The Dead Saint (22 page)

As his entourage rolled onto the airfield, President Dimitrovski admired the white presidential plane, a Beechcraft Super King Air 200 with sleek blue trim outlined by a red strip on the nose, tail, and wings. He heard the pilots start the twin-engine turboprop. It would take about two hours to fly over the mountains to Mostar. "Where is our passenger?" he asked, agitated by his absence. "What is his name, Branko?"

"Frank Fillmore." Branko opened the door for the President as they stopped beside the plane. Four other officials also prepared to board. "If I may say so, sir, I don't like a stranger traveling on your plane."

The President smiled at his most loyal—and favorite—bodyguard. "It is difficult for staff to refuse the CIA and MI5. Anything in threes takes on mythological power."

"I am not afraid of them, sir!"

"Neither am I, Branko. Unfortunately that puts us in a very small minority." He smiled at the dependable young man, moved by the fact that he would die for him without hesitation.

Shifting from Macedonian to English, Branko said, "The request to travel with you was impudent, impertinent, and ill-mannered."

The President smiled again, aware that Branko fervently studied the English dictionary and enjoyed practicing new words. He must have reached the letter
I,
he thought fondly.

"The
President's plane
is not public transportation."

"Ah! It is Macedonian pride, then, that troubles you." His loyal bodyguard deserved to hear the truth. "A call was received this morning that Fillmore is needed in Mostar for an emergency. We are the quickest transport. A staffer granted permission as a favor."

Branko's lack of approval showed clearly on his face. "Did he check the source to be sure?"

"That is protocol."

He tried another tack. "Look at the cloudbank in the northwest, sir. We cannot wait for Fillmore."

President Dimitrovski noted both the cloudbank and Branko's persistence. "Agreed."

With a relieved smile he suggested, "We can board immediately, sir. The rest of your delegation is here, and the pilots made the plane secure upon their arrival."

As they moved toward the plane, a man exited the boarding door, waving feebly and teetering down the ramp. "Mr. President," he greeted weakly. "I am Frank Fillmore."

"We were not aware that you were already on board."

"I arrived early, sir. It's a booger to keep someone waiting." He reached the ground but still held onto the rail.

"So it is."

"I have suddenly taken a bit ill." He reeled and began to retch.

"More than a bit, I'd say."

"I am sorry, sir," he apologized. "A spot of food poisoning, I think. Portabella mushrooms, perhaps. Even the thought of them is sickening." He retched again.

"Obviously, you aren't able to go to Mostar. My driver can take you to a doctor."

"That is unnecessary, sir. Just a bed and a bucket will do."

President Dimitrovski turned to Branko. "Please ask the driver to take Mr. Fillmore back to his hotel."

"Yes, sir."

Fillmore crawled heavily into the backseat and mouthed a feeble thank-you.

The President watched the car turn around to leave the air-field. "I was preoccupied and didn't notice earlier, Branko, but I don't recall seeing today's driver before."

"You haven't, sir. He's new. His credentials are impeccable."

President Dimitrovski smiled to himself. Branko had definitely reached the letter
I
in his well-worn dictionary. He walked up the ramp and paused at the top to turn around. His eyes swept across the skyline of the city he loved. He glanced up appreciatively at the beautiful mountains on the horizon and then toward the darkening cloudbank above them. He turned back toward the plane and placed his hand for a moment on the painted coat-of-arms beside the boarding door—the wheat and poppy plants, the wavy waters and blue mountain, the sun of freedom rising above them all. The words of the national anthem came to his mind again: "Today above Macedonia the new sun of liberty is born." How he loved his country! May we continue to live in peace, he murmured to himself, a prayer without ceasing.

He stepped inside the plane and felt an unease he didn't understand. The King Air B-200 started down the runway, and he glanced at his watch. Departure, 14:48. Three minutes late.

Through the window he could see his car carrying Frank Fillmore fade into the distance. But he could not see the flight-steward-turned-driver, hired because of outstanding references, credentials, and resume—all false—remove the chauffeur's hat, hair falling to her shoulders. El Toro looked back at her "ailing" passenger and smiled in complicity.

John Adams stood at his office window, hands behind his back, staring blankly through the drizzle toward the Pentagon. He needed to concentrate on BarLothiun contracts, but his thoughts ping-ponged between President Benedict's phone contact and Frank Fillmore's curious presence in Skopje.

Inside information pointed to factions displeased with President Dimitrovski. His ability to keep Macedonia out of the Balkan war worked against two groups: those whose purpose was based on profit and also those whose purpose was based on principle. President Dimitrovski's enemies included people who considered peace to be contrary to their self-interests, political adversaries he'd beaten in his election, and blocs that wanted Macedonia to fight on their side. Logic leapt to a contract between Fillmore and one of the factions that wanted Dimitrovski overthrown. Shaken by the possibility, he turned away from the window and walked thoughtfully to his credenza to retrieve his phone from JFK. He had met President Basil Dimitrovski, who was the kind of president for whom faith and justice were more than expedient words to gain political capital. He expected his elites to serve justice by protecting the Dimitrovskis of the world, those rare leaders worthy of their office. The kind of president I would make, he thought, unlike Benedict.

He had contacts on his payroll in most of the capitols in the world. They gave him current information on their countries, invaluable for initiating timely BarLothiun contracts as well as getting a heads-up for arms sales opportunities. Devious but necessary. Underpaid custodians were his best informants. A tax-free cash stipend was a way he could help the little people, a form of justice. Secretaries were careless about the phone messages they tossed in the trash and loose about leaving communication logs lying around. Custodians had keys to their offices. Clerks like Radmila, his contact in Skopje, were second best. A granny-type woman who'd been on staff for decades, she could gain access to any information he wanted.

The Patriot followed the usual procedure to reach her. It took her less than ten minutes to find a secure place to talk to him. They spoke in Kwanyama, a relatively uncommon African language that his global contacts received a bonus for learning—except Africans, who were offered the same bonus for learning Lakota, an American Indian language spoken by fewer than ten thousand people.

Radmila was very efficient, but there was little news that mattered and no trouble he could logically link to Fillmore. Before ending the call, he courteously asked about President Dimitrovski. She was loyal to the President—a prerequisite for his global contacts. Disloyal people would also be disloyal to him. However, his contacts' loyalty stopped short of confessing their financially rewarding arrangement to pass on information.

Radmila responded with affection in her voice. "He is well. He left about an hour ago to fly to a conference in Mostar. A CIA agent is flying with him. He needed emergency transport."

CIA agents didn't need
emergency transport.
"Say more."

"He showed his credentials and was approved. No one dares question the CIA."

John Adams felt a reflux of acrid foreboding. "Who was it?"

"Someone else handled that."

A dead end. For a second he felt relieved.

"But it seemed a strange request," she continued thoughtfully, "so I remembered the name. Frank Fillmore."

Trepidation riveted him. He gripped the phone. His mind raced. Six months ago he'd arranged false CIA credentials for Fillmore, who considered one identity for a period of time less risky than simultaneous aliases. His assignment had been to free a journalist abroad whom the U.S. government had shown an enormous capacity to ignore. Justice called for her release, and her gratitude put her in the Patriot's pocket, a great asset. Now Fillmore, always for sale, had reused those credentials and perhaps built a bomb to kill President Dimitrovski—but his survive-at-all-costs mentality would stop short of throwing in his own life. "So Fillmore flew with him?"

"No. He became ill just before takeoff. The President's driver took him back to his hotel."

Oh, Jahweh-Christ-Allah!
He must alert Air Traffic Control. "Thank you," he said, intending to end the conversation.

"The President called today," Radmila added.

"Dimitrovski?"

"No. Benedict."

"When?"

"At one."

He translated it to seven this morning in D.C.
That
was the Lincoln Memorial call.

"She set up a telephone appointment for tomorrow afternoon."

So her call was merely to another president, not a secret liaison. He felt reassured and a bit paranoid.

"The President contacted—"

"Benedict?"

"No. Dimitrovski. He contacted another person to participate in the call. She must be important. He phoned her himself."

"Do you know who?"

"An American. She and her husband had coffee with him this morning."

"Who?" he asked again.

It seemed a very long time before Radmila answered. He could almost hear her thinking. "I remember now. Bishop Lynn Peterson."

A storm blew in from the ebony bank of clouds in the northwestern sky as Lynn and Galen finished the day's schedule. Agent Nedelkovski and a driver picked them up as President Dimitrovski had requested, and began the circuitous route to a safe house. The very idea of a safe house made her feel unsafe, and the armed escort for security brought anything but a feeling of security. She wanted to know where they were going, but the tense atmosphere did not invite questions.

Galen sat rigidly beside her, concentrating, probably on their route. She saw anxiety in his eyes. They were used to being in strangers' hands—but those were church people. These men were trained to expect the worst from people.

The storm worsened by the minute while the driver circled blocks, made sudden turns, reversed directions. She wondered if they were being followed. Or if they were being taken
into
danger instead of out of it.

Stop it, Lynn!

This time she listened to intrusive Ivy. If President Dimitrovski trusted Agent Nedelkovski, then so would she.

Just think of him as Ol' Ned.

He was too fit to be thought of as
old,
but
Ned
would work.

Finally the car came to a stop near a house set amidst trees. Lynn couldn't see it clearly because of the heavy rainstorm. It ran in rivulets down the driveway, etching a myriad of mud puddles like oversized honeycomb. She gripped the door handle to get out.

"Remain in the car!" Nedelkovski commanded. He drew his gun and scanned 360 degrees, then unlocked the door to the house. Gun held steady with both hands, he shoved the door open with his foot and stepped cautiously inside.

Silence.

Ned returned and opened her door. She tasted sulfur as a bolt of lightning raced in a zigzag path across the sky. They ran into the house, drenched by the rain. He gave them a moment to scan the room, then smiled. "President Dimitrovski asked me to give you a message: 'Welcome to the Lincoln bedroom.' "

Galen and Lynn laughed, releasing tension, tension that the President would have assumed they would feel as they entered a safe house. She asked what she'd been wondering. "Was someone following us?"

"No one can follow our drivers," he replied proudly.

Lynn's eyes roved over their surroundings, the simplicity inviting. Sparse furniture—old but comfortable. Two olive wingback chairs opposite a tweedy tobacco sofa. Wooden table with four unmatched chairs. Small kitchen off to the side. Stairs that probably led to the bedrooms. Cozy, but she verged on imploding with anxiety when she noted the bars on the windows in this isolated place.

"There is tea in the kitchen if you would like to make it," suggested Ned. "I'll check upstairs."

"Are we prisoners or guests, Love?" she whispered to Galen softly.

He put his arm around her reassuringly. "President Dimitrovski is overcautious."

She went into the kitchen, found a jar of tea on the open shelf, and put water in the kettle. Thunder played tympani while gales of wind bent the trees and wailed down the safehouse chimney. Sheets of rain pounded the roof and splattered the window panes. The musty odor of wet leaves mingled with the aroma of tea leaves. As she waited for the water to boil, she thought of the novel she hoped to write someday. Agent Nedelkovski and the driver would be holding them hostage, surreptitiously working for the bad guys instead of President Dimitrovski. Maybe hired by St. Sava. It was not a comforting scenario, especially accompanied by the sound effects.

Ned and Galen walked into the kitchen as the agent said, "Tonight I'll place one guard outside and another inside."

Safely guarded or under guard, Lynn?

Either way, she'd be glad for the company. Thick trees hide more than just four-footed animals, and thunder covers more than bird chirps.

"I apologize for any inconvenience."

"We are the ones who should apologize," said Galen. "Our stay has become troublesome for you. We would be quite content to stay at our hotel."

"You are important people to President Dimitrovski. I am honored to have responsibility for your safety."

"Thank you, Agent Nedelkovski." Lynn smiled at him. "I know we are in good hands."

He returned her smile with a twinkle in his eye. "It is safe for you to play solitaire here."

She laughed, feeling more at ease, and poured three cups of tea that they carried into the main area.

"I understand you met Viktor Machek," he said, that same twinkle in his eye. "Many tales are told about him."

And, thought Lynn, he tells many tales. Like being Russian and pretending to admire my book. Ouch.

"What is your favorite tale?" asked Galen.

"I'll tell you one just as it was told to me." He cleared his throat and began:

    Four men with Uzis captured Machek. They strapped his wrists together in the front and walked him deep in the woods to a place of interrogation, a guard leading and the others following their prisoner. One moment all was calm. The next a hurricane hit!
    Machek leaped at Number One in front of him. Looped his strapped wrists over One's head. Locked his arms against his sides. Grabbed hold of the Uzi. Held his finger on the trigger. Pivoted so he and One faced the others, Number One in human-shield position.
    It happened too fast for them to react.
    "Throw down your guns!" Machek ordered.
    Number Two balked. A mistake! Machek pulled the trigger. Shot the gun from Two's hands.
    "Throw down your guns!" he ordered again.
    Number Three hesitated. Another mistake! Another bloody hand!
    Number Four complied.
    "Now drop your weapons belts!"
    Number Four rebelled. Charged him
. M
achek heaved the butt of the Uzi backward into One's belly. He gagged and tripped
. M
achek hung on to the Uzi. Jerked his arms over One's head. Slammed him into Four
. S
pun. Landed a knockout kick. It put Four on the ground with a broken jaw.
    Machek grabbed a knife from a weapons belt. Put the handle in his mouth. Raised his hands above the blade. Slashed the wrist straps. Freed his hands.
    One lunged. Machek dodged. Spun and kicked. Broke One's nose and knocked him out.
    Machek took nylon cords from the weapons belts. Rolled each guard face down. Tied their hands—bloody or not—behind them. Bent their right knee backwards. Tied their right foot to their hands. Four guards deactivated in seconds! Like a cowboy wrestling steers in an American movie.
    Machek brushed
off
the knees of his pants and walked
off
a free man again.

Ned paused.

"That's a remarkable story," said Lynn, wondering how much it had been exaggerated.

"And it's true. I know because I'm the one who found the four." He paused dramatically. "All of them enemies of Macedonia. Machek did us a favor." He smiled. "What's interesting is that they spoke of him with admiration, almost awe. They got some battle scars, but he could have killed them and didn't." He wrapped the words in his own admiration.

Better to have Viktor as a friend than an enemy, Lynn.

Three sharp staccato rings alerted Ned. "Excuse me. I must answer."

Lynn didn't understand the words he spoke into the phone, but she did understand his silence. His face paled in the universal language of tragedy. Dazed, he rushed to the door.

"Agent Nedelkovski, wait!" she called. "Can we help?"

"Pray for a miracle." He jerked open the door. Rain poured in.

"What happened?" Galen asked.

He glanced back at them, unable to control the quaver in his voice. "It's President Dimitrovski. SFOR Air Traffic Control lost his plane from radar at 16:01." Automatically, he glanced at his watch. "Ten minutes ago."