The Dead Saint (8 page)

Lynn felt as anxious and watchful as a first-time flyer when she and Galen faced the security check before boarding the plane on Saturday. She fretted her way forward in the slow line, the President's envelope burning through her waist wallet like a teardrop of molten glass. Her hand acquired the tic of rubbing across it every few minutes. Finally she made it to the other side without a glitch—envelope undiscovered. She gathered up her roll-aboard, Big-Black, baby laptop, travel jacket and shoes and breathed an audible sigh of relief.

Not one to waste an opportunity to worry, her moment's reprieve turned into angst over getting the envelope to
Marsh with NATO
when they landed in Frankfurt. How would she find him before their Vienna connection departed? Make a sign with his name and hold it up like drivers waiting for unknown passengers?

Brilliant, Lynn!

As expected, she and Galen had made up last night, once again restoring their musical marriage—a loving duet of harmony, rhythm, and joy. At least for now. Lynn knew from both personal experience and counseling others that marriage is one of the most difficult relationships to sustain and enrich. It had taken her years to understand that when two strong people marry, agreement is not necessary but mutual respect is essential. B
oth
of them wanted a musical marriage, and that in itself gave them hope and perseverance. On trips across the pond they did their best to sing a duet. They anticipated adventure but were also aware of the concomitant strain of adjusting to unfamiliar language and culture. They wanted to be at their best for each other and for those who would become part of their lives, broadening their global sense of family.

Once in the air they played gin on the tiny tray tables and ate the contents dubbed "dinner" served in divided cartons with plastic forks and knives, and Lynn slept through the movie. She awoke once and pondered the enigma of time in travel. From New Orleans to Vienna they would go through enough time zones to lose seven hours of their lives, regained on their return. What do you do with hours regained that once were lost? The same, the same. You fly. And fly. She went back to sleep and dreamed she was a soaring eagle, wings widespread, claws clutching a medal. And then she morphed into a girl in a blue dress running through the forest with her hand extended, holding an envelope, and calling out Marsh! Marsh with NATO!

On Sunday morning Major Marshall Manetti checked out of the Frankfurt hotel and was driven to the airport. The meeting yesterday had gone well. All the bases were covered. The offensive was necessary, but what could have been done to prevent the necessity? That question always troubled him. He returned the salute of the driver and made his way through the airport to the gate for the next flight to Vienna. As he waited, attentive to passengers in his subtle search for the Petersons, he mentally reviewed Friday morning's orders from General Thornburg—spoken, not written.

The general had stood behind his desk, hands on hips, scowling. "A request came from higher up," he said brusquely. He took a step backward and narrowed his eyes at Marsh. "Do you have connections at the State Department?"

"Not that I know of, sir." Higher than that.

"Well, they requested that you take care of a matter on your way back from tomorrow's meeting in Frankfurt." General Thornburg made no effort to cover his ire. "They want you to look after a bishop.
Discreetly."

Meaning
secretly.
"Yes, sir."

"Women bishops, for God's sake! State said she's a 'prominent' religious leader with 'skills and sensitivities' in multinational situations. The problem is she tends to put herself in harm's way.
And
instead of keeping her safely at home, her fool husband tags along like a tourist all agog!"

Marsh hid a smile. The general divided women into two separate groups. Civilian women were "the fair sex" to be protected at all costs. The women under his command were "female soldiers," and he'd trained himself to delete the
fe
before
male.
A soldier was a soldier.

General Thornburg jerked back the chair and sat down, waving his hand across the piles of paper on his desk. "The world is exploding all around us, and I can spare my chief aide to babysit a bishop!"

"Bad timing, sir."

"There is no good time. The post-Cold War spews icier danger than the Cold War. Iraq. Afghanistan. Pakistan. The Balkans. And eternally Israel and Palestine." He sighed. "We're bent on destroying ourselves."

"Would you like for me to find a way to impede obedience to the order, sir?" Marsh knew the answer.

The general laughed sardonically. "We have to appease the prissy politicians. Our world would be safer if they were the ones sent into battle instead of the ones sending other people's children off to fight."

Marsh could have mouthed what would come next.

"The bravest and the best." His tone came from a softer place, distant, deep. "That's why this job is so hard." He scanned the unwanted communication from the State Department, his gruff manner returning. "Go on to Frankfurt today as planned, and when you leave tomorrow morning you're to go to Vienna on their plane." He handed Marsh their flight schedule. "Google their photos. State didn't even bother to send them." The general glanced up at him. "Be sure you take good care of Bishop Peterson."

"Yes, sir."

"Find a
discreet
way to have them delayed in Vienna an extra twenty-four hours. You know what hits Tuesday night."

Marsh nodded, dreading it.

"Their flight to Macedonia would probably be safe, but somebody doesn't want to take any chances. State wants the matter handled at this level instead of through subordinates. It avoids the risk of questions or rumors that could spoil the NATO surprise offensive. Get back here as fast as you can."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll need you, Marsh." The informality was a rare show of affection, an indication that the general was gravely worried about the ripples from the NATO "surprise."

"You can count on me, sir. I'll wrap up the babysitting and be back before the fireworks start."

Now, as Marsh's mind came back to the present and his wait at the Frankfurt gate for his flight to Vienna, he boredly surveyed the passengers. None looked like a bishop. He caught himself in the stereotypical thought. And how does a bishop look, he asked himself, moving beyond his image of a man in a collar and black suit. He wondered if his church would ever allow women to be priests. Or priests to marry. He stepped across stereotypical borders. Any of these women could be a bishop. He pulled her Googled photo from his pocket, snapped it mentally, and returned it. He scanned the area again, then glanced at his watch. Not much longer.

He gazed out the airport window as a plane lifted from the runway and soared gracefully into the clear turbulence-free sky. In a month he would be on a plane that took him back home for his leave. He sighed, ready for a break from the world's hostilities. His thoughts turned toward the award he would receive from his high school. He felt honored. It would be fun to go back and see old friends.

Crossing the Atlantic distanced Lynn's body clock from the correct time zone, but it didn't distance her memory of those cold marble eyes. Nor lessen the weight of the President's envelope in her waist wallet. As their plane descended toward Flughafen Frankfurt, Lynn's angst and tic returned. But she'd be rid of the letter within the hour. A comforting thought.
If
she could find this Marsh with NATO. She scanned the crowd as soon as she entered the airport. Seeking one stranger in a mob of strangers. Searching each face. Pointless. She wouldn't know him if she saw him. Next time, Madam President, please enclose a full name or a photo!

Next time, Lynn?

They checked in for the Vienna flight. She handed her E-ticket and passport to the agent and pronounced her name stage-projection loud. But no Marsh stepped forward to introduce himself. Her eyes checked out all the waiting passengers minus women, children, teens, elderly men, and everyone not in uniform.

He might not be wearing one, Lynn.

She looked for straight posture, a short haircut, shined shoes.

That's a military stereotype. It might not fit him.

Then you find him, Ivy! Panic squeezed around her like an airless coffin. She felt for the waist wallet.

"You seem jittery," said Galen in a soothing tone. "Are you all right?"

She forced a smile and nodded. Act normal, she told herself. But what is normal when you're a courier for the President of the United States? The question itself isn't normal. I should have thrown the envelope back at Parker before he closed the limo door. Departure time ticked closer. Overwhelmed by the odds, she sat down to wait and prepared herself for defeat, the six-letter
D-
word she'd deleted from her vocabulary.

A man of medium height approached Galen and her. He had dark hair and eyes and a Tom Hanks smile. He wore the white summer uniform of a Navy officer.

Marsh with NATO! Please! Oh, please!

"You look like people from the States," he said.

"Is it that obvious?" His comment wounded the pride she took in her ability to blend in.

Galen offered his hand. "Galen Peterson."

"Major Marsh Manetti, US Navy. Serving with NATO."

Thank you! She restrained a sigh of relief and re-deleted the six-letter
D-
word. "I'm
Lynn Peterson,"
she emphasized as they shook hands. He didn't react. Not a nod or knowing look. Not a twitch of a facial muscle or even a flicker in his eyes. He was either great at masks or had never heard of her. Regardless, she realized that she had never been so grateful for a stranger's hand in hers. "Thank you for serving our country." The words came sincerely, without thought. She meant them. But they weren't helpful.

He smiled. "I've been enough places in the world to know how lucky we are to be born in the States, ma'am."

"A gift by birth," Galen agreed.

Her mind swirled. Doesn't he know I have something important for him?

How could he know, Lynn? If the President had access to confidential communication with him, she wouldn't need you.

Lynn's relief to see him morphed into another attack of anxiety. Her fingers jerked to the waist wallet. How do I get it to him? Something short of "By the way, sir, here is a letter for you from President Benedict." Galen wouldn't believe that either. Just like he hadn't believed the mime was on the streetcar.

Whoa, Lynn! Don't rebait that hook!

"Where are you stationed, Major Manetti?" asked Galen.

"In Naples. I'm the assistant to the NATO commander in charge of strategy for the Balkans."

"Are you waiting for the flight to Vienna also?"

The major nodded. "What will you be doing there?"

His behavior bewildered Lynn. Apparently he knew nothing about the letter. Yet his idle little chat left the impression that he wanted to hang around them. Why?

Maybe he's genuinely interested, Lynn.

"My wife is giving a speech. She's a bishop," said Galen as Lynn simultaneously responded, "Attending a conference."

The major smiled at Lynn. "By that, I take it you are giving a speech at a conference."

"And meeting with a chaplain from our area. He's going to pick us up at the airport." Maybe if I give him enough information, something will click.

"All the chaplains do good work. I'm Catholic. Sometimes our wounds are spiritual wounds instead of physical ones. Sometimes," he added pensively, "they are both."

"After Vienna we're going to Skopje and then on a peace mission to Sarajevo. Are the Balkans safe?" she asked.

"Safety there depends on your purpose and timing. By the way, if anyone asks your purpose, you may want to say it is humanitarian aid. Both sides try to protect people with that aim. Fact-finders are more suspect." He shook his head. "As for timing, yours is not the best."

"Ours never is," said Galen with a wink at Lynn.

Galen's confident manner and his willingness to go difficult places with her soothed her turbulent sea of tension.

Time is running out. Think, Lynn!

She remembered
Balkan Ghosts
stuffed in Big-Black. That could work. She excused herself to find the restroom. Stood in line. Minutes passed as slow as hospital time. Next! She locked the door to a tiny stall. Noticed the filthy toilet. Unzipped her waist wallet with trembling fingers. Removed the envelope. She stared at it for a moment, awed by the potential import of a letter from the President of the United States.

Hurry, Lynn!

She pulled
Balkan Ghosts
and a small pad of sticky notes from Big-Black. Wrote: For Marsh with NATO. Folded the envelope in half. Added the sticky note. Hid it inside the book. Noted the pages: 50/51. Returned the book to Big-Black. Zipped her waist wallet. Unlocked the stall door. As an afterthought, she flushed the toilet.

Instead of dangling the bag nonchalantly from her shoulder as usual, she put the strap over her head and draped it across her chest. She clutched it nervously with both hands, aware that her compulsive behavior sent an invitation to purse snatchers. But she couldn't release her protect-it-at-all-costs grasp on Big-Black.

She neared the gate. The major appeared to be watching for her. Was there anxiety in his stance? He smiled and seemed to relax as she approached. Again his behavior bewildered her. Merely a new friend or a co-conspirator?

Boarding any moment, Lynn. Stop procrastinating.

She removed the book from Big-Black and made her pitch. "Major Manetti, I need as much information as possible about Skopje and Sarajevo before we go there. If you have a chance on the plane, would you be willing to scan some sections of
Balkan Ghosts?"
She offered it to him. Please don't say you've read it.

Galen frowned at her, and she knew he thought she was imposing. I know, she wanted to say, but there's a good reason—far beyond your imagination. "You'll find those sections in Part I. It deals with Macedonia and Bosnia-Herzegovina. With your experience in the area, it would be helpful to know whether you think Kaplan was on target."

"I'll be glad to," he said. "I like to read on planes."

She breathed a silent thank you. "I especially wonder about pages 50 and 51." Please don't open to those pages now.

He tucked the book under his arm.

Another silent thank you.

"I'll return it before we land. What are your seat numbers?"

Galen checked and told him.

"I'm in the row behind you." His eyes twinkled. "How's that for coincidence!"

The agent called them to board. Galen shook his hand. "I enjoyed talking with you, Major Manetti."

"And you." He turned to Lynn. "Good luck on your speech, Bishop Peterson."

Lynn smiled at him. "I hope you find something interesting in the book."

Ahhh! she thought. This clandestine nightmare is behind me.