Malia asked for a moment of silence, and uttered an Islamic blessing over the meal they were about to enjoy.
Afterward, Dixie Lou waited as the girl poured steaming hot coffee into her cup. There were no plates or eating utensils.
“I haven’t seen any men here,” Dixie Lou said. “Only women and young people.”
“Oh we have many men,” Malia said, as she waited for her own coffee. “They are away on—business. Some of the older men and women are here; around this time they like to break into groups and drink coffee.”
“What sort of business are your men away on?” Dixie Lou inquired. Her nose curled from the unappetizing odor of the coffee. She tried not to think of it and sipped, taking care not to burn her lips. The brackish brew was strong, but tasted better than expected.
Malia and her companions adjusted their long cloaks so that their arms were more free, and removed their veils, so that they could eat and drink. A wry smile formed on Malia’s mouth. “Our men are selling computers,” she said. “They have many camels, all fully loaded. A very long caravan of computers.”
Dixie Lou smiled herself, since she didn’t believe a word of it. This foreign woman was just toying with her, and had an irritating demeanor. Was it some sort of a plot to rob them . . . or worse? Were they actually Arab terrorists, or agents of the despotic Libyan government? Were their men attacking Dixie Lou’s camp at that very moment?
It occurred to her that perhaps she should have flown off the night before—following the visit by the Bedouin. But that might have been worse, as it could have been noticed by satellite surveillance or other means they employed, thus bringing the pesky Bureau down on them. These desert people, although potentially dangerous, could not possibly be associated with the BOI. Or could they? She looked into the dark eyes of Malia, and of two women who sat beside her, but their eyes were indecipherable.
On Dixie Lou’s left, the narrow-faced Councilwoman Nancy Winters giggled, and for this infraction she received a piercing glare from her superior.
“I’m sorry,” Nancy said, “but the image of computers on camels—” Her voice trailed off.
“We are not primitives,” Malia insisted, in a huffy voice. From the central pot she took a handful of dark meat with her bare hands, and stuffed it in her mouth. Brown sauce dribbled down her chin, which she wiped on her bare arm. “Do you think we know nothing of modern technology?”
“No, of course not,” Dixie Lou said. “It is obvious from your words that you have some familiarity with western ways.”
“Western ways.” Malia spat on the carpet, lifted her chin proudly and said, “Centuries ago. Arab people possessed the most advanced knowledge of mathematics, science, and literature, far ahead of the Europeans. It was our period of enlightenment, during the western dark ages.”
Dixie Lou took her own handful of meat, chewed and swallowed. “This is really quite good.” Actually she fought to keep from showing revulsion at the gamy, almost rotten flavor. She had no idea what it was, didn’t think she wanted to ask.
Noticing that Tamara Himmel wasn’t eating, Dixie Lou nudged her in the ribs, hard.
With a deep sigh, Tamara took a small morsel and nibbled on it.
In a short time the pan of meat was nearly empty, with most of it having been consumed by the Arabs, who were licking their fingers.
“Our men will return soon,” one of the Arab women said, in a barely noticeable accent. She had lighter skin than the others.
“We are a trading people,” Malia said, “as our people have always been.” She snapped her fingers.
Two women entered from one of the side rooms. Dixie Lou did a double-take. They were carrying computer equipment.
“See,” Malia said, proudly. “ The latest technology. You would be surprised at what we have. Even a high-powered modem.”
“But how do you charge the batteries—for the computers, the support system?”
“We have generators, of course. We are very advanced here, and have access to low-cost gasoline for the generators. Now, what is it you wish to transmit over the Internet?”
“You can make a satellite link?”
“Of course. For our business, we must remain on—how do you say it?—the cutting edge.”
Dixie Lou could hardly wait to finish her meal, but was disappointed when another large pan of meat was brought in.
Chapter 6
It is not possible to do business with the devil.
—Old Christian Saying
During the long meal, Dixie Lou learned more about the Bedouin tribe. A very talkative woman, Malia claimed to be the granddaughter of a legendary Arab chieftain, though not through legitimate hereditary channels. Instead she had been born to a sheik’s harem girl and cast out at a young age, left to wander aimlessly, picking up whatever menial employment she could obtain along the way in order to earn food, shelter and clothing.
“I’ve never worked as a prostitute,” she announced proudly, “though at times that might have been the easiest course for me to take.”
Dixie Lou’s eyes narrowed, because years ago she had toiled in that ignominious profession herself, in Baltimore. But she said nothing, and instead glanced furtively at Malia’s laptop computer, which had been folded open to reveal the screen and keyboard. She couldn’t tell much about the machine from looking at it, but noted it was an American brand like her own, with a voice-activation system and a backup keyboard, all similar to her own. In a secure pocket of her robe, Dixie Lou carried a microcylinder containing a copy of the Holy Women’s Bible, and which she would keep with her until it could be transmitted.
“You took the admirable course,” Dixie Lou said.
With a smile Malia continued. “At the age of nineteen I found myself working in Alexandria, on the northern coast of Egypt. I was a cleaning girl for a wealthy carpet merchant, Aga Dali. What an elegant and magnificent home he had, with indoor fountains and exotic furnishings from all over the world! One day he entertained a Bedouin caravan master of some renown, Rashid Ali Khan. The two men were bargaining over the price of fine Persian carpets, and Mr. Khan was not pleased with the price my employer was demanding.
“In a dramatic gesture Mr. Khan rose and bowed, as if to leave. Then, spying me as I performed my chores, he said, ‘Aga, you drive a ferocious bargain and make it difficult for me to remain in business. I’ll tell you what, though. Throw in that tall servant girl and we have a deal.’
“Thus it was done. I was sold and became the third wife of a caravan leader. Two years later his first and second wives were killed when bandits raided our camp, and I became Rashid’s favorite. Now I am his first wife, and two other women must bow to me and do my bidding.”
She nodded to her right and left, at the women with her, whose eyes were downturned.
The meal went painfully slowly, because Dixie Lou was so anxious to find out more about the computer capabilities of these people. After the meat course, a bowl containing figs and dates was placed in front of each diner, and more coffee was poured.
“I don’t know much about computers myself,” Dixie Lou admitted, trying to get away from the endless anecdotes Malia had been telling. “But yours looks promising.” She nibbled on a date, found the sweetness and flavor pleasing.
With a smile Malia said, “I have noted your interest in it, and if I am correct in my guess, you have a microcylinder or two in a pocket of your robe? Is that a tiny bulge I see there?”
The comment irritated Dixie Lou, for she didn’t like having a stranger examine her so closely and read her so well, perhaps even her body movements, the expressions on her face, the tone of her voice, and more. . . She found it irritating, and unnerving.
“Thank you for eating our food with such grace,” Malia said. “It must be difficult for you.”
“Oh no—” Dixie Lou cut herself short, remembering the observational abilities of this woman. She reached in her bowl and selected a fig.
“I have tried to eat western f
oods, and I must confess that I would not have been nearly as gracious. To me your food cannot be swallowed. My throat constricts and won’t accept it.”
“What did you attempt to eat?” Nancy Winters asked. She took a sip of coffee.
“A very large hamburger and extremely greasy little fried potatoes.”
Dixie Lou and her councilwomen laughed.
“Rashid had heard so much about the American fast food restaurants that he took all of his wives out to dinner in Cairo one evening. We had intended to visit three American fast food restaurants, sampling the fare of each. After the first stop, though, none of us could go on. The food was so alien to us that we were sick for hours. I feel queasy even to this day, just thinking about it.”
As I will feel remembering this meal, Dixie Lou thought, staring at the blackened, empty meat pot in the center of the circle. No vegetables had been served with the meal.
“Shall we see what’s in your pocket?” Malia inquired, looking at Dixie Lou.
The Chairwoman brought out the microcylinder and held it in the palm of her hand. She felt her pulse quicken, but tried to conceal her anxiety.
* * *
Not far away, Lori wore a robe that she had found in one of the helicopter’s storage lockers, and she had the hood pulled up over her head. She stood in filtered light beneath an electronic camouflage cover, watching as the female pilot leaned into the engine compartment, working on it. Not certain who, if anyone, she could trust, Lori kept a handgun at the ready, in a pocket of her robe.
A short distance away, also beneath the camouflage, Fujiko sat on the sand with the four she-apostles in their custody, rolling a small ball back and forth, a toy that the translator had brought for them. The toddlers, all of whom wore dark scarves over their heads, participated, but looked as if they were only tolerating the game, as if they were the adults and Fujiko was the child who needed entertaining.
To Lori they seemed like “old souls,” the phrase that Dixie Lou had used about her when they met at the goddess circle, and when she later described the she-apostle Veronica. Of all the things that the loathsome Chairwoman had said to her, Lori had to admit to herself that this one actually made some sense, though she was not exactly sure why.
“Hey, let me out of here!” Wendy Zepeda shouted in a voice muted by the passenger compartment of the helicopter, where Fujiko had handcuffed her to a seat back. No one answered her, but every few hours Fujiko had been escorting her to the restroom, and brought food to her at mealtimes.
The two youthful guards were seated near Zepeda, also under restraint and attended to by Fujiko. These were the three that Lori felt certain she could not trust. There were also a pair of middle-aged matrons and the scholarly translator Michelle Renee, all of whom Lori had decided not to lock up, and who had the primary responsibility of taking care of the children.
Still four months shy of her sixteenth birthday, Lori felt much older than that. In Seattle, she had felt twenty, from the emotional development she had undergone with her friends. Now she felt twice her actual age, and she had shown enough force of personality to take control of this helicopter. Even Councilwoman Fujiko Harui seemed to accept that. At least, Lori was willing to give her the opportunity to prove her loyalty. The diminutive woman had displayed remarkable courage, and obviously felt deep sadness over not being with her daughter.
“I have to start the tandem engines to test them,” the pilot said, climbing up into the cockpit by the separate hatch. “Even if I engage the rotors, we can leave the electronic camouflage on.”
Not entirely trusting her, Lori followed her into the cockpit, carrying the handgun.
Moments later, with the two of them sitting side by side, the engines whined on, then grew louder as the pilot moved a lever.
“They don’t rev to full power,” the pilot said, making a face of disapproval as she accelerated and decelerated the linked engines. “I’ll have to take the fuel system apart, to see if sand got into it.”
“How long will that take?”
“A day if it’s only the fuel system and maybe the air filters, longer if it’s more than that.” She tried the engines again, shook her head in disgust, and shut them down. “Lucky for you, I’m the best aviation mechanic at Monte Konos.”
When the pilot resumed working on the engines, Lori remained close, where she could see what was going on, and could prevent the pilot from taking the aircraft and flying off with it.
Within a half hour, engine parts were spread out on a plastic tarp that had been laid on the sand. The air was motionless, not blowing gritty particles, but the pilot said she was prepared to cover the parts quickly if necessary, and she would wipe all of them off before reinstalling them. Now Lori felt confident enough to venture a short distance away, where Fujiko was still trying to play with the children. She had a tunecube out now, with popular music blaring from it. Kneeling by the little girls, Fujiko passed the small device around to them. Each examined it with only a little curiosity, sometimes fiddling with the dials and changing the settings and tunes.
As Lori approached, she noticed that Fujiko began to cry, and then looked away when the teenager approached, as if embarrassed. “What’s wrong?” Lori asked.
“I’m sorry. One of the songs on the tunecube reminded me of my daughter. I wish we could go over to Dixie Lou’s camp and break Siana out, but that could get her killed. I don’t even know if she’s still alive, but can only hope. I feel like a coward, like I should do something more.”
“You’re doing everything you possibly can,” Lori said, kneeling and putting her arm around Fujiko’s shoulders.
“Thank you.” The Asian woman wiped her tears away.
Lori noticed the four toddlers looking at her simultaneously, eight eyes gazing in unison, as if from a single entity. Momentarily, she focused on each of the little people. Their eyes were filled with wisdom, experience, and compassion, but tinged with an eternal sadness. They were not the eyes of children, and hardly the faces of children, either, when she studied them closely . . . just small in size. She felt as if she knew them, as if she understood why they didn’t play enthusiastically with Fujiko. They had more important things on their minds. But she only sensed this, without specifics.
And the specifics were driving her crazy. Lori felt as if she had the weight of the world lowering on her moment by moment, that she was taking on more and more responsibility with each passing second. She saw this in the way the children looked at her, with deference, respect, and even love. They were becoming dependent on her.
Slowly, as if in a dream, Lori felt herself pulling away from Fujiko and seeming to float closer to the children, but knew she couldn’t really be moving in that manner. She must be walking toward them. Within moments, she knelt with them, and they gathered around her. One of the children—Veronica—turned down the tunecube, then shut it off and handed it to Lori.
“Olto Karida, “ Veronica said to Lori, with a wise little smile. “Olto Karida.”
Viscerally, Lori knew what the words meant, and they comforted her. But intellectually she could not make the connection and translate into English.
Off to one side, she saw the bespectacled redhead, Michelle Renee. “What did she say to you?” the translator asked. “That wasn’t ancient Aramaic.”
“I don’t know,” Lori said. And this was the truth.
* * *
The tall, black-haired man stood calmly in the doorway, while Styx considered the irritating personality of this functionary. It was shortly after 5:00 AM in Bureau headquarters, and the staff had been up all night. A bleary eyed Kylee Branson, the Vice Minister of Doctrine & Faith, had just delivered a monotone report on the status of the search for the four missing UWW aircraft: No new information.
It wasn’t that Branson couldn’t perform his job; on the contrary, he was quite good at it, and fiercely loyal to the privately funded bureaucracy. But he had a condescending manner about him, a way of making Styx feel inferior to him, n
o matter their respective ranks. Of course Branson behaved that way out of custom and breeding, but at times he seemed to play up his business and familial connections, oblivious to the potential danger this placed him in. The Acting Minister, while he couldn’t fire this entrenched employee easily, had other, even more decisive, ways of dealing with people.
As far as Styx was concerned, Branson’s unquestioned loyalty to the Bureau was his only redeeming feature. Styx appreciated this, no matter the different paths the two men had taken to get here. It annoyed him, though, that Branson was loyal to the Bureau first and only secondarily to Styx Tertullian.
Styx lifted his coffee cup and took a long sip. He’d been pouring it non-stop all night. He reminded himself (as he had several times before) that the relationship the two of them had was an imperfect one in an imperfect world. So be it. He would work with what he had. Worse men could be in Branson’s position.
“This is the point where I should yell at someone for not finding the aircraft,” Styx said, with more resignation in his voice than dissatisfaction. “As our Vice Minister of Doctrine & Faith, some of the failure would seem to fall on your shoulders, wouldn’t you agree? I mean, dealing with the UWW is a religious matter, isn’t it?”
Branson scrunched his brow, and in the haughtiness of his expression it appeared to Styx that he accepted no blame whatsoever. He had, after all, passed on to Styx what he called “the concerns of other Bureau officers” prior to the attack on Monte Konos, and while the man had professed to support the attack, he had done so only grudgingly. Branson was undoubtedly thinking now that Styx had made the military decision on his own, and any failure stemming from such a risky, foolhardy expedition was the responsibility of him alone.
“Well, answer my question!”
“Uh, Minister Culpepper assigned it to Minority Affairs, and uh—”
“I was Vice Minister of Minority Affairs at the time. Do you mean to say that I was responsible for the failure?”
The Lost Apostles Page 5
