Chapter 4
They want a reversion to the mythical days of when we didn’t talk back as much, when women were little more than slaves to the interests of men.
—Amy Angkor-Billings, United Women of the World
In central México, Consuela Santos was filled with fear. A young peasant woman whose father tilled the land and whose mother cooked and cleaned for the local parish priest, Consuela had shamed her parents by bearing a child out of wedlock. She and her baby—now five months old—still lived with them in their small adobe house, but so religious were they that they had not spoken to her in weeks.
It had been an unseasonably warm day, but now Consuela pulled her thin rebozo around her shoulders to ward off the night wind, and held her baby close, wrapped in the long scarf. She passed the town cantina, moving through dim light cast through an open door and windows, and heard the drunken patrons inside, laughing and talking loudly. Across the street were the cloth-draped merchant stalls of the mercado, which only a few hours before had been the bustling center of commerce for three villages, but which now lay dark and quiet. She smelled the spoiling remnants of fruit, vegetables, and fly-encrusted meat, and saw a mangy, swaybacked street dog eating scraps.
From fear she could hardly catch her breath. Holding the bundled child securely, she turned onto a narrow cobblestone street, hurried up broad stone steps and entered the village church, pulling her rebozo over her head and uttering a prayer as the cool darkness of the interior enclosed her. She kept glancing back, to make sure no one followed. People were looking for her child. They called themselves doctors and claimed they only wanted to help, but she knew better.
Her baby had been making strange sounds, and she suspected something evil had possessed her, something that could only be purged in this holy sanctuary.
The people who sought little Marta were not really doctors; that was only a ruse to make her let down her guard. They were too intense and she saw something in their eyes. Deception and malevolence. In reality they were servants of the dark prince—Satan—and wanted her precious child for their secret, unholy purposes. She felt this in the deepest core of her being, and that they had put a spell on Marta.
Consuela knew her demonic pursuers wouldn’t dare enter the church. As the heavy wooden door closed behind her and she stood in the vaulted Spanish sanctuary, she breathed a deep sigh of relief. On her right, red votive candles burned, flickering at the kiss of a slight and ghostly breeze. Townspeople had lit them, to pray for friends or family members.
With her heart beating rapidly she hurried along the main aisle, past the rows of pews to the altar. Towering beside her, a statue of the crucified Jesus was flanked by the smaller statues of two women, one the Virgin Mary, and the other the Virgin of Guadalupe, patron saint of México. Before the latter, she knelt and prayed. The saint’s face was benign, and seemed to gaze down on Consuela and her baby compassionately, giving them personal attention and protection.
Behind her, three other people knelt inside the high-vaulted building, praying silently in the dark-wood pews. Upon passing them she’d noticed Bibles in their hands. No one escaped her scrutiny now, because of the extreme danger.
In Consuela’s arms, her baby made the strange, unholy sounds again, this time too loudly. Putting a hand over her child’s mouth, she muffled the blasphemy that she could sense, but could not comprehend.
The black-robed parish priest slipped out of a door behind Consuela and glided past her, going toward a door that led to the bell tower. She almost called out to him, but decided not to. He was Father Matteo, who employed her mother to cook and clean.
The baby whimpered, and continued the muffled, abhorrent sounds.
Out of the corner of her eye, Consuela saw the black-robed priest pause and gaze back at her. He had a puzzled expression on his weathered face, which was half in shadows and half in the flickering yellow light of a candle.
The baby kicked and thrashed, and went into a screaming, crying tirade.
Hesitantly, the priest approached her.
Behind Consuela, she heard the heavy door of the church slam shut, and felt a hot breath of outside air.
At the head of the aisle, looking in her direction, Consuela saw what appeared to be a large woman in a white dress. She couldn’t make out details of the face. The woman began walking toward her. She was carrying what might be a medical bag, but it was white, not the customary black. Her lapels were starched and stiff. Her shoes squeaked on the tile floor.
Consuela looked at the priest, and saw his hand go into a pocket of his robe as the big woman approached. He appeared to be afraid of her.
Does he have a weapon there? A priest with a gun?
She didn’t know why she was thinking so strangely, so conversely to everything she had been taught in her life. She was twenty-four years old and had always been a good Catholic; it was in her blood, as much a part of her as the child she held so tightly in her arms. Her faith had always been her anchor, providing her with strength and constancy and the knowledge that her life was connected to something more important than her solitary, meager existence. But her faith was a broad white sail as well, linking her with an ethereal wind that guided all humankind on a heavenly course.
How did this holy man fit into such a structure?
Her pulse drummed and thrummed in her ears.
Keeping his hand in his pocket, the priest moved briskly toward her.
By now the other figure—approaching from the aisle—had halved the distance to Consuela. Out of the shadow-face of this person emerged two burning red embers for eyes, like fiery fragments wrenched from the bowels of Hades.
The priest reached her first and placed a hand on her shoulder. He smelled of fear. Sweat glistened on his brow. “My child,” he said in their native Spanish, “you are troubled, and I—”
Consuela wasn’t looking at him. The other figure neared, moving slowly, inexorably, and the terrified peasant woman no longer saw ember-eyes, replaced instead by a white visage and the palest of albino orbs, staring directly at her. She wondered if all this was only her imagination, if she was trapped in a wild kaleidoscope of the mind, a spinning, topsy-turvy nightmare. For some reason she felt a threat not only from this person but from the priest. She didn’t trust either of them. The priest’s grip tightened on her shoulder.
The woman reached into her white bag.
Consuela bolted and ran out a side door into the night. The church was no longer a sanctuary. It had been invaded by evil, an extension of the entity that was trying to destroy her child.
Shouts and gunfire sounded behind her, and a bullet struck the door frame as she ran into the street, but neither she nor her baby were hit. Dogs barked frantically.
A man screamed out in agony. It sounded like Father Matteo.
She didn’t dare look back.
* * *
A tiny nun in a black habit hurried through the grand corridor, her smallness and simple garb contrasting with the exquisite craftsmanship and immensity of scale around her . . . the Italian marble floor, the ornate mirrors, gilded walls, leaded glass, and vaulted ceiling, the paintings of Christian religious scenes by renowned masters, the sculptures of famous popes and cardinals. On the third finger of her left hand she wore a golden band, signifying the sacred wedding vow she had given to her blessed savior, Jesus Christ.
At a Gothic entrance portal she stood before two Swiss Guards who wore sixteenth century body armor with royal purple and gold leggings and red headdresses. Each man carried an automatic rifle. It was shortly after 7:00 AM in Vatican City.
Beneath the folds of her robe the nun carried a glass message cylinder, which she brought forth and displayed for the guards. One of the guards looked it over, then waved her in with a jerky motion of one arm.
She passed through into a waiting room that featured intricately designed blue-and-white mosaic tiles. Two more Swiss Guards stood at another door, which led to the papal offices.
The door to the inner sanctum swung open, and an angular, ruddy-faced man in a white vestment emerged, walking toward her energetically. Pope Rodrigo held one hand on a golden cross that dangled from his neck. He ushered her in, smiling broadly. “Ah, Sister Meryl,” he said as they walked together into his enormous, exquisitely appointed office, “It is good to see you!”
This nun was from his own home city of Segovia, Spain—and he liked her so much that he always came out to greet her in this fashion. They knew many of the same people, and often shared stories and gossip.
“And you as well, Your Holiness.” She bowed. “May I say, you are looking especially well today.”
“You have brought me another recipe?” he asked, knowing full well that only official business was carried in such a manner.
She giggled, revealing a toothy smile. With a diminutive mouth, smooth skin, and clear brown eyes, she appeared much younger than her sixty-three years.
Accepting the cylinder from her, he brought forth a sparkling diamond key and opened it. The cylinder twisted into two sections. He removed a slip of parchment from one of them and left the sections on his desk.
“Mmmm,” he said as he read. “Minister Culpepper again, but this time he isn’t asking for money.”
She nodded, and despite her familiarity with the pontiff she maintained her place, not asking any questions.
“It seems he has a twelve-year-old grandson who wants to embark upon a career with the Church. The boy’s father is a manufacturing executive, taking a position in Rome.”
“I see,” Sister Meryl said.
“Culpepper says the boy is bright and a fast learner.” Then, with a heaving sigh, the Pope set the parchment on an ornate side table. “In four years—when he’s sixteen—we’ll set him up as a clerk while he attends seminary.”
“Do you have any orders for me?” she inquired.
“Yes,” he said with mock seriousness. “Wear my robes for awhile and deal with all the important people who want favors.”
* * *
Half an hour later, Sister Meryl sent a coded e-mail message to UWW headquarters, informing them what had occurred that day in the papal offices. From minuscule to large details, she had been providing them efficiently for more than two decades. The week before, she had transmitted other records on the Roman Catholic Church, updating information that the UWW already had on the religious organization’s real estate holdings and other assets all over the world. This was absorbed into the burgeoning UWW data base, along with similar facts on every other religious group on earth.
Sister Meryl wondered what the UWW did with all of it, and what their plans might be, although she believed in the group because they advanced the cause of women. Lately she’d been hearing intriguing rumors that the female leadership had embarked upon a top secret project. She liked their energy. The United Women of the World, in contrast with the Catholic Church, was dynamic and in a constant state of flux.