The Dead Saint (7 page)

At 10:55 Friday morning Zechariah Zeller closed his phone and hurried through Flughafen Frankfurt to meet the Patriot—whose sobriquet was dubious but not his power. True to form he'd said only the name of the place and had disconnected. The Patriot's pattern was consistent: always meeting at the Frankfurt airport, calling five minutes before the designated time to set the exact place, changing disguises like a chameleon, arriving first and sitting at a corner table with his back to the wall.

Zeller spotted him, the whipped cream already melting in his coffee glass. Today his hair was black with gray streaks, his eyes blue, and a salt-and-pepper goatee hid the cleft in his chin. Disguises altered the Patriot's appearance but not his intensity, not his inner makeup. No.

"Sit."

Zeller did so.

"You are free this week?"

He knew this was not a question but the preface to a directive. Another contract so soon surprised him, but he nodded, stifling a jet-lag yawn from his New Orleans flight to this stopover. He handed the Patriot a tie box wrapped in birthday paper. "As I recall, you like neckwear." Inside was Elias Darwish's medal. He knew better than to ask why he was directed to retrieve it. He also knew better than to show up without it.

"Thank you." Long, slender fingers lifted the glass of
Einspänner
in tribute. "You did well."

Silently Zeller disagreed. His perfect plan scrolled through his mind: Shoot target. Take advantage of crowd panic. Toss mime costume in litterbin. Retain scalp liner to avoid DNA. Save strands of wig to frame next victim. Rush forward. Pretend concern. Retrieve medal. Leave scene. But the perfect plan had failed. He'd not foreseen the presence of a Hercules who would kneel beside the target, notice that the bullet had broken his neck chain, see the medal on the street, and pick it up. No!

Zeller had no difficulty finding out the identity of Hercules—Bubba Broussard—and getting his address. It was easy to follow him to the café yesterday morning, watch him give the woman the medal, and pick it from her pocket on the streetcar. So easy. Easy but beneath him. He was a world-class marksman, not a petty thief. No. Now he hid his resentment behind opaque sunglasses.

The Patriot set his glass back on the table and handed across the
International Herald Tribune
folded to an article about the murder of the New Orleans Saints star kicker.

Zeller scanned it, feeling the thick cash envelope between the pages. Prompt and generous payment as always. He liked to read stories about his work and how the authorities "solved" the crime with the false clues he left behind to mislead them. The article said that Darwish's murderer had been found and had himself become a victim. Proof consisted of strands of the red wig discovered in his hair, matching fingerprints, and, most important, the gun that ballistics reports confirmed had killed Darwish. Investigation closed. Crime committed. Crime solved. He enjoyed the challenge of solving the first crime with the second, but his disciplined facial muscles concealed his inner satisfaction.

"The timely . . .
silence,"
the Patriot raised an eyebrow with his euphemistic reference to Darwish's termination, "is a lesson to others. Lamentable but necessary," he added softly.

Zeller had no clue to the Patriot's identity. Darwish had tried to discover it. And been "silenced." He did not intend to make the same mistake.

"I have learned something interesting about a major," the Patriot said like a gossiping cleric, as unsuspicious to onlookers as a tie box wrapped in birthday paper. Only the intensity in his eyes and the raised right eyebrow revealed the comment's significance.

Zeller listened intently, knowing that the Patriot was introducing the target for his new assignment. He sipped his
Mokka gespritzt,
waiting without impatience to hear the name.

"You may know Manetti, chief aide to the NATO commander in Naples." The Patriot paused, then issued the death warrant in words and in a tone that sounded like a simple party invitation. "He deserves the biggest surprise of his life." Again, the master of disguise raised his eyebrow. Zeller gave a slight nod, and the Patriot stood abruptly and left. He would be told nothing else. No. Their ongoing arrangement had been agreed upon during their first meeting three years ago: limited information about
who
and no strings about
how—
and a generous cash payment made in person at Flughafen Frankfurt upon successful completion.

As always Zeller would access everything known about the target. This background work was essential in order to keep himself safe and to retain his perfect record. Looking forward to the challenge, he slowly finished his
Mokka gespritzt
and headed toward the gate for his connecting flight back home. With two hours to wait he stopped for a small
Mokka,
no brandy this time, and carried it to the computer station nearby.

His phone rang. No name. None needed. The familiar voice said, "Thank you for the birthday present. I omitted one detail. You are to leave a conspicuous calling card at the site where you conduct your business: St. Sava claims responsibility." That ended the call.

He could not sort out the Patriot's truths from his lies. But he knew for sure that he was not careless enough to omit details. St. Sava was a new ingredient. Interesting.

He took a sip of his
Mokka
and Googled
NATO base Naples.
Then clicked
Staff.
Found Manetti. Major Marshall Manetti. Googled his name. Marshall Mario Manetti: Graduate of St. Thomas Catholic High School in Boston, and the Naval Academy with honors; aide-de-camp to General Theodore Thornburg with NATO, stationed in Naples. Zeller had sufficient information to begin forming his plan. He checked his watch. Just enough time to take the first step before his flight. He found the number for Manetti's office and used the U.S. cell phone he'd taken to New Orleans. He'd listed it in the name of American Liberty Bank Corporation—impressive, familiar sounding, and nonexistent. When the secretary answered, he asked to speak to Major Manetti, counting on his slight Austrian-German accent to sound scholarly.

"He is not available," she answered, strictly business as expected.

"I am Dr. Stephen Schwartzenburg with the alumni association of St. Thomas Catholic High School in Boston. We are honoring the major for his fine service to our country. I want to give him the good news."

Her tone warmed. "I'll relay the message."

"It is important that I speak to him personally. How can I reach him?"

"I'm sorry, but I'm not at liberty to discuss his schedule."

"Oh," Zeller's voice reeked with disappointment. "I don't know what to do. I am in charge of planning, and we need to set a date. It will be a memorable event."

Less businesslike now, she said, "I could reach him and ask him to call you, Dr. Schwartzenburg."

"Thank you. My number is . . ." he started to offer, knowing it had already been recorded.

"I have it, sir." He heard the smile in her voice as she added, "Major Manetti is a fine man. He well deserves the honor."

Zeller hung up and waited with a smile on his own face. So easy.

As he stood in the boarding line for his flight home, his cell phone rang.
Ja!
He ignored it until after the voicemail, then listened to the caller's brief message.

"Dr. Schwartzenburg, this is Marsh Manetti. Thank you for calling. St. Thomas High! Those were the days! I'm taking a brief trip and will be unreachable during flight. I'll try to contact you again later."

Zeller noted the phone number retained by his cell. During flight. To where? Tomorrow morning at home he and his computer, fondly called
Mutter
and loaded with Chinese software stolen from the CIA, would tap into passenger lists on departing flights from Naples and ultimately get Manetti's itinerary. Google had given him a good beginning, but
Mutter
had the capacity to obtain enough information about Manetti to predict how often he brushed his teeth and the kind of toothpaste he used. So easy.

On Friday evening Lynn set the table for a special shrimp dinner, their tradition on Cross-the-Pond Eve. She needed ample time to discuss with Galen her misadventure on the streetcar yesterday, and ample time was hard to find. Last night he'd come home late from hosting a visiting lecturer at Tulane. This morning she'd hurried
off
for an early breakfast meeting and spent the day in Type-A mode to finish up the loose ends for her absence. Preparing dinner together distracted them, and her story about the mime and medal required his full attention. Now, as she lit the candles, delayed tension boiled within her like Mount St. Helens ready to spew.

Galen seated her and prayed their thanks for food and blessings.

Her story tumbled forth before they finished the bisque. "So," she concluded, "Elie's murder isn't solved. The mime is alive."

"Chief Armstrong probably has information that Francine doesn't. We can trust him."

"You don't believe me!"

"The man on the streetcar scared you. That's understandable. Think what you've been through."

"But his eyes! Cruel eyes! Identical to the mime's. Same color. Size. Shape."

"Fear heightens imagination, Lynn."

"If I wanted to be analyzed, I'd go to a therapist!"

Cool the Mount St. Helens, Lynn! It isn't helpful.

This time Ivy was right. She took a deep breath and a new tack. "How do you explain the missing medal?"

Galen followed his exasperated sigh with an exasperating patient-father tone. "It could have fallen out of your pocket."

She felt discounted and deserted.

"I don't like to see you so frightened." He reached his hand across the table and covered hers, then smiled. "You're the brave one. Remember?"

"Don't patronize me!"

His smile vanished. A chilly silence hung in the air. He broke it first. "Would you like to call the police and report that Elie's medal is missing?"

"
Stolen,
Galen." She took another deep breath. "Reporting it might get Bubba in trouble. The police might say he removed evidence."

The mime is probably far from New Orleans by now anyway, Lynn.

Right again, Ivy. The acknowledgement brought a painful sense of hopelessness.

"There's no point in continuing to worry yourself. The medal's gone. The murder's solved."

"But it
isn't
solved!"

"Lynn, it's time to turn the page," he said firmly.

Mount St. Helens erupted. So much for a candlelight dinner! She tossed her napkin on the table. "I'm going to pack." She stomped up the stairs, perturbed that carpeting stole the sound effects.

Anger's energy helped wrestle her black L.L. Bean roll-aboard from the closet under the attic stairs. She was tempted to curl up and sulk in the secluded space it left. But there wasn't time. There was never time for a proper pout!

She jerked the hangers from her travel clothes: three mix-and-match skirts and jackets. Different weights and wrinkle-free. A versatile black dress, five space-saving blouses, a pair of slacks, quick-drying lingerie, inexpensive jewelry including Mardi Gras beads that could pass for pearls in the dark, a purse, and two pairs of black shoes—flats and heels. Done. Record time. Anger has its benefits.

She unzipped Big-Black, her old oversized leather tote she defined as a "small personal bag." A gift from Galen. We'll make up tonight, she thought, anticipation softening her mood. We always do. She tossed the leftovers into Big-Black. Travel-size toiletries and makeup, a couple of paperback books, travel toys like diagramless crosswords and cards to play gin rummy with Galen on the plane, small gifts, and emergency snacks. She added her cell phone and the full-capacity baby laptop adaptable to all electrical currents. E-tickets and passport. Last came Bubba's note and money for Mrs. Darwish.

But no medal. One more time she pointlessly checked the pocket in the skirt she'd worn yesterday. Just in case. But the medal fairy hadn't come. She felt miserable. I can't tell Bubba it was stolen. I don't want to heap that disappointment on him on top of everything else. For his sake, she told herself. But she lied. The truth was that she didn't want him to think badly of her. She decided to tell him when she returned—and if she was killed in the Balkans she wouldn't have to tell him at all.

One decision remained—the President's envelope for
Marsh with NATO.
She didn't want it found if her luggage was searched by security. She stowed the envelope in her metal-free waist wallet and hung it with her travel jacket.

Almost more than she could handle had happened in the past 57 hours. She sagged down on the bed and closed her eyes. Maybe Galen is right about the streetcar. Maybe I was just scared. Maybe the two sets of eyes don't match.

But they do!

She zipped the roll-aboard closed with a quick, loud
ZZZ.
Finished!

Tomorrow she would board a plane. Unfinished!

Zeller stood at the window of his third-story Vienna apartment on this sunny Saturday morning. He did not take this new assignment from the Patriot lightly. His profession required four parts: the research, the plan, the act, the escape. Of the four, the act itself took the least time. He always tried to foresee the unforeseeable and devise alternative strategies for success. But even with meticulous planning, he needed a thread of luck. He felt uneasy about unwinding too much of that thread in too short a time. Wednesday in New Orleans. Tomorrow here in his own city. A thread of luck could knot.

His coffee steamed and the smoke from his cigarette curled upward as he observed the oblivious people below. Children in uniforms going to school. Men and women in suits going to offices. Mentally, he used them for target practice. A feeling of power surged. How easy to cause chaos! One single shot. Then screams. Panic. Running. Survival at all costs. Compassion shoved aside along with any person in the way. Trampling others to save themselves. He'd seen it before. But parents would protect their children. And some husbands their wives. One simple pull of the trigger could end any life he chose. Or many lives, rapid fire. He smiled, smugly aware of his power to spread terror on the streets of Vienna—and proud of his discipline not to do so.

He poured a fresh cup of coffee, savoring the aroma, and said kind words to
Mutter
as they began to probe the virtual world for data about Major Marshall Mario Manetti. The War on Terror had simplified getting information. The more personal data stored by security agencies, the more facts he had at his fingertips, literally. All he and
Mutter
had to do was crack the codes. A wizard at this—since his life depended on the details—he scrolled through the supposedly secure military and financial data files on Manetti.
Mutter
thrived on revealing secrets, humming happily along. He also searched for flights departing yesterday afternoon from Naples and tapped into passenger lists.
Ja!
Manetti's itinerary flashed on the screen: Naples to Frankfurt on Friday afternoon. Frankfurt to Vienna on Sunday morning. Thank you,
Mutter!

He noticed that the return to Naples wasn't scheduled. He walked mentally through alternative plans and weighed the options, then set the scene: Vienna, the city he knew best. Flughafen Wien, the most familiar airport in the world to him. Upon Manetti's arrival from Frankfurt. A perfect place and time for the biggest surprise of his life as the Patriot had euphemized. So easy.

He must not hurry the final details. No. First
Freund.
He opened the false panel in his closet and removed his high-powered sniper rifle and gun-cleaning kit. As he rubbed the barrel, he thought about the Patriot. Meticulous planning required him to understand the personality of the one who issued the contract. He considered whether he could best the Patriot mentally. A dangerous thought. The master of disguise was as rigid and unforgiving as the statue at Dr. Karl Lueger Platz. Like Lueger, the Patriot used every means at his disposal to obtain his goals, building his reputation on stories of mythical proportions. "Will he target me one day,
Freund
?" he whispered to his sniper rifle. "Not as long as he needs me. And he will always need the world's preeminent shooter."

Patting
Freund
he veered away from thoughts of Lueger and the Patriot, clearing his mind to focus totally on Manetti. He would not lose that focus. No. Not until the unlucky target was dead—one shot to the head. Zeller smiled again, tingling with anticipation and the thrill of the challenge. "Say your prayers, Major Marshall Manetti. This is your last night to do so."