The Dead Saint (6 page)

Thursday afternoon the Patriot rushed into the Oval Office, last as always, creating the impression that his schedule barely permitted another meeting, even with the President. He strode straight to her and shook hands, conscious of her small fingers in his long ones as she greeted him in her Katie Couric voice. His charming cover intact, he smiled cordially and gave a respectful nod, then moved quickly around the room to speak to each member of the Inner Circle. He called them all by name and added a personal word of appreciation, habitually mindful of cultivating business and political networks that crossed party lines. Duplicitous but necessary.

"Let us begin," said President Benedict. Her low-key way of opening the monthly "Inner Circle gathering" strained unsuccessfully for informality.

Oval Office informality—the pinnacle of oxymorons, he thought, seating himself in the dark leather chair directly across from her. He recalled past visits since 1990 to this room-above-all-rooms, ever the same even with change.

The President's three little words brought an abrupt shift in mood. All eyes turned to her. Sentences stopped midway. Coffee cups clinked against saucers. Postures straightened. People leaned forward in their chairs. The Inner Circle—the chosen ones—sat proudly at the feet of the President like the twelve apostles at the feet of Jesus. The Patriot scanned the table. A widely acclaimed national historian sat to the President's right. Her task was to listen to members' ideas and draw historical parallels that pointed to successes and failures. Next were four international relations scholars whose areas of expertise included the Middle East, North Korea, China, and Russia. An environmental scientist sat to her left, followed by specialists in the fields of health care, education, poverty, the space program, plus a retired general with diplomatic skills. And himself, a financial magnate who offered insight regarding how potential policies could impact the corporate world—who also profited from the inside information that led to his being in the right place at the right time for his covert arms business.

The Inner Circle's makeup indicated that the President placed knowledge above party affiliation and political opinions. Worldviews within the circle clashed, but she apparently considered this to be an asset in making good decisions. Instead of stating her positions so the group would tell her what she wanted to hear, she expected each of them to share concerns in their areas of expertise, to be followed by a discussion based on penetrating questions. Her open style of leadership created options, and he couldn't predict the outcome. He found that troubling but masked his feelings.

Bored by the members' look-at-me-I'm-in-the-inner-circle egotism, he let his mind wander back to the President's call to the Secretary of Defense on a secure line. Was she, too, masking something? How well did she know Major Manetti?

And what about Bishop Peterson? Nothing unusual about a bishop giving an invocation for a dinner the Vice President attended in New Orleans last night. But why did he invite her to ride back to the airport with him? Relevant or coincidental? The Patriot did not believe in coincidences.

From behind his affable mask, he refocused on the meeting. Doris, the historian, made a point. He asked for clarification, showing interest and appreciation. He might need her someday.

He had quickly gained insight about former presidents, but Benedict was far more difficult to read. Sitting opposite her made it easy to seek personality clues in her demeanor. He watched her blue-green eyes, sometimes cautiously blank, sometimes sharply piercing. Always alert. He couldn't tell what she was thinking, another thing he didn't like about her. Yet he pretended admiration.

Her attire offered few hints to her personality: Clothes tailored with a feminine touch. Simple jewelry. Always dressed tastefully and camera-ready. There would be no photos of a sloppy President Helena Benedict! But he preferred a president with a tie.

Faking a genial smile and nodding appropriately while half-listening, he discreetly scanned the office for clues—pictures, mementos, citations of honor. But the only personal items in the room were in a display case standing unobtrusively against the back wall near her desk. One was an ancient saddlebag, its leather wrinkled and scuffed, its silver buckle worn and scratched—an unworthy item in this historic seat of power. He noted the M on the flap and thought of Manetti. Logic told him that was too big a leap. Next to the saddlebag was a sculpture of a mother and little girl, striking in its simplicity. He'd asked about it during his first visit to the Oval Office after she became president. Joy had lit her face as she looked at it, and she gave the longest reply he'd ever heard from her: It's an Allan Houser. For me, he demonstrates the power of art through suggestion and invites us to be partners in our interpretation. He was a National Medal of Arts winner. This is titled
The Shy One.
Her tone, like a caress, brought life to the cold bronze. Speaking rapidly, she'd added: Haozous, his birth name, was Anglicized to Houser because it was easier for the children in his Oklahoma school to pronounce. He was a descendant of the great Apache Chief Mangas Coloradas, and his father rode with Gerónimo. Though dead now, he remains my favorite sculptor. That ended her only self-revealing conversation with him.

Today's pointless meeting droned on. And on. It irritated him to waste energy pretending interest. Past presidents had shown him deference and treated him like an unofficial advisor. But not this President—an irksome shortcoming on her part. She treated him like everyone else, and the members saw themselves as his peers. Equality eroded his edge to shape committee decisions. His agitation increased as the minutes passed—minutes he could be spending to gain information about Major Manetti and Bishop Peterson and to prepare for his long flight to Frankfurt this evening. Here he sat, deprived of his due. Unacceptable! Infuriating!

Suddenly the President's eyes darted to him. "Is something troubling you, John?"

Caught! John Adams of BarLothiun realized he'd dropped his mask!

Lynn went through the motions of life's minutiae throughout the afternoon. Words from Luke's gospel ran through her mind: Nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known. Lynn waited until 5:30 to call Francine Babineaux, giving her a chance to get home where she could speak freely. As an employee in the crime lab, she might know something. As a close friend, she might share it. After the customary small talk, Lynn asked her about the Darwish case.

"Just between you and me?"

"Always."

"To be fair, the evidence appears adequate."

"
Appears?"

"Commuting over that twenty-five-mile bridge across Lake Pontchartrain gives me lots of time to ponder things."

"Things like?"

"Prematurely closing a case."

"You think that's what happened?"

"Perhaps."

"But they listen to you, Francine."

"Usually. But not on this one." Her voice dropped nearly to a whisper. "Somebody above—I don't know how far up—brought pressure to declare the murder solved."

"That isn't the reassurance I'd hoped for."

"They have their reasons, I suppose. The people of New Orleans need confidence that our star Saint can't be taken out and the perp roam the streets."

Perp? Short for perpetrator, Lynn supposed. But he
is
still roaming.

"Anyway," she added, sounding unconvinced, "they're calling the evidence sufficient."

"So it looks good. But the real murderer remains free?"

Francine whistled softly. "I don't like it put so directly. Let's just say I'm still troubled."

"About whether the mime killed Elias Darwish? Or whether the second victim is the mime?"

"The mime killed him, all right. There's no doubt about that." She paused for several moments, and Lynn didn't interrupt the silence. "Just between us—the evidence that the second man is the mime seems too obvious."

"Like it was planted?"

She sighed. "You got that right."

"Francine, did you happen to see the body—the one they're saying is the mime?"

"Yes. Why?"

Lynn recalled the mime's cold gray eyes when she walked past him in the Quarter. "What color were his eyes?"

"Brown as they come,
cher."

Immediately following the Inner Circle meeting in the Oval Office, the Patriot rushed to his office, pushed the
fleur-de-lis
on the stand holding JFK's bust, removed the hidden items needed, loaded his briefcase and headed to his private jet for the jaunt to Frankfurt. He drove himself, as always. Too much of his life was concealed to have a chauffeur and, besides,
John Adams drives himself
was part of the legend that made him popular. It also protected his itinerary.

As his Challenger rose above the earth, he reflected on the near disaster of the Inner Circle meeting. To drop his mask was a perilous mistake, especially in the Oval Office. Turning crisis into opportunity, he'd made a quick recovery and explained that a comment had reminded him of the horrific Balkan crisis. He stated with compassion that war does dreadful things to people. It won him points from most of the Inner Circle. His cleverness pleased him. But as usual he'd been unable to read President Benedict. Her intelligence and depth of perception both surprised and troubled him.

He envied her flawless diction, a gift from simply growing up with her father, old Senator Heffron whose voice he remembered well. He contrasted that gift with his own long, grueling struggle to perfect his diction, finally erasing every trace of an accent. She was one of the privileged class born into life with pretty packaging. He, on the other hand, had been forced to claw through the refuse of their crumpled wrappings. Unlike the D. C. politicos who thwarted justice, he understood the little people because he could identify with them. Somehow the President seemed able to do that also—another surprise. He tended to underestimate her. Dangerous!

A story about President Truman had taught him the power of presidential friendship. When Truman faced the momentous historical dilemma of partitioning Palestine to grant a Jewish nation, he worried about the long-term effect on the U.S. of continuing to support Zionist policies. He refused to be influenced by pressure from Zionists on one side and oil interests on the Arab side. He also declined—and found offensive—a Zionist offer of cash. But where pressure and money failed, friendship succeeded. His friend Eddie Jacobson, a non-Zionist Jew, went to see him and shared his concerns about the plight of the Jews—and the Jewish state of Israel was born at midnight on Friday, May 14, 1948. Truman wrote later that Jacobson's contribution was of "decisive importance."

Never forgetting that story, John Adams began his own efforts as a young man assigned to a terrorist task force while Cheney was Secretary of Defense in the first Bush administration. From that time forward his cool logic had served him well. He'd worked in the CIA and NSA, befriended presidents as his wealth grew, first through his covert arms business and later, when he could afford it, while building his infrastructure business. His presidential friendships had resulted in influence and access, and their concomitant power—until Benedict. His efforts to befriend her were courteously received but disconcertingly unrewarded. But, he muttered, I'll continue to court her friendship. Deceitful but necessary.

He ate his four-course dinner in a leisurely manner as his plane droned through the sky. Particular about the finer things in life, he was served on white linens with china, crystal and sterling—including real knives. In denial of his past, or perhaps because of it, he expected gourmet meals with artistic presentations and fine wine even in the air. He appreciated his private jet more than any other possession. How humiliating it would be to fly commercial, to march through security chutes like suspected convicts guilty until proven innocent, forced to submit to pat-downs and the legalized nudity produced by full body scanners. He shook his head at the foolishness. For the truth was that he or anyone in his cadre of elites—or any serious terrorist—could figure out ways to get on board with what they needed despite the restrictions. He'd been at a State dinner once when uninvited publicity seekers had managed to get themselves inside the White House—presented, seated, and hand-to-hand with the President. But, he thought, the illusion of security gives lots of people jobs and helps the economy.

He flew frequently and appreciated the uninterrupted block of time on overnight flights. He looked at his watch and set it forward to Frankfurt's time zone. He would arrive in good time for his late morning meeting tomorrow. As he often did while flying east or west, he pondered how human beings had peacefully come to agreement on time zones around the globe. Perhaps one day righteous justice could be as easily mandated.

He glanced at his briefcase, tonight's work ready for him thanks to Lone Star. He was exactly the kind of Secret Service agent the Patriot had sought. Originally trained by the CIA, his superiors' orders took precedence over his conscience, and he accepted the fact that he held only one piece in the puzzle, and they had the whole picture. He trusted them to judge what was best for the country, bowing to an ingrained mantra: One-two. Left-right. Do-or-die. Don't reason why.

Lone Star was a tech prodigy and had been honored to be tapped for the deep-cover project called Genesis, so deep that it appeared not to exist. He was willing to be available as needed and keep his regular Secret Service schedule to avoid questions. He understood that a Genesis operative was not allowed to know the name of anyone else in the project nor speak of his assignments nor acknowledge—under any circumstances—the existence of Genesis. The code of silence was as strong as the Cosa Nostra's
omertà.
Lone Star believed in the project's noble purpose: to provide an additional layer of invisible protection for the President. He understood that this called for access to all of her communications, an essential prerequisite to keeping her out of harm's way. Proud to serve his country and his life already committed to taking a bullet for the President if necessary, he secured all the technological access Genesis required. The Patriot smiled, happy to put Lone Star's blind loyalty to use.

In truth, Genesis consisted of a mighty force of one: Lone Star. It wasn't to protect the President but to keep the Patriot in control. The ruse provided insight about presidential interests, opinions and connections, and advance information about potential arms needs. Lone Star was stupid to fall for it. Patriotism was to be commended; blind patriotism could serve the enemy.

He finished his all-American dessert of apple pie with ice cream and nodded for a second cup of coffee. He took a sip, opened his briefcase, and pulled out the files on Manetti and Peterson. As requested, Lone Star had obtained the Homeland Security and FBI information on Manetti and researched everything available, public and otherwise, on Peterson. Unethical but necessary. The extent of restricted information on her surprised him. He wondered if her visits to Moscow, Beijing, and Gaza had triggered it. Lone Star's reports revealed no personal connection between President Benedict and Lynn Peterson, easing his mind. But they indicted Major Marshall Mario Manetti.

The major was a longtime friend of the President. During her conversation with the Secretary of Defense, she had not misstated about his being a good Catholic, but she had illogically omitted their friendship. The Patriot frowned and entwined his long slender fingers like a man in prayer, contemplating his decision. Life was sacred. He did not take termination lightly, but communication channels beyond his access were unacceptable. His need for control was not an obsession but essential. Blocks impeded his Holy Vision of justice and therefore must be quashed.
Quashed.
The harmless-sounding word brought a smile.

He switched to Irish coffee and continued to ponder the matter. The President had used her secure line to call the Secretary of Defense. Why? She gave Manetti's Catholicism as the reason for selecting him, not their friendship. Why? She had avoided a direct call to Manetti. Again, why? Cool logic prevailed as he considered every possible angle. The only plausible reason was an attempt to create a clandestine means of contact. He may have underestimated Benedict, but she had also underestimated him. He'd discovered her attempt.

The President, not he, bore responsibility for the necessity of Manetti's termination. As with Darwish, he had no choice. Zero tolerance. Regrettable but necessary. He lifted his Irish coffee, breathed deeply of the aroma and took a sip, the whipped cream rich on his tongue.