The Dead Saint (19 page)

The Balkan connection did not go back to sleep after the Patriot's inconsiderately early phone call. It was imperative to remain connected. For one thing he liked their agreement: assignments made by untraceable phone, payments routed through circuitous bank wires, money received as agreed. He let the voice sink into his memory. Male. Neither young nor old. Loud nor soft. Void of inflection. Strained from bass to tenor. Probably a fake French accent. A voice distinguishable only by its assertion of power and authority. God help anyone who gets in the way of the Patriot!

Last night had been productive. He'd waited unseen for the Petersons to clear security at the airport. Had his cab follow their car to the Hotel Aleksandar. Stood behind a pillar at the edge of the dimly lit lobby within earshot while they registered. Room 323.

After they pulled their luggage into the elevator, he checked the floor plan layout hanging on the wall and chose the clerk he'd observed to be the least rigid. She also happened to be the youngest and prettiest. Aiming to get the room next to theirs, he smiled warmly at her. "I have a special request if it isn't too much trouble," he said in English with a U.S. accent and a salesman's charm. "May I have room 321?"

"I am not sure that specific room is available, sir," she said in careful English.

"I hope so. That's my lucky number. I was born on
3-21,
the twenty-first day of March. I have
3
children,
2
boys and
1
girl. And I've gone from number
3
in my company to number
2.
If things go well tomorrow, I'll be number
1.
I need all the luck I can get."

She smiled at him. "Room 321 is vacant, sir. Your luck has already begun."

This morning he'd overheard the Petersons' wake-up call and listened through the wall to their conversation. The invitation to coffee didn't surprise him. President Basil Dimitrovski was good at building connections. Maybe as good as I am, he thought. He heard them leave and glanced at his watch. Timing was everything.

The Patriot expected thoroughness and would get it. He freed the lock and opened the door into their room. He scanned it quickly, noting again their limited luggage. Neither suitcase was locked. No point, as seasoned travelers knew. Luggage locks were a joke to thieves. All locks, actually. He didn't find the small box that caused such a stir last night. Disappointing.

The small laptop was on the dresser. A picture of a beautiful girl in her mid-teens rested beside it. He saw the mother-daughter resemblance and assumed the photograph was Lynn Peterson's one travel non-necessity. Probably, therefore, a necessity of the heart.

He looked at his watch again and quickly opened the laptop. A tiny tangle of dark hair fell to the dresser. She must have used this mirror when she brushed her hair. He turned on the computer and found what he'd expected—a memorized password. Busy people like conveniences. He glanced at the screen. A shortcut marked
Someday
pricked his curiosity, and he took a second to open the file. It contained few words:
Novel
and
Secrets.
In a smaller font was a question in brackets: [
Secrets do what?]
She probably didn't know much about secrets. But he did. Mentally he answered the question for her: Secrets within secrets compose and discompose my life.

Another convenient memorized password gave him access to her email. The empty
Sent
and
Deleted
files as well as a single message in the
Inbox
pointed to an efficient, organized person who handled email as it arrived and cleared it out. Or it pointed to someone with something to hide. Her? He chuckled to himself. He noted a new message from Bubba Broussard. Subject: blank. The name seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn't remember why. If it were important, he would remember, so he didn't spend time opening it. He avoided arousing suspicion of computer invasion, but he was tempted to do so as a favor—the suspicion might give her an idea for a lead sentence: Secrets are stolen. He grinned, catching his reflection in the mirror. Ah, yes. Man of many secrets and accents. Yesterday's Russian on the plane, admirer of little Russian book. Last night's businessman from the States, getting the room next to this one. Viktor Machek closed the computer.

President Dimitrovski and his guests had finished the second coffee, the
muabet kafe
of long conversation, and were beginning the
sikter kafe,
the farewell coffee. The sun had begun its farewell, too, as clouds began drifting in. He asked Lynn about her connection with President Benedict.

She swallowed hard and recovered. "I met her once when she was campaigning. You know, just a quick handshake in the crowd of people."

He looked surprised. "I am sorry to hear that. Mihail is God's special gift to my presidency."

Mihail lowered his eyes and bowed his head in genuine humility.

"He gives me fresh views uncontaminated by vested interests, is prophetic when necessary, and isn't swayed by what he thinks I want to hear. Every president needs a Mihail Martinovski!"

She smiled warmly at Mihail. "I hope our President has someone like you."

"I have met with her." President Dimitrovski's eyes crinkled into a smile. "She is one of the few world leaders who shares my appreciation of President Theodore Roosevelt's words. Again he orated the quote: " 'To announce that there must be no criticism of the President, or that we are to stand by the President, right or wrong, . . .' "

" '. . . is not only unpatriotic and servile,' " Galen joined in, "but is morally treasonable to the American public."

"Ah! We are truly brothers!" President Dimitrovski reached across the table toward Galen, who met his hand in the middle and held it in both of his, admiration filling his eyes. "I consider Roosevelt's statement to be one of borderless accuracy and boundless time."

Mihail agreed with the President. "Wedding disagreement to a lack of patriotism is a most unpatriotic marriage!"

"I am not surprised that our president also honors those words," said Lynn. "She is an excellent president who offers openness and values justice like Lincoln."

"Justice can cause problems." President Dimitrovski spoke as one who knew firsthand.

"Even so, you have always had the courage to put that word into action." Mihail also spoke as someone who knew firsthand.

"I hope she has good people around her. I wish you would befriend her, Lynn. All of us need someone we trust. President Grant understood one of the biggest problems that a president faces, which may come as a surprise. He spoke of mistakes in the selection of the assistants appointed to aid in carrying out the various duties of administering the government. Some appointees prove less than helpful. Generally benignly," his eyes flashed steel as he added, "but sometimes deliberately."

Lynn thought about President Benedict. Her note to the major showed her growing suspicions about some of the people around her.

And Major Manetti was assassinated, Lynn.

She wondered again if his death was related to the President's attempt to contact him. A scary question intruded: Where does that leave me?

President Dimitrovski's secretary, Dimka, came into the garden and spoke softly to him. He looked surprised. "Dimka tells me that you met Viktor Machek on the plane yesterday."

"He sat behind us," said Lynn. "Or someone named Viktor did. I didn't catch his last name."

He replied briefly to Dimka, and she nodded and left. "He is concerned about you," the President explained. "He saw the difficulties you were having last night and considered the situation important enough to notify my office in case you need help. In fact, he thought it was so important that he came personally. And here he is." With that, Dimka arrived with Viktor, and the server arrived with another cup of coffee.

Lynn smiled warmly at her new best friend who liked her Russian book. He smiled back.

"Come. Please sit. You obviously know Bishop Peterson and Dr. Peterson. May I present Pastor Martinovski." He gestured from Mihail to Viktor. "This is Viktor Machek."

Lynn noted the President's shift to titles in Viktor's presence. L
ynn
had sounded so much warmer. She also noticed that his last name did not have the Russian ending. It wasn't Machekov. She recognized Machek as a Croat name.

"Mr. Machek is multilingual, knowledgeable about international matters, and has been helpful to me at times," said the President. "Dr. Peterson is a highly respected historian, and Bishop Peterson's international accomplishments through the church are outstanding."

Viktor gave a respectful Russian bow to Lynn. "She is also an excellent writer."

Vanity would not allow her to lower her eyes in humility like Mihail. She loved the compliment, especially in front of the President. Vanity blocked for an instant the blatant difference in his language. His broken English had disappeared overnight. Unwelcome second thoughts emerged about her new best friend.

As though reading her mind, Viktor said, "My grasp of English is probably a surprise. I apologize for deceiving you. To speak English fluently can complicate life in the Balkans."

Neither affirming nor negating his statement, President Dimitrovski moved on. "I am curious about the package that caused so much trouble last night."

"We brought it." Lynn retrieved the box. "Galen was afraid to leave the money in our room."

He picked it up and read the inscription in blue ink: "To Father Nish from Natalia."

"That's my writing," said Galen. "We are going to get it to him when we go to Sarajevo. If we can find him," he added.

"Consider it done. I'll see that it is delivered and save you more problems." The President opened the box. He merely glanced at the pink euros but picked up the blue piece of paper, scrutinizing it.

Lynn saw the flicker of recognition in Viktor's eyes. "What does it mean?" she asked.

"Do you know anything about this sketch?" asked the President.

Galen shrugged. "Nothing at all."

Lynn debated how much to volunteer.

The President turned to her. "Bishop Peterson?"

She chose honesty. He deserved it.

When did you reduce honesty to a choice, Lynn?

She hushed Ivy. "I've seen that symbol three times." She noted Galen's surprise.

"Three times?" Viktor failed in his effort to sound casual.

"First in New Orleans on a friend's medal," she replied.

"It was on Elias's medal?" Galen was stunned.

"Who?" asked the President.

"Elias Darwish," Galen replied. "A kicker for the New Orleans Saints football team."

"From Sarajevo," Lynn added.

"I remember now. CNN International reported his murder last week." His dark eyes lasered into hers. He sat tall, his very presence presidential. "You are
sure
this symbol was on his medal?"

She felt intimidated. "Yes, Mr. President."

"I am sorry. Please forgive my brusqueness." He visibly relaxed his posture and took a sip of coffee, allowing time and his amiable smile to ease the tension.

Viktor asked cordially, "When did you see Elias Darwish's medal, Bishop Peterson?"

She decided not to involve Bubba. "After he was shot. I planned to bring it to his mother in Sarajevo."

"I have to go to Sarajevo," Viktor said. "I can take it to her."

Did her new best friend seem a little too interested in the medal? No, she decided. He was just being nice.

"The war would make the task very difficult for you," he continued. "Perhaps impossible."

"Definitely impossible," she replied. "It was stolen."

"When was the second time you saw the symbol?" asked the President.

"In Vienna. A Russian soldier in the hospital there has one." Galen's eyes questioned her, and she explained. "I saw it while you and Dick were helping the injured from the bus bomb. It was on the back of his cross, Mr. President," she continued. "He dropped it on the floor, and he couldn't pick it up because . . ." The image of the young paraplegic sitting on the bed struck her full force again. She blinked back tears. "He lost both legs. And he's so young. Only a boy, really."

The President shut his eyes for a moment, then spoke with quiet despair. "War is declared by old men in safe places who send the young to be killed and maimed. I pray that at the end of my term I may repeat the words of President Eisenhower, that my country 'never lost a soldier or a foot of ground in my administration. We kept the peace.' "

"I have a dream for the world," said Lynn softly, somewhat shyly. "That someday we'll view coercion as impoverished imagination, and we'll begin to put as much energy and resources into discovering creative solutions as we now put into forced ones."

"Your dream honors the young wounded from all nations. Don't let it die." The President glanced again at the sketch. "And last night was your third time to see this symbol?" When she nodded, he said lightly, "You seem to attract it."

"What does it mean?" she asked again. In the ensuing silence tension thickened like a Louisiana fog. She stared down at the symbol that had come into her life through Elie and Natalia from Sarajevo and Sasha from Russia. Suddenly the two crescents leapt up from the paper. One above the other. Slightly overlapping. She
saw
it! Not crescents! Cyrillic letters! The letter
C
for the
S
sound!
CC!
Start with St. Sava.

"
St. Sava!"
she exclaimed.

After the midnight call to his Balkan connection, the Patriot relaxed. Viktor Machek would do a good job in Skopje. He decided to remain in his office suite and sleep on the comfortable Murphy bed in the library. When not in use, the bed sprang into vertical position and hid in a large mahogany cabinet with double doors. Bookshelves lined the wall on both sides, and the cozy room smelled of lemon oil and leather-bound books. His beloved family understood that his work occasionally demanded an all-nighter. Actually, he rather liked the solitude here. He could let down the guard that his dual life necessitated.

The sun was not up yet, but he sat at his desk and pondered the President's lack of due respect and appreciation of him. She was like an agitating allergy to him. A self-defeating response, he realized. The pragmatism of wisdom called him to be cognizant of her strengths as well as her weaknesses. They shared in common the uncommon traits of superior intelligence, charismatic persuasiveness, and to-the-death commitment. She was alarmingly astute and a quick learner. She was a master at keeping the trust of the American people—as though her own trust in them evoked their trust in her. Despite the mud-slinging politicos and deans of deceptive language, her approval ratings continued to climb.

Resentment roiled inside him over the presidency. He stood superior to anyone who'd run in recent decades. This great democracy had his absolute loyalty, his total allegiance. He could be the greatest president in American history. That, however, would never be. A
woman
could be President of the United States, but the Constitution denied
him
the opportunity! He was an adopted son, not a natural-born citizen. He had an impulse to spit on the flag by his desk. Immediately ashamed, he stood, put his hand over his heart and repledged his allegiance. With liberty and justice for all. Yes, justice! The most beautiful word in any language. A wonderful word of Life.

Life. He thought of Elias Darwish. The Patriot unlocked his desk drawer and took out the silver box. The desk lamp caught it, and the silver reflected back the light. With a deep sigh he slowly removed the lid and lifted the medal to his palm. The amazonite gleamed in the lamplight. Darwish had been killed a week ago today. He had delayed long enough. It was time to do his duty. Unpalatable but necessary.