The Dead Saint (32 page)

You have Elie's medal!" Bubba's voice boomed, thunder ending a drought. He put his arm around Mrs. Darwish.

Lynn stared, dumbfounded.

Mrs. Darwish held up the medal and then turned it over. "See? His name, please. My son gave it to me."

Zeller? Surely not even Zeller could kill his own brother, Lynn!

"My first son, please. Adam."

How did he get it? Lynn wondered. Before she could ask, the bedroom door creaked open.

"
Viktor!"
said Lynn, astonished.

He bent to kiss Mrs. Darwish on the cheek. She patted his arm fondly. "This is Lynn Peterson, Galen Peterson, and Bubba Broussard," she said, gesturing to each in turn, carefully pronouncing their foreign names. "They are Elias's friends. And this is Vikolaj Machek, my Milcah's husband. They gave me two grandchildren." A smile broke through the sadness in her eyes. "Vikolaj is more like my son than my son-in-law." Her eyes lovingly embraced him. "My only son now," she muttered, the hurt back in her eyes.

Their mutual kindness and trust in each other increased Lynn's trust in Viktor. Obviously he hadn't lied about being close to Elie. Maybe everything he'd told them was true.

OK, Lynn, the little discrepancy in his name—Viktor/Vikolaj—that's understandable. But what about the little episode of scaring you to death at the safe house? Not to mention his little obsession with Elie's data.

He smiled at Lynn. "Once again Rooster Cogburn meets Baby Sister."

"Rooster Cogburn?" Mrs. Darwish looked confused but when he did not respond, she didn't pursue it. "Vikolaj was resting, please," she explained. "He has been working hard in Skopje."

"We know," said Galen affably. "We caused some of it, Viktor—I'm sorry. I mean Vikolaj."

"I go by either. Viktor is often easier for people. Most of my friends call me Vik."

"I think you will always be Viktor to me," said Lynn. "Or Rooster."

He grinned and sat down on the floor, folding his body nimbly into the lotus position.

"Have you learned anything more today about President Dimitrovski's death?" Galen asked. "Do you still think it was sabotage? Are there suspects?"

Viktor hesitated, eyeing Bubba, then spoke straightforwardly. "Frank Fillmore is at the top of the list."

Lynn sucked in air. They'd flown to Skopje on the same plane—even carried on a conversation with the man suspected of killing President Dimitrovski! She felt bone-deep shivers.

"He has skated above suspicion by governments, but St. Sava has observed that money tends to change his loyalties, and time his identities. We know he often works for the Patriot."

"Blaise Pascal's words come to mind," said Galen. " 'There is an infinite chaos that separates us. A game is being played . . .' "

" 'In which heads or tails must come up,' " finished Viktor. "Fillmore is a master player."

"I don't understand, please. If he does bad things and you know his name, Vikolaj, why is he not in jail?"

Viktor sighed with resignation. "That happens sometimes, Mother Darwish." He looked at Lynn and Galen. "Zechariah Zeller and the Patriot come to mind."

"And the long, massive search for Osama bin Ladin," added Galen.

"We know that Fillmore received clearance to fly to Mostar on the President's plane. He arrived early and apparently had solitary access to the cabin." Enraged, he spat the words. "Then he deplaned at the last minute! Supposedly due to illness!"

"Vikolaj," said Mrs. Darwish, concern in her eyes, "you are angry, please?"

He made a visible effort to calm down.

"Adam was angry today too." She looked longingly toward the apartment door, then lowered her eyes and said desolately, "He blames St. Sava for his father's death."

Viktor's eyes locked on her as he spoke gently to her in their native tongue.

"What harm can be done when both sons are . . . lost?" she responded in English, her voice catching on the last word. "My first husband, Iliya Ristich," she explained to the trio, "was a member of St. Sava." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "He died helping them with a mission. My Elias was also a member."

"I am sorry." To Lynn, death's pall draped Mrs. Darwish's life, setting joy in parentheses.

"Mother Darwish is speaking candidly and confidentially. I will speak candidly also." Viktor stood and focused on Bubba. "Elie was close to identifying a man he considered—to use his words—the choreographer behind our international dance with death.' He did not risk sending any part of the information before completion because he feared detection. So we have nothing." He opened his empty palms. "All of his hard work is wasted unless we get his investigative results." He bent his head over Bubba and spoke with the power of conviction. "You and I both know he left that information with you."

Bubba stood also, looking down at the shorter Viktor. "He didn't tell me anything."

"He wouldn't have
talked
about it." His eyes narrowed and Lynn saw the ignitable, compact energy that could defend against four men armed with Uzis. "You play games on and off the football field, Bubba Broussard."

"Vikolaj! Please! Bubba Broussard is Elias's friend.
Our
friend." She dashed the fire with the soothing waters of five words: "He is my guest, Vikolaj."

"I am sorry, Mother Darwish. But this is very important to me. So much is at stake." He turned to Bubba. "Let me try again," he said with calm persuasion, gesturing toward Bubba's chair and sitting down again in lotus position. "If Elie began to feel worried about his safety, the procedure called for him to leave the accumulated data with someone he trusted. He would have followed that procedure. I can tell that he chose well in trusting you. Instead of using the name of a person to trust with the data, he would have used a symbol." Viktor pulled out a silver chain beneath his collar and revealed a medal identical to Elie's. "This symbol." He waited, expectant.

Bubba took a long moment to decide. He looked from Viktor to Mrs. Darwish and back again, then nodded slowly. "Elie did leave something with me that might be helpful."

Lynn understood Bubba's reaction, but she felt wary of Viktor. She had felt his pain and grief when he mentioned being Elie's mentor. Not even Tom Hanks could have play-acted it that well. But a moment of sympathy did not automatically mean she bought his story. She looked into the eyes of a shrewd man capable of deceit. But the capacity to lie did not automatically mean his story was false. She glanced at Galen, frowning his own concern. Instead of moving toward a solution, she thought, we are going in circles like trunk-to-tail elephants.

"Where is the data?"

"Here."

A subtle shift crossed Viktor's eyes. "With you now?"

"I brought it to Sarajevo."

Viktor exhaled with a whistle of relief. "Well done! Maybe you should join St. Sava, Bubba." It was not clear whether this was a joke or an invitation. "At seven o'clock this evening I am attending a commemoration service to honor President Dimitrovski. It is sponsored by Sarajevo civil and military officials."

Commemoration service. The end of a life that was bigger than life, thought Lynn.

"I could pick up the data at your hotel on my way," Viktor suggested.

"That'll work."

"If you will excuse me, I need to clean up." Viktor rose and went into the bathroom.

No need for him to stay longer, Lynn. He's confident he'll get what he wants.

Viktor went into the bathroom and locked the door, commending himself for the hunch that Elie would have entrusted Bubba Broussard with the data. His leaving New Orleans to join the Petersons here in Sarajevo was a piece of luck. Even luckier was discovering that they were coming to Mother Darwish's this afternoon. Luck plus patient persistence—like bugging the Skopje safe house. Viktor smiled. The discovery had given him time to arrive and plan. As expected, Mother Darwish had helped evoke their trust in him. Viktor felt a sense of urgency to get it. Soon! Very soon!

He began running water to avoid being overheard and flipped open his cell phone. Bubba Broussard had no idea what power Elie's data gave its possessor! St. Sava would value it in order to discover the Patriot's identity. And to prevent identification, the Patriot would pay an exorbitant fee to get it first.

He keyed in the code on his phone. All he said was, "I know the location of the highly sought information and will have it in hand late this afternoon." He punched
End.
Directions would be forthcoming.

Frank Fillmore looked at his Rolex, growing weary of the incongruence of boredom and steeled nerves. The slow minutes passed like a watch with a dying battery. Surely the target would finish her business and come out of the apartment building soon. The longer he waited, the more irritated he became with the Patriot for the directive. Though he was a crack shot, this kind of assignment demanded complete patience during idle hours of hidden observation and forced alertness—for a millisecond of action. He preferred bombs—the sound of the blast and the sight of the smoke rolling into the sky and lingering there, a celebration of damage and power.

Using his scope he watched the foursome through the apartment window: the target, her husband, their bald bodybuilder friend, and the elderly woman. Then another person appeared. Surprised, he recognized the Russian who'd talked to Lynn Peterson on Tuesday's Vienna-to-Skopje flight. Maybe the Patriot was on to something. Maybe the target was more involved in clandestine matters than she seemed. Later the Russian exited the room, leaving a foursome again.

Finally the target stood and put her hand over Mrs. Darwish's. The two men rose. Exit behavior at last.

"Come on," he whispered. "
Come on!"
He rubbed his hand across the black stock and down the metal barrel of his military issue high-powered sniper rifle resting on the bipod. No collateral damage, he reminded himself.

He put his eye carefully to the scope. With full attention and nerves of steel he aimed the crosshairs at the green door the three would use to exit the apartment building. He estimated the target's height and imagined a bull's eye on her forehead. One bullet. Nice and tidy. Fillmore stood at maximum alert, calm and ready, perfectly aimed, totally focused. He would not move again until the lovely—and soon to be the
late—
Lynn Peterson walked through the green door.

Lynn bent and took Mrs. Darwish's hand. "Would you like for us to pray together before I leave?" She asked the question in a neutral tone, wanting to offer if it would be meaningful but not force something that would be an intrusive obligation.

Mrs. Darwish's eyes lit up. "Yes, please."

Lynn bowed her head. The others followed. "Creator of the World, we give you thanks for the gift of Elias's life. God of Grace, we pray for Mrs. Darwish. Give her strength and comfort for her painful journey of grief. God of Love, draw her into your healing arms and hold her close." She placed her right hand on Mrs. Darwish's head. "I bless you in the Holy Name of God. Amen."

Tears glistened in Elie's mother's eyes. She rose to accompany them to the door and seemed to walk a little lighter.

They said their goodbyes, Bubba and Galen going ahead down the corridor to the building's exit. Lynn felt sad to leave, and she lingered at the apartment door. Mrs. Darwish was someone she would like to know deeply but would probably never see again. She wondered if the courageous woman felt the same, because she joined Lynn and walked beside her down the corridor, both of them dawdling. When they reached the door that led outside, Lynn opened it and was tempted again to ask how Adam had gotten Elie's medal. But she didn't. It felt inappropriate. Instead, she complimented the beautiful yellow flowers, bringing a smile to the older woman's thin face, wrinkled by time and pain. Mrs. Darwish stepped onto the threshold with her.

Things are not always what they appear to be. Those words again. A sense of unease dropped over Lynn. They hugged each other for the final time, a prolonged hug that connects two people as friends for a lifetime. Lynn watched Elie's mother reenter her apartment building and close the green door.

Infinitely patient, Zeller had amused himself by alternating his focus between the green door of the apartment building and the museum window. The other shooter leaned forward, and he caught him in his scope. Well, well, well. Herr Invisible from the airport—not invisible after all. No.

If Herr Invisible's target was Broussard, good riddance. If it was Peterson, he'd give him an advance chance to shoot. He had enough notches in his own belt.

Zeller shifted his rifle from the shooter in the museum back to the green door. Finally, it opened. He focused his full concentration on
Freund.
Scope, target, trigger finger merged into one. Broussard came out first and stepped down from the threshold, a perfect target beside the yellow flowers. Zeller waited. He listened for a silenced shot. Watched for Broussard to fall. Nothing!

He shifted his scope for a nanosecond. The other sniper rifle held steady in its bipod. Zeller shifted again and aimed toward the green door. After Broussard came Peterson. Another perfect target framed by the door. He reminded himself to be patient, to let the other sniper have the first shot at Peterson. Silence.

Zeller held the crosshairs on Peterson's forehead. What was the second shooter waiting for? The trigger burned against his finger. He started to ease it back. The other shooter's delay interrupted his concentration. His peripheral vision caught the glint again. Steady, unmoving, waiting. Why? Both men were open targets.

Just then Frau Peterson came out. Oh my god! Zeller shifted his rifle and glanced through his scope. The shooter aimed at her! Innocent Frau Peterson! A woman! He watched her hug the elderly woman, the two entwined.

Get Peterson, he reminded himself. Kill the stalker. The older woman stepped back into the building and shut the door. Zeller wavered, then hit his target.