from running togs."

"We'll need our passports and the invitation. The Austrian government ran checks on everyone, and we received security passes this morning."

He grinned. "I hope none of the bishops failed."

"It's the spouses they'd better worry about, Love."

He smoothed his shirt and checked the points of his handkerchief. "I'm looking forward to President Nausner's reception this afternoon—one of the perks of being married to my esteemed wife."

"I'm glad Will invited us to dinner tonight. It'll be fun to see them again."

"Ambassador Whitcomb," he said, trying out Will's new title. "It's comforting to know someone with integrity has that position."

"Do you think it will change him? Power can do disappointing things to people."

"Like bishops?"

"For some of us, all the time." She added pensively, "For all of us, some of the time."

He put his arms around her. "What saves you from power's seductive force is that you don't have a need for external power."

He'd never said that to her before. The compliment touched her. She reached up and ran her palms down his beloved face. Gratitude for the gift of their marriage welled up like a river overflowing its banks. Tears came to her eyes. The world always felt safer and gentler with Galen's arms around her. She savored the moment. And like all moments, it passed and another one rolled in to take its place.

They went to the lobby via the stairs and joined the Phillipses while waiting for the car. "Booker, what did you think about the bishops' reports?" Lynn asked, skipping small talk.

"A world conference is complex because of different languages and cultures."

"I know," she agreed. "Generally I don't pay much attention to isolated incidents. But hearing all of those reports together puts our global situation in a different perspective."

Booker looked thoughtful for a moment. "I see what you mean. They have a cumulative impact."

Sylvia joined in. "Conferences like this help people feel the pulse of the Earth."

Galen nodded. "And an opportunity to direct history, at least in a small way."

"As I listened, I wondered if we are spinning subtly toward global chaos." Lynn heard Vice President Parker's words in the limo echo in her mind: Heightened chaos and conflict. Breaches of trust at high levels. Her hand automatically touched her waist wallet, the tic returning with her anxiety. The boomerang envelope for Marsh with NATO was safe. For now. She must let President Benedict know she'd retrieved it. But how?

The Patriot focused on the six TV channels on the large screens on his office wall. At any moment he expected breaking news about the bomb he'd had planted in Schönbrunn Palace. He envisioned the rush of reporters in a glutted field, competing for the most sensational story. As always, some would run slipshod over ethics. Some would play the blame game. Some would use a religious spin, pitting faith against faith. He could count on them to spread fear and chaos like little tin soldiers, their strings pulled by the master puppeteer. I'm always the puppeteer, he thought smugly, never the puppet.

He checked his watch, disappointed, and pushed the TV remote to clear the wall screens. He could not be late to an advisory meeting on the economy at the White House. He had valuable experience and strong opinions in that area and wanted to use them to benefit his beloved country. Perhaps the bomb news would break at the session, and he could observe President Benedict's reaction.

After Thursday's fiasco at the Inner Circle, John Adams brought his full charm to the table. He had to admire the President's uncanny capacity to listen carefully, attentive to word choice and its revelations about the speaker. Always cautious about his language, he was exceptionally so in her presence. She seemed to hear all the way down to the soul. He couldn't afford that! Neither could he afford a repetition of dropping his mask, so he was doubly cautious to keep his face and eyes guarded.

He faked an interested smile when others shared their ideas, nodding appropriately while half-listening. His mind wandered to the Internet craze of first-gentleman jokes. They went from unfunny to unkind. As much as he disliked the President, he considered publicly trashing anyone in the presidential family to be disrespectful to the office and the country. In truth, Miles Benedict deserved better. John Adams had to give him that.

At any moment he expected the dramatic delivery of a message to President Benedict about a bomb in Schönbrunn Palace. She would unfold it. Read it. Share it aloud. Her words would jolt the group. He would feign shock and consternation. Spurious but necessary.