The Stolen Gospels (9 page)
At the top of the staircase they reached a cobblestone street, which led to a three-story stucco and brick building with round, concave windows. A guard at the entrance gave Dixie Lou the three-finger salute, which Dixie Lou explained this time.
“‘W’ for Woman,” she said, demonstrating a salute as she led Lori into the lobby. A small fountain gurgled.
Lori laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said. “Do you have signet rings and Dick Tracy watches, too?”
“I’ll assume you’re just tired,” Dixie Lou said in a measured tone. “You’ve suffered a terrible trauma and can’t be expected to think straight. But I warn you, don’t continue to test my patience. You don’t want to be on my bad side.”
Saying little more, they rode an elevator to the third floor. The air was thick between them. Lori followed Dixie Lou along a narrow, stucco-walled hallway. Water stains smeared the ceiling, and dark streaks of mildew. At a heavy black door, Dixie Lou showed Lori how to operate a security panel to unlock the door.
“Remember the code numbers,” Dixie Lou reminded her.
The door swung open, revealing a tattered studio apartment with simple furnishings.
“You’ll stay here,” Dixie Lou said. “Meals are served in the Refectory Building—three seatings for each meal. You’ll find a schedule inside the apartment, and a map of Monte Konos—at least the part that isn’t off-limits to you.”
Lori heard a muffled, distant explosion, saw Dixie Lou stiffen.
Without another word the strange woman hurried down the hall and left.
* * *
Dixie Lou Jackson paced nervously in front of her fellow councilwomen, who were seated in a half-circle of black leather chairs on the elevated platform of the chamber. She glanced uneasily at Amy’s empty red leather chair, then away. It was mid-evening, not long after the conclusion of the long flight to Monte Konos. In all that time she hadn’t eaten anything. With the attack on her goddess circle and the rail sabotage here, her stomach was too upset. She still wore the white gauze dress (soiled now), the black bead bracelets, and the gold sword-cross necklace.
Behind the council, on a high pedestal once occupied by a cross of Jesus, loomed the statue of She-God, representing all the heroines who had ever walked the earth. On the statue’s upturned palms rested the jewel-hilted Sword of She-God, a weapon steeped in lore and mystery. According to legend, it had been used by ancient female warriors—thousands of years ago—to vanquish their enemies. Some tales even described Joan of Arc in possession of the weapon in the fifteenth century.
“Amy hasn’t reported in,” a blonde councilwoman, Deborah Marvel, said in a throaty, emotion-choked voice. “We can’t make contact with her or with Katherine.” She was referring to Katherine Pangalos, the wealthy UWW contributor Amy had gone to visit just outside the city of Salonika. Katherine, through a circuitous chain of title, owned Monte Konos itself.
On a nearby table the Internet computer flashed images of paramilitary forces and materiel under UWW control, information transmitted in the women’s impenetrable code. Below that, a message screen reported no knowledge of the whereabouts of their beloved Chairwoman.
Dixie Lou stared across the church at the empty pews and stained-glass windows. The darkness of night loomed beyond, where their enemies might be approaching. “As all of you know, the BOI attacked me last evening near Seattle. I recognized their uniforms, and thought I saw the Vice Minister of Minority Affairs leading the raid. What’s his name?”
“Tertullian,” Deborah said.
“Right, the wacko with the high-pitched voice.” Dixie Lou slumped into her own chair, on one end of the half-circle.
“And now Amy’s missing,” Deborah said. “The BOI again, do you think?”
Shrugs and blank faces gazed back at her.
“And what’s this I hear about another baby?” Dixie Lou asked, looking at Deborah. “A sighting in Mexico?”
“She-apostle number twelve,” Deborah responded. “The last one. Unfortunately her mother ran away with her, and one of our agents shot a priest, killing him. We’re combing the villages and hills, looking for her. She can’t have gotten far, a poor peasant woman without resources.”
Dixie Lou grunted, thinking about the sighting, and savoring the feeling that she was in command of the UWW now, because Amy was missing. Though she’d never liked the Chairwoman, Dixie Lou had played up to her skillfully, and as a consequence had been selected as her hand-picked successor, number two in the organization. Could this be the moment when Dixie Lou would accede to power? She felt her pulse quicken in anticipation, but worried about BOI involvement. They had methods of penetrating security. Had someone in this very room betrayed her and Amy?
The stocky little councilwoman also wondered if the fateful hand of She-God had moved Lori Vale like a puppet, saving Dixie Lou’s life so that she could become Chairwoman.
Her gaze wandered searchingly around the half-circle and focused finally on the sharp-chinned profile of Deborah Marvel, the third most powerful woman in the UWW. Had she orchestrated the attacks? But Deborah was Dixie Lou’s friend, or seemed to be. Still, Deborah was almost too strong at times, with an irritating habit of arguing with Dixie Lou and trying to get her to change her mind on certain issues. This rarely succeeded and occasionally they voted differently. Normally, however, the two women put up a solid front to the others.
Another of Dixie Lou’s allies, a narrow-faced councilwoman named Nancy Winters, said, “Look at this.” She pointed at the computer monitor, which had shifted half of its screen to a Level 7 security display, showing someone with credentials passing through checkpoints. Dixie Lou saw an elderly woman rushing down a passageway and up a flight of stairs. It was Dr. Katherine Pangalos, the one Amy had gone to see. Dixie Lou despised her.
The door to the council chamber burst open and the gray-haired woman rushed in.
“Katherine!” one of the councilwomen exclaimed. “Is Amy with you?”
“They’ve taken her prisoner,” she replied, short of breath. “The Bureau—I barely got away through an escape hatch.” Turning to Dixie Lou, she added bitterly, “I guess that puts you in charge. Are you happy now?”
Outraged at the characterization, Dixie Lou rose from her chair. She wasn’t very tall, but made up for it with her aggressiveness. “You’re suggesting that I had something to do with this? BOI forces attacked the goddess circle; I narrowly escaped with my own life.”
“How
utterly convenient
, you’re safe.”
“Oh, and I suppose I set it all up? A BOI-outfitted helicopter, men in uniforms, the whole bit?”
“Could be done.”
“Impossible,” Dixie Lou said. “Unlike you, I’ve taken the Vow of Angkor to guarantee my loyalty.” She was referring to the sacred rite of deep hypnosis initiated by the founder of the UWW, a great grandmother of Amy Angkor-Billings—an oath that all of the organization’s personnel had to undergo. Katherine Pangalos, since she was a major contributor and not technically a member, had never been required to undergo the ritual. To Dixie Lou, this smacked of favoritism, of strings pulled at a very high level.
Obviously, Pangalos considered herself too good for such a pedestrian oath.
“What about you, Katherine?” Dixie Lou pressed. “They got Amy, but not
you
?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “How
utterly convenient
.”
With a condescending expression Katherine gazed down her wrinkled nose at the small but muscular woman, and said, “Unlike you, I do not have a ghetto background. I would have no motive to betray my sisters. You, on the other hand, could be bought no matter the oath you purportedly took, and my guess is, it wouldn’t take much.”
Dixie Lou’s cheeks felt hot, and in a fury she lunged at the old woman. Katherine’s accusing, sneering face was all she saw. Before she knew it she was pulling Katherine’s hair and dragging her to the floor. Though small, Dixie Lou was younger and tougher, having grown up in the inner city.
Katherine cried out.
With considerable effort, several councilwomen pulled them apart.
“Explain how you got away and Amy didn’t!” Dixie Lou screeched. “You’re only accusing me to deflect attention from yourself!”
“Slut!” Katherine howled.
“All your money and you couldn’t protect Amy?”
“In the confusion of the attack I was able to escape, and . . .”
“Isn’t that nice for
you
?”
The women glared at each other. Pangalos had bruises on her face, but they weren’t enough for Dixie Lou.
“Some unfortunate things are being said in the heat of the moment,” Deborah said. “I’m sure neither one of you really thinks the other is involved in these awful events. You’re both upset. All of us are.”
Unable to stand the erudite, finishing school expression on Katherine’s face, Dixie Lou seethed. All that patrician upbringing, all the money the old woman had, and she had used it to wheedle her way into Amy’s favor. If Amy didn’t return, it was a two-edged sword for Dixie Lou. While she would ascend to the position of Chairwoman, that would leave an opening on the council—one that Katherine would undoubtedly fill, since Amy had promised her the first available position. Despite Katherine’s advanced age, she looked as if she had quite a few years left in her. She would have to take the oath then—small consolation.
If natural processes were permitted to proceed. A big
if
, as far as Dixie Lou was concerned.
“I can’t return to my home,” Katherine said, as she watched Dixie Lou warily, with four councilwomen standing between them. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Then you’ll have to stay here where it’s safe,” Dixie Lou said, in a sarcastic tone. “We’ll do lunch.”
Fear seeped into Katherine’s face, which pleased Dixie Lou immensely.
“Don’t let her agitate you,” Deborah whispered to Dixie Lou. She patted the de facto Chairwoman’s forearm, reassuringly.
Dixie Lou took a long, deep breath. She could usually count on Deborah to take her side, at least on matters of the most importance. This ex-housewife had also come from humble beginnings in America, and that formed a bond between them, a subject they occasionally discussed over coffee or a meal. Of course, Dixie Lou had omitted certain details of her own colorful biography and embellished others, never revealing the murders she had committed or the cunning scams she had perpetrated.
“I haven’t caught up on my rest,” Dixie Lou said, heading for the door. “If I think of anything more later I’ll let you know.” She glared at Katherine and added, “Remember this, too: It wasn’t my idea for Amy to visit you. It was her own.”
This was the truth, but in the shadowy chambers of Dixie Lou’s mind she hoped Amy had not survived, for her death would open new opportunities.
Chapter 9
All my life I’ve sensed something deep within myself, linking me with other women. Now I know what it is.
—
The Reflections of Lori Vale
(unpublished manuscript)
A golden sunrise illuminated a desolate plain in eastern Washington State, casting long shadows from the rock escarpments and barren hills as the flaming sphere became brighter, sharing its warmth with the earth.
Walking briskly up the Hill of Golgotha, Vice Minister Styx Tertullian smelled the rank, musty odor of human death and saw tiny droplets of dew glistening on clusters of three-toothed sagebrush and great basin blue sage. Overhead, red-tailed hawks and turkey vultures soared. He was thankful for God’s wisdom and generosity in allowing mortals such as himself to behold such wonders. They made him think of far greater glories awaiting him in the Kingdom of Heaven. Styx wore a silver robe, with a long black stole draped over his shoulders.
In his left hand he carried a gleaming double-edged sword, freshly sharpened to a razor’s edge.
To reach the eternal, heavenly reward the Vice Minister needed to remain true to his faith, as he was doing this morning while trudging up a dirt and sand pathway lined with human skulls, some of which still had skin clinging to them that hadn’t been picked away by the carrion-eaters. He paused for a moment, admiring the translucence of a piece of flesh as sunlight passed through it, then continued on.
This hill was a Bureau-built reconstruction of the far-away site of Jesus’ crucifixion by the Roman governor, Pontius Pilate, in collusion with the Sadducees. In ancient days the skulls had been of Christian martyrs, but in the modern version they represented something entirely different—the vengeance of the Lord against blasphemers and schemers.
An eye for an eye. Blood for blood.
The Bureau of Ideology was the agent of God.
On adjoining land, the headquarters of the Bureau included millions of square feet of underground structures, with sixty-six levels of subterranean office space, living quarters for staff, and facilities for the storage of vehicles and aircraft. To the uninformed a portion of the land looked like a small town of four or five thousand inhabitants, containing houses, businesses, a central park and six churches in a variety of architectural designs. Some employees of the Bureau—predominantly men—lived in the houses, but most, comprising in all nearly thirty thousand persons, lived in underground apartments. None of these people were married. They were the governmental equivalents of Catholic priests and nuns, married through their professions to God.
To prevent the leakage of secrets to ideological enemies, only a few employees were ever permitted to leave the area. It was five miles across barren land to the nearest boundary of the facility, which had no visible delineation and only a few plainclothed guards, since other methods of security were employed. Chief among them were implanted medical devices connected to the vital organs of all BOI employees as a condition of employment, ensuring that none of them—other than the highest officials—could approach the perimeters. If they attempted to do so, the implants were triggered and heart and brain functions ceased. Human nature being what it was, with its inherent weaknesses, attempts to escape were occasionally made, though none successfully. Regular security patrols rounded up the bodies.
On the other side of the boundary the potentially curious were kept at bay through a different but allied means, electronic signals that transmitted outward for two miles in all directions around the facility. These signals confused the brain functions of approaching persons who did not have implanted protective devices, causing them to turn around and leave without knowing why. For like reasons, aircraft did not fly low over the facility, or near it—and the Bureau had other equipment to detect and thwart drones. In addition, through political arrangements and technology, the town and surrounding unimproved land did not appear on any maps or tax rolls, and did not show up on the satellite surveillance reports of any nation.
Styx smiled to himself as he walked up the path lined with human skulls, for he believed that even if the Bureau technology failed massively, if every backup power system went out, God would still find a way to camouflage the facility, through inclement weather or other means. The
Bible
provided ample evidence of the Lord’s repertoire of storms, floods, fires, and earthquakes, all employed to cleanse the world of sin and wickedness.
Some Christians didn’t understand that being devout involved duties. It wasn’t enough to simply identify oneself as a Christian and attend church. It took strength, commitment, and good works to gain God’s attention and grace, not weakness, uncertainty, and laziness.
God is strong and energetic, as I must be
, Styx thought.
Ahead, just around a bend in the path, he saw the top of a wooden cross, and the stench of death became stronger. He inhaled it, for these were his enemies and he enjoyed smelling them in their decay. Presently the cross came into full view, and then a long line of many more like it, all rough-hewn in the traditional manner. The nearest cross was not occupied, but most of the others were, with vultures perched on a number of them.
An Asian woman with short black hair, her clothes torn and bloody, hung on the second cross, her wrists and ankles having been nailed into place within the hour, so that fresh red blood still ran from the wounds. Her eyes were closed. Open sores covered her skin. Her breasts heaved in and out, fitfully.
A wooden sign posted over her head by the BOI tribunal proclaimed, in blood-red paint:
Amy Angkor-Billings
Blasphemer and Harlot
Styx stood at the foot of the cross and gazed up at her, through his wire-rimmed glasses. An immense turkey vulture sat atop the post, just above her head. Soon this magnificent predator and its winged brethren would gouge out the sinner’s eyes with sharp beaks and tear the flesh from her bones with sharp talons.
Using the flat of his sword, he touched the side of her bloody face. This had once been a woman of classic beauty, with high cheekbones and an exquisite, if petite, figure.
Slowly, Angkor-Billings opened her large green eyes, revealing what at first looked like reverie to Styx, but which he subsequently categorized as pain.
Good. This
Bible
-hater deserved to suffer. Crucifixion worked nicely for such a purpose, and there were other methods from biblical teachings and stories. Sharp swords, slingshots, fire. . . .
Styx and the Bureau of Ideology were a microcosm of the Lord Himself, employing the power of the Almighty to fill the hearts of heretics with terror.
“Good morning, Amy,” Styx said. He pressed the tip of his sword against skin on the inside of her thigh where it had not previously been cut, drawing a trickle of blood.
She stared at him condescendingly with green Asian eyes, as if he were vermin and she a queen. Styx loathed her, and all women who were like her. They didn’t know their places, didn’t recognize that woman was created from the rib of man to serve him and bear his children. Genesis 3:16 stipulated that women were to obey their husbands, and there were other biblical passages that placed them in subservient roles to men.
Maintaining pressure on the tip of the blade, he ran it up the inside of her leg under her dress, slicing the skin and causing more blood to flow.
“Your symbol is a sword merged with a cross,” Styx said in a low, menacing tone. “The Sword of She-God? Is that what you call your blasphemous symbol?”
No response or emotion from Amy.
“Well this is the Sword of
God
!” he exclaimed, stepping back and raising his sword. With the tip of the weapon, which was of the finest Spanish steel and workmanship, he touched the front of her right shoulder and then her left and finally the center of her forehead. It was the sign of the cross in reverse, to eliminate any Christian blessing that might linger on this soul and body. Sometimes he enjoyed doing that, to gain the attention and favor of the Lord. It was like an excommunication.
Again he stepped back, and this time he swished the long blade through the air with his dominant left hand, coming ever so close to her face.
She didn’t flinch or move a muscle.
Overhead, the vulture made a grunting sound.
Despite interrogation drugs that had been administered to her, Amy remained strangely resistant. She gazed scornfully at her silver-robed tormentor, then looked up at the heavens and smiled. “My She-God watches over me and protects me,” she said.
Vice Minister Tertullian felt like finishing the blasphemer off with a quick upward thrust of the sword into her female parts. But that would be too good for her. It would allow her to escape the exquisite pain that had been ordered for her by the tribunal. Besides, he might still be able to extract information from her.
He withdrew the sword.
“Why were you talking to those families?” he demanded. “Why did you bring them all to Greece? What was on the holo-recorder you destroyed? You’d better talk, you heretic—”
Amy smiled calmly, didn’t respond. She knew he was referring to the people that the BOI had taken prisoner in the raid on Katherine’s compound, the birthmothers, fathers, and siblings of the she-apostles. She felt sorry for the families, but there was nothing she could do for them, nor for Katherine Pangalos. She could only hope that some of them had escaped. It didn’t surprise her that none of these vile men had mentioned the children . . . at least not yet. Fearing the families might fall into the wrong hands, she’d warned them ahead of time not to talk, not to even reveal the existence of the special children . . . for the safety of the little ones. But even if they did talk, they didn’t know much of anything. The UWW had lied to them, telling them only that their children were involved in a top-secret government study.
“Who owns that Greek country club setup?” Styx demanded, “We’ve traced real estate records to a network of fictitious corporations. Who owns the corporations?”
Again, no answer.
“The question is too tough for you, eh? All right, here’s an easy one. Tell me about your paramilitary operations, how they’re all tied together on the worldwide web.”
Her expression didn’t change.
“What are the Internet codes? Tell me!”
Amy gazed into the distance.
“We already know a lot. How do you think we ambushed you and Dixie Lou Jackson? You might as well tell us the rest.”
“Internet paramilitary operations—Hmmm—Intriguing idea. I am sorry, Styx Man, but I know nothing of military matters, computers, or electronics. Women aren’t good at those sorts of things, you know. . . .”
Styx seethed. For years there had been rumors of clandestine female military activity and a secret UWW Internet network. If only someone with specific knowledge would step forward. The BOI raids had nothing to do with the Internet, though. In Seattle, a Bureau operative with a parabolic microphone had picked up details of conversations involving the caretaker of Dixie Lou’s home near there, and a trap had been laid. The attack in northern Greece had been made possible by an informer.
“When I feel like it, I’m going to cut off your head and toss it over there,” Styx announced, with a stiff smile. With his sword he pointed toward a pile of skulls, where hungry vultures and hawks were hopping about, looking for morsels. “Unless you decide to cooperate.”
“It doesn’t matter what you do to me,” Amy said, her voice strong and clear, “because we have a little surprise in the works for you.”
“And what is that?”
“Are you really that stupid to ask?” she replied. “Just what do you think ‘surprise’ means? Anyway, you’ll find out what we’re going to do soon enough, and it will set your male chauvinist world on its ear.”
“You’re bluffing.”
Lifting on her nailed feet to breathe more easily, Amy said, “Whether I live or die makes no difference. A process has been set in motion, and no one, not you, nor I, nor any nation, can stop it.”
“And that process is?”
A smile curled at the edges of her mouth. “Part of the shocking surprise, of course.”
“Lying slut.”
He tried to stare her down, but couldn’t. Oh, how he wanted to finish her right now, gouging out her eyes first! “Patience, Lord,” he whispered to himself. “Lord, grant me patience.”
Hearing voices, Styx looked back along the path he had just traversed. Guards were bringing up more women he had taken prisoner the previous evening, in the goddess circle raid. All would be crucified, including two that could not walk and were being carried.
Looking back at Angkor-Billings he saw to his horror and amazement that she was smiling beatifically, gazing heavenward. How he longed to kill her immediately! This was one of the Lord’s temptations placed before him, designed to make him strong.
Vice Minister Tertullian turned away, went to the next cross, and then the next, and continued on down the line. All of the prisoners were still alive, but some only barely; a few were moaning, others were openly defiant, or staring numbly, or slumped unconscious. Most were women, but a handful of their male accomplices had been brought in as well, ferreted from their loathsome cells of sedition.
Pausing before one of the men, who was breathing fitfully, Styx spat on his bloody, hair-covered legs. What sort of man would follow women, in violation of holy law?
With a swift stroke of the blade, Styx lopped off his bearded head. It tumbled to the ground at the foot of the cross.
Two vultures hopped close to the head, peering at it with interest. Their dark, hungry little eyes took everything in.
* * *
Lori lay in unfamiliar shadows, trying to convince herself she had experienced a nightmare and was back in her bedroom at home. The jumble of events in her mind bore the earmarks of unreality. They didn’t make any sense.
She heard a distant machine whir followed by silence, then a resumption of the sound, and silence again. She knew from the shadows in this confined area and the unfamiliar noises that she was not in her bedroom, not in her home. She lay on her side, with her eyes open.
