The Dead Saint (15 page)

Before repacking late Monday night, Lynn turned on her baby laptop to write an email to President Benedict.
An email to President Benedict—
the irrational reality stunned her. She saw a message from Bubba and read it first. He described Elie's jazz funeral
. W
hat a celebration! She would always regret not being there
. S
he gave herself a few moments of silent gratitude that his life had touched hers. He would live on in her memory.

She moved on to the rest of Bubba's email. His last sentence puzzled her:

Elie's case is officially closed, but thanks to the persuasion of our friend at the lab an end run is in the works. I pledged to help your favorite cop
. S
tay safe in the Balkans, Bubba

Chief Armstrong had to be responsible for this maneuver. Evidently Francine Babineaux had convinced him to take a closer look. Way to go! But why an
unofficial
green light? So unofficial that he was wary of using his department detectives and had turned to trustworthy Cy Bill Bergeron. She wished she could help.

You can, Lynn. You're withholding information—like not telling Cy Bill that the mime is still alive.

Ouch. She wanted to. She should have told Bubba immediately that Elie's medal was stolen. She started to rationalize. Stopped herself. Refused to dig up those clams again. Hurriedly she replied:

The sniper is alive. I saw him. More later.

When would later come? But right now the priority was her email for the President. She typed the first three words quickly:

She reread the cryptic email. Too cryptic. But she didn't have time to perfect it. She put in Will's email address and hit Send. Done! Little black letters forming little black words forming little black sentences—all virtual. Like communication itself.

For the last time she removed from her waist wallet the innocuous ranch message President Benedict had written to Major Manetti—concrete evidence that her imagination hadn't sent her on a trip into fantasyland. No sane person would link it to the President of the United States. Nor even believe Lynn if she suggested the absurdity. She was tempted to save it as presidential memorabilia. But mostly she wanted rid of it. Rid of its burden. Rid of any possibility of a situation necessitating an explanation. Even to Galen. She wadded up the plain envelope and tossed it in the wastebasket. Then she tore
off
the strip at the close of the letter: Start with St. Sava. It left her with such an eerie feeling that she didn't like holding it. She tore it into the tiniest pieces she could, then ripped the rest of the letter into tatters and flushed it down the toilet. Free at last! From the written message, yes. But not from its words. They remained indelibly printed in her mind.

You are in w-a-a-a-y over your head, Lynn.

The Tuesday morning agenda for the International Conference of Bishops called for a break at ten o'clock. Lynn used it to go to the quiet of her room and call Mihail Martinovski in Skopje, the pastor in charge of the Macedonian leg of her trip. Galen, free from the boredom of meetings, was spending the morning touring Vienna and delving into its history. She unlocked the door and walked in on the maid, startling them both. Recovering, Lynn smiled at her. A thin and tallish woman, she smiled back shyly and moved to the bed to smooth the floral duvet. She wore an immaculate gray dress and starched white pinafore apron with matching cap.

Lynn sat down at the desk with paper and pen for notes and punched the numbers. "This is Bishop Peterson for Pastor Martinovski." As she waited for him, she watched the maid straighten the towels and smiled at her.

"Good morning, Bishop Peterson. It is good to hear from you."

"And a good morning to you also, Mihail."

"Are you still coming?"

"We will arrive this evening."

"I am very glad." His voice sounded genuinely pleased.

"Do you remember that we go from Skopje to Sarajevo on Friday?"

The maid glanced up.

"Yes." He paused. "Are you worried about the danger?"

"We know that there is a no-travel advisement. But sometimes the State Department exaggerates. What do
you
think about the situation in Sarajevo?"

The maid puffed the pillows, lingering.

"It is fairly safe, I think."

"
Fairly safe
is good enough."

"We want you to stay with us while you are here."

"That is very kind. We would enjoy being with you and Elena, but the hotel is arranged. Maybe next time."

"I will meet you at the airport."

"Thank you, Mihail. We appreciate that. We'll see you after we go through customs."

The maid glanced up.

When she ended the call, the maid pulled at her apron and spoke timidly in broken English. "Sarajevo? You go?"

Lynn nodded.

She pulled back a strand of brown hair that had fallen loose from her stiff cap. "
Ja se zovem
Natalia." She pointed to her name badge. "Natalia."

Lynn recognized the Serbo-Croatian words, surprised they weren't German. "
Dobro jutro,
" she greeted Natalia in her language—thanks to Elie.
Elie.

The familiar greeting seemed to stun Natalia, then please her.

Lynn continued, pointing to herself, "
Ja se zovem
Lynn."

"
Govorite li . . .
"

"No.
Ne,
" Lynn interrupted, shaking her head. "Speak few words," she said slowly, indicating a tiny space with her thumb and index finger.

"
Možete li mi pomoći molim Vas?
"

Lynn only caught "please" and shook her head again. "
Ne razumem
."

Natalia made the phone gesture with thumb to ear. "You say
Bishop
Peterson?"

She nodded. "
Da.
"

"You help?" Natalia touched the small gold Orthodox cross around her neck.

"If I can."

"
Majka
. . . Mama. Mama in Sarajevo. I give
novac
. . .money."

Lynn decided to double her tip.

"No
pošta! Krasti
. . . steal!"

"
Da,
" Lynn agreed, remembering Elie's concern regarding his mother getting the money he sent because of stolen mail.

"You take." A conclusion, not a question.

"Take where?
Gdje?
"

Natalia stretched out her left palm and made writing motions with her right forefinger like addressing an envelope, then mimed putting in money, licking the flap, and sealing it. "I bring." Bobbing her head, she added, "Easy place. You find."

Lynn nodded and smiled. "OK."

"
Hvala Vam mnogo.
"

Lynn gestured around the clean room. "
Hvala.
" She followed Natalia to the door. "See you later.
Dovidjenja.
" That depleted her repertoire.

Natalia bobbed her head again, picked up a canvas tote that Lynn assumed contained cleaning supplies, and went on her way.

Lynn walked with her to the door. Before closing it, she glanced down the hall. Something seemed different about Natalia. It was the way she walked. She had exchanged a timid-maid bearing for an air of Hillary Clinton confidence. Puzzled, she silently closed the door and scanned their room. The packed suitcases still stood zipped and against the wall. She shrugged
off
her suspicion, attributing it to an imagination as out of control as a racehorse with broken reins. She locked the door behind her to return to the meeting.

Why was the door closed while the maid worked in your room, Lynn? Yesterday morning weren't all the maids finished before now? Did you see any others between here and the meeting room?

John Adams rose at his usual five-thirty, eager to get to his office for a few hours of uninterrupted work. He took a shower, still seething over yesterday's bomb debacle. He wasn't used to being thwarted.

He stood under the warm water and calmed himself. His conversation with Frank Fillmore last night had confirmed his theory. Fillmore had delivered. Nausner had applied the strategy of silence. Fillmore was the only elite who had no recognizable conscience. His concern about this assignment had been the twist. Why build a bomb and make it faulty? But whys were unacceptable. The Patriot kept him heeled like a dog on a leash through a generous retainer that bought his loyalty and assured his availability. He used extreme caution in dealing with all of his elites, but especially Fillmore.

One reason he'd had the bomb planted was to profit from people's fear. It served God's purposes for money to be in his hands—the one God had chosen to define and implement justice. But he also wanted to teach President Benedict a lesson. Distasteful but necessary. She seemed unaware that the Secret Service exists precisely
because
of presidential vulnerability. The discovery of a bomb at the feet of another country's president would knock a hole in her innate confidence, and he'd intended to rush in with his
Triple S
maneuver: sensitive, solicitous, and supportive. The cover-up, and that's exactly what it was, meant that Benedict still rode the wings of invulnerability. His Vienna teaching-moment had been a costly failure. He grew angry again. A pointless reaction he realized as the water massaged his tense shoulder muscles.

Dawn broke in a cloudless sky as he rushed to his office, the traffic already humming. He liked the feel of the steering wheel in his common, thus invisible, black Ford. He always bought cars made in the USA to further his patriotic image. As he drove, he reran last night's second phone call. Acting on his instincts, he'd decided to initiate a personal investigation of Lynn Peterson. He'd contacted his Balkan connection, the investigative genius in his cadre of elites. As sharp as Zeller and nearly as committed as Lone Star. The right man in the right place. He sighed and a frown followed. All of this because of President Benedict.

Her Inner Circle benefited him but also discouraged him. Thoughts rolled through his mind about the plague of pretense within it. No one dared acknowledge the real problem: anti-American Americanism. The grand beginnings of the Great Democracy had eroded into pretense. He had watched statesmanship drown in the stormy sea of fogged facts, sound bites, and photo ops. Propaganda shaped perspective, hype shaded honesty, and revenge stole reason. Too many elected and appointed officials showed a woeful lack of vision. They sacrificed their ideals and honor, selling themselves to flag-tattering causes—trading the eagle for the golden calf of reelection. President Benedict had inherited the situation, not caused it. He had to give her that.

The politicos had learned the power of words. They hired think tanks and focus groups to promote self-interest instead of American interests. Brilliant linguists and hardball marketers filtered facts through nuance and euphemism, contriving spins that worked despite slapping logic in the face. They could reshape public perspective in inconceivable ways akin to snipping
off
American beauty roses and renaming them thorn bushes. Bombardment changed gullible citizens' ideas and vocabulary. The power of language! The power of deception!

He parked and took the stairs to his office. Yes, deception was the name of the game. With more pride than shame, he admitted that no politico could beat him at it. At least he didn't ask anyone to vote for him. And his Holy Vision of justice was righteous, not self-serving. President Nausner's strategy of silence might slow him, but it couldn't stop him!

After Lynn's luncheon meeting and Galen's sandwich at a small café near the Stephensturm, they met in the room to get their luggage. A small rectangular package about the size of a check box, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with string, lay on the floral duvet. "What's that?" asked Galen, picking it up. He looked at the note tucked on top beneath the strings. "It's from Natalia."

"I offered to take an envelope for her to Sarajevo. Evidently the envelope she mimed had become a wrapped package." She moved beside Galen and read the note:

To Bishop
Ples tak to Fr. Nish. Orthdx prest, Sarajevo. He give mama. Thank U.
Natalia

Lynn remembered the difference in bearing between the meek maid in the room and the confident woman walking down the hall. Airport security frowned on taking aboard something received from someone else. She debated unwrapping it.

"Bless her heart," said Galen. "I'm glad we can help her." He pulled out a large euro bill and set it on the dresser for a tip before stuffing the package in a corner of his suitcase.

No suspicion from him. She, too, was weary of suspicion. Standing on tiptoe, she put her hands tenderly on his face. "I love you, Galen Peterson. You are a kind and honorable man. I'm blessed to be your wife."

"And you, my darling Lynn, are a blessing."

Chaplain Dick Osborne was right on time to return them to Flughafen Wien. They found long lines moving at a snail's pace through airport security. "We could expect this," said Dick. "A hidden sniper can't shoot a high-profile NATO aide right here and things go on as before. And the bus bombing probably compounded it. Believe it or not, Vienna is usually safe."

Lynn and Galen glanced at each other, both thinking about the likelihood of an additional nondescript directive from President Nausner's security after the successful planting of an unsuccessful bomb at his reception. But they could never mention that.

Officials opened each suitcase, briefcase, tote bag, package and purse, searching them like voyeurs pawing through lingerie drawers. "They'd never get the contents back inside this thing," Dick grinned, referring to Lynn's roll-aboard he carried.

Why tote when you can roll? she wondered with an inner smile—a guy thing.

"NASA should hire her to pack their spaceships," joked Galen. "She sets the Guinness world record for packing the most weight per cubic inch."

Dick grinned. "I'll write a reference, Bishop Peterson." He scanned the zealous agents and lines of passengers and left levity behind. "This won't do." Avoiding the security checkpoint, he led them through a special door reserved for ranking military personnel and VIPs. He called the guard by name, returned the salute, and walked them to their gate. As he set Lynn's roll-aboard down, his eyes grew somber, his voice grave. "I'll pray for you while you're in the Balkans."

Lynn nodded appreciatively. "And I for you. Prayer really does make a difference, you know." She shook his hand, then hugged him. Sasha came to mind, young and legless Sasha. She didn't doubt that he could live a meaningful life, but neither did she shrink the size of the challenge he would have to face. "Thank you for all you do for the soldiers."

"I'm glad you took the time to contact me." His voice softened. "And to listen. Both of you." He turned quickly away.

Lynn saw his shoulders sag for an instant, then straighten into military bearing. Discipline, faith, and humor would get him through. "We'll keep in touch," she called, meaning it. He was now a member of their large global family.

While they waited for their plane to Skopje, Galen read a book about Lincoln. Lynn didn't know what to do—if anything—until she heard back from the President. She felt paralyzed as she stared out the dirty terminal window.
Terminal.
A thoughtless term for a place where planes departed. Departed. She lost interest in the wordplay and noticed that Galen had closed his book.

"Lynn, I've been thinking about Skopje and what we'll find. One of Paul's visions comes to mind—when the man pleads with him: 'Come over to Macedonia and help us.' Acts 16:9."

She had learned long ago to trust his photographic memory. He stored the Scriptures on his mental hard drive alongside historical facts and the name of every person he'd ever met. "I wonder how much help we can be to them," she said pensively. And how much help, if any, I can be to President Benedict. Surely Will had forwarded her email. Lynn wondered if she had it by now. Maybe she'd even read it. Would she respond? What would she say? She reminded herself that a response could take days. But on the other hand . . . "I saw a wireless area nearby, Love. I think I'll go check email."

"I'll come get you if we start boarding."

"Optimist! Half the passengers are probably still in the security line." She found an empty chair within wireless range and pulled out the Baby from Big-Black. One message. From: Will Whitcomb. Subject: Forwarded Letter. She felt the rise in her adrenaline.

Lynn:
I forwarded your note and have already received a response. The "friendship" appears to be exaggerated and a common interest in ranching a figment of imagination. You and I are aware of the human tendency to stretch things in order to feel important. A mere greeting or handshake from a prominent person can enlarge to a boastful story of a close friendship. Your kindness and good intentions, however, were appreciated.
Will

She reread the puzzling email, more confused now than before she received it. Will's guarded language surprised her. The President's immediate response surprised her. The lack of direct communication surprised her. She was left to assumptions about why.

Maybe the President did write the notes to Marsh and me, and now regrets it. Maybe she's lost trust in me. Or maybe Marsh's murder alarmed her and she's protecting me by these disclaimers.

Oh, sure, Lynn! Your safety is the number one national priority!

If Marsh with NATO was not the President's friend and if the bit about ranching has no significance to her, what on God's precious earth is going on? Suppose the President didn't write the letter to Marsh nor the note to me requesting delivery. Who did? Suppose the Vice President misled me in the limo. Did he set me up? Did he set Marsh up through me?

Whoa, Lynn! Don't go there!

Another thought prowled at the edges of her mind. Suppose the email was intercepted and the reply isn't from her and she still doesn't know I have her letter.

Nothing made sense, because one thing was clear: For whatever reason, the President lied in her email to Will.
Or
the Vice President lied in the limo.
Or
someone has obtained access to, and control of, President Benedict's communications. The implications sent fear zigzagging through Lynn like a lightning bolt.