“What does that have to do with Lori? She wasn’t one of them?”
“No. I’m getting to that. From my contacts at the police, I have a videotaped incident report, and I discovered that one of the women is a member of the UWW council.”
“Dumped on a street?”
“Right. The police didn’t make the connection and released her along the other two women. I have good sources, though, with access to the most advanced facial recognition technology; they tell me the councilwoman’s name is Wendy Zepeda. And get this: I found out that Zepeda was aboard one of three helicopters and a VTOL plane that escaped from a military attack in Greece. Dixie Lou Jackson was aboard the lead helicopter in the group, and Zepeda was on the same helicopter as your daughter.”
“Where is Zepeda? Have you been able to question her?”
The detective shook his head. “No one knows where she is.”
“So this is a dead-end?”
“I don’t know. I’m still working on it.”
They ate dinner in the bar, but Zack hardly touched his. When they parted that evening, the detective seemed remarkably sober, even though he had consumed almost two bottles of wine. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be on this first thing in the morning.”
But Zack did worry. He worried a lot.
* * *
A surprise lay behind Mrs. Bonham’s tidy little bungalow, a secret English garden with fragrant lavender and thyme shrubs, and vines of ivy and wisteria snaking over a high stone wall. In bright sunlight the old lady shuffled with her walker along a crushed shell path, just behind Styx Tertullian. In his hands he carried a length of heavy chain connected to his ankles, so that he could only take short steps. He also carried a copy of the Holy Women’s Bible. At a wrought iron bench, with elegant fern patterns in the metal work, she commanded him to sit.
He did so, grumbling and clanking.
“Now secure the chain,” she commanded. “Just like yesterday.” She wore a floppy straw hat, shielding her sensitive facial skin from the sun. From the pocket of her daisy-print house dress she brought out a padlock, which she tossed to him. It landed on the path.
He leaned over and picked it up, then completed the familiar routine she had forced on him, looping the chain through the ironwork of the bench and securing it in place with the lock. Behind him loomed a twisted, drooping willow tree with an antique birdhouse perched on a lower branch.
As before, she sat on a bench at the opposite side of the path, where she could watch him from a safe distance. Her aluminum-framed walker stood in front of her, on the path. From a pocket she brought forth a .25 caliber automatic pistol, which she set on the bench beside her.
In a dark mood, Styx stared at the white, leather-bound book on his lap.
“Open it,” she commanded.
Reluctantly, he complied. “Which passage today?”
“I want you to select a verse that best reflects the error of your ways, and memorize it.”
Exasperated, he began flipping through the pages, searching, taking deep, anguished breaths. The paper rustled and crackled.
“Show more respect for the holy word,” she cautioned. “Don’t bend or tear the pages, or you’ll be in big trouble.”
“Bigger than now?”
“Don’t be sarcastic, young man. I’m trying to rehabilitate you.”
Styx found a passage that he thought she would like, and began memorizing it, mouthing the heretical words with great distaste, making whispers of sound.
Within a few minutes Mrs. Bonham’s eyelids grew heavy and she fell asleep in the warmth of the sun. Her head tilted to one side, and the floppy hat seemed about to fall off, but somehow it didn’t.
Carefully, trying not to rattle his chains or make any other noticeable noises, Styx rose to his feet and began dragging his bench across the path toward the old woman, a few centimeters at a time. Having been waiting for this opportunity, he didn’t take his eyes off her.
She shifted on the bench. Her veiny eyelids flickered.
He held his breath.
Mrs. Bonham began snoring, her head still slumped to one side, the gun beside her.
The desperate man dragged the bench closer, finally getting to the middle of the shell path. Only a few minutes had transpired, but it seemed like much longer, and sweat ran down his face, stinging his eyes. Stretching to the limit of his chain, he thought he could almost reach the weapon now, but first he needed to move her walker out of the way.
Slowly, watching the chain all the while, he reached out and grabbed hold of the top bar of the walker. The aluminum frame wasn’t heavy, and he lifted it easily.
Suddenly he heard screeching from behind him. Turning, he saw a white Persian cat and an orange tabby facing off, claws bared, tails erect. Several feet above them, atop the birdhouse in the tree, a black crow looked down and cawed, as if refereeing the fight between the felines. The cats separated, ran off in different directions.
When Styx looked back at Mrs. Bonham, she was sitting straight up, and had the gun pointed at him. She shook her head sadly. “I’ve tried to be nice to you,” she said. “Really, I’ve gone out of my way to give you every consideration. But you’re an impossible man.”
“I’ll try to do better,” he promised.
“Read the sacred word and feel the holy She-Spirit!” the old lady commanded. “Read, and ye shall be saved!”
It was the absolute worst time of his entire life.
Chapter 28
The good leader recognizes the difference between power and responsibility. It is the difference between taking and giving . . . the difference between personal interest and the welfare of the organization.
—Amy Angkor-Billings, Axioms on Leadership
Dixie Lou had intended to use Alberto Carducci to arrange for the Mexican women and the child to get into the Vatican. They still had not contacted her to let her know they were in Rome, but in preparation Dixie Lou wanted the curator set up the details required to get visitors past NATO security, and get ready.
The silver-haired Carducci, in addition to being a curator by profession, had talents getting in and out of Vatican City through little-known underground passageways, and he had been performing courier duties for Dixie Lou. He had agreed to do all these things for her, however, in exchange for her promise that the Vatican treasures would not be harmed, with the exception of the papal scepter that she insisted on destroying for its jewels. The confrontation over the scepter seemed to have soured him, even though he tried to conceal his feelings. But his agitation had been apparent, as his usually cool demeanor crumbled when she broke into the display case.
Trust no one, she reminded herself as she spoke with Carducci now, on the main floor of St. Peter’s Basilica. Behind them towered Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s magnificent Papal Altar, with four twisted columns—like the four gospels of The New Testament—supporting a bronze canopy.
When Carducci had her complete instructions, just as he bowed to her and was about to turn and do the preparatory work, she summoned her guards, with a shout that echoed throughout the huge, ancient chamber. As the armed women ran to her, boots thumping on the floor, she removed the Sword of She-God from its scabbard and looked at her own reflection in the shiny steel blade.
Like a movie suddenly put on hold, Carducci froze. “Ma’am?” he said. “Is something wrong?”
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
Four huge female guards ran up, their weapon belts banging against their hips.
“Strip search him,” Dixie Lou commanded.
“Here, Chairwoman?” the sergeant of the guards asked, a woman with the blackest, most pure skin that Dixie Lou had ever seen, bringing to mind African royalty.
“No, dunderhead, take him into the men’s room so he can have privacy. Yes, do it here and do it now. I’m busy and I don’t have time to waste.”
As the old man sputtered in indignation and protested to no avail, the women removed his clothing, revealing a gnarle
d, wrinkled body. He stood shivering on the intricately designed marble floor while Dixie Lou looked him over disdainfully. A silver crucifix hung from his neck, the only thing he had on now other than a silver ring bearing the classic facial image of Jesus Christ.
“What is it we’re looking for?” the black guard asked, as her companions searched through his pockets, bringing out common objects that an old man might have in his possession.
“Something hidden.” Stepping back, she swished the legendary sword through the air, and marveled at the clean, whistling sound it made. Such a magnificent piece, and she deserved to wield it.
“There’s nothing here,” the guards reported, one by one. “Only these things.” One of them showed her a pocket watch, a money clip with bills folded inside, and a string of black rosary beads. Dixie Lou examined them, dropped them on the floor by Carducci.
“May I get dressed now?” he demanded.
Ignoring him, Dixie Lou said to the black guard, “Rip out the lining of his jacket.”
Carducci’s face went ashen, and when the guards brought out a piece of white cloth with words written on it in black lettering, he fell to his knees in front of Dixie Lou. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know what to do.”
The sergeant passed the piece of cloth to Dixie Lou, saying, “Obviously, he didn’t use paper to keep it from rustling.”
Reading the words, Dixie Lou scowled, and felt blood rush to her face, making her cheeks and forehead hot. For some reason he had written a summary of what Dixie Lou had been told about the Mexican mother and her child.
“Let me see,” Dixie Lou said, placing the tip of the sword against Carducci’s quivering chest. “You brought this along as your notes, in case you forgot something. You are an old fellow now, and things just naturally slip away.”
As pale as a ghost, Carducci didn’t respond. Instead, he stared beyond Dixie Lou, to the immense crucifix of Jesus that rose high in the chamber.
“What did you intend to do with this summary? Who were you going to give it to?”
“Please don’t be angry with me, Chairwoman. I’m just trying to do what is right with the Lord, and I thought Lori Vale should know about the last she-apostle. I was going to send a note to her, that’s all, thinking the two of you would be back together someday anyway.”
“We’ll never be back together. Where is she?”
“No one knows yet. Please don’t be angry with me!”
“Oh, I’m not angry with you,” Dixie Lou said, as she thrust the Sword of She-God through his heart.
With his last burst of energy, he grabbed the rosary beads from the floor, and died clutching them.
* * *
When one curator dies, there is invariably another to take his place. So it was that Dixie Lou brought in a younger man, who had previously been in charge of a special collection of illuminated medieval manuscripts. Early that afternoon, she spoke with Giancarlo Veron beside the blood-spattered body of Carducci, and told him what she would do—not only to him, but to the precious manuscripts—if he ever tried to deceive her.
To his credit, the muscular, black-haired Veron looked her directly in the eye and didn’t seem overly nervous; he was not like a person trying to get away with anything. “I will set everything up for when the Mexicans contact you again,” he promised, in his slight accent. “It will be very smooth. I know the same route in and out of the Vatican that Carducci used, a ‘secret stairway’ he discovered.”
“I warn you again, don’t try to get away with anything, or you will be caught.”
“I am not a man of tricks,” he responded. “I am a man of God.”
“And don’t make any other mistakes. Everything must be done with extreme attention to detail.”
He looked down in a subservient fashion. “I will take care of everything to your satisfaction.”
Raising the threat level, she said, “If you care about the Vatican and the Pope, you will not fail me.”
“I understand, ma’am. You can count on me.”
After he left, Dixie Lou sent out urgent inquiries through her encrypted Internet network (which her computer experts assured her had not been compromised), ordering an exhaustive search for the Mexicans and the baby they had with them. She’d only received their letter two days ago, but she was running out of patience. Now she intended to find out where they were, assuming the letter had not been a complete hoax.
If they were in Rome, she would find them. There couldn’t be that many arrivals from Mexico in the last few days. . . .
* * *
The day after his meeting with Trig Arnold, the detective called Zack to let him know he had a much more solid lead on Lori’s whereabouts. He’d discovered that the three bound women who had been left near the Vatican (including Wendy Zepeda) had been taken there in a van, and he had traced the license plate to an apartment building in the Manzoni district. He’d done the research independently; the police didn’t know anything about the lead.
Arnold provided the address, and Zack hurried over there by taxi. He wore his Army officer’s uniform and white gloves, but had not paid his usual attention to keeping himself spotless and pressed.
He did not see any guards stationed on the perimeter of the seven-story building, not walking around, in vehicles, or in adjacent buildings, none of the usual methods that he, as an expert, could recognize. If Lori and the she-apostles were in there, perhaps she thought that concealing herself in a typical Roman neighborhood was enough, and she didn’t want visible signs of anything unusual going on that might alert people, causing them to ask questions. But the apparent lack of security troubled him.
Crossing the street and climbing the stairs to the main entry, he noticed a brunette just inside the lobby, visible through a glass door. Rather stocky and buxom, she wore dark slacks and a long black jacket, and he noticed the characteristic bulge of a shoulder holster on one side, pushing one of her arms away from her body.
The door was locked, so he rapped on it. She looked at him suspiciously through the glass, but said nothing and did not move to assist him.
“I’m here to see my daughter,” he said in a loud voice, choosing simplicity and truth. “Lori Vale.” He spoke in English.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. Then, as if realizing she might have revealed something in her expression, she took on a placid, almost emotionless countenance. He saw her take a deep breath. Some agitation there, and a twitch around the mouth. She shrugged, extended her arms to the side with palms up, as if she could not speak English. She certainly did not look Italian to him, didn’t have tan skin or black hair, but he knew this did not necessarily mean anything.
“Can you get someone to help me?” he asked. This time, he slid a small color photograph under the door. “That’s Lori when she was two. My name is Zack Markwether.” He chose not to mention that he was the brother of the President of the United States, as that could make her think he was a kook. If she understood English, that is, which he suspected she might.
Again, the woman shrugged. But she picked up the photograph and studied it, her expression still bland.
“That’s me with her, and the woman beside me is Lori’s mother, Camilla Vale.”
Taking the photograph with her, the brunette turned and entered an elevator. After the doors closed, the indicator light showed that it stopped at the fifth floor, but he doubted if that was really where she was going. She was probably taking the stairs up or down to the real floor.
* * *
“He says he’s my father? What’s his name?”
“Zack Markwether,” Rea said. “He’s tall and distinguished looking, in an American Army officer’s uniform. He gave me this picture.”
Studying the photograph, Lori was stunned. It showed her mother with a uniformed man, and Lori as a child standing between them, holding hands with the adults. She was a toddler, around the age of the older she-apostles.
“And this man is downstairs in the lobby?” she asked, poin
ting at the picture. She had never seen a photograph of her father before, since her mother had destroyed all of them, but she thought she detected similarities in the face to her own. She felt her pulse quicken.
“I’d say it’s him, yes. Or his exact double. Of course, he’s aged and the picture hasn’t, but I think it’s him. Even so, this could be one of Dixie Lou’s tricks, a doctored photo to see if you’re really here.”
“One way or another, the very fact that he came here proves our cover is blown,” Lori said, “I have to see him, don’t I?”
“Yes. I’d better take Fujiko with me, and Alex, and we’ll all be armed. We’ll bring the man back up. Keep that .38 handy, all right?”
“OK, but if he were really dangerous, being a military type and all, he would have sent an assault squad to take over the building, don’t you think?”
“Makes sense to me, but we need to be careful. . . .”
After searching him for weapons they brought him upstairs, a tall, powerfully built man in a brown and khaki military uniform with puffy jodhpurs and white gloves. He had curly, reddish-brown hair and a rugged but heart-shaped face—wide at the forehead and narrow at the chin.
“He’s unarmed,” Fujiko said. But she and the others remained close by, watching his every move. Standing in the middle of the air-conditioned living room, Lori had her own coat on, so that she could conceal her snub-nose .38 inside a pocket. With both hands in her pockets, she felt moisture on one palm as she gripped the handle of the weapon.
The man paused and stood just inside the doorway, studying her with a bemused expression on his face. His blue eyes twinkled. She saw the brass edge and dark lens of a pair of sunglasses, tucked into a an outside pocket. He seemed familiar, almost comfortable, but she didn’t want to let her guard down.
“I’m your father, Zack Markwether.”
Lori felt a shortness of breath. As she had noted from the photograph, the man’s face resembled her own, and he had hair close to the color of hers. The eyes were different—dark blue instead of her lavender—but like her he was tall, a characteristic her mother had revealed about him, but in a complaining way, as she always did when it came to him. Her mother had never, in fact, said a solitary positive thing to Lori about him. He had a strong, even arrogant face, but as he stood there she saw emotions seeping into his features, bringing moisture to his eyes.
The Lost Apostles Page 22
