“So you do know some big words.”
“Sure. I’m smart.”
“I know.” She helped him remove the armor and put it back in the closet.
Afterward, they sat together on the couch.
He lit a marijuana cigarette, took a long puff on it and handed it to her. “Marathon,” he said in a dull tone, as gray smoke curled around his face.
Her hands shook as she lifted the crudely rolled cigarette to her lips, and she stopped short. She could smell the acrid smoke in the air, and sensed him watching her.
She remembered her mother, how she wouldn’t have wanted her to take drugs. Now Mom was injured and Lori might never see her alive again. A tear formed in the corner of her eye, and she wiped it away.
“I can’t do this,” she said. She handed the coarse cigarette back to him and tried to compose herself.
“What is wrong, fair maiden?”
“I was thinking of my mother. I think she may be dying. . . the trouble involving your mother. We were attacked by soldiers and barely escaped.”
He squeezed the burning end of the cigarette to put it out, and set it on an ashtray. With a big pout he said, “I don’t like my mother.”
“Because of the way she treats men?” Lori focused on the “roach,” the marijuana remnant, and longed for a drag on it. She tried to put it out of her mind.
The words came slowly. “More than that.”
“What do you mean?”
Fear slid across the dull features of his face, and he looked around. Then he said, his tone low, “She’s dangerous if you make her mad.”
“In what way?”
He bit his lower lip and said, in a childlike tone, “I don’t want to talk about her any more. She’s too scary.”
Chapter 11
In The New Testament there is internal evidence that parts of it have proceeded from an extraordinary man; and that other parts are the fabric of very inferior minds.
—Thomas Jefferson
Dixie Lou Jackson and other UWW councilwomen watched an oversized video screen that showed a cargo plane off-loading heavy armored vehicles. The new order of war machines rolled down a spiral ramp to a chamber deep beneath Monte Konos, a freshly excavated area. There the equipment would be painted green-and-orange and emblazoned with the symbol of the paramilitary women’s organization.
And from a dozen locales around the world, more military accouterment was being sent to them, paid for by wealthy contributors. She hoped it would be enough.
On Dixie Lou’s lap lay a newspaper from Seattle, folded open to reveal a story about the mysterious helicopter gunship that attacked a house in the suburbs. If the Bureau could find her there, and Amy in Greece as well, they could find Monte Konos itself.
We must be ready.
* * *
At shortly before midnight, a lone figure in the uniform of a U.S. Army colonel—including jodhpurs, battle ribbons, white gloves, and (folded into a vest pocket) aviator-style sunglasses—prowled the corridors and rooms of the most important private residence in the nation. Many people with ADD—Attention Deficit Disorder—complained about it and considered it a handicap, but not Zack Markwether. He felt his own version of the malaise aided him in verifying security for the White House, since it literally compelled him to check and double-check everything—the door locks, the guard stations, the alarm system and all of the sophisticated surveillance electronics.
None of this was his official assignment, but by virtue of his status as the President’s brother, he had taken the responsibility upon himself. His title—Special Adviser to the President—did not even entail specific duties or hours of work, but was instead a broad mandate accompanied by the highest security clearance—giving him full access to all federal buildings, including the Congress of the United States.
His background with the National Security Agency suited him perfectly for this, since he had been indoctrinated in the most advanced methods of counter-terrorism. Such training and experience wasn’t nearly as glamorous as it sounded. In all his years of service in the Army and the NSA, most of it involved drudgery and office routine—unlike the romantic depictions of popular novels and films. Only once had he been personally involved in a car chase, and on only three occasions had he made arrests himself. He had, however, been responsible for the intelligence work that led to the apprehension of dozens of enemies of the United States.
After passing the Oval Office in the West Wing, Zack turned down the corridor and stepped into a private office. There he activated a computer at random, one of six work stations in the room. Running through the codes, he spent the better part of an hour reviewing e-mail messages sent by the staffer who ran this terminal, and did a deep encryption search to turn up any that might have been deleted. There were none.
He re-entered the corridor, popped a metab pill to remain awake. It had been a long day, but he needed to remain on constant alert. The less he slept, he always reminded himself, the better chance he had of catching the bad guys. Such security measures were beyond what anyone would consider necessary, but he took them on himself anyway. After all, he was the President’s older brother, and felt it was necessary to protect him.
* * *
It was just before dawn of the third day since Consuela had fled from the church, and light was seeping back onto the verdant Mexican landscape so that she could see. As she stood on the side of the rutted dirt road she knew she was taking a big chance, trying to flag down the first vehicle she saw heading west toward the coast, where she wanted to go.
She had spent the night in the jungle, and her clothes were damp from a light rain. Nonetheless, she had managed to keep her baby fairly dry by huddling over the child, and now little Margarita, bundled in a rebozo, slept peacefully in the safety of her mother’s arms. The first night, not far from her village, they had slept in an abandoned silver mine shaft, dating back to the days when the area had supported thousands of mine workers.
Now Consuela tramped along a dirt road where she had never been before, though she knew compass directions from the stars in the night and the movement of the sun in the day. Her father, a poor but intelligent man, had taught her how to do this and she was thankful for the knowledge. On other matters, despite her lack of formal education, she prided herself on her own natural intelligence.
From somewhere a burro brayed repeatedly in displeasure, and Consuela smelled the acrid smoke of a morning cook-fire. She longed for the warmth and security of her home, and was sorry to have run away without telling her parents where she was going. But there had been no choice. Not after the terrible events at the church, where demons had invaded the House of the Lord and gunfire had erupted.
She saw an approaching produce truck as it barreled along the dirt road, throwing up thick, swirling clouds of dust. At first she turned away from the vehicle, afraid to show her face. Then, hesitantly, she turned back and waved frantically, and moved out into the roadway.
* * *
On the viewing platform of a large underground grotto, Styx Tertullian and Nelson Culpepper watched their elite paramilitary squads pass in tight formation. The silver-and-black-uniformed men, wearing black jackboots, took high, stiff-kneed steps to military music, while keeping their heads turned toward their commanders. The front and rear rows twirled automatic rifles and saluted with sabers, while men carrying BOI banners tilted them forward sharply.
Behind them rolled gleaming small-rocket carriages, along with armored vehicles and customized weapons systems . . . and on wall screens around the grotto flashed video projections showing jets, bombers, and helicopters . . . all kept in chambers beneath the ground.
As the officials watched from their stationary platform, the floor with the squads and equipment slid smoothly beneath another floor, and an entirely new combat unit of men and hardware appeared. When this group had completed its pageantry, another unit appeared, and others afterward—until all of the forces stationed at BOI headquarters had been displayed.
It
amounted to a small army, highly trained, well-equipped, and formidable.
Chapter 12
A woman will betray the Savior.
—Jewish Prophecy, 1st Century, BC
It irritated Styx Tertullian that he had to be in an underground office. Arguably the Bureau of Ideology was the most powerful private agency in the world, the maker and breaker of presidents, prime ministers, and even kings. Why then couldn’t he and Minister Culpepper be ensconced above-ground, in the plush, ostentatious offices they deserved?
He knew the answers, but didn’t like them. Three words provided the explanation: Security, security, security. Since its founding in 1932, the Bureau had always been obsessed about this, and history proved the wisdom of the paranoid world-view. While he understood it only too well, he didn’t like it.
Seated at his desk, he watched a video report sent to him by the Vatican, which was requesting BOI assistance in investigating a break-in into one of their museum vaults. Priceless, irreplaceable treasures had been stolen, including paintings by da Vinci and Raphael, sculptures by Michelangelo, and a reliquary said to contain an ancient fragment of wood from the crucifixion cross of Jesus—the legendary “True Cross.” The BOI, with its ability to investigate sensitive crimes committed against Christian organizations, was frequently called upon to offer its expertise.
According to the video, the UWW was suspected, as they were rumored to have a long-standing policy of stealing such artifacts and either hiding or destroying them—purportedly to undermine the sense of well-being in the evangelical world. In reality this was disinformation—a false story planted by the BOI to discredit their enemies. The Bureau had taken the religious articles, for what Culpepper called “safekeeping.”
Styx flipped off the video, and was about to leave when the portly Minister entered, unannounced. “What are you doing about the Vatican request?” he asked. His girth seemed to grow larger by the day.
Standing by his desk, Styx didn’t feel like answering questions from this irritating man. “I’ll send some men to go through the motions. We’ll put thumbscrews on the nuns until they confess.”
“Don’t try my patience.”
“Look, I’ve got things to take care of,” Styx said. “Can we continue this later?”
Culpepper paced the office. “You’re sure the women will be blamed?”
“I know my job.”
“Of course. Oh, I examined the inventory. Have the Raphael painting hung in my office, behind my desk.”
Styx smiled in his unique manner, somehow forming a “V” with his lips. “You can trust me, sir.” But he was thinking how sick he was of Culpepper’s unethical scavenging.
As the Minister left, Styx was wondering, too, if a controlled blast might be set off inside the fat man’s office, just enough to blow him up and all of his coveted things—after substituting forgeries for original religious masterpieces, of course. Styx took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.
He would only do that if God commanded it.
Chapter 13
Biblical scholars admit not knowing exactly which month, or even which year, Jesus was born. Naysayers try to dismiss The New Testament because of this apparent discrepancy, but such thinking misses an immense truth: Jesus Christ walked the earth as the Son of God. Jesus was the greatest teacher of morals in all of history.
—C.G. Anqui, Voices in the Desert
Monte Konos, an ancient hive of tunnel passageways and chambers, still bore evidence of numerous changes over the centuries as hard-working, enterprising monks continually made alterations. A walled over doorway here, a blocked stairway there, and beneath each building numerous abandoned and long-forgotten chambers where long-dead hermits once lived their austere lives.
With a detailed knowledge of this high-perched monastery, a man in dark clothing left the main passageway and slipped into an alcove. It was midnight, cold and wintry outside, cool and damp inside. He slipped a blade into a narrow opening between stones, causing an eight hundred year old concealed door to open. Almost noiselessly it swung inward, which was remarkable for its age, and the shadowy figure entered quickly. The door closed.
A familiar mustiness filled the sealed enclosure, an odor of moisture and bygone candle fires, because this room had once been accessible from the church above. Another odor mixed with the others, of decayed bodies whose wooden crypts had cracked open with age. Five long-forgotten priests had been sealed away here. The crypts contained few valuables, and no one was known to have removed anything from them.
Though it was pitch black in this windowless chamber, he knew the way by heart, and found the wall recess where a battery-operated lantern had been secreted. This was flipped on, causing shadows to scurry into the cracks between stones, where they would hide until it was again their time to come forth. On the ceiling a rectangular shape of dark stones was visible, showing where the original stairway had been covered over. Dark wood fragments from the ancient stairs remained, piled in a corner that had once been the altar.
A stone table stood in the center of the room, and upon it lay a black case. He zipped it open, revealing a laptop computer inside. He voice-activated it, and the keys clicked without being touched, typing a longer missive than usual. There was much to coordinate with the others.
Half an hour later he slipped out of the room, after leaving a microdisk in the usual place for pickup.
* * *
Lori lay half awake, having slipped in and out of troubled slumber all through the night. Sunlight streamed through a dirty window, illuminating a partially open doorway and a toilet. She had been provided with a small closet, stocked with clean clothes. On her right, a night stand held a small coffee maker, a cup, and a bowl containing packets of cream and sugar.
Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she pushed the covers away and swung her feet onto a cold stone floor. She wore a plain cotton nightgown. Her hands shook a little, and she lit a Greek cigarette, inhaled its rough, burning smoke. After exhaling for a long moment, she didn’t feel any better.
Cold perspiration clung to her from a nightmare. Trapped in it only moments before, she and her mother had been back in the goddess circle again. Except this time Lori knew in advance what terrible events were going to occur, and could do nothing to prevent them. Again, the soldiers in silver-and-black uniforms attacked. Again, they shot her mother.
The Bureau of Ideology.
Whoever these enemies of United Women of the World were, and Lori had only minimal information on them, they were a deadly lot, not to be taken lightly. Her own narrow escape confirmed this.
The doorbell rang for several seconds, a short and unfamiliar ditty, perhaps Greek.
Upon opening the door, she was greeted by a smiling Alex Jackson. Wearing a white shirt with chain mail crudely drawn on it in black, he handed Lori a bouquet of silk daisies and cosmos. “This is how a knight should act,” he said with a wink of his gray eyes.
“How do you know how a knight should act?” she asked. She accepted the artificial flowers, led the way into her apartment and located a vase.
“I read comic books,” he answered. “Actually, ‘graphic novels.’ A graphic novel has a spine, you know.”
“These flowers are beautiful,” she said. “Thank you so much.” As if playing a pretend game with a child, she put her nose to the silk blossoms and commented on the sweetness of their aroma. Then she resumed smoking, short, nervous puffs.
As they stood in the tiny kitchen she described the terrible attack on the goddess circle and the grievous injuries to her mother, and she told of a woman leading the attack group, the gender assumed because of the high-pitched voice. “Alex, your mom said they were with the Bureau of Ideology, a terrorist group masquerading as Christians. Do you know anything about them?”
He shrugged dully.
Lori was about to say something else when she stopped, her thoughts whirling back into the void of the dark, painful memory. She thought she heard the rumble of the attack helic
opter again, and the brutal, staccato rhythm of gunfire.
“Quake!” Alex yelled. “Get under the table!”
Slow to respond herself, Lori felt him guiding her under the dining room table. She held onto her cigarette. On the floor, he circled his arms around her protectively.
The small chandelier rattled overhead, and window panes quivered in their frames. She kept expecting to hear glass shatter, but in a few moments the noises subsided and so did the shaking.
“Does that happen very often around here?” she asked, taking a quick drag on the cigarette, followed by another.
“I dunno. Sometimes, I guess.”
Lori pulled away from Alex’s arms and they sat cross-legged on the floor, looking at each other. Even though he was dimwitted, she felt like talking to him. He seemed receptive. Finishing the first cigarette, she lit another.
The teenager told him about her mother, who had resisted forming new relationships with men because of her fear that one of them might sexually abuse Lori. She related what little she knew of her father as well—the fragments of memory from her childhood that contradicted what her mother told her about him: how his laughter filled a room; the way he loved to wrestle with Lori and carry her around piggyback; the way he wore aviator-style sunglasses.
She kept talking to Alex, largely a one-way conversation. Because of his apparent inability to understand, she felt at ease telling him some of her innermost thoughts, as a person might talk to a favorite dog or a cat. While she spoke he nodded or grunted in affirmation, but not always at the right moments.
Then he surprised her, with an alert observation. “To listen to our moms,” he said, “you’d think there are no good men in the whole world.”
“Still, I wish I could listen to my mother again,” Lori said. The girl broke down in tears, and he consoled her with simple, gentle words.
The Stolen Gospels Page 11