The Stolen Gospels (11 page)
“It must have belonged to a huge knight,” Lori said. “I thought those people used to be short.”
“Not all of them, I guess.”
“You must be right. What about rust?”
“I oil it a lot, but maybe I should take it inside.”
With a smile, Lori followed him past the armor and through the archway.
* * *
The wooden front door of Alex’s “castle” bore a childishly scrawled sign which originally read “No Girls Allowed,” but someone had altered it so that it read, “No
Good
Girls Allowed.” This gave Lori pause. He was quite muscular, outweighing her by at least thirty kilograms. But as he turned and smiled in his disarming manner her fears dissipated and she followed him inside.
The interior of the apartment looked like a glorified child’s fort, with poorly executed cardboard cutouts of medieval armor and other artifacts. She noted, however, how spotlessly clean it was, with a fresh lemon scent in the air. Here and there in clay pots and glass vases were silk artificial flowers, which she noted were of good, though not superior, quality.
“I have more armor in here,” he said, “where it doesn’t rust in the rain.” He opened a walk-in closet, revealing two sets of armor, gleaming but looking very old and used, with dents and scratches on them, and evidence of repairs.
“Where did you get all of the armor?”
He shrugged. “Stuff that was already in Monte Konos when the women took over. I thought it was cool, but my Mom and the others didn’t want it. They let me play with it.”
Reaching into the closet, he dragged one set of armor out and after removing his short sword and scabbard put the armor on over his clothing, piece by piece. As Lori watched, fascinated, he moved with surprising speed, and in a few minutes he finally put gauntlets over his hands, followed by the armet, the headpiece. With his fingers covered by chainmail now, he adjusted the armet, so that could peer out at her, through the vision slit.
Playfully, Lori went into the graceful
t’ai chi
pose of a white crane spreading its wings, then flew at Alex and slammed the side of her fist into the breastplate of the armor, knocking him harmlessly onto a sectional couch, as she intended. It wasn’t really the way her instructor would have wanted her to do it, but it was effective nonetheless.
“Whoah!” he said, sitting up and removing his headpiece. His curly hair looked disheveled. “Where did you learn how to do that?”
“My mother sent me to martial arts classes, so that I could deal with aggressive males.” Lori smiled. “Like you.”
“Aggressive? What does that mean?”
“A fighting person.”
“Oh. I only fight for fun. And I never fight girls. That would not be chivalrous.”
“So you do know some big words.”
“Sure. I’m smart.”
“I know.” She helped him remove the armor and put it back in the closet.
Afterward, they sat together on the couch.
He lit a marijuana cigarette, took a long puff on it and handed it to her. “Marathon,” he said in a dull tone, as gray smoke curled around his face.
Her hands shook as she lifted the crudely rolled cigarette to her lips, and she stopped short. She could smell the acrid smoke in the air, and sensed him watching her.
She remembered her mother, how she wouldn’t have wanted her to take drugs. Now Mom was injured and Lori might never see her alive again. A tear formed in the corner of her eye, and she wiped it away.
“I can’t do this,” she said. She handed the coarse cigarette back to him and tried to compose herself.
“What is wrong, fair maiden?”
“I was thinking of my mother. I think she may be dying. . . the trouble involving your mother. We were attacked by soldiers and barely escaped.”
He squeezed the burning end of the cigarette to put it out, and set it on an ashtray. With a big pout he said, “I don’t like my mother.”
“Because of the way she treats men?” Lori focused on the “roach,” the marijuana remnant, and longed for a drag on it. She tried to put it out of her mind.
The words came slowly. “More than that.”
“What do you mean?”
Fear slid across the dull features of his face, and he looked around. Then he said, his tone low, “She’s dangerous if you make her mad.”
“In what way?”
He bit his lower lip and said, in a childlike tone, “I don’t want to talk about her any more. She’s too scary.”
Chapter 11
In
The New Testament
there is internal evidence that parts of it have proceeded from an extraordinary man; and that other parts are the fabric of very inferior minds.
—Thomas Jefferson
Dixie Lou Jackson and other UWW councilwomen watched an oversized video screen that showed a cargo plane off-loading heavy armored vehicles. The new order of war machines rolled down a spiral ramp to a chamber deep beneath Monte Konos, a freshly excavated area. There the equipment would be painted green-and-orange and emblazoned with the symbol of the paramilitary women’s organization.
And from a dozen locales around the world, more military accouterment was being sent to them, paid for by wealthy contributors. She hoped it would be enough.
On Dixie Lou’s lap lay a newspaper from Seattle, folded open to reveal a story about the mysterious helicopter gunship that attacked a house in the suburbs. If the Bureau could find her there, and Amy in Greece as well, they could find Monte Konos itself.
We must be ready
.
* * *
At shortly before midnight, a lone figure in the uniform of a U.S. Army colonel—including jodhpurs, battle ribbons, white gloves, and (folded into a vest pocket) aviator-style sunglasses—prowled the corridors and rooms of the most important private residence in the nation. Many people with ADD—Attention Deficit Disorder—complained about it and considered it a handicap, but not Zack Markwether. He felt his own version of the malaise aided him in verifying security for the White House, since it literally compelled him to check and double-check everything—the door locks, the guard stations, the alarm system and all of the sophisticated surveillance electronics.
None of this was his official assignment, but by virtue of his status as the President’s brother, he had taken the responsibility upon himself. His title—Special Adviser to the President—did not even entail specific duties or hours of work, but was instead a broad mandate accompanied by the highest security clearance—giving him full access to all federal buildings, including the Congress of the United States.
His background with the National Security Agency suited him perfectly for this, since he had been indoctrinated in the most advanced methods of counter-terrorism. Such training and experience wasn’t nearly as glamorous as it sounded. In all his years of service in the Army and the NSA, most of it involved drudgery and office routine—unlike the romantic depictions of popular novels and films. Only once had he been personally involved in a car chase, and on only three occasions had he made arrests himself. He had, however, been responsible for the intelligence work that led to the apprehension of dozens of enemies of the United States.
After passing the Oval Office in the West Wing, Zack turned down the corridor and stepped into a private office. There he activated a computer at random, one of six work stations in the room. Running through the codes, he spent the better part of an hour reviewing e-mail messages sent by the staffer who ran this terminal, and did a deep encryption search to turn up any that might have been deleted. There were none.
He re-entered the corridor, popped a metab pill to remain awake. It had been a long day, but he needed to remain on constant alert. The less he slept, he always reminded himself, the better chance he had of catching the bad guys. Such security measures were beyond what anyone would consider necessary, but he took them on himself anyway. After all, he was the President’s older brother, and felt it was necessary to protect him.
* * *
It was just before dawn of the third day since Consuela had fled from the church, and light was seeping back onto the verdant Mexican landscape so that she could see. As she stood on the side of the rutted dirt road she knew she was taking a big chance, trying to flag down the first vehicle she saw heading west toward the coast, where she wanted to go.
She had spent the night in the jungle, and her clothes were damp from a light rain. Nonetheless, she had managed to keep her baby fairly dry by huddling over the child, and now little Margarita, bundled in a
rebozo
, slept peacefully in the safety of her mother’s arms. The first night, not far from her village, they had slept in an abandoned silver mine shaft, dating back to the days when the area had supported thousands of mine workers.
Now Consuela tramped along a dirt road where she had never been before, though she knew compass directions from the stars in the night and the movement of the sun in the day. Her father, a poor but intelligent man, had taught her how to do this and she was thankful for the knowledge. On other matters, despite her lack of formal education, she prided herself on her own natural intelligence.
From somewhere a burro brayed repeatedly in displeasure, and Consuela smelled the acrid smoke of a morning cook-fire. She longed for the warmth and security of her home, and was sorry to have run away without telling her parents where she was going. But there had been no choice. Not after the terrible events at the church, where demons had invaded the House of the Lord and gunfire had erupted.
She saw an approaching produce truck as it barreled along the dirt road, throwing up thick, swirling clouds of dust. At first she turned away from the vehicle, afraid to show her face. Then, hesitantly, she turned back and waved frantically, and moved out into the roadway.
* * *
On the viewing platform of a large underground grotto, Styx Tertullian and Nelson Culpepper watched their elite paramilitary squads pass in tight formation. The silver-and-black-uniformed men, wearing black jackboots, took high, stiff-kneed steps to military music, while keeping their heads turned toward their commanders. The front and rear rows twirled automatic rifles and saluted with sabers, while men carrying BOI banners tilted them forward sharply.
Behind them rolled gleaming small-rocket carriages, along with armored vehicles and customized weapons systems . . . and on wall screens around the grotto flashed video projections showing jets, bombers, and helicopters . . . all kept in chambers beneath the ground.
As the officials watched from their stationary platform, the floor with the squads and equipment slid smoothly beneath another floor, and an entirely new combat unit of men and hardware appeared. When this group had completed its pageantry, another unit appeared, and others afterward—until all of the forces stationed at BOI headquarters had been displayed.
It amounted to a small army, highly trained, well-equipped, and formidable.
Chapter 12
A woman will betray the Savior.
—Jewish Prophecy, 1st Century, BC
It irritated Styx Tertullian that he had to be in an underground office. Arguably the Bureau of Ideology was the most powerful private agency in the world, the maker and breaker of presidents, prime ministers, and even kings. Why then couldn’t he and Minister Culpepper be ensconced above-ground, in the plush, ostentatious offices they deserved?
He knew the answers, but didn’t like them. Three words provided the explanation: Security, security, security. Since its founding in 1932, the Bureau had always been obsessed about this, and history proved the wisdom of the paranoid world-view. While he understood it only too well, he didn’t like it.
Seated at his desk, he watched a video report sent to him by the Vatican, which was requesting BOI assistance in investigating a break-in into one of their museum vaults. Priceless, irreplaceable treasures had been stolen, including paintings by da Vinci and Raphael, sculptures by Michelangelo, and a reliquary said to contain an ancient fragment of wood from the crucifixion cross of Jesus—the legendary “True Cross.” The BOI, with its ability to investigate sensitive crimes committed against Christian organizations, was frequently called upon to offer its expertise.
According to the video, the UWW was suspected, as they were rumored to have a long-standing policy of stealing such artifacts and either hiding or destroying them—purportedly to undermine the sense of well-being in the evangelical world. In reality this was disinformation—a false story planted by the BOI to discredit their enemies. The Bureau had taken the religious articles, for what Culpepper called “safekeeping.”
Styx flipped off the video, and was about to leave when the portly Minister entered, unannounced. “What are you doing about the Vatican request?” he asked. His girth seemed to grow larger by the day.
Standing by his desk, Styx didn’t feel like answering questions from this irritating man. “I’ll send some men to go through the motions. We’ll put thumbscrews on the nuns until they confess.”
“Don’t try my patience.”
“Look, I’ve got things to take care of,” Styx said. “Can we continue this later?”
Culpepper paced the office. “You’re sure the women will be blamed?”
“I know my job.”
“Of course. Oh, I examined the inventory. Have the Raphael painting hung in my office, behind my desk.”
Styx smiled in his unique manner, somehow forming a “V” with his lips. “You can trust me, sir.” But he was thinking how sick he was of Culpepper’s unethical scavenging.
As the Minister left, Styx was wondering, too, if a controlled blast might be set off inside the fat man’s office, just enough to blow him up and all of his coveted things—after substituting forgeries for original religious masterpieces, of course. Styx took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.
He would only do that if God commanded it.
