The Stolen Gospels (27 page)
“If that’s true,” Katherine said, “it casts doubt on all of the gospels of the she-apostles. Believe me, we don’t want to open up that can of worms. No, there are twelve, not eleven.”
“I see a bigger picture than you do,” Dixie Lou said.
“That’s why you’re the Chairwoman, right?” Katherine said, her tone acidic.
Dixie Lou nodded. “If we delay, the wrong people could get wind of our project and suppress it, maybe even killing all of us in the process. As for your comment about being truthful, why should we be more truthful than men have been? Let’s do whatever it takes to tip the scales in our favor!” She slammed her fist on the table, causing silverware and china to bounce.
“Maybe someone has kidnapped the Apostle Martha,” Tamara suggested, “or worse. Maybe she’s been murdered.”
“If she’s dead, we’re better off,” Dixie Lou said. “Well, ladies, time to vote, and I motion to fund the immediate editing of the final gospel. We’ll keep it sparse. Let’s see . . . We can say the last she-apostle was a quiet, shy person, and she revealed only a few pages of material. We can assimilate it into the text in a few days. “
Ten hands went up to pass the measure, with Katherine and five of her associates in opposition. Bobbi Torrence and Fujiko Harui, who could formerly be counted on to side with Katherine, changed sides this time and voted with Dixie Lou, for obvious reasons.
Katherine stormed out of the room, followed by her allies. Among others, Bobbi and Fujiko stayed behind.
Muttering an oath under her breath, Dixie Lou stared at the remains of her lunch on the table. She vowed to get even with the six who continued to oppose her.
* * *
Southern Bulgaria, near the village of Skrût . . .
In the early morning hours, a squadron of twenty BOI warplanes took off, heading southwest into Greece. They had been concealed underground, beneath what appeared to be a fig grove from the air. The aircraft bore no distinguishing emblems, no way of tracing them to their owners, in case they were shot down. A similar BOI base lay on a plain in southern Albania, and was dispatching another attack squadron.
Headquarters had ordered destruction of the target at any cost, no matter the consequences. Now they only had to wait for the weather to improve. Greece, Albania, and Macedonia were engulfed in a severe storm, with high winds and torrential rains.
Chapter 34
Those close to Dixie Lou Jackson speak of her disturbing psychosis. She imagines what particular people might look like dead.
—Confidential UWW memorandum
For eleven days Consuela had been caring for the house on the knoll as if it were her own. Better than her own, in fact. From her perspective as an impoverished Méxicana peasant, she felt as if she had become the caretaker of a great estate, and that she was fortunate in this position, since it provided a shelter for her growing baby. She considered this duty—albeit one she had assumed without permission—an almost sacred trust, one in which she strove to improve the condition and cleanliness of the property.
Actually the house was not large—and certainly not what would commonly be considered an estate—but it had many fine appointments, including tile counter tops in the kitchen and in the two bathrooms, a stereo music system (that she couldn’t use, because the power was off), prints of famous Mexican murals, and handmade area rugs with Aztec Indian designs on them.
In the smallest of three bedrooms, which she considered most appropriate for herself and her child, she had set up a basket for the baby, with thick red-and-green towels for a mattress and blankets. It was mid-afternoon, and she knelt over Marta, who fussed as she slept, as if having a bad dream.
Something thumped in another room, twice. She heard voices. Consuela caught her breath.
Quickly she placed little Marta’s basket on a table, then opened the window. The hinges squeaked, but not loudly. She climbed outside, onto the soft, loamy dirt of the garden, then reached back in and removed Marta from the basket. The child awoke and was about to cry, when Consuela placed a hand over her mouth, and quieted her by offering a warm, comforting breast for her to suckle. The baby drank hungrily.
As she hid behind a saguaro bush, the young mother realized that the voices she’d heard were those of children. Creeping around to the other side of the house, Consuela peered through a window into the master bedroom. Two boys, around ten years old, were rifling through drawers and an oak armoire, searching for valuables.
Rapping on the window, Consuela shouted out, “
Andalé, niños
!”
Startled, the thieves ran. One knocked over a large black clay urn, which crashed to the floor and shattered. As the boy stumbled, he dropped a jewelry box, scattering its contents on the floor.
Consuela set her daughter down on the ground and ran around to the front door. When the would-be burglars emerged she kicked one of them in the seat of the pants, and swung a hard fist against the back of the other, sending him careening down the steps.
Crying out in pain, the failed criminals fled into the jungle.
Consuela spent the rest of the day cleaning up the mess. She put broaches, rings, and earrings back in the jewelry box and replaced it where it had been before, on an armoire shelf. The large clay pot seemed beyond repair, but she carefully scooped up all the pieces and put them in a wooden box, just in case it was possible to glue it back together. It bothered her that it was broken, especially since she had startled the boy who did it. But she felt good that she’d been there to stop the burglary in progress, preventing the loss of valuables.
Now she could truly say she had been of service to the owners.
* * *
Minister Culpepper was not a particularly eccentric or colorful man. In fact, those who knew him best might even call him pedestrian. In his behavior there was, however, one notable exception. His Internet connection was not only hacker-proof and state-of-the art, it
was
art. One day it generated one marvelous thing and another day, something else entirely. Not only that, it didn’t remain in one place for long.
Now a figure danced in front of his eyes—a computer-generated three-dimensional ballerina, about half a meter high. The hologram twirled and pirouetted, pleasing to the eye and to his childhood imagination. Presently, however, she paused and spoke a message to him that he found disturbing:
“Pursuant to your instructions, our squads in Bulgaria and Albania have been activated,” the ballerina reported in a sweet computer voice, “in preparation for Mission Monte Konos. Your warplanes are circling above the cloud cover, waiting for the weather to clear.”
Culpepper rose out of his chair, sweeping papers from his desk and sending the faux ballerina fleeing to a safer distance. “I didn’t order anything like that!” he roared. “Mission Monte Konos? What is going on here?”
“You are displeased, sir?” The computer voice sounded confused. . . .
Moments later, Styx Tertullian hurried into the office, having been summoned. “Minister?” he said with a slight bow. Peripherally, he watched the ballerina hologram, which was nearly motionless in the air in the middle of the room.
“Tell him what you told me,” Culpepper demanded, of the Internet messenger.
She did so, after which Styx said in a convincing tone, “I am astounded, sir, and confounded. It must be a computer error.”
“I make no errors!” the ballerina protested, a squeal that was no longer sweet. “I am integrated with a Mayberry III mainframe, linked to the Bureau’s own—”
“Well you’ve made an error anyway!” Styx insisted.
“Not possible!”
With a shrug, Culpepper shut off the ballerina’s voice. The diminutive figure continued to mouth silent protestations.
“You must be right, Styx,” he said. “Find out about this. Now.”
“I will, sir, and the responsible technicians will be
terminated
.”
* * *
“I know you’re upset with me,” Alex said, “but you don’t understand everything that’s going on.” He scratched the back of his neck.
“Stow it,” Lori said. “I’m not interested.” She heard water running on the other side of a wall, and earlier had heard a guard mention a problem with storm water leaking. . . .
Alex and Lori sat on the floor at opposite corners of the cell, glaring at one another across the space. Under the circumstances, he thought, they couldn’t get any farther apart than this. A series of arguments between them had escalated, and this morning even Alex wanted out of the cell. He tried to tell himself he no longer cared what happened to the girl, or to himself. But he knew this was only half right. He was extremely worried about her, especially the way she wouldn’t go along with anything he told her, the way she kept getting more and more upset with him.
Not so long ago, she seemed to have liked him, might even have had sex with him if he’d wanted to, but now she seemed to consider him anathema. Who knows what she was really thinking? For a fifteen-year-old, she certainly was complex. In some ways she was mature beyond her years, but in others, especially in matters involving relationships with boys, she seemed decidedly naïve. . . .
As Lori glared at Alex across the short expanse of floor she wondered about his true motives. He’d faked the role of a dimwit, had gotten her involved in the unsuccessful kidnapping attempt. Was Alex as brave and gallant as he wanted her to believe, or was he duplicitous? He certainly was full of himself.
“How am I supposed to know when you’re lying and when you’re telling the truth?” she asked.
“Well I can understand why you say that, but consider this. Even liars tell the truth sometimes. Even liars have feelings and can do honorable things. Do you believe that could be possible?” He scooted over by her. Even though they were the same height, he sat taller than she did.
“I think you and your mother set up the whole kidnapping episode as an excuse to lock me up. The switched children, the trap. It was all a big scheme.”
“That’s ludicrous. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Sometimes when I look at you, I see her in your features.” She paused. “How much
are
you like her, Alex?”
“Not at all! Where do you get such ridiculous thoughts?”
Lori didn’t really believe the accusation she’d just made against him, but she had thrown it out as a trial balloon anyway, to see how he’d react, to watch the expression on his face. His voice and features had betrayed nothing but apparent sincerity to her, but he was known to be skilful at deception. There were dimensions to him that intrigued her, but she sensed danger there. She didn’t like to be manipulated, by him or by his mother. The teenager longed for the comparative simplicity of high school in Seattle and her life on the streets. She felt as if she were caught in a whirlwind.
Looking confused and angry, Alex crossed the room, to the corner where he had been. This time he didn’t look at her.
“I don’t even want to think about you,” he said.
* * *
Through a one-way monitor concealed in the mottled rock of the ceiling, Dixie Lou watched, but couldn’t hear their words. Leaking storm water had shorted out the surveillance equipment in the cell, and replacement parts were on order.
For three days she had been observing and recording them (until the equipment failed), hoping to learn something important about Lori Vale, something she might use to understand and control the mysterious, difficult teenager. But the girl’s arguments with Alex were just that, arguments. They didn’t provide the Chairwoman with any insights.
In her mind’s eye, Dixie Lou envisioned killing both of them with her bare hands, so that she could experience the pleasure of their flat, dead eyes staring into oblivion.
Chapter 35
Women, being smaller and less muscular than men, must use their brains more in order to compete. The brains of men, in disuse because of their reliance upon brawn, have atrophied to a dangerous, almost dysfunctional level.
—Introduction to “A Woman’s Survival Guide,” a satirical UWW play
The blonde-haired baby had a rather large head, almost giving it a hydrocephalic appearance, with the skull out of proportion to the body. Employing mock secrecy and staged security, Dixie Lou had the child brought into the quarters of the she-apostles one day and placed in its own room, with a matron. A name was posted over the door, in ornate script: “Martha of Galilee.”
Dixie Lou met privately with the child, and purportedly from these sessions, words and events were added to the text of the
Holy Women’s Bible
. The “good news” spread quickly throughout the monastery complex: The last she-apostle had been found and the
Holy Women’s Bible
was nearing completion!
But in her innermost thoughts the Chairwoman brooded, wondering about the real twelfth she-apostle, and if it might be the baby she saw with Lori in the shared vision. Lori’s baby. Uncertainties bothered Dixie Lou, working like an infection at her innards. Were powerful forces at work—human or otherwise—concealing the information in the possession of this she-apostle, controlling its dissemination?
And in her personal torments Dixie Lou debated about whether or not to discuss the shared vision with any of the councilwomen. The first name that occurred to her as a potential confidant was Deborah Marvel, but she quickly ruled her out. Deborah might think she was out of her mind, which could result in the council attempting to remove her from the red chair.
* * *
Liz Torrence stood at attention, her toes on the edge of a rock precipice that overhung the valley floor. A biting wind whipped her hair, and rain misted her face. All morning and afternoon the storm had continued. On each side of her stood the surviving members of her group, also at attention. They were dressed alike, in gray denim jeans and shirts.
Her thoughts flashed back to minutes before, when the would-be rescuers had been in a subterranean room, having a blinding light shone in their eyes by a tall, exceedingly heavy female security officer.
“You will go outside and stand on the edge of the cliff,” the officer had said, “and in that position you will either tell us everything we want to know or you will be pushed off.”
Liz felt a heavy hand on her shoulder now, pressing a little, and heard a smooth, flowing voice in her ear, as if the wind were whispering to her . . . questions about her involvement in the kidnapping conspiracy. She didn’t feel brave or rebellious, and only wanted to pass this test, one of many she had already endured.
“We met regularly at Yonney’s apartment,” Liz shouted, to be heard over the storm. Unable to stop the flow of words, she rattled off the names of her comrades, along with everything she knew about their involvement.
Simultaneously, she heard the others talking. On her right, Christine Brickowski told of surreptitiously copying documents from the Scriptorium, and how her sister, a Scriptorium editor, had not known about it. On her left, Dan Rhodes told how he had obtained handguns and rifles constructed of composites that could not be detected by surveillance equipment.
Liz felt the pressure on her shoulder diminish and finally disappear. Glancing peripherally, she saw no one behind her, or behind anyone else. She’d only imagined it, or . . . and this made more sense to her . . . they’d used a power of suggestion on her, and undoubtedly on the others as well.
The voices ceased. All had been said.
Feeling a sudden compulsion, Liz turned and led the way back through mounting wind and rain to the underground room, where she found the security officer waiting for them.
A video screen beside the officer flashed on, showing Liz and the others on the edge of the cliff, their backs to the camera. Their voices could be heard, speaking simultaneously. Then a filtering system eliminated storm noises and separated each voice, so that they were heard individually in their complete statements, and recorded.
While watching this on the screen, the conspirators shuffled uneasily on their feet. Presently the security officer removed a tiny microphone from the lapel of each of them, and the group filed out of the room, followed by the officer.
Each day it had been something different, a new method of probing their thoughts and reactions, of tormenting them into utter and complete submission. Liz wondered what unbearable cruelty she would be required to endure tomorrow.
* * *
Styx Tertullian had never done anything nearly as difficult as this. He was a man who had led countless commando raids against heretical females, killing them, taking them prisoner and torturing them without compunction. All these things he had done for the sake of his beloved Bureau of Ideology, for the benefit of the glorious Christian cause and all that was eternally good and moral. He was certain that God in His infinite mercy understood, even condoned, the things Styx had been forced to do.
This time, though, it was different, and Styx wasn’t certain if God would understand, wasn’t certain if this course of action would dispatch him to the fiery realm instead of through the pearly gates. The problem had more to do with a difference of opinion, with disparate views of the future of the Bureau, and a disagreement over how best to handle the heretical women at Monte Konos.
Styx had tunnel vision when it came to those women. Every morning when he awoke they were the first thing on his mind, and every night he thought about them as he drifted off to sleep. He was constantly thinking about them, working through plans to annihilate them, imagining all of them stone-cold dead.
For years he’d been upset that Minister Culpepper had never trusted him to lead a large scale military operation. Styx was tired of the small assignments he’d been given, even though one of them had been to question the leader of the hated women, Amy Angkor-Billings. Torturing and killing her had not been enough. He wanted more. According to word that had reached BOI headquarters, the women had replaced her with that black witch, Dixie Lou Jackson, and the women’s operations were proceeding with even more fervor than before.
The
Holy Women’s Bible
. . . Thus far Styx had only seen excerpts from it, but Culpepper had accepted the offer from President Markwether to reduce their funding demand in exchange for a computer printout of the unfinished manuscript. That had been six days ago, and the manuscript was expected to arrive any moment now. What a foolish way to spend a billion dollars. In any event, such lousy decisions would soon be a thing of the past.
The women had to be stopped quickly, at any cost.
As Styx stood by Minister Culpepper that fateful morning, peering over his shoulder at the computer screen, the Minister was using voice commands to order updated reports from paramilitary forces in and around Greece. A pair of Raphael and da Vinci paintings were on the wall behind the Minister, and on his credenza stood a reliquary box said to contain a fragment of the “True Cross” on which Jesus was crucified—all items secretly removed from the Vatican by the BOI, with evidence falsified to make it look like the UWW did it.
“This is no computer error,” Culpepper said. “I’ve received independent corroboration. Someone has ordered our forces into position for a strike. Who overrode my authority, and why?”
Scowling, the fat man wrote an e-mail countermanding the earlier orders, and was about to send it. He reeked of angry sweat. At a sound from Styx, he stopped and looked up at him.
Tears streamed down Styx’s face, and he barely suppressed a sob. He had his right hand behind his back.
“Son, what is it?” Culpepper asked. Then he saw the hand coming around from behind, with something glinting in it.
Unable to look, Styx closed his eyes, slamming the knife into Culpepper’s side, penetrating the rib cage and piercing the heart. The big man gasped, slumped to the other side, and toppled from his chair.
Moments later two aides rushed into the office. Styx had paid them off.
“Remove him,” Styx ordered, “and spread the heart attack story.”
As they dragged the heavy Minister, groaning from his weight, Styx erased the e-mail and wrote one of his own, for distribution to important political, and religious leaders around the world, including the President of the United States and the Pope. All would be informed of the unfortunate, untimely death of Minister Nelson Culpepper, following twenty-nine years of service and dedication to the Bureau.
“The Lord Almighty called him home,” Styx wrote at the end of the e-mail. A line he liked very much.
In ensuing days, falsified medical reports would be released to key leaders, purported evidence that Culpepper had been suffering from a heart condition for years, exacerbated by high blood pressure and a quick temper . . . it was a medical condition that he supposedly took great pains to conceal. A personal notation by his doctor would say it was a wonder he had lasted as long as he had. Even the autopsy would be falsified . . .
doctored
. Styx smiled at the wordplay, and it eased some of the tension he had been feeling.
Through meticulous planning and preparation he had set up the means of disposing of the body and obtaining the medical reports, through men who were steadfastly loyal to him, men who would serve his new regime as it blazed a glorious path into the future. He felt the sadness for Culpepper dissipating, replaced by a welling sense of euphoria. Now he could proceed with full force against Monte Konos.
Nothing stood in his way. He already felt the winds of God against his back, propelling him forward.
