The Dead Saint (14 page)

As the meeting in the Oval Office continued, John Adams made excellent contributions to the discussion of the economy. BarLothiun gave him good experience, and he was pleased to share it for the sake of his country. He kept his composure intact despite his agitation regarding the lack of news about the Schönbrunn Palace bomb.

His sense of justice ruled out the loss of innocent lives. Death wasn't his objective at the palace. Since the 9/11 tragedy, bombs didn't have to explode to create a news frenzy that spiked fear. The palace bomb merely had to be found. He'd given his bomb specialist, Frank Fillmore, a directive with a twist: build a bomb that can't detonate but whose flaw must appear to be accidental, then get it inside Schönbrunn Palace. He had total confidence in Fillmore's ability to build it as instructed and figure out how to breach security. The guards were apt to consider bishops a safe group and soften their procedures. He was also confident that President Nausner's personal security team, perpetually on high alert, would discover it. Natural consequences would follow: The rapid removal of President Nausner. The frantic announcement. The terrified audience ordered to evacuate. Afterward the bishops would simultaneously carry their stories back to their various worldwide homelands, like a scattergun spreading personal stories that put a face on terror.

The Peterson factor continued to bother him, and he trusted his instincts. She had both opportunity and cover as a bishop. Opportunity did not prove action. But lack of proof of action did not prove inaction. Zero tolerance. The major was dead. Should the bishop follow?

No rash decisions! He needed more information. Life is precious.

He peeked at his watch and did the time-zone math. The news should have broken long before now. He itched to excuse himself and contact Fillmore, an itch that had to remain unscratched. Had the bomb specialist failed? Impossible! But something had gone wrong.

And he thought he knew what. The impact of a violent act or threat is not ultimately determined by the act itself but the reaction. A leader's response diminishes or intensifies fear and instability. He would bet a sum equal to BarLothiun that Fillmore successfully planted the faulty bomb and the security team found it. But President Nausner had frozen its impact by keeping the whole episode out of the news. The Patriot had gained nothing. All of that planning, risk, effort, money for nothing.
Nothing!

Unacceptable! Beneath his charming mask he seethed for revenge.

On Monday evening, following the Schönbrunn Palace reception, Ambassador Will Whitcomb stood at the open door of his home, the personification of hospitality. His hair matched the silver rims of glasses that framed hazel eyes without guile. He wore a navy blazer, gray pants, blue oxford shirt with a button-down collar, and a striped tie. The bishops also wore ties—it was not a color-purple evening. Will and Galen greeted each other warmly, their college camaraderie unbroken by the years. Anne, who held a Ph.D. in Korean studies, stood at Will's side. A petite woman, she wore an elegant black dress with a single diamond pendant at her throat. Her ash blonde hair was swept upward in a French braid. Most striking to Lynn was Anne's diligence to look for the good in others.

Anne and Lynn greeted each other with a silent hug, needing no words. But the moment stung Lynn. Their last hug had been at Lyndie's service three years ago. Lyndie's service.

Don't go there, Lynn.

"Can you remain after dinner?" Will invited softly. "We could catch up."

They nodded and moved on so the Whitcombs could continue to greet the line of guests. They crossed the foyer over colorful peacocks woven into the luxurious oriental carpet and entered a spacious room with dark paneled walls. People mingled with one another, greeting old friends and meeting new ones. Sparkling goblets and fancy hors d'oeuvres eased the social need for something to hold. Conversation filled the area like lively music in surround sound, bass to soprano.

Jeff James held court in the corner. His gaze circled the room like a searchlight scoping the social sea. He rode Roman-style around the arena on twin horses of arrogance and criticism, content to let opinion rush in to fill the void of wisdom. Only his wife, Tiffany, appeared to listen, her eyes fixed on him in an adoring gaze.

He's toxic to me, thought Lynn.

Because he personifies the pompous, self-aggrandizing stereotype of bishops, Lynn?

Probably so, Ivy. It hurts us all. Yet Lynn had sympathy for him. He reminded her of a little three-year-old who tugs at a coattail for attention and approval. As we all do at times, she admitted. Self-importance is an equal-opportunity dysfunction.

Anne led everyone into the dining room. Large windows ran along the back wall, draped in pale yellow to match the carpet. White votive candles marched down the Battenberg tablecloth with pastel petals scattered among them. A colorful bouquet graced the center of the long table, and crisp white napkins folded into bishops' miters stood at each place, a gesture typical of Anne. Place cards in calligraphy showed Jeff James directly across from Lynn. Thanks a lot, Anne.

Running for God's prosecutor are you, Lynn?

Ouch! Time to judge him less and like him more.

After Will said grace, the four-course dinner began with cold prawns in a zesty cocktail sauce. Jeff tried to dominate the table, but Will deftly broadened the monologue when Jeff paused for breath. "Bishop Phillips, what did you think of President Nausner's address?"

"He received a standing ovation, Mr. Ambassador. Rare for our group." Booker's smiling eyes darted to Lynn. "Except, of course, when Bishop Peterson speaks."

She brushed
off
the compliment with a smile and a shrug. "Last night everyone just needed an excuse to stretch after sitting so long."

Praise for the President's address and the reception and comments about the international conference lasted through the second course of delicately seasoned asparagus soup. The aroma of a special Viennese chicken dish on well-presented plates slowed the conversation.

"This is a perfect dinner, Anne," said Sylvia. Everyone raised a glass, and Booker offered a toast.

Jeff cleared his throat. "Speaking of perfection, I wonder if John Wesley knew how close he was to Zen and Taoism when he stressed the process of going on to perfection instead of stressing perfection itself."

Way to go Jeff, thought Lynn. Always trying to impress us.

Judge him less and like him more. Was that it, Lynn?

Ouch again.

"I appreciate the common ties of the great religions," said Booker. "As Bishop Peterson stated last night, we do not grasp God. We merely glimpse God. It is good to be open to others' glimpses."

Sylvia nodded. "Lynn reminded us how many things influence our glimpses. Like culture."

"Formal education and informal instruction," added Jeff.

"Don't forget our values," said Tiffany.

Other words popped up around the table.

"Customs and traditions."

"Our family."

"Our opportunities."

Our losses, thought Lynn. She hadn't included that one last night. She felt Chris Nyangoma's eyes upon her and glanced at him. He was here as Bishop Ntaryamir's representative, and she hadn't met him until tonight. He looked bored.

"It takes time to become aware of the power of these influences," said Jeff. His bravado in check, he sounded almost wistful. "And even longer to free ourselves from those that fetter us."

His sincerity rang the doorbell of appreciation for Lynn. Maybe there's hope for me yet, Ivy. Her mind wandered to the President's letter. As an ambassador, Will might have personal access to her. Lynn was glad they were remaining after dinner and wondered how to approach him. More than fellowship was at stake.

After the long jazz funeral ended and things settled down into what passed for normal in New Orleans, Bubba and Cy Bill took a walk by the river. The wind danced with the waves, and sunbeams kissed the ripples. Bubba glanced from the water to his friend and saw the frown on his brow, the worry behind his eyes. Was it the loss of Elie? Or something else? "What's the trouble, Cy Bill?"

"I'll take that as an offer to listen." He hesitated. "I need to get something
off
my chest."

"Ol' Bubba is a safe haven." He ambled along beside Cy Bill, waiting silently, as Lynn and Galen would.

Cy Bill watched the waves for a few moments. When he spoke, it was like the whisper of the pine trees. "Chief Armstrong was pressured to close Elie's case. They cut
off
the investigation too soon."

"The man they found dead—he isn't the sniper?"

"The chief is a politician and understands that the city economy depends on tourism. It's growing but still isn't what it was before Katrina. A Saint's murder makes national news and tourists won't come unless they feel secure. The case needed to be solved."

Anger shot through Bubba. "He stopped the investigation of Elie's murder because of
tourism?"

"That's what puzzles me. He will please and appease up to a point. But—"

"I thought the chief stands for justice."

"Always. And Francine Babineaux got his attention. She suggested that the surface clues add up all right, but they make things too simple and leave some questions unanswered."

"I'm with Francine, Cy Bill. A man smart enough to shoot him and get away isn't going to be careless enough to get himself killed the same night."

"At first the chief was proud of that quick result, but now he isn't as sure as he was. He asked me to work on the case covertly."

"
Covertly!
I can't see him getting the trembles when someone puts a little pressure on him."

"There are only two forces I can think of powerful enough to send him underground. A vicious Mafia threat intended to cower him—but the chief doesn't cower. So it must be an entity more powerful than the FBI."

Bubba thought about the careful search of his condo while the FBI detained him. Nothing displaced. But someone had been there. Like Lynn said, you can just feel that kind of invasion. Maybe it wasn't the FBI as he'd thought. "What would motivate your mysterious
entity?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out. Francine agreed to help me."

"You can count on me too, Cy Bill. I'll do anything you ask."

"Thanks."

"I may even try a little sleuthing on my own."

"You stick to linebacking, Bubba," said the former quarterback. "I'll carry the ball."

Lynn and Galen slouched comfortably in the den. The men sat in mocha leather chairs, the women on the settee upholstered in a complementary plaid. The cozy room invited conversation rather than inhibited it. Lynn noticed she felt nervous about asking Will to be a communication channel to the President. Contrarily she felt tempted in this comfortable setting with these three trustworthy people to unload the whole story from envelope in the limo to retrieval at the hospital. But as long as the secret stayed with her—and only her—it couldn't ripple and end up where it shouldn't. Her silence was necessary to protect the President.

Right, Lynn. The President of the United States of America needs your protection! A little case of vanity, is it?

Ouch. Ivy was good at delivering ouches. But Lynn chose to keep her promise to Vice President Parker.

Anne lifted the Wedgwood teapot from the silver tray. The amber tea poured from spout to cup like a small fountain replaying the ancient melody of liquid meeting porcelain.

"The golden elixir," said Lynn, its fragrance carrying her mind from anxiety to the beauty of the mundane. "According to tradition, the golden elixir was first presented to Lao Tse, the founder of Taoism, at the gate of Han Pass—five centuries before Christ."

"Surnamed the Long-Eared," added Galen.

Anne wrapped her fingers around her cup. "If we're playing Wikipedia, Okakura Kakuzo called tea 'the cup of humanity.' " She looked at Galen, her eyes amused. "Cited in
The Book of Tea,
Dr. Peterson, written over a century ago."

He smiled and raised his cup to her.

"Tea taught me my primary lesson as an ambassador." Will grinned at their puzzled faces. "Marco Polo records that a Chinese minister of finance was deposed in 1285 for augmenting the tea taxes. Half a millennium later in Boston, as we learned in elementary school, England also levied a heavy tea tax. It cost them the Colonies and we gained a country. People get riled over their golden elixir! Lesson: Don't mess with the basics."

They savored the richness of friendship. Drinking tea and dancing with words. Filling in the spaces that time apart had left blank.

Now or never. "Will, I have a favor to ask."

"Anything, Lynn."

"We flew from Frankfurt to Vienna on the same plane as Major Manetti." The expressions of both Will and Anne registered recognition of the name. "We had a good conversation with him." Her voice cracked. Friends did that to her. They reached inside her veneer and offered a safe landing for her feelings. She cleared her throat and let the tears trickle down her cheeks, pretending that if she didn't acknowledge them they'd be invisible. "One of the topics was the President."

Galen frowned. "I don't remember that."

"Maybe it was when you were in the restroom."

Oops, Lynn! First, vanity. Now, fabrication.

Hush, Ivy! "He spoke very highly of her." Well, not exactly. But since the President trusted him so much, surely he would have if given the opportunity. "Those would have been some of his last words. It's silly, but I would really like to send a note to her sharing that."

"It isn't silly, Lynn. All of us like to hear we're appreciated—even presidents. Angry letters abound. People are far more apt to take the positive for granted and act on the negative."

"I'm a nobody, and she'd never get it."

Will grinned. "Are you taking the long way round to ask if I would send it?"

"Is it appropriate for me to email it to you and you forward it to her?"

"You're my friend, Lynn. I'll be glad to."

"Thank you, Will," she said, relieved to get this cared for.

"Thank you, Lynn," Sylvia interjected. "President Benedict needs all the positive feedback she can get."

Will went down another track. "I saw you both talking with Chris Nyangoma. What did you think of him?"

Galen frowned. "Trusting that he is not a mendacious man, I wanted to ascertain the situation in Burundi and the reason Bishop Ntaryamir wasn't permitted to leave. But he simply said the country is in chaos again and changed the subject."

Chaos.
That word again, like the reverberating
bong
of a grandfather clock at midnight.

"All Chris knows about Burundi is how to pronounce it," laughed Will. "Late this afternoon protection was mandated for tonight. He was it."

"Protection from bishops." Anne smiled. "That's understandable."

"Not from the bishops. From their spouses," Will corrected with a grin. A staffer brought a message into the den and handed it to him. He read it with features as immobile as Abe's at the Lincoln Memorial. "I'm sorry. I must take this phone call."

Anne poured another round of tea. "I miss the four of us being together like this." She looked closely at Lynn, her eyes filled with kindness. "You look good."

"Do I hear relief?"

"Oh, Lynn . . . I don't think I could walk in your shoes . . . I mean . . ."

"Lyndie is with me in a different way now, but I'll always feel her presence." The quicksand threatened, and she changed the subject. "It was a lovely dinner party."

Will returned, his demeanor somber. "That was President Nausner." He sagged into the leather chair. "Originally I resented the mandate of protection tonight, but now I understand." He hesitated. "I don't want to alarm you."

Alarming words, Lynn.

Right, Ivy.

He leaned forward in his chair and spoke softly, inviting confidentiality. The other three mirrored his posture. "This must be kept between us."

Galen's intense dark eyes deepened. "Both Lynn and I hold
everything
in confidence, Will. Information shared with us is the
teller's
to tell—not
ours."

"I know," said Will. "That's why I'm entrusting you with this. The President told me a black briefcase identical to his—complete with his initials in gold—was found at Schönbrunn Palace this afternoon." He paused and swallowed, collecting himself. "It contained a bomb." After letting the words settle, he added, "It was supposed to blow up during the President's address. Franz Schober discovered it."

Lynn distanced herself from the surreal image and crept into her safe haven deep inside.

Galen's eyes darkened, his irises moving back and forth in a journey from horror to gratitude. "Something seemed to be amiss at the end of the address, but no
bomb
was mentioned!"

"And it won't be. That's why this is absolutely confidential. President Nausner has an unwritten policy he calls a 'strategy of silence.' He is adamant that publicity abets terrorism. Even when a bomb does no damage, news of the attempt itself spreads fear."

Lynn thought back to the afternoon. They hadn't created chaos by whisking the President away without a word or evacuating the audience or calling in the Austrian equivalent of the FBI and CIA, the local police and Green Beret. "They handled a bomb threat without creating anxiety!"

"No publicity. No panic. No reward for the perpetrator," Will said.

"Think about the terrorists who planned this. Can't you see them turning on the news? Watching. Waiting. And
nothing!"
Lynn loved it.

"How did someone get a bomb into the palace?" asked practical Anne.

"Bishops and spouses tend to be trusted." Will glanced at Galen with a grin. "Despite present company."

"Trusted and also trusting." Lynn thought of Chris Nyangoma and their lack of suspicion that he was anything other than a bishop's representative.

"What's interesting is that President Nausner said the bomb turned out to be faulty. Even if they hadn't found it, it wouldn't have gone off."

The oddity struck Lynn. "I don't understand, Will. How could a terrorist be skilled enough to get a bomb inside the palace but so unskilled that it was faulty?"

"That, Lynn, is the ultimate question."

The ensuing silence was interrupted by the mantle clock's eleven chimes. Galen set his teacup on the tray. "I don't want this evening to end, but we leave for the Balkans tomorrow and still have to pack."

"I wish you would reconsider your fact-finding mission. This is not the time."

"You would go, Mr. Ambassador," said Lynn. "The concern that this is not the time makes it
exactly
the right time."

"If I were saying that, I suppose I would consider it a logical argument. But hearing it, it sounds like insanity."

"We'll be perfectly safe, my friend," said Galen.

"Perfectly safe!" Anne shook her head.

Will looked at them, hazel eyes concerned, smile gone. "Be alert. Err on the side of caution. A surprising number of people work against peace in the Balkans." He paused and added in a grave tone. "There are some rumors about a terrorist organization called St. Sava."

Lynn tried not to react. Start with St. Sava. The President's final words in her message to Major Manetti.

"I tended to discount them."

"Why is that?" asked Lynn, trying to sound casual.

"The CIA doesn't think it exists. They believe it's merely an ancient myth."

She was puzzled. Does President Benedict know something the CIA doesn't? Or is the CIA covering up St. Sava? Neither option seemed helpful.

"Austrian security found where Manetti's sniper hid at the airport yesterday morning. He left behind only one piece of evidence: a note kept out of the news. It said that St. Sava claims responsibility."

"Puzzling." Galen rose. "But we'll have to ponder it tomorrow."

Lynn remained seated. "What do you think about St. Sava now, Will?" She'd just made her first attempt—feeble as it was—to comply with President Benedict's request of Major Manetti. Start with St. Sava. She felt she was dancing with danger at a masked ball, unable to distinguish friend from enemy. But sitting it out was not an option.

"I'm not sure what to think." He took their hands. "What I am sure of is that I don't want you special people to end up a terrorist target."

Lynn hugged Anne and him. "I'll email you a note for the President. My deepest thanks, Will."