“Here,” Monroe pointed out on the bottom of the screen at a number. “You should call them.”
“Why not,” Bishop said, taking out his phone. “What’s that number?
Monroe read from the screen while Bishop dialed.
Bishop put the phone to his ear. The call was answered within seconds.
“Castel Gandolfo, Frate Orsino Matteo, pronto.”
“Um,” Bishop stammered. In his enthusiasm, he forgot they would probably answer the phone in Italian. Although he had visited the country several times, he had a hard time picking up the language. The only Italian that came to him was an introduction. “Mio nome è Matthew Bishop. Um, do you speak English?”
“I do, sir,” the man said in fluent English.
“Oh, thank God,” Bishop said. “Let me put you on speaker.”
“I hope you can thank the Lord for more than my English,” Brother Matteo answered astutely.
“I’m sorry, forgive me,” Bishop said.
“Not a problem,” the priest said. “You’re not the first and won’t be the last. How can I help you?”
“Thank you. I’m not sure,” Bishop spoke. “As I said, my name is Matthew Bishop, and I’m a professor of mathematics and philosophy at Yale University in the United States. This, um... might sound strange, but Walker Monroe, a colleague and professor, and I are looking for another coworker and friend of ours who disappeared abroad.”
“What do you mean, disappeared?” Brother Matteo asked.
“We’re not sure,” Bishop replied. “But on the place where we think she disappeared, she left a written note that pointed to your institution.”
“Pointed to the Specola Vaticana?”
Bishop thought for a split second. If he were to tell the brother the truth, that someone carved a sign on a holy stone in Indonesia, he figured he probably wouldn’t believe him. “On the note, she wrote we should contact the Vatican Observatory, but the note wasn’t finished, so she didn’t write why.”
For a long moment, the line stayed quiet before brother Matteo responded. “What is the name of your friend?”
“Porter, Jennifer Porter.”
Again, the line went silent for a moment. “Doesn’t ring a bell,” Brother Matteo said.
“Maybe you could ask around your institution?” Bishop asked.
“Is there any way I can confirm your identity?” Brother Matteo asked.
“Uh, you can look me up on the Internet or call the university and ask to be forwarded to Professor Matthew Bishop.”
“All right, do you also have a picture of your friend you can send me?”
“Of course. Do you have an email address for me?”
“Sure,” he replied, and recited his email address. “When I receive your email, I will relay the question to the small staff we have here. If anyone knows anything, we will know soon.”
“Please contact me as soon as you learn anything.”
“I’ll contact you via the university as soon as I hear something.”
“Thank you,” Bishop replied. “Hope to hear from you soon.” Bishop pushed the red button on his screen.
Monroe forcefully tapped the enter key on his laptop. “Done,” he spoke. “I’ve sent a message and added Jennifer’s picture.”
“Thanks.”
“You lied to the Vatican,” Monroe pointed out, smiling.
“A little white lie, so to say.” Bishop folded his hands. “So, what do we know? Do we have any other options?”
“We could travel to Italy,” Monroe suggested. “Never been there, so....”
Bishop turned the laptop toward him. “It keeps running through my mind what the Vatican’s connection to Jennifer could possibly be. Did you even know the Vatican ran an observatory?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. I saw a documentary on it once. They do serious business, as I recall.”
“Who would believe it? Science and religion united.” Bishop rubbed his eyes.
“Maybe you should go home and take a shower,” Monroe suggested.
Bishop looked at the other side of the hall, where people exited the building. “What time is it?”
“It’s almost six. We’re closing up the place. If there is a reply from Rome, it will be tomorrow. It’s almost midnight there now.”
“Time flies. Maybe you’re right.” Bishop rose from his chair. “Maybe I’ll just hop by the office before going home.” Bishop’s office—the home of the Department of Comparative Literature and Department of Religious Studies—was just around the corner. He picked up his suitcase. “Well, let me know as soon as you hear anything.”
“That’s a promise. I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Thanks for everything.”
“Always.” Monroe tapped him on the shoulder and turned the other way.
Bishop took a few steps, then felt his phone vibrating in his pocket, followed by his ringtone, the theme song from his favorite TV show: Dexter. Monroe recognized the music and turned back. Bishop put down his suitcase and took out his phone.
“It’s local,” Bishop called out, looking at the screen. “Bishop,” he spoke into the phone.
“Hi, this is Charly from operations,” a woman said. “I have a call for you, a man with an accent, but I didn’t get his name.”
“No problem,” Bishop said. “Put him through.”
“All right. One moment, please.”
Bishop put his phone on speaker and waved to Monroe, who immediately jogged over.
“Hello. This is Father Lamberto De Cremonese. I understand you are looking for a friend of yours?”
Chapter 24 –The Wedekind Experiment
South Bantam, Java, Indonesia, Two Months Ago
A few hundred feet outside of the Arca Domas, Mulder’s co-workers had set up their observation camp from where they monitored the Baduy. For the past three days, an almost continuous stream of hard rain had battered the researchers, their guests and tents. The drones were waterproof, but the rain kept knocking them off course and wreaked havoc with the sensors, making the data they collected unreliable. Since her arrival a week ago, Jennifer kept asking Mulder for a satellite phone to call home. She had requested, appealed and demanded access to a telephone, but Mulder hadn’t budged.
She spent most of her time in her tent. On occasion, Dr. Cotrina Ahlström summoned her to the mess tent to perform one of her experiments. The strangest thing, though, was that everyone was friendly and, yet, she knew she was a prisoner. She thought about simply walking away, but there was nowhere to go. She needed someone she could trust.
The drive through the wilderness to get to the camp had convinced her she would probably perish should she try to escape that way. Mulder had said so in so many words. “Remember,” he had said ever so friendly, “you’re about fifty miles—in any direction—from any form of primitive civilization.” He explained to her that should she go for a walk, she would probably run into one of the unfriendly tribes, and God forbid what could happen to her. He also tried to convince her that everything he said, and did, was for her own good and the good of humanity. And though she was a prisoner, she felt that he believed what he told her was true. She knew she needed to find someone she trusted to get out of this, but who?
“Good morning, Jennifer,” Dr. Ahlström called out from behind the table as Jennifer walked into the mess tent. “Please sit down.”
“Good morning,” Jennifer replied before sitting down in front of the doctor.
“How are you today?”
“Same as yesterday.” Jennifer sounded bored.
“Well, maybe today we can do something different.” The doctor slapped a stack of sealed plastic bags on the corner of the table.
“What’s in the bags?” Jennifer asked.
“Today, I would like to do a little experiment with you. It’s a variation on the Wedekind experiment. Ever hear of it?”
Jennifer shook her head.
“Have you heard of the sweaty T-shirt study?”
“Nope.”
“It was a study in 1995. Claus Wedekind, a Swiss biological researcher, determined that MHC—that’s short for Major Histocompatibility Complex—plays a significant role in the selection of sexual partners. MHC is a group of genes that codes proteins, present on the surfaces of cells, that help the immune system recognize foreign substances. You know, the same genes that are responsible for activating your immune system after an organ transplant.”
“You’re talking about rejection?” Jennifer asked.
“Exactly. The human body is made to reject foreign tissue. It doesn’t like it and tries to discard it when exposed to it. MHC, or as they are called in humans, HLA, Human Leukocyte Antigen, determines if your body likes or dislikes something external. Like a code for compatibility. If you have the same coded HLA genes, you are compatible.”
“And the bags?” Jennifer asked.
“Yes, the bags.” The doctor put them on the table between the two of them. “The experiment went something like this. A group of men wore the same T-shirt for two days and nights, without having used anything like deodorant or scented soap. After two days, the shirts were anonymously presented to a group of women, who were asked to smell them and point to the one they preferred. Now, from both groups, the HLA codes were determined before the experiment. When the women made their choice of a preferred sweaty T-shirt, it showed remarkable results. Most of the woman chose a shirt close to their own HLA. So, the experiment suggested that, at least in part, we can smell compatibility of potential partners.”
“Like an ancient caveman smelling a woman before clubbing her on the head to mate with her.”
“A crude analogy, but correct,” Dr. Ahlström confirmed. “It’s a talent we’re not accustomed to using consciously anymore.”
Jennifer looked at the bags again. “You said you had a variation of the experiment for me here today?”
“Yes. In these bags are T-shirts worn by people, uh, let’s say of different stature. What I want you to do is smell the shirts and describe to me, or write down some key words, what you feel.”
“We’re going to measure my... HLA, you called it?”
“No, but if your Jacobson’s organ develops in the way we suspect it does, you might smell certain emotions, or trades, that belong to the persons who wore the shirts.”
“And if my description of the persons is more or less correct....” Jennifer paused for a long moment.
“We just might be one step closer to proving that the modified G2 quiescent stem cells in your brain indeed devolve your Jacobson’s organ to a more primeval state. So, what do you say, shall we?”
“On one condition,” Jennifer agreed, causing Dr. Ahlström to squint. Up until now, Jennifer had always been keen on working with her, experimenting on her development. “If I am to work with you on this experiment, I need you to help me with something.”
Dr. Ahlström sighed and leaned back into her chair. “I’m not sure if I can help you, but if I can.”
“That’s all I ask of you.”
“All right then.” Dr. Ahlström handed her the first bag.
Jennifer opened it and took out an orange T-shirt. She brought it to her face and gently sniffed it.
“You need to really dig in, girl.”
“Really?” Jennifer said reluctantly.
The doctor nodded.
“Okay then.” She pushed her face into the shirt and took a big sniff. The doctor pushed a pen and piece of paper toward her as she pulled the shirt away from her face.
“Now, please write down the first words that come to mind.”
Jennifer wrote down a few words while the doctor opened the next bag and handed the next shirt to her.
This time Jennifer was less reluctant and took deep breaths from the shirt. After a few seconds, she put it down and quickly wrote some words. With every shirt, she spent less time sniffing, and with number five, she took only a superficial whiff and put it away and wrote.
“You’re sure that’s enough?” Dr. Ahlström asked.
“I think I’m getting better at this, so yeah, I think I’ve got it.”
“All right. Let’s see what you got then. What do you have with number one?”
Jennifer looked at the paper. “Number one. Sympathetic, loving, caring, friend, as in someone I feel I could be friends with.”
The doctor smiled. “The first shirt was worn by Bjorn Daniels, who won the Abraham Horwitz Humanitarian Award last year for his work with homeless people in the United States.”
“Smells like a nice guy.”
“Okay, the second one?”
“The second one. Yes, brrr.” She shook her shoulders. “I felt fear—my fear, not his or hers—anger, but also despair.”
“That one belonged to a man whose name I don’t know. He is a convicted felon who sits on death row somewhere in Texas. That’s two for two. Number three?”
“That one puzzled me. I wrote ‘warm, a bit scary and confusing at the same time.’”
Dr. Ahlström laughed out loud. “That doesn’t surprise me at all.”
“What is it?”
“This one”—the doctor picked up the white shirt—“belonged to Dembe. He refused to wear any color other than white.”
“Dembe?” Jennifer asked.
“Yes, I’m sorry.” She couldn’t stop laughing. “Dembe is a chimpanzee.”
Jennifer frowned, and then grinned. “That explains it. Apes always scare me a bit.”
“But you’re still doing great. Two more to go.”
“Yes, the fourth one gave me a scare. I found it hard to write it in a single word, but fear was the first word that came to mind. I also felt great despair and anger. This one I wanted to put away as fast as I could, yet I also felt sympathetic.”
Dr. Ahlström nodded. “I understand. This one was worn by a woman who had terminal cancer. She died shortly after wearing the shirt.”
“Oh, my God,” Jennifer uttered.
“I’m sorry. We looked for people with strong divergent emotions to get the best results possible from our experiment. And I must say I’m amazed as to how your observations are spot-on. Only one more to go.”
“Okay, let’s get this over with. All these different emotions and explanations make me kind of nauseous. For the final one, I wrote ‘danger, distrust, doubt, vulnerable.’”
“Okay.” The doctor bit her lip. “That’s a good one, I guess. For this last one, I asked our benefactor, Eldin Mulder, to donate a shirt worn for two days.”
Jennifer’s face flushed. “So, what does that mean?”
“Don’t worry. It only means I’ll have to choose my words carefully when writing my daily report. I’ll be discrete.”
“Thank you.”
“Not a problem. I know how he can sometimes get, and there’s no need to um... let’s say, stimulate one of his moods.”
“Thanks again.” Jennifer folded her hands in front of her face. “Now, about that favor.”
“Yes, what can I do for you?”
“Dr. Ahlström—Cotrina—you must be aware of me being kept here against my will.” Jennifer paused for a long moment to wait for a reaction, but none came. “Don’t get me wrong. Everyone is very kind, and it looks like I have all the freedom I need, but there’s nowhere to go, and I’m not allowed to contact anyone. You are the only one I can sort of trust, and I sense that you’re a decent person with integrity. I mean, surely you can’t condone Eldin Mulder’s behavior in this?”
Dr. Ahlström thought for a moment. Every now and then—since she joined Mulder’s endeavor four years ago—she felt her work was on the edge of morality. And though she knew Mulder well enough to know he was a good man, she also noticed that of late, his drive blurred his vision. “He’s doing what he does to benefit mankind,” she replied.
“Do you know why I am having these experiences, these heightened senses? I mean, is it really a side effect of the modified G2 quiescent stem cells, or is it because of
something else? Did something else happen to me?” While asking, she tried to focus her senses on the doctor.
“What do you mean?”
Jennifer felt a sincere question. “In the hospital, they injected modified stem cells into my brain, which could account for the re-growth of my Jacobson’s organ. Another explanation could be there was something else added.”
“Something else?” the doctor asked.
“Something Mulder may have discovered out here on one of his expeditions. He told me that this expedition is about discovering how evolution works. I guess the big question is: what is he trying to do with the information acquired? What is he really trying to do or prove, and how far is he willing to go to prove it?”
“I’m not sure I can help you there,” the doctor replied. “I don’t know how, or with what, you were treated. I wasn’t there when you got the procedure. I only know that Mulder cares for you as more than just a test subject. I hope that you can sense that I’m telling you the truth.”
Jennifer felt a sincere response but didn’t react to the question. “Can you at least get me a working phone?”
The doctor took a deep breath. “I don’t think I can do that. There are only two satellite phones on-site. The site executive has one, and the other one is in Mulder’s possession. They’re both closely monitored, and every call is registered. Daily reports are checked for strange calls. I know they are sticklers about that. I’m not sure what they’re afraid of. I will help you where I can, but not with phones.”
“Then what do you suggest I do? “Jenifer asked.
“You said it yourself. Everybody is friendly, you’re treated well and you can walk the site freely. Why not ride it out? There’s nothing you can do, and in a short while, this will all be over.”
Jennifer tilted her head. “And then what happens?”
“I’m not sure, but I trust no harm will come to you.”
“Except maybe for being locked up and serve as a lab experiment.”
“How’s it going here?” asked Mulder, stepping inside the tent.
“Oh, um, we’re fine,” Dr. Ahlström answered. “We just finished the Wedekind experiment with amazing results. I’ll write a report and get it to you later today.”
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