The Dead Saint (34 page)

Zeller ambled tranquilly along the back streets away from the police sirens. No one stopped him. He pretended once again to look for his aunt's address and made his way to his car toting the innocent-looking navy duffle bag that contained his disassembled rifle. But beneath his calm demeanor a storm disquieted him. He had shot another man. Pro bono. His third man in a week and two days. His thread of luck was taut. And Peterson was not dead. No. He set the duffle bag in the passenger seat beside him and gave it a fond pat. "It is time to quit,
Freund,"
he said. "Not only am I getting superstitious. I am also getting soft."

He headed to his rooming house—one he'd used before in Sarajevo that neither reported all its income nor heeded passport rules. As he drove, he pondered how to resolve the Peterson problem. "Saving the life of Frau Peterson puts her husband in my debt,
Freund,"
he said, brushing his hand fondly across the duffle bag. "My price will be a life for a life. He keeps his wife and in return gets out of my life. Forever. Otherwise, Frau Peterson becomes a widow."

Back in his room he first lowered the torn shade, shutting out the afternoon sun along with any observers with binoculars. Second, he sat on the bed and placed the duffle bag beside him. Third, he carefully planned his call to Peterson, both his script and his performance. Ominous words required a tone of malice. The tone was easy, but he worked diligently on the right words. If possible, not another killing. No. He worried about too many targets in too few days. He worried about weariness leading to carelessness. He worried about luck's odds rapidly stacking against him. He sighed and glanced at the duffle bag. "
Ja, Freund,
it is time to retire."

Satisfied with the phone script, he practiced it only once. He must not sound rehearsed. No. He called the Petersons' hotel, eager to hear his target's reaction. He was connected immediately to their room. The phone rang several times, unanswered, until a voice invited him to leave a message. Disappointed, he broke the connection. A message wouldn't do. No. This call must be man-to-man. He would try again every half hour until Peterson returned. He stretched himself out on the bed and waited patiently, his hand on his duffle bag.

Bubba sat in Galen and Lynn's hotel room, the men telling her what they'd learned from the police. "
Two
snipers!" said Bubba. "The dead one is Frank Fillmore."

Lynn was stunned.

"You remember," said Galen. "The man Viktor thought killed President Dimitrovski!"

"To quote Chief Armstrong, 'justice was served by a higher court.' The sniper who killed him got away without a trace."

"The police don't know who Fillmore was after. His bipod fell and they couldn't be sure where he was aiming. But they assume it was someone in the apartment building."

Lynn tried to make sense of the horrific afternoon and failed. She shared with them what she had learned from Mrs. Darwish: "Elie's half-brother was John Adams—
the
John Adams."

"Do you know how he got Elie's medal?" asked Bubba.

"I don't think Mrs. Darwish knows." That was the question that seared Lynn's mind also, but she didn't want to share where her thoughts had taken her this afternoon, and changed the subject. "Bubba, are you sure you trust Viktor with Elie's data?" She didn't add that he could be a disappointing new best friend.

"Elie's instructions were to give it to someone with a matching medal. Viktor has one. Besides, Mrs. Darwish trusts him, and that's good enough."

I hope so, thought Lynn.

The phone startled them. Galen answered. "Galen Peterson." He listened for a moment. Anger sparked in his eyes. "
Who are you?"

Silence followed. A few moments later his face paled.

Lynn looked at Bubba and put her index finger over her lips, then punched the speaker button on the phone.

"Do you understand?" said the voice in a tone that chilled the room.

"It is irrational to try to understand the irrational," Galen parried.

"You are not in a position to show disrespect."

The man's clipped words and icy accent gave Lynn shivers.

"One, your wife was the shooter's target this afternoon."

Unexpected and disorienting, the words rat-a-tatted like machine gun bullets through an abbey cloister. She sank to the bed.

"Two, I saved
her
life instead of taking
yours."

The phone cord coiled like a rattlesnake, venom slithering through the line. He'd intended to shoot Galen! She couldn't face the thought and dived quickly to the safety of denial.

You should listen to him, Lynn. A viper, yes. But he saved your life.

"And three, you owe me a debt beyond your financial means. A debt equal to the value of looking at your wife still by your side—instead of looking down at her corpse."

Galen sank to the bed and put his arm around Lynn, pulling her to him.

"The terms of repayment are nonnegotiable:
Back off.
You are to get out of my life."

The caller had intended to kill Galen, and Fillmore had intended to kill her. The reality strangled her. She couldn't breathe. Or think. But she must think. She must help Galen. She struggled to disengage from the horror.

"
Who are you?"
asked Galen again.

Desperate for a clue, Lynn focused on his pronunciations, tuning her ears to each word.

"Do not play games, Peterson. You are no match for me."

Not quite a German accent, more Bavarian German. Austria.

"With God as my witness," said Galen in a placating tone, the necessity for persuasion overriding his frustration, "I don't know what you are talking about. If I knew what I am to back off from, I would gladly do it."

Lynn mustered her wit and courage. "Thank you for today."

Galen pointed to his lips to shush her.

"Excuse me! I am sorry that you hear this, Frau Peterson."

She didn't intend to shush. Galen's life was at stake.
Excuse me.
She had heard those words in that same accent before. Where?

"I assure you that I mean you no harm," said Galen.

"Sir," she said, "you saved my life and we are grateful. You have my oath that my husband has never meant you any harm and will bring you none in the future."

"Galen Peterson, stay out of my life. Or you won't have one. This is the one warning you will get."

Lynn remembered. Excuse me. The chilling voice matching chilling eyes. Eyes hiding behind opaque sunglasses. Sunglasses being knocked askew. Belonging to a man bumping into her on the streetcar. Excuse me. Picking her pocket. Standing at the statue in Vienna. Sitting in a black car this afternoon. Talking to Galen right now. Zechariah Zeller!

Without forethought, the searing question erupted into the air, the one that made all the difference: "How did John Adams get Elias Darwish's medal?"

Stupid, Lynn! Stupid!

Silence. The line went dead.

Bubba stared at her and slowly shook his don't-mess-with-me shaved head, disbelief on his face, the pupils of his eyes registering potential consequences. But it was the flash of fear in Galen's eyes that made her tremble.

She was the one who broke their silence, hoping that saying aloud the terrifying words would ease her fright and bring back a sense of control. Opening her cell phone, she showed Bubba the profile photos from the streetcar. "Meet Zechariah Zeller, the mime who shot Elie and stole his medal from my pocket. And intended to kill Galen this afternoon. And apparently saved my life."

John adams sat in the synagogue, agitated. He glanced at his watch and frowned. Lynn Peterson should be dead by now like Elias Darwish and Major Manetti and forgotten others over the years. One's hands became soiled in the pursuit of justice.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and held it in his hand as though he could hasten Fillmore's call, like his mother watching a kettle to hurry a boil. He felt foolish but clutched it nonetheless. Again he looked at his watch. He checked the battery bars on his cell phone. He crossed his legs restlessly. Uncrossed them. Why hadn't Fillmore called?

Gradually he shifted from expecting his phone to ring at any moment to worrying that it might not ring at all. Each advance of the second hand on his Rolex intensified his angst. Finally, he stood and faced the truth. Fillmore had failed, adding this Sarajevo debacle to the Schönbrunn Palace disappointment. Twice in one week! Failure was new to the Patriot, and he didn't like it.

Zeller wouldn't have failed. He didn't fail in Vienna. Nor New Orleans. Zeller never failed.

The synagogue felt out of sync with his turbulent mood. He left and walked the streets of Sarajevo. The gloom spread around him. City smells permeated the air. The sound of gunfire rose in the distance. Children played tag nearby. Tag. To chase and be chased. The game of life. He thought of his own adored children, missing them. He would not fly home until after President Dimitrovski's funeral in Skopje. Attending it was a good public relations move, putting him in a favorable light to gain BarLothiun contracts in Macedonia. It was also an opportunity to listen around the edges for potential arms sales.

His head clearer, he walked back to the synagogue, got in his car, and drove to his hotel. He had a drink in the bar, TV blaring, thick smoke curling to the ceiling. News about a fatal shooting got his attention. He heard the name of his mother's street. The victim was identified as Frank Fillmore. His death didn't matter to the Patriot. What mattered was that Lynn Peterson, favored liaison of President Benedict, still lived. Fillmore had let himself get shot before completing his assignment. The Patriot considered a motive for Fillmore's murder, wondering if someone had avenged the death of President Dimitrovski. Justice!

In a strike-a-match flash, he saw a new approach. If Lynn Peterson were terminated, Benedict would simply find someone else. It was illogical to go after the liaison when the problem was the President.

That first scary thought about Benedict's termination, born three days ago, had continued to hover in the shadows of his mind. Now it began to unfold before him. Dimly at first. Gaining light. Brightening into a kaleidoscope of color. Expanding. Growing louder in his mind. Clearer in his sight. Like through a glass darkly, then face to face. Yes! It would work!

True honor was earned only by winning. He sneered at the barbarism of the concept of honor in the Civil War, where soldiers were slaughtered in one-to-one combat, lining up in two columns, shooting each other down in waves. One-sided wars were today's arena of honor, where disproportionate and overwhelming force from a distance smashed and bloodied the opposition and left the victor unscathed. That was the kind of war he would wage against the President. It would be over before she knew it had begun.

The . . .
promotion
of Vice President Parker would ensure that John Adams's power would not be eroded. Parker was an astute man who understood the obligation of reciprocity. The country would mourn, but it would not be harmed. He was the Patriot—he would never harm his country.

At that moment, Plan Death-of-the-President—Plan DOP—was decided. No longer scary. No longer forbidden. No turning back. Yet he distanced it from his consciousness, taking succor in the illusion that who we are is unrelated to what we do. He had intended to control President Benedict, not assassinate her. It grated against his patriotism. But he had no other choice. Abominable but necessary.

Ironically, President Benedict was aiding in her own demise through her foolhardy decision to attend Dimitrovski's funeral. Her presence was providential. Like Elias Darwish, she was placing herself in harm's way. Suicide, not assassination.

He would summon Zeller immediately to implement Plan DOP. Zeller never failed.

Lynn unpacked the clothes she needed for the reception tonight, her mind on life's fragility and her own stupidity. How could she make such an irreparable mistake as asking Zechariah Zeller how John Adams got the medal!

Way to go, Lynn! Just like those dim-witted New Zealand pigeons that stick their heads right into the noose!

Now Zeller knew she could identify him and might think she knew his name. She had probably made things more dangerous for Galen and herself. She didn't know what to do, how to fix it. Or what had caused Zeller to go after Galen. And then save her. Why did someone want to kill her? Fillmore had no reason—except a contract. She shuddered. This reality was personally more threatening than Bosnia last time—her death would have been random or an accident. Was she safe now, or would a new contract be issued?

Shaken and shaking, she shifted into automatic. After a quick bath she hurriedly dressed for the pre-dinner reception and gathering of area churches, first on her Sarajevo itinerary. The day's incidents numbed her. Too many too fast like being the target of a meteor shower. Target.

In half an hour their ride would come, and she must leap from assassin's target to guest of honor, from gunfire to grace, from the sinister to celebration. A knock on the door interrupted her reverie. Fear tingled through her. Galen peeked out the Judas hole. "It's Bubba."

Not Zeller, she thought. Not yet.

"I know the army of one is early," Bubba grinned, determined to accompany them tonight, "but Viktor wants us to meet someone in the lobby."

"Did he come to get . . . what he wanted?" Galen asked.

"He's been in my room decoding it. Just finished. He has some kind of program on his laptop. It went fast."

"So he knows who . . ." Lynn found herself afraid to say
the Patriot
aloud.

"He still has to analyze all of Elie's information and compare it with their other data. Then he will be sure."

Galen frowned. "So he has everything he wanted." Though he used nonjudgmental words, his tone was void of approval.

Bubba's eyes flickered, but he merely looked at his watch and then at Lynn. "Is there time to meet Viktor's friend?"

"If we leave from the lobby," she nodded, "and don't come back to our rooms." As she stepped into the narrow hall, Bubba played guard on her right side. His shape shifted into a rampart. His huge shoulders stiffened, every nerve and muscle ready for action. Alert. Practiced. Disciplined. Galen walked on her left side. More subtle, but no less intentional. As soon as they reached the lobby, she scanned the faces for Zeller and knew the men did, too. She didn't see him, but he still loomed over her psyche.

Viktor called to them. He was in full military dress, with a chest full of medals.

Our Russian entrepreneur and St. Sava storyteller is now a soldier, Lynn. Do you think he earned the medals or bought them?

She noted his captivating presence and the respect that the hotel staff and others showed him. He was called Vik here, obviously well-known and well liked. His attention had evoked others' respect for them simply by association. "Did he forget his laptop?" she asked Bubba, noting its absence.

Viktor overheard her and responded softly. "It's safer in Bubba's room for now, Baby Sister. I'll get it later."

"I won't be here later," said Bubba.

Viktor smiled tolerantly. "I'll manage."

"Rooster Cogburn doesn't need a room key, Bubba," Lynn interjected from experience. She noticed Viktor's watchful eyes circle the lobby like a lighthouse beam. Sensing unease in this fearless man, her own uneasiness grew.

An Orthodox priest entered the hotel. Relief filled Viktor's eyes, and he motioned him over. The priest smiled and joined them. "I am sorry to be late. Introduce me to your friends, Vik."

He complied with an air of deference to the priest that surprised Lynn, a trait she'd neither seen nor expected. He gestured toward each of them. "Bishop Lynn Peterson, Dr. Galen Peterson, Mr. Bubba Broussard. This is Father Nish—whose name I am sure you recognize."

Lynn tried not to stare at Natalia's Father Nish. His manner drew them toward him, and she sensed that he was the kind of man who can lead in crises and comfort in loss.

"Father Nish," said Galen heavily, "a young hotel maid in Vienna asked us to bring you a package for her family."

"Natalia." Seeing their surprise, the priest added, "Vik told me."

"I left it with . . ."

"President Dimitrovski," Father Nish finished. "An aide who was traveling with him to Mostar telephoned me before the flight left and suggested that I arrange to pick it up there. But the crash . . ." A visible wave of grief washed over him.

"We are very sorry," said Lynn.

"I understand that it contained thousands of euros." English, though heavily accented, came easily for Father Nish.

A man in uniform hurried into the hotel. His strong build and intimidating stance commanded authority, his decorated uniform an adornment to his power, not its source.

Viktor stepped toward him and called, "General Thornburg." He saluted, and it was returned. "I was beginning to be concerned about you."

"The package," finished Father Nish, "is a loss, but inconsequential when we consider the toll that plane crash took. President Dimitrovski is irreplaceable in this region."

Grief filled the general's tired eyes. "It is a devastating loss."

"General Thornburg is here to attend a commemoration service to honor President Dimitrovski," explained Viktor. "It's for military and government officials in this area." He looked at the general. "You know that I'm driving you?"

The general nodded brusquely. "We need to discuss some things." His tone turned a casual acknowledgement into an order, his second-in-command days long forgotten.

"General, I would like for you to meet Bishop Lynn Peterson."

The general's eyes registered surprise, then dismissal, then blanked.

"And Dr. Galen Peterson, a historian. And Bubba Broussard, who plays for the New Orleans Saints. They were friends of my brother-in-law."

Were, thought Lynn. Past tense. Elie will always be my friend. Present tense.

The general extended his hand to Bubba, then Galen. When Lynn offered hers, he accepted it with veiled distaste, as though she'd forgotten her gender.

Perhaps you should have curtsied, Lynn.

"General Thornburg is in charge of NATO for the Balkans."

Marsh's general! It was Lynn's turn to be surprised.

The general gestured toward the medals on Viktor's uniform. "You are wise to place yourselves in the hands of this man of valor. I personally have decorated him twice for his work with NATO."

Oops. Sorry, Lynn. Maybe I was wrong on this one.

But maybe not, thought Lynn, still skeptical.

"Father Nish, I think you and the general have met previously," said Viktor. Both men nodded.

"You mentioned a package in the plane crash," said the general abruptly.

Father Nish sighed. "Unfortunately."

"Fortunately, I found it." A subtle shift in General Thornburg's posture put him in charge. "Please come to my room so I can get it for you." He took the priest's arm and said softly, "On the way you can tell me what you know about St. Sava."

Lynn saw Father Nish glance toward Viktor and watched their silent, unreadable exchange.

"Father—" Viktor stepped beside him. "I have a favor to ask of you as Mother Darwish's priest. This is a very difficult time for her, today especially. The shooting was by her apartment. I wonder if you might call on her. It would lift her spirits."

"Certainly."

"This evening?"

Father Nish frowned, and Lynn recognized the resignation to duty that she sometimes felt. "Certainly," he repeated.

She glimpsed a magician's sleight-of-hand as Viktor transferred something small from his own pocket to the priest's. A thought floated by and hovered like a butterfly: the amount of money in Natalia's troublesome package, Viktor's deference toward the priest, the illusive transfer of what she assumed to be a copy of Elie's decoded data. The butterfly landed: perhaps I just met the head of St. Sava.

Viktor saw her gaze and seemed to read her thoughts. His penetrating eyes and a subtle wag of his head said, Don't go there, Baby Sister.