The Lost Apostles

by Brian Herbert

  “Don’t tell me. You need more money.”

  Chang nodded.

  President Markwether flicked a small fly off the wall, wondered where the insect came from. The White House looked spotless throughout. He sighed. Nothing was perfect, it seemed.

  “We need another five hundred million.”

  The President stiffened with displeasure, shook his head. “New information has surfaced. Charges against the Bureau of graft, fraud, and misuse of funds.”

  Chang’s brow lowered on his unlined face. “All false.”

  “Perhaps, but an investigation is necessary.”

  “We are international, not under your control.”

  “Maybe so, but if proof turns up we can notify others who have been filling your coffers.”

  Chang shook his head. “We’re too big to worry about that.”

  “Even with your Acting Minister missing?” He studied his visitor closely.

  Considerable agitation was apparent in the twitches of Chang’s facial muscles, in his constant shifting of position, in the nervous tapping of his fingers on an armrest. “You didn’t take him, did you?” Chang asked.

  “Don’t be insolent. As for the money, we’re not giving you any more this year. Congress won’t authorize the funds.”

  Chang’s face darkened. “Our financial needs are not negotiable. You know that Mr. President.”

  “Times have changed.”

  Abruptly, the Vice Minister and his companion rose to their feet and stalked out of the Oval Office. “You haven’t heard the last of this,” Chang vowed, but the President was not concerned about the threat. Already his military forces were moving into position for decisive strikes against the Bureau . . . and against the pesky women of the UWW.

  * * *

  Standing on the checkerboard marble floor of the Vatican Library it seemed to Deborah Marvel that the magnificent ceiling, the arches, and column frescoes imparted an Islamic feeling to the elongated room, with a predominance of golden brown hues, like those of the desert. This struck her as curious, especially in one of the most sacred cities in all of Christendom, headquarters of a religion that for much of its history had considered Islam its number one enemy.

  Then she recalled from her studies of religion that Christianity, Islam, and Judaism had all sprung from the desert cultures of the middle east, and all shared certain religious stories. In her mind’s eye, she substituted Arabic scepters and Islamic crescent moons for the large Christian crosses on the columns and arches, and they seemed to fit.

  From either end of the library, UWW guards watched her on their night shift, but only out of curiosity, not suspicion. After all, despite her feelings of misgivings about Dixie Lou’s actions, Deborah remained second in command of United Women of the World, as the highest ranking councilwoman.

  In here, she had been asked by the aged curator not to touch certain priceless books without his assistance and the aid of the library’s specialized technology, since they could be damaged. Actually this was only a request from him, since Chairwoman Jackson had let him know in no uncertain terms that the UWW was in charge now and would make all decisions about the disposition of art objects, jewels, books, codices, manuscripts and the like. Though Deborah had authorization from Dixie Lou to use the library in any way she wished, she wouldn’t think of touching any books that were exceedingly old or fragile, such as the twelfth century incunabulum she had been admiring.

  A rosy-cheeked, nervous little man, the curator approached her. “It is important to treat all of the treasures in this library with reverence,” he said. “God is watching us.”

  Smiling pleasantly, Deborah asked to look at the thick leather-bound volume, which was in a glass case. Taking utmost care, the curator put on plastic gloves, then touched a button on the side of the glass case, causing the lid to open and an atmosphere-control bubble to appear around him. Deborah had heard about the technology, but had never seen it firsthand before this. The bubble, faintly visible around the curator as he lifted the book out and carried it to her, matched the humidity and temperature inside the glass case, so that priceless books did not decay whenever they were read.

  As the curator walked toward her, the atmospheric enclosure stayed with him. He set the tome on a table, and motioned for her to take a seat.

  When she hesitated, he said, “Go ahead and step into the bubble. It won’t hurt you.”

  Deborah did so, and sat down. She didn’t think much about any difference in the air. Her gaze was riveted on the beautiful old book.

  He moved the volume closer to her, and she noted a soft patina on the dark brown cover. “There are no other copies of this book in the entire world. It was assembled almost nine hundred years ago, centuries before the Gutenberg Bible.”

  “I assume you’re going to turn the pages for me?”

  “Yes, that would be best.” He turned the thick parchment pages slowly, said, “It describes ancient Roman sites in the vicinity of the Vatican. The text is Latin, which I assume you don’t read?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Translating into English, he read some of the book for her, including information on the very spot where the library now stood. The copious original illustrations, in illuminated gold, were exquisite, unlike anything Deborah had ever seen before.

  She spent two hours there, a pleasant respite from the insanity surrounding Dixie Lou Jackson.

  * * *

  Just before midnight, the private jet set down at Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci Airport and taxied to a hangar. A long silver limousine waited on the tarmac, by the hangar. It was a humid evening, with a heavy downpour of rain pummeling the aircraft.

  “You’re sure my baby will be safe here?” the peasant woman asked, in an agitated voice. Consuela had argued with the Inezes on the plane when it became apparent to her that their destination was not Mexico City, and she had only calmed down a little when she realized there was nothing she could do about it. But she remained agitated.

  “You have to trust us,” Raffaela said.

  “Where are we?” Consuela rested a hand gently on her sleeping baby’s shoulder. The child slept on the seat beside her.

  “Rome, Italy.”

  “Where’s that?” she asked, for she was not educated in geography or world affairs.

  “A long way from home,” Arsinio answered.

  He and his wife exchanged uneasy glances. After discovering that Consuela’s baby had a special connection with the she-apostles who had dictated portions of the Holy Women’s Bible, they had decided to contact Dixie Lou Jackson, leader of the women’s rights group that published the book, and were sponsoring the children. The UWW’s takeover of the Vatican had given Raffaela and Arsinio pause, because they were good Catholics. But they had watched the numerous speeches of the Chairwoman, and found her credible enough to send her a letter anyway, saying they had another she-apostle, and providing details of the baby’s behavior.

  But they had been careful in the letter, not providing their real names, or any information about where the child was. They signed the letter with the names Roberta Muñoz and Maria Aguilar, fictitious women, and said they would contact Dixie Lou again when they arrived in Rome.

  The couple had mixed feelings about what they were doing, a strange compulsion to take the child to Rome, and concern over the safety of the mother and child. Consuela had said that a woman with a gun had chased her before the Inezes met her, and she had narrowly escaped with her baby. A woman. Very strange. The Inezes had also known that a guard had accused Dixie Lou of faking the twelfth she-apostle, whom she called Martha of Galilee. The Chairwoman had denied this in a convincing fashion, but something kept nagging at the minds of the Inezes, telling them to be cautious.

  While they were in Mexico City, making travel arrangements to fly to Rome, Lori Vale had made her astounding claims and charges against Dixie Lou, and the controversy over the she-apostles had escalated. Now there were two conflicting camps of she-apostles. And
, just as the Inezes had done earlier while she-apostles were speaking passages from the Holy Women’s Bible, they again put little Marta in front of the television set—this time while the she-apostles with Lori Vale spoke what she said was ancient Aramaic. The Inezes did this while Consuela was at the market, shopping for fresh fruit and vegetables—and as before, Little Marta spoke excitedly to the television set, a stream of strange sounds that sounded very much like the language the children on television were speaking.

  Now Raffaela and Arsinio were glad they had taken precautionary measures. Surreptitiously, they had done additional checking on the children with Dixie Lou Jackson, from tapes of her broadcasts—and little Marta had no response when those children made sounds. Only when Consuela’s baby saw the original she-apostles speaking passages from the Holy Women’s Bible, and when Marta saw the children with Lori Vale, did she respond. That meant that the bold young woman had the original she-apostles, and Jackson did not. It was a very curious turn of events, indeed.

  And it meant the Inezes were still going to Rome, because that was where Vale was, and where the real she-apostles were—the eleven others. Little Marta would be the twelfth. They didn’t know where Vale was, but had put out inquiries ahead of their arrival, and would look more intensely when they were there.

  Certainly the Inezes had deceived Consuela Santos, the ignorant peasant woman, but they were convinced that their actions would not harm her or her child. Important issues were at stake. In the days before departure they’d rushed a photograph of Consuela to a contact in Mexico City, where a false passport had been prepared in a fictitious name.

  Now, with everything in place, the Inezes passed through Italian Customs in Rome as Mexican tourists on vacation, accompanied by their “maid” Rosario Juarez, and her baby.

  Chapter 26

  We knew about the transgression of the She-Judas, and her part in the betrayal of the Savior. But her connection to the murders did not emerge until much later.

  —Lori Vale, Revelations

  The morning was pleasant, with a bright orange sun rising over the ancient buildings of Rome. On the terrace of the Vatican Palace, Dixie Lou Jackson sipped a glass of robust, deep red Chianti while waiting for her breakfast to arrive. Casually she tossed bread crumbs to a pigeon, and the creature ventured close enough that she was able to give it a good kick. The bird squealed and flew off.

  She laughed at the small deception she had accomplished.

  A letter—delivered the day before through her own clandestine channels—lay open beside the Chairwoman’s plate. The contents were most interesting, and exceedingly gratifying. A Mexican peasant woman claimed to be the mother of a thirteenth she-apostle, and said she was bringing the baby to the Vatican right away. The letter had been postmarked in Mexico.

  Being suspicious by nature, Dixie Lou’s first thought was that it was a fake, some sort of a trick. There had been other women, and men, saying they were the parents of she-apostles. It further concerned her that the two women signing the letter—Roberta Muñoz and Maria Aguilar—had not revealed where they were at the moment, only that they would contact Dixie Lou when they arrived. The Chairwoman had put out inquiries to places where they might be staying in Rome, but thus far she had not learned anything more.

  Now, as she ran her fingers over the words in the letter and studied the handwriting, Dixie Lou hoped the women were being truthful, and were right about the child. The missing Martha of Galilee had last been reported in Mexico, but the mother had run off, eluding the armed pursuers sent by the UWW. The mother’s name had been Consuela Santos, but that name was not mentioned in the letter, nor did the two women signing it say who the mother of the purported she-apostle was.

  It was all very peculiar, and thus far there had been no further message from them. But as soon as they contacted her again, Dixie Lou would grant them an audience, while taking every precaution against assassination. All of them, including mother and child, would be searched, scanned, turned inside out and put back together again. After all, a bomb could be hidden inside the baby.

  A baby bomb.

  She rather liked the concept, but didn’t particularly want to depart this world in quite that manner.

  The sojourn into black humor, and the pigeon incident, had put her in a good mood. She assumed that her recent speech accusing Lori of lying about who had the real she-apostles had been successful, along with the propaganda campaign that Deborah Marvel had set in motion.

  Maybe it was all the work of a greater power.

  Dixie Lou smiled to herself, for she saw immediately how to put the child to use, if she was in fact the elusive Martha of Galilee.

  * * *

  In their hotel room near the Villa Borghese, Raffaela and Arsinio Inez sat with Consuela Santos, who held baby Marta on her lap. A breakfast tray sat nearby, with dirty dishes on it. Raffaela didn’t particularly like the Roman coffee, but drank it anyway, for the stimulation of caffeine. She and her husband wore pajamas, while Consuela had arisen with the dawn and was already dressed for the day.

  The elegant old hotel had no televisions, since the owners prided themselves on presenting an authentic nineteenth century atmosphere. A charming structure built around a garden court of flowers, the establishment seemed like a journey into the past. But the Inezes were not there on vacation.

  While Raffaela sipped her coffee, Arsinio tended to his personal computer, on which he was playing a recording of Lori Vale’s broadcast, in English with Italian subtitles. Because they spoke English, the Inezes were translating selected sentences for the illiterate young woman, choosing what they wanted to tell her and embellishing the rest as they went along.

  “That young women, and the eleven special children with her, are the reason we’ve brought you here,” Raffaela said to Consuela in Spanish, as she pointed at the screen. “Lori Vale can help your baby. She knows all about special children like yours.”

  “She’s a good doctor?”

  “You might say that,” Raffaela said.

  “She is quite young, though, isn’t she?”

  “She must be older than she looks.”

  “Lori Vale does have a nice face,” Consuela admitted, “and a pleasant voice, even if I don’t understand her words, or the words of the children. But the children do sound like Marta.”

  “We aren’t sure exactly where Vale is,” Arsinio said, “only that she and the children are here in Rome. We’re looking for her; we’ve hired people to find her.”

  The Inezes were not certain what Lori Vale’s relationship to the UWW was, and it was one of the things they wanted to find out, to make certain that Dixie Lou Jackson did get anywhere near Marta. While they had originally believed in the Chairwoman, when they reexamined the facts carefully they found that she had no credibility at all, and they had come to the opinion that she was insane.

  But prior to that woman’s involvement, they had seen great merit in United Women of the World. The Inezes had long been feminists, contributing money to various groups promoting the advancement of women. For years there had been rumors of an umbrella organization for women’s rights, but shortly after the Mexican couple learned its name—United Women of the World—the group went into an even higher security mode, making it difficult for Raffaela to join. It required extensive background checks and interviews that she didn’t have the time for then, though she’d hoped to go through the process when she could.

  The couple had wanted to participate in United Women of the World in the most meaningful way possible, drawing them out of the ruts their lives had fallen into. They had the money and the time to do whatever they pleased, and they’d felt they were overdue for a change. Even Arsinio, though not of the gender that would ever allow him to join the UWW formally, had wanted to do what he could for the cause.

  Now that had all changed, because of the disturbing situation in Vatican City. The Holy Women’s Bible seemed to have great merit, elevating the historical and religious stature of wom
en. But somehow, a good cause had been hijacked by a madwoman.

  The Inezes still wanted to be involved in the cause of women’s rights, and to do that they had become convinced that they needed to go through young Lori Vale and the eleven unusual children with her. The Mexican couple also felt as if they were on an important religious mission, filling them with the Holy Spirit. They felt compelled to take baby Marta to her she-apostle sisters.

  Beside them, Consuela cradled her precious baby, and hummed a mountain indio lullaby that her own mother had sung for her when she was small.

  * * *

  Dixie Lou Jackson enjoyed moving her council meetings around the Vatican. There were numerous large and fabulous rooms in the holy city, and an incredible number of them were filled with treasure. It had to be the most stunning concentration of wealth in the entire world, and now all of it was under her control. This morning she was holding a session in one of the Vatican museums, at an Italian Renaissance map table with the chairs of past popes removed from their display positions and pulled up to the high table. The Sword of She-God lay in front of her on the polished surface.

  Through a window she could see military equipment arrayed at the perimeter of Vatican City, as NATO attempted to intimidate her with tanks, armored personnel carriers, artillery pieces, and thousands of troops. She smiled to herself. They didn’t dare attack because of all the explosives she had placed, and besides, she had faith that UWW sympathizers within NATO ranks—male and female officers, and even enlisted personnel—were gaining influence.

  Her fingers touched the explosives detonator in a pocket of her elegant robe. It was a comforting feeling, reassuring her that she could not be defied, or she would blow up the Sistine Chapel, St. Peter’s Basilica, the Pope, and everything else. The electronic device was a little insurance policy that she carried around with her. She touched the safety cap over the detonation button, but did not slide it off.

  “Just a moment,” she said to the councilwomen, who were beginning to take seats. Rising from her chair at the head of the table, she went to a massive teak-and-glass display case containing the holy papal scepters, a case she attempted to open. It was locked.