"Since then St. Sava has aided the oppressed in all three Abrahamic faiths—Jews and Muslims as well as Christians."
"All the children of Abraham." Lynn began to wish his tale were true.
"Children that sometimes fight like jealous, malicious sibling rivals!" said Viktor.
"Like humanity," Galen commented.
"St. Sava jumps from side to side as dynamics change. For example, just as it once assisted Jews oppressed by Nazi military forces, a few decades ago it began assisting oppressed Palestinian Christians." He paused, and his eyes grew distant. "St. Sava works to transform oppressive forces and to foster reconciliation. Always behind the scenes. Always shrouded in mystery. Over the centuries St. Sava cells have scattered and are now worldwide."
Bigger is better, Lynn. Terror, terror everywhere.
"Based on the past, a future shift is predictable. Eventually St. Sava will likely assist the victimized in all world religions, not just the Abrahamic family."
"The guerillas of God," said Galen in a neutral voice.
Viktor searched his face. "The God-of-Many-Names."
Lynn felt he was inviting them to dance, viewing himself as their teacher. But she eyed his steps with skepticism. "If St. Sava is a secret society, why are you telling us all this?"
"You have put your foot in it—I think that is the American colloquialism. It is more problematic for you to make guesses about St. Sava than to know the truth."
He's seeking ambassadors, Lynn.
"There is one more thing. You mentioned guerillas of God, Galen. IMRO began with young men swearing their allegiance to it over a Bible and a gun. The members of St. Sava swear their allegiance over a Bible, nothing else. St. Sava does not engage in violence. The ancient society has concluded, from its long view of history, that change born of violence does not bring stability and security. Violence begets violence."
Galen nodded. "That's another observation I can't disagree with."
Lynn began to wonder if he was about to sign up. She recalled President Benedict's ever-present words: Start with St. Sava. How did she know about this secret organization?
Through the CIA, Lynn?
Doubtful. Will had said the CIA discounts rumors about it, considering it to be just an ancient myth. But perhaps President Benedict knew about it through the NSA. Or another secret agency buried deep in the unknown.
"You appear to be skeptical, Baby Sister."
"It's a lot to digest, Rooster." She smiled noncommittally.
"Think about Elie and the St. Sava medal so precious to him. What better recommendation could St. Sava have?"
Despite everything that had happened to spin her world backwards, she placed firm confidence in Elie's impeccable character. He would not—could not—participate in something connected with terrorism. Suddenly she realized that Viktor had called him Elie. "Are you saying you knew him?"
Silence settled heavily around them. The smell of the musty carpet drifted through the room. Bells chimed faintly in the distance. Viktor's eyes met hers, his tie picking up their copper brown. A tear threatened in the corner. He raised his brows and quickly blinked it away, regaining self-control. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. "I knew Elie well." Pain filled his voice. "I was his mentor in St. Sava."
PART IV
The Funeral
Friday, 11:13 A.M.
Sarajevo. City of the sacred and the secular. Home to Jews exiled from Spain, to Muslims and a hundred mosques, to Roman Catholics, Eastern Orthodox, Christian Protestants.
Sarajevo. City of slaughter and suspicion. Where fireworks that celebrated independence from Yugoslavia exploded into the red glare of warfare. Where Serb leader Slobodan Miloševic enflamed ethnic and religious enmity. Where people who lived together peacefully and worked together proudly on the Olympics turned enemies to one another and now lie dead together, thousands upon thousands. Where little ones struggled with lost limbs from landmines and lost sight from shrapnel and lost parents from massacres. Where rows and rows of white tombstones rise above the white snow against a gray-white sky.
Sarejevo. City of secrets and survival.
95
At 11:13 a.m. on Friday, Galen and Lynn boarded the plane to Sarajevo, their hearts heavy. Yesterday's National Day of Mourning for President Basil Dimitrovski was merely the beginning of the people's grief. The flight attendant held back tears with a forced smile. A somber silence replaced passengers' customary chitchat and laughter.
A montage of shadows edged Lynn's mind, the largest cast by Viktor. Last night's murmured words repeated in surround sound: I knew Elie well; I was his mentor in St. Sava. I knew Elie well; I was his mentor in St. Sava. The distinctive medal engraved with Elie's name convinced her that he had belonged to the ancient society, and his membership was enough to convince her that it was committed to good. But was Viktor actually part of it? Was he actually Elie's mentor? Did he actually want to get the man responsible for Elie's death? Or was he doing all of this to get the information he so desperately wanted? The questions played racquetball in her head.
A man in full military dress boarded the plane. Lynn glimpsed his array of medals with colorful ribbons and noted the dangling of his empty left sleeve. She winced. His eyes-down head-bent posture of shame said it all. Despite the symbols of courage that decorated his uniform, his self-esteem had been amputated with his arm. Another hero and victim of war.
He brought Lynn's war-zone memories to center stage. The curfews and long waits at checkpoints. The dusty convoys and soldiers in camouflage. The sounds of gunfire by day and bombers by night. Buildings scarred with bullet holes like an epidemic of chicken pox. Homes gutted like three-walled dollhouses awaiting furniture. Death certificates of family members posted on apartment house doors, lined up like marching cadets. The maimed and dying blown off the TV screen into the real world of human suffering. And everywhere, dead-eyed men and dull-eyed children trying to repress longings and recover from lies.
Yet no place else had shown Lynn so vividly the strength of the human spirit to engage in courageous normalcy while struggling for survival. Past images zoomed in from Sarajevo and Travnik, Zenica and Gorni Vakuf. An old woman knitting in the sunshine at a refugee collective, a rooster running loose in the rubble. Teenagers in the War Child Project gathering for a dance class. Two boys playing ping-pong at a table improvised from a slate slab balanced on concrete, a log subbing for a net. Refugee children playing tag on a small patch of ground free from debris, their laughter rising in counterpoint to the sounds of shelling.
As the plane flew northwest, Lynn thought about President Dimitrovski's flight two days ago and realized that he, too, had looked down on these green mountains and blue rivers before his plane veered toward Mostar. Galen is right, she thought. The globe is lesser without him. He helped keep us safe and hopeful. He showed us human goodness.
His death and the war-zone scenes embedded in her memory brought tears that spilled in rivulets down her cheeks. The threat of déjà vu crawled under her skin as she faced another Balkan peace mission. Sasha came to mind, sitting legless in a Vienna hospital, a new victim in a new Balkan war. She thought of the decorated one-armed soldier seated nearby and could not begin to imagine all the violence and grief he had experienced. She wondered which moment of chaos had stolen his arm. Comparatively he was luckier than Sasha, older and still claiming both legs. But she knew too well that comparative is irrelevant in the pain of personal loss.
Galen put his hand on hers. "To quote Julian of Norwich: 'All shall be well and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.' " A heavy sigh exposed his doubts.
And echoed hers. The manner of the day about to unfold filled her with trepidation. She closed her eyes, pulling the curtains of denial over her fear. All shall be well. Perhaps in the sanctuary of my soul, she thought, but not in the rattlesnake den awaiting my stumble.
Lynn looked out the window and watched the plane kiss a puff of cloud. The beauty below b
elied the plight of this place, broken before and breaking again. She recognized Maglic Mountain to the south, Bosnia's highest peak. Light danced with the waves of the Miljacka River. Cherry and walnut trees hugged the sky. Sweet chestnuts and willows outlined the valley in defiance of horror. Vrelo Bosne, the river that named the country, wound haughtily at will. Nature goes her way, ignoring human games.
96
His Stolac mission completed, General Thornburg placed his Huskovici papers in his portfolio and scanned the makeshift investigation space before closing the door behind him. His mind, however, was still on last night's conversion call—his conversion. The decision to place it had been one of the most difficult he'd ever made, requiring him to break the military code he valued.
Duty had required him to report the Huskovici stories about President Dimitrovski's plane crash. His dilemma was to whom. He'd automatically followed military protocol throughout his career. But Marsh's death shook his trust. The general's conscience pelted him again. He would never be able to forgive himself for giving Marsh the order to babysit a bishop—an order that became a death warrant. The nagging possibility of a setup shook him to the core. Only State and Defense had known the major was on that plane.
When a man has a duty to perform and can't trust procedure, what does he do? He'd struggled for an answer throughout yesterday afternoon and evening. His final loyalty was to the Commander-in-Chief. It always had been. Even Marsh's death did not change that. He must trust the President of the United States. A woman, God help us!
It came down to whether he was willing to risk the consequences for breaking the military chain of command. Last night at 10:03 p.m. in Stolac, 4:03 p.m. in D.C., he reached for his phone and called the White House directly. Getting through to President Benedict was the immediate challenge. This was the time for intimidation and no one could best him at it! He stood with authority and went into command voice.
Ultimately, not even professional White House staff could force him to retreat, and they finally summoned President Benedict. The general smiled and recalled Ecclesiastes—at least that's where he thought it was—"a time to weep and a time to laugh." There was also a time to cultivate villagers, and a time to intimidate staffers. The latter better suited his nature.
When the President came on the line, he had difficulty leaping the gulf between a female voice and the Commanderin-Chief. He'd never before spoken to a woman with a higher rank than his. But by the time the conversation ended, she had earned her stripes—and he'd been converted.
Now, as he reflected on the call, every word recalled verbatim, he marveled at their dialogue. Yes, dialogue. Like the kind of conversation he and Marsh often had. When he told her about the Huskovici stories, she listened without interrupting him. When he finished, she asked pertinent questions. She exhibited no incompetence. No fear of admitting unknown areas. No confusion after an explanation was given. No misrepresentation. No pretense of superiority. No pressure toward a favored point of view. He felt ashamed of his surprise.
Instead, she'd shown respect for his authority and clearly expected him to honor hers by being honest, even when they disagreed—especially when they disagreed. He felt relieved that she was unconcerned about protocol and chain of command. She actually appreciated his coming directly to her and invited him to do so at any time, a genuine invitation since she gave him her secretary's direct line.
But what stood out to him above all else was her expression of sympathy over the loss of Marsh, and her sharing that he'd been a personal friend of hers. General Thornburg had heard in her voice the same guilt he felt over that death. He began to wonder if State's specific request for the major's assistance had originally come from her. If so, he wondered how the wrong person learned about their connection and why it had led to death.
Perhaps she was in danger also. He considered the horrific thought and found no supporting evidence. It was probably born of the fact that President Dimitrovski lay dead near Huskovici. He filed the thought under post-911 paranoia, then decided to leave the drawer open.
As he boarded the plane to depart Stolac, he realized that President Benedict had led him on a journey. It had begun with "hello" from a woman-God-help-us. And had ended with "goodbye" from the kind of Commander-in-Chief he'd previously only dreamed of.
97
Hello, Mother."
"Adam! My Adam!" Rachel Darwish stared disbelieving at the figure standing in the hall outside her apartment door. Adam Ristich, her firstborn son! She reached out to touch him, fearing this was merely a morning version of her nightly dream. She put her arms around him, and he did not fade away. Real flesh enfolded her. She clung to him. "Here you are. After thirty-three years!" The younger son dead, the phantom son returned. Her tears dampened his tie.
Fearing he would escape and she might never see him again, she clasped his hand and brought him in, then closed the door without releasing him. She gestured him toward one of the two chairs in the small room and sat opposite him, ready to spring should he dart. Their knees almost touched, and he let her hold both of his hands. For an instant she tightened her grasp, reassuring herself of his presence. The warmth of joy spilled into the cold crevice created by Elias's death.
Her eyes feasted on Adam, home at last. He mirrored his father's looks so completely that it could have been Iliya sitting there. His face carried her back in time, down the path of youth when she met his father. Memory beheld a strong and handsome man, brave, well traveled, and ten years her senior. Though an Orthodox Christian from Macedonia, he was the guest of honor at a lavish party given by family friends of her faith. He'd helped them escape from the Nazis, and they'd moved to Jerusalem when the State of Israel was born. They had stayed in touch with him over the years, frequently inviting him to come for a visit. He finally accepted. Smitten immediately by him, she soon married Iliya Ristich. Now, joy filled her heart as she sat with Adam, their only child.
He silently scrutinized her. She looked into his eyes, disturbed by the hardness she found there, the one striking difference from his father. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to say what had troubled her heart for three decades. "You could not forgive me for remarrying after your father died."
Adam spoke for the first time, sharply correcting her. "Died? Was killed, you mean. On my sixteenth birthday."
"Yes," she said softly as scenes from the past tumbled together in her mind. A member of the ancient Society of St. Sava, Iliya as a young man had repeatedly risked his life to assist Jews suffering under Hitler during the Second World War, and, years later, he'd taken those same risks to assist Palestinian Christians suffering under the Israeli Zionists. His final St. Sava mission in Bethlehem cost him his life. "Irony snaps at life with shark's teeth," she said pensively.
He lowered his eyes. "So it does." Then he looked up again; a hint of a smile played at his lips. She found his abrupt changes in expression confusing. "Your second marriage was a long time ago, Mother."
That husband also lies dead, she thought, somewhere among the masses of murdered Muslims.
"It was a long time ago. I have forgiven you for that."
"But you could not forgive me for having another son."
His silence confirmed her guess.
They had been speaking in the Macedonian of his childhood, taught him by his father. In her excitement she had forgotten to use the English she'd so carefully learned, thinking it might be more comfortable for him should he ever return. She rose and proudly spoke in the language of his adopted country, "I will prepare tea, please." She smiled when she saw the surprise on his face. Holding one of his hands, she drew him with her to the tiny kitchen, partly because she loved looking at him, partly so he wouldn't disappear. "If I had known you were coming, please, I would have cooked the foods you like." Glancing at her bare shelves, she added softly, "If possible. Many foods are scarce because of this difficult conflict."
"There is always a difficult conflict in the Balkans." He spat the words. "If you
doubt me, look at history."
She was content with the silence that followed his outburst, content with his presence, with his watching her prepare their tea.
He broke the silence with a question. "Have you received anything that belonged to your second son since his death?"
She heard the forced casualness in his voice and answered in the English he'd chosen. "No."
"Will all of his things come to you?" His eyes probed into hers, as though this was his most important question.
"His things? I care nothing for them, please. I long for him."
"You have one son, Mother," he said, reverting to Macedonian. "The other is dead."
She sighed. "Your brother."
"I have no brother!"
His tone chilled her. "And no sister Milcah?"
"They are not my father's children!"
"You have never seen them."
"And I never will!"
She heard his bitterness and felt sad for him. "My Adam," she said tenderly.
They returned to their chairs, and she poured tea in his cup. Their years of separation wafted between them like the delicate scent of their tea. "My Adam," she said again. "The namesake of my father. He loved you dearly."
"And I him." His eyes softened.
"It broke his heart that you did not return home to Jerusalem after you took your father's medal to his parents in Macedonia."
"The St. Sava medal."
"You knew that's what it was?"
"Grandfather Ristich told me when I gave it to him. He showed me his own medal, identical except for the first name on the back. He told me in sworn confidence about the Society of St. Sava and urged me to join also. He hoped for three generations of family membership."
"Did you join?"
"I considered it."
"Do you know that Elias was a member?"
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