“Curator!” she shouted. “Come and open this for me!”
Presently an elderly, silver-haired man hobbled toward them across the marble floor. Alberto Carducci was one of the Vatican officials in charge of the various collections. In addition, since he had a special knowledge of passageways to get in and out of the Vatican, she used him as a courier. He carried a large brass ring of jangling keys.
“This one, madam?” he asked nervously, designating the display case beside her.
“Are you dense, man? Of course, this one.”
He began trying keys in the lock, but couldn’t seem to locate the right one.
“Hurry up, hurry up,” she demanded. “Can’t you see we’re in the middle of an important meeting?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He fumbled with the keys, dropped them with an embarrassing clatter, picked them up.
“Move faster, you idiot!”
But the poor Italian was too upset. Perspiration covered his face. His hands shook so badly that he nearly dropped the keys again.
“Here, give me those,” Dixie Lou snapped. She grabbed them from him and swung their bulk against the glass, smashing the case open. Alarms went off. She stepped back to avoid falling glass, and kicked it out of her way.
Through the broken glass Dixie Lou retrieved a golden scepter with a jeweled cross on top—of rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds. “Have these jewels removed,” she said to the cowering man.
“I beg your pardon?” Clearly he was stunned by the command.
“You heard me.” Glancing sidelong, she noticed disapproval on the faces of some councilwomen, particularly Deborah Marvel. This disappointed her.
“But this is a holy relic, from the Second Crusade,” Carducci said.
The alarm continued to sound.
She slapped him hard across the face, leaving a red mark on his cheek. “I’m not going to quibble with you. These jewels are to be removed and worked into the hilt of my sword—replacing the cheaper ones already there.” She pointed to the weapon on the table. “I want the finest craftsperson in all of Rome for this project. Do you understand?”
He nodded.
“Furthermore, the work is to be completed here, under my supervision. I will show where the stones are to be worked into the hilt.” She gave him a hard shove, and he almost fell over. “Now go shut the alarm off.”
In a fluster of terror and sweat, he retrieved the keys and scurried off to do her bidding.
“Some of you have expressed concerns to me,” Dixie Lou said, as she laid the holy scepter on the table, next to the legendary sword. “You want to know how my plans fit into the goals of United Women of the World.”
She looked from face to face, then calmly added, “Have I summarized your concerns adequately?”
“Yes,” several women murmured. Others nodded, carefully. She saw fear in the eyes of some, perplexed curiosity in the eyes of others, and hard, almost disapproving stares from two—Kaiulani Maheha and Bobbi Torrence, who sat next to one another. Kaiulani, a large Hawaiian woman, had always been an ally of Dixie Lou in the past, the reason she had been included in the evacuation list from Monte Konos. But Bobbi Torrence, shorter and heavyset, had only swung over to Dixie Lou’s side under duress, because of the kidnapping and sedition charges against her niece. These councilwomen would bear close scrutiny.
“I think you’re afraid I’ve slipped a bit off course,” the Chairwoman said.
“Oh no,” the councilwomen said, almost in unison.
“We realize you are following a carefully considered plan,” Kaiulani said. “It’s just that we don’t understand what it is.”
“Yes,” Bobbi agreed. “Is it true you may have located the actual twelfth she-apostle?”
The black woman’s eyelids narrowed dangerously. “Time will tell. The mother hasn’t brought her in yet.”
“But what good will she do us if she proves to be authentic?” Bobbi asked, “since Lori has the other—” Her words trailed away as she seemed to think better of questioning her superior.
“I don’t have to answer that,” Dixie Lou said. In her own mind, she didn’t know what she would do with Martha of Galilee if the two of them ever came face to face. She only knew that she wanted to know what the little brat had to say. She had to know.
“Do you plan to use her for more leverage?” Kaiulani asked, her voice tremulous.
“Perhaps,” Dixie Lou said, nodding. “Let me assure all of you. I have not slipped off course, and at the proper time I will explain everything to you.”
“Yes, Chairwoman,” several women said.
Privately, Dixie Lou felt the weight of these concerns, and many more. She stood up, and carrying the papal scepter and the sword, she marched from the room.
* * *
Late in the afternoon . . .
Deborah Marvel stirred her gin and tonic, took a thoughtful sip. It was strong, but she preferred it that way. Some of the other councilwomen in the room were beginning to show the loosening effects of alcohol from their after-dinner drinks,: letting down inhibitions, talking more. In Deborah’s private apartment an open bar had been set up, and all of the remaining councilwomen were present: ten, including her.
“As you know,” she began, raising her voice, “Dixie Lou doesn’t know about our little side-session, but there’s nothing wrong with it under the UWW Charter.”
“Can we discuss her—mmm—behavior?” Bobbi Torrence inquired. She gulped her drink, glanced around like a nervous bird watching for a predator. “That incident this morning with the holy scepter was really bizarre. Ordering jewels removed from a sacred relic?”
“That’s one of the topics,” Deborah said, thus far concealing her own opposition to what the Chairwoman had done. “Checks and balances, remember?” This was a complaint she had expected to hear, the reason she’d called the side-session. Some of the councilwomen had been acting edgy in recent days, and she needed to deal with the situation, needed to cut the tension before it erupted. Dixie Lou would want to keep the tensions under control.
“And no one will report what we say to her?” Bobbi looked extremely worried. Her puffy face seemed to have aged ten years recently.
“Title 6.19.2,” Deborah said. She held up a copy of the charter.
“Well,” Bobbi began, “do any of you agree that Dixie Lou has been acting rather, uh, egocentric?” Clearing her throat, she stared at her drink. “I mean, she hardly mentions Amy in any of her speeches, and we’re never mentioned. All the work we put into the holy book, and it’s like we don’t even exist.”
“Is that what this is all about?” Tamara Himmel asked, with uncharacteristic fervor. “Credit?” Her pinched face tightened.
“No, that isn’t what I mean, but there is such a thing as graciousness, and I think she’s forgotten about it.”
“Women are supposed to have finishing school manners, right?” Tamara said. “We’re the civil, polite ones while men are barbarians?”
Most of the councilwomen laughed. Deborah noticed that two who didn’t were Bobbi Torrence and Kaiulani Maheha. Those two were conversing privately in low, anxious tones.
“I think Bobbi has a point,” Kaiulani finally said, looking up. “Dixie Lou avoids giving credit to anyone except herself in public. Face it, ladies: our beloved leader has become addicted to power and fame. Look at the way she doesn’t honor holy relics, and her odd habit of carrying the Sword of She-God around with her, everywhere she goes. She seems more than a little nuts to me. At first I thought she might be struggling to out-do Amy’s achievements, but now she’s way beyond even that.”
An uncomfortable silence fell over the room, like a foul mist settling over a graveyard. Ice cubes tinkled in glasses. Someone coughed. Paper rustled.
“No one can ever replace Amy,” Deborah said, at last. “I’m sure Dixie Lou never tried to do that, and she isn’t letting power go to her head. It’s just that she’s so passionate about the cause, the important work we’re all do
ing.”
“Why is she doing things without our approval?” Kaiulani asked.
“Good question,” Bobbi said.
“She’s making executive decisions,” Tamara Himmel suggested. “Remember, it wasn’t that long ago that we barely escaped from Monte Konos. She’s just taking steps to ensure security.”
In a sharp tone, Bobbi said, “The Vatican attack—without our knowledge or approval—didn’t exactly do that, did it? Now in addition to the BOI against us, it’s the armed forces of NATO and most of the civilized world.”
“Maybe we should go over her unilateral decisions one by one,” Tamara suggested. “Let’s see how we would have voted on them. If she would have carried our vote anyway, it’s a moot point to argue. I suggest that we begin with the downloading of the Holy Women’s Bible. And I’m still not sure how all of you feel about this Vatican situation. Only a couple of you have openly voiced opposition to it.” Her gaze focused on Deborah for a moment, then drifted away.
“You’re missing the point,” Kaiulani snapped. “The point is, Dixie Lou should have consulted with us, should have opened the issues up for discussion and debate.” The pudgy woman had her own copy of the charter, bound in green and orange leather. Flipping through it, she said, “Here, look at this, Title 3.14.6: ‘The Chairwoman must obtain council approval for all important decisions.’ All, not some. All. We’re the council. And here, 4.12.1: ‘The council shall consist of sixteen women.’ We only have ten. Presumably the other six were killed at Monte Konos. When will they be replaced?”
“Maybe never,” Bobbi said. “I brought it up to Dixie Lou the other day, but she wasn’t interested in discussing it.”
“Isn’t it convenient how she left all of her political opponents behind?” Kaiulani said. Slapping the charter down on a table with a loud thump, she added, “Amy Angkor-Billings must be turning over in her grave.” She gazed from face to face. Most of the women looked away, obviously uneasy.
But one, Tamara Himmel, thought, Dixie Lou will be pleased to learn the details of this meeting.
With nothing more to be said, the side-session broke up.
That evening Bobbi Torrence and Kaiulani Maheha disappeared, reducing the council to eight members. A more manageable number for Dixie Lou Jackson.
Chapter 27
I knew I had to make the attempt, no matter the odds against success, and no matter what it cost me in terms of my career, or my life. No force on earth could have kept me away from Rome.
—Zack Markwether
He hadn’t expected Rome to be warm at this time of year, so it surprised Zack Markwether when he stepped off the plane and found the air sweltering. As quickly as he could he removed his uniform coat and strapped it to the outside of his leather carry-on luggage, the only bag he had brought in his rush to leave Washington, DC. He wore a khaki uniform shirt (thankfully it was short-sleeved), puffy jodhpurs, spit-polished black shoes, and rakish aviator glasses.
Zack needed to find Lori, and had made advance contacts, looking for her. The private detective he hired in Rome, Trig Arnold, was supposed to leave a message for him at the hotel, and they were scheduled to have dinner together that evening. Arnold, retired from military intelligence, lived in Italy now and did freelance investigations for high-level clients. The two of them had served in the army together more than ten years ago, when Zack was his commanding officer.
The airport bristled with security, much more than Zack had seen the year before when he visited Rome with a congressional delegation. Uniformed soldiers toting machine guns eyed every person in the terminal suspiciously, sizing them up, watching for indications of trouble. The illumination inside the terminal was an eerie pink, from wall and ceiling-mounted scanners washing over the crowds, looking for known criminals and other suspects. In this atmosphere of tension and fear, he hoped that NATO didn’t have to attack the Vatican. That could have disastrous results, spilling out into Rome, making the entire city a war zone.
With almost no knowledge of the Italian language, Zack picked up only a few words he had learned from a pamphlet the stewardess had given him. As he wandered through the crowded terminal building trying to interpret signs, a rotund man in a black tee-shirt appeared. “You are looking for a taxi, mister?” the man inquired, in a thick accent.
“Yes, I am.”
“You are in luck, signore, because I am a driver. I take your luggage to the taxi.” Grabbing the leather bag, he began to walk toward one of the terminal exits, and said, “Follow me.”
The American considered this peculiar, but reminded himself he was in a different country after all, where it might be customary. On his previous visit he’d been transported in a private limousine. He felt isolated now, without the power and influence of the White House. They couldn’t help him here.
He followed the man outside, just as it was beginning to grow dark. Some vehicles on the street had their headlights on. Horns honked as aggressive drivers darted in and out of traffic. At the curb the man said, “My taxi is just down the street. You wait here, and I’ll be right back.”
Carrying the luggage, the man disappeared into a crowd.
Zack’s thoughts drifted. He wondered if Lori would even consent to see him, or if she would turn him away. She probably had a lot of security around her, having become such an important public personality.
Minutes passed, and with a sense of mounting dread it occurred to Zack that he had been taken for a ride without ever having gotten into the taxi. Despite his own knowledge and naturally suspicious nature, he had been more concerned about finding his daughter than anything. Cursing his own stupidity, he looked around for a police officer, and soon spotted a pair of them, toting black machine guns. They were busy arresting a man at gunpoint, so he didn’t approach them.
A loud horn honked, and looking to his right, he saw the taxi driver pulling up to the curb. Zack breathed a sigh of relief.
The man was laughing. “I bet you thought I stole your luggage, eh, mister? I’m sorry, the traffic is terrible these days.”
The American climbed into the back seat.
“Where to, mister?”
“The Hotel Lucrino, just off Via degli Scipioni.”
“Oh, I can’t take you there, mister. It is too close to the Vatican, where there is so much trouble. The streets are blocked off, but you might be able to get in on foot.”
“The hotel didn’t say anything about that when I made the reservation.”
“They just want your credit card number, signore, to put a charge on your account. Now, if you do not show up, they will charge you anyway.”
“That’s the least of my problems. OK, get me as close as you can.”
The driver made the sign of the cross on his chest and forehead, then pointed to a photograph of Pope Rodrigo taped to the dashboard. “We all pray for His Holiness, that those crazy women will let him go.”
“How close can you get me?”
“Maybe ten blocks. You’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”
“Let’s go.”
* * *
When Zack walked to the hotel that evening, following the driver’s directions, he had to pass through two checkpoints, each one a machine gun nest set up on a corner with sandbags around it. He had to show his identification, which they scanned into a data system, along with his retina prints, fingerprints, and a snip of his hair. Rome had become a war zone.
Like a lost tourist in a foreign city, he turned the wrong way on a side street, except this had potentially more serious consequences, because it forced him back to one of the same checkpoints. But an Italian soldier was helpful this time, and he finally got the right directions.
The Hotel Lucrino, with flower boxes in every window, would have been perfect if Zack really had been a tourist, but he wasn’t here for that. He barely checked into the room and then went down to the bar in the lobby, where he met the detective he’d hired, Trig Arnold, a tall man in a suit and black shirt, with no tie.
“Did you find her yet?” Zack asked anxiously, as they sipped glasses of white Tuscano wine.
He shook his head. “No, but I have some interesting leads to tell you about.” The detective excused himself for a moment to use the restroom.
The wine had a sour, rough taste to Zack. Not that he was a wine snob; he wasn’t. But he had hoped to calm his frayed nerves with something that went down smoothly. Maybe the taste had to do with how upset he was by the whole situation, how worried he was about the safety of the young woman he thought was his daughter. He pushed the glass away.
Arnold had been the top sergeant in an Army unit commanded by Zack. They’d served together in the Fourth Iraq War, where Arnold had been wounded and was sent home. He still had a scar on his chin from shrapnel, and Zack knew he had even more evidence of past wounds beneath the clothing. He was lucky to have survived them. Now he was a private investigator, working in Rome and Milan. His name was not Italian, but he always said he was of that ethnicity anyway, and that someone had gotten it wrong on his birth certificate.
“My parents said I was Irish but I never believed them,” he used to say when they served together. And then—invariably after a couple of drinks—he would go off on a wildly humorous tangent, making up his own life history, relatives, and all sorts of details that never actually happened. In the past it had been entertaining, but now Zack didn’t want to hear any of that. He needed hard facts, and hoped his old friend was as good as his professional reputation. If not, Zack would need to take someone else into his confidence.
Trig Arnold returned and sat down. He leaned across the table, and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “A couple of nights ago, three bound women were dumped in an alley near the Vatican, a strange incident in which no one was hurt. The women, all Americans, refused to press charges, said it was just a practical joke.”
The Lost Apostles Page 21
