The Dead Saint (18 page)

Lynn awoke and lay quietly in bed in their room at Hotel Aleksandar, a room similar to the one in Vienna. She checked the clock: four-thirty. She wanted to roll over and go back to sleep, but she had work to do. Quietly she took
Balkan Ghosts
into the bathroom and turned on the light for a crash course on Macedonia. She padded the back of the tub with bath towels and leaned against them. What she read chilled her. For more than a century, the "Macedonia Question" had repeatedly flared and led to war. Each nation that had ever ruled in any part of Macedonia still felt entitled to the country, and zealous patriots from those countries considered its reclamation a matter of national pride. A nation a bit smaller than Maryland had repeatedly shifted world history!

Her own world had also shifted. Thoughts of Elie, the major, and the mind-bending mystery of President Benedict's response cycled through her mind. Start with St. Sava. She checked the index and found two references. Both referred to Serbia's patron saint, also written
Sabbas.
Born Rastno, he was the youngest son of Stefan Nemanja, king of Serbia. His father ruled a highly civilized state and could sign his name at a time in history when the Holy Roman Emperor in Germany had to use a thumbprint. She recalled another St. Sabbas seven centuries earlier, who founded Mar Saba near the Dead Sea and was over all the Palestinian houses. She scanned the rest of Kaplan's information. Too weary to concentrate further, she put down the book and went back to bed.

But she lay awake, rerunning Will's puzzling email. Why didn't he simply forward the President's response? Lynn didn't doubt for a moment his integrity, which brought her back to her original tilt-a-whirl. Since that fateful ride with the Vice President, she'd begun to doubt his honesty, or worse, the President's honesty—or the security and control of White House communications. Accepting that envelope had proved a curse. It had caused her to be less than truthful with Galen, turned her fluffy little world awry and evoked a new level of inner terror. All she really wanted to do was make measures of music in the song of life. Instead, she was embroiled in measures of malice in a world of conspiracy.

Bubba felt the difference in his condo the moment he entered. He glanced around warily. Nothing disturbed. Poised for action, he left the door slightly ajar and listened.

Two men stepped from the bedroom, guns drawn.

Bubba sized up the opposition. The shorter one's jowls and stance mirrored a pit bull. The taller one's face was a mass of wide, chubby wrinkles, reminding Bubba of his sister's obedient Chinese shar-pei. Game time. He donned his warm TV interview smile. "Whatever you folks want might as well be discussed in a friendly fashion over a beer."

They glanced at each other. "This ain't no social call!" snarled Pit Bull.

Bubba eyed their guns. "I see you boys brought your toys."

"Look, Bubba, we don't want no trouble with a Saint," Shar-Pei replied.

"You're Saints fans?"

Shar-Pei's wrinkles wiggled their way into a smile. "We like to bet on the Saints when we think y'all will win."

Bubba tried a diversion. "The odds were better when Elias Darwish was alive. You should've thought of that before you killed him."

They both looked shocked—the real thing. "They caught his killer," said Pit Bull. "Where you been?"

"We ain't in the Saint-killing business." Shar-Pei lowered his gun. "We might bribe a Saint, but we ain't going to shoot one."

Bubba smiled approval. "Cabrioni's boys are smarter than that."

Shar-Pei nodded. "No cops and no Saints."

"That's the code." Pit Bull spoke the word
code
as reverently as a priest offering the Holy Cup. But he didn't holster his gun.

"The shoebox is on the table." Bubba gestured. "Right there."

"He left you
shoes?"
asked Shar-Pei.

"Some photos."

"For blackmail?" Pit Bull's personal interest increased mightily. "Keep him guarded while I take a look." He removed the photos and flipped through them. Then he flung them back on the table.

Shar-Pei took a turn. "Just a bunch of pictures of you and Darwish."

"Are you trying to insult us?" Pit Bull aimed his gun and steadied it with both hands.

Shar-Pei scowled. "A man doesn't leave some stupid pictures with his
lawyer!
What do you take us for!"

A couple of clowns play-acting Mafia goons in a B movie, thought Bubba.

"Don't force me to make an exception to the code!" barked Pit Bull.

He needed to be careful. They were the New Orleans version of the real thing. Unpredictable and dangerous. He shifted to his persuasive shoe-ad style. "That's all he gave me. Maybe as a tough kicker he wanted to hide his sentimental side. The three of us know how that is."

They pondered the idea but remained skeptical. Shar-Pei spoke. "You got to give us the rest of it, Bubba."

Pit Bull lowered his aim. "First it'll be the knees. That'll kill your career."

Cy Bill shoved the door open. "
Police!"

Three guns aimed. Bubba stood in the crossfire. He called the play. It wouldn't hurt to have these guys in his debt. "Not to worry, officer. My good friends here were just leaving."

Cy Bill's eyes stayed on them. "Explain the guns."

"These gentlemen are just feeling protective after what happened to our kicker."

"That's right," said Shar-Pei, holstering his gun.

Pit Bull followed suit. "He's safe now that you're here, officer."

"You have my word as a Saint," said Bubba, his right hand raised, "that those pictures are what Elias Darwish left me." Legalese: Distort perception by telling only part of the truth. "You boys can take the photos if you want to. After your boss has a look, get them back to me, and I can probably arrange some fifty-yard-line seats. Down close." Appeased and relieved, they thanked him as they left.

Cy Bill holstered his gun and parked himself in a chair. "I'm glad ol' Boudreau warned you, Bubba."

"Let's talk unofficially, Cy Bill." He waited for a nod. Bubba told him about the note and flash drive. "I think it would be wise to make a
confidential
backup copy for you. As a friend—not a cop." Again he waited for a nod. "As backup."

"I'll keep it in the safest place in New Orleans—the police station. Unofficially, of course."

"By the way, thanks for coming."

"Well," Cy Bill grinned, "I'm making this YouTube video, and riding in on Ebony with six-shooters drawn was a dramatic way to begin it."

Working till nearly midnight in his office, the Patriot had one more task. He called his Balkan connection. As always he spoke with a French accent, tenoring his bass voice and offering no apology for waking him before six—the man was well paid. He asked about the Peterson results.

The elite's investigative ingenuity and success merited a bonus. He had managed to get himself on the Petersons' flight and was now in the hotel room next to theirs. The informative narrative included the bishop's actions, contacts, and conversations on the plane and at the Skopje airport. The Patriot listened intently to the minute details. Time-consuming but necessary.

Finally the monologue reached its conclusion. "The man is a historian, interested in the past, not the present, and certainly not the future. The woman is a naïve bishop. No more
. N
o less."

"Do you guarantee that,
monsieur?"

"When they leave their room, I will take advantage of their absence. She carries a laptop. I'll check it."

"Excellent." The Patriot had almost as much confidence in his Balkan connection as in himself.

"If I find anything that alters this report, I'll contact you. The usual way." With a chuckle he added, "I think the bishop actually believes that the power of love can change the world."

Compassion—ineffective but harmless. "I appreciate your thoroughness," he said, putting a smile in his voice. "
Au revoir."
The Patriot ran his thumb across the
fleur-de-lis.
The panel dropped, and he returned the phone to JFK, whose sculpture guarded the secret storage compartment. Still smiling, he commended himself for using caution before targeting an innocent. "There are so few of us these days," he muttered. The Statue of Liberty had once welcomed him as a young man to an idealistic America, a land of honor and dreams, where individualism danced with the common good, and patriotism partnered with reason. He longed to restore the days before polarization tainted the country. Yet BarLothiun had profited from the demise of the old ways. John Adams knew how to walk beside all peoples. Sometimes disturbing but always necessary.

As his thoughts turned to the President, he wondered if he was becoming obsessed. He quickly dismissed the idea. His initial thought about her . . .
exit
. . . had shocked him, too frightening to pursue. Yet it still hovered in the shadows of his mind.

Lynn heard the alarm clock. Her hand groped for the
off
button, her eyes still closed. It wasn't set. But it rang on. Where am I? Possibilities sifted through grogginess. New Orleans. Vienna. Skopje! Five memories fired like bullets in rapid succession: the Major's death/the President's letter/her denial/the Elie-Sasha-Natalia symbol/isolation for interrogation. She felt battle fatigue.

But for the moment she was safe, tucked in a cozy bed at the Hotel Aleksandar. It's Wednesday, she recalled. And then she remembered what she wanted to forget: Elie was killed a week ago today.

The ringing stopped. "Hello," said Galen's half-awake, sluggish voice. "Thank you." He clicked the phone down. "Our eight-thirty wake-up call."

"Eight-thirty! They're joking." She opened her eyes and willed them to focus on the clock. Eight-thirty. It was in on the joke. Yesterday's exhaustion and her sleepless night contaminated her muscles and seeped into her bones. Her eyelids shut again, closing the drapes on the new day, settling into oblivion's comfort.

Galen's words drifted through the fog. "I have good news and bad news."

She didn't muster the energy to open her eyes. "Good news first, Love," she mumbled, planning to be asleep before he got to the bad news.

"President Dimitrovski invited us for coffee this morning. Remember?"

"And the bad news?"

"President Dimitrovski invited us for coffee this morning." He put his arms around her and with a hug lifted her into a sitting position. "Mihail will pick us up in an hour. We have to get up."

She opened one eye. Get up. Unpack. Dress. Her eye closed.

"I suppose we could make apologies, Lynn. With all that's happened, he would understand."

That opened her eyes. "Brilliant, Galen!" This time her eyelids pulled off the first feat: staying open. Muscles pulled off the second: dangling legs off the bed. Before her toes hit the floor, she prayed as always. But this morning instead of lifting up her long list of names individually and enjoying the image of each face, she abbreviated the process and prayed for The List. An unworthy shortcut. My loss, she confessed, trusting God's grace to encompass shortcuts.

"You're a trooper, Lynn."

"No. Just curious. I don't like missed opportunities."

"It
is
an honor that the President invited us."

The President. Her mind triggered to Will's weird email. Maybe the President had sent it to mislead him and would send another directly to her. She set the Baby on the dresser and started to open it.

"Email will keep, Lynn. We're short on time."

"Right." She had to let it go. Nothing at the moment was as important as their meeting with President Dimitrovski. She showered quickly and put on her blue suit.

Galen picked up Natalia's checkbook-sized box. "This little package was a source of unintended consequences." He wrote "To Father Nish from Natalia" across the lid in blue ink, remembering the words tossed away with the brown paper at the airport. The euros and drawing were still inside. "We can't leave all this money lying around the hotel room. Let's take it with us." He looked at Lynn. "Is there room in your purse?"

"Barely. I don't want to lug Big-Black. Inappropriate for coffee with the President of Macedonia. Besides, they might suspect me of sneaking in a bomb."

"Granting Natalia's favor caused us almost as much trouble as a bomb." He handed it to her. "This courier business is perilous! It leads to the unpredictable."

You wouldn't believe!

President Basil Dimitrovski, almost Galen's height, sat tall in the cushioned wrought-iron chair in the small garden outside his private office. Birds sang violin and cello parts while a cascading fountain sang an aria, splashing and sparkling in the sun. Flowers scented the air. The server set a tray on the wrought-iron coffee table. Four small, pretty jam jars stood beside teaspoons and glasses of ice water.

"
Tursko Kafe,"
explained Mihail. "You are getting a taste of one of our traditions." He pointed to the jam jars. "That is
slatko."

President Dimitrovski added to Milhail's cultural information. "It is sour cherry, my favorite," he said. "First, we will have
ozguldum kafe—
the welcome coffee. The second coffee follows, the
muabet kafe
of long conversation, and then the
sikter kafe,
the farewell coffee."

Lynn realized his graciousness to offer them so much time. She anticipated a delightful morning. "We are grateful for your kind invitation and your time, Mr. President."

He peered at her with eyes darker than Galen's but equally piercing. "We could retain
President
and
Bishop.
However, titles would distance us and limit the potential outcome of our time together."

"I respect you and your office," she explained.

"You may call me by my Christian name with equal respect." His face folded easily into a smile. "Perhaps you will permit me to do the same."

The issue, settled for the President, left Lynn unsettled. B
asil
would stick in her throat.

He lifted his cup. "I welcome you as friends." Lynn, Galen, and Mihail did likewise.

"We celebrate your friendship," Galen said, avoiding calling him by name.

Lynn noticed the seal on the tray—a golden sunrise over a royal blue mountain with wavy waters at the base, the sides bordered by wheat and poppy plants. "Is that your coat-of-arms?" she asked, also omitting his name.

"So it is, Lynn. It portrays the sun rising above Shar Mountain and Ohrid Lake. It represents the sun of freedom rising over Macedonia."

"We waited many years to be free," added Mihail wistfully.

"When you received the World Peace Award, we sang your national anthem. First in Macedonian," Lynn carefully pronounced the
c
like a
k
as a native would, "and then in English. I remember words about freedom and liberty."

"Today above Macedonia," sang the President in resounding bass. Mihail's tenor joined in. "The new sun of liberty is born." He looked into the distance, his face and eyes smiling. "That night in Oslo was a happy one for me."

"For all of us," said Mihail. "You brought pride to our whole country."

"I don't forget for one moment that it is the Macedonian people who deserve the peace award. President Jimmy Carter made a memorable statement in his inaugural address." As an aside he added, "I like to read biographies of U.S. presidents." He straightened his posture and orated: " 'You have given me a great responsibility—to stay close to you, to be worthy of you, and to exemplify what you are.' I remember his words because they express my feelings also."

President Dimitrovski's passion, the power of his presence, and the strong Turkish brew awakened Lynn totally. The flavors of coffee and
slatko
enhanced each other. She savored these moments in his garden.

"Macedonia is lucky to have you," said Galen. "So is the world. No leader tops you in efforts toward international peace."

"Do not tempt me with arrogance, Galen. Arrogant leaders do not engender the common good; they endanger it. I recall a story about Franklin Roosevelt. After watching the stars for a while with a White House visitor, he said, 'I think we feel small enough now to go in and go to bed.' I glance up at the stars each night and remind myself of his statement."

Lynn thought this man had arrogance completely under control.

"You travel internationally more than most. I want to know what you think about an observation I have made."

"I hope we can be helpful," said Lynn, eager to hear his comment.

"Everyday I read the newspapers from around the world. I have been observing a gradual shift toward global chaos, as subtle and real as the shift toward global warming."

She sat forward, startled. "I attended the Bishops' International Conference in Vienna this week and observed the same phenomenon when their area reports were given."

"That isn't what I wanted to hear. I was hoping you would tell me I'm seeing something that isn't there."

"But that wouldn't be like you," said Mihail. "You have a gift for observing scattered pieces and putting them together in an enlightened way. It may be the gift of seers."

"Even my pastor tempts me with arrogance! I know Mihail plays chess. Do you?"

The abrupt non sequitur brought an enthusiastic "yes" from Galen and a faint nod from Lynn, who knew the rules but not the strategy.

"In chess it is not the capability of any single piece that defines it, whether pawn or queen—or bishop," he added with a smile. "What matters is the relationship of all the pieces to each other. It is a game of
ou tout se tient."

"Where everything holds together," Lynn translated from French.

"Exactly. I see the current global situation like a chess game. Everything depends on everything else. It is no longer the
power
of any single nation that defines it. What matters today is the
relationship
of each nation to every other nation. Everything holds together."

"Or nothing does," said Lynn.

"We are in a new day, but governments still behave in the old way."

"Not ours under your regime," said Mihail proudly.

"Albanians, Bulgarians, Greeks, Gypsies, Serbians, and Turks all call Macedonia home. A pattern of ethnic and religious division has persisted here for centuries. The atrocities remained no matter who was in charge. The persecutors and victims merely exchanged places. My dream is to lead this diverse country away from letting witless history repeat itself."

"As we taste the power of unity that you are bringing," said Mihail, "we will not be so easily divided again."

"That is why unity is a threat to those who seek power rather than the common good; they gain by repeating divisive history." President Dimitrovski spoke through a veil of sadness. "And that is why they see me as their enemy."

"You lift us up," insisted Mihail. "The people love you."

"And you, my dear friend, are naïve."