The Lost Apostles

by Brian Herbert

  “Well, aren’t you going to give me a big hug?” he asked, moving closer to her. He stopped, a couple of meters away.

  “How do I know who you really are?”

  “I’m the real McCoy all right—or should I say, the real Markwether? You’re a Markwether, too.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” She returned the photograph to him.

  “That child is you,” the man said, pointing at the toddler in the picture. “And that’s your mother.”

  “Pictures can be altered.”

  “Shall we take DNA samples and have them analyzed?”

  She looked him the eye. He held steady. “Where was the photo taken?” She released her grip from the hidden gun, brought both hands out of her pockets.

  “Washington, DC, near the Pentagon. Your mother was in the clerical pool when I was a Captain in the Army. One afternoon I needed a letter typed, and dictated it to her. We hit it off right away, as if we’d known one another for a long time.”

  “I found rent receipts from Washington, DC in my mother’s papers,” Lori admitted, feeling a bit more relaxed with him. “She was upset with me for getting into them.”

  “Just like Camilla. She always wanted her privacy, didn’t like anyone poking around or questioning her.”

  “She’s still that—” Lori hesitated as she remembered the terrible truth that her mother was gone forever, except in the memories of those who knew and cared for her.

  The teenager’s eyes filled with tears, and she felt herself drawn closer to this man. Under the watchful eyes of her friends she hugged him, but uncertainly. Desperately, she wanted to believe in him, but even if he really was her father there were potential problems. What if her mother had been telling the truth about him, and he wasn’t a good person? Camilla Vale had alluded to his improper behavior, but had never provided details.

  “We have a lot of catching up to do,” Zack Markwether said.

  The pair sat on a sectional sofa and talked awkwardly, since they didn’t know one another. “One thing I have to tell you,” Lori said after several moments. “Mom is dead.”

  Sadness consumed his face. “I was afraid of something like that when I couldn’t reach her. How did it happen?” He seemed genuinely anguished, blinked away tears. Lori noted deep creases around the corners of his eyes, and a high forehead. He had the same last name as the President of the United States—Markwether—but she assumed it was just a coincidence.

  “Mom was shot by uniformed men who attacked a goddess circle. I’ll tell you more about it later, but I was there. At first she was injured but still alive, and might have been saved if Dixie Lou Jackson had obtained proper medical care for her.”

  “I haven’t heard anything good about that woman yet,” he said, in a bitter tone.

  “You have nerve, finding me like you did,” the teenager said, her doubts almost gone. “Maybe that’s where I got mine. Maybe.”

  The comment seemed to please him, and he beamed from ear to ear. Placing an arm around her shoulders, he drew her close to him.

  She considered pulling away, but her recently acquired ability to detect falsehoods—at least she thought she had it—told her he was sincere and honest, that he really was her father. She didn’t think DNA tests were necessary. She desperately wanted him to really be her father.

  “We lost so many years,” he said, “but I hope it’s not too late for us to start again.”

  “Maybe you really are my father, but I don’t know if we can ever be close, not after what Mom said about you. She said you were a bad husband and father. Why would she say that? I want the truth.”

  “It had nothing to do with you.”

  “So it’s none of my business? Well whatever you did—or whatever she thinks you did—involved me, because I lost my father over it, and that’s pretty serious.”

  “I’m sorry, Lori. You’re right. It’s a familiar story, I suppose. I’m not proud of it, but I didn’t dedicate myself to your mother, not in the way she deserved.”

  “What do you mean?”

  After a long pause, he replied. “We were never actually married, though she told people we were. I didn’t want to make the commitment. We were together for almost four years.”

  “Now I see why she didn’t forgive you,” Lori said, “but she had no right to keep me away from my own Dad. No matter what you did, you’re not a murderer or anything. I wish you had stayed with her, but—” She paused in midsentence.

  “Are you all right, Lori?”

  She’d almost said, “—I love you anyway,” but had second thoughts.

  “I’m proud of you, Lori.”

  “I’m still not sure if you really are my father,” she said, just to test him a little. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, and it doesn’t match what I already know.” This wasn’t true, but she wanted to see how he reacted.

  Glancing at him, she noticed that he looked hurt, that her comments had burned through to his heart. She felt badly, but reminded herself that he had refused to marry her mother, that he had made a decision that led to the dissolution of their little family.

  “Tell me what doesn’t seem to add up,” he said, “and I’ll deal with it. Your mother’s apartment in Washington, DC was on “M” Street SE, near the Washington Naval Yard. She had a small patio with a table and chairs on it, and a fluffy white kitten that liked to sleep out there in the sun. Do you remember that?”

  She hesitated. “I’m not sure.” Actually, Lori recalled the cat very well. She used to nuzzle her own face into its warm fur.

  “I realize I hurt your mother and you, and I’m deeply sorry. Losing you and Camilla was the biggest mistake of my life, a tragedy, and I’m deeply sorry. Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me?” Tears streamed down his rugged face. “I’m so terribly sorry.”

  Lori couldn’t help herself. He was telling the truth, and she forgave him completely. As she hugged him, their tear-streaked faces touched.

  Chapter 29

  One explosion leads to another.

  —Anonymous

  It had been so easy to locate the Mexicans that Dixie Lou regretted waiting two days to send out her inquiries. As she’d suspected, there had been very few arrivals from Mexico in recent days, only fifteen people, to be exact—and she’d found the ones she wanted in a hotel in Rome, near the Villa Borghese. Their names were different from those on the letter, but one of her operatives had spoken with a hotel maid, who reported hearing a baby in their room, making sounds she’d never heard from a child before.

  Dressed in police uniforms, Dixie Lou’s four-woman commando squad had removed a man, two women and a baby from the hotel that afternoon and put them in a stolen police car. At this very moment, the Mexicans were being brought to her via the narrow subterranean passageway that the late Alberto Carducci had discovered.

  Dixie Lou could hardly wait.

  * * *

  Having been summoned to her office by the Chairwoman and briefed on what was happening, Deborah Marvel slipped into a deep cushion emerald green chair on one wall. One of Dixie Lou’s translators stood off to one side, a woman with platinum hair and eyes that peered through narrow slits. The oversized chair, soft and comfortable, made Deborah feel small, as did this imposing office, formerly occupied by a cardinal, and subsequently by Pope Rodrigo, while his own office was undergoing an earlier makeover. The Mexicans had not yet arrived.

  The councilwoman identified some of the changes Dixie Lou had made since taking over the Vatican. The desk was the same, but little else. Green and orange proliferated, with gold accents, and the woman’s touch in decorating was evident, with lace curtains and pillows, and crystal vases filled with flowers.

  Almost paradoxically, military pictures lined the walls, showing fictional victories of women over men. A brass plaque labeled each. Perhaps one day they would be replaced with real scenes, depicting the capture of the Roman Catholic Pope and the final defeat of the Bureau of Ideology.

  Feeling
more sad than at any time since Dixie Lou Jackson took over the helm of the UWW, Deborah thought of all the great Popes who had worked in Vatican offices over the centuries, furthering the ideals of love and humanitarianism embodied in the Bible, and how everything had come to such a dismal point. Without overlooking the shortcomings of Catholicism, she saw the takeover of their holy Vatican City as a clear reversal for mankind. The treatment of women in the Church and in the world, while inconsistent at times, had been on a broad, if gradual, upswing. Then this had happened.

  She shook her head, but only a little, so as not to be noticed.

  Moments later, four commandos dressed as Italian policewomen entered, with two women, a man, and a baby, all brown-skinned. At Dixie Lou’s order, the commandos stood off to one side, to act as guards.

  The captive adults looked visibly upset to Deborah, and seemed disoriented.

  “Do you know who I am?” Dixie Lou asked. She had a golden barrette in her braided hair and wore a formal robe, a very businesslike look, Deborah thought.

  “Yes, Madam Chairwoman,” the man said, in accented English. His gaze flitted around nervously.

  “In my presence, the woman always speaks first.” She looked at the older woman, said, “You are Raffaela Inez, and this is your husband Arsinio?”

  “Yes.” The Mexican woman looked at her defiantly.

  “Why did you send me a letter using phony names? Didn’t you think I had the capability to discover your lies?”

  “We didn’t use our real names because we weren’t sure about you.”

  “And are you sure about me now?” Dixie Lou smiled cruelly. Her dark eyed gaze was piercing, but the woman did not flinch under it.

  “Sure about you, yes, but in the wrong way. Are you insane? How dare you have us forcibly removed from our hotel room? This is an outrage!”

  Be careful, Deborah thought. She shifted uneasily in her chair.

  “I will define the outrages here.” Dixie Lou rose and walked over to the peasant woman, who was shaking visibly. Her eyes were downcast, filled with fear as she held her child tightly against her bosom. The brown-skinned baby was fidgeting and kicking her way out of the blanket around her, but had not made any sounds yet.

  Deborah wished she could do something to stop this.

  Putting her face very close to the poor woman, Dixie Lou said, “And you are Consuela Santos, with your daughter Marta. We have been searching for you for a long time. Thanks for coming to me; you’ve made it much easier. But is your child an authentic she-apostle?”

  The peasant woman looked confused, didn’t understand until Raffaela spoke to her in Spanish. Then Consuela glowered at Dixie Lou, showing her own courage. Deborah was impressed by the strength of both women, but worried about their safety.

  Speaking without being asked to, Raffaela said, “Consuela says her baby is illegitimate, and the father ran out on her. She also says that when she heard the strange words only days after the baby was born she wondered if she was in the presence of a demon. The mother prayed, but received no sign from God.”

  “It’s not God,” Dixie Lou snapped. “It’s She-God.” Poking at the blanket around the baby’s face to get a better look, she asked, “How old is the child?”

  “Seven and a half months,” Raffaela answered, in her accented English.

  “You must understand,” Dixie Lou said, “we’re contacted by kooks all the time, women claiming we have the wrong she-apostles, and that their children are the actual ones. It’s absurd, really, but we make every effort to be polite.” She touched the child’s hand. “Perhaps you are mistaken about this child, and—”

  Suddenly Dixie Lou withdrew and fell silent, as the baby screamed and issued a stream of indecipherable words that to Deborah sounded angry. With a very hostile expression, the brown-skinned child—her face fully out of the blanket—glared at Dixie Lou, all the while issuing a flow of apparent invectives. Dixie Lou seemed to cower, and moved back to the papal desk.

  Finally the baby ceased the torrent of words, her large brown eyes open wide and looking directly at Deborah now, hypnotically. Somewhere Deborah had heard that children this young weren’t necessarily looking at you when they appeared to be, since they couldn’t focus their eyes very well. But if this really was a reincarnated she-apostle. . . .

  Consuela Santos began talking fast, in Spanish. Tears streamed down her face.

  Raffaela interpreted: “She wants to leave, says her baby doesn’t like it here.”

  “Tell her we don’t hurt mothers and children,” Dixie Lou said.

  Moments later, Dixie Lou took her translator aside and said within Deborah’s earshot, “Well, what do you think?”

  The platinum-blonde woman had her arms folded across her chest. She nodded. “The child spoke ancient Aramaic,” she reported, keeping her voice low. “She is a she-apostle for sure, the Martha of Galilee you have been searching for.”

  “Exactly what did she say?”

  “You haven’t made a very good first impression on her, Madam Chairwoman. She said, ‘The vengeance of the Lord will fall upon you.’”

  Dixie Lou took on the most serious expression Deborah had ever seen. “Is that so? Well, we’ll see about that.”

  And in a harsh, commanding voice she had one of the commandos remove the child from its mother’s arms. Consuela wailed in Spanish and the baby screamed and kicked and made noises that sounded like words, but Dixie Lou Jackson had made up her mind, and when she made up her mind, no one could change it.

  The translator stood by Dixie Lou, telling her in a low voice what the child was saying, a steady stream of insults against the Chairwoman, and threats for retribution by the Lord. . . .

  * * *

  Dixie Lou had the two older Mexican adults placed in the Vatican jail until she decided what to do with them. She decided to allow the mother, Consuela Santos, to have access to the child, but only when accompanied by a matron. She also assigned two translators and half a dozen guards to the baby. The Chairwoman needed to consider how best to handle this situation, wasn’t sure if she wanted to touch Marta herself again.

  A translator had told her that Marta was the Spanish equivalent of Martha, but this in itself was not proof, and only led to more questions. None of the previously authenticated she-apostles had been given the same (or essentially the same) names at birth as they had in ancient times. Why, then, would Martha?

  Was it another sign that she was somehow distinct from the others? Dixie Lou watched the kicking, screaming baby as she was taken away, and realized that if this child had special information, she might be worth more than the other eleven children Lori Vale had, and more than the Vatican, the Pope or anything else in all of Christendom.

  The Chairwoman wondered if this child was the key to the entire puzzle, but she wasn’t certain if she wanted to know the answer.

  A chill ran down her spine.

  * * *

  “Do you have any idea what I’ve done for you?” Dixie Lou said. Wearing maroon slacks and an oversized black blouse, she stood in the doorway of Deborah Marvel’s office, leaning in. The Chairwoman held a large glass of red wine, almost spilled it.

  “Eh?” Deborah said, startled at her demeanor and the rhetorical question.

  “You should be more appreciative.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Deborah had been going over printouts of military reports, none of which were particularly favorable. Papers were strewn across her desk. She held a pen in her hand, with which she’d been making margin notes in red ink. Receiving these reports through clandestine means, the UWW leadership had learned of the destruction of numerous bases and offices all over the world, and the disappearance of key personnel.

  But not at the hands of the Bureau of Ideology. Instead, allied nations were turning against both the UWW and the BOI, trying to eliminate each of the extremes. In doing so, they were risking the wrath of the unstable Dixie Lou Jackson, who could blow up the Vatican and kill the Pope at any
moment. So far, NATO was not attacking her in the holy city, but they were undoubtedly working on contingency plans.

  “The truth, Deborah. You know better than to lie to me.” Noticing her glass tilting, Dixie Lou straightened it, without spilling the wine.

  “Looks like you’ve found the Pope’s private stock,” Deborah mused.

  “My private stock now.”

  “So it is. As for what you’ve done for me, Dixie Lou, I didn’t join United Women of the World for personal recognition or advancement.”

  “As long as I permit it, you are one of its highest officials.”

  “You seem intent on reminding me of the power you hold over me. Is something bothering you? Have I failed you somehow?” Deborah heard vehicle noises outside, and crowd noises.

  “I’ll ask the questions around here, not you.” Dixie Lou took a gulp of wine, but did not appear to be drunk. Her dark eyes were alert, her speech concise. “I’ve done a lot for you, for all of the councilwomen. And I have every right to expect loyalty in return. Is that too much to ask?”

  Pursing her lips, Deborah responded, “Perhaps not.”

  “Then why do you speak about me behind my back?”

  “I don’t. We had the one private session that you seem to know about—a meeting that was permitted under the UWW Charter—and that was all. Surely, Tamara Himmel told you that she and I defended you at the meeting. Did she?”

  A slight smile touched the Chairwoman’s mouth. “I do not reveal my sources of information.”

  “The only councilwomen who spoke against you at that meeting are probably dead,” Deborah said. “Isn’t that true? You want to speak of truth, what about that? Where are Bobbi Torrence and Kaiulani Maheha?”

  “We both know where they are. In hell.”