The Lost Apostles (16 page)
With her curiosity peaked, Sister Meryl used a precision tool to adjust a digital camera smaller than her fingernail, then slipped the camera into her pocket.
Chapter 20
The truth can be a dangerous commodity.
—Lori Vale
Raffaela and Arsinio stood on the porch of their vacation home, using binoculars to watch fishing boats and pleasure craft out on the water. They heard something crack in the garden, then noticed a gray gull land. The bird began pecking the meat out of the a broken clamshell it had just dropped on a rock.
Beside them, the brown-skinned baby sat on a porch swing, propped in position by large pillows on either side of her. She held a bright blue toy boat on her lap, and uttered words occasionally, stringing a few together.
The Inez boys were out with Consuela again, having fun on a double date. They had departed only a few minutes before. Consuela was with the older boy Gilberto, three years her junior, while José was with a pleasant, though plain, girl he’d met at the beach, the daughter of a wealthy local farmer.
The shadows of early evening had set in, with the young people having just departed. A crab and lobster casserole, prepared by Consuela, was cooking in the oven of the wood-burning stove. Mouth-watering aromas filled the house and drifted out onto the porch. In an hour, Raffaela was supposed to turn the oven off and let the dish cool, then refrigerate it. Consuela had an unusual way of preparing it, said she had learned it from her old
abuela
, her grandmother.
But Raffaela and Arsinio were not thinking about dinner. They were only biding their time, making sure the young people weren’t going to come back for something they had forgotten.
“It’s time,” Arsinio finally said. He set the binoculars on a wicker table and lifted the baby into his arms.
They entered the living room, and from her purse Raffaela removed a recording ball marked
Holy Women’s Bible
. She inserted it into the VR-TV.
Classical piano music played as credits rolled. The music faded and a gold-robed woman appeared in three-dimensional form in the middle of the room. She delivered a short introduction, followed by the close-up projection of a toddler with bright green eyes.
Identified as the Apostle Veronica, the child sat in a tall chair and spoke rapidly, with a translator speaking over her voice in Spanish. The translator said this was a recording made months ago, at the since-destroyed retreat of Monte Konos.
Excitedly, Marta pointed at the images that floated in the air, and let go of her toy boat. She began babbling rapidly, as if talking directly to Veronica. Though Raffaela could not understand anything, she picked out some of the same sounds and phraseology being used by both children.
Glancing at her husband, she saw his stunned expression. They exchanged uneasy glances. Consuela had been telling the truth, and it meant all of them were in extreme peril.
* * *
The following afternoon, vans and buses moved into position on the surface streets of Rome around Vatican City, where they disgorged female soldiers disguised as tourists. Inside the holy city, four nuns and two disgruntled priests—all of whom believed strongly in women’s rights—were UWW operatives, sworn to do the bidding of the Chairwoman. Each of them had a separate assignment, without knowing who the other operatives were. Alarm systems were being compromised and security doors were being disabled in the tunnels and catacombs beneath the buildings, so that they could not be locked.
The Swiss Guard stationed at the Vatican numbered only a few hundred men who went about ceremonial duties for the most part. At the main entrances of the major tourist attractions they maintained tight security—in particular for St. Peter’s Basilica, the Sistine Chapel, the Vatican Palace, and the Vatican museums.
Nonetheless, armed UWW operatives were able to slip undetected into the immense Piazza di San Pietro and the surrounding porticos, where they sat on the steps or stood around, talking and waiting. Finally several of them approached St. Peter’s Basilica, the most sacred church in all of Christendom. Atop nearby buildings, yellow-and-white Vatican flags flew, displaying the papal emblem: staff, tiara, crossed keys.
At five minutes before one o’clock in the afternoon, at the height of the tourist onslaught on the Vatican, the UWW operatives heard automatic weapons fire from the basilica and knew the subterranean assault squad was emerging from the tunnel system into the sacred building. All across the square, disguised tourists brought out automatic rifles and snapped them together.
Snipers picked off guards stationed at the church. Alarm sirens sounded frantically, in the foreground and distance.
* * *
Captain Aldo Gasperi had not slept well the night before. During the lunch break he had closed the door of his Vatican office in order to lay his head on the desk top, intending to take only a short nap. Soon, however, he slipped into deep sleep, and nearly an hour passed. When the alarms sounded he heard them, but at first he didn’t move, thinking it was only a dream.
Suddenly, as the shock of realization seeped through the layers of consciousness, he sat up and bolted for the door.
Chapter 21
Biologically and intellectually the human female is the most advanced creature on earth, with her body containing thousands of complex connections and interactions dedicated to the creation and maintenance of life.
—BOI Archives, suppressed medical report
Just before the gunfire, Deborah Marvel, other councilwomen, and all of the counterfeit she-apostles (with their matrons) had been waiting at the main entrance to the Vatican, while Dixie Lou bustled about nervously, talking to uniformed UWW guards. At the same time, more uniformed guards had appeared, and UWW soldiers with them, seeming to flow out of shadows on the street, making Deborah wonder why the Chairwoman was bringing so much security. The whole situation had seemed odd to her, bringing such a large entourage and so many guards for a meeting between Dixie Lou Jackson and Pope Rodrigo.
Back in Libya, Dixie Lou had outlined her plan. Following the satellite broadcast from Rome, she said she was scheduled to meet with Pope Rodrigo, to obtain his blessing for the UWW and the plight of disadvantaged women all over the world. Dixie Lou claimed she intended to plead her case to the Vicar of Christ and try for his political support.
Then the gunfire had begun, and explosions had rocked the Vatican. Dixie Lou ran into the fray shouting, “It’s She-Time!”—but none of her councilwomen knew what she meant.
* * *
White House Cabinet Room, shortly after 2:00 PM, EST . . .
Zack Markwether sat at the table beside his brother, with the members of the cabinet. As they watched a VR-TV on one wall, they made moans and mutterings of displeasure. Dixie Lou Jackson was holding a bizarre press conference, transmitted all over the world by satellite.
“I still can’t believe this kooky lady is holding the Pope hostage,” Secretary of State Harold Gravidovitch said. “How did she ever pull it off?” He was a small man with a pointed nose. His checkered yellow and brown tie was loose at the collar.
“You tell us,” President Markwether said, leveling a hard stare at him.
With a shrug, Gravidovitch responded, “It just happened. What do you expect?”
“Do not take that tone with my brother,” Zack interjected, his tone almost menacing.
“You’re not even a Cabinet Minister,” Gravidovitch countered. “I don’t take orders from you.”
“Please, gentlemen,” President Markwether said. “We don’t want to be at each other’s throats. Remain calm, so that we can think this through.”
On the screen, Dixie Lou Jackson continued to speak. Several Cabinet Ministers snickered when she said the babies with her were the female apostles of Jesus . . . reincarnated. But others present, including Zack and the President, remained silent.
“I’m speaking from the Papal Altar,” Dixie Lou said, “designed and built by the famed artist Gian Lorenzo Bernini in the seventeenth century.” The camera zoomed back to display the priceless altar for the viewing audience. “Isn’t it magnificent?”
Zack ground his teeth together, then stood and stared at the virtual-reality TV, with Dixie Lou and her surroundings seeming to float in the air in front of the television screen. He wasn’t a Catholic, but his mother had been. He was thankful that she wasn’t alive to witness this sacrilege, the kidnapping of the Pope. It was an outrage! Military forces had been sent to Italy by NATO, but they were not attacking. The wacky high priestess had her own forces, and the Pope, three cardinals, and the sacred Vatican were her bargaining chips.
Dixie Lou Jackson continued. “I’ve learned the most interesting historical facts. Directly beneath this altar are the bones of St. Peter, but the body has no feet. Most intriguing, wouldn’t you agree? But this was taken as one of the proofs of identity of the remains, since religious martyrs were typically crucified, and victims were often cut down from their crosses the quickest way—by slashing off their feet at the ankles, with a sword. The bones . . . found in a purple garment . . . date from the first century AD.
“Many of you are concerned about our presence here, in the holiest of Christian shrines. But let me assure you that we would never consider defiling this lovely place, which more than a billion Roman Catholics consider blessed. There is no cause for concern whatsoever. First of all, we are not a violent or destructive organization. On the contrary, we are peaceful and only seek to rebuild what was destroyed by men. Secondly—and this is a crucial point—we also consider this shrine holy, for we are devout Christians, followers of the beloved Jesus Christ, who counted women among his apostles. We have proof, however, that the men who led the early church discarded our holy gospels, even destroyed them, so that women could be kept in their place.
“We’re putting men on notice. Never again will we be quote unquote ‘put in our place.’ At this moment my forces completely control Vatican City, and we are prepared to annihilate everything here—all the priceless treasures of art and antiquity—if NATO attacks us. We have taken these steps in order to draw worldwide attention to our cause, the cause of freedom and equality for all women.”
“Where’s the Pope?” shouted one of the television reporters in the great cathedral.
“In comfortable quarters.”
“How do we know you really have him?”
“If I don’t have him, I hereby challenge him to make a public appearance. He will not appear, ladies and gentlemen, because he is not able to. Not without our permission.”
“Is it true you’ve wired the Vatican with explosives?” another reporter shouted, a man with long gray hair.
“Regrettably, yes, though I take no pleasure in admitting this. But I assure you, my friends, the end does justify the means! For too long, religious women have been kept under the yoke of cruel, uncaring men. It takes a radical event like this to turn things around.”
“But what do you say to those who accuse you of being a common criminal, of attempting to blackmail the Christian world?”
“I warn you: Do not challenge me, or you will not like my response.”
The press corps fell silent.
“Scary lady,” Zack said. Upset, he left the Cabinet Room.
* * *
At BOI headquarters in Washington State, Styx Tertullian threw a paperweight at his own VR-television, smashing the receiver and shutting it off with a fizzle and a spark. His startled Vice Ministers and other staff members, seated around the conference room, stared at him without saying anything.
“I’m going away for a few days, “ Styx said, “to consult with someone important.”
“With whom?” Vice Minister Kylee Branson asked.
“I’ll let you know when I get back. For now, you’re in charge, Kylee.”
Revealing no more, Styx hurried into his office to shut down his computer terminal. Fifteen minute later, he was in a subterranean hangar, boarding his personal jet.
* * *
“We’re leaving for Mexico City tomorrow,” Raffaela Inez announced. She and Consuela stood on the brick floor of the kitchen, mixing unsweetened chocolate into a dark
mole poblano
sauce that bubbled in a pot on the wood-burning stove.
Consuela dipped a finger into the sauce, tasted it. “A little more chicken broth would be good,” she suggested.
Raffaela poured in the amber broth, stirred the mixture. “We want you and your baby to come with us. You will be safe there in our home. We’ve been without a live-in maid and cook for months now, and we are very tired of eating ready-made meals.” Actually, she had much more than that in mind, something she was not revealing. Steps had already been taken; they had sent a letter to Rome.
“You want me to cook for you? And clean? You’re offering me a position?”
Raffaela smiled. “You’re very good in the kitchen and ever so neat. We would certainly appreciate your help. For your services you would receive room and board plus two hundred pesos a week. Well, what do you say?”
Tears overflowed the girl’s lower eyelids and streamed down her dark cheeks. Touched by this, Raffaela moved close. Placing an arm around her, the older woman said, “We also want to talk with you more about the bad doctors. You may have been right about them.”
Consuela wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Thank you,
Señora
. God has sent you to help us in our time of need.”
Chapter 22
The she-apostles are arisen;
The she-apostles are among us.
—Mantra, United Women of the World
In the connected apartments, Lori and Alex tried to find out from the she-apostles how Candace had performed her vanishing act at Monte Konos, and how they had performed the telekinetic tricks onboard the helicopter. But whenever they asked the children about these mysterious occurrences, they acted as if they didn’t understand, and never repeated the feats—not even when Lori showed them a paper cup, particles of sand from the pocket of Mary Magdalene’s robe, and even a handful of bullets, to represent the hail of gunfire that Candace had eluded by vanishing for an instant and then reappearing when the danger was past.
After a couple of attempts, Lori left Alex with the children, since he was so good with them. . . .
Back in her apartment, she returned to another matter she had been contemplating, the reason she had come to Rome. Initially she had wanted to dislodge Dixie Lou from the leadership of the UWW and the harm this was doing to the cause of women. Now she had an additional reason to bring her down, because of the Vatican pulpit she had taken so forcefully, in such an ignominious fashion. None of this was doing women any good.
Deep in thought, the teenager thumbed through an international newspaper that Fujiko and her daughter Siana had obtained, reviewing all news on the Vatican takeover. Breathing a long, exasperated sigh, she finally folded the paper and set it aside, with a photograph of the imprisoned Pope Rodrigo on top. Her gaze lingered on the pontiff’s kindly face briefly, without fully focusing on him. Then she thought of something to do. It would involve changing the story she had made up about the terminally ill adults and children in her care.
It would require telling the truth, to a lot of people. And the payment of more money to Mrs. Capo and Domingo Petrovese.
* * *
Styx Tertullian was slow to awaken. He had always been this way and invariably it upset him. He was the kind of person who wanted to get to work right away since he had so much to do, but his body was uncooperative, requiring two cups of espresso every morning to prime its biological engine.
In the kitchen, situated next to his bedroom, he heard Mrs. Bonham scuffling around as she used her walker. He remembered coming to stay her in West Seattle a short while ago, for a visit with the octogenarian who had been his mother’s closest friend. He did this for a few days of much-needed vacation where no one would bother him, in a hideaway where he couldn’t be located and hounded for decisions. After all, he didn’t know what to do about the heretical UWW women who had taken over the Vatican. All options seemed woefully inadequate to him, and his brain had been fatigued from the unending meetings, the long hours, the steady stream of crises.
His arms felt heavy. He tried to force himself to sit up, and in doing so he heard the disturbing rattle of chains. Something was secured to his wrists! Looking down without his eyeglasses, he saw the fuzzy images of his wrists in handcuffs, connected to the bedposts by chains and padlocks. He noticed his eyeglasses on a side table, but could not reach them.
“Good morning, young man,” the elderly Mrs. Bonham said pleasantly, as she shuffled into the room, gripping the rails of her walker. The walker had a basket in front, containing a folded newspaper, a white-and-gold book, and a plate of fudge squares.
The angular old woman stopped at his bed, and he saw that the book was a softcover copy of the
Holy Women’s Bible
. He swore under his breath, and his pulse raced. A little over a week had passed since the blasphemy had been published on the Internet.
“What are you doing?” Styx demanded. “Release me immediately!”
“For what purpose?”
“I need to get back to my office, of course. Have you gone mad?”
She extended the plate of fudge, to within his reach. “It’s fresh out of the oven.”
“I don’t want any,” he said, pushing the plate away.
“Too bad for you. It’s the last treat of a condemned man.”
“What do you mean, you crazy old woman?”
Placing the
Holy Women’s Bible
on his lap, she said, “Read Psalm 37:40, and then I’m going to have to kill you.”
“Just because I won’t eat your fudge?”
“Hardly. What a shallow thing to say.”
“But why?” Tertullian whined. “I thought you were my friend.”
“You have no
female
friends,” the old woman said. “Not even me.” Something bulged in the pocket of her dress, and she brought it out. A large, heavy meat tenderizer. She raised it overhead, with the teeth of the tenderizer block pointed toward him.
“No!” he said.
“Read the scripture!”
“I need my glasses!”
Setting the kitchen tool down, she slipped his wire-rimmed eyeglasses onto his face.
The lenses were smudged, but in a quavering voice he began reading: “‘The She-God shall help us and deliver us from wicked men, because we trust in her.’”
He looked up. “But this isn’t Psalm 37:40! It’s been changed!”
“
Men
changed it first! We only restored it, and this is the way the sacred text shall read evermore!” She had the meat tenderizer again.
“God is not female!”
“Call upon your God to protect you then!” the old woman howled, raising the improvised weapon high above him.
He began to pray, a feverish outpouring. On a table just beyond his reach sat his black leather briefcase, containing a laptop computer that could connect him to BOI military forces around the world. If only he could find a way. . . .
With demonic strength Mrs. Bonham swung the tenderizer repeatedly, ripping Styx’s pillow open with the sharp teeth, but not striking him. A cloud of goose quills fluttered all around.
He whimpered and cried and cowered, and spit goose quills out of his mouth. With trepidation, he opened his eyes and peered at her.
Finally the old woman set the heavy object aside. “Now,” she said, breathing hard. “Won’t you reconsider having some fudge? I get so upset when people won’t eat what I cook.”
“OK,” he murmured, barely able to speak.
* * *
In the Piazza di San Pietro, Dixie Lou assembled all of the nuns in their black habits, along with female office workers, a small army of bishops, cardinals, and other male Vatican officials. It was a brisk evening, and the crowd shivered in a cold wind. New green-and-orange banners fluttered on the buildings, replacing Vatican flags that had been taken down. Somewhere in the throng was the nun who had smuggled information out to the UWW, but Dixie Lou didn’t care to deal with her any longer; she was of no more use to the cause.
As she stood above the plaza on a dais that was bathed in light, Dixie Lou wore a black-and-gold robe. Speaking into a microphone that floated by her face, she said, “All of you nuns and other women will be happy to learn that you are, from this day forth, free of the yokes of your former masters. I’m liberating you! As for most of the other women and the men who have been on staff here, I’m
firing
you. I want all of you to leave the premises, immediately.”
To enforce her bidding, UWW guards began prodding the crowd, guiding them all toward the main entrance of the square. Dixie Lou smiled as she watched them depart in disarray. She only needed the Pope, her own soldiers and guards, computer experts, and a skeleton crew of Vatican employees to run the place—along with the Pope’s construction crew, which she intended to put to her own uses. This made the situation more manageable for her. . . .
* * *
“I think we should put the Pope on TV,” Bobbi Torrence said, after clearing her throat. “Get him to assure more than a billion Catholics that he’s unharmed and we’re treating him well.” A special evening meeting of the council was just getting underway.
“Maybe we could actually bring him on board with us,” Nancy Winters suggested. “We might be able to convince him that all twelve of our she-apostles are authentic. If he goes on the air and makes that announcement, it would be a huge victory for us.”
“The Pope?” Dixie Lou Jackson snapped, incredulously. “Don’t be ridiculous. We don’t need him!”
Inside St. Peter’s Basilica, she sat high on the bronze Throne of St. Peter, where she had been lifted by two of the guards, despite the protestations of her council, who had expressed concern about defiling sacred objects. The most holy relic of United Women of the World, the sacred Sword of She-God, lay across her lap.
Not saying much so far today, Deborah Marvel sipped a cup of Lapsang Souchong tea, already her fourth of the day. She heard construction noises from nearby offices, an extensive remodeling project that the Chairwoman had ordered right after their arrival, to accommodate her twisted view of reality. The work was being performed by contractors who were under constant guard, and Dixie Lou said she intended to convert the Vatican into the world headquarters for United Women of the World.
Deborah felt dismal, didn’t like this Vatican situation at all. The UWW had over-extended itself, and was in danger of alienating most of the civilized world and destroying the cause of women for centuries. But Dixie Lou Jackson thought things were going well, having cited volumes of supportive e-mails and letters, and demonstrations taking place all over the world in support of her. She had tunnel vision in this regard, however, as she ignored wide-scale, mostly peaceful, protests against what she had done.
“Bring the Pope on board with us?” Dixie Lou said, continuing her response to the council. “The man who won’t allow women in the priesthood or in the College of Cardinals? The man who opposes abortions and who treats nuns as his personal servants?”
“I just thought we might try to explain ourselves to him,” Nancy said, her tone apologetic. “I’ve heard that he is a good man, and he might understand the plight of women.” The council members stood around the apse, gazing up at Dixie Lou.
“
There are no good men
, you fool! Explain ourselves to him? It is
he
who must explain himself to us! Are you daft?”
“I guess I am. Pardon me.”
“Well, what about the Pope, then?” Deborah Marvel asked. “What are we to do with him?”
“Actually, I’ve been thinking about executing him,” Dixie Lou responded, in a wintry tone. Casually, she flicked a fly off one of the ornate bronze arms of the throne.
“We can’t do that!” Deborah exclaimed.
All of the councilwomen voiced alarmed concurrence, and Deborah pointed out the strategic mistake of such a radical course of action, since a captive Pope gave them bargaining power. In reality, Deborah wished she’d been able to raise a voice of objection before the UWW attack, but that had been impossible at the time, since she hadn’t even known what Dixie Lou had in mind. She felt like a piece of flotsam in a tidal wave, unable to extricate herself.
“You don’t think Vatican City, with all the greatest art treasures and books in the universe, gives us
bargaining
power?” Dixie Lou thundered, so that her Southern drawl carried out of the throne apse and onto the nave of the immense church, the largest in the world.
“Of course,” Deborah agreed, but—”
“Anyway,” Dixie Lou interjected, staring at her own fingernails with a spoiled, displeased expression. “If I eliminate him I intend to do it quietly, so that no one will know.”
Shifting uneasily on her feet, Deborah said, “You can’t—uh, you shouldn’t do that without the advice and approval of the council. We must consider each action carefully, weighing all possible consequences.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Dixie Lou said. A cruel smile worked at her mouth, and she said, “And maybe you’re wrong.” She fiddled with the hilt of the sword on her lap.
“Pope Rodrigo should have more suitable quarters, don’t you think?” Deborah said, nervously chewing at the inside of her mouth.
“Where is he now?”
“Exactly where you instructed. At the Vatican Palace, locked inside the Pauline Chapel.”
“Oh yes, his private house of worship, the one containing those wall paintings.”
“Two magnificent frescoes by Michelangelo,” Deborah said. “The Conversion of St. Paul and The Crucifixion of St. Peter.”
“I thought it would please him to be there,” Dixie Lou said. “He can pray all day and all night.” She looked bored with this line of conversation, as if she was only humoring the council members by making them think she was considering their opinions.
Deborah found herself seeing the Chairwoman from a new angle, detecting things she hadn’t noticed before. The woman was a full-blown lunatic, a candidate for the asylum. But she had set up safeguards preventing anyone from attacking her. She had a force of guards and soldiers, as well as an explosives detonator that she carried on her person all of the time. If she ever activated that, it would blow up Vatican City.
“He’s sleeping on a mattress on the floor and using a porta-potty,” Deborah remarked. “Shouldn’t we arrange for something nicer?”
“Oh, all right,” Dixie Lou said, in an irritated tone. “I’m putting you in charge of him from now on. Just make sure he’s watched closely. Popes are tricky.”
* * *
“But this must be so expensive,” Consuela said, upon learning what her benefactors had in mind. She sat in the back seat of the boys’ dune buggy, a converted motorcar with oversized tires, holding her child on her lap. Raffaela sat beside her as they bounced over a rough section of road, with her sons in the front, Gilberto driving. They followed the red Alfa Romeo driven by Arsinio.
“Don’t worry, we can afford it,” Raffaela assured her. “Mexico City is too far to drive with the baby. This will be more comfortable for both of you.”
“But you have two cars. There is plenty of room for all of us.”
“No, dear. We insist.”
The cars pulled onto the gravel parking area of a small airfield and came to a stop by a sleek black jet that gleamed in the afternoon sun. This and other private planes were parked at the edge of the runway.
“Your airplane,” the peasant girl said, breathlessly. “It is so beautiful.”
“My parents leased it with a pilot,” José said as he opened the passenger door and tilted the bucket seat forward.” Gilberto and I are driving the cars to Mexico City.”