The Dead Saint (20 page)

St. Sava. Lynn had deciphered the symbol!
Aloud!
Her words sucked up the cacophony of the universe and obliterated it into deadly silence. Only the dread in President Dimitrovski's eyes spoke.

He recovered first. "You look frightened, Lynn. You needn't be." His reassuring smile failed to reassure her.

Viktor began to chuckle. "Oh, Lynn Peterson, now I see why you are a good writer. Good writers need big imaginations! St. Sava!" He chuckled again.

The President looked at his watch and stood. They rose as he did. "Thank you for coming."

With a Russian-style bow of his head, Viktor hurried away.

"We appreciate your taking care of Natalia's package," said Galen, leaving it on the coffee table.

"My pleasure."

"Thank you for a memorable morning," said Lynn. "I can't express how grateful I am. Macedonia is very fortunate to be in your hands."

"I pray so. I understand from Mihail that you leave on Friday." When she nodded, he eyed her and then Galen in the way he had of commanding complete attention. "Please trust me."

"We trust you completely," said Galen.

"Then you will do what I ask." His gracious smile remained, but his tone gave a presidential order. "Mihail will take you back to the hotel to check out." He looked at Mihail. "Is that all right?"

"Of course."

"Also, Mihail, please leave their Macedonia itinerary and cell phone numbers with Dimka." He turned back to Galen and Lynn. "Since you know Agent Nedelkovski from last night, I'll arrange for him to pick you up from your last engagement today and take you to a safe place to stay."

Why? Lynn wanted to ask but felt it wouldn't be appropriate to question him.

"You will keep your schedule. I'm not concerned about your meetings with peace committees held in churches," he said, "but when you are not with them, I prefer to err on the side of caution in looking after your safety."

Galen looked surprised. "We will be fine."

"I hope so. But many people saw the security circus last night at the airport. I am concerned that you may be linked to that symbol. And," he smiled at Lynn, "you astutely figured out what it represents. Unfortunately, I'm not the only one who heard you. Those words are best left unspoken."

Was he talking about Viktor? About the server? His secretary? Lynn chose to disregard his concern. The alternative was too frightening.

"If I were not flying out of the country this afternoon, I would invite you to stay with us." He grinned. "In our version of the Lincoln Bedroom. My wife would enjoy getting to know you."

"Perhaps Gonka and I will have an opportunity to meet another time." Calling the President's
spouse
by her first name did not stick in Lynn's throat. "I would like that."

"Before we part I have a favor to ask, Lynn." His mood shifted, and so did the atmosphere. It became heavy like the gray clouds gathering in the distance. "Would you pray for me each day?" His somber eyes turned a common request into a troubled plea.

Zechariah Zeller finished his lunch of bratwurst and beer. He took his habitual place at his window and gazed at the Vienna skyline in the high-noon sunlight. One hand held a cup of coffee, the other a cigarette. His eyes roved to the perpetual crowd of tourists below. He glanced at the Stephensturm and thought about Galen Peterson's troublesome presence. He counted up using his fingers: Manetti's flight on Sunday morning. The Stephensturm on Monday morning. And the Stephensturm again yesterday noon. Three days in a row, and yesterday he was alone and packing a camera. Zeller considered whether Peterson was a tourist snapping pictures of landmarks or a spy capturing his apartment, a zoom lens aimed at his window. Evidence mounted toward the latter. Zeller's address was known to no one, his most protected secret. He intended to keep it that way.

Peterson hadn't returned today. Apparently he'd completed his task. Zeller moved from the window and greeted
Mutter.
All the data on Peterson appeared legitimate—a necessity for a secret agent. A dull history professor interested only in the past. What a cover!

Time has told us,
Mutter.
Time has told us.

Frau
Peterson—he still refused to think of the kind-eyed woman as
Bishop
Peterson—was simply trying to serve her god while her hypocritical husband covered up his clandestine work, dragged her into danger, and probably pretended to serve her god. What god did he
really
serve? Zeller envisioned him sending her to that Hercules at the café and making her get the medal for him. Anger sneaked into the edges of his mind. The poor woman would be better off as a widow than married to Peterson. His forefinger pulled an imaginary trigger
. N
o! Anger is dangerous. Planning is necessary. He stowed away his imaginary gun. Temporarily.

He tapped into Peterson's flight itinerary. So easy. The U.S. to Vienna through Frankfurt last Sunday. Vienna to Skopje yesterday evening. Skopje to Sarajevo on Friday. Perfect. He knew Sarajevo well. Things would be smooth and simple, always important but especially so for pro bono work. With no pay, he wanted no risks. No complications. He reconsidered baiting the Patriot's interest and drawing a fee. That would not be wise. No.

As a bishop Frau Peterson would probably be adequately cared for. But that was merely a guess. He wanted her to live comfortably and would keep an eye on her situation from a distance.

Already he tingled with the excitement of the challenge. The irony pleased him. The Petersons' presence had cheated him of a well-deserved high when he shot Manetti. Now Peterson would atone. He opened the false panel and took out his gun-cleaning kit from the back of the closet shelf, the yellowed rag smelling of oil. Tenderly he removed his best friend from its hiding place. "
Freund,
we have another job Friday," he said aloud. "This one is for us."

He pulled out his last cigarette, scrunched the pack up in a ball, and lobbed it into the trash. His upper lip rose, showing his teeth in a rottweiler snarl. Live two more nights, Galen Lincoln Peterson, Ph.D.

Mihail waited in the car in front of the hotel. Lynn and Galen hurried to their room. Grabbed their stuff. Lynn jammed everything back in her suitcase. Almost everything. No time to make it all fit. She clutched a pillow. Shook the case free. Crammed the overflow into it.

Galen frowned at her.

"We'll bring it back later, Love. Want to share?"

"Thanks."

She caressed Lyndie's smiling photo on the dresser. Added it to Big-Black. Reached for the laptop. Felt silly about leaving a tangle of hair on it this morning. She started to brush it off. Gone! She stooped eye-level. Peered closely. Frantically rubbed her fingers across the top. Nothing!

When she spotted the tangle, her stomach pitched. It lay behind the laptop, where it had fallen onto the dresser when somebody opened the cover. "Galen! Someone broke in!"

"
What!"
He circled the small room looking carefully for something amiss.

Lynn felt violated. She raised the computer lid. Pushed
Power.
Opened email quickly offline. It showed a new email from Bubba, unopened.

"Nothing seems to be missing, Lynn. What makes you think someone broke in?" He noticed what she was doing. "We don't have time for email now. Mihail is waiting."

"We never have time." She opened it anyway. Scanned it. Anticipated a saner world across the pond where her friend was merely dealing with straightforward murder and cover-up:

Bishop Lynn,

I have information indicating our friend knew he was in danger. I wish he had told me. Maybe I could have prevented what happened.
I don't suppose you have had time to find his mother yet and give her the jewelry and my note.
I ate a beignet for you at Café du Monde. YooSei sends greetings. I hope you two can endure going without New Orleans food! Stay safe in the Balkans.

Bubba

"You're becoming obsessed, Lynn!"

"If so, Love, you're becoming obsessed with my obsession!" She quickly replied to Bubba:

You couldn't have prevented what happened.
Don't do that to yourself.
More later.

Galen responded to Lynn's barb with a loud
zzzippp
of his suitcase.

Not to be outdone on marital-disharmony sound-effects, she
ZZZIPPPed
her own suitcase louder, plopped Big-Black over her shoulder, and beat him out the door.

President Helena Benedict confronted the ongoing pain of Marsh's death by wandering down a mental trail of wonderings. She wondered if the Vice President read the messages before giving the envelope to Lynn Peterson. Surely not. Surely she could trust him. Besides, he didn't know who "Marsh" was or about her request to the NATO general.

She wondered if speaking to the Secretary of Defense to request protection for Bishop Peterson because of the Balkan air strike and suggesting Major Manetti for the task had been a fatal error. Surely not. The request was not suspicious because of the bishop's prominent international work, and she'd carefully justified the reason for choosing the major. Surely she could trust the Secretary of Defense. Besides, he didn't know about her covert attempt to deliver Marsh a message.

She wondered if Defense used her name when they contacted the NATO general to make the request. Surely not. But even if so the general's military background demanded respect for authority including loyalty and obedience to his Commander-in-Chief—regardless of gender. Surely she could trust the general.

The Vice President, the Secretary of Defense, the NATO general. They played repetitively in her mind like three-beat measures of a waltz growing faster and louder. Yet if her intuition was correct about the only three men involved—and she'd learned to trust her intuition—the final inconceivable source of information became conceivable: her secure phone was insecure. If the phone, then probably email also, and certainly the Oval Office. Her eyes circled the room suddenly grown cold and unfriendly. She controlled the shudder that rose from the core of her being. The traitor was far more powerful, far more knowledgeable, far more dangerous than she had suspected.

President Benedict reflected on Lynn Peterson's actions. She had shown intelligence in delivering the message to Marsh and courage in recovering it. The inexperienced courier had done well to write a cryptic email and find a way to bypass the White House correspondence staff, reaching the President's office directly. A feat meriting congratulations.

She congratulated herself also. She had done well to select Lynn Peterson. After what had happened to Marsh, she'd distanced herself from Lynn to protect her, communicating with her indirectly through Ambassador Whitcomb. Disassociating herself from a close friendship with Marsh must have been very confusing to Lynn. But she did not want another death on her hands, and she feared an electronic voyeur. She'd never intended to place either Marsh or Lynn in harm's way. Another wave of guilt splashed over her.

Defense sent her a follow-up report regarding Bishop Peterson's safety. In the wake of the major's death, she had not been delayed in Vienna as planned. But her plane had landed safely in Skopje. Defense, actually General Thornburg's staff, had checked the restricted flight plans for passenger planes Tuesday evening because of the NATO action, and had issued a revised one for Bishop Peterson's errant plane. Potential danger averted. Barely. Defense did not know how Vienna Air Traffic Control had mistakenly sent a passenger plane into a no-fly zone.

President Benedict felt a sense of urgency to act. She hurried from the Oval Office to her bedroom in the private quarters and opened the old brown trunk. She clutched the box that contained the items from the saddlebag her father had given her and rummaged through the contents for the cell phone. She could almost feel his fingers brush hers just as they had that afternoon of his last visit. His words rang through her mind. Someday you may need a totally private phone not connected to your office or your name. This one has Swiss encryption technology, its security guaranteed. It is registered to your great-grandmother Vini McGragor and has an eight-year untraceable pre-paid contract. He smiled. You will, of course, serve two terms.

"Someone may not want me in power even through the first term," she responded in a whisper. Remembering his story that day about her great-grandmother evoked her own courage and determination. "Whoever it is underestimates me!"

He'd extracted from her a promise to keep a charged battery ready for use as long as she served as President. At the time she'd found her frail old father's cloak-and-dagger protection humorously overdramatic, yet endearing. Now, she thanked him silently. She slotted in the charged battery, attached the miniature hands-free set, changed into her walking clothes and put the phone in her pocket. She tucked her hair up under a roll-brimmed straw hat, put on large Jackie Kennedy Onassis-style sunglasses, and announced she was going to talk to Lincoln. She did this early in the mornings when she wanted to think. The Secret Service had become used to it and adjusted to the caprice with respectful compliance. This idiosyncrasy served her well today—the Lincoln Memorial was not bugged. This morning Honest Abe looked out at the people under a clear dome of azure flecked with birds in flight.
Honest Abe.
She hoped that in another century or two her historical tag would be as noble. She intended to conduct herself as President in a manner that left a legacy not only of courage but also honesty and integrity, with a dash of humility.

Her hand in her pocket, she began to thumb the memorized string of numbers. She wanted to have a personal phone conversation with Lynn Peterson, and she trusted President Basil Dimitrovski to arrange it.