The Stolen Gospels

by Brian Herbert

  “Let’s start with what you do know,” she said in a low tone. She swung out of bed in her pajamas, stood looking at him with her arms folded across her chest. “Your mother ordered you to be with me. I’ll have my explanation now, please. Are you supposed to be my stud knight? Is that it? They’ve turned you into a sex slave?”

  Shaking his head, he said, “That’s not it at all.”

  “Then what is? You also said you’re here to protect me. Are you some kind of a personal bodyguard, then, one who sleeps in?”

  “No. I want to protect you from them.”

  “Them? I presume you mean the UWW—”

  “Right.” He broke gazes with her, wished he might say something that would make the eavesdroppers pick her to survive, and him to execute. But he didn’t believe that whole scenario from his mother, and didn’t want to play her little game any more than he had to. He didn’t want to tell Lori, either, or she might try to act heroic and incriminate herself. She had that type of personality: impulsive, defiant, and brave. No, silence was best. Dixie Lou would do what she intended to do anyway.

  “You’re hiding something, Alex. Don’t play dumb with me. Save that act for the others.”

  “I’m not hiding anything. As for my act, they’re on to me.”

  “Well so am I.” She paused, chewed at her lower lip.

  “I don’t like this any better than you do.”

  “Do you know your own feelings?” she asked. Lori rose to her feet, began pacing the small room.

  “Sure, I guess.”

  “Do you find me attractive?”

  “Sure I think you’re attractive. You’re smart and pretty and I like you. It’s just that I have other matters that are requiring my attention.”

  “You’re only seven years older than I am. Not so much.”

  “Not so much later, but now it’s a lot. I’m a man and you’re still a child.”

  “Don’t be condescending to me.”

  “Sorry, I’m only trying to be realistic.”

  “Alex, I’m a woman, not a virgin. I’ve already had several experiences.”

  “I don’t know how to break this to you, Lori, but there’s more to being a woman than having sex.”

  “I know that!” She smiled disdainfully, but her expression faded into a scowl. “I don’t like you or your mother. You use people, lie to people. It’s how you were raised, isn’t it, Alex? You’re both manipulative.”

  “I’m ashamed of that woman,” Alex said. “I hate her. I’m not like her at all.”

  Lori laughed. “Oh, but you are, Mr. Big Shot Child ’Napper, using everybody for the cause. Maybe you’re a BOI agent, trying to get the she-apostles for them. How’s that so different from your mother and her UWW? Everyone is secondary to the Cause, with a capital ‘C.’ In your family there are no real personal relationships, are there?”

  “You have it all wrong. As I told her, I have nothing to do with the BOI. As for my mother, she always thinks of herself first and the UWW second. I’m somewhere down the line, around the level of a pet.”

  “However you look at it, neither of you are capable of love.”

  He arched his thick eyebrows. “And you’re an expert on the subject?”

  “More than you, obviously.”

  He stood in front of her, and with a gentle hand moved her long hair out of her eyes. “Lori, I—”

  She pulled free of him. “Get away from me. In fact, get out of here. Now!”

  “I don’t have the key.”

  Furious, she turned her back on him.

  * * *

  Styx Tertullian took a deep breath, hesitated. His entire body was shaking, and he felt feverish.

  If he went through with this, things would never again be the same between him and Minister Culpepper. There would be no way to conceal the gross insubordination, because only he and his boss knew the codes.

  This was no small matter, nothing to be overlooked or forgotten.

  It’s him or me after this. I die, or he does.

  Perspiration ran down his brow. He trembled as he voice activated the computer. Styx was in his own office, but acting like a thief there, an intruder. It was the middle of the night, as still as a graveyard.

  Seconds of trepidation elapsed that seemed like hours. Then urgent impulse guided his fingers and he tapped in the deep-access military codes, a combination of numbers, accent marks, and umlauts. Someone might stop him if he didn’t hurry.

  The screen came to life in a silvery glow, with a border of black BOI crosses and a heading that read in bold letters, “Most Secret. For Eyes Only.”

  Key-stroking for a deeper, even more secure code, he brought up a red-bordered screen with a golden circle in the middle. Within the circle he typed a series of words in phonetic English, directing Bureau paramilitary forces in Albania and Bulgaria to coordinate a powerful strike against Monte Konos.

  Styx’s screen flashed three times, confirming that the messages had been received.

  He tapped the codes to exit the system, and shut off the computer terminal.

  * * *

  “We need a golf course up here,” Dixie Lou said, as she gazed through an open patio doorway at a grassy field outside the Refectory Building. “Then we can discuss business on the links, the way men do.” Thick clouds were socking the monastery in, with rugged mountains barely visible to the south. A dark gray rainstorm could be seen approaching from across the valley.

  She was seated at the head of a long table in the Refectory’s private dining room. The entire council was present with her, a working luncheon. The aroma of exotic spices, butter, and seafood wafted through the air.

  “Too much slope,” Katherine Pangalos said, as she set down a glass of iced tea. “The balls would roll off the cliff. Not enough room up here, either. We could only fit in three or four holes.”

  “We won’t have to hide on this mountain forever, ladies,” Dixie Lou said, watching a black, wild goat negotiate a treacherous path along the top of the cliff. “When the Holy Women’s Bible is published and women are empowered, we’ll take the world by storm! Men will hide from us!”

  The women were quiet as they watched Dixie Lou attentively. One of them got up and closed the door, since a cold wind was picking up outside.

  “I’ve been thinking about our new book,” Dixie Lou said. “and I have a funding issue to propose.” She noticed the rain clouds getting larger, darker, and closer, dominating the sky.

  “What about the kidnappers?” Bobbi Torrence asked. “Are you prepared to discuss the evidence with us?” Nervously, she dropped a napkin from her lap, but because of her girth couldn’t reach down to pick it up.

  “Do you mean the murderers?” Dixie Lou asked, leveling a cold stare at her, since Bobbi’s niece was one of the accused. “I’m compiling evidence and will render my decisions in due course. Nothing in Title 8 says I have to discuss evidence of treason with the council.”

  “The final judgments are yours,” Bobbi agreed, “but we thought you might want our advice at some point.” Her jowls quivered as she spoke.

  “I’ve decided to go it alone,” the Chairwoman said.

  “Oh,” Bobbi said, in a small voice.

  “As for my son Alex, as I’ve said before, he will receive no special consideration. Each of you knows I will have him executed if I decide to do so, and I might even do it myself.”

  None of the other councilwomen said anything.

  “My investigators are preparing reports for me,” Dixie Lou added, “and I’ll review them privately.”

  This was not true. There were no investigators—Dixie Lou’s judgments about the young people didn’t rely upon evidence that might be assembled in such a manner. Her decisions were dependent, instead, upon how much cooperation she received from her son and from Lori—and from the councilwomen at this table concerning issues she would present to them.

  Dixie Lou could see any number of reasons why she might delay her announcements about the r
ebels’ fates. The longer she waited, the more funding votes would come up in the interim, and the more leverage she would have. It was all politics, the skillful management and manipulation of power. If two votes swung to her side—those of Bobbi Torrence and Fujiko Harui—it would mean a great deal on a sixteen member council. Then she would have ten votes in her camp out of the sixteen, a clear majority that would not require her tie-breaking vote as Chairwoman.

  The sentencing possibilities available to her made Dixie Lou smile as she nibbled on a vegetarian sandwich, sprinkled with feta cheese. Gazing down the table she noted nervous, quick glances in her direction, and considerable indigestion. Fujiko Harui popped a little yellow tablet as she sometimes did when she was upset, an antacid from her pharmacopoeia.

  “We will now discuss funding the completion of our most important project,” Dixie Lou said, “the Holy Women’s Bible.”

  All eyes were riveted on her. The clinking of silverware and dishes ceased.

  “We have a little problem with the project, don’t we?” Dixie Lou drawled. “Our missing twelfth she-apostle? I don’t suppose any of you are hiding her?” She took a small bite of the moist sandwich, swallowed.

  Nervous laughter traveled around the table. Someone coughed.

  Dixie Lou raised her voice: “What are we supposed to do, hold up the release of our book until Martha of Galilee makes her grand entrance?”

  “I don’t see what other choice we have,” Katherine said.

  “Maybe that’s why I’m the leader and you aren’t,” Dixie Lou said. “Let’s review for a moment. The Holy Women’s Bible, as we have envisioned it, consists of The Old Testament and The New Testament—both edited to make them more female-friendly—and fanfare please!—ta ta!—The Testament of the She-Apostles! The only trouble is, we’re missing a small portion.”

  “Are you suggesting that we publish what we have?” Katherine asked.

  Dixie Lou shook her head, picked a bone out of her salmon. “No, something far more interesting.”

  Perplexed expressions surrounded the table.

  “What if we bring in a baby—and say it’s the twelfth?” Dixie Lou asked.

  “What are you driving at?” Katherine inquired.

  “We bring in a baby; it doesn’t matter which one. Then we write a new gospel on our own, and say it’s from—” She paused as a male waiter opened a door and entered the room. He refilled the cups with strong, steaming coffee, and left.

  After the waiter closed the door, Dixie Lou continued. “Don’t you see?” Her dark eyes glittered with excitement. A vein at her temple pulsed. “This is the best thing we could possibly do. We create a logical story for the twelfth she-apostle. We already have her name, Martha of Galilee, and make up events that might have occurred in her life—excluding anything about the betrayal of Jesus by a ‘She-Judas,’ whoever that might be. Then we print our new holy book and spread it all over the planet—in bound copies, recorded books, and e-books.”

  “You mean fake it?” Katherine asked.

  A wry smile worked at the edges of Dixie Lou’s mouth as she said, “I’m just talking about exercising a little creative license for one teeny-tiny little gospel. Men have done a lot worse to us. They suppressed and destroyed all twelve of our gospels, and rewrote others to put women in a bad light! They stole our heritage!”

  Outside, rain began to fall, a sudden onslaught. The wild goat was gone, having disappeared down one of the trails scarring the cliffs of Monte Konos.

  “But what if the real Martha is brought to us?” Tamara Himmel asked. A soft-bodied woman with an undersized head and pinched face, she had always sided with Dixie Lou in the past, but seemed agitated now.

  “Simple,” Dixie Lou said. She nibbled on an olive, and shoved her plate away. “If we have her and she talks about a woman who betrayed Jesus, we suppress her gospel. If we don’t have her and she says those things, we condemn her as a liar.”

  “And an instrument of Satan,” Councilwoman Nancy Winters added.

  “Right!” Dixie Lou exclaimed.

  “We can’t fake the Holy Women’s Bible,” Katherine protested. “We are charged with a sacred task, and must perform it honestly.” The rain intensified outside.

  Murmurs of concurrence went around the table.

  But Dixie Lou asked, with her gaze burning directly into the eyes of her principal opponent, “What about the Apostle Lydia’s statement concerning the She-Judas, whose identity is known only to the real Martha? We voted to suppress the She-Judas material, remember? What do you call that, Katherine?”

  “A temporary and reasonable action,” came the response, “until we can obtain verification from the last she-apostle.”

  “As long as I sit in this position,” Dixie Lou said, “our publication will never include anything about a woman betraying Jesus! You folks can vote to fund until cows go to college, but I have the final word on whether we actually proceed with any project.”

  “Your proposal is too dangerous,” Katherine said. “If we’re caught in a lie over the last she-apostle, our enemies will extrapolate and say the entire Holy Women’s Bible is fraudulent. It’s a matter of credibility, in the court of public opinion. We need to hold off until Martha of Galilee appears, and include her gospel. We must be truthful!”

  “What if the reports from the other she-apostles are wrong?” Dixie Lou asked, “and there are only eleven females instead of twelve?”

  “If that’s true,” Katherine said, “it casts doubt on all of the gospels of the she-apostles. Believe me, we don’t want to open up that can of worms. No, there are twelve, not eleven.”

  “I see a bigger picture than you do,” Dixie Lou said.

  “That’s why you’re the Chairwoman, right?” Katherine said, her tone acidic.

  Dixie Lou nodded. “If we delay, the wrong people could get wind of our project and suppress it, maybe even killing all of us in the process. As for your comment about being truthful, why should we be more truthful than men have been? Let’s do whatever it takes to tip the scales in our favor!” She slammed her fist on the table, causing silverware and china to bounce.

  “Maybe someone has kidnapped the Apostle Martha,” Tamara suggested, “or worse. Maybe she’s been murdered.”

  “If she’s dead, we’re better off,” Dixie Lou said. “Well, ladies, time to vote, and I motion to fund the immediate editing of the final gospel. We’ll keep it sparse. Let’s see . . . We can say the last she-apostle was a quiet, shy person, and she revealed only a few pages of material. We can assimilate it into the text in a few days. “

  Ten hands went up to pass the measure, with Katherine and five of her associates in opposition. Bobbi Torrence and Fujiko Harui, who could formerly be counted on to side with Katherine, changed sides this time and voted with Dixie Lou, for obvious reasons.

  Katherine stormed out of the room, followed by her allies. Among others, Bobbi and Fujiko stayed behind.

  Muttering an oath under her breath, Dixie Lou stared at the remains of her lunch on the table. She vowed to get even with the six who continued to oppose her.

  * * *

  Southern Bulgaria, near the village of Skrût . . .

  In the early morning hours, a squadron of twenty BOI warplanes took off, heading southwest into Greece. They had been concealed underground, beneath what appeared to be a fig grove from the air. The aircraft bore no distinguishing emblems, no way of tracing them to their owners, in case they were shot down. A similar BOI base lay on a plain in southern Albania, and was dispatching another attack squadron.

  Headquarters had ordered destruction of the target at any cost, no matter the consequences. Now they only had to wait for the weather to improve. Greece, Albania, and Macedonia were engulfed in a severe storm, with high winds and torrential rains.

  Chapter 34

  Those close to Dixie Lou Jackson speak of her disturbing psychosis. She imagines what particular people might look like dead.

  —Confidential UWW mem
orandum

  For eleven days Consuela had been caring for the house on the knoll as if it were her own. Better than her own, in fact. From her perspective as an impoverished Méxicana peasant, she felt as if she had become the caretaker of a great estate, and that she was fortunate in this position, since it provided a shelter for her growing baby. She considered this duty—albeit one she had assumed without permission—an almost sacred trust, one in which she strove to improve the condition and cleanliness of the property.

  Actually the house was not large—and certainly not what would commonly be considered an estate—but it had many fine appointments, including tile counter tops in the kitchen and in the two bathrooms, a stereo music system (that she couldn’t use, because the power was off), prints of famous Mexican murals, and handmade area rugs with Aztec Indian designs on them.

  In the smallest of three bedrooms, which she considered most appropriate for herself and her child, she had set up a basket for the baby, with thick red-and-green towels for a mattress and blankets. It was mid-afternoon, and she knelt over Marta, who fussed as she slept, as if having a bad dream.

  Something thumped in another room, twice. She heard voices. Consuela caught her breath.

  Quickly she placed little Marta’s basket on a table, then opened the window. The hinges squeaked, but not loudly. She climbed outside, onto the soft, loamy dirt of the garden, then reached back in and removed Marta from the basket. The child awoke and was about to cry, when Consuela placed a hand over her mouth, and quieted her by offering a warm, comforting breast for her to suckle. The baby drank hungrily.

  As she hid behind a saguaro bush, the young mother realized that the voices she’d heard were those of children. Creeping around to the other side of the house, Consuela peered through a window into the master bedroom. Two boys, around ten years old, were rifling through drawers and an oak armoire, searching for valuables.

  Rapping on the window, Consuela shouted out, “Andalé, niños!”

  Startled, the thieves ran. One knocked over a large black clay urn, which crashed to the floor and shattered. As the boy stumbled, he dropped a jewelry box, scattering its contents on the floor.