The Stolen Gospels

by Brian Herbert

  So it was that Styx opened a coded e-mail file that had been forwarded to him by internal security.

  The screen was blank.

  With a barely suppressed expletive he pressed deep-access keys to find out why.

  A computer voice spoke: “Erased, possibly by magnetic disturbance. A small amount of data retrieved.”

  Well, that’s something anyway, he thought. He tapped the appropriate keys for retrieval, and the computer voice said something that was garbled. The following words appeared on the screen:

  Your old way of life is dead.

  —The Ladies

  “I’ll get you for this,” he vowed, and slammed his fist on the desk.

  He had something in mind, a plan he had recommended to Culpepper several weeks ago, and which had been approved. In recent months, the Bureau had been receiving coded reports that the “Ladies” had a mysterious preoccupation with unusual babies, having put out inquiries and dispatched people to a variety of countries to round them up.

  Babbling babies. It almost sounded laughable, but the women were devoting considerable resources to a top-secret project involving them. What did it all mean?

  Greece. An interesting country. Amy Angkor-Billings herself had been captured there, near the city of Salonika. Looking at a map, he placed a finger on the city in the northern part of the country. And his eyes wandered even farther north, to the rugged Macedonian mountains.

  * * *

  The next day, Styx Tertullian limped aboard a BOI Lear Fan 2100 prop-jet, which was hangared underground. An elevator lifted it to the surface, where hinged sections of ground folded open to make way. Other elevators raised a runway into place. The aircraft accelerated down the runway, took off in a hazy afternoon sky.

  This was an antique plane from the century before, but entirely rebuilt. He liked it because of its unique look, with a propeller in the rear and a Y-shaped tail, and the fact that it represented another era, a bygone time when life was much more simple and women didn’t raise such a ruckus about religion.

  The comfortable interior, which had been customized according to Styx’s exacting specifications, featured massive black leather chairs with individual entertainment centers and control panels that enabled a passenger to order a wide variety of foods and beverages from an automated kitchen and bar. The ceiling, of a black graphite material, had a soft, elegant sheen, as did the walls, which were silver. Beneath his feet, the Persian carpeting was BOI silver-and-black, dotted with blue Christian crosses.

  In half an hour the plane touched down at Seattle’s Boeing Field, just south of the downtown area. A Bureau car awaited him at the edge of the tarmac. After using a transmitter on his i.d. card to turn off the car alarm and unlock the doors, Styx located the keys above the visor on the driver’s side.

  The back seat was filled with grocery bags and other articles he had ordered, all of which had been placed there within the hour by BOI personnel.

  The vehicle, a nearly new Hummer hovercar, was equipped with radar confusion devices on both license plates—thus giving the police garbled speed readings, making them think their radar equipment was acting up. It enabled him to drive twenty miles per hour over the speed limits without worry of apprehension.

  Of course he wouldn’t get a ticket anyway because of false government i.d. cards he could present if stopped, showing he was with the National Security Administration. Still, he didn’t like to waste time with such matters. Every moment was precious.

  Because of the speeds at which he was able to drive, he arrived at the small house in West Seattle one minute and fifty-eight seconds sooner than he would have been able to do otherwise, as calculated by the car’s computer system.

  After retrieving a bouquet of red roses and one of the bags of groceries from the back seat, he bounded up the creaky steps to the front porch. A note awaited him in shaky, familiar handwriting, inviting him to enter.

  The home’s alarm system beeped as he entered. Quickly, he tapped the five digit code into the control panel just inside the front door.

  “Is that you, Styx?” a familiar, frail voice called out, from the rear of the house. “I’m in the bedroom, dear.”

  “Hi, Louise!” he called out in his high-pitched voice. “Just let me get a few bags of groceries into the kitchen and I’ll be right up.”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have!” she said.

  As Styx carried bags into the kitchen and made sure the perishables went into the refrigerator he thought about how much this elderly woman, Louise Bonham, had meant to his family. During his formative years he had lived in the bungalow next door, and Louise had been his mother’s best friend. The two women had done everything together, from school fund raising events to art classes they taught at the community center down the street. When Styx’s mother died six years ago she exacted a promise from him that he would take care of Louise.

  In all that time Styx had done as she’d asked, for it had been her dying wish.

  A wrinkled, angular woman, Mrs. Bonham was in her usual place in bed when he walked into her bedroom, picking up the odors of medicinals. An open, white-leather Bible lay on her lap, and an oxygen tank rested on a cart beside her bed, with its hose and mask within her reach. She needed oxygen at night when she slept. Well over eighty, she had steadfastly resisted all efforts by her son and daughter to place her in a retirement home. Styx admired her independence, and through the Bureau he had made arrangements with city officials to let her remain at home. Senior helpers and nurses were sent regularly to care for her, and every few weeks, whenever he could get away, Styx came himself.

  She could get around on her own, but only with the help of a walker-frame, and only for short periods of time because she was weak and grew fatigued easily.

  He leaned over to kiss her deeply creased forehead, and handed her the bouquet of flowers.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, drawing the roses close so that she could smell them. “You shouldn’t have!”

  She always said that, but never failed to show a little girl’s delight at the gifts he brought. This was a God-fearing woman like his own sainted mother, not at all like the others who continually tried to stir up trouble.

  He checked the gauge on her oxygen tank, and the tightness of the fittings. They were fine.

  “Thank you, Styx,” the old woman said. “You’ve always been such a dear boy.”

  * * *

  Although it was only mid-afternoon, President Markwether lay on his bed in his suit, except he had draped the tailored gray jacket over a nearby chair. The White House staff had been notified that he was “incommunicado, working on a special project.” He’d been trying unsuccessfully to take a nap, since he had not been sleeping well lately.

  “Why are you so tense?” the woman asked, as she sat on the edge of the bed and massaged his muscular shoulders and neck. He had once been an athlete, a football quarterback. He wore a white shirt and red tie with the suit trousers. He kicked off his shoes. They thumped on the carpeted floor.

  “The usual.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” she said, with a love tap on his back. “You’re not very good at it.”

  Eleanor Markwether was not beautiful in the classic sense, but she had a quality about her that people found appealing, a charisma that made the citizens of the United States believe she really cared about the issues she championed: food and education for the poor, medical care for children and the elderly. Polls indicated she was fifteen points more popular than the President.

  “That feels good,” he said, as she continued to knead the muscles, like a masseuse.

  “I’m concerned about you. I know you can’t reveal national security secrets to me, but I’m not an idiot and I have given you good advice in the past.”

  “I know, and I appreciate that. There are many things weighing me down. My head is splitting and no pain relievers seem to touch it. I need to solve the problem and then I’ll feel better. It’s always that way with me.”

  �
��And the problem is?”

  “An important private organization—my biggest campaign contributor—is demanding a lot of money. I’m having trouble getting it done.”

  “Wait a minute. If they’re a campaign contributor, why do you have to give them money?”

  “You know how politics works, darling. Money flows in more than one direction.”

  “I see. They contribute to your campaign, and you arrange for taxpayer money to go to them.”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite that way.”

  “How would you put it, then? We are talking about a quid pro quo, aren’t we?”

  “In a sense.”

  She laughed, uneasily. “Is that all you can tell me about your problem?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Then I can’t do much more than this massage for you.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” He turned around, and gave her a passionate kiss. Even after more than twenty years of marriage, they still had a spark for each other.

  “Presidents aren’t the only people who get headaches,” she said, with a thin smile.

  “It’s against the law to use clichés on the Commander in Chief.”

  Now, he massaged her shoulders and back, as she lay on the bed.

  As he did so, his thoughts remained on the crisis—which he had to solve if he wanted to be reelected next year. It didn’t help that his approval ratings were down, so he needed all of the help he could get. He didn’t tell his wife that he was having trouble with a clandestine agency, the Bureau of Ideology, and could never reveal to her any of the secrets within secrets that he knew about the organization. During a game of nine-ball in the White House game room that day, he had conferred with his brother Zack about the crisis, going into details with him that he could not reveal to his own wife.

  Zack Markwether—two years the President’s senior—was a de facto cabinet minister, resented by some and admired by others. He was a security expert, military liaison, troubleshooter, and much more. The President often said he couldn’t get by without the assistance of his big brother. But Zack’s overconfident manner, the way he strutted around using his influence, sometimes drew complaints and resignation threats from key staffers. Whenever that happened, the President would rein his brother in. For several weeks afterward Zack would be on his best behavior, but ultimately he would return to his old annoying ways.

  In most respects the Markwether siblings were drastically different people—with Zack the organized one and Lowell the complete opposite, but adept at selecting good people and delegating. Among the few things in which they shared an interest were American blues (especially vintage 1930s and 1940s), microbrew beer, model trains, and games of pool. The men had a symbiotic relationship—a close association of different organisms—but they shared a deep respect for one another and a brotherly love that had endured for their lifetimes. They rarely argued about anything.

  “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,” the President said, as he did a deep muscle massage on his wife’s back, working his hands underneath the clothing. “Politics is more complicated than you realize. There are interactions, obligations—” He despised both the Bureau of Ideology and their archenemy, United Women of the World, and wished they would blast each other off the face of the earth. Knowing the power that the BOI had over him, he wondered how much control they had over other government leaders, not only in his own administration but in other countries around the world. Such a complex web the Bureau maintained. They could ruin him if he didn’t cooperate, and undoubtedly could ruin a lot of other important people, too.

  “I understand,” she said, with a sigh. It seemed obvious to him that she was thinking more of sensual matters now, and not of the weighty problems he had on his mind.

  “I can’t tell you too much,” he said, as he laid down beside her and gazed into her gentle brown eyes. He smiled. “Or you would get worry wrinkles.”

  “What a sexist thing to say!” she exclaimed. She nudged him playfully, but her eyes narrowed as she recognized his lies and evasive behavior. This was something important, and the President would not discuss it with her.

  Chapter 16

  It is said of Lori Vale that her mother is not her mother and her father is not her father.

  —From Window to the Past, UWW Press

  On the elevated platform of the council chamber, which had once been the monastery’s Byzantine church, sixteen councilwomen sat in black leather high-back chairs, including Dixie Lou Jackson and Deborah Marvel. The air was heavy with the perfume of burning incense. The chairs were arranged in a half circle, and in front of that, where the center of a complete circle would have been, sat an empty red leather chair. Each councilwoman—dressed in the black robe of mourning—held a single red rose wrapped in a green-and-orange ribbon.

  On a high pedestal behind them rose the She-God statue, her oval face serene, her fathomless eyes turned heavenward. In her arms she held the sacred, legendary Sword of She-God, with its jeweled hilt glinting in sunlight that passed through a stained glass window.

  The red chair, mounted on a swivel, had been turned away from the council, toward an audience of three hundred UWW members, all women, who sat in pews that had formerly been used for church services. Morning sunlight caused some of them to squint and shield their eyes. A closed-circuit television system broadcast the proceedings to the Scriptorium and Refectory buildings, where scholars, knights, and other personnel were gathered to watch.

  At one side of the red chair, facing the audience, stood a lectern draped with the colorful vestment of United Women of the World. Overhead rose an ancient rock dome, and the walls were adorned with faded frescoes, depicting Christian religious scenes. The ones deemed controversial by the UWW had been painted over with whitewash. Among those remaining was a glorious depiction of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, with the adult Mary Magdalene at his feet.

  A buzz of anticipation filled the air. Several women were crying. Others vented their hostility with violently anti-male comments.

  Dixie Lou tried to make herself look sad as she gazed at the empty red chair in the center of the platform. She watched the slender, middle-aged blonde Deborah Marvel place a rose on its cushion and then return to her seat beside Dixie Lou. Deborah wept openly, unable to suppress her sorrow. With a handkerchief, she dabbed at her eyes.

  Visible to the council, but not to the audience because of their distance from it, an Internet computer scrolled through coded reports on clandestine UWW paramilitary forces in all of the major western nations . . . underground caverns filled with the most advanced stealth aircraft and armored cavalry units. The council had to remain in constant touch with such information. Also included were records of their personnel who were steadily infiltrating the armed forces of unfriendly nations—women (and a small number of trusted men) positioning themselves to obtain as much power and influence as they could. Because of recent events and reports of increased BOI funding drives, the council had ordered a sharp step-up in activity.

  From a side entrance, Katherine Pangalos walked out in front of the council and faced the audience. Most of the onlookers grew silent, but a cauldron of simmering, seething anger remained. Katherine, in a long black dress, spoke tremulously, her voice amplified by a tiny microphone that hovered in front of her mouth: “I am old, and in my lifetime many dear friends have come and gone, women who have been abused by men and their violent systems.”

  Rage boiled over in the pews. Women screamed epithets against the male gender. Some called for an immediate military response, as well as the use of sabotage and assassination squads.

  Inwardly, Dixie Lou seethed, since she had been forced into allowing this non-councilwoman, her principal foe, to speak prior to anyone else. But this had been the sentiment of the majority of the council, considering the many occasions when Amy had referred to Katherine as her closest friend. Though Dixie Lou had accused Katherine of betraying Amy, that had only been for effect; she didn’t really
believe it. The wealthy woman had no motive. Dixie Lou’s feelings were complex, mixed. She was glad Amy was gone, since it cleared the way for her advancement to the chairwomanship, but now she had to deal with another obstacle, with this difficult, outspoken woman.

  When the rancorous clamor settled down, Katherine continued in a weaker voice: “Seven years ago, Amy Angkor-Billings and her family were caught in a BOI attack while vacationing in Hawaii. After Amy’s husband and children were murdered, she returned to the UWW a different woman than she had been before. She was more militant and focused, less willing to compromise.”

  A diminutive councilwoman, Jeanne Cousteau, handed a fresh tissue to Deborah Marvel, who was becoming inconsolable.

  “She was our lighthouse,” Katherine continued, “our beacon and our inspiration, and without her our lives are empty. Amy is gone, murdered by the enemies of every woman on earth.”

  More epithets were shouted against men, and vows of revenge.

  As Katherine paused, each councilwoman placed a flower on the empty chair and briefly eulogized the remarkable leader of United Women of the World, who had guided its course for nearly twenty-five years.

  Finally, Fujiko Harui, a tiny Japanese woman who was last to speak, said, in the saddest of voices, “Men have not only stolen our sacred gospels. They’ve stolen our precious Amy.”

  An eruption of fury shook the council chamber. If a man had been present—even an innocent one—he might have been torn to shreds.

  “We must continue our work!” Fujiko shouted, over the din. “Amy wouldn’t want us to give up, and we won’t!”

  While Dixie Lou clapped with the other women, she thought about the long-awaited Holy Women’s Bible that would culminate their efforts, turning the Christian world upside down. As the new leader of United Women of the World, she would ride the crest of the immense, unstoppable wave.

  In speeches broadcast all over the globe she would inflame passions by recounting the centuries of injustice women had endured at the hands of men. She would also draw parallels between herself and brave women such as Elizabeth Cady Stanton, who in the late nineteenth century published The Woman’s Bible, which was not really a bible, but was instead a compendium of essays about biblical passages that related to women. In broad strokes, Dixie Lou would discuss the women’s movement, showing how the civil rights of females had been enhanced in western nations, but not enough, since familiar systems remained in place, maintaining male supremacy. The male-written, anti-female King James Version of the Holy Bible was still in place.