Making love to her husband that evening had been more of a chore than usual, and she had taken a long, hot shower afterward. Now he was asleep beside her, his body stinking with the sweat of a hot, fat man. Swarthy and hairy, he was General Cosimo Puccini of the Italian Army, and this was their bedroom in the family villa, high on a terraced hillside overlooking the sea.
By her own mother’s standards she should be happy in her position, but she had rarely felt that way, not even before the televised speech of Dixie Lou Jackson and the encoded e-mail message she’d received. For centuries women had been treated poorly by men, as she had learned through her secret association with united Women of the World. Advances, while occurring over the centuries, had come too slowly.
That was about to change.
As General Puccini slept, she unlocked his desk and reviewed the contents, all the letters and other documents proving he’d been stealing weapons and munitions, and selling them on the black market. She also had evidence that he’d been maintaining mistresses, a common enough habit for Italian men, but one she didn’t appreciate herself. In an adjacent office she made six copies of the documents, then sealed five of them and the originals in separate envelopes, which she addressed and stamped. They would go to her personal lawyer, to her sister, and to others whom she could trust.
Keeping one copy with her, she hid the thick envelopes.
A short while later she nudged the General awake with the barrel of a .44 magnum handgun.
He stared wide-eyed at the big weapon, and then at her oval face and large olive green eyes. “Olivia, my sweet, what are you doing?”
“You’re going to move your troops away from Rome,” she announced with a flutter of her thick eyelashes. “I’ll provide you with the details.”
He laughed, but stopped suddenly when she tossed a packet of papers on his bare belly. Opening the bundle, he found the photocopy evidence of his transgressions.
“I have the originals in a safe place,” she said. “From now on you will do as I instruct. If you don’t, or if any harm comes to me, everything will be published.”
“You’re kidding, my sweet.”
“Am I?” She spun the chamber of the gun, so that he could see it was full of bullets. “I’m not alone, my sweet. I have six friends.”
Silently she handed him another document, instructing him to split his Rome garrison and move the troops to three training grounds in the countryside. “We’ll be spending a lot more time together from now on,” she said.
* * *
Few people in Vatican City gave the tiny nun in the black-and-white habit any notice as she flitted between offices, delivering and picking up messages. Little did any of them know that Sister Meryl had a “higher calling,” as she liked to quip to her covert associates. Her clandestine assignment: gather intelligence on the comings and goings of officials in the Roman Catholic Church and report to United Women of the World.
In a vaulted corridor she passed Captain Gasperi of the Swiss Guard, but he gave her only a passing glance, without his customary smile. Such a pleasant man, far too nice to be in his position. He seemed preoccupied this evening, upset about something. He carried a little hand-held recorder or transmitter of some sort, and was speaking into it, words she couldn’t quite make out. She paused to watch him as he inspected a number of locked doors, doing things his men customarily did. Why was he doing it himself this evening? She’d seen the men on duty a short while earlier. Gasperi rounded a corner and disappeared.
It was late now, approaching midnight. She reached her tiny, nondescript office, where she would ostensibly organize her schedule for the following day, as always. Calmly, she sat facing the door, with a painting of the Madonna and child on the wall behind her. It was an arrangement of furnishings under which no one could sneak up behind her and look over her shoulder.
Something big was in the air, though she had not been made privy to any details. For days her superiors in the UWW had been after her for more frequent reports, and she’d been providing them dutifully: a steady stream of photographs, computer microcylinders, and minirecordings. As a trusted employee of the Vatican, she had no difficulty obtaining the information and disseminating it. No one would ever suspect a nun of committing espionage.
With her curiosity peaked, Sister Meryl used a precision tool to adjust a digital camera smaller than her fingernail, then slipped the camera into her pocket.
Chapter 20
The truth can be a dangerous commodity.
—Lori Vale
Raffaela and Arsinio stood on the porch of their vacation home, using binoculars to watch fishing boats and pleasure craft out on the water. They heard something crack in the garden, then noticed a gray gull land. The bird began pecking the meat out of the a broken clamshell it had just dropped on a rock.
Beside them, the brown-skinned baby sat on a porch swing, propped in position by large pillows on either side of her. She held a bright blue toy boat on her lap, and uttered words occasionally, stringing a few together.
The Inez boys were out with Consuela again, having fun on a double date. They had departed only a few minutes before. Consuela was with the older boy Gilberto, three years her junior, while José was with a pleasant, though plain, girl he’d met at the beach, the daughter of a wealthy local farmer.
The shadows of early evening had set in, with the young people having just departed. A crab and lobster casserole, prepared by Consuela, was cooking in the oven of the wood-burning stove. Mouth-watering aromas filled the house and drifted out onto the porch. In an hour, Raffaela was supposed to turn the oven off and let the dish cool, then refrigerate it. Consuela had an unusual way of preparing it, said she had learned it from her old abuela, her grandmother.
But Raffaela and Arsinio were not thinking about dinner. They were only biding their time, making sure the young people weren’t going to come back for something they had forgotten.
“It’s time,” Arsinio finally said. He set the binoculars on a wicker table and lifted the baby into his arms.
They entered the living room, and from her purse Raffaela removed a recording ball marked Holy Women’s Bible. She inserted it into the VR-TV.
Classical piano music played as credits rolled. The music faded and a gold-robed woman appeared in three-dimensional form in the middle of the room. She delivered a short introduction, followed by the close-up projection of a toddler with bright green eyes.
Identified as the Apostle Veronica, the child sat in a tall chair and spoke rapidly, with a translator speaking over her voice in Spanish. The translator said this was a recording made months ago, at the since-destroyed retreat of Monte Konos.
Excitedly, Marta pointed at the images that floated in the air, and let go of her toy boat. She began babbling rapidly, as if talking directly to Veronica. Though Raffaela could not understand anything, she picked out some of the same sounds and phraseology being used by both children.
Glancing at her husband, she saw his stunned expression. They exchanged uneasy glances. Consuela had been telling the truth, and it meant all of them were in extreme peril.
* * *
The following afternoon, vans and buses moved into position on the surface streets of Rome around Vatican City, where they disgorged female soldiers disguised as tourists. Inside the holy city, four nuns and two disgruntled priests—all of whom believed strongly in women’s rights—were UWW operatives, sworn to do the bidding of the Chairwoman. Each of them had a separate assignment, without knowing who the other operatives were. Alarm systems were being compromised and security doors were being disabled in the tunnels and catacombs beneath the buildings, so that they could not be locked.
The Swiss Guard stationed at the Vatican numbered only a few hundred men who went about ceremonial duties for the most part. At the main entrances of the major tourist attractions they maintained tight security—in particular for St. Peter’s Basilica, the Sistine Chapel, the Vatican Palace, and the Vatican museums.
&n
bsp; Nonetheless, armed UWW operatives were able to slip undetected into the immense Piazza di San Pietro and the surrounding porticos, where they sat on the steps or stood around, talking and waiting. Finally several of them approached St. Peter’s Basilica, the most sacred church in all of Christendom. Atop nearby buildings, yellow-and-white Vatican flags flew, displaying the papal emblem: staff, tiara, crossed keys.
At five minutes before one o’clock in the afternoon, at the height of the tourist onslaught on the Vatican, the UWW operatives heard automatic weapons fire from the basilica and knew the subterranean assault squad was emerging from the tunnel system into the sacred building. All across the square, disguised tourists brought out automatic rifles and snapped them together.
Snipers picked off guards stationed at the church. Alarm sirens sounded frantically, in the foreground and distance.
* * *
Captain Aldo Gasperi had not slept well the night before. During the lunch break he had closed the door of his Vatican office in order to lay his head on the desk top, intending to take only a short nap. Soon, however, he slipped into deep sleep, and nearly an hour passed. When the alarms sounded he heard them, but at first he didn’t move, thinking it was only a dream.
Suddenly, as the shock of realization seeped through the layers of consciousness, he sat up and bolted for the door.
Chapter 21
Biologically and intellectually the human female is the most advanced creature on earth, with her body containing thousands of complex connections and interactions dedicated to the creation and maintenance of life.
—BOI Archives, suppressed medical report
Just before the gunfire, Deborah Marvel, other councilwomen, and all of the counterfeit she-apostles (with their matrons) had been waiting at the main entrance to the Vatican, while Dixie Lou bustled about nervously, talking to uniformed UWW guards. At the same time, more uniformed guards had appeared, and UWW soldiers with them, seeming to flow out of shadows on the street, making Deborah wonder why the Chairwoman was bringing so much security. The whole situation had seemed odd to her, bringing such a large entourage and so many guards for a meeting between Dixie Lou Jackson and Pope Rodrigo.
Back in Libya, Dixie Lou had outlined her plan. Following the satellite broadcast from Rome, she said she was scheduled to meet with Pope Rodrigo, to obtain his blessing for the UWW and the plight of disadvantaged women all over the world. Dixie Lou claimed she intended to plead her case to the Vicar of Christ and try for his political support.
Then the gunfire had begun, and explosions had rocked the Vatican. Dixie Lou ran into the fray shouting, “It’s She-Time!”—but none of her councilwomen knew what she meant.
* * *
White House Cabinet Room, shortly after 2:00 PM, EST . . .
Zack Markwether sat at the table beside his brother, with the members of the cabinet. As they watched a VR-TV on one wall, they made moans and mutterings of displeasure. Dixie Lou Jackson was holding a bizarre press conference, transmitted all over the world by satellite.
“I still can’t believe this kooky lady is holding the Pope hostage,” Secretary of State Harold Gravidovitch said. “How did she ever pull it off?” He was a small man with a pointed nose. His checkered yellow and brown tie was loose at the collar.
“You tell us,” President Markwether said, leveling a hard stare at him.
With a shrug, Gravidovitch responded, “It just happened. What do you expect?”
“Do not take that tone with my brother,” Zack interjected, his tone almost menacing.
“You’re not even a Cabinet Minister,” Gravidovitch countered. “I don’t take orders from you.”
“Please, gentlemen,” President Markwether said. “We don’t want to be at each other’s throats. Remain calm, so that we can think this through.”
On the screen, Dixie Lou Jackson continued to speak. Several Cabinet Ministers snickered when she said the babies with her were the female apostles of Jesus . . . reincarnated. But others present, including Zack and the President, remained silent.
“I’m speaking from the Papal Altar,” Dixie Lou said, “designed and built by the famed artist Gian Lorenzo Bernini in the seventeenth century.” The camera zoomed back to display the priceless altar for the viewing audience. “Isn’t it magnificent?”
Zack ground his teeth together, then stood and stared at the virtual-reality TV, with Dixie Lou and her surroundings seeming to float in the air in front of the television screen. He wasn’t a Catholic, but his mother had been. He was thankful that she wasn’t alive to witness this sacrilege, the kidnapping of the Pope. It was an outrage! Military forces had been sent to Italy by NATO, but they were not attacking. The wacky high priestess had her own forces, and the Pope, three cardinals, and the sacred Vatican were her bargaining chips.
Dixie Lou Jackson continued. “I’ve learned the most interesting historical facts. Directly beneath this altar are the bones of St. Peter, but the body has no feet. Most intriguing, wouldn’t you agree? But this was taken as one of the proofs of identity of the remains, since religious martyrs were typically crucified, and victims were often cut down from their crosses the quickest way—by slashing off their feet at the ankles, with a sword. The bones . . . found in a purple garment . . . date from the first century AD.
“Many of you are concerned about our presence here, in the holiest of Christian shrines. But let me assure you that we would never consider defiling this lovely place, which more than a billion Roman Catholics consider blessed. There is no cause for concern whatsoever. First of all, we are not a violent or destructive organization. On the contrary, we are peaceful and only seek to rebuild what was destroyed by men. Secondly—and this is a crucial point—we also consider this shrine holy, for we are devout Christians, followers of the beloved Jesus Christ, who counted women among his apostles. We have proof, however, that the men who led the early church discarded our holy gospels, even destroyed them, so that women could be kept in their place.
“We’re putting men on notice. Never again will we be quote unquote ‘put in our place.’ At this moment my forces completely control Vatican City, and we are prepared to annihilate everything here—all the priceless treasures of art and antiquity—if NATO attacks us. We have taken these steps in order to draw worldwide attention to our cause, the cause of freedom and equality for all women.”
“Where’s the Pope?” shouted one of the television reporters in the great cathedral.
“In comfortable quarters.”
“How do we know you really have him?”
“If I don’t have him, I hereby challenge him to make a public appearance. He will not appear, ladies and gentlemen, because he is not able to. Not without our permission.”
“Is it true you’ve wired the Vatican with explosives?” another reporter shouted, a man with long gray hair.
“Regrettably, yes, though I take no pleasure in admitting this. But I assure you, my friends, the end does justify the means! For too long, religious women have been kept under the yoke of cruel, uncaring men. It takes a radical event like this to turn things around.”
“But what do you say to those who accuse you of being a common criminal, of attempting to blackmail the Christian world?”
“I warn you: Do not challenge me, or you will not like my response.”
The press corps fell silent.
“Scary lady,” Zack said. Upset, he left the Cabinet Room.
* * *
At BOI headquarters in Washington State, Styx Tertullian threw a paperweight at his own VR-television, smashing the receiver and shutting it off with a fizzle and a spark. His startled Vice Ministers and other staff members, seated around the conference room, stared at him without saying anything.
“I’m going away for a few days, “ Styx said, “to consult with someone important.”
“With whom?” Vice Minister Kylee Branson asked.
“I’ll let you know when I get back. For now, you’re in charge, Kylee.”
/> Revealing no more, Styx hurried into his office to shut down his computer terminal. Fifteen minute later, he was in a subterranean hangar, boarding his personal jet.
* * *
“We’re leaving for Mexico City tomorrow,” Raffaela Inez announced. She and Consuela stood on the brick floor of the kitchen, mixing unsweetened chocolate into a dark mole poblano sauce that bubbled in a pot on the wood-burning stove.
Consuela dipped a finger into the sauce, tasted it. “A little more chicken broth would be good,” she suggested.
Raffaela poured in the amber broth, stirred the mixture. “We want you and your baby to come with us. You will be safe there in our home. We’ve been without a live-in maid and cook for months now, and we are very tired of eating ready-made meals.” Actually, she had much more than that in mind, something she was not revealing. Steps had already been taken; they had sent a letter to Rome.
“You want me to cook for you? And clean? You’re offering me a position?”
Raffaela smiled. “You’re very good in the kitchen and ever so neat. We would certainly appreciate your help. For your services you would receive room and board plus two hundred pesos a week. Well, what do you say?”
Tears overflowed the girl’s lower eyelids and streamed down her dark cheeks. Touched by this, Raffaela moved close. Placing an arm around her, the older woman said, “We also want to talk with you more about the bad doctors. You may have been right about them.”
Consuela wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Thank you, Señora. God has sent you to help us in our time of need.”
Chapter 22
The she-apostles are arisen;
The she-apostles are among us.
—Mantra, United Women of the World
In the connected apartments, Lori and Alex tried to find out from the she-apostles how Candace had performed her vanishing act at Monte Konos, and how they had performed the telekinetic tricks onboard the helicopter. But whenever they asked the children about these mysterious occurrences, they acted as if they didn’t understand, and never repeated the feats—not even when Lori showed them a paper cup, particles of sand from the pocket of Mary Magdalene’s robe, and even a handful of bullets, to represent the hail of gunfire that Candace had eluded by vanishing for an instant and then reappearing when the danger was past.
The Lost Apostles Page 16
