Mind Virus

by Charles Kowalski

  Shira was silent for a while. “If what you believe is true,” she finally said, “then it was a stupid experiment to try. And all the evidence would suggest that it was a failure.”

  “Maybe. But personally, I’m grateful for whatever it is that keeps the One in charge from pulling the plug on it.”

  Adler came aft. “I hate to interrupt this fascinating discussion,” he said, “but there’s something I need to show you.”

  Fox followed him to the front of the cabin and sat down in a seat facing him.

  “I’ve heard from Israeli intelligence,” Adler said. “They managed to hack into Oldman’s cell phone. Pretty fast work, I have to say. Our technical team might have been a little jealous.”

  “What did they find?”

  “Not a whole lot, unfortunately. He covered his tracks pretty well. But there were some pictures that you ought to see.”

  He turned the screen of his phone to Fox. The pictures had been taken at the seder at the Meir Hospital, and they showed Fox talking with Emily and touching his plastic cup to hers.

  Fox recoiled as if he had been punched in the gut. “Oh, God.”

  “Who is she? You never said anything about a girlfriend.”

  “She’s not. She’s…” Fox tried to think of a way to explain, and then decided Adler had no need to know.

  “Let me guess: it’s complicated.”

  “Do you know if he sent these to anyone?”

  “They couldn’t say. His e-mail had been purged.”

  Fox stared out the window and made no reply.

  Adler laid a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, relax. The first time I was out in the field, I got a photo like this slipped under my hotel room door. Someone—they never found out who—just did it to let me know they were watching me, to shake me up. And boy, did it ever, but that was as far as it went. The guy who took these is dead, and your…friend…is safely on the way back to the States, right? And there’s nowhere near enough information here to allow anyone to track her movements. So there’s nothing to worry about. Let’s just keep our minds on the job.”

  Fox kept silent. Miriam’s voice replayed in his mind: We’re all set. Washington via London tomorrow afternoon. If the Portsmouth Poisoner had overheard her, and conveyed her words to Chris, the world had suddenly gotten much smaller.

  13

  HEATHROW AIRPORT, LONDON

  SATURDAY, APRIL 4

  “Oy vey,” Miriam muttered, once they were far enough down the jetway to be out of the flight attendant’s hearing. “World Traveler Class? Is it the rule that the bigger the name is, the smaller the seats have to be?”

  “Thank you for flying British Airways,” Emily quipped in a mock accent. “We understand that you have a choice of airlines, and we have done our utmost to ensure that you choose someone else next time.”

  “Sorry, Leila,” Miriam said.

  Leila shrugged. “Sometimes it takes me five hours to travel even one kilometer, if the guards at the checkpoint are having a bad day. Traveling three thousand kilometers in the same time seems almost to defy the laws of physics.”

  As they emerged onto the concourse, a blond man in a white coat stood waiting by the gate, with an ID card on a red lanyard bearing the emblem of Public Health England. Next to him was a tripod supporting what looked like a video camera.

  As they passed, he gave the screen a concerned glance, and stepped into their path, addressing Emily. “Excuse me, madam?”

  All three of them stopped. “Yes?” Emily replied.

  “I’m terribly sorry to trouble you, but the thermal imaging camera was showing just a slightly elevated temperature for you. Ten to one it’s just fatigue from a long flight, but I still have to ask you a couple of routine questions. Were you by any chance in Tel Aviv this past Thursday, the second of April?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you in or near Ben-Gurion Airport on that day?”

  “The two of us were,” Emily answered, indicating herself and Miriam.

  “You’re probably aware, then, that there was an attempted biological attack on the airport that day?”

  “Yes, I seem to remember hearing something about that.”

  “Now, there’s no cause for alarm. By all reports, the attack was stopped, and the likelihood that any contamination escaped is almost nil. But still, the Ministry of Health is very keen to ensure that the virus doesn’t accidentally find its way into Britain, or onto some transit flight. I’ll need to ask you to fill out a simple questionnaire. Perhaps you already got one of these on the flight? No? Very well, here you are.” He handed them each a yellow card and a pen. “And while you’re in Heathrow, just as a precaution, I’ll have to ask you to put these on. Again, I apologize for the inconvenience.”

  He passed out surgical masks to the three of them. Miriam’s nose crinkled as she brought hers to her face.

  “Sorry,” the man said with a sympathetic shrug. “They’re treated with antiseptic. Supposed to make them more effective, but they are rather pungent, aren’t they?”

  They sat down on one of the black plastic benches to fill in their cards. Suddenly, Emily stopped, and gripped Miriam’s arm. “Miriam,” she said, “I feel…”

  The man in the white coat was at her side in a moment. “What’s the trouble, madam? Are you feeling ill? Here, have a seat. I’ll get you to the Health Center straightaway.” He eased her into a wheelchair, and rolled it toward a door under a green sign reading Emergency Exit: Authorised Access Only.

  “Where—are you—taking…” Miriam’s voice trailed off as dizziness overcame her too. She and Leila both tore off their masks and gasped for air. When their heads stopped spinning enough to see clearly again, there was no sign of Emily.

  14

  VATICAN CITY

  SATURDAY, APRIL 4

  GREAT VIGIL OF EASTER

  Again, Fox internally berated the universe for its cruel sense of humor. Attending Easter Vigil Mass at St. Peter’s had been another longtime dream for him, so when he finally got the chance, why did it have to be under these circumstances?

  Fox had always had a troubled relationship with the Church of his childhood. The Church that inspired Francis of Assisi to walk unarmed into the Sultan’s tent and plead for peace was the same one that sent the Crusaders to besiege Jerusalem in the first place. The Church that gave the world the mystical visions of Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross was the same one that sent the Inquisition to quash them. The Church that made Maximilian of Tebessa a saint, for choosing to die rather than join the army, was the same one that gave Fox’s army unit its Catholic chaplain, with his endless bloviating about Augustine and Aquinas and the doctrine of just war. The more Fox questioned, the more he doubted, which he supposed was what drove him to travel the world exploring other traditions.

  And yet, at some level, the Catholic Church still had a home in him, and he in it. Whenever he visited a medieval church in Europe, it felt like coming home to a house that had been in his family for countless generations. The music, the ritual, the seasons of the liturgical year—all these still resonated somewhere deep in his soul.

  And one of the highlights of the year for him—a close second after Christmas—was the vigil of Easter. Holy Saturday occupied a mysterious place in time, suspended between the despair of Good Friday and the joy of Easter. All the earth seemed to hold its breath in hushed expectation, as if aware of the epic drama unfolding deep below its surface: the Harrowing of Hell, the descent of Christ into the lowest depths to break open the gates of Hell.

  It was appropriate, in a darkly ironic way. This Easter Eve was promising to be harrowing, and if they failed in their mission, all Hell really would break loose.

  ...

  The Gulfstream touched down not at Fiumicino, the main airport serving Rome, but at Ciampino, a smaller airport closer to the city center. Two unmarked cars were waiting for them on the tarmac, preceded and followed by motorcycles and black squad cars with red lightning bolts, marked
Carabinieri, the national paramilitary police force. Birnbaum ushered Shira into one, and Fox and Adler rode in the other.

  Even with their sound-and-light escort, traffic was so heavy approaching Rome that Fox wondered whether it might have been faster to take the train. He kept an increasingly anxious eye on his watch until they finally turned onto the Via della Conciliazione, the main approach to the Vatican. The parallel rows of street lights flanking the broad avenue made it look like an airport runway, possibly for flights to heaven.

  The motorcade passed through an arched gateway, as Swiss Guard halberdiers in their Renaissance costumes stood to attention and saluted. An officer of the Vatican Gendarme Corps escorted them to the security checkpoint in the colonnade surrounding the Piazza di San Pietro, which had been set up like the one in Jerusalem, with cameras feeding to monitors inside a portable cabin.

  It was seven o’clock, two hours before the Easter Vigil Mass was to start, and the Piazza was already thronged with pilgrims from all over the world: Eastern and Western Europeans, Latin Americans, Africans, and some from Asia. Some of them had been passing the time by holding their own impromptu vigils, while others simply chafed at the delay, muttering words that they might have balked at repeating in the presence of the Pope.

  “We can start whenever you’re ready,” the officer told them, in a voice that made it clear he felt that should have been hours ago.

  The cameras recorded the face of everyone entering the basilica, and conveyed them to the monitors that Shira was watching. Half an hour passed, then an hour, then an hour and a half, with no matches.

  Birnbaum lost her patience. “What the hell did we bring her all this way for, if she’s not going to be any more use in Rome than she was in Jerusalem?”

  The clock showed ten to nine. The Mass was about to start.

  Adler sighed. “All right, then. Plan B.”

  And into the basilica they went, to look for another yellowjacket in another beehive.

  ...

  In the beginning, all was darkness.

  Then the great bronze Filarete door at the rear of the nave opened, and the head of the procession made its way through. Everyone along the center aisle leaned over the red-curtained barrier, straining to see the one point of light in the darkness: the Paschal Candle, just lit from a freshly kindled flame, its light reflected from the Pope’s gold miter. An island of light in a sea of shadowed faces.

  “Lumen Christi,” the deacon intoned. “The light of Christ.”

  “Deo gratias,” ten thousand voices sang in unison. “Thanks be to God.”

  From his vantage point in the south transept, Fox had a clear view of the baldachin, the spiral-columned pavilion over the high altar where the Pope would celebrate Mass. He kept an eye out for anything unusual, trying not to be distracted by the sculpture behind him: a bronze skeleton creeping out from under a shroud of red jasper, its bony hand holding an hourglass aloft. Its message to all mortals was clear: Your time is running out. Fox had to resist the urge to tell it out loud, “No need to remind me.”

  The procession made its silent way down the aisle. As the Pope passed by, carrying the Paschal Candle, Fox thought he saw a twinkle in his eye—possibly a reflection of the light, but also accompanied by a hint of a smile on the papal lips. Perhaps the Pope was anticipating the moment when the curtain of darkness and silence would lift, and the real celebration would begin. Then again, this Pope was rumored to enjoy slipping out of the Apostolic Palace by night, eluding the Swiss Guards, and ministering to the homeless of Rome dressed as a simple priest. It could simply be that he found all the usual Vatican pomp and pageantry amusing.

  “Lumen Christi.”

  “Deo gratias.”

  As the procession passed, it left in its wake thousands of flickering lights, as the acolytes lit tapers from the Paschal Candle, and the congregants passed the light from one to the other. By the time the procession reached the papal altar, the dark nave sparkled as though the night sky had been turned upside down.

  “Lumen Christi.”

  “Deo gratias.”

  Then the lights came on, and Fox could finally see the whole basilica.

  Holy Mother Church was in her full festive regalia, decked out in white and gold. On the papal altar, gold candle stands gleamed on the white cloth. In front of it, white Easter lilies decked the balustrade of the exedra that housed St. Peter’s tomb, silent trumpets waiting for their cue to burst into songs of joy. The solemn procession marched around it: attendants in white surplices, the College of Cardinals in their gold chasubles and red zuchetto skullcaps, and archbishops in crimson cassocks with tufted birettas.

  In the center aisle, two Swiss Guards in plumed helmets stood ceremonial watch. Less conspicuous but undoubtedly more functional, several men stood in strategic places, their modern suits striking a jarring note among all the medieval and Renaissance vestments. They might be taken for ushers, but the wires running from their ears to their collars hinted at their true task.

  The legend of the Harrowing of Hell said that on the first Holy Saturday, Jesus descended into the nether realms to proclaim freedom to all the captive souls, past, present, and future. How, Fox’s rational mind had always wondered, was this possible? But what his brain could never comprehend, he could feel in his soul now. As St. Peter lay at rest under the papal altar, his two hundred and sixty-seventh successor took a seat directly above his tomb. Monks and nuns, in habits unchanged since the Middle Ages, captured the moment with the video cameras in their cell phones. Tonight, in this hall, a world of space and millennia of time came together into a single point.

  If I could just be here as a member of the congregation, Fox thought wistfully, how I might be transported. But at this Vigil, he would have to be the most vigilant one of all. As the Alleluias soared up to the dome, they weighed down on his heart with the knowledge that if he failed in his mission, every one of them would turn into a Requiem.

  The dome…

  Fox turned his eyes up toward the cupola overhead. With no light coming in the windows, and only pinpoints of artificial light around the rim, the interior of the massive dome was shrouded in darkness, but he thought he caught a trace of movement.

  As quickly as he could, he shouldered his way to the nearest Vatican security agent, and pointed. The agent sighted along his point, and they both saw the same thing: an unmistakable human figure moving quickly and furtively along the catwalk.

  The agent took off at a run, calling into his microphone for the Anti-Sabotage Unit: “Unità Antisabotaggio alla cupola! Svelto!” Fox ran after him, down the side aisle, to a door surmounted by two cherubim, which another agent was hurriedly unlocking. As soon as he had it open, the three of them charged through it and into an elevator.

  When the elevator came to a stop and the door opened, a blast of chill evening air met them as they emerged onto the terrazza on the roof of the Basilica. The dome, illuminated by floodlights around its base, rose up before him. Uneven red-brick paths, sloping up and down, wound their way among smaller cupolas. The two doors in the wall were closed and locked at this time of night, but the signs above them identified them as a souvenir shop and a snack bar, as unlikely a place as the roof of a cathedral seemed for either.

  As soon as the elevator doors were open, the two security agents charged out onto the terrazza. Fox started to run after them, but then changed his mind and hung back, staying within view of the elevator doors.

  Sure enough, a woman in black jeans and sweater, with red hair tied back in a ponytail, emerged from behind the octagonal pavilion that housed the elevator. Fox moved to intercept her. She turned and ran in the other direction, toward the balustrade, where statues of Jesus, John the Baptist and eleven of the twelve disciples (minus Judas Iscariot) looked out over the Piazza di San Pietro a hundred and fifty feet below.

  A tall white fence stood between her and the balustrade. She pushed through a gate, which had been standing just slightly ajar, then turned and slamm
ed it shut behind her. When Fox reached it, he found it locked, with her on the other side.

  She took a step back, and gave him an amused glance through the bars.

  “I take it you never learned to pick locks, Mr. Fox,” she said, in an Irish accent. “Sure, ’tis a skill that can come in handy from time to time.”

  The two security agents caught up with them. From the helpless looks that passed between them, Fox could gather that neither of them had the key. One of them spoke frantically into his radio.

  The woman kept regarding them with a gloating smile. “That man down there,” she said. “He gets to live here in his own little kingdom, while a billion people around the world bend the knee to him. Would they still do that, I wonder, if they knew that where I’m going, neither he nor any of his minions can touch me?”

  She backed away toward the balustrade.

  Fox called after her. “What’s Chris done for you, to make him worth throwing your life away for?”

  “More than any man in a dog collar ever has, that’s for sure.”

  “What did they do to make you hate them so much?”

  She grinned and shook her head. “Ah, sure. Keep me talking until the lad with the key shows up, why don’t you?”

  She stepped up onto the balustrade, taking her place among the twelve statues—the place left vacant by Judas.

  “I’m sure Chris would be impressed by your loyalty,” Fox shouted to her, “but he can’t reward you for it if you’re dead.”

  “You surprise me, Mr. Fox. I would have thought you knew the value of martyrdom.”