The Stolen Gospels (15 page)
“That feels good,” he said, as she continued to knead the muscles, like a masseuse.
“I’m concerned about you. I know you can’t reveal national security secrets to me, but I’m not an idiot and I have given you good advice in the past.”
“I know, and I appreciate that. There are many things weighing me down. My head is splitting and no pain relievers seem to touch it. I need to solve the problem and then I’ll feel better. It’s always that way with me.”
“And the problem is?”
“An important private organization—my biggest campaign contributor—is demanding a lot of money. I’m having trouble getting it done.”
“Wait a minute. If they’re a campaign
contributor
, why do you have to give them money?”
“You know how politics works, darling. Money flows in more than one direction.”
“I see. They contribute to your campaign, and you arrange for taxpayer money to go to them.”
“I wouldn’t put it quite that way.”
“How would you put it, then? We are talking about a quid pro quo, aren’t we?”
“In a sense.”
She laughed, uneasily. “Is that all you can tell me about your problem?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Then I can’t do much more than this massage for you.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” He turned around, and gave her a passionate kiss. Even after more than twenty years of marriage, they still had a spark for each other.
“Presidents aren’t the only people who get headaches,” she said, with a thin smile.
“It’s against the law to use clichés on the Commander in Chief.”
Now, he massaged her shoulders and back, as she lay on the bed.
As he did so, his thoughts remained on the crisis—which he had to solve if he wanted to be reelected next year. It didn’t help that his approval ratings were down, so he needed all of the help he could get. He didn’t tell his wife that he was having trouble with a clandestine agency, the Bureau of Ideology, and could never reveal to her any of the secrets within secrets that he knew about the organization. During a game of nine-ball in the White House game room that day, he had conferred with his brother Zack about the crisis, going into details with him that he could not reveal to his own wife.
Zack Markwether—two years the President’s senior—was a de facto cabinet minister, resented by some and admired by others. He was a security expert, military liaison, troubleshooter, and much more. The President often said he couldn’t get by without the assistance of his big brother. But Zack’s overconfident manner, the way he strutted around using his influence, sometimes drew complaints and resignation threats from key staffers. Whenever that happened, the President would rein his brother in. For several weeks afterward Zack would be on his best behavior, but ultimately he would return to his old annoying ways.
In most respects the Markwether siblings were drastically different people—with Zack the organized one and Lowell the complete opposite, but adept at selecting good people and delegating. Among the few things in which they shared an interest were American blues (especially vintage 1930s and 1940s), microbrew beer, model trains, and games of pool. The men had a symbiotic relationship—a close association of different organisms—but they shared a deep respect for one another and a brotherly love that had endured for their lifetimes. They rarely argued about anything.
“I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,” the President said, as he did a deep muscle massage on his wife’s back, working his hands underneath the clothing. “Politics is more complicated than you realize. There are interactions, obligations—” He despised both the Bureau of Ideology and their archenemy, United Women of the World, and wished they would blast each other off the face of the earth. Knowing the power that the BOI had over him, he wondered how much control they had over other government leaders, not only in his own administration but in other countries around the world. Such a complex web the Bureau maintained. They could ruin him if he didn’t cooperate, and undoubtedly could ruin a lot of other important people, too.
“I understand,” she said, with a sigh. It seemed obvious to him that she was thinking more of sensual matters now, and not of the weighty problems he had on his mind.
“I can’t tell you too much,” he said, as he laid down beside her and gazed into her gentle brown eyes. He smiled. “Or you would get worry wrinkles.”
“What a sexist thing to say!” she exclaimed. She nudged him playfully, but her eyes narrowed as she recognized his lies and evasive behavior. This was something important, and the President would not discuss it with her.
Chapter 16
It is said of Lori Vale that her mother is not her mother and her father is not her father.
—From
Window to the Past
, UWW Press
On the elevated platform of the council chamber, which had once been the monastery’s Byzantine church, sixteen councilwomen sat in black leather high-back chairs, including Dixie Lou Jackson and Deborah Marvel. The air was heavy with the perfume of burning incense. The chairs were arranged in a half circle, and in front of that, where the center of a complete circle would have been, sat an empty red leather chair. Each councilwoman—dressed in the black robe of mourning—held a single red rose wrapped in a green-and-orange ribbon.
On a high pedestal behind them rose the She-God statue, her oval face serene, her fathomless eyes turned heavenward. In her arms she held the sacred, legendary Sword of She-God, with its jeweled hilt glinting in sunlight that passed through a stained glass window.
The red chair, mounted on a swivel, had been turned away from the council, toward an audience of three hundred UWW members, all women, who sat in pews that had formerly been used for church services. Morning sunlight caused some of them to squint and shield their eyes. A closed-circuit television system broadcast the proceedings to the Scriptorium and Refectory buildings, where scholars, knights, and other personnel were gathered to watch.
At one side of the red chair, facing the audience, stood a lectern draped with the colorful vestment of United Women of the World. Overhead rose an ancient rock dome, and the walls were adorned with faded frescoes, depicting Christian religious scenes. The ones deemed controversial by the UWW had been painted over with whitewash. Among those remaining was a glorious depiction of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, with the adult Mary Magdalene at his feet.
A buzz of anticipation filled the air. Several women were crying. Others vented their hostility with violently anti-male comments.
Dixie Lou tried to make herself look sad as she gazed at the empty red chair in the center of the platform. She watched the slender, middle-aged blonde Deborah Marvel place a rose on its cushion and then return to her seat beside Dixie Lou. Deborah wept openly, unable to suppress her sorrow. With a handkerchief, she dabbed at her eyes.
Visible to the council, but not to the audience because of their distance from it, an Internet computer scrolled through coded reports on clandestine UWW paramilitary forces in all of the major western nations . . . underground caverns filled with the most advanced stealth aircraft and armored cavalry units. The council had to remain in constant touch with such information. Also included were records of their personnel who were steadily infiltrating the armed forces of unfriendly nations—women (and a small number of trusted men) positioning themselves to obtain as much power and influence as they could. Because of recent events and reports of increased BOI funding drives, the council had ordered a sharp step-up in activity.
From a side entrance, Katherine Pangalos walked out in front of the council and faced the audience. Most of the onlookers grew silent, but a cauldron of simmering, seething anger remained. Katherine, in a long black dress, spoke tremulously, her voice amplified by a tiny microphone that hovered in front of her mouth: “I am old, and in my lifetime many dear friends have come and gone, women who have been abused by men and their violent systems.”
Rage boiled over in the pews. Women screamed epithets against the male gender. Some called for an immediate military response, as well as the use of sabotage and assassination squads.
Inwardly, Dixie Lou seethed, since she had been forced into allowing this non-councilwoman, her principal foe, to speak prior to anyone else. But this had been the sentiment of the majority of the council, considering the many occasions when Amy had referred to Katherine as her closest friend. Though Dixie Lou had accused Katherine of betraying Amy, that had only been for effect; she didn’t really believe it. The wealthy woman had no motive. Dixie Lou’s feelings were complex, mixed. She was glad Amy was gone, since it cleared the way for her advancement to the chairwomanship, but now she had to deal with another obstacle, with this difficult, outspoken woman.
When the rancorous clamor settled down, Katherine continued in a weaker voice: “Seven years ago, Amy Angkor-Billings and her family were caught in a BOI attack while vacationing in Hawaii. After Amy’s husband and children were murdered, she returned to the UWW a different woman than she had been before. She was more militant and focused, less willing to compromise.”
A diminutive councilwoman, Jeanne Cousteau, handed a fresh tissue to Deborah Marvel, who was becoming inconsolable.
“She was our lighthouse,” Katherine continued, “our beacon and our inspiration, and without her our lives are empty. Amy is gone, murdered by the enemies of every woman on earth.”
More epithets were shouted against men, and vows of revenge.
As Katherine paused, each councilwoman placed a flower on the empty chair and briefly eulogized the remarkable leader of United Women of the World, who had guided its course for nearly twenty-five years.
Finally, Fujiko Harui, a tiny Japanese woman who was last to speak, said, in the saddest of voices, “Men have not only stolen our sacred gospels. They’ve stolen our precious Amy.”
An eruption of fury shook the council chamber. If a man had been present—even an innocent one—he might have been torn to shreds.
“We must continue our work!” Fujiko shouted, over the din. “Amy wouldn’t want us to give up, and we won’t!”
While Dixie Lou clapped with the other women, she thought about the long-awaited
Holy Women’s Bible
that would culminate their efforts, turning the Christian world upside down. As the new leader of United Women of the World, she would ride the crest of the immense, unstoppable wave.
In speeches broadcast all over the globe she would inflame passions by recounting the centuries of injustice women had endured at the hands of men. She would also draw parallels between herself and brave women such as Elizabeth Cady Stanton, who in the late nineteenth century published
The Woman’s Bible
, which was not really a bible, but was instead a compendium of essays about biblical passages that related to women. In broad strokes, Dixie Lou would discuss the women’s movement, showing how the civil rights of females had been enhanced in western nations, but not enough, since familiar systems remained in place, maintaining male supremacy. The male-written, anti-female King James Version of the
Holy Bible
was still in place.
Finally the noise in the ancient church edifice subsided, and Katherine took a seat in the front row of the audience.
“Who will lead us now?” a woman shouted. This was the traditional call for leadership when a Chairwoman had died.
“I will,” Dixie Lou called out.
The room fell silent and all present closed their eyes in contemplation, as if the women were considering Dixie Lou’s offer. Actually it was a
fait accompli
, since Amy had designated her successor in writing, as specified under the bylaws of the organization. If Dixie Lou had not spoken out, if she had not wanted the position, a different process would have been initiated, involving a formal vote of the council.
While she waited, Dixie Lou was thankful that Katherine Pangalos was not a younger woman. Had she been, by virtue of her position as Amy’s closest friend, she might have been competition for the Chairwomanship.
Presently the women looked up, and each of them whispered Dixie Lou’s name.
“Congratulations,” Deborah finally said in her throaty voice, from a seat beside Dixie Lou. And from other council seats came more words of support. With intense focus, Dixie Lou chronicled the voices and faces, and judged which of them were sincere and which weren’t. Along with Deborah, eight other councilwomen could be counted on to take her side most of the time.
A chill of excitement coursed Dixie Lou’s spine. She stood in a humble fashion, shoulders sloped, head downturned. “I am your servant now,” she said.
The old church erupted with cheering and thunderous clapping, though Katherine participated with a stony countenance. All rose to their feet.
As Dixie Lou walked across the stage, she did her best to appear somber, concealing the unseemly glee—riotous and ecstatic—that threatened to erupt within her. After all, this was not a happy occasion for the UWW, not with the death of their founder.
The audience noise continued.
Dixie Lou resisted an urge to say Amy was looking down on them from her place beside She-God, blessing these events, although such a comment would have had emotional impact. This was not Amy’s moment, after all.
It was Dixie Lou Jackson’s.
And so, raising her voice to be heard over the excited buzz in the church, she described her humble beginnings as an impoverished black woman whose Baptist mother forced her to memorize passages from the
Bible
. She also told of her mistreatment at the hands of men in her teens, when her stepfather and his brother raped her repeatedly. Presently she said, “Since I have been selected to lead you, I will carry a message to every man on earth.” She paused for dramatic effect, then shifted her voice to a strong Negro dialect: “Massah Man, we ain’t gonna be yo’ slaves no mo’!”
Wild enthusiasm shook the ancient church, and in the buildings around the plaza it was the same. People were on their feet, applauding and cheering.
As Dixie Lou completed her remarks, someone in the back row called out, “Who will fill the vacant council seat?”
Again this was tradition, to fill the chair vacated by Dixie Lou Jackson. This process was even more involved than the one she had just gone through, because it was the full initiation of a new councilwoman into the inner sanctum of the order, a procedure Dixie Lou had already gone through years ago.
“I will,” Katherine Pangalos announced. She smiled and stared at Dixie Lou, adding, “After I take the Vow of Angkor, of course. Would the Chairwoman like to administer it to me?”
Simmering with anger, Dixie Lou waited for the vote of acclamation in the chamber, the murmuring of Katherine’s name. Then she motioned for the candidate to come up onto the platform. The old woman did so, and knelt in the proper fashion—head bowed, waiting—in front of her new superior.
With a barely discernible shrug of resignation, Dixie Lou rose and went to the high pedestal base of the She-God statue. At a control panel she entered a security code and punched in a command. Looking up, she saw the arms of the gray stone goddess tilt down with a grating creak, and the legendary Sword of She-God lowered slowly, supported by a nearly invisible wire cage. The mechanical fingers, usually cupped up slightly to support the sword on open palms, were gripping the weapon now.
When the cage reached her she removed the sword and carried it back to Katherine, who stared at it with palpable trepidation, perhaps wondering if Dixie Lou would kill her with it. Oh, how the new Chairwoman wanted to do that! But not now. The handle of the ceremonial weapon glittered with emeralds and fire opals, and sunlight sparkled from the gleaming blade.
Standing in front of the kneeling Katherine, Dixie Lou made her squint from the brilliance of the sun’s reflection on the finely worked Spanish steel of the razor-sharp blade. “Look deeply into the Sword of She-God,” Dixie Lou commanded, beginning the rite that she and all other UWW personnel had previously undergone. “Look and see the faces of all women who have come before you, and who will come afterward.”
Shifting the weapon in her hands, Dixie Lou caused undulating waves of reflected sunlight to splash across Katherine’s face, changing the character of the elderly woman’s features by throwing them in and out of shadow. Transfixed by the light, Katherine stared into the gleaming blade and, in deep hypnosis, intoned the Vow of Angkor:
Bonded to women,
With hallowed secrets
Of mind and heart,
Sealed as one
For the rest of time.
Her eyes still closed, Katherine kissed the blade, then fell silent. And for several moments, everyone in the assemblage closed their eyes and were entirely silent, in contemplation.
At the appropriate time the audience looked up, and each whispered the name of Katherine Pangalos again. She opened her eyes as well, and smiled softly. Then, one by one, the councilwomen, and even Dixie Lou Jackson, congratulated the newest member of their elite circle.
During the moments of this process, Dixie Lou considered the effects of the Vow of Angkor, how its mysterious powers—reputedly linked to the sacred Sword of She-God—now prevented Katherine Pangalos from revealing the existence of the organization to outsiders. The vow was curious, and many times Dixie Lou had considered the extent of its influence, wondering how it worked.
Did it operate through the power of suggestion, making a person
think
she couldn’t break the oath, or was some other, more esoteric force, responsible? The wording contained no threat whatsoever, so what did a person fear, if anything? What was the penalty for violation? In any event, Dixie Lou had taken the vow herself, and while she felt bound by its strictures, it didn’t prevent her from being secretly happy with Amy’s death; it didn’t stop internal UWW plots and intrigues; it didn’t keep her from killing Katherine Pangalos eventually, if necessary.
At the very least, the leathery old woman would be a thorn in the side of the newly selected Chairwoman. Katherine would begin her duties with less support on the council than Dixie Lou’s, but the old hag had wiles and would be constantly on the alert for weak links in her opponent’s power base, for ways to undermine it.
Dixie Lou vowed to stop at nothing to protect her own position.
* * *
After the chamber had been cleared, Dixie Lou remained by herself. It was mid-morning, with sunlight still slanting through the stained glass windows, pooling bright light around the red leather chair of the Chairwoman of United Women of the World.
My chair.
