The Lost Apostles Read Online Free PDF

if they knew how to handle the rifles they held.
    “Do any of you have injuries?” the Arab woman asked.
    “A few bumps and bruises,” Dixie Lou snapped, glaring at her. “We’ve administered first aid.”
    Malia looked up at the pre-dawn sky. Then, lifting a finger to feel a slight breeze, she said, “By the grace of Allah, the storm is passed. You are safe now.”
    Dixie Lou didn’t respond.
    “We would like to offer you the hospitality of our village,” Malia said.
    Studying her armed visitor, Dixie Lou responded, “Your generosity is much appreciated, but we really don’t have time.” But Alex heard something in his mother’s tone, a forced politeness and formality.
    “You must make the time. Hospitality is the way of our people.”
    “How large is your village?” Dixie Lou asked.
    “We’ll take you there by camel, and you can see for yourself.” She pointed. “It is that way, a few kilometers.”
    “By camel ? We don’t know how to ride camels, and we have small children with us.”
    “These are not problems. We have the means to accommodate passengers of all ages. Or, the children can remain here while we show you around the village and give you a fine Bedouin meal.”
    “Do you have computers or videophones in the village?” Dixie Lou asked.
    “You need them for some purpose?”
    “To make an Internet connection.”
    “You westerners are very amusing to us.” She stood there smiling, then said something in Arabic to her young companions. The pair nodded.
    “We will be back this afternoon,” Malia said.
    “You have Internet?” Dixie Lou pressed.
    “Perhaps. We shall discuss it this afternoon.”
    “All right.”
    “It is late now, and you will want to sleep in, as you say.” She slid her veil aside and smiled, revealing black gaps where teeth were missing. “An English woman used to live in our camp, and she taught me many of your phrases.”
    With a smooth motion, Malia whirled and flowed off into the cool shadows, followed by her youthful armed escort. The lanterns went out, and in the minimal light of approaching dawn, Alex saw the movement of many human shapes, boarding camels and riding away.
    * * *
    “Seven ball in the side pocket,” Zack Markwether announced, confidently. In his brother’s private game room at the White House, they were spending the evening together, after a long day. Zack leaned over the green felt table, lining up his shot with the cue stick. His officer’s coat and white gloves were draped over a chair, and a pair of aviator sunglasses sat open on a ledge. The walls were lined with photographs and paintings of foreign dignitaries who had visited the White House in years past—kings, queens, princes and princesses, prime ministers, premiers, presidents, shahs, dictators, ambassadors. . . .
    “You don’t need to call your shots,” the President groused. “Just shoot the stupid ball, OK?”
    With a self-satisfied smile, Zack snicked the purple seven ball into the designated pocket.
    Chalking his own stick, the President said, “Incidentally, you need to stay away from the White House interns, Brother. I’m getting complaints.”
    Calmly, Zack walked over to a side table, took a sip from a bottle of imported German beer. “You’re just trying to break my concentration. Actually, I’m only dating one of the interns, and she’s not even one of the youngsters I’m rumored to be with. She’s almost thirty.”
    “Just be careful not to do anything to embarrass yourself, or me. I recall some stories about you in high school, back when I was a sophomore and you were a senior. Cheer leaders, weren’t they?”
    With a broad grin, Zack said, “The old stories about me were all true. Nowadays, though, you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”
    “You gonna marry this one?”
    He shook his head. “Not my style. Never has been.” He took another sip of beer. “Say, what about my letter to the Pope on Vatican security? Have you looked it over