The Stolen Gospels (28 page)

Chapter 36

Behold, the new things do I declare: before they spring forth I tell you of them. Sing unto She-God a new song, and her praise from the end of the earth. Let the wilderness and the cities thereof lift up their voices in joy; let the inhabitants of the earth sing, let them shout from the tops of the mountains. Let them give glory unto She-God, and declare her praise forever.

—Isaiah 42:9–12, as amended in the
Holy Women’s Bible

On the fifth day after bringing the counterfeit Martha in, Dixie Lou went to her own office on the top floor of the Refectory Building. It was shortly before 7:00 AM, her customary time of arrival. She found Fujiko Harui waiting in the shadowy corridor by the office door, pacing the floor.

“Did you get my message,” Fujiko said, “that I need to discuss my daughter with you?”

“Make it short,” Dixie Lou said. “My patience has limits.”

“I don’t want favoritism, only simple human decency for Siana, fairness for her. The kidnapping wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know what she was getting into. They talked her into it, didn’t tell her everything that was going on.”

“I’m not granting any favors for my own son, so why should I listen to you?”

“Because Siana just went along with the others. She didn’t plan any of it.”

“How do you know that?”

“A mother knows her own child.” The small Japanese woman had a facial tic on her left cheek, one Dixie Lou hadn’t noticed before. Apparently it was stress-induced.

Fujiko started to say something more, but Dixie Lou waved an arm dismissively and voice-activated codes on the control panel of the door to open it. “We’ll discuss this another time,” she said. “I’m busy right now.”

She stepped past the councilwoman, pushed the office door open.

“You don’t have any right to do what you’re doing,” Fujiko said. “Two in each cell, and one dies?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“The council needs to decide the fate of the prisoners, not you.”

“Don’t push me on this,” Dixie Lou said.

“All right. I’m sorry, but I’m just worried about Siana. As a mother, you can understand that?”

Dixie Lou didn’t respond.

“Bobbi is just as worried about her niece, who’s innocent, too. Bobbi wants me to tell you that she’ll vote with you on any council issue, whatever it takes.”

“I never had any doubt of that. What about you?”

The eyes flared and almost produced tears, but Fujiko said, “You can count on me, too. I already voted with you on faking the twelfth she-apostle.”

“Oh did you?” the Chairwoman said, with a tight smile. “I didn’t notice.” She entered her office and slammed the door, then heard a muffled retort out in the hallway, and the thump of a fist or shoe against the wall. Presently it grew silent and Dixie Lou turned her attention to the report on her desk, concerning her escaped stud knight, Giovanni.

The report didn’t have much new information in it, so she sighed and pushed it aside, then pulled a thick stack of papers toward her, the latest computer printout of the
Holy Women’s Bible
. Her false Gospel of Martha had been incorporated into the manuscript.

Thumbing through the pages, she found no major changes that needed to be made. By the following morning she would receive the final copyediting suggestions. The book was almost ready to go to press.

* * *

In a dune buggy with two surfboards on the top-rack, Gilberto Inez drove over a cobblestone street and brought the car to a stop in front of a small adobe building. A weathered wooden sign with faded red letters hung unevenly over the door, identifying this as the power and light company for the region, which encompassed this seaside market town and two smaller nearby villages.

Gilberto and his brother José—a year younger than he—got out in the bright sunlight and went into the office. The young Méxicanos were dressed in shorts and American surfer tee-shirts. For months they had been riding waves on the western coast of México, from Baja California to the Guatemala border.

The office clerk, a woman with a huge mole over her eyebrow, was pleasant enough, but to Gilberto smelled as if she hadn’t showered in weeks. Hearing the request from the boys, she checked a large ledger book. “Seven Avenido de los Cruces, you say?”

“That’s it,” José said. “Our parents’ house. They want us to have the power turned on and get it ready for them. They’re arriving at the end of the week.”

The taller of the two despite being a year younger, José had blue-black hair like his brother, but his face was long and narrow, more their mother’s features. In contrast, Gilberto stood shorter and blockier, favoring the paternal side of their family, and had long sideburns with dark, baby fine hair on his upper lip.

“Oh yes, here it is.” The clerk looked up at José. “Your mother is Professor Inez, isn’t she?”

“That’s right.”

“My nephew is an intern at the clinic here. He said he studied under her in México City, and that your mother is quite brilliant.”

“That’s true,” José said.

“Okay, boys, the power will be turned on this afternoon. Do we bill the usual place, the postal box in México D.F.?” She was referring to Mexico City, in its federal district.

Gilberto answered in the affirmative.

A short while later the dune buggy rolled up the long driveway to the house. “Place looks surprisingly good,” Gilberto observed. “Did Mom and Dad hire a gardener?”

“I don’t know. They must have.”

The boys toted heavy duffel bags into the front parlor, set them down with a thump on the terra cotta floor and looked around. “They must have a maintenance man, too,” José said. Through a window he saw a ladder leaning against the house. “Hey
hermano
, what do you say we go down to the beach this afternoon and check out the waves?”

“Sounds good to me.”

Gilberto heard what sounded like the cry of a baby. He exchanged puzzled glances with José.

In the smallest bedroom they found a woman asleep on the bed, with a baby in a basket by her. The woman stirred. Her eyelids fluttered. She was dark-skinned and round-faced, perhaps one of the reclusive, rarely seen mountain
indios
. Her cheeks were flushed, and beads of perspiration covered her brow. She wasn’t much older than the boys.

“
Señorita
?” Gilberto said.

She sat straight up. The bedding slipped to her lap. She wore a caramel brown dress. “Oh!” she exclaimed.

“Who are you?” José demanded.

Her eyes were huge with fear. “Consuela Santos. I haven’t stolen anything. My baby Marta needed a place to stay. I have worked hard, repaired the doors and windows, cleaned the yard and the entire house. I planted vegetables, but the seeds are old and some didn’t sprout. Every day I work, but today I’m so tired. I fell asleep.”

She took the baby to her breast, letting the child suckle hungrily for several minutes. Out of courtesy, the boys left the room, and returned when Marta was finished.

“Come with me,” Consuela said after a time, putting the child in the basket. “I will show you what I have done here.”

“How did you get in?” José asked, as the boys followed her into the kitchen.

“I found an unlocked bedroom window.” She hung her head. “We have eaten some of your food, but I have a detailed list of everything, and I will pay it all back.”

She showed them several cardboard boxes filled with empty cans and packages that she had opened. All had been cleaned and neatly organized.

“Why didn’t you just write it all down?” Gilberto asked.

“I do not write so good,” she answered. “I can’t read, either, mostly numbers.”

“The house looks very nice,” Gilberto admitted, “but we aren’t sure what to do with you. Our parents will be here in three days.”

“I understand. I will leave right away. You won’t call the
policia
? I promise to give you all the information on who I am, and I will not fail to make regular payments for the food.”

“It looks like our parents owe you money,” Gilberto said. “Did you fix this screen door?” He noted where a patch had been placed skillfully over a hole in the wire mesh.

“Yes,” she said. “I found a torn piece of screen in the storage building and cut it to fit, then wrapped wires to tighten it in place.”

“You’ve done a fine job. I can hardly notice the patch. I only know it’s there because I knocked a hole in it the last time I was here, and it was one of the things I was supposed to fix.”

“I think we should let her stay,” José suggested, “at least until Mom and Dad get here.”

“
Bueno
,” Gilberto said.

Consuela heard Marta in the other room, babbling with the strange sounds that had proven to be so troublesome.

José noticed it, and commented, “Sounds like your baby wants to talk. She’s trying to make words.”

Consuela smiled prettily, but she felt nervous. She wasn’t sure if she should remain here any longer. For her, the safety of her baby was paramount. These youths didn’t seem to have heard about the search for her daughter, but their parents might have. The young peasant woman wanted to leave right away, but was afraid it might be more dangerous somewhere else.

“Say, you look like you need some rest,” Gilberto said. He touched her arm gently. “Please,
señorita
, go back to bed.”

“You are too kind,” she said. Moments later she collapsed back into bed, and fell fast asleep.

* * *

Underground aircraft hangar, BOI headquarters . . .

As Styx Tertullian disembarked from his Lear Fan prop-jet he was approached by the Vice Minister of Doctrine & Faith, a tall, distinguished-looking man with an oval, unlined face and perfectly combed black hair. Nearly out of breath, Kylee Branson said, “This just came in. I saw you land, and since you’re Acting Minister I thought you should see it right away.”

A graduate of the finest Ivy League schools, Branson had an irritating habit of staring down his long nose through half-lidded eyes, as if he were peering at an insect. He did this no matter the comparative rank of the person with whom he was speaking; he had done the same with Minister Culpepper, and he was doing it to Styx now.

Styx scowled as he accepted a single sheet of paper bearing the BOI logo on top, a black cross on a silver background. He studied it. The report, transmitted over a secure frequency, read, “Weather not optimal for mission.”

“Satellite connections are down, sir,” Branson announced, “and this is all we can get. Shall we tell them to call off the attack? The weather is playing havoc with our equipment.”

“Call it off? I warn you, don’t say such foolish things around me. I have no time or patience for stupidity.” A fly buzzed near Styx’s face and he swatted it away. He started toward a bank of elevators.

Falling into step beside his superior, Branson said, “Uh, sir, I apologize if I’m speaking out of place, but I must tell you that some of the, uh . . . officers of the Bureau are worried about the plan to attack Monte Konos. Some fear it will create an embarrassing international incident, and others want to know more about the heretical religious texts there before they are destroyed.”

“And you? How do you feel about it?” Despite his personal dislike for Branson, he had to admit he was extremely competent and loyal to the Bureau. For this reason Tertullian had placed him in charge of the attack on Monte Konos.

“Oh, I support the mission, sir. I’m just passing information on to you.” He smiled nervously, revealing a set of flawless teeth.

“Tell me the truth. I don’t like liars, and I don’t tolerate yes-men.” Styx brushed crumbs from his uniform, the remnants of an egg salad sandwich he had eaten onboard the aircraft. With irritation, he noticed an oily mayonnaise stain.

Branson reddened, an uncharacteristic crack in his eggshell skin. “Uh, apologies, but I’m worried, too, sir. Minister Culpepper is concerned about such a large attack inside the sovereign nation of Greece. We’ve never done anything on this scale before.”

Styx stepped on a pressure plate to order an elevator. “You’re forgetting one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“The Bureau of Ideology doesn’t exist.”

A perplexed expression formed on Branson’s unlined face. “But if word of the attack gets out to our congressional friends and wealthy contributors it could jeopardize funding sources.”

“Who’s going to tell them?
You
?”

“No. I would never do that!”

Above the elevator door, red-and-green lights blinked. Watching the pattern, Styx said, “We don’t exist and none of it happened. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

The elevator arrived and Styx stepped aboard. The Vice Minister didn’t try to follow.

Holding the door open, Styx barked, “Have our operatives dropped into the Macedonian mountains, and continue with the mission schedule. And don’t tell me our warplanes can’t fly in bad weather. We’re going in, and nothing is going to stop us. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

The elevator doors closed with a percussive thump, and the car descended. On the ride down to his office level, Styx anticipated what would happen next. Soon his agents—those that survived the perilous trip through the storm—would be infiltrating the caves, tunnels and catacombs of Monte Konos . . . killing guards, rigging explosives, destroying defensive military materiel and fortifications, poisoning the ancient water cisterns that were still in use. In the ensuing full-scale attack these BOI operatives, unbeknownst to them, would be sacrificed. Good men would be lost, and this was a pity, but unavoidable.

The blasphemous
Holy Women’s Bible
made it all necessary. Styx wanted to cut off the cancer at its source, before it had a chance to spread any more. He hoped he was in time, that the unfinished version stolen by the stud knight was the only one to have gotten out.

In his private office the computer screen displayed a map of Greece, with a blinking red dot marked “Monte Konos.” Flashing yellow dots in Bulgaria and Albania designated the locations of BOI strike forces that were being dispatched.

He sat back in his chair and sighed. By the grace of God this mission would not fail. With every fiber of his being Styx loathed those women, and in prayer he requested fiery, painful deaths for all of them.