The Stolen Gospels

by Brian Herbert

  Now they had all of them, with the exception of one.

  Not surprisingly, this was the first thing Amy asked when they met in the foyer of the building: “Any news on Martha yet?” She was referring to Martha of Galilee, so named by the other she-apostles. Voices could be heard in another room: the families were gathering.

  Katherine held onto the smaller woman’s hand in a long, warm handshake. “We think she’s somewhere in Mexico. You heard about the problem, I assume?”

  “Yes,” Amy said as they separated, “the difficulty of translating from Aramaic—several villages with similar names—”

  “We’re narrowing it down. I’ve dispatched teams to five peasant villages in the central highlands of Mexico. Something is bound to turn up.”

  The epicanthic folds around Amy’s green eyes tightened. “With only one to go, we can’t let her slip through our fingers.”

  “I understand how important she is. I’m sparing no expense.”

  “And we all appreciate that. Too bad you can’t take a tax deduction for your contributions.”

  “No matter. Money is no object.” Heiress to a huge shipping fortune, Katherine seemed to have an endless supply of money.

  Amy followed Katherine through a wide doorway into an immense, high-ceilinged room that had once been the dining hall of the convent. Men, women, and children were seated in chairs . . . the surviving birth-families of the she-apostles. As the two women entered, a hush fell over the assemblage.

  Amy climbed three wooden steps to a stage and crossed to a podium. On an adjacent table, she set down her briefcase and opened it, with four clicks of the air latches.

  “I’ve brought holo-recordings of your children,” she said.

  Presently the audience grew quiet and listened as Amy set up a projection machine on the podium and adjusted the transmitting ball on top. “I’m sorry we can’t leave anything with you,” Amy said. “We’ve explained the security problems to you.” She touched a button, and a little girl’s voice came on, a fifteen-month-old toddler speaking in Aramaic.

  “This is Gina Michelli,” Amy explained, concealing the child’s apostolic name, Veronica, and the related information about her. That she-apostle, like the others, had renounced her birth-name when she began speaking Aramaic. Such facts had not been revealed to the birth-families . . . only a made-up story that the children were special, and the subject of a top-secret government study.

  Now Amy stretched the truth even further when she gazed from the podium down at the parents—an overweight Italian couple in the front row—and said, “Gina says she loves you, and misses you.” In reality, the children seemed to have passed over a threshold, rising above familial concerns to a different level, one that affected all of humankind.

  A woman beside them translated Amy’s words into Italian, and tears began to stream down the mother’s face. She said something, which was in turn related back to Amy: “She wants to know when she can hold her baby again.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t provide an exact time,” the Chairwoman replied.

  This was true, because in this room only she and Katherine knew that the Italian baby and ten others formed the core of a rigorous academic research program, with no end in sight. In order to maintain secrecy, the families were forced to live here under guard for an indefinite time. With all of her wealth, Dr. Pangalos was providing them with amenities that rivaled a luxury resort, including a health club and swimming pool, meals prepared by world-class chefs, tutors for their other children, and even high-security Mediterranean cruises. This former convent had, in effect, become a velvet-lined prison for the families. They were not permitted to send or receive any type of mail or correspondence, to make phone calls, or to receive visitors.

  As the first child finished speaking and Amy began playing a recording of the second, she paused, having heard something . . . the sound of breaking glass, followed by loud footsteps.

  Suddenly men in silver-and-black uniforms burst into the hall, carrying automatic rifles. They sprayed the ceiling with bullets, and their leader shouted, in English, “Everybody on the floor, face-down! Now!”

  Amy touched a button on the holo-recorder, destroying it. Smoke curled out of the machine.

  * * *

  In separate caves rimming the top of Monte Konos, monks wearing dirty, frayed robes murmured the Prayer of the Heart, over and over: “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner . . . Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner. . .” The sun, low in the sky, splashed golden hues across the mountains of northern Greece.

  These men—a handful of religious hermits—had inhabited the caves long before United Women of the World took over the mountain. The council had allowed them to remain, considering them non-political and unthreatening. Two of the monks (who called themselves “musers”) earned food and simple personal articles by telling fortunes to the women, while others performed manual labor around the facility. There was no shortage of work needing to be done.

  At the conclusion of his prayer one of the monks emerged from his primitive home and climbed a short distance up a rock, in cool shadows. Dipping his hands in a small natural bowl, he drank rainwater. Then he gazed uphill, at the streaked gray-and-black stone buildings of the ancient monastery, with its Byzantine arches and domed rooftops. The sun, just dropping below a mountain peak behind him, was glinting off window panes on the top floor of the Scriptorium Building.

  Inside that structure, the women who controlled the mountain were particularly busy. He wondered what they were doing in there.

  Chapter 3

  Q: “What did the Divine Spirit say, after creating Adam?”

  A: “What a huge disappointment. We need to improve on this!”

  —One of Amy Angkor-Billings’ oft-repeated jokes

  Shortly after dinner, Lori stood in the small kitchen of her mother’s two-bedroom house, staring at a flier on the counter, a green piece of paper with bright orange lettering on it. The notice from the Golden Goddess Society, sitting on top of a pile of mail, said something about a surprise speaker at the next meeting. The teenager sighed. Her mother got involved in so many oddball things, always having to do with women’s issues.

  Just as she was about to move the flier aside to go through the letters, Lori felt a peculiar tingling sensation in her fingertips when she touched the green paper. Handling another piece of mail, she didn’t get that feeling. Hesitantly, she touched the flier once more, and got the tingling again. It must be static electricity, she decided, clinging to the fiber structure of the paper.

  Just as she was wondering how far-fetched this sounded, her mother came in and announced, “You’re going with me to the meeting.”

  They argued all the way to the car, and across the airbridge spanning Lake Washington. . . .

  “I don’t see why I have to go with you,” Lori said. She slouched in the passenger seat as her mother drove the old Chrysler. Angrily, the lavender-eyed teenager glanced sidelong at her mother, who still wore her office clothes—a brown tweed suit with narrow lapels that were at least ten years out of style.

  “It’ll be good for you.”

  “A goddess circle? Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Watch it, young lady.” She glanced with disapproval at Lori’s short red skirt and tight pink blouse, which revealed her blossoming figure. Her long auburn hair was secured in a pony tail.

  Fiddling with the strap of her purse, Lori gazed out the window. The old car rolled along a winding street on the west side of Mercer Island, an upscale suburb of Seattle. Expensive waterfront and view homes were set in the midst of evergreen trees, with BMWs, Mercedes, and Rolls Royces parked in driveways. The moon was full and bright.

  “Oh, like I don’t have a right to have an opinion, Mom? This is America, isn’t it? Land of the free?”

  “If you hadn’t abused drugs and alcohol, I wouldn’t worry about leaving you at home.”

  “I’ve been through therapy.” Lori stared at her own
brown leather purse, which contained, in a zipper pocket, a plastic baggie of marijuana.

  “And you relapsed.”

  “A couple of lousy beers. Big stinkin’ deal.” She felt stressed, wanted to roll a joint and smoke it.

  Lori was street-wise, tough and sassy. When she ran away from home the month before it was her second time, after which she’d gone to weekly counseling sessions with her mother. Lori’s friends were a major concern for Camilla. She called them “users, losers, and abusers.”

  “If I have to, Lori, I’ll put you back in the rehab center.”

  “It’s easier to get drugs in there than it is outside, do you know that?”

  “You’re not staying out all night with boys any more, either, young lady.”

  “Oh, like I’m gonna sneak off while you’re at the goddess circle.”

  The car hit a bump, causing the glove box to pop open, revealing a .38 handgun inside. Reaching over, Camilla slammed the little door shut. Lori’s mother knew martial arts and the use of weapons . . . said she had almost been raped once, and refused to ever let it happen again. She regularly took Lori to target practice, showing her how to fire this handgun and a rifle, and had enrolled her in advanced t’ai chi chuan and beginning karate classes.

  “Lori, you have to build back my trust,” Camilla said. “You’ve let me down too often, and each time it hurts. I’ve been looking forward to this meeting, and I swear you’re not keeping me from it.”

  “Do you want me to be a lesbian, like you?”

  “That’s not true and you know it!” As Camilla glared at her passenger, the big car veered, before she corrected the steering.

  “You don’t like men.”

  “I’ve never said that.” Because of Camilla’s burst of anger, her hands gripped the steering ball so hard that they seemed welded in place.

  “Oh right, like you have sweet things to say about Daddy. Try to think of something good about him, Mom. Just one little thing.”

  “There isn’t much. He did not treat his family well.”

  “That’s a tired tune. Same old generality, without details.”

  Steering the heavy car around a corner, Camilla nudged the accelerator. The old engine sputtered, then finally caught hold, just when it seemed about to expire. Exhaust fumes seeped into the passenger compartment.

  “You’re too gullible around men, Lori, too trusting of them.”

  “Men? Mom, I’m only fifteen. I date guys my own age, or maybe a year older.”

  “Yeah, and I know what you do with them.”

  “You’re paranoid, Mom, do you know that?”

  “You must think I’m stupid. I know you’re sleeping with them.”

  “Oh really? Well maybe I made up things in my diary because I knew you’d sneak and read it.”

  “I never said I read your diary.”

  “Then what’s this talk about sleeping with boys? Where’d you get that crazy idea?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “You’re so secretive, Mom. It makes me sick. Dark secrets about Daddy, unrevealed sources of information about me. You’re never honest with me.”

  “That’s uncalled for, Lori. You know I love you.”

  “You’re overprotective.”

  The rain and wind from an afternoon storm had let up, but the roadway was strewn with small branches and evergreen boughs. Lori wondered what it was like to live in elegant, sprawling homes like those she saw out the window. In her own household, money was always tight, since her mother was a single parent with only a clerical position. Lori thought it might be nice to live another way some day, just for awhile.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to save you,” Camilla vowed. “I feel like I’m fighting for your life.”

  “I’ll bet you’re lying about Daddy,” Lori said, ignoring her mother’s words. “You probably drove him away by being frigid.”

  “That’s better than dressing like a whore. Your skirt is too high and you wear a pound of makeup.”

  A headstrong girl, Lori removed her safety harness and lifted the door button. The dented passenger door creaked open, and she tried to get out of the car while it was rolling. With surprising strength her mother grabbed her by the arm and jerked her back inside, then pulled the car over to the side of the road.

  “You could have been killed, Lori!” Camilla said. She cried for a moment, then reined in her tears with a burst of anger.

  “I don’t care.”

  “Put your safety harness back on, young lady. Now.”

  With furious energy, Lori complied, because she didn’t really want to die. She had only opened the door of the moving car for dramatic effect. In reality, Lori Vale always thought she had something significant to do with her life, that one day she would be involved in a really important activity. At this point, though, she just didn’t know what form that might take.

  Ever since Lori’s younger years—and in many respects she considered herself quite old now—she had felt things instinctually, as if able to sense another realm, or a form of energy that others did not detect. It was not a subject she liked to discuss with even her closest friends, and certainly not with her own mother, because she feared people would laugh at her. For now, she preferred to keep it as her own little secret. The ability served her well on occasion, enabling her to detect the motives of people, whether they were out for their own interests or if they were true friends. Or so she thought.

  Camilla opened a small packet containing a moist towelette, and used it to remove makeup from Lori’s face, while the girl grimaced and tried to turn away. “Where are the earrings I gave you?” her mother demanded. “I told you to wear them tonight.”

  “I don’t know.” Lori was lying. The pearl-and-gold earrings (a gift on her last birthday) were in a pocket of her skirt.

  Muttering an epithet under her breath, Camilla pulled back onto the road. Several minutes later she slowed to read a street sign, then grabbed her notes from the seat beside her, concerning the location of the meeting. She flipped on the dome light. It cast a yellow glow.

  “This is it,” she announced. “West Glen.”

  “Whoopty-doo.”

  Camilla switched off the interior light and turned onto a narrow street, which climbed sharply. At the top of the hill the road curved left. “That must be it,” she said, pointing to a beige colonial with three dormers.

  As they pulled into a space in front of the house, Lori noted a neatly edged lawn, with rhododendrons and azaleas in winter dormancy, their leaves curled and stiff. The home featured large windows, which she guessed must provide a fine view of Lake Washington and the tall buildings of the Seattle skyline. Two late model imported cars were parked beside the driveway, along with a new off-road hovercraft. The garage doors were open, revealing a Cadillac and a Mercedes.

  While walking to the house, Lori noticed that the sky was a wash of gray-black with a sprinkling of visible stars. A cold wind whipped across the moonlit waters of the lake. A chill ran down the girl’s spine, but she didn’t know why. She stared up at the house, and women who were visible inside at a second floor window, milling around, talking.

  Something rustled in the bushes.

  Camilla let out a cry.

  “Just a cat,” Lori said, watching a gray-and-white feline, illuminated in yard lights, as it scurried across the lawn and disappeared into the backyard.

  The pair climbed brick steps to the creaky, wooden front porch, where Camilla rapped a brass lion’s head clapper mounted on the door. The soft tones of women’s voices could be heard inside.

  But no one answered.

  A peculiar feeling came over Lori, an odd mixture of fear and excitement.

  Camilla rapped again, but still no one came to the door.

  With a splash of headlights across the porch, a green sports car pulled into the driveway and squeaked to a stop behind one of the open garage doors. An exotically beautiful dark-skinned woman emerged and climbed the steps to the porch. Wi
thout a word she opened the door and stepped inside.

  The woman hesitated, looked back. “Are you going to join us?” she asked.

  “We rang the bell and knocked,” Camilla said, “but no one answered.”

  “I’m sure it’s all right to go in,” the woman said. She glanced at her watch. “They’re about to begin.”

  Trying to sort out her feelings, Lori went inside with the others.

  * * *

  In the front passenger seat, Styx felt the throbbing heartbeat of the V-Warrior attack helicopter as it bore him westward. The Cascade Mountains of Washington State lay in moonlight below, with their craggy tops casting fantastic shadows across the nightscape, as if the mountains were living creatures that had been frozen in time by the ice and snow.

  The aircraft looked like an ordinary transport chopper, but it had concealed gun ports and missile launchers. It was not one of the stealth aircraft that the Bureau had, because none of them were available on short notice for this mission. It didn’t matter to Styx; this disguised attack craft was all they needed.

  Glancing back into the rear compartment, he saw the eight members of his squad sitting motionless, with the portholes beside them letting in moonlight that glinted off the silver portions of their uniforms. They wore black helmets fitted tightly to their heads like second skins, with their eyes concealed behind narrow slits.

  Styx’s heart matched the iciness of the night as he thought of the Satanic women who would feel his wrath tonight, especially Dixie Lou Jackson, second in command in the UWW, just as he was in the BOI.