The Lost Apostles (19 page)

Chapter 25

United Women of the World, founded with such lofty ideals, might have accomplished so much more for women if its leadership had only remained rational.

—From a confidential White House report

Three days passed, and it was early morning.

The Cabinet Room of the White House overflowed with faces familiar to President Markwether, most of them male. The Prime Minister of Great Britain, the President of France, the Premier of Russia, and five other world leaders, along with the Supreme NATO Commander and the entire US Cabinet. Most looked bleary eyed, and took large gulps of strong coffee to awaken their minds. Throughout the capital city, cherry trees were in full blossom, splashes of cheerful pink that contrasted with the somber moods of the people in this room.

The dignitaries were silent as they watched two wall-mounted VR-TV sets on opposite ends of the large room. Dixie Lou Jackson, dubbed “the Black Priestess” by news announcers, was presenting arguments, legal and moral, for her shocking takeover of the Vatican. For nearly an hour she’d been citing evidence of misdeeds against women committed by the Roman Catholic Church, which she listed at the very top of organizations that were committing offenses against women. Finally she paused and looked to one side, toward a dozen nuns who filed into the room and stood behind her.

“Look at these women,” she said, as the camera panned over the plain, serene faces. “For centuries, virtually all the clerical and housekeeping duties of the Vatican have been performed by nuns, while slovenly men ruled—the Pope, his cardinals, other male officials. From the top down—not just the Vatican, but secular governments and corporations, too—it’s been this way since time immemorial. Doesn’t that sound familiar, ladies? Isn’t it this way everywhere? Aren’t you fed up with it?” Her Southern drawl became more pronounced, and she added, “Massah man, we ain’t gonna carry yo’ water no mo’, we ain’t gonna change yo’ dirty sheets, we ain’t gonna cook yo’ meals.”

With a sigh of disgust, President Markwether touched a button on the table, turning off the sets. “These women are out of control.”

With his brother headed into the dangerous situation in Rome, he was worried. The President’s thoughts drifted back, to games of pool he and Zack had played in the White House game room, and the important talks they’d had, long into the night. The two had always been close, remaining in touch no matter where they were. Whenever they traveled far from one another, there were usually postcards, one or two a week. But in this case, he wasn’t sure what to expect. It was not a vacation, by any stretch of the imagination.

The British Prime Minister, Livingston Bramble, cleared his throat, hawked and swallowed something foul. A paunchy man with huge, quivering jowls, he said in a basso voice, “This is intolerable. The blasted worldwide web is spreading their message like the plague, moving faster than we can counter it. I think we should shut the whole thing down.”

“We can’t do that,” Markwether protested. “It would only make matters worse.”

“I heartily disagree,” Bramble said. “Look at public opinion polls. The UWW is over the thirty percent approval mark, more than a ten point jump in only a few days. We thought the Vatican takeover would backfire against them, but instead it’s boosted their credibility. The mad women are multiplying like flies. They have discussion groups on the web, even computer war games in which mythical female armies annihilate male armies.”

“Maybe not so mythical,” NATO Commander Kenneth Selkirk said, from his chair beside Markwether. A gray-mustachioed man with a strong Scottish brogue, Selkirk spoke in an agitated voice. “For at least fifteen years the UWW has been trying to achieve nuclear capability. We’ve known about it, but haven’t taken enough action against them.”

“Don’t blame my government,” Bramble said.

“We’re all at fault,” admitted Nicholas Prodinsky, the Premier of Russia. He glared at the President of France, Antoine Villerny. “You French, too, and the Australians.”

“I had nothing to do with it,” the French President protested, vehemently, and then went into a diatribe, reeling off a number of high level witnesses who supposedly would support his assertion. A man with widely set eyes and thinning blond hair, he made hammering motions with one hand for emphasis.

“In any event,” Prodinsky said, “as long as the BOI was superior in firepower, the women weren’t considered much of a threat. In hindsight this was an error, the consequences of which we need to deal with now. Following the publication of the
Holy Women’s Bible
and the takeover of the Vatican, the UWW has made disturbing military advances, in addition to their gains in public opinion. Bolstering the forces they already had arrayed around the world, they have been infiltrating other military and paramilitary organizations, taking control by subtle means. It happened in Italy, when General Pucci’s wife not only persuaded him to withdraw troops from Rome but subsequently induced three more Italian generals to make equally foolish blunders.”

One of the few women present, US Treasury Secretary Tillie Armbruster, said, “Women do not always need to fire shots in order to achieve their ends.”

“How true.” NATO Commander Selkirk touched a button in front of him, and the television screens went back on, showing estimates of UWW military strength in various regions of the world, which he described for those present. Due to successful cloaking procedures instituted by the troublesome women, NATO could only make estimates of the UWW’s war materiel, based on intelligence reports. “I estimate that they have the military capability of a small nation now,” Selkirk said.

“We have a real problem here,” President Markwether said, in what may have been the understatement of all time.

* * *

In the Oval Office, President Markwether stood and shook hands with two BOI men in dark blue suits.

“Thank you for granting us your valuable time,” said the shorter of the pair—Vice Minister Tommy Lee Chang—as he took a seat in one of the chairs on the blue-and-gold carpet bearing the Presidential seal.

“Any sign of the Acting Minister?” Markwether asked.

Chang hesitated, since the United States had no authority over the BOI. “Nothing yet,” he said, presently. “Tertullian had to consult with someone important, that’s all we know.”

“It’s suspicious that he hasn’t surfaced. Have his bank accounts been checked?”

Chang nodded. “No unusual activity.” After a moment he added, “With your permission, Mr. President, your time is precious, so may we turn to another subject?”

“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.