The Dead Saint (36 page)

Vik followed Father Nish's car to the church. Clouds hid the stars and moon, the darkness engulfing them. They creaked their way up the old wooden spiral stairs to the soundproof room in the bell tower, sparsely furnished with two brown leather chairs and a scarred oak coffee table. When they seated themselves, he dallied. "How did things go with General Thornburg this afternoon at the hotel?"

"I got Natalia's package from him, and he got no information from me."

"I wondered if you had met your match in him."

"And then some. I admire him, Vik. How did you fare with him after the service?"

"He shared one item of interest on the way to the service. He has received word confirming evidence of a bomb on the plane. A new security camera caught Fillmore's face when he exited the airfield in the presidential car. He was a bomb expert who frequently worked for the Patriot. The camera also showed the substitute driver whose cap was off, displaying shoulder-length hair. She got the job by posing as a man and having perfect false credentials. The police identified her. She has worked with Fillmore before. Since he was dead and couldn't be harmed—or harm her—she told the whole story to save her own skin. But you can't abet the murder of a President and go free. She'll get a permanent bedroom with bars, courtesy of the government." Vik realized nervousness was causing him to talk too much.

"President Dimitrovski's death deeply saddens me on both a personal and political level. He was the only giant of peace in this part of the world."

"Another victim of those who fear peace and peacemakers more than war." Vik sighed and changed the subject. "By the way, despite my visit-Mother-Darwish-as-her-priest maneuver, I think the general doubted that you were legitimate, but your eulogy convinced him. We agreed that you did an outstanding job."

"I do my best to dispel that old image of Balkan clergy created by a Greek bishop in Macedonia, especially when the international community is present."

"I have a cloudy memory of something sinister."

"He ordered an assassination. Actually, a decapitation."

"Centuries ago, as I recall," said Vik.

"No. Just prior to World War I. The bishop had the severed head brought back to the church to be photographed. The stain still clings to our robes, Vik." He looked away, pensive. "There are many stains."

"The sins of the bishop are visited upon the clerics?"

"Something like that."

"Your robes aren't stained."

Father Nish remained silent.

"Guilt, the great motivator, even guilt by association through having the same profession." Vik smiled at him. "Is that what motivated you to accept heading St. Sava when you already had your hands full?" He looked away for a moment, then broached the subject that had brought him here tonight. "Have you had an opportunity to look at Elie's data?"

"Not yet."

Vik tried to mask his relief.

"Since leaving the hotel, I've been basking in the luxury of idleness. Entertaining myself with a feisty general, a package filled with euros, a eulogy for the President whom I respected most in the world, contacting Natalia about never using the symbol again, and a visit to an elderly lady—one whom I truly love, by the way." Father Nish smiled. "No time yet to play with decoded data."

"The copy I gave you is inadequate." That part was true. "I had merely decoded the data, not analyzed it yet in combination with the rest of our information." Also true. "I would like to have it back and return it finalized. It will be more efficient for you."

Father Nish's eyes met his.

He sensed that the priest knew he'd deliberately left a false impression through omission. Vik was very skilled at that, but he'd never tried it with the only man he trusted. It burned a hole in his soul. He lowered his eyes.

"What has happened to you, Vik?"

Vik forced himself to look levelly at the head of St. Sava. He was determined to protect Mother Darwish from ever learning that one of her sons had had the other one killed. He was also determined to stop the dangerous megalomaniac. He was clear about his mission—get Adam Ristich/John Adams/ the Patriot—but for the first time in his career he was unclear about a plan.

Father Nish waited patiently for Vik's response, then spoke again. "You have done superior undercover work against the Patriot, especially your discovery that Fillmore worked primarily for him. The Patriot could have been behind President Dimitrovski's death—though the operation seems closer to home. We know, however, that the Patriot is a very thorough man. It is logical for him to keep an eye on the men he hires. Since Fillmore worked primarily for him, the Patriot would have known where he was and figured out the likely reason for his presence. One way or another he could have stopped him. And he didn't."

Every word made sense. Viktor felt sick.

"You said yourself that you cannot abet the murder of a President and go free."

Viktor stood. "I need you to return that copy." There was no deference now in the lethal tone of this man who could handle four guards armed with Uzis.

"I'm sorry, Vik. You know I can't do that."

On Friday night after Frau Peterson's interesting question and the Patriot's absurd but challenging offer of a contract on President Benedict, Zeller did some extensive research. It led him to a startling discovery about how the medal he'd wrapped in a tie box for the Patriot had reached the hands of John Adams.

First he checked Adams out on the web, photo and all, and recognized him as the man in the brown suit at the Sarajevo airport, despite his large glasses, goatee, and gray hair. He recalled the sense of familiarity and now could see all the Patriot's other disguises transposed on the face of John Adams. Wanting corroboration, he hacked into the passenger lists for Friday morning arrivals in Sarajevo. Finding no John Adams, he moved back to the previous Friday and checked the Flughafen Frankfurt passenger arrivals that correlated timewise with his meeting at the airport where the Patriot had paid him for Darwish and issued a contract on Manetti. He ran a search for common names on both lists and for common flight origination points. He found nothing. No.

Corporate jets! Of course! The same comparison resulted in a match! A Challenger registered to BarLothiun had made both flights, and John Adams owned BarLothiun. There was indeed a connection between the two. They were one and the same! The discovery made the offer of a contract on President Benedict even more surprising. His knowledge of the Patriot's identity armed him for a surprise strike if needed in his negotiation.

Monday noon, Sarajevo behind him, Zeller found a no-questions-asked room in the old part of Skopje. He went directly to Butel Cemetery, where people busied themselves like ants, preparing for tomorrow. Crews were working on the grounds from the gate to the funeral site. Men were putting together the seating section for the VIPs. He took a careful look. That's where President Benedict would sit.
Mutter
had helped him get information about the security plans to protect that section. He had also learned that a no-fly zone would be enforced during the outdoor ceremony because of the noise and disrespect—the person the Macedonians cared most about protecting was already dead.

Zeller stayed at a distance, ambling unnoticed through the trees. He would have to be at a distance tomorrow too. But where? He ambled along, covertly searching. There it was! A black marble family mausoleum. Exactly what he needed. He guessed its size to be about eight by eight, rising ten feet, with stone parapets adding two feet more. The parapets were spaced about six inches apart to allow snowmelt and rainwater to drain from the flat roof. Narrow ornamental stones, again about six inches wide, extended diagonally from each of the four corners, stair-stepping down and angling diagonally from roof to ground. A tree grew near the back right-hand corner of the mausoleum. Its lower branches hid the ornamental stones and the larger branches draped over the flat roof. The name ZORBAS was carved above the door. He thought of Nikos Kazantzakis's
Zorba the Greek,
one of his favorite books.

He eyed the distance to the VIP section. He was too far back to concern security, and the human wall of hordes of people would separate them from him tomorrow. It would be the longest shot he'd ever made to hit a contract target. But not the longest he'd practiced successfully. He and
Freund
could do it.

He returned to his room, finalized his plans, and left again. He went for a long walk through the streets, past the marketplace, an ancient mosque, some monasteries, the bus station. The mid-afternoon sun fought unsuccessfully to warm the city's sorrow. Mourning crowds bumped him and spilled over into the streets. Thousands of people had come to the Parliament Building to pay their last respects, bringing flowers for President Dimitrovski's catafalque. Their flowers overflowed and spread out in front of the edifice like a rolling field of colorful blossoms.

A leader so loved, he thought, conscious of the void of love in his own life. The people will never know the truth, he predicted, because officially the government will continue to blame the storm. He had read carefully all the details made public about President Kennedy's assassination and had learned something important. Governments do not trust the people with the truth. No. Ergo: An assassin can terminate a head of state and simply disappear while those in power pacify the people with deception.

And the pay is good. It would be especially so for this contract.

The mobs of people would serve his interests tomorrow. After he shot his target—a single bullet to the head—he would let the crowded bedlam absorb him. So easy.

He felt confident that the Patriot would show up at Hotel Aleksandar tomorrow as invited—John Adams in some kind of disguise. It would be difficult to trap him conspiring to have President Benedict assassinated. But not impossible. During their conversation, he could fire the words
John Adams
like missiles in a preemptive strike.

Casually, in his invisible mode with lowered head and a newspaper under his arm, he entered the Hotel Aleksandar and ambled through the busy lobby unnoticed, an unhurried visitor in town for the funeral. Behind his sunglasses, he scanned the lobby for security cameras, selecting one above a bulky caramel-colored sofa, its leather cracked and worn. A matching chair completed an
L
beside it and stood in the security camera's view—a perfect chair for the Patriot, who liked to sit with his back to the wall. The camera would pick up his face and the words he shaped—words that a professional could lip-read later if necessary.

He restrained a sigh. There is another possibility: I may have underestimated the Patriot/John Adams. If so, he will have his own plans for tomorrow. Perhaps the police will arrive in his place. Perhaps another marksman will aim at me. So be it!

Zeller banked on two factors. One, desperation evidenced by this drastic assignment and the edge in the Patriot's voice. Two, the Patriot's confidence in him as an artist who drew aim with the accuracy of a brushstroke on a canvas. Zeller planned to arrive here very early tomorrow to be assured of being first. He would sit on the sofa, and when John Adams arrived, he would offer him the chair with his back to the wall—and his face to the small security camera.

Zeller rose and ambled out the door of the Hotel Aleksandar. For an instant he longed for the comfort of
Freund.
He had not wanted to risk walking around the well-secured town with a sniper rifle. But he was secure without her. Even with his jacket pocket covered by the newspaper under his arm, he could retrieve his laser-sighted pistol and dead-aim it in three seconds. So easy.

The last event on Lynn's Bosnia-Herzegovina itinerary was a worship service at noon on Monday in Sarajevo, where she was to do the homily. She talked about a world of faith, a world of goodness. Where
blood
is not something that runs in the streets, but the symbol of a gift. And
body
is not life snuffed out from violence, but the symbol of community. The Body and the Blood. The bread of grace and the cup of blessing. She also talked about the people of faith. Those who know that we live life at its best when we follow the teachings of faith. Abundant life—learning courage from conviction, fortitude from forgiving, and gratitude from grace.

At the close of the service she mingled with the people to share farewells. When she left for the Sarajevo airport, she felt like a refugee leaving refuge, exiled once more into the tainted world of the godless—both those who denied belief and those whose actions belied belief. Filled with the trepidation of reentry, she tucked into memory the gentle hands of the Church and tried to retain a peaceful heart.

Lynn and Galen tried to convince Bubba he could go on back to the States. Intense security for the funeral would make Skopje the safest place in the world tomorrow and then they would return to New Orleans. He agreed, with restrictions: he would remain with them at their Sarajevo departure gate until they boarded; they would arrange for Pastor Martinovski to meet their plane on arrival; and when Bubba received word that they had arrived safely, he'd fly back to the States. As they said goodbye, the trio planned to have dinner together at Commander's Palace in New Orleans on Wednesday. As Lynn thought about going home, the winds of relief lifted her like an air balloon.

Pastor Mihail Martinovski was indeed waiting for Lynn and Galen at the Skopje airport when they deplaned. He had special passes that allowed him to meet them and take them through security and customs. "As smooth as velvet drapes," said Lynn, thanking him.

He smiled. "Quite dull compared to your first arrival."

Lynn absorbed the mood of the airport shrouded in silent sadness. Even the incoming crowds were subdued. Gloom surrounded them like a Louisiana fog that refused to lift.

"This time, you stay with us," Mihail said as they walked to his car. "Elena and I insist. We will share together this sad time."

They generally declined home offers to avoid inconveniencing people. But this was a time when people needed each other. "You are very kind to have us. Thank you, Mihail."

He put their roll-aboards in his car. "You travel small. I am glad. When I offered to take you to Hotel Aleksandar last week, I had worried my car was too little. Many Amer—Many people," he courteously corrected, "have very big luggage."

"Ours is small but heavy," said Galen. "Lynn packs very much in little space."

They laughed, not because it was funny, but because laughter was something they could do together. It brought them close. Mihail is both hospitable and wise, thought Lynn. We need to be together.

As Mihail drove, he talked about plans for the next day. "Before the funeral there will be a . . . parade? What is the word?"

"A procession?" suggested Galen.

"Yes. A procession from the Parliament Building to the Arbored Walk of the Greats at Butel Cemetery. Mrs. Dimitrovski told me all about it. The casket will lead, carried by three officers on each side. They will be . . ." He looked at them, questioning. "Soldiers beside them. What is the word?"

"Flanked?" asked Galen.

"They will be flanked by soldiers with bayonets. Family members will be next, and Macedonian political and military leaders will be after them. More than five hundred people will be walking in the procession. Thousands of people will be waiting along the streets and watching from high windows."

Lynn wondered if talking about tomorrow's details, a head thing, helped relieve the pain of his personal loss, a heart thing. She had long believed that people walk each day with the sum total of their past days' actions flowing through their hearts and eyes. In Mihail's eyes she saw only amassed goodness.

"We are invited for lunch at the President's House before the procession. Mrs. Dimitrovski herself personally asked Elena and me, both of you, and Bishop Weber, who will be speaking at the funeral."

"You won't be speaking?" asked Lynn.

"State protocol says it must be the highest church official. Our bishop will do well."

Lynn admired his lack of jealousy at being passed over for this historic occasion. He was correct, however, that Heinrich would do a superb job, always faithful to the task, and an excellent ambassador for the Church.

"I accepted the lunch invitation for you," Mihail added. "That is good?"

"We are honored."

"Some people from the church and other close friends have been invited. President Benedict also."

Lynn felt grateful for a natural opportunity to meet with her as requested in her phone call.

"But she could not come. Mrs. Dimitrovski was disappointed. President Dimitrovski held her in high regard."

Lynn shared in the disappointment.

"There is much security. Agent Nedelkovski told me that your President will be well guarded by security from both our countries."

Lynn's heart skipped a beat. Surely with tight security no one would be able to assassinate the President of the United States.

As they entered the house, Lynn smelled coffee. Elena Martinovska greeted them with a smile on her face and grief in her eyes like a rose blooming on a broken stem. She had prepared delicious homemade goodies and
Tursko Kafe
in its traditional three parts. The table was set with embroidered napkins and colorful plates painted with flowers. Lynn thanked her, meaning it, knowing that some of the best parts of life is made up of such small gifts as setting the table for meaningful sharing together.

Mihail offered a blessing, courteously praying in English. A prayer too natural to have been rehearsed, too beautiful to have come from a shallow spirit. President Dimitrovski was present in their hearts as they sat around the table talking about him. Lynn realized that her profound grief over his death was partly because the world had lost one of the few leaders whose religion was not role play, for he was truly centered in the Mystery of Faith.

Her cell phone rang, surprising her. "I'm sorry," she said, stepping into the hall to answer so she wouldn't disturb them. "Hello."

"General Thornburg here." Warmth assuaged his gruff voice. "The two ballistics reports matched. You were right."

Right?
Her theory was fact. But there was no
right.
It didn't change two heinous deaths. She sighed. "He was also the man who killed Elias Darwish, but he used a pistol."

"So, if you're right—and you were about this—he killed two innocents," said the general. "Darwish and . . ." His sudden pause for control said more than his words. ". . . And Major Manetti. Additionally he killed a man with a history of killing who didn't care which flag he served." Anger raised his voice. "And who caused President Dimitrovski's death. The first two deaths are unforgivable. The latter one—Well, I don't condone murder, but the world is better off without Frank Fillmore. You've been most helpful, Bishop Peterson."

"Thank you."

You're holding back, Lynn.

"He also saved my life, General Thornburg."

"Another story too long to go into now?"

"Yes, sir."

"President Benedict would like for you to be at the funeral early enough to stand close to the front between the platform and the graveside. I will find you. She wants to meet with you immediately following the service. I will get you through the crowd."

"Thank you," she repeated.

"She wants you to be prepared to report your insights about, to quote, 'the ranch hands.' I don't know what she means, and that doesn't matter as long as you understand."

"I do understand, General." She felt an inexplicable apprehension. She wasn't sure she should wait until the funeral tomorrow to unload her facts and fantasies. Whose orders did Zeller follow? She feared she knew the answer. And she began to wonder whether Fillmore had also.

The winds that had lifted her like an air balloon earlier now ceased. Her balloon crashed.