The Dead Saint (23 page)

General Thornburg stood behind his desk chair at NATO headquarters in Naples. His aide entered and handed him a communiqué:

SFOR Air Traffic Control reports that the plane carrying President Basil Dimitrovski of Macedonia was lost from radar control at 1601 hours in the region of Stolac, BiH. ATC recordings of pilot's words indicate a crash.

The news hit him like a preemptive strike. He slammed his fist into the back of the chair and glowered at his aide. "What is this!"

"I am sorry, sir."

The general watched him shrink and tried to control his rage. "I know—don't kill the messenger. You're dismissed." What he wouldn't give to discuss this with Marsh. Grief surfaced, and abruptly he shut it down.

The eighteen hours of fireworks that began Tuesday at 1800 hours had gone well. No NATO casualties and, as far as he knew, not a single civilian casualty. But now this! The news alarmed him primarily because the loss of President Dimitrovski's leadership would be a gigantic step backward from international peace, perhaps an irreversible one. The general knew that he must predict all the possible repercussions and plan accordingly. A strategic nightmare. One more step in the march toward chaos.

He thought again about Major Manetti. The unusual request from the State Department for Major Marshall Manetti to protect some fool bishop and her husband who doesn't have enough sense to keep her out of harm's way. Followed by the major's assassination. The best soldier I've ever known. The best man. The best friend. Who was behind it? Someone at State? A prissy politician who requested the favor? Why? Again he tried to shut down his grief. Then a bomb was planted at the Austrian President's reception, though not made public. And now President Dimitrovski's plane is missing—meaning it crashed on a stormy day in the mountains. Or something more sinister. He wondered whether some of these disasters were connected.

He decided to design his own strategy. If there were connections, he'd find them. Shifting to combat stance, he picked up the phone and ordered a plane and four aides to go to Stolac, Bosnia-Herzegovina, immediately. To their surprise, he boarded the plane himself. He personally would get to the bottom of this. He owed it to Marsh.

Galen looked at his watch and turned on thet TV. "It's 4:16. Air Traffic Control lost sight of the President's plane fifteen minutes ago."

Each roll of thunder seemed to reverberate the words. Lynn stared at the screen, rigid and silent, fervently praying for the plane to reappear.

At 4:30, BBC aired breaking news:

The plane carrying Macedonian President Basil Dimitrovski is missing.

"Missing," repeated Lynn. "Not crashed. There's still hope."

The Bosnian Civil Aviation Administration reports that radar lost the plane at 16:01 about 30 kilometers south of Mostar in the mountainous region of Stolac. Radio contact is broken. A crash is feared. We will continue to bring you updates.

While Lynn worried about the President, Galen painted the big picture. "His death could send ripples through the Balkans like another tsunami across the earth."

And it would break the hearts of Gonka and their children, Lynn thought. She forced herself to step beyond stunned paralysis and trudged upstairs, her ears attuned to TV for the next update. She noted the packing mess from their hurried hotel exit, and while raindrops kerplunked rapidly on the slate roof, she piddled away the time by straightening the clutter. A methodical and mindless task. Something she could control. Everything tucked into its bit of space. No surprises. No sadness.

But also an illusion. In the real world a giant soul like Basil Dimitrovski was threatened, a man of peace among warmongers. She thought of her own small existence. A woman who could not even keep her own child alive. She ceased her idle movements, centered herself, and prayed for him.

She heard the TV show interrupted for a news bulletin and ran down the stairs.

The somber-voiced reporter spoke:

Bosnia and Herzegovina—BiH—officials have confirmed that President Basil Dimitrovski of Macedonia has been killed in a plane crash. There are no survivors. The Macedonian delegation accompanying the President on the King Air B-200 was en route to an economic conference in Mostar.

They showed a photograph of President Dimitrovski.

A rescue team found the crash site and the plane's remains in the region of Bitunje village in Berkovici municipality. The Civil Aviation Administration has established an investigating team, but bad weather is expected to be the cause.

Lynn heard raindrops hit the window panes like tears of the Loving Creator.

Tomorrow will be a National Day of Mourning in Macedonia.

"The planet is a lesser place tonight than it was this morning," said Galen, taking her hand as she sat beside him on the sofa. "President Dimitrovski's life controverts the old image of pulling a hand from a bucket of water and it makes no difference."

She agreed. "The waters part like the Red Sea around the space he leaves." A few minutes later they heard church bells pealing in the distance. Galen rose and began to pace. Lynn watched him. Action for him, she thought. Tears for me. We handle grief in our own way. "Poor Gonka and the children," she said, vividly recalling the moment she'd learned of Lyndie's death. She also remembered the morning she laid all the pieces of her broken heart before God, hoping that someday, somehow, God would put them back together and make her whole again. Be with his family, her heart prayed as tears rolled down her cheeks. The loving care of their church would support them. How, she wondered, do people bear their loss if they have no faith community and pastor's presence? She sat immobile for a long time, a deep sadness spilling over the levee and flooding her soul.

John Adams hunched over his desk. President Dimitrovski, killed in the plane crash. He'd done nothing to stop it, and the consequence was unalterable. Shame crept into an empty crevice of his guarded heart. He relived those fateful moments of his decision: I thumb the first three numbers to call Air Traffic Control and ask them to warn the pilot. I see the worldwide headlines: JOHN ADAMS SAVES LIFE OF MACEDONIAN PRESIDENT. Then I freeze. How will I explain my knowledge? I can call anonymously on my secure line. But what if an investigation of Fillmore's false CIA credentials leads back to me? Fillmore will do anything to save himself. What if he incriminates me for previous directives? Or cuts a deal by accusing me of ordering the assassination? The charge won't stick, but the accusation itself will tarnish my image. And what if an investigation ultimately links the Patriot and John Adams? Elias Darwish is dead for nothing. Logic wins: Intervention is not prudent. Besides, any blood will be on Fillmore's hands, not mine. It isn't my country and it isn't my problem. Onerous but necessary. I put down the phone, relinquishing my power to prevent disaster.

And now the President was dead and Fillmore was safe. He wondered who had contracted Fillmore. I'll find out, he swore, ignoring the darkest part of his heart that knew the other reason he hadn't finished his call to Air Traffic Control: A crash would accomplish the objective of the failed Schönbrunn Palace bomb—bringing fear and chaos, demonstrating that presidents are not invulnerable, and prompting POTUS to stop discounting one who can give her wise counsel—like John Adams. Deep down where he didn't want to go, he felt vindicated.

Radmila's second piece of information—that President Benedict had arranged to include Lynn Peterson in a call with President Dimitrovski—unlocked the liaison conundrum. How had he missed it? Selecting Lynn Peterson was brilliant—he had to give Benedict that. She had international connections and the capacity to make contacts. She had links to high places and a broad range of associations with all classes of people. He realized that part of the reason for his mistake was that she was a female bishop. His traditional stereotype of women had blinded him. Another reason was that Viktor Machek, his trusted Balkan connection, had cleared her. Did his investigative elite fall victim to the same stereotype?

He strung together the evidence that indicted her. First, tomorrow's call, though he doubted that it would occur in light of this afternoon's disaster. Additionally, two of President Benedict's emails: Lynn Peterson's forwarded one, via Ambassador Whitcomb, regarding a conversation with Manetti that appeared merely complimentary and innocent; and the President's response to the Ambassador, interestingly not directed to Lynn Peterson, but notable because of her swift reply and another false denial of her friendship with the major. To let Peterson go free for the same action that cost Manetti his life would show partiality. Partiality defamed justice.

Darwish, Manetti, and now Lynn Peterson. Too many too soon, thought John Adams.

But the Patriot shrugged. The bottom line, as always, was zero tolerance. Besides, the bishop was guilty of involving herself in governmental affairs—mixing church and state! Nothing galled the Patriot more than an affront to the Constitution.

He reviewed her travel itinerary obtained by Lone Star. The Petersons would arrive in Sarajevo around noon on Friday. He couldn't risk using Zeller again and giving him too many pieces of the puzzle. Despite his loss of respect for Fillmore, he needed him one more time. He was in Skopje and could easily get to Sarajevo. The Patriot retrieved his secure phone and left Fillmore a brief encrypted message:

Be at the Sarajevo Airport by noon Friday.
Wait there for instructions. Come prepared for target practice.
You have been busy with a weighty Macedonian matter.

The last line was more than a veiled threat to remove potential reluctance. It was a declaration of knowledge. He owned Frank Fillmore now!

With a heavy sigh he swiveled his chair toward the bust of JFK, opened the hidden panel, and replaced the secure phone he'd failed to use to save President Dimitrovski—God rest his good soul.

But it was time to move on. Justice, and only justice, you shall pursue. Retaining the power to do justice sometimes mandated death. Onerous but honorable. President Benedict, kiss your liaison goodbye!

Lynn looked at her watch and realized they should be hungry. "Let's see if there's anything to eat in the kitchen, Love." Food, the often-sought filler of voids. Their exploration of the kitchen resulted in a round loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, and a sealed carton with a picture of reddish soup on the front. Tomato, she assumed. She took a saucepan down from the open shelf, lit the back burners, and refilled the teakettle—more methodical and mindless tasks. Galen found a couple of bowls and spoons and rinsed out their tea mugs. They ate in front of the TV, staring blankly at the screen. The next BBC update came shortly after 7:30. In the background was a picture of the President boarding his plane, taken from files for a different trip. They listened, stunned:

The earlier Search and Rescue Team report about finding Macedonian President Basil Dimitrovski's crashed plane and bodies—with no survivors—was inaccurate. At 19:30, an SFOR spokesman denied that the plane had been found. The plane carrying Macedonian President Basil Dimitrovski and his delegation has not—repeat, has
not—
been located.

BBC cut to a video of the spokesman's announcement:

SFOR Search and Rescue teams searching for the plane and the President's remains found no evidence of the crash at the site announced earlier by BiH officials. They have stopped the investigation in that location.

The next video showed the spokesman for President Dimitrovski's cabinet:

There is no official report of the fate of President Basil Dimitrovski and his associates.

The reporter added:

SFOR has moved the search to other areas on Versnik Mountain. The aerial search is expected to be suspended within the hour because of nightfall and bad weather conditions. Foot patrols will continue, but they are hindered by fog and landmines.

Lynn and Galen absorbed the news in numb silence. Galen spoke first. "A rescue team found the crash site and the plane's remains in the region of Bitunje," quoted Galen from the earlier report, "and now there's
no evidence of the crash
at that site!"

Lynn embraced hopefulness. "But if the President's plane has not been found after all, maybe he's alive!"

"You're crawling into a cave of denial. The plane fell off the radar screen."

"Maybe there are survivors."

"There would have been radio contact."

"Maybe the radio shattered, Love."

"Perhaps you noticed that tomorrow's National Day of Mourning was not canceled."

She gave up. Not on hoping, but on getting Galen to hope with her. Now Gonka Dimitrovska would be hopeful that her husband was alive. May it be so! Lynn wanted to bring her comfort and knew that no one could. She remembered the spacious, grace-filled sea that had kept her own little sailboat afloat despite the storms when Lyndie died. She knew the true Comforter would be with Gonka and help her bear whatever had to be borne.

The absurdity of the earlier report troubled Lynn less than the delay it caused in a broad search. How could a team report its discovery of plane debris and dead bodies that were nonexistent? What a horrible mistake!

A mistake, Lynn?

It was General Thornburg who stood at full command presence in Stolac. "I WANT YOU . . ." In three words, he took control of the bedlam in the improvised headquarters at Stolac. The room went silent. All motion ceased.

"No, I COMMAND YOU to establish communication with every VILLAGE, every HAMLET, every Gypsy CAMPSITE within a fifty-kilometer radius from here. I EXPECT you to be ORGANIZED, EFFICIENT, and THOROUGH. And I don't care about the weather and the dark! Do you UNDERSTAND me?"

His fierce eyes circled the room, deliberately intimidating, confident that no one would dare disobey him. "This is your procedure: The circle will be divided into four sections like a clock. Due north is 1200 hours. Each of my four aides will be responsible for a section." They stood at attention.

"MANZANARES, take 1200 to 300 hours."

"Yes, sir." He saluted.

"CARVER, 300 to 600. KAWASAKI, 600 to 900.AWAD, 900 to 1200."

The aides acknowledged their orders in turn, saluted, and remained at attention.

Again the general's eyes circled the room. His voice took on a persuasive tone. "The people in this room who know these mountains are the key." His translator stopped spitting his commands and took on a similar tone. "You know the terrain. Your expertise in communicating with the locals is essential. They will trust you." The general swept the room, making eye contact with each man who looked like he knew the area. "YOU are tonight's heroes." He paused. The silence held. The energy in the room began to build. He could feel it. "Move to the officer in charge of the geographic area you know best
. N
OW!"

When the division was complete, General Thornburg gave two final orders before leaving the room: "Avoid areas known for landmines. You are to report to me by 2300 hours. GO!"