Holding up a bulky, leather-bound copy of the holy book, Dixie Lou exclaimed, “These are the only true gospels!”
Wild applause ensued, but to Lori it sounded canned, since there was probably no studio audience, other than a few trusted associates of the Chairwoman.
Gesturing with her thick arms for emphasis, Dixie Lou said, “Some of you might wonder about the guard who interrupted my last broadcast, charging that we have a fake she-apostle.”
Intrigued that she was even bringing the subject up, Lori leaned closer to the screen. Dixie Lou was confronting the matter head-on, an unexpected move.
Following a pause, Dixie Lou smiled confidently and said, “Not a word of it is true. That particular guard has a history of mental illness, which she concealed from us when she was hired. We’ve posted details on the Internet. But today I have a much more important message, of the utmost importance to every woman on the planet, and to the men who love and support those women.”
You’re the biggest liar in the world, Lori thought.
The Chairwoman took on a deadly serious expression, while calling for an end to abusive behavior by males in every nation of the world, and for the cessation of atrocities against women that were occurring at that very moment. Dixie Lou spoke of cowardly men who beat and murdered smaller and physically weaker women in brutal attempts to control and misuse them.
With her voice rising in angry crescendo, she described bride burning in India, women in China who were compelled to have abortions because of the one-child-policy, girls in the Middle East who weren’t allowed to go to school, teenagers in Southeast Asia forced into slavery and prostitution, beautiful young Bangladeshi woman burned with acid by rejected suitors, and the genital mutilation of female children in Africa.
The catalogue of atrocities was masterfully delivered.
As she concluded her speech, she went to the purported she-apostles and lifted the redheaded “Apostle Mary Magdalene,” one of the toddlers. Cradling the mock she-apostle in her arms, she rocked her back and forth and said, “This is the way of women, nurturing and loving, helping young minds and spirits grow. Unlike our male counterparts, women have not widely embraced the way of violence in the past, but this has to change for awhile. Each of us must be willing to fight for our She-God-given rights, for the sake of our granddaughters.”
She paused, then continued in a determined tone, “Women of the world, take control of your lives! Do whatever is necessary, and when it is complete the earth will be a better place. Use a knife, a frying pan, a rolling pin, your man’s golf putter or his gun to drive him back, whatever it takes. That man is bigger and stronger, so get yourself an ‘equalizer.’”
The unseen, canned audience clapped and cheered. On the screen, Dixie Lou Jackson raised her arms in front of her and smiled.
* * *
As she watched her own recorded broadcast that morning, the Chairwoman recalled her secret reason for smiling. Prior to the speech, computers had sprayed coded Internet messages to clandestine UWW paramilitary forces in her vicinity, moving them into position, focusing power. Gunboats were speeding to a rendezvous point on the western coast of Italy; underground equipment had been brought out and was being transported by cargo plane; armed female soldiers were gathering. Messages also went out to operatives in key positions—sleeper agents—summoning them to action.
The BOI would never suspect what Dixie Lou had in mind next, and would not be able to prevent it.
* * *
Hearing something behind her, Lori swiveled her chair and looked into the eyes of the redheaded toddler who stood there, looking up at her. Mary Magdalene’s eyes glowed like bright little suns, so that Lori wondered if she could continue to gaze at them without blinking. But she did nonetheless, transfixed.
Mary dipped a small hand into a pocket of her robe and brought out a handful of sand. Holding her palm flat in front of her, the sand began to shimmer bright silver, and floated in the air. The tiny grains floated around the room, over the head of the pilot (without her seeing them) and back into Mary’s hand.
With a smile, she put the handful of sand back in her pocket and returned to the passenger compartment.
Lori tried to comprehend what she had just seen, but the more she tried, the more elusive the truth became, as if it were dancing away from her. It fled understanding, concealed itself in shadowy, cosmic reaches. And she realized how pointless it was to make any attempt to understand the phenomenon, at least on the level at which her brain was accustomed to operating. For answers, she needed to go deeper, into an alternate realm that remained largely unavailable to her, an awareness that she could not force open.
The timing had to be right, she realized. In due course it would come to her if she was meant to know it, like understanding the arcane language of the she-apostles.
Lori was certain of one thing, though. She needed to catch Dixie Lou and stop her.
* * *
A half hour later, as they flew northward over an aquamarine sea . . .
Lori wandered back down the central aisle of the passenger compartment, heading for the aft galley. The pilot Rea Janeg had flown nonstop across the Mediterranean, but hadn’t slept well the night before departure. She kept going on what she called “repeated injections of caffeine,” cups of strong coffee brought to her by Lori.
While Lori filled yet another paper cup with coffee, she watched three she-apostles toddle into the galley single file . . . Priscilla, Lydia, and Candace. They looked sleepy-eyed.
“A bit young for coffee, aren’t you?” Lori asked, with a smile. The helicopter bumped through turbulence, and she grabbed a side bar to hold on, spilling some of the coffee.
The children had better “air legs” than she did, and maintained their footing much more easily. They rubbed their eyes and yawned.
“Can you make sand dance in the air like Mary Magdalene?” Lori asked, as she fitted a plastic lid onto the cup. She spoke English to the children, wondered if they could understand. Their eyes were alert and inquisitive.
Bending down, Priscilla picked up an empty paper cup from the deck, and tossed it in the air. Just as the cup was about to hit the floor in front of the children, it floated back upward, hovering in front of their faces. Lori saw a shimmering disturbance in front of the children, and heard buzzing in her ears.
The toddlers gathered around the cup, and with their mental energies tossed it back and forth among them in the air, making a game of it. All the while, they kept glancing over at Lori, as if for approval.
“That’s a pretty neat trick,” Lori said. She slipped by them, carrying the coffee forward along the aisle. Glancing back, she saw the children having trouble keeping the cup in the air. It tumbled to the deck, and they couldn’t get it to float anymore.
After making the delivery, Lori peered back into the passenger compartment. Apparently giving up on the game, the children returned to their seats, where Alex, the translator, and a matron were taking care of them. Soon the three toddlers joined the other she-apostles in sleep.
Alex was asleep himself, holding the slumbering baby Esther in his arms, wrapped in a blanket. Lori smiled at how cute he looked holding the child, whose skin was a beautiful shade of light black, a mixture of races. Earlier, Lori had seen him speak to the fussy baby in a gentle, calming tone that immediately caused her to quiet down.
For a long while, Lori sat on the jump seat, trying to comprehend. The she-apostles had an interesting telekinetic power, but didn’t seem to have endurance with it, as if they needed to develop their mental muscles more. Perhaps that would come with age.
She wondered if this power might develop into something other than a parlor trick, and contemplated something else as well. Did her own presence have something to do with their telekinesis, perhaps through a force field that they shared? In the days to come, she wanted to explore such a possibility—but something told her to do it away from the inquisitive eyes and interference of adults.
If Lori had something to do with their abilities, this suggested another interesting possibility, a quid pro quo: Did the she-apostles also impart something to her, the mysterious tracking ability she seemed to have? Had the children somehow inspired her, permitting her to tap into internal resources she never knew she had until now?
She tried to slow the racing of her mind.
Chapter 19
It is natural for any organized religion to consider the new gospels heretical. How could they take any other position, since their entire power structure is based upon something entirely different? Change is very unsettling.
—Lori Vale, The Psychology of Religion
Before arriving in the “Eternal City” of Rome, Lori had been forced to deal with several problems, which she solved with the enterprising assistance of Fujiko Harui while they were still in flight. First, Fujiko arranged for them to land at a small private airfield outside the city that she’d learned about through her own extensive network of personal contacts. It was a field where they would not be scrutinized by the Italian police or customs officials, and which the UWW would not know about, either.
Next, she called a tourist office and arranged to rent the entire top floor of an apartment building in the Manzoni district of the city. The facilities were expensive, and so were the airfield arrangements, but they had plenty of money onboard the helicopter, and this was a legitimate expense for the she-apostles.
Fujiko also reported that the apartment complex had connections with the operator of a large private van, which could transport all of them from the airfield in one trip, and that the apartment superintendent had promised complete privacy and security . . . in exchange for additional payments, of course. Pursuant to Lori’s instructions, Fujiko told the superintendent, an elderly woman, that they would have fourteen terminally ill medical patients with them when they arrived—eleven children and three adults. Under the concocted tale, they were all going to receive experimental medical treatments in Rome.
The three adult “patients” were actually the prisoners Wendy Zepeda and the two guards. The troublesome trio could not just be left on the helicopter, not even under supervision, because that might result in unwanted attention from outsiders. Fujiko had once been a doctor, so half an hour before landing she did as Lori instructed, administering soporific injections to them from the helicopter’s medical kit, causing them to pass out. The prisoners would be removed from the aircraft on stretchers.
It was an offbeat fabric of lies, but told to the driver and the apartment superintendent in such a convincing fashion that they said in broken English that they wanted to do everything possible to help. Lori thanked both of them, and asked them to say prayers for the safe recovery of the patients.
This pleased the two Italians, especially the energetic old woman who ran the apartment building, Mrs. Capo. “Si, si,” she said, wiping her hands on a food-stained apron, and then touching a silver cross that she wore on a chain. “I will pray to Jesus for your success.” She and the driver then took Lori and Fujiko by elevator to the top floor, and showed them the connected apartments they would be renting.
“I must emphasize something very important,” Lori said, handing separate wads of hundred dollar bills to the superintendent and the driver, funds from the money cabinet on the helicopter. Lori and her confidantes now had all of the funds in valises and other bags carried off the aircraft, and were keeping hidden how much they had. She was trusting the two middle-aged matrons, the pilot, and the scholarly translator now, in addition to Alex, Fujiko, Liz, and Siana.
“Anything,” Mrs. Capo said.
“Si, anything,” the driver agreed, counting the bills with considerable pleasure.
“As my friend told you when she made the reservation, we require complete privacy for our medical program, and you must not discuss us with anyone. No one is to even know that we are here, not your other tenants, nor anyone else. This is essential for the complete recovery of the patients. You would not want to do harm to these patients at such a vulnerable time in their lives.”
“Si, si, absolute privacy,” the manager promised. “We will be available for all of your needs.”
The driver of the private bus, who had introduced himself as Domingo Petrovese, nodded and agreed as well.
Mrs. Capo had other duties to perform, but instructed the driver to help her new tenants with whatever they needed. That morning, Petrovese helped transport the three stretcher-bound women, the children, and personal articles up to the top floor, the seventh. He said he was a close friend of the superintendent, and that he lived in the building himself. Lori asked him where in the building he lived.
“I live in Mrs. Capo’s apartment on the floor beneath you,” Petrovese said, with a big grin.
“Oh.”
“I am Mrs. Capo’s special friend. I do handyman work, anything she requires.’ He leaned close and whispered, “Do not tell her I told you we are roommates. She is a very proper Catholic woman, and would be embarrassed.”
“You have my word of honor,” Lori said with a smile.
“And you have mine,” he said, moving a forefinger across his own lips, like a zipper. “Our secrets are safe with each other.”
* * *
For three years, Aldo Gasperi had been Captain of the Swiss Guard, responsible for the safety of the Pope and for the security of the holy shrines of the Vatican. At the age of fifty-six, this balding little man occupied a small but comfortable apartment in Vatican City, shared with a fluffy white cat that had black paws. The large female cat, named Shag Rat by Aldo’s English cousin who brought her from London, was adept at keeping the apartment clean of not only rodents but of any other pesky intruders (especially flies and moths) that might foolishly dare to trespass. Shag Rat took her guard duties seriously, as her master did.
While sitting at a kitchen table with his cat curled near his feet, Aldo reread a handwritten note that had been delivered to him that evening, less than an hour ago. The note, written on heavy, gold-embossed papal stationery, instructed him to follow up on each of the recommendations made in a preposterous letter written by the brother of the President of the United States—a transmittal that criticized the security systems of the Vatican and made recommendations for improvement. Aldo felt his blood pressure rise as he again looked over a copy of the American’s letter. The nerve of that man! Why couldn’t he mind his own business? And why did His Holiness Pope Rodrigo take the comments seriously? Was he losing faith in Aldo? It was disturbing, most disturbing.
Somehow he felt he had let the Pope down, even though His Holiness had not expressed any criticism in his note. Pope Rodrigo was a man of infinite patience, and an excellent judge of human character. He knew how to draw out the best in people. Aldo, like so many others on the Vatican staff, adored this most perfect of all men, and would do anything to please him.
The Pope had only written, “Please look into this” on the note, but now Aldo felt he needed to prove himself to his boss—actually to re-prove himself. It wasn’t fair, really, since Aldo done so many things well over the years. Once, he’d even been responsible for saving the Pope’s life by apprehending a clever assassin who had scaled a wall of the Vatican Palace with climbing gear, during a short period when the alarm system went down. Aldo, ever vigilant, had increased the surveillance of the grounds while the alarm system was being worked on, placing the entire guard force on duty. As it turned out, the assassin—a Turkish Muslim who was wanted for crimes in his own country—had been hired by an insider, who had disabled the system. Through an intensive internal investigation, Aldo had discovered the Vatican staff member who had initiated the assassination attempt, and had begun the process that led to the conviction and incarceration of both men.
Tears welled in the guard captain’s eyes, but he tried to steel himself. Even though this was not fair, having to answer a letter from a meddlesome American, who was Aldo to question such things? After all, as His Holiness often said in his pronouncement
s, each person must constantly face challenges in life, all in accordance with God’s Plan. So it must be with this unexpected letter. He sighed and felt a little better as he placed himself in submission to God’s will. A heavenly calmness swept over him, and he was pleased with this, for it allowed him to think more clearly.
For many decades, Aldo’s family had worked for the Vatican, in a variety of positions. His mother Gina had been a cleaning woman and later a cook in the cafeteria, and his talented sister, Malvi, had helped in the restoration of an old mural. Beto, his father, had been on the guard force, but had been killed in an automobile accident when Aldo was small, living with his parents in Vatican City.
Later Aldo had been scrutinized and tested by the school nuns who decided that he would be a good candidate for the prestigious papal guard force—one of the most elite organizations of its kind in the world. Stringent security and psychological tests ensued, and the young man—at the age of eighteen—had gone into intensive training. As Aldo advanced to captain of the force over the next decade, the Pope came to know him by his first name, and became a father-figure to Aldo, who had lost his own father so tragically. On Aldo’s twenty-first birthday, he, his sister, and their mother had even been invited to dine with His Holiness. Aldo’s mother was gone now, having passed away the year before, and his sister had moved to Florence, where she was working on the restoration of priceless murals.
Reviewing the Pope’s note and the Zack Markwether letter that precipitated it, Aldo resolved to prove himself again to this Pope who had been so generous and loving to him, and prove himself as well to the master of them all, the Holy Father himself. Aldo would begin investigating the allegations this very evening.
* * *
The Mediterranean seaside town of Cerveteri, northwest of Rome . . .
Olivia Puccini sat up in bed, listening to the familiar sleeping sounds of her corpulent, black-mustachioed husband, who lay beside her. Outside an open window, a nightingale cried.
The Lost Apostles Page 15