"Sounds good to me," said Bubba. "I left New Orleans a long time ago."
Galen and Bubba talked to the jovial driver on the way to the café, but Lynn paid little attention. She was more interested in President Benedict's few words on the phone. She felt relief, freed from guesses—the President had indeed written the message for Marsh and the Vice President could be trusted. Lynn didn't have time this afternoon, as usual, to tell Galen the whole story. But she would tonight. Her heaviness lightened as she anticipated release. The Vice President's voice echoed from the limo: Totally confidential. Sorry, sir, but it's time to bring Galen inside that wall. Way past time.
The driver stopped in front of a charming sidewalk café with blue and green plaid tablecloths and matching chair cushions. It was not a fancy place, but the aroma erased any doubt about good food. Nature's thermostat was set perfectly for eating outdoors. The driver introduced them to the owner. "He does not speak English. Trust him to decide for you. He will serve you well."
"Thank you," said Lynn to both of them.
"Enjoy your lunch. I will come back and take you to your hotel."
As he pulled away, Galen grinned. "Our driver didn't want to risk losing us—or at least our tip."
The café radio, tuned to RTVBH, was playing the old recording of "Miss Sarajevo" sung by Luciano Pavarotti and a local group for a war benefit. The last line always chilled Lynn, knowing that it dealt with war: "And the night is set to freeze." A copy of the popular Sarajevo daily newspaper Oslobodjenje, meaning "liberation," had been left on the table. They couldn't read it, but the war pictures didn't need words. The people around them spoke Bosanski and wore the shallow smiles of war, giving each other hopeless hope, knowing from experience something humanity has always known by instinct: if hope is forgotten, a bit more human goodness dies and all is truly hopeless.
"You look deep in thought, Bishop Lynn," said Bubba. "Are you OK?"
A sigh rose from the depths of her soul. "The phrase religious war is an oxymoron of the unreligious. The faithful mourn war as a contradiction of faith."
"Not always," corrected Galen. "I gave an address on Bonhoeffer's criteria for discernment. There are just wars."
"Not nearly as many as national leaders claim," Bubba countered with a heaviness contrary to his usual good nature.
Galen paused a thoughtful moment. "Unfortunately, that's true."
"Because the Bush administration chose to invade Iraq, my best friend from college is a paraplegic and my cousin is numbered among the thousands of Americans killed. Our soldiers deserve leaders who don't use the word threat for a sneak play." He paused, and when he spoke again an uncustomary cynicism edged his words. "But they're expendable, generally 'just' minorities and the poor—rarely the sons and daughters of those who run the country. It's OK to put them in harm's way."
"You are right," agreed a man at the next table, surprising them that he spoke English. He nodded respectfully to Bubba. "Leaders of nations decide to go to war. But it is the young soldiers in the nations who do the going and the dying and the living without limbs. This is true in all nations."
Bubba's chagrined expression said he hadn't expected to be understood by someone outside the U.S. For Louisianans, the Eleventh Commandment forbids talking bad about the family—immediate or national—to anyone outside that family.
"Is this your first time here?" the man asked.
Bubba nodded.
"If you drive to the Appel Quay, you will see where Archduke Ferdinand was shot. That shot started the First World War. Was that war just?" He shrugged. "The answer depends upon your view. That is the problem with war. But the result of war is clear. You can see it by looking across the street." He pointed to the BiH Center for the Blind, a War Child Project.
At that moment their Balkan Peace Mission took on life for Lynn. She would give it her very best, nothing held back.
The owner chose well from his war-limited menu. They tasted food they didn't know how to pronounce and enjoyed every bite. The driver was right—the food was delicious and they were not overcharged. He returned as promised and reloaded their roll-aboards. As he pulled away from the café, Lynn noticed a small black car parked up the street. Someone in sunglasses sat behind the wheel. She thought of the man on the streetcar—and remembered she knew his name. Zechariah Zeller.
Every stranger in sunglasses reminds you of him, Lynn.
103
John Adams drove away from the Sarajevo airport in a nondescript gray rental car. He would not—could not—go back to his mother's apartment. Returning here was a mistake. It made him feel like Adam Ristich again. He shook free of that persona buried long ago. One certainty in his life was that he wanted nothing to do with his past. The simple clunk of his teacup against her table, so different from the clink of a fine china cup against a saucer, had sent that certainty throbbing through his veins. He could not—would not—go back to clunks. They symbolized poverty and powerlessness.
Maintaining power was tricky. Perception played a primary role. The public empowered a man they perceived as powerful—generally based on charisma, wealth, authority, or the damaging information he possessed. But when the fickle public perceived a man's power to be waning, they cast him aside and soon forgot him. He had not clawed his way to power and prestige merely to be cast aside and forgotten at the whim of the POTUS. How he resented her capacity to affect others' perception of his power! Never again would he wade through the crumpled wrappings of those born to privilege! That would play into a system of injustice and defy his righteous calling. From deep inside came a whisper of fear that it might also compel him to replace clinks with clunks.
He thought about his grandfather Adam who had loved him with all his heart. The memory drew him to a synagogue. He wanted a quiet place to reflect on the scene with his mother. Being in her small apartment had troubled him. Sensing that she could see beyond his facade had troubled him. Giving her Elias's medal had troubled him. Leaving his business card had troubled him. He had planned to find out subtly if his mother had Darwish's information about him, do his duty by giving her the medal, and be on his way unscathed. The cursed medal had driven him to return and now could destroy him. Even in death Elias Darwish held power over him.
As he found a place to park in front of the synagogue, his thoughts turned to the Petersons. He had watched them at the airport, recognizing the bishop from the pictures in the file Lone Star had prepared for him. When he saw her answer her cell, he'd taken a logical leap. It all fit. One, Radmila had said that President Benedict had arranged a phone appointment today with President Dimitrovski that included Bishop Peterson. His death had changed the venue. Two, the time was right for President Benedict to be taking a morning walk at the Lincoln Memorial, probably with her cell phone. Three, Lynn Peterson seemed to be expecting a call and appeared somewhat anxious about it—looking at her watch frequently, holding the phone in her hand. Four, her endeavor to cover being awestricken when she answered—a typical reaction of the common person to hearing the voice of the President of the United States. And five, her concentration and then sudden relaxed manner when she started using the name Fay, probably speaking into a disconnected phone. A secure call to Lone Star had confirmed his suspicions: at seven this morning his elite was sure he'd seen President Benedict's lips move during her walk—one o'clock in Sarajevo, exactly when Lynn Peterson answered her cell. He had no proof. It galled him that he still had no access to the phone the President used. But he had Lone Star and he had instinct. His logic held, and he found Lynn Peterson as guilty as Manetti, and gave her the same sentence. The Patriot commended himself for his foresight in summoning Fillmore to Sarajevo. Grievous but necessary.
At the airport, when he'd stepped around the corner to call Fillmore as planned and state the directive, he'd immensely enjoyed duping him. The arrogant man had assumed he was speaking to someone far away instead of his reactions being visible. The instructions were twofold: First, he told him to call back when
he chose the site for termination. Second, he named the target, Lynn Peterson, and told him she was at the Sarajevo airport at that moment and therefore easy to follow.
But it wasn't easy to order termination. He reminded himself that the bishop was responsible for this directive, not himself. By becoming a conduit for the President, she was writing graffiti on the canvas that painted his dream for justice. God-ordained justice! Zero tolerance!
104
Do you have other places to go today?" the jovial taxi driver asked while driving the New Orleans trio to their hotel.
"After we check in, we want to go here," said Bubba. He handed him Mrs. Darwish's name and address.
The driver looked at it carefully and nodded. "I can wait for you at the hotel and then take you there," he offered with a helpful smile. They appreciatively agreed. While he waited, the trio checked in and found their rooms.
Bubba cleaned up after his long flight. Galen changed his shirt to a blue button-down and gave his black shoes a quick buff. Lynn removed Bubba's five hundred dollars from her waist wallet and put the money in the note he had written. It pleased her that he could personally give it to Mrs. Darwish. The medal's absence faded her pleasure. More than that—it made her heart hurt.
They met in the lobby and climbed back into the taxi. Lynn noticed that the driver seemed distracted as they drove to Mrs. Darwish's apartment. He was less jovial. Perhaps they had kept him waiting too long. She knew Galen's tip would make up for that inconvenience. The driver's tension grew as they drew closer. He rubbed his palm across the nape of his neck repeatedly like a nervous tic. Not only had he lost his friendly chuckle, he'd become mute. When they reached Mrs. Darwish's street, he seemed jumpy. She glanced at his face, visible in the rearview mirror. He looked strained and stared straight down the road, frowning. His tension evoked her sense of wariness.
They stopped in front of the apartment building, and Galen paid him. "Can you return to take us back to the hotel?"
He shook his head no and looked at the generous tip without a smile. "Too much."
Galen insisted. "You have been very helpful."
He glanced up, not quite meeting Galen's eyes. "Be careful, sir." His tone sounded more like a warning than a friendly parting.
Things are not always what they appear to be. President Dimitrovski's words to her in his last phone call rang so clearly in her ears that she jumped, half expecting to see him nearby. She could not disregard the impact, like an omen. She reminded herself that she wasn't superstitious and banished it as a figment of her overactive imagination. Yet as she walked down the cracked sidewalk, she scanned her surroundings—the walls and shrubbery, the apartment buildings, the old bullet-riddled museum across the street that was just one more war-damaged structure closed to the public. She knew that assumptions and expectations limit observations, like missing a moon in the morning sky. What am I not seeing? she wondered. What am I seeing that isn't really here? Caution seized her as she moved along toward the green door of Mrs. Darwish's apartment building.
105
Frank Fillmore stood across the street in the second-story window of a museum still closed due to damage from the last war. He saw the taxi arrive in front of the apartment building and watched the passengers get out. He considered padding his expenses for bribing the driver, who'd earned every euro—maneuvering to pick them up, continuing to drive them, keeping him updated, and giving him the address of their afternoon destination. The advance warning gave him time to get here, locate the Darwish apartment windows, and find the best site for execution. It did not, however, allow adequate time to prepare. Successful execution required perfection. His vantage point offered him a telescopic view of the apartment window below as well as the green doorway that provided the entry/exit to the building. He watched the target walk with a self-assured air toward the green door and safely through it. Coming out would be another matter.
He'd called the Patriot as requested to notify him of the site of execution. There had been a momentary silence followed by three words: No collateral damage. Generally, the Patriot cared about success and footnoted the rest. Fillmore felt choked by the leash. He'd expected to be in South America by now, spending the bundle he'd made on the bomb deal. Remaining in the vicinity of a presidential assassination verged on suicide! He should be tucked safely away on another hemisphere in a hacienda well stocked with senoritas. Not here kowtowing to the Patriot, he thought. Frank Fillmore doesn't kowtow!
As he waited for the moment to take out the target, he reflected again on the sabotage of President Dimitrovski's plane. It should have gone down in a dive, killing them all on impact. Instead, the remarkably skilled pilot had almost made it to Mostar. He found himself wishing he had. He admired the pilot. And if the passengers were injured but alive, let them live! He had his pay. That's what mattered. He was willing to kill the President. That was his job. But he respected the man far more than the radical opposition who'd contracted him. He resented their hasty, ill-conceived follow-up plan. It was too sloppy. Too risky. It involved too many people. Besides, he'd always felt that if a target survived, fate was involved—he was too good at his job.
He'd been involved in toppling government leaders before, but not anyone like President Dimitrovski. He'd done more for peace than anyone else in Europe. Or Asia, for that matter. But peace itself was an enemy of radicals on both the left and the right. They couldn't fire up their base without an enemy to hate. And hate put lucrative contracts in the hands of operatives like himself. Conscience was a failing.
He stood at the window, alert, poised for his task. But his vision blurred, and a white and blue plane with a Macedonian coat-of-arms shattered across his mind. He shook off the image and looked through his scope into Mrs. Darwish's apartment window.
106
Zeller's habitual patience wore thin as he followed the taxi. But he liked turning the tables on Peterson, stalking the stalker. He'd waited for the trio, first near a café and then near a hotel, glad it was a clear day and easy to keep their taxi in view from a safe distance. When they came out of the hotel and climbed back in, he took up the game again. The taxi stopped at an apartment building and let them out. Zeller drove on, turning right at the corner. He was ready for action, and the weather was perfect—plenty of sunlight and no wind. This neighborhood offered a strategic setting with few people on the streets. The windows had eyes, but their owners wouldn't talk. No. They were afraid to get involved. Besides, they were accustomed to gunfire and death. War helped aces. It desensitized people to violence.
He parallel parked skillfully in a too-small space. Casually, he carried his navy duffle bag down the street, just a harmless Austrian nephew from rural Tirol looking for his dear old aunt's address—should anyone ask. As he approached the intersection where he'd turned off to park the car, he noticed that a museum stood directly across from the apartment building. He ambled to the corner, scanning the museum for advantages and flaws. It looked vacant and rundown, pocked with old shellings from the last war. A good place to do business. The second story would be perfect. He searched for the best window. Wait! He caught a glint in an open one. He bent down and retied one of his running shoes to check it out. His opaque sunglasses hid his focus. Again, the sunlight glinted on metal. He got a nanosecond's glimpse of a furtive figure. Interesting. The window did indeed have eyes.
The museum would not do. No. Behind his sunglasses he scanned both sides of the street for a place with simple access and effortless escape. He decided the situation called for a triangle: himself and the other two points of interest—the apartment house door and the second-story museum window, both within range. He spotted an ideal building closed for repairs. No trees blocked his view. He rose from tying his shoe and moseyed down the street. So easy.
After snapping the cheap lock with a single blow that made a dull thud, he took the dank, scuffed stairs to the room with the best view of the other two points in the triangle. He popped his flash drive into his lapto
p and pulled up the Sarajevo research he'd downloaded in Vienna. A search for the apartment building revealed the list of tenants at that address. One was a woman named Rachel Darwish! Peterson was not innocent! No! He had just connected another Zeller dot—his final and fatal mistake!
Zechariah Zeller had no regard for a man who flaunted faith without practicing it. But Peterson was a new breed of pretender. He'd mastered the role of trailing dutifully and innocently after his wife while harboring unsuspected lethal plans of his own. Zeller had some ideas about the place of religion, and they did not include a higher power interested in his well-being. My own power, he thought smugly, is as good as it gets. Immediately he tempered his attitude. Confidence was a good thing; it freed his body, mind, and psyche for the task. But overconfidence was like a light that blinded. It could result in carelessness to details. Besides, he did not want to tempt any god that might exist to go against him.
He assembled his rifle and, curious about the glint he'd seen in the window, he looked toward it through his scope. Startled, he discovered a sniper rifle resting on a bipod, aimed toward the apartment building. Another shooter on the scene! Interesting. Probably fulfilling a contract. Who's the contractor? Who's the target?
As he continued his detailed preparations, he considered a silencer. He'd used one for Darwish and an altered one for Manetti. Today he dispensed with a silencer. He wanted the noise to throw people into panic and keep them hiding behind their blinds, assisting in an unseen escape. His excitement mounted like electricity building into a lightning bolt. He no longer minded that this was pro bono. The challenge itself was the reward.
Say your prayers and confess your sins, Galen Peterson. You are about to meet the god you've been pretending to know.
The Dead Saint Page 27
