The Dead Saint (26 page)

Lynn dressed quickly in a skirt and jacket, avoiding flash and flaunt that might separate her from others. She added a blue-green scarf that matched her eyes and headed back downstairs. Viktor and Galen were still drinking coffee. The gun was on the table. "Who called?" asked Galen.

"It was Fay, Love," she replied lightly.

Quick thinking, Lynn. Lies come easier and easier.

"She was up late," said suspicious Viktor.

"The time difference is hard for her," Lynn said truthfully.

"I talked to Mihail," said Galen. "Viktor can take us to a café to meet him for breakfast."

"I couldn't see Baby Sister trudging through the mud toward the church bells we heard last night and begging a stranger for a ride."

Lynn smiled at Viktor. "Thank you, Rooster."

But he apparently was through with that game and said abruptly, "Galen and I were talking about Elias Darwish's death and also what happened to the medal. Can you tell me more about it?"

She had no reason or desire to protect the mime/sniper/ thief. Let Viktor and him do battle with each other. Just leave Bubba out of it. "The mime—the sniper—stole it."

Viktor frowned and looked at Galen. "I thought you said the sniper who shot Darwish was killed the same night."

"That's right."

"It was made to look that way," explained Lynn. "But the next morning he rode my streetcar and picked my pocket. I recognized his eyes." The scene dropped around her again. Fear rose like a river, and pent-up words washed over the sandbank of caution. "I think I saw him again in Vienna the day we arrived." She added softly, "The day Major Manetti was shot—with a single bullet like Elias Darwish." Caution warned her not to use Elie's nickname and appear close to him. She trusted the instinct.

"You didn't tell me you thought you saw him!" said an astonished Galen.

She let her eyes say it all:
You wouldn't have believed me!

"Could you identify him?" asked Viktor, setting the briefcase on the table beside the gun. The lock clicked.

Lynn jumped and closed her eyes. Several seconds passed.

"Are you expecting a bomb?" Viktor chuckled. "Too James Bondish."

"We were too close to a planted bomb recently," said Galen. "It isn't funny."

Viktor opened the harmless briefcase and pulled out a thick file folder. "Please take a look at these photographs. They are some of the world's assassins."

"I have a couple of cell phone photos."

"
What?"
said Galen.

"I took them when he got off the streetcar, but I could only get his profile." She pulled her phone from her pocket and showed Viktor the two photos. Galen looked also. She began flipping through his stack of pictures. She'd almost reached the end when familiar cold eyes stared at her. Her hand recoiled from the photo. The folder fell to the floor.

Viktor picked it up. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize it would frighten you." He and Galen compared the small cell phone images to the profile shots.

"It's a match, Lynn!" said Galen. "I owe you an apology beyond words. Flowers at least. Maybe diamonds."

Lynn touched his hand. "Actually, Love, I preferred your version: the mime is dead, and I have a big imagination. It's far less scary."

Viktor looked at the name on the back of the photo. "Zechariah Zeller. Many a.k.a.'s. World class sniper."

Putting a name on the face made him more real, more terrifying. Lynn tried to stop trembling.

Viktor scanned the rest of the information. "You probably did see him in Vienna." He eyed Lynn and then Galen. "I want to emphasize that your lives will be in danger until I learn the Patriot's identity. And I can't do that without the information that cost Elias Darwish his life. If I don't get it, he died in vain!" He paused, the words punching Lynn like a boxer's blows.

"Stop badgering us for information," said Galen, voice steady, eyes calm. "We don't have any."

He sounded believable, thought Lynn, because that's what he believed.

Like maybe he's been manipulated by his wife, Lynn? Are you proud of that?

"You are unraveling threads in a clandestine net—threads that could end up strangling you." Viktor rose. "I'll be back with the car." He removed the slicker he'd hung on the hook last night and opened the door to a beautiful sunny day. Atonement for yesterday's storm.

Galen watched him walk toward some trees that evidently hid the car. "I don't like not knowing where we are and how to get ourselves where we need to go."

She saw no point in adding to that bottle of beetles. "My stuff is already packed, Love," she said, sitting down in the wingback chair to wait for Viktor.

Galen moved quickly and within ten minutes was dressed in khaki pants, blue shirt, and navy blazer, and was carrying the roll-aboard cases downstairs. "I think we got everything."

"Viktor hasn't returned yet, Love," she said.

"I wonder if he made up the Patriot story."

Lynn thought about it. "Maybe so. It justified his break-in at our hotel room."

"And it pressured us to help him get that information he's obsessed with."

"The call this morning was really from Bubba, not Fay. He's going to meet us tomorrow in Sarajevo."

"That's a surprise!"

"We can go see Mrs. Darwish together, first thing tomorrow afternoon."

"Do you know whether he has what Viktor wants?"

"He didn't say, but reading between the lines, I think he might."

"If he does, I wonder if he'll bring it."

"I warned him to be careful."

"But he might feel that he can keep it safe if it's with him." Galen paused, his eyes thoughtful. "I wonder how far Viktor would go to get it."

"I'm afraid to guess, Love. I'm also afraid that Bubba might just see this as a game. He may not realize what he's up against."

Do you, Lynn?

Viktor sat in the car listening carefully to the conversation picked up clearly on the bugs he'd planted downstairs during the night. So he'd been right about Broussard. He'd also been right about the Petersons being the link to finding him. Elie must have trusted him like a brother. And now Broussard was on his way to Sarajevo. Good news at last! He decided quickly on a plan, wondering himself just how far he would go to get that information.

General Thornburg walked amid the shattered pieces of the presidential plane that were scattered across the rocky terrain like the charred remains of the victims. So dark a deed should have eclipsed the sun, but its rays beamed down on the crash site like a spotlight on evil. The general, respectful of the death around him during his inspection, noted a small, pocket-sized notepad
off
to the side under the low branches of a bush. He knelt to examine it and saw the pilot's name on the front. He had used it to record flight information. In his mind the general saw the pilot keeping it handy in a shirt pocket and pulling it out to make a needed note.

He stood again, pondering the notepad's distance from the nearest remains. Why was it over here?
Uncharred.
Had the pilot been able to crawl away from the plane? Had something happened before he died that caused him to remove it from his pocket and shove it aside, hidden under the bush? Had he hoped that someone would find it later and ask this very question? Would he be alive if the village five had reached him first? The general recalled that they had reported hearing groans. He looked full circle around the crash site at the remains of the passengers. Their condition was such that even a groan would have been beyond their capabilities.

Other questions plagued him also. Why was the pilot flying so low unless the villagers were right about a damaged wing? But if so, how? The plane would have been thoroughly checked before takeoff. What caused the damage? Perhaps the real question was not
what
but
who.
And why was the wrong site given since SFOR soldiers—if that's who they really were—found the crash quickly enough to turn back the villagers? The questions themselves pointed to an answer darker than the storm clouds blamed by officials.

He trudged back toward the helicopter, heavy-hearted. "Only fifteen kilometers from Mostar, President Dimitrovski," he muttered. "You almost made it." Distressing thoughts crowded his mind like rocks crowded the terrain. He stepped carefully, watching the ground to avoid stumbling. As he passed a clump of leafless bushes, he noticed part of the aircraft's crunched blue and white tail, its red stripe and small flower visible—unblackened. He noticed something small protruding between two pieces of the wreckage. He stooped to examine it and retrieved a small checkbook-sized box.
To Father Nish from Natalia
was written across the lid in blue ink. General Thornburg picked up the box and opened it. He frowned when he saw the wad of pink euro bills. A piece of paper was on top. He unfolded it and saw the sketch of a symbol, one few people could identify. "St. Sava!" he muttered. He put the lid back on and decided to keep it. If officials found this much cash, it might distract from their investigation. President Dimitrovski deserved better. Besides, he'd heard of Father Nish. He dropped the box into the pocket of his camouflage vest.

The general had asked Awad and the translator to wait with his helicopter pilot. One person tracking up evidence at the crash site was enough. As he approached, the three men tried to hide their impatience but failed. He glanced at his watch—800 hours. He scanned this place of death for the last time and asked the pilot to radio the crash site's correct location. He turned to Awad. "The villagers will remember you. A familiar face will be helpful."

His aide nodded. "Things went well last night. Once they understood that they were safe, they were eager to tell their stories."

General Thornburg looked at the helicopter pilot. "Next stop, Huskovici."

The ride with Viktor to meet mihail for breakfast was like none Lynn had ever experienced. Even though the plane crash had not been officially confirmed, President Dimitrovski's death pressed upon the city. Viktor crept slowly through the traffic, weaving around the sea of pedestrians. Macedonian state radio played classical music in his honor. Mourners stood outside the Parliament Building, the largest crowds ever gathered in Skopje. People swarmed in from everywhere in the country, joining together in their sorrow. In her mind she listened again to the President's vibrant voice joyfully bursting forth in Macedonia's national anthem. Now the people would have to sing about "the new sun of liberty" without him. No, Lynn corrected herself, not without him but on his behalf. In time they will sing it zealously! But for now they gathered in silence. With tearful eyes they lit candles. Hundreds and hundreds of candles. President Dimitrovski could die, but the light of peace and hope he had planted in their hearts would live on.

Viktor let Galen and Lynn off at the café and drove on. They sat in silence at a round table for three, waiting for Pastor Mihail Maritnovski and thinking their own thoughts until Mihail arrived, his face bleak. He looked bone-weary and had aged a decade since Tuesday night. She would listen to his worries, not cast her own upon him.

They ordered breakfast, yogurt and fruit for Lynn. Mihail talked about the day's packed itinerary. The repercussions of the assumed plane crash were devastating for many reasons, and he had prepared a brief liturgy for each meeting today, should they receive the expected bad news. The time of liturgy would honor President Dimitrovski and comfort the people. The day's schedule cared for, he delved into what was really on his mind and talked about his personal feelings. Lynn and Galen simply listened, giving him a safe haven from having to be strong for others. He shared his heart, exposing his agony over the loss of his dear friend. His primary concern was ministering to the President's family, who were enduring a battering-ram kind of torture: plane crash—site found—bodies discovered—no survivors. Then the haunting reversal: no bodies—no plane—no crash site. Then he seemed to shake himself out of his worries and loss, straightening in his chair and locking away his personal grief again.

Mihail's focus shifted, and he shared his concerns for his fragile country's stability. He could not imagine the impact of the esteemed President's death. Four national leaders had accompanied him, and their deaths would compound the difficulties. He lowered his eyes, toying with his fork, his voice as gray as his mood.

"Filling the vacancies will turn into a wrestling match," he said with despair. "Sometimes the best men and women are defeated by those unbound by honesty and honor. You know how it is. My hope in the good was restored when we, the people, were able to elect Basil."

It was the first time Lynn had heard Mihail use his friend's first name.

He looked up wearily at them. "Why is it that the best often lose to the loudest, most aggressive, and least ethical persons?" His phone rang before either of them could attempt an answer.

Mihail listened for a few moments and the brief conversation ended. He slumped, no longer buoyed by the slim hope for the impossible. He looked weighted down to the breaking point by what he already knew but had hoped to be spared from facing. "It has not been announced yet," he said, the words barely forming in his throat, "but at eight o'clock this morning, the crash site was located near the village of Huskovici. The President's plane is charred by fire. There are no survivors."

No intimidation. Keeping Marsh in mind, General Thornburg chanted this mantra to himself throughout his interviews with the Huskovici villagers. First he called the five men the village sent to help after the plane crash. He kept them together so they would feel more comfortable. It proved fruitful because their comments jogged each other's memories about details. Their words projected an IMAX movie on the screen of his mind. He saw their struggle through the storm to get to the victims. He heard their confusion when they were stopped by uniformed men with guns and ordered back to the village. He felt their anger when they later heard a blast and saw the smoke rising into the sky.

The smallest of the five seemed to be the leader, a wiry man, young and energetic. The general excused the others but asked him to remain. "Tell me the whole story again, Milosh. Start at the beginning. I am interested in every detail."

Milosh glanced at the translator, unsure.

"It is safe," stated the general with compelling authority.

Milosh stared out the window toward the distant treeline and spoke rapidly, getting rid of the words that might in turn get rid of the guilt he felt for being powerless to help the victims: "We picked our way toward the site."

He glanced at the general, his eyes troubled. "We tried to hurry. But the terrain is rugged, and the storm made it more difficult. We are always slowed by landmines. We have to be careful."

"Very careful," said General Thornburg as images of maimed children filled his mind. He detested landmines. "The coward's weapon!"

Milosh nodded vehement agreement. "Finally we reached the treeline. We were so close that we could hear people groan." He paused thoughtfully. "Three, I think. One sounded like a woman."

His voice caught. "When I heard their suffering, I moved toward them as fast as I could. All of us did. We came to a chasm. On the other side I could see part of a plane wing. We had to climb down and back up again to get across. All the time I could hear the groans. The terrible groans." He paused again, reliving it, as though they echoed in his mind. Perhaps they always would.

General Thornburg lived it with him.

Milosh continued. "I heard the second plane before I saw it. Its noise drowned out all the other sounds. I hoped it was a rescue plane, not a war plane. We never know about the planes." He looked away from the treeline toward the general.

"These are hard times," the general said, encouraging him as Marsh would have.

Milosh gazed once more into the distance. "A helicopter in camouflage colors flew overhead. I saw it dip to land. We kept going so we could help. Three SFOR soldiers suddenly appeared. They wore camouflage uniforms with French insignias. This is what I don't understand."

He glanced furtively at the translator and back again at the general, frowning. General Thornburg nodded encouragement.

Milosh lowered his eyes. "They aimed their guns at us. We explained that we wanted to help, but they refused to let us pass. It sounds weak . . ." He hesitated.

"Nothing you say shows weakness. It is all very important."

"I thought they might kill us."

"If you tried to advance?" asked the general.

Milosh raised his eyes and shook his head. "No. Even if we turned to go."

General Thornburg nodded. "Sometimes our inner warnings keep us alive."

"They argued among themselves. Loud. Explosive. Then one—the leader, I think—shouted at us to return to our homes. He spoke our language, but with a heavy accent. He warned us fiercely not to report anything." Milosh's lips curled into a sneer as he mimicked: " 'It's a matter of national security.'
Whose
national security?" He fell silent, then shrugged. "We came back to Huskovici."

The story was over. "Are you sure that is all, Milosh?"

The younger man hesitated. Once again his eyes darted cautiously toward the translator.

"There is more?"

Milosh released a heavy sigh. "That is all that we saw. But," he looked timidly at the general. "I could not get out of my mind what had happened. Their actions made no sense. Later that day I realized something I had not noticed at the time."

The long pause tried General Thornburg's patience. He remembered Marsh's interrogation style and urged gently, "Go on, please."

"The soldiers wore French insignias but did not argue in that language."

"You speak French?"

Milosh nodded. "
Oui, monsieur.
I did not recognize the language they spoke, but it was not French."

The general's mind had been running various plots. Peacemakers make many enemies because war serves self-interests: financial ones for arms dealers and weapons manufacturers, psychological ones for bullies and the power-hungry and the arrogant, political ones for manipulative leaders who use fear to gain votes. A key question was whether President Dimitrovski's death was plotted inside or outside Macedonia. "Milosh, would you recognize the Macedonian language?"

Milosh shook his head. "I know Bosanski, of course. Serbian, Croation, French. But not Macedonian." His shoulders sank. "I am sorry."

"To speak four languages is something to be proud of," General Thornburg replied, thinking that Marsh would have said something like that. "Macedonian is only spoken by about two million people." He felt a bit of pride in himself as he saw Milosh sit up straight and lift his chin. He decided it was time to take the interview in for a landing. "I understand some of the villagers heard a blast later and saw smoke."

"All of us did. We heard it. We saw it. We smelled the smoke."

Exactly as he had feared.

"The smoke puffed into the sky like a mushroom cloud."

"Tell me again, Milosh. I want to be sure I understand. When the President's plane came over, something was wrong with the wing."

"That is correct."

"But there was no explosion when it crash-landed? No smoke at that time?"

"No explosion. No smoke."

"That came later?"

"Much later. After the soldiers sent us away." Milosh looked down at his hands, finished. He'd told the story in full, the story of what had happened that should not have happened.

General Thornburg thanked him, feeling most unthankful himself. President Dimitrovski had been killed—and not by the storm as officials claimed. Someone had deliberately taken the world a giant step toward instability. And the United States government needed to know the details. The problem was that since Marsh's death he had no trust in anyone—on either side of the pond.