The Lost Apostles (27 page)
She paused. “I have an extrasensory link with the children, you see, and perhaps a link with something even deeper. Look—Dad—I need to be involved in rescuing Martha. You know the miraculous story of the she-apostles, and if you believe that, it’s not a stretch to believe more, that I’m somehow part of their destiny.”
“I don’t know what I believe,” he said. “I’m just worried about you.”
“We should both go with her,” Alex said.
“And you should get some sleep,” Zack said, looking at him. “You look as if you’re going to fall down.”
He stood there, as if too tired to even walk into his apartment.
Taking a long, deep breath, Lori said, “Dad, you apologized to me for all the years we lost together; you said you hoped it was not too late for us to start over. This is incredibly important to me, more than I can ever express to you. I hate to say this, I hate to put it this way, and I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to, but if you don’t help me now, if you don’t get us into the Vatican with the NATO assault force, you and I will
never
have a relationship.”
The tall officer looked miserable. He shook his head sadly. “I don’t want you harmed, Lori. I’d rather save your life, even if you never speak to me again.”
“If you let me down on this, you can count on that.”
“And why do you want him to go with you?” Zack shot a laser glance at Alex. “He’s one of your key advisers, you said; he’s not a military operative.”
“I believe in him completely,” she said. “Assuming he gets some sleep. I told you about him, all the ways he helped me when his mother was so awful to me.”
“Anyone else you want to bring along?” Zack asked. “Your friends from high school, maybe? Some street people from Seattle?”
She glared at him.
“All right,” he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
He grabbed his officer’s hat and coat, and stalked out.
“I need to be alone,” Lori said to Alex. She gave him a peck on the cheek, and he shuffled off to his own quarters.
* * *
By herself in the sitting room, Lori brooded over the situation.
Closing her eyes, she envisioned the faces of seven she-apostle toddlers: Veronica, Mary Magdalene, Priscilla, Sarah, Kezia, Candace, and Lydia . . . As each face came to her, she paused to examine it, in all of its details. Four she-apostle babies came into view: Esther, Hannah, Abigail, and Rhoda. Eleven she-apostles were familiar to her, in all.
Now she remembered the frightening vision she and Dixie Lou seemed to have shared involving Lori’s own future baby, a child with auburn hair like her own. Previously, Lori had wondered if this might be the real twelfth she-apostle, Martha of Galilee, but now Dixie Lou said she had her at the Vatican.
Suddenly, the visage of a brown-skinned, black-haired baby came into focus, but faded quickly. She struggled to bring the image back, but unsuccessfully. It had been so ephemeral that she couldn’t recall the facial details, only the skin and hair color.
Martha of Galilee?
Lori opened her eyes wide, but they wouldn’t focus. It was as if she was looking through a tinted window that increasingly darkened, moment by moment.
Her fingers transmitted a texture to her, something they were touching. The letter from Deborah Marvel. She focused on the ending words:
This is a critical moment in history.
Deborah was right.
The self-proclaimed Grand Messenger was moving ahead with a curious sort of determination, cranking the engine of her organization to full speed ahead. Her surprise takeover of the Vatican had been shocking, and would certainly earn her a place in the history books, albeit an ignominious one. This was big and getting bigger. The attention of the world was riveted on Rome.
Lori wondered about her own place in the history unfolding around her, how much she would be able to influence it. She didn’t care about credit for herself. She only hoped everything would turn out all right, and vowed to do whatever she could to make certain it did.
As her eyes focused, or seemed to, she saw the eleven she-apostles standing in front of her chair, looking up at her. She tried to determine if this was in her mind’s eye, or if the children really stood there. Somehow, it didn’t matter to her. The important thing was, she had a connection with them.
Lori stared at the eleven children, reached out her hands and touched some of them—or seemed to—and asked them what she should do about Martha of Galilee. They only looked at her with their expressive eyes, without saying anything, and without seeming to communicate with her in any other manner. This time it was as if they had the answer but would not share it, as if Lori needed to figure out what to do on her own. Frustrated that the children were not sharing information with her, Lori felt irritated, but only for a moment before she had second thoughts, before she realized it was another example of wordless interaction.
It was a test, pushing Lori to her limits, making her use her own abilities to figure things out for herself. If she didn’t succeed at this, she realized, then she could not possibly advance, could not possibly understand the secret realm in which the children lived.
Odd
, she thought.
Children teaching an older person. But they are “old souls,” the term Dixie Lou likes to use.
To Lori, it was also odd the way they were communicating with her, in their ancient, secret language that involved spoken and unspoken words. Perhaps when she no longer considered such methods strange, then she would understand.
“What will happen when all of you are with Martha of Galilee?” Lori asked, looking at each of the children, her gaze drifting from face to face.
In unison they smiled, in a way that gave her tremendous hope.
Chapter 35
I don’t need to negotiate with my enemies; they are rotting away.
—Dixie Lou Jackson, Grand Messenger of the Holy She
It seemed the worst sacrilege in the history of the world to have Dixie Lou Jackson—surely a pawn of Satan—in charge of the holy Vatican City. This woman had, after all, been raised in the poverty of the inner city and supported herself for years through prostitution. How could she be dislodged? To President Markwether, the problem seemed almost insurmountable, but he and his advisers were determined not to rest until it was solved.
NATO had decided upon a multi-pronged approach, one that had been instituted with the cooperation of its member nations. Thus far, Dixie Lou had refused all offers from the allies to negotiate. In London, Paris, Rome, and other major cities around the world, potential emissaries were being interviewed by diplomats and psychologists, with an emphasis on finding just the right women and men who did not sympathize with the criminal Holy She, but who understood their deviant thought patterns and motivations. That focus formed the first NATO prong, under the direction of the N-1 team.
The second prong—a propaganda campaign involving the Internet, television, radio, and print media—was already spreading negative information on the Holy She and its leadership. This effort—designated N-2—was under the supervision of the flamboyant and outspoken Rickson Prentiss, an egotistical Australian media mogul.
The United States, by agreement with the others, was responsible for N-3, the violence option, involving military force and/or assassination. That put President Markwether in charge of N-3.
In the fitness room of the White House, the President sat inside a fat-melting electronic field that shimmered all around him. Standing nearby were Harold Gravidovitch and Argan Smits, the Secretaries of State and Defense respectively, who were delivering their reports one at a time.
The President had gained fifteen pounds in a matter of weeks, and now he was embarking on a crash diet and “exertion program” to knock the weight off. He never actually worked out, preferring the comfort and ease of automatic devices. Markwether’s skin tingled from the pulsing, penetrating field; he was red-faced and breathing hard, with perspiration pouring down his brow. He wore a khaki shirt with “US ARMY” emblazoned across the chest, and had a small towel bearing the presidential seal draped over one shoulder.
While he had never served in any branch of the armed forces himself, he had run for office on a policy of strong support for the military. His brother, an Army colonel, had advised him closely on this. He wished Zack could be here now, to guide him through the difficult decisions he had to make. He wasn’t accustomed to relying on these two cabinet ministers—Gravidovitch and Smits—and they knew it. An awkward tension hung in the air.
The President hadn’t told them his brother was in Rome, and could be in danger if NATO decided to attack the Vatican. It seemed best to keep that information to himself, and to avoid worrying about it, if he could. Affairs of state always took precedence over individual or familial concerns.
“You asked me to report on the possibility of getting an assassin close to Dixie Lou Jackson,” Gravidovitch said. The small man wore a wrinkled suit, reflecting long hours of work without going home. He had removed his tie.
“
Close
to her?” Markwether snapped. “We need to get
closer
than close, you bumblehead! I want her stabbed, shot, poisoned!”
“Yes sir, but we must determine her patterns first. We have all the Vatican entrances under video surveillance, watching who they allow in and who they don’t. We’re also trailing people who emerge from the complex, and we have parabolic microphones trained on all possible windows, picking up whatever we can of the words that are being spoken in the rooms.”
“So you don’t have an answer for me yet?” Markwether said, an edge to his voice. He studied the digital readout of the calories he was burning, and increased the intensity of the electronic field.
Gravidovitch shook his head. “This is not a normal situation. We’re breaking new ground here. While we have FBI and CIA files on United Women of the World, the information on Dixie Lou Jackson is somewhat limited, just the poverty and prostitution facts being used for propaganda by Prentiss in N-2. We actually developed the information first and gave it to him. In turn he shared it with the N-1 people.”
“You did what?”
“Uh, we told Prentiss about Jackson’s unsavory background.”
The President’s face became stony. “I’ve never liked that guy, and I’d rather he found it out for himself, but all right, you didn’t do anything wrong. We’re on the same team with him, trying to defeat the Holy She.””
““We’re working on getting more details about Jackson and her people, trying to find a weakness to exploit.”
Markwether wiped perspiration from his forehead. He didn’t think much of these two members of his cabinet. Consulting with them was not like working with his own brother, and he wished he hadn’t allowed Zack to go to Rome. As President of the United States he could have taken steps to prevent it. The trip couldn’t have come at a worse possible time.
“Sorry, sir,” Gravidovitch said.
President Markwether increased the setting of the electronic field again. He imagined the fat rolling off his body.
“OK, what about N-1?”
For a moment, Gravidovitch looked confused. “The psychological analysis on Jackson and her top advisers, sir? We only have preliminary information so far. A few more days, and they should have a better report.”
Secretary of Defense Smits folded his arms across his chest. “I wish we could just bomb Vatican City and get it over with.” A bulky man with effeminate mannerisms, Smits had tiny, pale green eyes and a mole on his chin.
President Markwether stopped pedaling. A scowl creased his face.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Secretary of State Gravidovitch said. “Even conventional bombs would destroy Michelangelo’s masterpieces, the Sistine Chapel, the sacred Basilica—” He shook his head sadly. “—and kill everyone.”
“If necessary we could do that,” Markwether said, finally. “But only as a last resort.”
“It’s almost Holy Week for the Roman Catholic Church,” Gravidovitch added, “and the celebration of Easter. We can’t even consider such a sacrilege.”
“If I say we consider it, we consider it,” the President snapped. “Believe me, I don’t like it any more than you do.”
“But such an attack would also kill the she-apostles. Innocent babies and toddlers.”
“Maybe they’re only phonies,” Smits said. “Lori Vale claims she has eleven real she-apostles herself, and Dixie Lou faked the ones with her.”
“But they’re still children!” Gravidovitch insisted.
Secretary of Defense Smits shook his head. “There’s only one good way to deal with an enemy.”
With a solemn nod, Markwether added, “Sometimes there is no other way.” But memories of his brother intruded, when the two of them were small, playing in vacant lots and school yards. He fought to suppress the thoughts. Hopefully Zack wasn’t anywhere near Vatican City.
“Children are not our enemies, sir,” the Secretary of State said, daring to argue with the President. “This is the toughest part of our assignment. Dixie Lou Jackson may be a crazy woman, but I’m starting to think the
Holy Women’s Bible
has merit.”
“Are you daft?” Markwether thundered. Astonished at what he was hearing, he stepped off the bike and wiped his forehead with a towel.
“I’ve been reading it carefully myself,” Gravidovitch admitted, “and some of it does make sense.”
“
What???
”
“I have to agree with our esteemed Secretary of State,” Smits said. “I’m especially intrigued by the Gospel of Abigail, in which she—”
“Don’t ever say anything like that to me again!” Markwether boomed. “And the next time I summon the two of you I want to hear a plan of action. Not studies, not guesses, not a bunch of generalities. I want it all laid out in detail.”
“Yes, sir,” both of them said.
“Now get out of here and go to work.”
The two US Secretaries left hurriedly, with their proverbial tails between their legs.
* * *
Outside Lori’s apartment building, her father paused and spoke with one of the plainclothes guards stationed to protect her. This man was Trig Arnold, the private investigator he had hired to locate Lori in the first place. Now Trig was in charge of the guards assigned to her.
“You said in your e-mail that you’ve been inside the tunnel that leads from Vatican City to Castel Sant’Angelo,” Zack said, “one of the routes used by popes centuries ago to get to the fortress castle if the Vatican was ever attacked.”
“Yeah, that tunnel used to be a big secret, but one of my contacts got me in on the Castel Sant’Angelo side last year.”
“Can you get in again? I found information that there’s a second tunnel route down there, and it has a hidden intersection point with the main tunnel.” He handed the man an underground map that had been provided by the CIA, with the source information redacted.
As Trig looked the document over, he nodded. “This looks right for the main tunnel, but I’m not sure about the other one. I’ve heard about the secondary route, but this is the first time I’ve seen a chart it. A hidden intersection point, eh? How is it hidden?”
“I don’t know, but can you get into the main tunnel again?”
“Maybe, but it could be dangerous. The rumor mill says the UWW sent its attack squad through the tunnel system.”
“Main or secondary route?”
“Not sure.”
“In any event, I’m sure they’re out of the tunnel system by now, and have buttoned up everything on the Vatican side.”
Trig nodded.
“Be discreet about this, but see if you can get me more information. It’s important.” He handed a wad of high-denomination U.S. currency to him.
“I’ll go down there myself and see if I can find any sign of the hidden intersection point of the two tunnels.” The investigator scowled. “I wish this drawing was to scale, though.”
“It’s the best I can do,” Zack said. Putting on his aviator sunglasses, he added, “Do this as fast as you can, OK?”
Lori’s father spent the rest of the day pursuing military contacts, asking for drawings, histories, anything they could put their hands on. Because of his security clearance, he obtained thick piles of printouts.
* * *
Each evening, Deborah tried to spend time with Pope Rodrigo at his apartment in the Vatican Palace. She was impressed with him, not only for his great charm and intelligence but for his courage in the face of tremendous adversity. The apartment had no bugging devices in it, so Deborah Marvel felt confident saying whatever she wanted here.
“I worry about the Vatican employees that are still here,” the tall, distinguished old man said, “and I pray for them to the Lord Almighty.” He paused, and looked around, his eyes moist with emotion. “This apartment is my velvet-lined prison cell. The riches here are but a microcosm of the treasures of the Vatican, the greatest religious art the world has ever seen. To me, and to all Catholics, this city is a living entity, and a testimony to great achievement.”
“I’ve been trying to convince Dixie Lou not to harm you, little Martha, or the Vatican,” Deborah said. “A living entity. Yes, I am not Catholic, but I believe that is true. If Vatican City is destroyed, it would be a murder, wouldn’t it?”
“You are a sensitive woman.”
“And you’re wondering how I ever became involved with Dixie Lou Jackson. She wasn’t like that at first; power changed her. I originally joined United Women of the World for the ideals espoused by Amy Angkor-Billings. Like yourself, she was a great and inspirational leader. Of course, the UWW never had the riches or influence of the Vatican, but it had a strong moral footing, like Catholicism.”
“I do not agree with your
Holy Women’s Bible
, as you call it.”
“Well, the Gospel of Martha was falsified, but the rest—the other eleven gospels—are divine scripture, except for deleted references to a She-Judas.”
He shook his head.
“For a great religious figure such as yourself, it might be an impossibility to ever accept the new gospels. But you are a learned man. You know that there were political decisions made in the early centuries after Christ, when church authorities decided what to include in the Bible and what to omit from it.”
“They only omitted that which should have been omitted, and they included the real gospels.”
“Real gospels, yes. We agree on most of that. But there were other gospels that were—forgive me, Eminence, for saying this—stolen from women.” She looked away. “I speak too directly to you. I mean no disrespect.”
“It is obvious that you believe what you are saying. I sense a goodness in your heart, that you mean no harm, that you intend no blasphemy.”
She gazed at him, and felt comforted by the gentle, beatific expression on his face. Such a kind man, with such a depth of understanding. This must be the most difficult time of his entire life.
“I will help you in any way I can,” she promised, softly. “I would give up my life for you, sir.”
“My life is not my own,” he said.
Deborah felt that she needed to do more to help this great man. It was not enough to hold her tongue around Dixie Lou and attempt to persuade her not to harm people or treasures. She wanted to do more, and hoped Lori Vale would accept her offer. She gazed out a window, at the vast military force arrayed around Vatican City, and wondered if anyone would still be alive here after the fighting stopped.