"Most people do," Galen replied with icy calm.
"Lynn Peterson, your husband is David and Daniel rolled into one."
A good description, she thought, admiring her hero in maroon pajamas.
"Give me the gun!" Galen's raw power introduced her to a side of him she didn't know.
A smile played at the corners of Viktor's mouth. He removed the ammunition clip and handed him the gun.
Immediately Galen stepped back beyond reach and pointed it toward the floor. "I remember what my father taught me as a boy: Every gun is loaded."
"A careful man."
"This semi-automatic, for example, retains one bullet when the magazine is removed."
Viktor looked surprised. "I underestimated you. Book knowledge or experience?"
"I don't plan to aim this gun at you, Viktor Machek. But let's be clear. If the need arises, I will." Galen spoke with authoritative calm, his fierce eyes as backup. "And I will make the single bullet count."
Lynn felt his resolve crackle in the air. A flicker in Viktor's eyes told her he did also. She knew Galen had spent a good part of his childhood target-practicing with his father. She'd seen his medals. But he hadn't handled a gun since his father died.
The two men locked eyes. Tension packed into the room like too much air in a balloon. "No one holds me captive," Viktor replied, the words measured and menacing. He eyed Galen in his own let's-be-clear statement: I don't need a gun to protect myself.
Four men with Uzis had proved that. Lynn wanted desperately to ease the tension. "Viktor," she said his name softly in a tone as calm and soothing as she could muster and then offered him a face-saving compliment, "Agent Nedelkovski told us about your brilliant capture of four men with Uzis who were wanted by the State." An image from the first True Grit came to mind: John Wayne wearing a black eye patch and holding the reins in his teeth, both guns blasting, his horse thundering toward the gunmen. Still trying to dial down the tension, she said lightly in the same gentle tone, "You're another Rooster Cogburn, Viktor."
A grin turned up the corners of his mouth, reshaping his care-worn face. "I know that movie."
She grinned back, admitting to herself that she liked Viktor.
But tonight he scared you to death, Lynn! And he may be the one who broke into your hotel room and read your email this morning.
Ivy made sense. Was uncanny Viktor playing a good-writer game with her on the plane? Was he on that plane because they were? He'd stayed close behind them in the airport security line and would have seen Natalia's stash of euros and the symbol with them. Did he also follow them to the Hotel Aleksandar? He'd managed to get himself invited to join them for coffee in President Dimitrovski's garden and had interrogated her about the symbol. That still rankled her. "I'm curious, Viktor. Why did you search our hotel room and open my computer?"
The question stunned Galen. He almost dropped the gun. For an instant Viktor was also taken aback. His eyes moved from side to side like a clock pendulum as he reran a mental scene. Recognition dawned in his eyes. He raised one eyebrow. "The bit of hair! You deliberately placed it on your computer."
She was surprised that he'd noticed the hair and even more surprised that he didn't deny the break-in.
He began to chuckle. "Rooster Cogburn meets Baby Sister!" Lynn and Galen joined him in the runaway laughter of tension release. Finally, Viktor said, "I came here to protect you."
"In a safe house?" Galen's suspicion was not subtle.
"A safe house with no security tonight."
"Agent Nedelkovski sent you."
"No." He gave Galen a searing look. "Agent Nedelkovski and his team have more important things to do than guard you in this time of national tragedy. I followed your driver here."
And you've been hiding out, spying on us since we got here, Lynn thought but didn't say.
What would you expect of Viktor the Voyeur, Lynn?
He seemed to have access to information on lots of fronts. She took a leap and shifted the conversation's focus. "I'm deeply concerned about President Dimitrovski. I don't understand how officials could find a crash site with no survivors and later simply wave the report away as a mistake."
"Mistake!" Fury distorted Viktor's face. "Almost immediately they report the crash site—the wrong one! Then just before dark—when it's too late for further searches—the report is retracted! Excuse us!" he mocked. "A minor mistake has been made. There were no bodies at the crash site after all. In fact, there was no plane!" His voice rose. "It was not a mistake but a diversion. It protected the real site from discovery this afternoon and all night tonight, allowing ample time to alter evidence!"
That wasn't the road she wanted to go down. But what else makes sense, she wondered with a shudder.
Viktor clenched his fists, barely controlling his rage. "St. Sava has obtained evidence that the President's plane was sabotaged."
84
General Thornburg, unable to sleep, looked out the dark window onto slumbering Stolac. The long night of reports from his aides left him unsettled. Awad's group had hit pay dirt in small Huskovici. And dirt, he judged, was exactly what it was.
The villagers, interviewed individually, had been eager to talk. Their alarming stories, even allowing for exaggeration, contained too many similarities to be false. At about 1600 hours they heard a loud noise coming in close over the mountains. Afraid they might be under attack, they kept their eyes on the sky. A white plane trimmed in blue and red hurtled through the clouds like a bird with a broken wing. The plane dipped into the tree line, and they couldn't see it any longer. General Thornburg saw the scene in his mind as he stared into the darkness.
The crash echoed across the mountain and the villagers wanted to help. Immediately they sent out their best five men, mountain-born and bred, to make the slow, rough climb through the storm to the site of the crash.
It was the later helicopter the villagers mentioned that drew the general's curiosity. No, his fury. They saw it fly over and land at the crash site. The five Huskovici men were close enough to hear the victims groaning. But suddenly armed Stabilisation Force (SFOR) soldiers stopped them at gunpoint and ordered them to return to the village. They said it was a matter of national security. Later the people of Huskovici heard a blast and saw a cloud of smoke above the treeline where the plane had gone down. The general remembered the exact words Awad shared from the interview report of one villager: Black smoke rose into the sky like a bad omen.
A bad omen indeed. The general looked at his watch—0200 hours. He turned down the bed covers and began the familiar process of willing himself into a state of sleep, a pre-battle discipline that had served him well in the trenches. He needed to be at his best when he rose in a few hours.
At first dawn a helicopter would take him to the location of the crash described by the five Huskovici men—a site half as far from Mostar as the false one first named. He wanted to examine the site himself. So many inconsistencies in the public reports of the "facts" pointed to pernicious incompetence or to deliberate misrepresentation. And the latter pointed to sabotage. He trusted the Huskovici men's account. Should he be greeted by some gun-happy SFOR soldiers—fake or real—let them just try to turn him away! He hadn't become General Thornburg by running from a fight.
Afterward, he would go to Huskovici and personally interview the five villagers who'd wanted to help the victims. He knew he intimidated people. Tomorrow was too important to let that happen. He needed the men to feel at ease with him, to feel free to share whatever tumbled into their minds, to feel unafraid. He thought of Marsh, who had a knack for helping people feel comfortable. What a loss! Professionally and personally. He sighed as he thought about his friend's gentle courtesy—a character trait that only a fool would confuse with weakness. He could learn from Marsh and would try to keep him in mind while interviewing the villagers.
It was not his business to interfere with official spins on the death of the president of any country except his own. "But," he mutte
red aloud in the dark, "it's my business to know the truth."
85
The first rays of dawn crept through the crack between the curtains in the bedroom window. Lynn oriented herself. Thursday. Day eight, ABC—After Becoming Courier. The calendar of her old world stopped with Tuesday, BEM—Before Elie's Murder. The great divide. She put on her blue silk robe and padded downstairs to make coffee. The aroma greeted her before she reached the kitchen. Viktor had already done it. She accepted the cup he handed her and sipped the strong brew. "Thank you, Rooster," she said genially.
He skipped the preliminaries. "You mentioned my uninvited visit to your hotel room. You deserve an explanation." His eyes met hers steadily. "You and your husband may be in danger."
That woke her up.
"Elias Darwish was trying to discover the identity of a man who calls himself the Patriot. We don't know whether he succeeded or was getting too close. We think the Patriot had him killed. It is imperative that I find the data Darwish left."
Questions swam through Lynn's mind like spawning salmon. Who is we? Why is the we concerned about someone called the Patriot? She recalled Bubba's email: I have information indicating our friend knew he was in danger.
Where did Bubba get that information? How much did he know? What if he has the data Viktor wants? When could she let him know that it might put him in danger? But she kept her face as blank as an empty canvas. Viktor was likable, but she didn't trust him.
"The Patriot may also have been connected with yesterday's sabotage of President Dimitrovski's plane."
Galen walked into the kitchen and heard the accusation. "What is the evidence?" he asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
Lynn wanted to cast her call-in vote for a wild conspiracy theory on Viktor's part. But it was just crazy enough to hold more truth than fiction.
"Let me tell you about the Patriot. You both travel the globe. Surely you've noticed an apparent increase in scattered disruptions throughout the world. Europe, South America, the Middle East, Africa, even the United States."
Galen nodded.
"These little eddies of chaos appear unrelated, but they are too well executed for all of them to be coincidences."
Lynn glanced at Galen, remembering their conversations about the same thing.
"The Patriot is present on many fronts. That indicates an access to privileged information, not just from one country but apparently worldwide. This access gives him great power."
"I don't see what this has to do with us," said Galen.
Viktor eyed Lynn. "You have connections around the world, and as a bishop you are above suspicion. A perfect conduit. And that is exactly what makes you suspicious to someone as paranoid as the Patriot."
"That's absurd! Lynn's not a conduit!"
Ouch!
"We suspect that the Patriot has hacked into President Benedict's communication channels. If so, any links he can't monitor are holes in his dike—and the Patriot is a man who plugs holes."
"Again, what does that have to do with us?" asked Galen.
Viktor looked each one of them in the eye for a long moment. Despite everything he'd said that stung Lynn to the core, she managed to hold his gaze. When he spoke, he used a matter-of-fact tone, scary to her because of its authentic ring.
"The Patriot hired me to investigate you." He looked at Lynn. "Why would he consider you a threat unless he suspected a secret connection between you and the President of the United States?"
Galen slammed down his coffee cup. "Get off it, Viktor! Lynn has no connection with President Benedict!"
Lynn regretted Galen's response. She feared his intensity might cast suspicions on himself.
Viktor ignored Galen and gave her a long look. "No connection? Having the same religious affiliation could be viewed as an important one. But whether you actually have a connection does not matter. What matters is whether the Patriot thinks you do."
What have you done, Lynn? You should never have accepted that letter in the limo.
"I investigated you as he requested. Including breaking in to the privacy of your room. I apologize for that. However, my top priority is to remain connected to the Patriot long enough to learn his identity."
Oh, sure, Lynn!
"I reported to him that you are a naïve and harmless bishop and her equally naive and harmless husband." His eyes wrinkled into a smile as he finally included Galen in his level gaze. "As I think about my gun in your hand, Galen, perhaps I made a mistake."
Lynn didn't smile. "Your report is accurate in that we try not to bring harm to anyone—to any sentient being, as the Dalai Lama would say. But we are certainly not naïve."
"My report diverted him, but I can't guarantee for how long. You will be in harm's way again. Perhaps you already are."
Galen calmly shook his head in dismissal. "The Patriot, as you call him, seems to be going to more trouble than we're worth."
"Hear me, Galen," he said forcefully, his eyes intense. "He is the most dangerous man I know. One of the things that makes him so is his belief that his noble cause justifies ignoble acts."
"He's not alone in that," said Galen.
"Our world is a very small one now. One person can do irreparable damage not just to a part of it but to all of it. If not directly, then through the ripple effects. We must stop the Patriot, and we need Elias Darwish's information to do so. Tell me about Bubba Broussard."
Caught off-guard by his sudden shift, Lynn did a double-take.
"To be frank, I looked at your email addresses and noticed his name and Darwish's. Both are Saints. Were they good friends?" He scrutinized her for a reaction.
She hid behind her well-worn bishop's mask, her mind whirling. Elie would have trusted Bubba. He was the logical link.
Galen came to her rescue. "I assume all the Saints are friends to some degree," he said casually.
"How did you get the medal, Lynn?"
"A Saint who saw one of my TV interviews learned that I was going to Sarajevo and asked me to take it to Mrs. Darwish."
"Who?" He eyed Lynn, seeking facts behind the façade. "How did he get it?"
She stared back. His invasive stare burned her courage to a stub, but she held fast. No reaction. No response.
"It's time for you to leave my wife alone, Machek," said Galen.
"Fair enough."
"You keep talking about we must stop the Patriot. Who is the we?" Galen asked.
It was Viktor's turn not to respond.
Lynn remembered President Benedict's words in the note: Start with St. Sava. I'll try to, Madam President. "You mentioned St. Sava last night. Please tell us what you were talking about."
"It's a long story. Right now we only have time for the conclusion. People have become paranoid about terrorist cells. Despite what you may be tempted to think, St. Sava is not a terrorist organization. It is an ancient secret society based on benevolence."
Right, Lynn! And the CIA stands for Compassionate Idealistic Altruism!
86
Zeller's alarm woke him to a Mozart minuet at 6:00 a.m. Still obsessed with Galen Peterson's appearances in his life, he did only two things before sitting down with Mutter: made a pot of coffee and lit a cigarette. He turned on the computer and began. Details. Always details. The Macedonian President's plane crash might disrupt airline schedules or change Peterson's itinerary. He searched BosnaAir: Skopje to Sarajevo, Friday, 11:00 a.m. Flight still scheduled. It took only a few minutes to tap into the passenger list. So easy. Two Petersons. No changes.
He glanced out the window and saw only a few thin clouds. A good day for flying. Another search provided Vienna-to-Sarajevo flights this afternoon with one at 3:01 p.m. Perfect.
A full flight. Not so perfect. He ran through the passenger list and selected an Arab name. "Terrorist Arabs!" he muttered. With little effort he broke through the firewall, deleted the name, and replaced it with his alias of the day. He printed his e-ticket. It pleased him to think of the Arab showing up with an invali
d ticket and officials viewing it as forged because their computers couldn't lie. Thanks, Mutter.
Zeller took pride in his computer expertise. He had the power to wreak havoc. Tamper with financial records, embezzle funds, spread viruses. But as a man of honor he wouldn't do that. No.
He reexamined his pistol and rifle. He had prepared them with precision. Anticipating tomorrow brought an adrenaline rush. To shoot or not to shoot. That was the question. He was totally prepared for the former. Would thoroughly consider the latter. He patted Freund tenderly, his most faithful of friends. His only friend besides Mutter, he admitted, requiring noble honesty of himself. He returned the pistol to its case and packed it and his rifle in a large navy duffle bag, worn and unnotable. Having to ship them through always worried him, but he'd never had any trouble. Sometimes he chose to discard the last half of his round-trip ticket and rent a car to return. He preferred to keep control in his own able hands.
He wondered how the few hours in Sarajevo would conclude. Once again he was about to write the final chapter in someone else's story. Unless his thread of luck knotted. Was Peterson worth the risk? No. But privacy and freedom were. He would never live his life on the run. And he would never let them take him. If necessary, his last bullet would be for himself. Again he patted Freund. The dance of death had begun.
87
Lynn heard her cell phone ring and excused herself from Galen and Viktor. Blue slippers flopping, she ran upstairs to the nightstand where she'd left it. The last voice she'd heard on a phone was President Dimitrovski's. Silenced forever. She glanced at the alarm clock. Seven. The search and rescue helicopters would soon be back at work. Dread hung around her like thick fog. "Hello."
"I don't know what time the sun rises in Macedonia, Bishop Lynn. I hope I didn't call too early."
The Dead Saint Page 22
