The Dead Saint (17 page)

Tuesday, 8:33 P.M.

Skopje. City of myths and mysticism. Where poets speak in bitter hyperbole, and ethnic versions of history are disparate paintings of the same landscape. Where in ancient days Alexander the Great set out to conquer the world and in current days Goce Delchev, guerilla-terrorist who founded IMRO, lies buried under a fir tree at the Church of Sveti Spas.

Skopje. Capital of Macedonia. A place of changing borders and unchanging strategy. Recycling savagery from ruler to ruler.
Provoking religious hatred to dispel the threat of a people united.
Igniting wars because of unresolved issues.

Skopje. City with a new dream rising from the darkness like a bright moon at midnight.

The plane landed safely at Skopje's Alexander the Great Airport at 8:33 on Tuesday night. The moment Lynn stepped off, her mind reverted to the shot she'd heard when she had disembarked at Flughafen Wien two days ago. She heard it again. Felt the same fear. Saw Marsh sprawled on the ramp in his white uniform.

Galen put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You're shaking, Lynn."

"The sniper . . ."

He bent down and whispered tenderly. "It's OK. That was
there.
It's over."

She doubted it would ever be over for her.

All passengers deplaned safely—it was getting admitted to Macedonia that proved a nightmare. President Basil Dimitrovski well understood that both factions in the Balkan conflict used the age-old ploy of evoking revenge to gain support, and one strategy was to commit a terrorist act that would look like the other side did it. Loose airport security at a busy airport was an open invitation. Not on his watch!

The passengers snaked toward security, slowed by scanners, metal detectors, and agents who searched both luggage and people. Lynn scanned the crowd. The man who'd sat across the aisle from Galen and engaged him in lengthy conversation stood third behind them in line, El Toro now on his arm.

Aha, Lynn! A little hanky-panky?

As they crept forward, Lynn reviewed their itinerary. "Mihail Martinovski is meeting us at the airport and taking us to the hotel," she told Galen.

"I remember meeting him in Oslo when President Dimitrovski received the World Peace Award. 'In commendation for his creativity, consistency, and courage,' " cited Galen.

The myriad details stored on Galen's mental hard drive amazed Lynn. "We're scheduled for coffee with the President tomorrow morning."

"Good! He's a remarkable man, the only Balkan leader able to keep his country out of the conflict. No minor miracle."

"
And,"
Lynn added proudly, "he's in our denomination. Mihail is his pastor."

Watch the brag, Lynn.

"I'm afraid our delay is keeping Mihail waiting far too long." Galen's voice rang with impatience.

"Since there's nothing we can do, Love, we just have to let things unfold." She knew her words would bounce off him like raindrops on an umbrella. He focused on getting things folded rather than letting them unfold. A do-it man instead of a to-do-list man.

"We should have taken a cab to the hotel."

"I disagree, Galen. It's as important to accept hospitality as to offer it."

He grinned. "I'm bored, Lynn, and pulling your string. You're right about Mihail's hospitality."

"I really like him," she said, restraining all the other words that came to mind about pulling someone's string.

When they reached the head of the line, the security agent took everything out of her roll-aboard, piece by piece. He thoroughly and methodically unfolded each garment. Unzipped each pocket. Opened the toiletry bag. Checked her compact and lipstick tube. She expected him to tell her to open her mouth so he could inspect the mint in her mouth. By the time Mr. Thorough-&-Methodical finished, she had no secrets from him or anyone nearby.

T&M looked at the pile of things he'd removed, his eyes measuring it against the size of her suitcase. He shrugged, gestured for her to repack, and turned her over to a woman agent. She opened everything in Big-Black, including two envelopes—one containing their itinerary, and one the note to Mrs. Darwish from Bubba. She patted Lynn down, felt the waist wallet, and asked to search it. Lynn had included Bubba's money with her own—not enough combined to be suspicious for a traveler from the States. No note from the President. Lynn smiled, feeling like a pro.

But this was not Galen's day for positive experiences with security agents. The trouble started when T&M's gloved hand lifted Natalia's wrapped box. For the first time he spoke, using careful English, "What is this?"

"You may open it," said Galen with his customary air of authority.

T&M's glance over the rims of his glasses stated that permission was not needed.

Galen reached for the package to show him what Natalia had written on the brown wrapping paper: To Father Nish from Natalia.

"
No!
Hands back!"

With difficulty Galen swallowed words and obeyed.

"What is it?" he repeated.

"A little money," said Galen. "The hotel maid in Vienna asked us to take it to her priest in Sarajevo. He'll give it to her family."

"She doesn't trust the post," Lynn added, a corroborative witness.

"How did you get a wrapped package through Vienna security?"

Galen and Lynn looked at each other. To confess that she misled No-Nonsense seemed incriminating.

"
Austrians!"
T&M muttered with cultural contempt. He untied the string on the package, neither careful nor careless, thoroughly and methodically doing his duty. As he unwrapped it, the paper crackled like convicting evidence before a jury. When he removed the lid from the check-size box, he whistled softly.

Lynn felt scared.

"Do you expect me to believe that a hotel maid earns this much money? And entrusted it to a stranger?" He turned the box upside down. An inch-thick wad of pretty pink bills tumbled to the table, each worth 500 euros. "You insult me!"

Lynn and Galen gaped at the stack as T&M fanned through the bills.

"I don't understand." Galen's tone of authority had vanished.

"Perhaps not." The agent's eyes narrowed. "But perhaps you do."

Everyone in line behind them watched this center-ring circus performance. Viktor called to her in his limited, Russian-accented English. "You . . . need help?"

She shrugged, palms up, then shook her head. There was nothing he could do. Besides, T&M might lump Russians right there with
Austrians!

T&M reached into the box and pulled out a piece of blue paper at the bottom.

Lynn stared at it and gripped the table. The paper held a simple drawing in ink. It depicted two vertically overlapping crescent moons that were enclosed in a circle. The symbol! Elie's medal. Sasha's cross. And now Natalia's box. She felt T&M looking at her, his eyes dissecting her behavior.

She recovered and tried to hide her recognition. "Interesting little drawing," she said meekly.

Those were the last words she spoke standing beside Galen. A nod from the agent brought two uniformed guards, who separated them despite capable Galen's best effort to keep them together. With a firm grip the guards escorted Lynn and Galen to different rooms for interrogation. Interrogation! Images of Abu Ghraib flashed vividly.

Galen glanced back at her and smiled. A brave front, but she saw the fear in his eyes. That was when terror struck her.

Lynn sat alone in a small room with two hard chairs. Right now Galen was being interrogated. It was the scariest word she could think of for someone in a foreign country. She would be next. Her stomach churned. Fear pounded in her heart. Breath grew short.

Get a grip, Lynn!

She struggled to think. Thoughts shattered and scattered like fragments of a smashed kaleidoscope. She slowed her breathing. Deepened it. Closed her eyes. Calmed herself with the ancient Jesus Prayer, slowly praying "Lord Jesus Christ" while inhaling, and "Have mercy on me" while exhaling. Breath.
Ruah.
Spirit.

The laptop! She took a quick mental inventory of anything personal or incriminating. The email to President Benedict and Will's response! She took the laptop from Big-Black. Pulled up the web mail file. Thank you for speed. Clicked
Sent Items.
President. Delete.
Pulled up
Deleted Items.
Hit
Delete
again. Repeated the process for
Received Items.
Clicked
Whitcomb.
Delete. Delete deletions.

The door jerked open.

With three quick moves she exited the email file, clicked on the Solitaire shortcut and opened a game.

"STOP!" The officer grabbed her laptop so fast she feared he'd drop it. The fury in his face matched the anger in his voice.

She tasted fear, a bitter bile in the back of her throat.

He glared at the screen. Blinked. A deck of cards greeted him, lined up in a tidy row, ready for play. He stared at them for a few moments, his anger subsiding. He looked from the screen to Lynn. He actually smiled.

She smiled back, and they both laughed. His laughter came from surprise. Hers from the release of sheer terror. Then tears began to roll down her cheeks. Tears for Major Manetti. For young Sasha with no legs. For Galen in another room—undergoing what? Tears of stress and weariness. Silent, uncontrollable tears.

The officer sat down in the second straight-backed chair and watched her for a while. "If you have done nothing wrong, you have nothing to fear." His accent indicated British-taught English. Lynn saw compassion in his eyes. "The same is true for your husband."

Trying to keep her voice from shaking, she said, "Sir, Pastor Mihail Martinovski has a church here in Skopje. He is meeting us."

"I know of him."

"I am concerned about his long wait. He may be worried." She could feel the tears still overflowing. Her voice was timorous but steady. "Could someone tell him we have been delayed?"

He pondered the request an inordinate length of time. "I do not see how that can cause any harm." He rose. "I will tell him myself."

"Our names are . . ."

He smiled as to a child. "I have your name, Lynn Prejean Peterson."

"Of course," she stammered. "This is new to me."

He handed her the laptop. "Playing solitaire is misleading. I think you should put this away."

"Yes, sir."

Time dragged on after he left. Lynn sat unmoving. Worrying about Galen. Waiting and wondering. Worrying about Galen. Feeling watched. Worrying about Galen. She tried again to center herself, this time in vain. She feared she'd lost the center for good.

The door opened, and the officer reappeared. "I am sorry, Bishop Peterson," he apologized. "I wish you had told me."

Told him what?

"I did not introduce myself earlier. I am Agent Nedelkovski. Please come." He held the door open, a gentleman for a lady, and bowed like a squire. She could imagine him doffing a plumed hat. The situation had clearly changed.

She saw Galen, already in the hall, Natalia's box in hand. He appeared fine. Thank you. They rushed to each other. No one stopped them.

Agent Nedelkovski escorted them through customs directly to Mihail. He waited, smiling and patient, a replica of St. Francis at peace within despite the turbulent world without. Obviously the good pastor had done something on their behalf. Nedelkovski spoke to Mihail in words she couldn't understand, but she understood the respect in his voice.

Before departing, he turned to them and spoke with the same respectful tone. "Good night, Bishop Peterson, Dr. Peterson. I sincerely hope the rest of your stay in Skopje is better than the beginning."

Mihail ushered them toward his car to take them to Hotel Aleksandar. Lynn took a deep breath of freedom's air and gazed up at the clear Skopje sky. "Look! A swing moon!"

"That's what she always calls it," Galen explained, putting his arm around her.

"The same one all around the world," she marveled.

"It's beautiful," said Mihail. "A message of light and oneness for all God's people."

She touched his arm. "I don't know what you did, Pastor Martinovski, but thank you."

"You have our deepest appreciation," Galen added.

Mihail chuckled. "To be truthful, Agent Nedelkovski discounted my opinion of you. So I telephoned President Dimitrovski. He remembers you from Oslo, Bishop Peterson, and speaks highly of you. He said he's looking forward to coffee with us in the morning. He personally made a telephone call on your behalf." Again he chuckled. "Nedelkovski did not discount
his
opinion. Here in Macedonia, only God ranks above him!"

Bubba was the last to leave the team's private tribute to Elie. He swung his leg over his 'Vette and noted the crescent moon above. Normally he would enjoy driving beneath it, but not tonight. His friend's death left a hole in his life, and the flash drive consumed him. His cell phone rang, and he recognized the voice of Boudreau Guidry Tietje, attorney-at-law.

After dancing around the Southern niceties, his voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm calling to warn you."

The nervous tone jarred Bubba more than the words. He knew scared when he heard it, and this man was terrified.

"Tonight two gunmen barged into my office. They threatened my
life."

The Mafia came to mind.

"They knew I was Elias Darwish's attorney."

"Call the police. Speak directly to Cy Bill Bergeron."

"They demanded all my information. They were specifically interested in whether he had a safe deposit box. I told them he didn't. Then they asked if he had given me anything to give to anyone else."

"You told them about me?" Bubba tried to keep alarm out of his voice.

"Not exactly."

That means yes.

"I said I follow my clients' instructions, and everything went to his mother as requested."

"Good for you. So the work is on its way?"

"I told the gunmen that everything
went
to her. I didn't say I'd
sent
it."

Lawyer legalese. But the wily man had shown courage in misleading them.

"So they don't know about the shoebox?"

"They were holding
guns
on me! They forced me to let them examine his file. They said they'd just as soon kill me and locate it by themselves. It's filed under
D—
as easy to find as old Andy's statue at Jackson Square." He paused.

Bubba waited for the words he knew were coming.

"I'm sorry, Bubba. They saw your name. You'll be next—that's for sure."