The Dead Saint (29 page)

Rachel Darwish stared at her son's business card.
John Adams.
No vestige of his past remained in her son, not even his birth name.

"Different but necessary.
John Adams
is patriotic," he explained. "He was the second President of the United States. R
istich
would not serve my purposes there. I kept part of my name, however, as a reminder of Grandfather Adam. Besides,
Adams
comes toward the beginning of the alphabet, oftentimes a business advantage. People are too impatient to look through to the
Rs."

She ran her fingers across the embossed English words and stared at the impressive ecru card with a gold BarLothiun logo. It matched the elegance of his brown tailored suit and shiny brown shoes, his starched white shirt and expensive tie. "BarLothiun. I have heard of it," she said, recovering from the sudden awareness that the son who stood before her was a total stranger. "You are a man with a successful career. Far away, but successful. Your father and grandfathers would be proud of you."

When she looked up from the card, he stood at the door. "Write to me, Mother, if you change your mind about moving." With that, he was gone.

Rachel felt her soul would dissolve. His presence had catapulted her from the chasm of grief to the peak of elation. As he closed the door behind him without even a kiss, she felt herself free-falling through space. Down . . . down . . . down into a dry well of despair. She thought she had already borne all the pain she could. Now her heart broke in a new way. For what stole this beloved son from her was not his death but his life.

She hurried through the hall of the apartment building to the outer door and threw it open. "Adam! My Adam!" He drove away without looking back. She shuffled stiffly down the street after his vanishing car, waving her arms and calling his name again and again. Adam! My Adam! In her right hand she still clutched the unopened gift.

The flight steward welcomed the passengers to Sarajevo's Butmir Airport. Lynn deplaned and checked her watch. Twelve-fifty. Ten minutes until the one o'clock call from "Vini McGragor." Light poured in through the terminal's multi-storied glass wall, and she recalled a line from a Serbian poem: The "blind man is not hindered by eyes." Sunlight shone down like a plea to the people to
see,
to reject the blindness that allows the darkness of revenge to fester and explode.

She and Galen found a waiting area and began to watch for Bubba's plane. A nearby TV announced a Mostar press conference about President Dimitrovski's plane crash. Chatter ceased. Surprised, Lynn noticed the man who'd sat across the aisle from Galen on the plane Tuesday night, reminding her of a crouched tiger eager to pounce. "Love, isn't he the one who carried on a long conversation with you on the plane to Skopje?"

"You have a good memory. He's Frank Fillmore."

She also remembered that he had been near them in the security line—El Toro on his arm. Now he emanated an air of invisibility, his gray suit and gray tie fading into the gray seat. He appeared too deeply engrossed in the press conference to notice them, and she decided to ignore him. Perhaps it was mutual.

The Macedonian and Bosnian officials involved in the press conference reiterated that the bodies of the President and eight others had been found. That was the tasteful and respectful place to stop, but they went on to report painful details about one body being carbonized, another unburnt, and five bodies found in parts. Sickened, she turned away and looked at Galen. "A beloved President's death is bad news enough. We don't need vivid gore."

"Neither do the victims' loved ones." he replied.

When asked about the cause, the officials somberly blamed the weather. Sabotage clawed at her grief. Her cell phone rang. She glanced at her watch. Precisely one o'clock. "Hello," she said with forced calm, donning her mask.

A woman spoke. "Names are unwise."

Lynn recognized the voice, stunned by actually hearing the President of the United States speaking to her, even though she'd expected the call. She must guard her words on her unsecure cell phone. The President was taking a risk.

"There are still troublesome events on the ranch and beyond."

The ranch image written to Marsh! Lynn retained her mask and casual tone. "I know."

"I will attend my colleague's funeral."

Lynn was sure she meant President Dimitrovski.

"Please be there."

"Yes . . ." Lynn stifled the spontaneous "Madam President" and concentrated on posed nonchalance. The connection went dead. She did not know when the funeral would be or how they would get there. What she did know was that
nothing
could keep her from attending.

She felt that all-too-familiar sense of being watched and caught the gaze of a man who wore an air of timidity that contrasted with his well-tailored brown suit. He quickly averted his eyes. His face seemed vaguely familiar. Perhaps he was someone she knew distantly, maybe through the media. A celebrity or a politician. She thought of John Adams, but he radiated confidence. Besides, this man had gray hair and wore glasses, and a goatee dominated his face. He stood within earshot, a pasted smile on his face. Something about him raised her yellow flag.

"OK, Fay," Lynn said lightly into the dead phone for the benefit of any eavesdropper, especially the one with the pasted-on smile. "Thank you for letting me know." She remembered the time difference. A flat earth with a stationary sun would make life simpler for fakers. "Yes, this is a good time to reach us, but awfully early for you . . . Not to worry. We are doing fine." She punched
End,
withholding a sigh of relief. Trusting her yellow flag, she angled the phone's camera lens discreetly toward Pasted-on-Smile as she returned it to Big-Black and thumbed
Camera/Capture/Save
without looking. Not even Galen noticed.

Are you building a rogue's gallery, Lynn?

"What did Fay call about?" asked Galen.

"It was just some information for me, Love. I can take care of it later."

Congratulations, Lynn! You've mastered the primary skill of politics: manipulate perception through distorting the truth without actually lying.

And that's the good guys, Lynn thought. The others flatout lie without blinking an eye—practiced, persuasive, and unperturbed.

An alliterative tirade, Lynn. But this is not the time.

She puzzled over Pasted-on-Smile's identity but still couldn't place him.

"Hey there!" a James Earl Jones voice shouted above the airport noise. Bubba raced a crooked path through the crowd toward them.

She rushed to meet him. "It's great to see you!" She and Galen didn't have time for many friendships, but the ones they had were deep and lasting—the kind where you'll always be there for one another. He lifted her from the floor in a linebacker hug that made her think of the movie
The Blind Side—
Bubba had her back. She grinned, hoping Pasted-on-Smile saw them but he had disappeared. So had Frank Fillmore.

They made their way to the exit and stood in the long taxi line outside. The Sarajevo itinerary didn't begin until six o'clock. First things first: Mrs. Darwish. Lynn both looked forward to seeing her this afternoon and dreaded it, smothered by the heavy pall of death. As they climbed into a taxi, she saw Frank Fillmore still waiting in line. Strange, she thought, he left before we did.

Zechariah Zeller had spent the previous hour hunched invisibly on a bar stool, his sunglasses hiding his focus. As his beer stein emptied and his cigarette smoke rose, he viewed the passengers through the wall mirror facing the counter. So easy.

One man had been waiting at the airport for half an hour, noticeable for the very reason that he was nondescript. Zeller had watched him amble along apparently without purpose, wearing an unnotable gray suit and gray tie, skilled at appearing invisible. Too skilled. He dubbed him
Herr Invisible—
a man trained by the CIA or another nation's counterpart. He'd bet on it.

Another man had hurried into the airport about fifteen minutes later, then tried to blend in with the crowd. It didn't work. He'd evidently pocketed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar, but his perfectly tailored brown suit and shined leather shoes stood out. Something about him seemed familiar, but Zeller couldn't zero in on what it was. The painted-on smile reminded him of a politician. He observed that his eyes returned to
Herr Invisible
too often for coincidence.

Zeller noticed that his flight of interest had landed and began to watch its passengers stream by. A one-armed, medal-decorated soldier rushed by, leaving Zeller with the uncomfortable reminder of vulnerability. Losing an arm would end his career. But he wouldn't let that happen. No.

When he recognized Galen Lincoln Peterson, his trigger finger itched. The target kept Frau Peterson by his side as he hurried to the TV set. For a man playing dual roles, survival could depend on current information. Yet Peterson puzzled him. He did not appear cautious or take in his surroundings with a sweeping look or seem unduly aware of the people around him. Zeller found himself wondering if the Petersons' pattern of showing up in his life could be coincidental. A dangerous thought. He must not underestimate his opponent. No. Peterson was a skillful operative who used his pretty wife for his cover and sometimes dragged her into dangerous realms. Zeller tasted disgust and wanted to spit.

Through his mirror on the world he glanced again at the man in the brown suit. He seemed part of a familiar tableau but unrecognizable. Like the Patriot. The thought jolted him. It couldn't be. No. The Patriot emanated authority. As he observed the situation, he realized the man was covertly watching the Petersons, a frozen smile on his face. This game of espionage was proving more interesting than Zeller had expected. It crossed his mind that this man might also be after Peterson. Have at it, he thought. Save me the trouble.

Zeller saw Frau Peterson answer her cell phone. He noted a stunned nanosecond on her face. A glance at the man in the brown suit told him that he had noticed it also and was casually moving closer to her. Probably to get within hearing distance. Frau Peterson's total concentration belied her casual expression. Suddenly her demeanor lightened. Something about that call didn't ring true. No.

Zeller watched in the bar mirror as the man in the suit exited the terminal, still visible through the glass wall. He frowned. Why come to a terminal, wait around, and then leave without flying or meeting someone? He watched him punch in numbers on his cell phone, then step around the corner away from the front wall of glass. Simultaneously Zeller noticed Herr Invisible flip up the cover of his cell to receive a call. But logic fell on the side of coincidental separate calls rather than a connected one.

The loud arrival of Broussard from New Orleans brought another taste of disgust. The oversized brute had been a nuisance from the beginning, complicating things by taking Darwish's medal in the first place and then giving it to Frau Peterson at the café. Broussard was to blame for the whole thing—including the necessity for retrieval on the St. Charles streetcar. Obviously the man couldn't leave Frau Peterson alone. He shouldn't hoist her into the air, but she was too small to stop him and probably too kind to reprimand him. Or perhaps she was afraid of him. His frown deepened. His trigger finger twitched. But she did not appear afraid. No.

When the Petersons and Broussard started toward the door, Zeller faded unnoticed into the crowd. He retrieved his rental car and moved his navy duffle bag from the trunk to the front seat for ready access to his rifle, still disassembled. He maneuvered the car close enough to see the Peterson-Broussard taxi, confident that they were unaware of his presence. So easy. He gave the duffle bag a fond pat. "Ah,
Freund,
I will enjoy the challenge of the chase."

Frank Fillmore stood unhurried in the car rental line at the airport. His eyes had locked with Lynn Peterson's as her cab drove away. Whither thou goest, I will go, lady! On the plane to Skopje three days ago he'd learned a lot about her husband, a regular man despite being married to a bishop. He'd also observed her out of curiosity. An alert woman. But a dangerous one? Preposterous! Yet a contract was a contract. The target didn't matter.

The entire scenario of the Patriot's directive irritated him. First, the last-minute information ran contrary to his best interests and also the Patriot's usual insistence on thoroughness. He didn't even know the target's name until half an hour ago! There wasn't time to plan the place. He'd had to bribe a taxi driver to maneuver into position to pick up the target and stick with her, keeping him informed of the troublesome trio's plans by cell phone.

Second, the choice of weapon irked him. A gun instead of a bomb. With a bomb you set it up and get out of there! You have to stick around when you use a gun.

Third, the directive itself puzzled him. Always before the Patriot had avoided knowledge of details about implementation. Only the bottom line interested him: do not fail! But in today's directive he'd insisted on knowing in advance the site chosen for execution. He had no interest in working for a micromanager. Yet the Patriot paid top dollar.

Fourth, his major irritation stemmed from debasement. The target is beneath me, he thought. Lynn Peterson is unworthy of execution by Frank Fillmore, the man who brought down the plane of the President of Macedonia! The memory of the sabotage and its success kicked into his system like straight bourbon from a flask. He gloated over an impossible challenge well handled: Everything was done perfectly. Clever Frank Fillmore found a way to get on the plane and plant the small device under the seat nearest to the right wing. Then brilliantly got off the plane without suspicion, simply by retching in front of the President. Better to retch than to bow. Frank Fillmore bows to no one!

Irritated or not, he would obey the Lynn Peterson directive. The Patriot had tightened his leash with the words: You have been busy with a weighty matter. How did he know about the bomb on Dimitrovski's plane? Or who had placed it there? Simple. The Patriot knew everything.

Fillmore accepted the keys and a map of Sarajevo from the car rental agent. He slipped into the driver's seat and paused to familiarize himself with the streets of the city. When the taxi driver phoned, he'd be prepared. "Enjoy yourself, lady," he muttered beneath his breath. "It's your last meal before your execution."