The Dead Saint (37 page)

Zeller awoke as planned at three o'clock on this Tuesday morning. He had an adrenaline high, familiar and savored. "I will miss this,
Freund,"
he said, inspecting every part of his rifle once again. He scrutinized his two sets of plans: the meeting with the Patriot, a.k.a. John Adams, at the Hotel Aleksandar and the assassination at the cemetery. Perfect plans if his string of luck didn't break. It struck him as amusingly ironic that the morning meeting worried him far more than the assassination. He supposed it was because he would be in control at the cemetery, but at the hotel he would have to anticipate each of the Patriot's movements in advance. He must not make a single mistake today. No.

Each act of preparation this morning reminded him that this was his last shooting. He felt awash in melancholy, dressed in black from head-to-foot. The mourning color. "Yes,
Freund,
I will miss it."

But on the other hand, he would not miss it. How many people had he terminated? Too many. Most had earned it, but not all. He wrestled his conscience over ending the lives of people who deserved to live longer. Time and time again a perfect aim and a single bullet had turned him into a god of death. The Lord giveth and Zechariah Zeller taketh away. He would miss that kind of power.

He wondered how it all began. He knew deep down, where he seldom ventured. It took great courage to face his past and go into that space. He had not done so for a long time. With his hand on
Freund,
he dived into the sea of his own soul. There she was. Waiting. The before and the after. The beauty and the beaten. His mother lay tortured to death, tortured before his eyes, his six-year-old eyes. They had strapped him in a chair, forced him to watch, made him helpless to help her. When death finally took her away from their slow agonizing torture, they drove him for a very long time and turned him loose on strange streets in a strange city. He had been on his own ever since. Even today, he did not know who they were or why they had tortured his mother or why they had made him watch—unless to further torture her. Before his seventh birthday, he stole a gun and bullets and made a target of tin cans taken from a trash pile. He had been shooting at those men ever since. At age sixteen he received his first contract. And today was his last.

He climbed out of the soulful waters and shook off the past. "They're all dead,
Freund.
The bad and the good. It is time to bury them. I must focus on the present." And the present required him to go to the cemetery and hide
Freund
on the roof of the mausoleum under the tree branches. Afterwards he would come back here and run through the details: One, get his money in cash. Two, make a phone call. Three, set himself up at Butel Cemetery. This day would culminate his career. A day for concentration. And ultimately, he hoped, a day for celebration.

Lynn had looked forward to meeting Gonka Dimitrovska, but she hadn't foreseen the circumstances. She was grateful to be included in the intimate luncheon and for the opportunity to offer her condolences personally. Gonka greeted her warmly, as she did everyone. Her face showed the wear of grief, yet her presence was one of serenity and grace, like an alpine sunflower following the light. Meeting her friends and family was a privilege. The luncheon ended promptly at one o'clock to give the family and the Martinovskis time to go to the Parliament Building and begin the procession to the cemetery. Before leaving, Lynn's eyes swept the furnishings and décor of the presidential mansion for a final feast of beauty. It was the Bible on the mantel that stood out to her, not ornamental but well used. Her heart hurt for the family and for Macedonia.

She and Galen rode with Bishop Heinrich Weber directly to the cemetery. He mentioned that he had practiced his sermon with a translator last night. She understood why. It was an art to preach a translated sermon. It required a partnership—a dance—between preacher and translator.

She turned on her cell phone briefly in Heinrich's car. One new message. Zeller's voice brought shivers: You wondered how John Adams got the medal. A man known as the Patriot made obtaining the medal part of the contract on Darwish. The two men are one.

The voice scared her, and the message stunned her. It was like light catching illusive strands of web spun in a pattern of malice. And now the spider had a name. The one she had known she knew. The one that made reality too horrible to acknowledge. Poor, poor Mrs. Darwish! Lynn's heart agonized for her. May she never find out that John Adams issued the contract on Elie!

When they arrived at the cemetery, security stopped the car. Their driver showed the pass. Lynn understood only three words:
Heinrich Weber
preceded by a word that sounded like
episcopas—
bishop. She and Galen cleared on his coattails. They exited the car, and Heinrich took his place with the other speakers, all of whom had arrived except President Benedict. The cemetery teemed with the American and Macedonian versions of Austrian Size-Seventeens.

Lynn wanted a private moment to tell Galen about the call and get his wisdom, but General Thornburg found them immediately and greeted them warmly. He ushered them to a place close to the platform for foreign officials. Lynn peered out of the corner of her eye and saw John Adams. She dreaded telling the intimidating general about him, wishing she could skip this part of her life and fast forward herself home to New Orleans and her small life there that soared above malice and intrigue. John Adams had built a credible reputation and appeared to be highly trusted, and the general barely knew her. He would not believe her. While she was trying to figure out how to broach the subject, Galen and the general began to discuss war in the Balkans.

She was only half listening, still thinking about how best to persuade the general to take her seriously one more time, when he addressed her. "What do you think about the situation, Mrs. Peterson?"

"It sounds as though you supported President Dimitrovski's peace efforts," she responded, relieved that she had been at least partly listening.

"I am grateful when a leader puts forth as much effort, energy, and resources to avoid war as to go to war. You show me a general worth his rank, and I'll show you someone who wants war only as a last resort. It's the sissy-prissy politicians who've never served in a bloody battle who want to rush in."

No one could accuse General Thornburg of subtlety!

He moved close to her and spoke softly. "The President is not sure how much time she will have after the funeral. You are to report your concerns and insights to me in case your time together is cut short. If so, I will relay them to her."

"Yes, sir." She had an impulse to salute.

Don't, Lynn.

President Benedict's arrival brought a buzz to the waiting crowd. General Thornburg nodded toward her.

Lynn took a deep breath and began, "General Thornburg, I am deeply concerned about one of her 'ranch hands.' "

"Say more."

"That's the bottom line. It is complicated, and we have so little time."

"I see. Who?"

"John Adams."

He looked stunned. "I
don't
see!"

"He is highly dangerous."

"You are sure about this?" His tone held more amusement than concern, intimidating her.

"I feel fairly sure."

"
Feel?
Are we talking about feminine intuition?"

Lynn resented that. "Personal experience,
sir."

Watch it, Lynn!

Warmth and amusement evaporated. "
Fairly sure?
When you slander a long-time trusted and generous man whose advice has been respected by every Commander-in-Chief since the first Bush, I expect more than the bottom line. I demand proof, logic, and details." His words hung in the air like icicles.

She pulled her cell phone from Big-Black, retrieved old messages, and handed it to him. "Zeller called last Friday. And today he left a message."

General Thornburg listened. Disgusted skepticism changed to shock. He turned away immediately without speaking, keeping her phone. He headed directly but unhurriedly toward the small group of speakers sitting together and casually nodded President Benedict aside. He spoke briefly to her. Lynn saw her stunned look, quick recovery, and attitude of nonchalance. They could have been discussing their dogs. Nodding, she returned to her seat, and he left at a studiedly casual pace.

The regal funeral procession arrived to drumbeat and gun salvos. The family took their places on the carpet by the graveside with its black burial slab. When the officials in the last row of the procession had found their places, the military cordon opened. The Macedonian people ran into the cemetery from the hillsides, carrying flowers to put on President Dimitrovski's grave after the funeral. Lynn felt tears in her eyes. Thousands of people were running in from every direction. It was a Secret Service nightmare.

After each speaker's presentation, a Skopje choir sang hymns beautifully. Lynn forced herself never to glance toward John Adams. Heinrich preached eloquently. By the time General Thornburg returned two hours later, the choir was singing its final hymn before President Benedict spoke. He stopped at the speakers' area again and whispered something to her. Well masked, she made no response except a slight nod.

He made his way back to Lynn. He stood silently for a few moments before remarking almost inaudibly, "With the assistance of Father Nish, we received decoded data collected by Elias Darwish. Though much more time is needed, it looks like when we put everything together there is information to indict him. He doesn't know it yet, but he will be taken to the American Embassy immediately following the funeral and arrested."

Poor Mrs. Darwish, Lynn thought again.

"Vik was assisting me with the Patriot problem," said the general. "I'm surprised he failed to see the connection after decoding Darwish's data."

All of Viktor's behaviors and character traits whirled through her mind like lotto numbers turned into letters; the ones that dropped spelled
Not guilty.
"Perhaps he did identify him, General Thornburg. John Adams, he learned yesterday, is his brother-in-law."

He erupted. "That is NO REASON TO . . ."

"The heinous part is that Elias Darwish was Adams' half-brother. If this were made public, Mrs. Darwish would suffer not only the loss of her son but also the excruciating knowledge that her other son is responsible for his murder."

Despite all the general had experienced, shock registered in his eyes. "I see. But still . . ." Choosing not to voice his thought, he extended his hand. "Our country is in your debt."

"No, sir. It is in perpetual debt to you and all the other officers who keep honor and honesty alive."

"Despite the politicians!"

Only some of them, she thought. Others do their best to restore honor and honesty.

The hymn ended and General Thornburg, unnoticed in the crowd, saluted his Commander-in-Chief as she came forward to speak.

President Helena Benedict the final speaker, represented the international community. Lynn felt her charisma as she stood before the tens of thousands of mourners gathered on the cemetery hillsides. The innate power of her presence overshadowed her diminutive size. Her blue-green eyes were lit with compassion, a trait that partnered with integrity and energy as emerging trademarks of her presidency. Silently she looked across the masses of people, drawing their undivided attention like fireworks in a night sky. Not a whisper could be heard. She focused for a moment on the TV cameras, her welcoming gaze inviting American audiences to pay tribute to the President of the small country of Macedonia.

The hushed crowd watched her bow her head respectfully toward President Dimitrovski's family. She turned briefly toward the platform and nodded to the domestic and foreign officials. Then her eyes sank to the black burial slab engraved with Matthew 5:9 and read the verse with sincerity: "Blessed peacemakers, for they will be called children of God." Her perfect diction complemented her clear, well-modulated voice. Her shoulders lifted with a visible intake of breath. She focused on the flag-draped casket and began to speak:

President Basil Dimitrovski, your sisters and brothers of the United States of America mourn with Macedonia. I bring a word of sorrow and condolence to your family and the people of your country. You rest under the bright yellow sun of the Macedonian flag, leaving the earth a lesser place. We grieve the loss of your bright sunlight as a peacemaker. Today's turbulent and chaotic world has lost one of its greatest presidents.

When she paused for the translation, General Thornburg muttered to no one in particular, "
She
is the greatest president this world has."

Zeller listened from his prone position on top of the black marble mausoleum. He hid within the parapets and peeked through the small gap between them. He was eager.
Freund
was ready. But not yet. No. Let her finish.

President Dimitrovski, like my country's beloved former President John F. Kennedy, you were inaugurated at the young age of forty-three. Like him, you died an untimely death with unfinished dreams. Like him, you are mourned not only by hundreds of thousands of your citizens, but also by people all around the world.

The translator tried to convey not only the meaning of the President's words but also her magnetic style of presentation.

From his prone position, peeking through the space, Zeller saw the mob of mourners with flowers. Mourned by all but one, he thought, the one who wanted President Dimitrovski dead. If anyone ever kills the person responsible for the plane crash, he deserves the Grand Cross of Merit!

President Dimitrovski, you vowed at your inauguration to be
everyone's
president. You traveled around the country talking with the people about their needs and concerns, visiting with artists and athletes, laborers and politicians, believers and atheists, students and pensioners, rich and poor. You drew no boundaries of economic level, religious preference, or ethnic background. You did not even bow to party affiliation. Despite the risk to your popularity in "high places," you kept your promise to be President of
all
the people!

The translation reverberated over the hillsides. Thousands of heads nodded in a tidal wave of agreement. The common people mourned the loss of one they saw not only as their President but also their trusted friend.

Zeller nodded also. He satisfied himself that he'd found a clear shot at the target. During the translation, he reran his brief meeting this morning. The Patriot/John Adams had come as expected. But unexpectedly, he appeared more confident again, in control once more. President Benedict, his last obstacle, was about to be taken out. Their meeting had gone well. Perhaps suspiciously well. One, they had been seen in public together, and the security camera had recorded it. Two, he had agreed to the full fee requested. Three, he had brought the cash with him and paid all of it in advance. A new thought strayed through Zeller's mind—blackmailing Adams after the President's death could be lucrative in the future. He checked the wind and adjusted his aim slightly to compensate, wondering if he would succumb to greed.

President Dimitrovski,
The Wall Street Journal
identified you as a "real Balkan statesman." You were a bridge builder who held a unique vision of peaceful cooperation between nations, a vision of mutual respect for every country's sovereignty and territorial independence and internal policies. You would not let us forget our double immorality of deceit and violence
. S
ometimes you bore alone the burden of your vision of peace, and always you incurred political and personal risks because of it.

A low mumble filled the hillsides as the translator relayed the last sentence.

Personal risk, thought Zeller, like I incur now. For this was not only his final shot but also his farthest. He was behind the security snipers, supposedly beyond the range of accuracy. Yet it was within his range of confidence. He had practiced this distance hundreds of times over the years. He noted the winds. They had ceased. He adjusted.

President Dimitrovski, in your inaugural address you dared to affirm love in a time of hatred and quoted St. Paul in 1 Corinthians 13, whose words describe love as all-inclusive. That worldview is dangerous to political self-interests. It counteracts a world where humanity fears differences, relishes hostilities, spreads seeds of hatred, and takes violence for granted—a world of contrived misperceptions, a world made ripe for manipulation by power mongers.

For an instant her eyes turned toward the officials on the platform and, loaded with disdain, targeted John Adams. Their glint of steel reflected an arsenal of strength. Adams stiffened. She focused again on the flag-draped casket.

In your inaugural address, you also spoke of ideals and holy duty. But you did not stop with words. You lived them out!

"Holy duty." Now would be a perfect time, thought Zeller, a dramatic moment. No! Let her finish. She deserves that much.

President Dimitrovski, your favorite song was "O Lord Take My Heart." You led with heart—a courageous and open heart. You repaid your enemies with understanding, your critics with compassion. You were not afraid to keep promises or make compromises. You armed yourself with political honesty, and disarmed others with your generosity of spirit and disinterest in personal power. You refused to give up on human beings. You taught us that we can rewrite our songs of hatred and destruction, and begin to join together in harmony, singing a new tune of freedom and dignity for all.

"Freedom and dignity for all." Including me? Zeller could tell the speech was nearly over. He silently positioned his rifle barrel in the canale. Held the target in the crosshairs. A single shot through the head. He eased his finger onto the trigger. Get ready,
Freund.
But not quite yet. No.

President Dimitrovski, in honor of your memory, I commit to the international community that I will use all the means at my disposal to build a world of peace and unprecedented unity and justice, perpetuating your dream that one day we will live as brothers and sisters upon the earth.

The leader of the most powerful country in the world had offered homage instead of haughtiness. President Benedict nodded respectfully to the family and turned to walk back toward her place, her head bowed in humility. Her demeanor needed no translation. The watching world knew that the Superpower's reign of arrogance had ended.

Gunfire!