The Dead Saint (9 page)

Sunday, 10:37 A.M.

Vienna. City of intrigue and inspiration. Art and architecture.
Parks and palaces. Culture, cathedrals, and prancing Lipizzaners.
Place of death for Emperor Marcus Aurelius. Home to Sigmund Freud, father of psychoanalysis, and Karl Lueger, shaper of Hitler.
Music capital of the world for more than two hundred years. The provincial capital of the German Reich for seven.

Vienna. Nestled between plains of the Danube basin and foothills of the Alps. Governed by rulers dethroned; the conquerors in turn dethroned. Struck by sieges, plagues, and religious strife.

Vienna. City of mystery and malevolence.

Lynn had been slyly watching Marsh with NATO in her peripheral vision throughout the flight to Vienna and knew he'd found the envelope and read the letter. She'd harnessed all the discipline she possessed to keep from turning back to him and asking about it. If she'd been seated beside him, she feared she would have tried to read it. She felt the plane's descent toward Flughafen Wien and a tap on her shoulder. He handed her
Balkan Ghosts.
His eyes met hers for a knowing moment, and he offered the slightest of nods. "Thank you, Bishop Peterson. Kaplan is on target."

"I appreciate your help with this more than I can say."

"My pleasure. You gave me an opportunity to be of service."

So, Lynn, both of you practice double-speak.

She fanned the pages to 50 and 51 to check for the letter. Gone! A note scribbled in small script on his boarding stub replaced the burdensome message. Hallelujah! Mission accomplished!

"What's his note about?" asked Galen, looking over her shoulder.

She'd already scanned it and read it aloud:

The author is knowledgeable, insightful, and helpful. Some pages contain interesting surprises. Thank you.

Ah, Love, if I could only share the whole story with you! She relaxed and looked out the window. But the mystery of the request would always float around the edges of her curious mind.

The flight attendant welcomed them in three languages as they taxied to a stop. When the cabin signal dinged, the passengers jumped to their feet like Pavlov's dogs salivating to get off the plane—grabbed belongings, competed for space, stood single-file, and guarded their place. Lynn raised the handle of her roll-aboard and slipped Big-Black over her shoulder. Without the President's letter, her waist-wallet seemed ten pounds lighter, her tic of checking it cured. She glanced behind her expecting to say a word to Major Manetti, but he'd stepped back to assist a woman with her suitcase. Several people stood between them. He winked at her confidently and brushed his fingers nonchalantly across his breast pocket.

Ah, yes! Mission fully and successfully accomplished. She closed her eyes for a second. Thank you.

The restless line of passengers began inching down the aisle. They deplaned on a portable stair ramp in the airfield. So much for a roll-aboard! As Lynn carried it down the narrow metal steps, she realized once again how misleading the ratio of weight to size can be—like a large balloon and a small paperweight.

A man in camouflage fatigues, lean and smiling, stood at the bottom of the ramp and reached up for Lynn's suitcase. "Bishop Peterson?" he shouted over the noise of the plane. "I'm Dick Osborne. Welcome to Vienna." The chaplain wore his blue cap low across his brow, the brim touching the rims of his glasses. His multi-pocketed jacket with rolled-up sleeves hung over pants tucked into laced leggings that covered the tops of his black military boots.

Lynn extended her hand. "Thanks for meeting us." She introduced Galen above the roar.

"Dr. Peterson," Dick shook his hand and yelled, "You're a historian as I recall."

Galen nodded as the pilot cut the engine. "Thank you for meeting us, Chaplain Osborne."

"Dick. Please call me Dick. My pleasure, sir." He turned to Lynn. "Bishop, thank you for taking time to see me. It means a lot."

She smiled at him. "I understand you just returned from the base at Zagreb, Dick."

His eyes clouded. "It's tough there."

"I want to hear about it over lunch."

"Are you here on leave?" asked Galen.

"Just a brief reprieve—a Partnership for Peace meeting. As you know, the Balkans need all the help they can get."

Fumes filled Lynn's lungs as they walked on the paint-outlined path to the terminal. She glanced back at the plane.

Marsh with NATO exited the door, his Tom Hanks smile and military bearing intact. He stood at the top of the ramp, a notable figure in his crisp white uniform.

A single shot rang out.

Passengers stumbled on the ramp and fell in a heap. Lynn glimpsed a white uniform sprawled across the landing. The man it clothed angled askew down the steps. Unmoving.

It's Major Manetti!" Lynn shrieked.

"Quick!" Dick propelled her toward a Jeep parked in a reserved VIP space.

She tried to jerk free. "We have to help!"

"There could be more shooting!" Galen exclaimed.

"But it was
Marsh with NATO!"

The two men shoved her into the back and jumped in the front. Dick raced toward the exit before officials had time to close everything down.

"We don't know whether Major Manetti was shot, Lynn."

Shot.

"He probably just fell with the others, Bishop."

A siren blared. "There's the ambulance," said Dick. He swerved to get out of its way.

When they cleared the airport, Lynn leaned forward and placed her hand on the chaplain's shoulder. "Dick, I
must
get to the hospital." She spoke in her nonnegotiable tone. Rarely used, never retracted, always meaning exactly that:
nonnegotiable.
"Please wait for the ambulance and follow it."

Dick looked back at her. "Is the major a friend, Bishop?"

"A friend of . . . of a friend of mine. We talked together in Frankfurt." And, her mind screamed so loud she was afraid they'd hear, he has the President's letter!

"If he was injured, he'll get the best care possible." Dick found a place where he could pull the Jeep off.

Galen turned and put his hand gently over hers. "You've had a shock," he said soothingly. "We all have."

"A terrible way to welcome you!" said the chaplain. "I'm sorry."

They were silent until the siren wailed again. Dick placed some VIP credentials on the dash. As soon as the ambulance passed them, he thrust a whirling red light through the window onto the top of the car and floored the pedal. A skillful driver, he wove his way through the traffic right behind it. He sped through an intersection just as the light turned red. It threw Lynn's mind back in time to another speeding car, another red light. Her throat tightened. She felt light-headed. Shrank down in the seat. She felt herself falling, the familiar swirling waters sucking her under. Down into the irresponsible, irreversible, irrevocable crash three years ago.

Precious Lyndie jumps in a red Mustang with a friend. She waves goodbye as they pull away laughing. It is Sunday evening, and they head to the church for youth group. They reach the corner. A drunk driver flies through the red light. He crashes full speed against the passenger door. The machete drops. And precious Lyndie—sweet and beautiful, bright and joyful, filled with goodness and hope—never regains consciousness.

And neither did part of Lynn.

She felt Galen's strong hand on hers. She struggled within to wrench herself upward from the dark waters whirling around her, over her, drowning her. He began to chatter, so unlike himself. She hung onto his deep, soothing tone more than his words. His voice reached down, a single sunbeam in her darkness. It penetrated her mind and touched her soul, gradually strengthening her. She opened her eyes and saw his loving look upon her, knowing he had read the signs and was calling her back. Slowly surfacing, she took a deep breath and tucked Lyndie safely back in her heart.

"Are you all right, Lynn?" he asked gently.

She nodded. But she knew she would never truly be all right. And neither would he. We don't fully recover from some losses. We just try to get through the rest of our lives the best way we can.

They reached the hospital just after the ambulance. Dick parked in a reserved space. "Let's go."

He opened her door, and she walked with trepidation toward the
Krandenhaus
doors. The sun beamed down with the gift of light and beauty that denied reality's storm. She entered the hospital with a sense of foreboding. That's normal, she reminded herself. Hospitals evoke anxiety. Antiseptic smells. Hushed voices. Hurried steps. And a permeating sense of foreboding. Especially when an unknown language is spoken.

Using the authority of his chaplaincy, Dick talked with a nurse who spoke English and agreed to keep him informed.

Lynn paced. Seconds took minutes to pass.

Settle down, Lynn. There's nothing you can do right now.

She prayed fervently for Marsh to be all right. Please. Oh, please!

The nurse who'd spoken with Dick scooted back a canvas curtain hung on rings and looked at him. He stepped forward and spoke softly to her. She mumbled something and shook her head. He returned to them with heavy steps. "I'm sorry." He put a steadying arm around Lynn. "Major Manetti was dead on arrival."

Dead on arrival. The words of finality fell into time and space. Lynn barely knew him, yet she felt she'd lost an old friend. The President's letter had stayed in the shadows of her mind since Wednesday night's limo ride, waiting for release to Marsh with NATO. In the few sentences they'd spoken this morning, she'd seen his competence and sensed his integrity. No wonder President Benedict trusts him.

Trusted
him, she corrected. Major Manetti was dead. The loss gripped her heart. The last scene of him alive flashed in her mind and held like a snapshot: his wink as he brushed his fingers across his breast pocket when they stood in the aisle to deplane. The President's letter delivered! Now undelivered. She groped for light in the midnight gloom of a sky without stars.

A voice on the speaker system said words that Lynn couldn't understand, but the tone was like
Code Red! Code Red!

The nurse returned to Dick. "A bus was bombed!" She pointed beyond the door. "A block away. Can you help us? We'll tend to injuries. You tend to fear. And families.
Ja?"

"
Ja."
Dick, experienced in the MASH unit at the Zagreb base, looked at Galen. "They'll need our help carrying stretchers. It'll free the medics, Dr. Peterson."

"Doctor?" asked the nurse hopefully. "
Der Mediziner?"

Galen shook his head. "Sorry. Ph.D. in history. But strong arms."

"I'll stay in here," said Lynn, then pointed to herself and added to the nurse, "
Bischof.
Help care for the families." Galen and Dick hurried out. Lynn watched the staff move with choreographed haste. She kept her eye on the canvas curtain the nurse had scooted back. A man in scrubs rolled out a gurney at full speed. A sheet covered the body head to toe. He quickly relegated it to an out-of-the-way cubicle down the hall and hurried back to prepare space for the injured.

Medics rushed. Patients groaned. Superiors shouted orders. Unnoticed in the confusion, Lynn walked down the hall with a forced air of poise and purpose. She ducked into the cubicle and stood beside the gurney. To touch the sheet, to lift it, to uncover the face would turn this impersonal John Doe into a specific person, a new friend. She wanted to bolt.

Not an option. The bedlam beyond kept eyes on the injured and off the cubicle. But for how long? Slowly she lifted the sheet and lowered it to his shoulders. Her stomach lurched. Tears stung her eyes. She stared at the wound to Major Manetti's head. Horrified. A vibrant life violated. One minute here. The next, gone forever. Like Elie. Like Lyndie.

Get the letter, Lynn.

The medics hadn't bothered to remove his clothes. Dead on arrival. She forced herself to lower the sheet to mid-chest where she could see his pocket. The cubicle began to spin. Not real. TV scene. TV prop. Just a show. Just pretend. She kept the chant running through her mind. Not real. She watched her hand hover over the body. TV scene. A hand that belonged to someone else. TV prop. She saw it reach into the breast pocket of the uniform. Just a show. And take hold of the envelope. Just pretend. And pull it out.

But it wasn't pretend. The body was real. Major Manetti. A good Catholic. And no priest had prayed for him.

So Lynn did. She put her hand over his. His lifeless hand with a wedding band. A hand that would never move again, never salute an officer or shake another's hand, never rest around his wife's waist or on his child's head. She closed her eyes and prayed the Lord's Prayer. Then she whispered the Twenty-third Psalm.

With blinding tears she crammed the President's letter into Big-Black. She bowed her head respectfully to Marsh with NATO, re-covered him with the sheet and crept out of the cubicle on tiptoe. Head down. Heart heavy. And went down the hall to tend fears and families.

John Adams usually played golf on Sunday mornings, but not today. Anxiously he checked his watch, figured the time difference and ran his thumb across the
fleur-de-lis
in JFK's stand. He fingered the secure phone and paced around his office while waiting for Zeller's call. Mentally he reviewed their meeting in Frankfurt, satisfied. The elite marksman never failed.

He pulled Darwish's medal from his pocket. His fingers tingled as it drew him to old memories. Memories of Jerusalem. He sat down at his desk and stared at the engraved symbol. He'd recognized it when he opened Zeller's "birthday present" in the privacy of his jet. He'd known without knowing that Darwish had been a member of the Society of St. Sava. Now he held proof. He brushed his thumb across the medal and felt the weight of a dreaded portent. But he must do his duty and dispose of it properly. Honor demanded it despite the risk. Unreasonable but necessary.

The exhausting round-trip Frankfurt journey had drawn dark circles under his eyes. Meeting with Zeller. Getting Darwish's medal. Assigning the Manetti contract. This morning the
Juggler
seemed a more appropriate sobriquet than the
Patriot.
He had more balls in the air than prudent: two identities to execute, covert and overt businesses to run, the Inner Circle to influence, a President to lure into his debt. And his beloved wife and adored children to care for. He glanced at their happy picture and smiled despite his burdens.

Moving to the window, he parted the drapes and squinted into the rising sun, then looked down at the city that empowered him, a city often driven by fear and chaos. A verse from Psalm 73 came to mind: You place them on a slippery slope and drive them down into chaos. But from the ashes would rise his Holy Vision of justice. In the meantime chaos and fear wrought damage to cities and countries. But they were good for business, both illegitimate arms sales and legitimate rebuilding after the conflict. Good business meant more money. More money resulted in more power and influence to shape his version of justice.

He checked the time again, impatient for Zeller's call, envisioning the disturbance that would be caused by Manetti's termination. Potentially it could affect NATO. But his death would be a small disturbance compared to what was arranged for tomorrow afternoon. He'd had nothing to do with the bombing of the Vienna bus today, already an international news story. But its timing was fortuitous. It would increase the impact of his special surprise for the President of Austria. What better opportunity to spread the contagion of chaos than a gathering of delegates from around the world? He would be a fool not to take advantage of it.

These were times of crisis, and he was good at translating crisis into opportunity. Thus, BarLothiun's success. Rebuilding infrastructures after natural and human disasters had made him one of the wealthiest men in the country. Since he held his company privately, he didn't have to appease stockholders quarterly. His wise long-term decisions kept BarLothiun's coffers overflowing, and he didn't have to share the profits. He could lavish them on generous employee salaries and benefits. People were proud and grateful to work for BarLothiun, and he kept it that way. His beloved but polarized country seemed bent on destroying itself from the inside, and he did what he could: he gave more money away. And more money bought more influence, more power, more control. But that old truism didn't work with President Benedict. He was not sure what or who pulled her strings—if she had any. But not money. Nor him. He found himself respecting her for not being for sale but also resenting her for it. She complicated his life. He needed to gain her friendship and loyalty to ensure his power. Not for himself. Never for himself. Always for the pursuit of righteousness and the fulfillment of God's plan for justice.

The secure phone rang. He clasped it in his long, slender fingers and listened. Another success for Zeller, as expected. The ace was a stranger to failure. As he returned the phone to JFK, a frown replaced his smile. This was not a time to dance, but a time to mourn for Manetti's family and their loss of husband and father. Unfortunate but necessary. He reminded himself that he was clear of any blame. Guilt fell squarely on the shoulders of the President.

The Manetti problem was cared for, but the Peterson factor continued to nag at him despite the lack of incriminating evidence. Bishop Lynn Peterson traveled in international circles, a perfect opportunity for a presidential conduit. Was she involved?

All of these worrisome problems because of President Benedict. Vice President Parker, like former presidents, was a good friend and understood what that meant. He would be a better leader for the country. Why not target Benedict and solve all his problems?

The thought shocked him.

It scared him.

But it didn't release him.