Moments later, hearing a commotion inside the passenger compartment, Lori opened the door and peered out, warily. She saw the two councilwomen wrestling in the aisle, screaming at one another and pulling hair as the helicopter pitched around in the storm. Wendy Zepeda was much larger than Fujiko Harui, but the smaller woman was holding her own.
“Stop it!” Lori shouted, waving her gun at them. She had to hold onto the door jamb.
“Wendy has a knife in her purse!” Fujiko yelled, as the two councilwomen separated. “She reached for it when we were arguing, and I stopped her.”
“She’s telling the truth,” said a bespectacled woman with red, braided hair. Michelle Renee was the on-board translator of the Aramaic spoken by the she-apostles.
Lori scowled. “Where is the knife?”
“Under that seat,” Fujiko said, pointing.
Lori saw it.
“Use your foot and slide it out into the aisle,” Lori said to Fujiko. “Then kick it toward me.”
Fujiko did this, and Lori picked up the weapon, a hunting knife.
“Now tie Zepeda up and put her with the guards,” Lori ordered.
“With pleasure,” Fujiko said. “Then I must talk with you.”
Five minutes later, Fujiko sat with Lori in the passenger compartment, while the helicopter continued its bumpy ride across the sea. Still not trusting the councilwoman, even though she seemed to be cooperative, Lori kept her hand on her gun.
“There’s something you need to know,” the Japanese woman said. “Back at Monte Konos, one of the she-apostles said something important.” Nervously, Fujiko secured her shoulder harness as the aircraft was buffeted by winds, and then she continued. “Lydia said that Dixie Lou Jackson developed false gospels with a fake Martha of Galilee. Lydia says that the real Martha remains missing.”
“I thought there was something strange about that Martha,” Lori said, remembering that she’d felt an extrasensory sensation when touching the skin of the Apostle Veronica, but had felt nothing like that when making contact with the twelfth female apostle, the latest arrival. And beyond that, Lori had been troubled about Martha, sensing something about her that she could not quite identify.
“That’s not all, either,” Fujiko said. “According to Lydia, the real Martha of Galilee, wherever she is, has testimony about a She-Judas, a female apostle who conspired with Judas Iscariot to betray the Savior.”
Lori caught her breath. “Did Lydia say anything else?”
“Not that I know.” Fujiko looked back at the translator. “Michelle, anything more?”
The woman was wiping off her eyeglasses. “That’s the essence of it,” she said. “Lydia did not provide much in the way of details, just the broad statements you recounted.”
Deep in thought, Lori returned to the cockpit. Just as she was locking the door, the helicopter jerked, and a cabinet by her popped open, disgorging bundles of large denomination American bills. As she stuffed them back into the cabinet, she saw the pilot glance back.
“Guess they forgot to lock that,” the pilot said. “Dixie Lou likes to keep spending money all over the place.”
“How much is here?” Lori asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe five million, hidden all over this ’copter, and the same on the other aircraft. I heard a couple of councilwomen talking.”
Lori stared at the closed cabinet door, then looked away. It amazed her that the women were handling such large sums so loosely, but at the moment, money was the last thing on her mind.
An hour later, the pilot said, “We’re off the coast of Libya, and our friends are in holding patterns, circling the sand.”
“Go to complete radio and transponder silence,” Lori said.
She then ordered the pilot to veer wide around the other three aircraft, and to steer out over the desert.
* * *
An urgent voice brought Dixie Lou out of a light slumber. Straightening in her seat, the black woman didn’t know how long she’d been asleep, having lost her wristwatch somewhere in the wild confusion of the escape from Monte Konos. She had been dreaming about what she thought she saw during the BOI attack, when the she-apostle Candace vanished before bullets could hit her, and then reappeared after the deadly projectiles passed. Dixie Lou remembered exchanging gazes with Lori Vale after the incident. The teenager had seen the same thing. Curiously, no one else in Dixie Lou’s entourage had mentioned it to her. Had only the two of them seen it?
She had mixed feelings about the entire phenomenon of the reincarnated she-apostles, the gospels they brought with them, and the spectrum of paranormal events surrounding them. On one level, she was highly skeptical, not believing any of it was possible. But on another, the part of her that didn’t think—and instead sensed things—she knew otherwise. A very large unknown was opening around her; she found it fascinating and frightening at the same time.
“One ’copter dropped back,” the pilot said. “We’ve lost track of it.”
“Which one?” Dixie Lou demanded.
The answer told her it was the one with Lori Vale, two councilwomen, and four she-apostles aboard. Then she remembered that Vale had been the one to suggest that they split the she-apostles into several aircraft. Had it been the girl’s premonition of danger, or her trick? Uncertain of whether she should be angry or worried, Dixie Lou rubbed her chin thoughtfully.
She focused on a flight map on the gray screen of her laptop computer, and heard two matrons down the aisle expressing their concern over BOI satellite surveillance. While the escaping UWW aircraft had stealth capabilities, and they were in a storm, the women were worried about the Bureau having even more sophisticated technology that could still detect them. They mentioned the previous incident in which one of the UWW’s high-tech stealth planes had been shot down over the Mediterranean. Dixie Lou wondered about the security leaks that gave mere matrons such information, and felt irritated by this. But she had other priorities right now.
Overhead, the rotors of the helicopter pulsed and vibrated. Dixie Lou felt it in the seats and armrests, and in the floorboard. She blinked her eyes from a nearby flash of lightning, then saw another flash farther away over land, a jagged orange line scribed across the indigo night sky. Thunder boomed, and the helicopter jerked.
“Still no sign of the missing aircraft,” the pilot announced, her voice agitated as she watched her instruments. “Hopefully we can find it after the storm clears. But in this weather, especially with blowing sand that can cause havoc with the engines, I’d recommend that we set down, immediately.”
The Chairwoman had to make a quick decision. With Councilwoman Deborah Marvel looking on, she voice-activated her computer to bring up a detailed, secure schematic of the ground. They were over a desert region on the eastern coast of Libya, in North Africa. Once a pariah nation to much of the civilized world for sponsoring terrorism, they had changed regimes, but still had a despotic ruler and a violent secret police. Not the best place to land, but the weather was dicey.
According to the schematic, two villages were nearby. The escaping vessels had crossed the Mediterranean Sea, going in a southerly direction from Monte Konos. The big storm had worsened along the course they’d flown, giving them a rough, jolting ride and forcing them off course, away from the coast of Tunisia where they had intended to land. The weather had apparently, however, provided them with cloud cover, concealing their location from the ever-present, prying eyes of enemy patrols and satellites.
In these extended range aircraft, the Chairwoman had not expected to have to land here, but she gave the order for all of them to set down. They had ground camouflage gear on board for the aircraft, and would need to move quickly to set it up, thus making them difficult to detect on the ground through visual or other sensors.
* * *
As sand swirled around Lori’s helicopter, the craft flew over the lights of a small desert settlement. In poor visibility the pilot complained about cross winds and sand interfering with the operation
of the engines, preventing her from getting full power out of them. They sputtered, and she shouted, “We need to land, quick!”
“Do it!” Lori yelled.
Still in her seat behind the pilot, she held onto a safety strap while the helicopter dove and spun, with powerful winds slamming into the hull and driving it one way and another. Metal plates around her stretched and creaked, and seemed ready to come apart. She didn’t like the feeling of helplessness as a passenger, would much rather be at the controls herself, making her own life and death decisions.
Suddenly a hard “kwummph!” sounded, and she felt the jolt of hard contact as they landed. The helicopter tilted hard to the left, then righted itself. The rotors coughed and came to a whining, grinding stop. Lori was shaken up, but not injured.
Back in the passenger cabin, people groaned, and the children cried. Lori’s first thoughts were for the welfare of the she-apostles. She rushed to check on them, and found they were upset but unharmed. Odd sensations flashed in the teenager’s brain as she looked at the children, and especially when she drew close to each one. Unable to identify her feelings, she restrained from touching the children, even though two of them reached their hands out to her.
One thing seemed certain. She wanted to spend time with them alone, away from the prying eyes . . . and ears . . . of anyone.
Through portholes, Lori saw the sky beginning to clear. As sand settled from the air she made out details of the landscape, with the milieu illuminated by starlight and a sliver of moon low over the horizon. Faintly, the regular pattern of desert dunes could be seen, and jagged escarpments topped by wizards’ caps of stone.
The pilot activated stabilizers, which whooshed into place beneath the craft. She emerged from the cockpit. “In addition to the engine problem, our ground camouflage system is out of commission,” she said. “We can be seen here.”
Lori glowered, heard the wind howling outside.
“We’ll spend the night here,” she said. “We don’t have any choice.”
“I’ll see if I can get the engines and camouflage going at first light,” the pilot said.
Lori nodded.
Hearing a foreign language spoken, she saw the translator Michelle Renee speaking to the children, presumably in ancient Aramaic. Lori did not understand the words, but they brought to mind a strange word that Veronica had mouthed to her one day in the Scriptorium.
Iktol.
It had not been Aramaic. Instead, it was from a secret language unknown to the translators. And, inexplicably, Lori had understood it.
Iktol . . . Murder.
Chapter 3
There can be tremendous beauty in a powerful storm, and a drab, predictable ugliness in serenity. Look at the woman who survives an immense force of nature, how she draws strength from it, absorbing the raw elemental power of our female deity and converting it to her own use.
—Amy Angkor Billings
After ordering the pilot into the passenger compartment, Lori locked herself inside the cockpit and tried to get some sleep. It was not easy. For more than an hour, she just sat on the deep-cushion of the pilot’s seat, with it tilted back as far as possible. Too many thoughts whirled through her mind. Countless troubles, dangerous possibilities. Across the expanse of desert, she saw the cloud cover opening up more, and a silver-sprinkling of stars against the deep indigo of the sky.
It occurred to her that the women in the back might take the four she-apostles and run off with them, might even go out in the night looking for Dixie Lou Jackson and the others. But she discounted the possibility. She had landed at least ten kilometers from Dixie Lou’s camp, and anyone on foot could get lost out there. At the minimum, she had until dawn to get a few hours of rest.
Through the windshield, she watched flashes of lightning illuminating desert escarpments for brief moments before flickering out like wicks, and saw the sliver of moon slipping below the horizon. She heard the wind picking up around the helicopter and the solid pelting of tiny, granular pieces of silica against the outside of the aircraft, as the break in the weather proved short-lived.
The fresh memory of automatic weapons fire returned, and of the tiny she-apostle Candace seeming to shift time around her . . . and avoiding certain death. Lori had so many questions about the she-apostles, and no answers.
She dozed off, and when she awoke the storm had subsided. Lori opened a small side window to allow fresh air into the cockpit, and then drifted off to sleep again. Several times, she awoke, and then slipped back into slumber.
In a dream, Lori saw flickering lights approaching on the desert, and soon realized they were lanterns, carried by people in dark robes. A woman called out from their midst, but in a language Lori didn’t understand, a tongue that rolled and flowed, like water streaming across the sands.
Lori counted six robed shapes, each with a lantern. As they drew close she saw dark skin and mysterious, glinting eyes beneath overhanging hoods. All appeared to be women. They continued to approach. In their unknown tribal language they spoke rapidly. Were they Arabs, or perhaps Berbers?
In the foreground, a toddler stood on the sand, looking at them.
With a start, Lori realized it was not a dream and she had been peering through the windshield of the helicopter. People really were standing out there, a group of women talking to one of the she-apostles, who stood by herself, with no attendant. Lori heard the women through the open side window, chattering rapidly in their language. She saw additional lanterns behind them, and the hulking shadows of camels.
Which child was it? In the low light of the lanterns, Lori saw red hair. Mary Magdalene. The toddler did not appear to be saying anything, and was just staring up at the hooded faces around her.
As Lori straightened in her seat, the women looked up at her and pointed. She also heard activity in the back of the helicopter, and voices back there.
Concerned for the safety of Mary Magdalene, Lori opened the cockpit emergency door, and was about to climb down onto the sand when she remembered the guns she had. After hesitating for a moment, she climbed down without the weapons.
“This is your child?” one of the women asked, in heavily accented English. She was quite large, the size of a big man. Her face was half in shadows, half in lantern light.
“I’m responsible for her,” Lori said, as she stepped onto the soft sand. Reaching down, she clasped one of the she-apostle’s hands, and felt a slight dizziness, which passed quickly.
“You are English?” the woman asked. She and her companions wore veils as well as hoods, but her veil was pulled to one side so that her face could be seen when the lights shifted. Lori heard the camels making noises in the background.
Lori nodded, thinking that they would not know the difference between the British and the Americans. After decades of terrorism, it was not always wise to admit that you were an American. “We had trouble in the storm and were forced to set down here.”
An odd sensation passed through the teenager, running from her hand holding little Mary up her arm. It made Lori feel a little light-headed, and something more that she could not quite identify.
“Your friends are setting up camp over there,” the woman said, pointing across the dark desert. “All of you seem to have experienced problems in the storm.”
Lori hesitated, then said, “They aren’t my friends.” This was not completely accurate since she did have at least one friend in their midst, Alex, and she cared about the welfare of the eight she-apostles in the group.
“They are your enemies?”
“Some of them are, very much so. It’s a very complicated story.”
“Life is like that, isn’t it?” the woman said, in her accented English. She held her lantern close to Lori’s face, looked into her eyes, and commented, “You carry truth in your face.”
“And you in yours,” Lori said, with a gentle smile. The woman appeared to be around thirty-five, with dark, sun-baked skin and glinting black eyes. Her face had a strength and har
dness to it. Glancing around, Lori saw what she thought were the bulges of weapons beneath the robes of the group. She took a deep breath.
“I am a desert princess and these are my attendants,” the woman announced. She then said something to her companions in what Lori presumed to be Arabic, and they all laughed, which made Lori doubt if she really was a princess.
“Your life sounds very interesting,” Lori said.
She looked up at the portholes of the large helicopter, where dim lights were on inside and faces were pressed against the glass, peering out. She heard children crying. As Lori held little Mary’s hand a warm feeling ran through her and she felt comforted, that somehow the she-apostle was communicating with her.
“I’m sure your own story is much more interesting,” the Arab woman said, “but I will not ask you to talk about it if you don’t want to. We only wish to be of assistance to you in your time of need.”
“Thank you,” Lori said, “but I don’t know what you could possibly do. Our pilot is going to work on the engines when it is daylight, and as for my enemies, I’m afraid that is my problem.”
The woman narrowed her eyes. “There might be something I could do, if we are friends. I am called Malia Ali Khan.”
Lori considered not providing her own real name, but a small interior voice told her to take a chance—and she gave it to her, including her surname.
“Very nice to meet you.” Malia smiled broadly, revealing dark gaps in her teeth. She looked down. “And your young companion. What is your name, little one?”
When the child did not answer, Lori said, “Mary.”
“And you are not old enough to be her mother.”
“You’re right. She is not my child.”
“Jesus Christ’s mother was named Mary,” Malia said, a somewhat surprising comment. “I know something of your religion, because in Islam we respect your holy teachings.” She paused. “You are a Christian?”
“Not a very good one, I’m afraid.”
The robed woman leaned down to touch Mary’s face, then straightened and said to Lori, “Now that we are friends, I shall attack your enemies and kill them. We have many weapons, even machine guns.”
The Lost Apostles Page 2
