“OK, but get around to it, all right?”
“A President has many responsibilities.”
“If I miss the next shot, will you look at it this afternoon?”
President Markwether laughed, a boisterous cachinnation. “I’ll bet they have security you can’t begin to imagine, big brother. The Vatican has to be one of the top terrorist targets in the world.”
“Still, I suspect our Catholic friends may have grown complacent, overconfident. I get gut feelings about these things based upon a few observations—the chatting guards, the emphasis on ceremony over substance, the perimeter defensive gaps—and it makes me wonder about the rest of the operation. Are people manning the security cameras, watching every screen every second, or are there lapses? What are the backup systems? Some of my comments have to do with morale, with esprit de corps. I’ve been right about these things before, and you know it. The security program I developed for our federal buildings has saved hundreds, maybe thousands of lives. My concept for a—”
“I know, and we all appreciate that. Your White House suggestions were excellent, too, except for the flack from some of my staff who resent your presence.” He sighed. “So much politics to wade through, on all levels. All right, I’ll move your letter up on my priority list.”
Setting his beer aside, Zack bent over the pool table to line up his next shot. He hesitated, looked peripherally at his brother and asked, “Say, your delay wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you aren’t Catholic, would it?”
The President responded in his most statesmanlike voice, “My non-adherence to the faith and your embrace of it has nothing—I repeat,
nothing
—to do with my actions.”
“Have you even looked at my letter?”
“Of course.”
“Then what does it say about St. Peter’s Basilica, the Sistine Chapel, and—”
“Do not interrogate me! I am the President of the United States!”
Irritated, Zack shanked his shot, making a shuddering sound with his cue stick as it glanced off the white cue ball. In disgust, he threw the stick down on the table and left.
* * *
Following the departure of the Arabs, the female pilots finished setting up Dixie Lou’s camp, using the extensive survival gear that had been kept in these aircraft for contingencies, by order of Amy Angkor-Billings. Seven tents were arranged between the camouflaged aircraft, and electric lanterns were set up to provide yellowish illumination, along with separate units to zap insects, causing little fizzes and pops. The lanterns would not be needed for much longer; daylight was creeping across the sands from the east.
During this work, Dixie Lou sat off to one side, speaking to Alex energetically, moving her hands for emphasis. She brought the handgun out of her robe pocket, fiddled with it in a way that made him nervous.
“Did you have anything to do with Lori getting away?” she demanded.
“Of course not. I just hope she’s safe, that her helicopter didn’t crash.”
Looking at him skeptically, she said, “I wish I could trust my own son.”
Alex didn’t hold gazes with her as forcefully as he would have liked, because the expression on her face was crazier than usual, with her dark gaze darting around wildly. He wanted to kick himself for not handling the whole situation better, and getting Lori in trouble. His mother was crafty, deadly clever, and the teenager was always in her cross hairs. For all he knew, Dixie Lou had arranged for her to be killed, maybe even with everyone else aboard the missing aircraft.
She waved the gun at him. “I’d better not find out you’ve been lying to me.”
“Or you’ll kill your baby boy?” Alex said, his tone almost taunting. He’d always done better in his relationship with his mother whenever he showed strength, not cowering to her.
But Dixie Lou said, “Worse than that.” Without warning, she swung the gun and hit him on the side of the neck with the barrel. Recoiling, Alex glared back at her. Pain devils burned his neck.
She didn’t show any concern, and instead went on to describe in detail what horrendous tortures she would inflict upon him if he dared to defy her. “Your death will not be quick or painless,” she warned.
After his mother went inside her tent and closed the flap, Alex crossed the campsite and stared out into the awakening desert, worrying more about Lori than about himself. His neck throbbed, and he cursed his misfortune for being born of a monster like Dixie Lou Jackson. He no longer considered her his mother, would rather have no mother at all than her.
A bug fizzled into the zapper near him. He heard his mother bumping around inside her tent, making angry grunts. She was not in a good mood.
He noticed two guards a distance away, watching him. Rookies like most of the other guards in this party, they had been in training just before the attack on Monte Konos, and were all his mother could salvage. If the women were attacked again—maybe even by those Arabs—the guards were not going to be much protection for anyone.
But if Alex saw an opportunity to get away, they might fit the bill nicely, with their inexperience. Perhaps he could slip by them when his mother was away in the village, and escape.
He needed to find Lori and make certain she was safe. He prayed that her helicopter had not crashed in the storm.
* * *
Alone in her tent, and in her thoughts, Dixie Lou cursed and slammed things around: her bedding, a pair of binoculars, clothing. Daylight seeped into the tent. She still felt agitation at having a knife held to her throat, and was troubled by the missing helicopter, and by her inability thus far to get the
Holy Women’s Bible
published on the Internet.
The Chairwoman had one more big concern. She had convinced herself that one day, probably soon, Lori would give birth to the missing twelfth she-apostle, the one the others called Martha of Galilee. She sensed this very strongly, even though the teenager wasn’t even pregnant yet. Or was she? Lori had associated with undesirables in Seattle, street people. Maybe one of them had gotten to her. Maybe the missing she-apostle wasn’t from Mexico, after all.
Dixie Lou sensed something extraordinary about the real twelfth child, something more than the other eleven had shown so far, and even more than Candace had done against bullets. Her vanishing act.
The best had been saved for last. And the most dangerous. The She-Judas? What did that mean? So many unknown elements were encircling Dixie Lou, and closing in on her.
Later this morning, despite the risk of detection by satellites, she would send out a search helicopter, to see if Lori and the rest of her party could be located. Dixie Lou’s pilots were checking one of the ’copters now, to make certain its stealth features were fully operational, and had not been damaged in the storm.
But first, she had some questions to ask of the she-apostles, and she did not intend to be pleasant about it.
* * *
Acting Minister Styx Tertullian watched a high-resolution wall screen that showed recorded images of the attack. The top of Monte Konos was erupting like a volcano, and he saw the complete destruction of all buildings in the ancient monastery.
“Praise God!” he shouted.
His eyes were open wide, his mouth agape, as he absorbed everything. In fact, the destruction was so beautiful against the night sky that he decided to have the Bureau lab prepare a still photograph for him, to be displayed in his office.
He remained deeply troubled, though, by the four aircraft that had escaped.
Chapter 5
There are two basic world views, one male and the other female. They are diametrically opposed to one another, and always will be.
—Ancient Saying
Golden sunlight passed through the windshield of the helicopter, filling the cockpit with warmth and hazy illumination. Lori had been awake for a few minutes, heard the cries of birds outside. Having moved to an air mattress that she’d set up inside the cockpit, she pushed aside a thin insul-blanket that bore the green-and-orange sword-cross emblem of the UWW.
She heard other sounds, and opening the side window more to look outside, she saw Rea Janeg working alongside the fuselage, at an open panel box that contained the controls for the electronic camouflage system. The pilot had been up since dawn working on it, cleaning dust out of everything. Lori had offered to help when she’d first heard her out there, but the woman had declined, saying she could do it faster on her own.
Looking up at Lori now, the pilot grinned. “Got the camouflage system operational,” she said. “Just needed to clean a few parts.” She closed the panel cover. “First things first, to conceal where we are. The twin engines are next.”
“That’s great,” Lori said. Then, pulling her head back inside, she looked at her watch, which had automatically set itself to Libyan time: 7:45 AM. She would have liked to have slept longer, recalled lying awake at dawn as the pilot was just beginning her work.
Now her thoughts drifted to Alex, and she hoped he was safe.
Having been sleeping in her underclothes, Lori swung out of bed, put on a light green blouse, khaki jeans, and sport shoes. Through the open side window she felt a slight breeze. And, able to see out through the camouflage (like one-way glass, the pilot had explained), she saw a flock of birds winging over the desert, heading out toward the blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea, which stretched to the horizon. Some of the birds were white, others black, and of varying sizes. It seemed odd to her that they were all together, in one formation.
Hearing the unmistakable throb of a helicopter, her heart skipped a beat. She didn’t see the aircraft yet, but shouted out the window, and then into the passenger compartment: “Under cover, everyone! Under cover!” Energy from the camouflage system crackled around her.
Lori had ordered everyone not to venture out of the camouflaged area, and to wear robes or dark scarves in case they made the mistake of going further. Within seconds, she saw and heard scurrying, and low voices. They had a .50 caliber machine gun on the helicopter and Lori had the access code, but she had no thought of firing at any approaching aircraft, because other she-apostles could be aboard. Her only sensible strategy was to be defensive, and try to hide.
The noise became very loud, but still she saw nothing, leading her to believe the aircraft was in a visual stealth mode, but for some reason its sounds were not being dampened as much as usual—maybe something wrong with it. For several agonizing moments the ’copter seemed to hover directly overhead, and she thought she saw a disturbance in the air, slight and barely perceptible. Then, gradually, the throb of rotors faded away, and the anomaly in the air disappeared with it.
* * *
A few kilometers away, Alex’s thoughts were on Lori, just as hers had been on him. In every waking moment, and even in dreams when he caught snatches of sleep, the young black man could not get her out of his mind. She was only fifteen, and technically too young for him, but he cared deeply about her in a very pure way, and perhaps one day—if they made it through these dangers—they could be together in the manner he would like.
As he walked around the encampment in the morning sun, feeling dismal, he wanted desperately to hear the melodic tones of Lori’s voice and to gaze into her gentle lavender eyes. But he had no idea where she was or if she was still alive.
He saw his friends Liz Torrence and Siana Harui standing by a tent, with a guard talking to them sternly. Since leaving Monte Konos, Alex had not been able to speak to the two young women who’d been involved with him in trying to free the she-apostles, because they were being kept away from him by that tyrannical guard. The guard, a short redhead, seemed angry about something, and raised her voice. He couldn’t make out the words.
* * *
Fearing detection by BOI satellites, the effort to find the missing helicopter had been confined to half an hour. The pilot brought her report to Dixie Lou while she was questioning the she-apostles in front of her own tent through a translator, asking them about Candace’s ability to vanish, and about the missing twelfth she-apostle, Martha of Galilee. The children were not being cooperative, and Dixie Lou had slapped two of them, causing them to cry.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” the pilot said, “but I thought you would want to know that there is no sign of the missing aircraft. It probably went down in the Mediterranean.”
“A logical conclusion,” Dixie Lou said, “but they have the same stealth and ground camouflage systems we do, don’t they?”
With a perplexed expression, the pilot nodded. “But why would they hide from us?”
“I’ll ask the questions around here.”
Dixie Lou didn’t put it past the troublesome, defiant Lori Vale to take over the helicopter and direct it to her own destination. When it came to that annoying teenager, nothing was simple or straightforward.
All of the possibilities, when added to Dixie Lou’s other concerns, had been putting her in an edgy mood today. . . .
* * *
That afternoon, Dixie Lou saw a robed rider on a camel coming over the top of a rise of sand, moving briskly toward the camp. More people appeared afterward, on camels. She counted eight women, all dressed in long robes and veils, with a train of riderless camels behind them. They must be the Bedouin. A tall woman sat astride the animal in the front, using a whip to urge it on—Malia Ali Khan, she realized.
Dixie Lou sent the children away, with their matrons and translators.
“Still wearing those unsuitable robes, I see,” Malia said, as she jumped down onto the said. Her companions remained behind her, on their mounts.
Peering over the top of her veil, the Arab woman showed her continuing disapproval of the coarse gray garments worn by these western women. The Arab women on the camels wore burnooses and veils. The two boys rode up behind them, but Dixie Lou noticed that they were unarmed this time.
“I rather like my robe,” Dixie Lou said. “The air is cool this morning.”
“At this time of year, you might get by,” Malia agreed, “because it is not so terribly hot. But since we are a traveling people most of us pack no more than one robe apiece, and these hooded cloaks. If it is cool we wear more underneath.”
“Layering,” one of the councilwomen said, “a backpacking trick.” It was Tamara Himmel, whose soft form did not look as if it had seen much physical exertion, of the outdoor variety or otherwise.
“You are traveling people, too?” Malia inquired, looking closely at Dixie Lou.
“For the moment.”
The Arab’s eyes narrowed. “I think you are fleeing something.”
Dixie Lou’s features hardened. “I told you we’re not hiding from anyone.”
“Words are of little significance. My people are adept at reading what is not said. This is a necessary skill in the desert, where anyone you meet can be a friend, or a deadly foe.”
“You don’t appear to be armed this time. Apparently you’ve decided we aren’t a threat to you.”
“Our burnooses conceal much.” Malia extended a welcoming hand. “Come to our village, and dine with us, as our guests.” Malia adjusted her veil, which had slipped down a little, revealing a thin scar on her upper lip.
Dixie Lou had been having second thoughts about going with the Arabs. But based upon the determination exhibited by Malia—the firm tone and fire in her eyes—Dixie Lou didn’t think that she or her people would appreciate being rejected, and would certainly take it as a sign of disrespect. So she nodded.
“Some of the children haven’t been feeling well,” Councilwoman Deborah Marvel said. “Perhaps one of us should remain behind with them, along with the guards?”
“Yes,” Dixie Lou agreed. “You stay here, Deborah.” She looked at Malia. “We also have prisoners, and they must be guarded.” She pointed at her own son. “That’s one of them.”
“Ah!” Malia said. “You are as interesting as I suspected. What has he done wrong?”
“He violated our law. So did one who is aboard a missing helicopter. Have you seen another craft anywhere, or western people like us, with small children?”
“None of that. If they have broken your law, that is a very serious matter, because the law is very important. We, too, must abide by our own, the Law of Allah.”
* * *
Leaving Alex and others behind, Dixie Lou and seven of her councilwomen accompanied the Arabs. The camels provided for them had fine saddles with places all around to hold onto, and no need to guide the animals, because they followed the others. In the brightness of the sun the Arabs and their guests rode toward the Mediterranean Sea, and then traversed a well-tramped dune crest, where Malia halted.
Pointing at a rock escarpment to the west, she said, “There is a story that Prophet Mohammed, blessings be upon him, once stood on that rock, and received a message from Allah.”
“Very interesting,” Dixie Lou said.
“Prophet’s Rock is holy ground,” Malia said, “guarded by our people. We would consider it a sacrilege if you or any other—” She smiled as she paused. “—infidel—were to go anywhere near it. Please take no offense at the word. All non-Muslims are considered infidels.”
“I understand.” Dixie Lou took a long, hard look at the rock as her camel followed Malia along the dune crest, and she saw people moving around near the base, presumably the Muslim guards. Presently, as the trail wound down the dune, she lost sight of the rock.
They made their way to a community just inland, at the base of the largest dune she had ever seen. The village was more than she had expected, more than she had noticed in the nighttime storm. Black goats’-hair tents flapped in the wind, and there were many women, children, and animals. There were even a number of small, portable buildings, and weathered trucks. It was a sizable encampment.
As they reached the desert settlement, dozens of children ran out to greet them, chattering excitedly in Arabic. The arriving party passed more camels tethered at a watering hole and continued on to a large tent, which was of a finer design and construction than the others, but which still bore evidence of weathering and wear. Like the discarded abode of a Persian King, it had ragged tassels, with faded purple and gold fabrics and braided gold stitching around the doors and windows.
After everyone was off the camels, Malia said, “Come inside, please.” She moved off to one side of the main entrance, gestured with one arm.
Dixie Lou smelled a flinty dustiness as she stepped onto a ragged carpet inside, placed directly on the sand. She and her companions were directed to sit on the floor of a spacious main room that had two side enclosures, separated by hanging beads and tassels. Islamic designs and artwork adorned the walls.
They sat cross-legged around a cleared central area. Presently a teenage boy entered, carrying a large fire-blackened pan of meat, which he placed in the middle of the group. A dark-haired girl of around the same age—wearing a red dress and veil—brought a spotted metal pitcher, and a tray of stained ceramic cups.
Malia asked for a moment of silence, and uttered an Islamic blessing over the meal they were about to enjoy.
Afterward, Dixie Lou waited as the girl poured steaming hot coffee into her cup. There were no plates or eating utensils.
“I haven’t seen any men here,” Dixie Lou said. “Only women and young people.”
“Oh we have many men,” Malia said, as she waited for her own coffee. “They are away on—business. Some of the older men and women are here; around this time they like to break into groups and drink coffee.”
“What sort of business are your men away on?” Dixie Lou inquired. Her nose curled from the unappetizing odor of the coffee. She tried not to think of it and sipped, taking care not to burn her lips. The brackish brew was strong, but tasted better than expected.
Malia and her companions adjusted their long cloaks so that their arms were more free, and removed their veils, so that they could eat and drink. A wry smile formed on Malia’s mouth. “Our men are selling computers,” she said. “They have many camels, all fully loaded. A very long caravan of computers.”
Dixie Lou smiled herself, since she didn’t believe a word of it. This foreign woman was just toying with her, and had an irritating demeanor. Was it some sort of a plot to rob them . . . or worse? Were they actually Arab terrorists, or agents of the despotic Libyan government? Were their men attacking Dixie Lou’s camp at that very moment?
It occurred to her that perhaps she should have flown off the night before—following the visit by the Bedouin. But that might have been worse, as it could have been noticed by satellite surveillance or other means they employed, thus bringing the pesky Bureau down on them. These desert people, although potentially dangerous, could not possibly be associated with the BOI. Or could they? She looked into the dark eyes of Malia, and of two women who sat beside her, but their eyes were indecipherable.
On Dixie Lou’s left, the narrow-faced Councilwoman Nancy Winters giggled, and for this infraction she received a piercing glare from her superior.
“I’m sorry,” Nancy said, “but the image of computers on camels—” Her voice trailed off.
“We are not primitives,” Malia insisted, in a huffy voice. From the central pot she took a handful of dark meat with her bare hands, and stuffed it in her mouth. Brown sauce dribbled down her chin, which she wiped on her bare arm. “Do you think we know nothing of modern technology?”
“No, of course not,” Dixie Lou said. “It is obvious from your words that you have some familiarity with western ways.”
“Western ways.” Malia spat on the carpet, lifted her chin proudly and said, “Centuries ago. Arab people possessed the most advanced knowledge of mathematics, science, and literature, far ahead of the Europeans. It was our period of enlightenment, during the western dark ages.”