Hounds of Rome

by Tom Clancy

  *****

  The next morning, Steve was up early. After breakfast, he drove into Washington to the National Zoo. He had no intelligent idea as to why he went there. He was on autopilot. It was in answer to a compulsive need to see the animals. He drifted around finally winding up in the building that housed the primates. He stood looking first at the gorillas, then the chimps, then the monkeys. He studied them closely. He watched fascinated at their movements— the way they picked up tiny pieces of something or other and nibbled on it. Reaching down, he pulled up a sleeve. He looked at his arm. He compared it to the hairy forearms of the chimps.

  Maybe I’m looking for a relative, he thought wryly, miserably. I can’t tell by studying them but perhaps they can by studying me. If I get as close as possible to the cages would any of them pick up a faint smell? Would they approach me out of curiosity?

  Steve suddenly walked swiftly out of the building and left the zoo. This is madness, he thought. Why am I trying so hard to make myself miserable? After the tests are run, and I see Dr. Richardson; that is, Shelly, maybe she’ll have an answer for me.

  On the following Thursday and Friday, Steve underwent a battery of tests that began at nine A.M. and lasted until six. Each day as he left the medical center, he was dizzy from the whirlwind of testing and the tiny amount of food he had been allowed. He spent part of the weekend visiting the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception and also, dressed as a tourist, he took a look at the church he had been building until he had been removed from the parish. It was to him a magnificent building.

  At the National Shrine, he had a cup of coffee and a sandwich in the cafeteria where he had spent so many pleasant lunch hours with Janet. Too many memories came flooding back. He decided to leave quickly. Happily, he did not run into anyone who recognized him.

  *****

  On Monday morning, Steve Murphy was again sitting in Dr. Shelly Richardson’s office sipping coffee supplied by the secretary, waiting for the doctor to appear. Now he knew how potential cancer patients must feel when waiting for the verdict. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

  When Shelly entered the office, she was smiling. “Good news, Father Murphy. The MRIs and X-rays are anatomically human. Your blood chemistry is well within the normal range for humans. Healthy humans at that. The hair analysis shows some nutritional irregularities, for example, a somewhat high mercury level, but nothing to worry about. Besides, hair analysis is at best an uncertain tool. We do it just to cover the waterfront. The DNA tests show no evidence of animal DNA. Remember, however, DNA results are probabilistic. For example, if we are looking for a DNA match, we might say the odds are one in ten million, or one in fifty million. Our answers are always given in terms of probability. But based on all of the tests we have done so far, you appear to be as human as anybody else.”

  “So that’s it,” Steve said rising to shake hands with Shelly, thank her, and be on his way. “I’ll tell you where to send the bill and can you send me a written report? I might be able to use it to convince a cardinal or two in Rome.”

  “That’s not quite it, Father Murphy. We’re not finished yet. I think we should also give you a hands-on physical exam.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “I wouldn’t feel completely confident in preparing a written report without it. Think of it this way: it may give you extra peace of mind. Now, please go into the examining room next door and take off your clothes. You can leave your shorts on.”

  “Who’s giving the exam?”

  “I am,” Shelly said with a slight grin.

  “But you’re a researcher. Isn’t this a bit out of your line?”

  “Yes, I am a PhD, but I’m also an M.D. I’m licensed to practice medicine in Maryland but I prefer research as I said before. Now be a good priest and go in and take your clothes off.” Shelly was amused that this big rugged-looking man seemed scared to death to be seen by a woman in his shorts.

  *****

  Twenty minutes later, lying on the examining table wearing nothing but his briefs, Steve felt a chill. He looked for some kind of cover on the table but there was nothing he could put over him.

  Shelly entered the room. She went to the sink to wash her hands. She saw the scared look on his face. “My, my, pink underwear.”

  “I mixed colored and white clothes in the laundromat and these came out pink.”

  “If you would feel more comfortable having a man here in the room while I examine you, just say so.”

  “No, just go ahead,” Steve said. He was never so mortified in his life. His doctors had always been men and even then, like most men, he had always felt uncomfortable at being examined. It was especially troublesome being a priest. As he lay on the table, he decided this whole thing had been a terrible mistake. He began to realize that although the tests might be negative, there would be no absolute certainty. And letting this woman’s eyes pore over his body was most likely a grievous sin. At the very least, the church would label it an occasion of sin.

  “Please turn over on your stomach.”

  Her soft touch felt warm and friendly as her hands moved over his back and down his legs. He began to feel relaxed. Her hands tapped, glided, pressed and almost seemed to knead parts of his body. He imagined it was very much like a gentle massage although he had never had one.

  “Now please turn over on your back.” For a few moments, lying stretched out with his eyes closed, he imagined Janet was running her hands over him. As Janet’s hands explored his body, he almost couldn’t resist the urge to pull her to him and embrace her. He opened his eyes. It wasn’t Janet.

  “Pull down your shorts.”

  “Is that really necessary?”

  “I know you’re embarrassed but you shouldn’t be. This is completely impersonal as far as I’m concerned. What I’m doing is necessary because I’m searching for any traces of unusual skin, hair growth, or animal musculature you may have—the kinds of things that don’t show up on the other tests.”

  Fifteen of the hardest minutes Steve had ever experienced in his life passed in slow motion. This surely was a mortal sin, but he recognized that the worst, the most sinful part, sprang from the arousal he felt. It was something he couldn’t control. Shelly noticed it but said nothing. Finished with the exam, she stepped away from the table and made some notes on a pad. “You can put your clothes on. Then, when you’re ready, come back to my office and let’s talk.”

  *****

  A short time later, Steve sat in Shelly’s office as she pored over her notepad. Then, looking up with a smile, she said, “Now that didn’t hurt did it Father Murphy?”

  Steve shrugged and managed to smile back.

  “My conclusion is that there is absolutely no evidence any animal characteristics are present, or that any animal cells survived in the cloning process. We now have negatives from several different protocols to confirm this. It may sound a bit redundant saying this, but there is no evidence you are anything but a man—a complete man, nothing more, nothing less. So I don’t get a research paper, but you get good news. And, of course, you get the bill.”

  “I have a question,” Steve said. “What were you looking for in the physical exam? You know, that business on the table.”

  “Let me explain that. You’ve heard of hybrids like cloned sheep-goats and sheep-cows, I presume. A sheep-cow, for example, may look like a sheep but have the markings of a cow—sometimes brown and white blotches or black and white blotches. Today, numerous hybrids—mixed breeds of various types have been produced by cloning. In each case, each successful case that is, there are characteristics present from each of the species. The resulting animal has some physical properties of each. Without evidence of that, the hybrid doesn’t exist.”

  “You’re saying I have human skin with no traces of gorilla hair?” Steve asked, trying to be lighthearted about it all. He could afford to be lighthearted now on hearing the good news.

  “You have dark hair on your arms and chest bu
t it’s all human.” Collecting the papers concerning Steve into a neat pile on the center of her desk, she added, “We can give you a complete report if you like. It may persuade some of your church authorities. Of course, they may not believe us, but we can’t do anything about that. By the way, I also studied the papers you brought with you—the ones from the center that did the cloning. From what I can deduce about the protocols used, although the cloning was successful, there was almost no chance the animal cells would survive. I would suggest that for your own well being, you ought to forget about the chimera business. There’s no evidence of it. It didn’t take.”

  “Can I give you an address in Rome to send the report to?”

  “Of course. We can mail it in about a week.”

  “Please send it to: Reverend Stephen Murphy, care of Father Angelo, San Callisto Catacombs, Via Appia Antica, Rome Italy.”

  “You’re living in the catacombs?” Shelly asked in surprise.

  “Yes. I’ve been living like an animal in hiding, but maybe it’s about time I came out into the open.”

  43

  Steve peered through the storefront window of Jonathon’s real estate office. In the interior he saw Marge on the telephone. Jonathon was nowhere in sight. Marge smiled, waved to Steve and motioned him to come in.

  Steve took a seat beside Marge’s desk. While she was talking on the phone, he glanced around at the office. There didn’t seem to be anyone else there. Jonathon was probably out closing on a house or something. Marge, in her middle fifties, was letting her hair grow gray. She looked thin to Steve. She looked tired. Hanging up the phone, Marge reached over to shake Steve’s hand. “How are things in Rome?” she asked.

  “Rotten. How are things here in Wayland? And by the way, where’s my brother?”

  “Things are not too good here. Jonathon’s out with a client.”

  “How’s his health?”

  “I’ll level with you, Steve. Some months ago, the only symptoms were hoarseness and difficulty writing. But lately he has had trouble swallowing and sometimes difficulty getting words out. Eventually Lou Gehrig’s disease will affect everything he does—dressing himself, eating, walking—even breathing.”

  “I don’t know much about it,” Steve said. “Guess I should read up on it. I do know there’s no cure.” He looked at Marge. He saw a glint of tears in her eyes. Good old Marge—plain looking, a spinster. A loyal fixture in the office for almost twenty years.

  “We’ve been living together, Steve. Seeing as how you’re a priest, does that shock you?”

  “Not really. It would be better if you were married, but I’m happy he has someone.”

  “He wants me to marry him.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “I might. Right now, in addition to a housekeeper, we’ve hired a live-in nurse...I guess I should say he’s hired the nurse.”

  ”All in the Murphy mansion?” Steve asked, thinking the old mausoleum might be coming alive with three women looking after things. He smiled at the thought of stuffy old Jonathon with a cadre of women bustling around him.

  “How long will you be in Rome?”

  “Not much longer. The church is giving me a hard time.”

  “I know all about it—the cloning, I mean. Jonathon told me the story. It’s really lousing up your life isn’t it?”

  “I’d say so,” Steve replied as he looked around and stood up to greet Jonathon who had just come into the office.

  “This is a surprise, Steve.” Jonathon spoke slowly with a measured effort to make each word clear. “Why didn’t you let us know you were coming?”

  “Just a spur of the moment visit. A stop-off on my way back to Rome. I visited DNA specialists in Maryland to get a reading on my genetics.”

  “And?”

  “It turned out OK. Better than I would have expected. They’re forwarding a report to me at San Callisto. It might be helpful in convincing Vatican authorities, but in any case, it’s helped me a lot psychologically.”

  “I suppose the church authorities know by now that you’ve been staying in Rome. When you left the Aleutian Islands the church sent a man here snooping around. We tried to decoy him into thinking you had gone to the Hawaiian Islands.”

  “Thanks, it helped throw them off the trail for awhile. But they will find me and unless something has changed, those goons from the monastery are still after me. Even if the church called them off, I’m not sure they’d obey. They seem to have a personal vendetta going.”

  When Marge went to the restroom, Steve asked Jonathon if he had heard from Janet.

  “Not a word, Steve. Some time ago I heard she was living in Cambridge with her husband.”

  “Any children?”

  “Don’t know. Why don’t you call her and see how she’s doing?”

  “No, I’d better leave well enough alone. I did send her a postcard with my address after I arrived in Rome, but I never received an answer. And tell me, how are you doing, Jonathon? How are you feeling?”

  “I feel OK. My problem doesn’t involve physical pain. But simple things— things people take for granted—like eating and talking can be difficult at times. And there’s the worry, the fear, the knowledge that this illness gets worse over time. There’s no cure.”

  “I pray for you Jonathon.”

  “Thanks. But my dear kid brother, does it do any good? Will it change anything?”

  “You never know. It might. Marge said you proposed to her.”

  “Yes. After all these years I finally realized how much I care for her. By the way, when I’m gone, I’m leaving the real estate business to her. I have a potential buyer who’s interested in the accounting and tax preparation business. And Marge will inherit the house and surrounding estate. You will both share fifty-fifty in the financial settlement. Is that all right with you?”

  “As I’ve said many times,” Steve chuckled, “I have zero interest in real estate and less, if possible, in accounting and tax work. And as for the rest, having to put up with you—you moody old dog—for twenty years, Marge deserves the property and half of any remainder.”

  Marge came back into the room. She leaned back against the edge of her desk. “Ever coming back to America, Steve?”

  “Maybe sooner than anyone thinks. If the church doesn’t accept the BioGene report, I may have to resign. But don’t start worrying that I’ll meddle in this business. If I do anything, I’ll try for a university teaching job. Then when I’m off in the summer I can spend time up at Pine River Pond driving everyone crazy with my takeoffs and landings.”

  Marge laughed. Jonathon tried to laugh but wound up with a fit of coughing and gurgling. He struggled to breathe. For a moment he looked like he was turning blue. Marge put her arms around him to steady him. He recovered slowly, embarrassed that Steve was there to see how the disease was beginning to take hold.

  Pulling himself together, Jonathon tried to make light of the episode. He invited Steve to have dinner with Marge and him. He promised a great meal followed by a show at a theater in Boston.

  Steve declined the invitation. As he was leaving, he put his arms around Marge, pulled her close and whispered in her ear: “Take care of him, Marge. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. And as the disease progresses, you won’t be able to provide 24/7 care so we will see that you have power of attorney. You will then be able to purchase whatever assistance is needed. And if you are called on to make any decisions that you aren’t sure of, we’ll keep in touch, but rest assured that I won’t countermand any decisions you make even if they aren’t strictly in accordance with the rules of the church. Besides since Jonathon isn’t a Catholic any more, there’s no reason why the church should even be involved.”

  “Thanks Steve. I’ll do my best.”

  44

  Angelo was upset. With his hands clasped behind him, his voluminous black cassock billowing as he walked, he paced the floor in his office above the catacombs. Steve sat in a stuffed leather chair in a co
rner watching Angelo fume.

  “Why are you doing it, Steve? I don’t understand it. We have word that the Vatican has rejected your claim and you are about to be defrocked. Of course, it doesn’t happen here, it will be done by Cardinal Rhinehart back in America. This is a tragedy, but what I don’t understand is why you want to keep sleeping down in the catacombs. They’ve won. You’re being kicked out. Of course, you remain a Catholic and you can serve as a deacon in a parish of your choice in America. But the battle is over, the war is lost. I say have faith in God and try to make the best of it. I did enjoy having you here, you were a big help with the tours, and your companionship was welcome.”

  “I appreciate your saying that, Angelo.”

  “But now my friend, it’s time for you to go back to America. It’s safe for you to go back to America.”

  For a moment, Steve thought Angelo was afraid of reprisals for harboring him at San Callisto.

  Angelo read his mind. “I’m thinking of you, Steve...your well-being. Please don’t think I’m worried about the Vatican because I’m not. There’s another thing that puzzles me, Steve. You’ve been taking food down there—a lot of food I might add, for over a week now. What do you do with it? Are you compensating for the loss of the priesthood by eating yourself to death?”

  Steve sat watching Angelo pace back and forth. “Angelo, bear with me,” he said quietly. “You may think the danger is past, but I don’t. It’s true the Knights of Carthage have probably given up, but there’s been no word about the Passion Monastery monks. I know these guys. They have a personal grudge against me. Even if their bishop told them to stop chasing me, I doubt they would. Try to put up with me for just a few more weeks and then I’ll clear out.”

  Angelo exhaled an impatient sigh as he walked to his desk and sat down behind it. “OK, Steve. But hear this: until you leave, you can pray all day in our chapel if you like, but I would advise against saying Mass since the decision has been made and the defrocking is imminent. God might not appreciate it.”