He keyed in the code on his phone. All he said was, "I know the location of the highly sought information and will have it in hand late this afternoon." He punched End. Directions would be forthcoming.
110
Frank Fillmore looked at his Rolex, growing weary of the incongruence of boredom and steeled nerves. The slow minutes passed like a watch with a dying battery. Surely the target would finish her business and come out of the apartment building soon. The longer he waited, the more irritated he became with the Patriot for the directive. Though he was a crack shot, this kind of assignment demanded complete patience during idle hours of hidden observation and forced alertness—for a millisecond of action. He preferred bombs—the sound of the blast and the sight of the smoke rolling into the sky and lingering there, a celebration of damage and power.
Using his scope he watched the foursome through the apartment window: the target, her husband, their bald bodybuilder friend, and the elderly woman. Then another person appeared. Surprised, he recognized the Russian who'd talked to Lynn Peterson on Tuesday's Vienna-to-Skopje flight. Maybe the Patriot was on to something. Maybe the target was more involved in clandestine matters than she seemed. Later the Russian exited the room, leaving a foursome again.
Finally the target stood and put her hand over Mrs. Darwish's. The two men rose. Exit behavior at last.
"Come on," he whispered. "Come on!" He rubbed his hand across the black stock and down the metal barrel of his military issue high-powered sniper rifle resting on the bipod. No collateral damage, he reminded himself.
He put his eye carefully to the scope. With full attention and nerves of steel he aimed the crosshairs at the green door the three would use to exit the apartment building. He estimated the target's height and imagined a bull's eye on her forehead. One bullet. Nice and tidy. Fillmore stood at maximum alert, calm and ready, perfectly aimed, totally focused. He would not move again until the lovely—and soon to be the late—Lynn Peterson walked through the green door.
111
Lynn bent and took Mrs. Darwish's hand. "Would you like for us to pray together before I leave?" She asked the question in a neutral tone, wanting to offer if it would be meaningful but not force something that would be an intrusive obligation.
Mrs. Darwish's eyes lit up. "Yes, please."
Lynn bowed her head. The others followed. "Creator of the World, we give you thanks for the gift of Elias's life. God of Grace, we pray for Mrs. Darwish. Give her strength and comfort for her painful journey of grief. God of Love, draw her into your healing arms and hold her close." She placed her right hand on Mrs. Darwish's head. "I bless you in the Holy Name of God. Amen."
Tears glistened in Elie's mother's eyes. She rose to accompany them to the door and seemed to walk a little lighter.
They said their goodbyes, Bubba and Galen going ahead down the corridor to the building's exit. Lynn felt sad to leave, and she lingered at the apartment door. Mrs. Darwish was someone she would like to know deeply but would probably never see again. She wondered if the courageous woman felt the same, because she joined Lynn and walked beside her down the corridor, both of them dawdling. When they reached the door that led outside, Lynn opened it and was tempted again to ask how Adam had gotten Elie's medal. But she didn't. It felt inappropriate. Instead, she complimented the beautiful yellow flowers, bringing a smile to the older woman's thin face, wrinkled by time and pain. Mrs. Darwish stepped onto the threshold with her.
Things are not always what they appear to be. Those words again. A sense of unease dropped over Lynn. They hugged each other for the final time, a prolonged hug that connects two people as friends for a lifetime. Lynn watched Elie's mother reenter her apartment building and close the green door.
112
Infinitely patient, Zeller had amused himself by alternating his focus between the green door of the apartment building and the museum window. The other shooter leaned forward, and he caught him in his scope. Well, well, well. Herr Invisible from the airport—not invisible after all. No.
If Herr Invisible's target was Broussard, good riddance. If it was Peterson, he'd give him an advance chance to shoot. He had enough notches in his own belt.
Zeller shifted his rifle from the shooter in the museum back to the green door. Finally, it opened. He focused his full concentration on Freund. Scope, target, trigger finger merged into one. Broussard came out first and stepped down from the threshold, a perfect target beside the yellow flowers. Zeller waited. He listened for a silenced shot. Watched for Broussard to fall. Nothing!
He shifted his scope for a nanosecond. The other sniper rifle held steady in its bipod. Zeller shifted again and aimed toward the green door. After Broussard came Peterson. Another perfect target framed by the door. He reminded himself to be patient, to let the other sniper have the first shot at Peterson. Silence.
Zeller held the crosshairs on Peterson's forehead. What was the second shooter waiting for? The trigger burned against his finger. He started to ease it back. The other shooter's delay interrupted his concentration. His peripheral vision caught the glint again. Steady, unmoving, waiting. Why? Both men were open targets.
Just then Frau Peterson came out. Oh my god! Zeller shifted his rifle and glanced through his scope. The shooter aimed at her! Innocent Frau Peterson! A woman! He watched her hug the elderly woman, the two entwined.
Get Peterson, he reminded himself. Kill the stalker. The older woman stepped back into the building and shut the door. Zeller wavered, then hit his target.
113
Viktor heard the shot. He grabbed his pistol and sprinted through the apartment door into the corridor. Mother Darwish started to reopen the front door. "No!" he shouted. "Get back in your apartment! Stay away from the windows!"
"But our friends . . ."
"I'll take care of it." He jerked open the door. Hid behind it as a shield. Peeked out. Galen lay face down on the ground, his wife beneath him.
Viktor mentally replayed what he'd heard. No shattered glass. No ricocheting bullet. He scanned the scene. Eyed the museum. There! An open window on the second floor. He darted across the street. Broke through the door. Raced up the rickety stairs. Stumbled on a jagged step. Almost toppled backward. Regained his balance. Reached the second floor. Recalled the windows. Guessed the distance to the right door. Moved catlike toward it. Pistol ready. Paused behind the door a moment. Listened. Caught his breath. Heard nothing.
Slowly, silently, he began to turn the knob.
Locked! He listened again. Silence. He levered himself away from the wall. Rammed his shoulder full force against the door. The lock held. The hinges groaned. He jumped back to the side against the wall. Waited. Silence.
He rammed the door on the hinged side. It splintered open. Again he leaped back against the wall. Again nothing stirred.
He held his pistol steady with both hands. Entered. Ready to fire. His eyes swept the dilapidated room. Empty.
Except for the corpse on the floor.
114
Lynn heard the shot. Galen threw her to the ground. Covered her. Didn't move. For a horrible instant she thought he was dead. Felt him breathe. Please don't let a bullet hit him! She lay immobilized. Terrified. Galen's arms blocked the light. His body barred the bullets. She tasted fear. The moment held in a photograph. Silence. Like the time between lightning and thunder.
Then came footsteps. Heavy feet in a zigzag sprint toward the sound of the shot. Bubba! "No!" she tried to shout. Galen's arm muffled her voice.
A door slammed. More steps. Shoes clicked on the street, running in the opposite direction from Bubba. Viktor?
She wanted to run away too. The single shot echoed the horror of Elie and Major Manetti. Déjà vu emotions resurfaced. Galen kept her covered, held her down. A scream rose in her throat. She summoned all of her willpower to swallow it back into the darkness.
115
Immediately after pulling the trigger to terminate Herr Invisible, Zeller returned his aim to Peterson and caugh
t him in the scope, crosshairs once more on the mark. But Peterson lurched, hurled his wife to the ground, and covered her as a human shield. If he pulled the trigger now, the lethal shot might go through his own target into her. Shooting Herr Invisible to save Frau Peterson gained nothing if his own bullet killed her. She was fortunate that he was here today. Changing targets so abruptly to save her would cause a lesser ace to miss.
He aimed at the back of Peterson's head. Move! His trigger finger itched. But Peterson remained as a shield. A man of courage and honor, he admitted, chipping at the ice around his heart. He cleared his head. He must not allow positive thoughts about a target! No. He held his aim on Peterson. Steady!
Broussard jumped up, sprinting toward him! Not running away! The Saint zigzagged incredibly fast. In a few seconds it would be too late to shoot. Too risky. It would give Broussard his exact location. Shoot him first? Then Peterson? Broussard's courage to head into the line of fire infuriated him—but courage was not grounds for termination. No. It would be unworthy of world-class marksmanship.
Peterson's head shifted slightly, but he stayed glued to his wife. Zeller readjusted the crosshairs. Now or never.
No! He could not risk the bullet penetrating Frau Peterson. And the irritating Saint was too close. Not now but maybe not never either. Zeller lowered his rifle. "Time to go, Freund." It crossed his mind that the bishop's god watched over her husband as well as her. I'm getting superstitious!
With rapid, expert movements he wiped away all traces of his presence, his exit ritual as important as hitting the target. He thought about the way Herr Invisible had waited for the instant Frau Peterson appeared, held his aim on her, avoided the risk of hitting the older woman. And his own sudden clarity that Frau Peterson was the target. No! His reaction to save her had been an involuntary response from his subconscious—her face had blurred into his dear mother's face.
An honorable choice. But a costly one: it cost him the stalker. The target had saved his own life by protecting his wife.
Time to go! Zeller quickly completed his exit ritual and let himself out a door. Unseen. Unheard. Unsnared. His skill at leaving no clues equaled his aim. So easy.
116
Viktor moved cautiously toward the corpse, slowly pivoting in a full circle, reading the story the room could tell him. He'd expected to find the victim of the shooting—hopefully alive so he could help. But he sprawled beside the window. Viktor looked out and faced Mother Darwish's apartment building. The U.S. military issue sniper rifle had slammed to the floor, bipod attached.
He knelt close to the body. A single shot through the head. He recognized Frank Fillmore. Who had shot this man? Give him a medal! But now no one could interrogate him about President Dimitrovski's plane and who Fillmore was working for. He would have liked a crack in the interrogation room himself. Torture and drugs weren't his style, but he didn't mind fostering exhaustion that impeded controlling the tongue.
He looked out the window, seeing what Fillmore saw. The target was in the apartment building. Who? Why? And Fillmore was someone else's target. The same questions echoed. Who? Why? The obvious answer was that Fillmore could link his controller to Dimitrovski's death. But the obvious answers could screen the truth. Violent death was too complicated for simplicity.
The room offered him only one significant fact. Hitting Fillmore with perfect aim from the distance of the sound of the shot proved that the sniper was world-class—perhaps in a class by himself. Zechariah Zeller!
Fillmore's pockets were more generous. Using his handkerchief to avoid fingerprints, he found an address handwritten on a crumpled piece of yellow paper. He stiffened as he recognized Mother Darwish's apartment number. He eliminated her as the target. Himself? Perhaps. One of the Petersons? He'd noticed Fillmore talking to Galen on the plane to Skopje. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not. Broussard was also a possible target. He wondered if someone else knew Broussard had Elie's information. But shooting him before getting the data made no sense. He was anxious to get Elie's valued information this afternoon. To decode it. To trace the web Elie had discovered. He was equally anxious to get a response to the call he'd made a few moments before the shot.
Viktor focused again on Fillmore, looking for details that told him the story. He believed utterly in connections, but this time they baffled him. He looked at the words Fillmore had scribbled beneath the address: No collateral damage. He could have remembered that. So why did he write it down? Emphasis? Frustration? I'll never know, thought Viktor. He pocketed the note because it revealed Mother Darwish's address. She didn't need to be bothered by the police. Especially not in her time of grief.
The dead man's pockets also yielded a cell phone. It could reveal secrets that even interrogation would not expose. Hurriedly Viktor looked at the numbers in the phone memory. None. He punched Calls Sent. One. Calls Received. Three. All showed one number. He recognized it. The one written only in the Rolodex of his mind. The Patriot. Ideas began to connect like coins drawn to a metal detector. The one that stood out was No collateral damage. In his assignments from the Patriot that had never mattered. Why this time?
Viktor decided to keep Fillmore's phone with that valued number. Walking out backwards, he unfolded his handkerchief and swirled away his prints in the dusty floor. He'd let the police do their own detective work—minus a couple of clues.
117
Galen hovered around Lynn and deposited her inside the green door, told her to stay with Mrs. Darwish and have her call the police immediately. He slammed the door behind her. Mrs. Darwish, peeking out from her apartment, called to Lynn. "I phoned the police." She gestured for her to come in. "Sit, please."
Lynn did as she was told, numbly accepting a cup of tea. And that's when she started to shake.
They sipped in silence, both too drained to speak. The police sirens wailed their approach. Mrs. Darwish brought in a partial chocolate bar and broke off two squares, giving Lynn one.
"Thank you." As the silent companionship calmed her, the question she hadn't asked earlier ran through her mind like a child's train on a circular track, refusing to be derailed by gunfire, sirens, or chocolate. "Mrs. Darwish, there is something I would like to ask." She leaned back in her chair and faked a casual tone, working hard to appear nonchalant. "Did Adam happen to tell you where he got Elie's medal?"
"After you lost it . . ." she began simply, then paused as doubt turned her explanation into a question, ". . . he found it?" Her face registered the odds against that kind of coincidence. Tears came to her eyes. "He did not stay long." She gazed toward the apartment door at an invisible image.
Lynn refused to say anything else that might cause this dear woman any more pain. They sat again in silence. Lynn finished her tea and glanced at the photographs she'd noticed earlier on the shelf beside Mrs. Darwish's kitchen door. One showed Viktor with a woman and two children. "This beautiful woman must be your daughter."
She nodded. "Milcah. And my two grandchildren."
She said the last word with such pride and love that Lynn's own heart ached. Grandchildren. With a repressed sigh she walked over to the shelf and looked at the oldest photo. "This must be Adam's picture beside the one of Elias."
She nodded again.
"He is a fine-looking boy."
She smiled. "He favors my first husband. That was taken on Adam's sixteenth birthday."
The age of Lyndie when she died. So many things opened the window to that memory.
Mrs. Darwish's smile faded, and sadness filled her eyes. "Over thirty-five years ago. Later that day his father was killed."
Lynn winced. For her. For her son.
"He left soon after that, and I did not see him again until today. My two sons—" Her voice cracked. "They did not ever meet."
Lynn looked closer at the photograph, trying to will it to tell her the story of how he obtained the medal. The boy had a look of strong determination. The camera had caught it in his eyes, in the firm set of his jaw, the lift of his chin.
Strong determination to do what, she wondered. Had he achieved whatever it was?
The determined facial lines of Pasted-on-Smile at the airport came to mind, his well-tailored brown suit, his eyes following her. He may have looked something like this over three decades ago. His goatee and large, dark-framed glasses left little of his face to compare. Yet the eyes were similar.
She excused herself to use the bathroom and in privacy opened her cell phone and thumbed to the surreptitious picture she'd taken of him. He was off-center, but captured. She tried to envision a computer rendition of young Adam in the photograph, aging through time to the man in the phone photo. It was impossible. She thought about showing her photo to Mrs. Darwish but rejected the idea. It might upset her, and she had endured enough. Besides, the man at the airport had looked familiar, and she'd never met Adam Ristich. She was overreaching. Yet the thought lingered of its own volition, taking her where it would.
What if Adam got the medal from Zeller, Lynn?
As she sat with Mrs. Darwish, she tried to break off her running mental commentary. But it raced on like a steeplechase, jumping over barrier after barrier. Stop it! Adam couldn't be connected with Zeller! He killed Adam's brother and stole his medal!
Unless . . . A terrorizing conjecture trailed at the edges of her mind like a subliminal message.
Consider it, Lynn.
No! She knew where the thought would take her, and she didn't want to go there. But the pieces of the puzzle began dropping inadvertently into place, one by one. She glanced at Mrs. Darwish. Stop it! No mother could bear that! Lynn scattered the pieces again, the fleeting notion too monstrous to pursue.
The Dead Saint Page 29
