The Stolen Gospels

by Brian Herbert

  Opening his eyes wide in displeasure, the Minister said, “I’m surprised that you’d say something so dishonest, Styx. You should be ashamed of yourself. We are not crooks!”

  Styx reddened. “But sir, the heretical book isn’t even complete, and it certainly isn’t the only copy. The price is too high.”

  “You have my instructions.”

  “A billion dollars would be better spent on missiles.”

  “Do as I say!”

  Styx glared at his superior, but remained silent.

  Chapter 28

  Blessed are the women, who have been meek: for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are the women who hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.

  —Matthew 5:5–6, as amended in the Holy Women’s Bible

  The red security phone on the Chairwoman’s desk made a doleful mew like a kitten, a carryover from the previous occupant of this office, Amy Angkor Billings, who had loved felines. With a grimace, Dixie Lou realized her change order had not been carried out.

  She loathed cats, since she considered them disloyal, sneaky, and arrogant. In her childhood, the family tabby had secreted a foul substance all over Dixie Lou’s skirt and blouse (which had been on a shelf), so that she nearly gagged when she tried to put on the clothing. For that heinous transgression she had tortured and mutilated the animal, tying it down and ripping off its legs one by one (with a knife and tools) while it was still alive. The screeches and squeals of pain still clung to her memory, giving her renewed delight.

  Papers were spread in front of her, a UWW budget report that compared actual and projected operating expenses for the past month. The room air was chilly due to yet another problem with the Monte Konos heating system, so she wore a thick wool sweater.

  She swallowed one last forkful of her dinner, a middle-eastern lamb stew that was a little too spicy for her taste, then pushed it away and washed it down with strong Greek coffee. The videophone rang, and she answered.

  It was Lieutenant Sears, reporting from the guard station at Lori Vale’s cell. She said the teenager was conscious, and showed her image on the phone-projection screen.

  “She’s to speak to no one,” Dixie Lou snapped. Through a small window she watched the contrail of a distant jet as the aircraft ascended at a steep angle in the golden, sunset-washed sky, heading away from Monte Konos. She was sure that her defense unit was tracking it.

  “I understand, ma’am. As you can see, we’re looking at her through the door glass. She’s sitting up in bed, rubbing her head. Looks kinda dazed.”

  Hearing background voices that were off-video, Dixie Lou asked, “Who’s with you?”

  “Two councilwomen. Katherine Pangalos and Fujiko Harui. They’ve asked permission to interview the girl, but I told them you left orders to route all requests through you.”

  “Hold them off,” Dixie Lou drawled. “I’ll be right there.” She hung up the phone, and hurried to the door of her office. In her mind she reviewed the provisions of Title 8 of the UWW Charter, the section that allowed her to act as sole judge in cases of treason. That included jurisdiction over evidence gathering, which encompassed the interrogation of prisoners.

  As she strode into the corridor she ran into the stud knight Marcus Aaron, arriving at his appointed time to service her on the office couch. The replacement for Giovanni Petrie, he wore a tight shirt and baggy trousers. Every golden hair was combed in place. Glistening muscles rippled. He moved like an exotic dancer.

  “Return to the stud harem,” Dixie Lou commanded, with a sneer. She forced her way by him, locking the door behind her.

  * * *

  Feeling dizzy, Lori sat on the edge of her bed. She wore a sleeveless, moss-green gown. Her forehead throbbed, and the muscles in her arms and legs were sore and aching, covered with scrapes and dark blue bruises.

  The walls and ceiling of the room were rough-textured stone, painted white and yellow. She had a vague memory of being struck by something. A gold boot.

  I was kicked. Dixie Lou did it.

  Lori heard raised voices outside her room. Through a small wire glass window she saw Dixie Lou Jackson, Katherine Pangalos, and Fujiko Harui, all engaged in heated conversation. Dixie Lou was doing most of the talking, quoting some sort of law or rule.

  Finally the commotion died down and the door opened. Dixie Lou entered, wearing a pair of her trademark gold boots. She held a small electronic device, with blinking blue and red lights on it. She scanned it around the cell, and presently the lights turned green.

  “First, let’s set some ground rules,” Dixie Lou announced in a terse tone. She stood over Lori, who still sat on the bed. “You’re not to talk to anyone except me. I’m the only one empowered to investigate the attempted kidnapping.”

  Not saying anything, Lori stared down at Dixie Lou’s boots.

  “Do you understand?”

  A slow nod. Her lavender eyes were hard, angry. Lori felt like leaping to her feet and attacking her.

  “What was your part in the kidnap plot?”

  Looking up, Lori answered, “I have nothing to say.”

  “And my son?”

  Lori’s heart raced. “Is he all right?”

  Dixie Lou narrowed her eyelids. “He hasn’t come to, yet.”

  “You mean he’s in a coma?”

  “Not sure, maybe just unconscious. What was his involvement in the attempted kidnapping?”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t know anything about that.”

  “Who was the ring leader?”

  Lori shrugged. She hoped Alex was not seriously injured.

  “Tell me about the BOI.”

  The teenager didn’t intend to answer these questions, wanted to go to Alex and do what she could for him. “I don’t know anything about the BOI,” she finally said, “only that they’re against everything you stand for.”

  “And what about you? Are you against everything I stand for, too?”

  “My mother’s dead! You lied to me!”

  “So you know about that, eh? Well, we did the best we could for her, but her injuries were too severe.”

  “Liar! You turned her over to the male doctors and their third-world medical clinic. You let her die!”

  “The male doctors took care of her? This is the first I’ve heard of that.”

  “Liar. You think you can say anything to me, don’t you?”

  “I’ll order an investigation of your mother’s death.”

  “A lot of good that’ll do.”

  “Listen,” Dixie Lou said, in an urgent tone. “It would be in your best interest to cooperate with me, Lori. This is not just a failed kidnapping. A guard was murdered. Get smart, and I’ll see what can be done to spare your life.”

  “But you’re the killer! I saw you—”

  Lori’s words were cut off by a sharp slap across her face. “No one will believe you.” Dixie Lou grabbed the girl by the bare arm and shook her. “If you say that again, I’ll—”

  Suddenly, while Dixie Lou was touching her, Lori cried out in pain, and her world split, an out-of-body experience. Inexplicably, Lori was looking at herself from across a room.

  Unclothed, she lay supine in bed, with a bright, amorphous shape hovering over her, preventing her from moving, numbing all of her physical sensations, transfixing her with its presence. The shape surrounded her, encompassed her, flowed through her entire body like a mist of otherworldly light.

  A baby cried out, and Lori felt the comforting warmth of a tiny form that she held against her breast, an auburn-haired girl-child. The bright shape was no longer there.

  Now Lori became aware of a woman’s presence, backing away from the baby, staring at it in terror and confusion. The woman had a broad, deeply-tanned face and dark eyes. She gripped a knife, and blood was spattered all over her white dress, but Lori and her baby were not harmed. The weapon clattered to the floor. . . .

  The startling mental picture disappeared, and once more Dixie Lou was shaking Lori
by the arm. The images had blasted through the girl’s consciousness in a fraction of a second. Looking at Dixie Lou now, she saw her face register terror and confusion, the identical expression she’d seen on the other woman . . . no knife or blood this time, but the dark eyes were the same, too.

  Her mouth agape, Dixie Lou backed up, then turned and fled the room.

  * * *

  Torn by internal conflicts, Styx paced the length of his underground office. A flat screen on one wall projected a series of daytime images of the town, thirty-one levels above him. It was nearly noon. An unopened, unexamined parcel lay on his desk, along with a number of colored folders.

  Minister Culpepper had selected him above all others for promotion to second in command of the Bureau, and more than that, the old man had been a father figure. Six years ago, following the death of Styx’s mother from a lingering illness, Nelson Culpepper had consoled him with biblical passages and prayers. Old Culpepper could be tough, though; Styx had never known anyone tougher.

  But the Minister had soft spots—perilous for a man in his position, since enemies could work them to their advantage. Delaying the attack on Monte Konos was the latest of those weaknesses to surface, leaving the Satanic women a place to thumb their noses at the forces of God, continuing to perform their witchery, assembling their heretical book.

  Styx cursed his boss for his stupidity. The doddering old fool was moving too slowly, might never institute the necessary attack. Those whores could escape.

  Pausing at the desk, Styx flipped the parcel over so that he could read the address label. It was from elderly Mrs. Bonham, mailed to a post office box in the nearest city—set up so that non-Bureau people could send messages to Styx.

  With a smile, he tore the brown paper from the box and scanned a brief note written in erratic penmanship, as she said she was looking forward to their next visit. Pictures of them together were enclosed, along with a tin of homemade lemon squares. He nibbled on one, and as he absorbed the familiar sweet tartness, he began to feel better.

  * * *

  All day long, dark clouds had hung over Salonika, dumping their contents on the northern Greek city, drenching it. Now it was well past midnight, and the few pedestrians out at this hour were bundled against the rainstorm.

  Giovanni Petrie emerged from the taverna that had become his favorite haunt in recent days, moving slowly and uncertainly because of the retsina wine he had been drinking and the deluge inundating him. For a moment he couldn’t recall the direction of his hotel, and he paused in the shelter of a doorway. Then, noticing a landmark white tower on the waterfront, he went back the way he had just come, passing the taverna and continuing on. He had been going in the taverna every evening to dine and drink, after that first day that had yielded such a nice payoff from the Catholic Church—$600,000 down in exchange for the only copy he had of the manuscript, and a contract for another $200,000 a month over the next year. Eager to share in his good fortune, the staff of the tourist establishment was being very attentive to him, and he’d been giving them generous tips.

  Giovanni had opened a local bank account, and had hidden more than $30,000 of the remainder in his hotel room. With his newfound riches he had been looking for a house to rent in Salonika, and he’d met a couple of interesting women, including a wealthy middle-aged widow who had offered to let him move in with her. But he wasn’t sure if he wanted to do that; his own money was giving him an independence that he was enjoying.

  Soaking wet, he waited at a crosswalk while an old American car passed, its windshield wipers flopping furiously.

  But as Giovanni stepped into the crosswalk he became aware of a vehicle approaching from the side with its headlights off, going fast. A truck. In the darkness he hadn’t noticed it, and in the downpour he hadn’t heard it. He tried to run but the truck loomed over him, only swerving at the last moment. A fender hit him, knocking him to the pavement. Money and a handgun flew from his jacket pockets.

  The truck screeched to a stop. Entirely black, it was a flatbed with raised wooden sides and a canvas canopy.

  As Giovanni lay on his side, stunned, he saw three women emerge from the vehicle. His shoulder and hip ached. The women lifted him and shoved him unceremoniously into the back of the truck on a cold metal floor, then slammed the tailgate shut. Before he could protest or figure out what was happening, the vehicle was underway, careening down one street and another, as if it were being chased. A staccato of rain pelted the top of the canvas canopy.

  “What are you doing?” he said. “This must be a mistake!”

  “Keep quiet,” one of the women said, in an American accent.

  The engine roared over the noise of the storm as the driver pressed hard on the accelerator. Brakes squealed as the vehicle took turns. The truck went over bumps, maybe sidewalks. Giovanni was bounced around painfully in the rear compartment. In the shadows, broken by occasional city lights and the headlights of other vehicles, he saw three women holding onto side rails, their eyes black as pits. Cold, wet, and terrified, he shivered.

  Keeping hold of the rail, one of the women opened the rear flap of canvas to peer out. “I think we lost ’em,” she said.

  * * *

  As the truck left the city heading west on the motorway, a midnight blue Volvo van followed from a distance, its headlights off. At the wheel of the vehicle the driver, a man wearing a headset and night vision goggles, received satellite relay instructions. His name was Pierre Sandoval, an overseas agent of the Bureau of Ideology. Three other men sat silently in the car, holding snub-nose automatic handguns. The windshield wipers worked furiously.

  “We have you in sight,” said the voice of the dispatcher, Marc Hoodek. “The truck, too.” He was looking at the vehicles through an infrared camera attached to a BOI satellite orbiting the earth.

  After stopping at a toll plaza, the truck crossed a bridge over the broad Axiós river, whose waters originated in the rugged Macedonian mountains to the north. When Sandoval passed through the toll plaza he had his headlights on and his headset and goggles off. His passengers concealed their weapons. Soon the Volvo’s lights were off again, and once more the driver was looking into the night through the military goggles.

  The truck and its stealthy pursuit vehicle passed farms and orchards, and a sign marking a turnoff to the ancient ruins of Pella. Sandoval glanced at a computer generated map on the console, which in its illumination showed the ruins, with a caption that Pella had been the capital of a unified Greece at the time of Alexander the Great. It was from this region that Alexander had set out to conquer the known world.

  Ahead, the truck turned south onto a two-lane highway, and after several kilometers it turned west again, onto a winding road that climbed steeply past the terraced hillsides of small farms. Reaching a plateau they passed through a quaint little town. Automatically, the computer provided more detail. Near here at Mieza, the philosopher Aristotle had tutored the young Alexander.

  Soon the truck turned off again, onto a narrow, winding highway that ascended even more steeply. Sandoval saw on his computer monitor that the road led to the ancient monastery of Monte Konos, known from a new intelligence report to be the headquarters of the UWW. The dispatcher reported additional BOI units moving into position ahead.

  The rain let up for a few minutes and then resumed, worse than before, so that Sandoval could no longer see the red tail lights of the truck. He sped up, then heard the bark of the dispatcher, telling him the satellite was losing contact in the storm. The dispatcher asked for Sandoval’s coordinates, but heavy static cut into the message.

  “On the road to Monte Konos,” Sandoval said into his headset. “I’d estimate forty kilometers to their defense zone.”

  Radio static filled the air.

  Uncertain if his transmission had been received, Sandoval nudged the accelerator with his knee. As his turbocharged van rushed forward, the tail lights of the truck came back into view, a short distance ahead. He backed off on the accelerato
r, maintaining a distance that barely enabled him to see the truck.

  This separation remained constant for several kilometers, as they went through a narrow mountain pass and then down a steep incline, after which the road leveled and straightened somewhat, with the turns less sharp. The truck increased speed.

  Sandoval restrained his urge to accelerate. Just a little more pressure on the accelerator and he could blow right by the truck, as if it were parked. He watched the tail lights disappear around a turn. His windshield wipers flopped, but it was no longer raining.

  When his own van reached that turn, he again saw the lights of the truck, far ahead on a straightaway.

  Noticing the wipers scraping dry glass, he switched them off.

  And saw something, a dark shape moving in the air between him and the lights of the truck. The shape grew larger as it drew closer. It was above the road, skimming it. An aircraft? His pulse quickened, and he called for the satellite dispatcher, but received only a broken response, and more static.

  One of the passengers behind him cursed.

  Lances of blue light erupted from the shape, soundlessly illuminating the darkness. It was a beautiful sight, Sandoval thought, just before he died.

  * * *

  During the attack the black truck had pulled off the road, behind the cover of a massive rock. Now, catching the women off guard, Giovanni jumped out of the rear of the vehicle and tried to run away. The beam of a spotlight found him and he was ordered to stop.

  He didn’t.

  One of the women fired a gun, apparently on impulse, and Giovanni fell in the middle of the road, a .45 caliber bullet in the back of his head. He didn’t move.

  “There’ll be trouble over this,” one of the women said. “Dixie Lou said to bring him back alive.”

  Chapter 29

  It is said of the traitorous she-apostle, the She-Judas, that she went with Judas Iscariot and testified against Jesus before the Sanhedrin, the supreme council of the Jews.