The Moses Virus

by Jack Hyland

  “If a very few people knew, what would any of them do to keep the Church uninvolved?”

  O’Boyle answered immediately, “Your incident in the Sistine Chapel shows how long the Church’s memory is. Nothing will stop a two-thousand-year-old institution from defending itself against outsiders.”

  Tom asked, “What about another loose end? The German scientist who had been sick the day of the accident?”

  “He knew what had happened—his colleagues were dead, and the lab was treated as if it had vanished. There was only one option for him, and he took it.”

  Tom said, “He vanished, too, right?”

  “Out of sight. Out of the country—Switzerland, we heard. Then, after the war was over, we discovered he had turned up in Israel.”

  Tom now summed things up. “Ghastly story of a killer virus in a Vatican lab with a worldwide disaster narrowly averted. What’s more, as you’ve yourself said, there are some loose ends—the scientist gone to Israel, Visconti, or the pope’s secretary. You, too, are a loose end. So what, Father O’Boyle, does this have to do with me?”

  O’Boyle’s voice lowered to little more than a whisper. “A worldwide disaster, as you put it, may still be possible. And you, Tom, are in grave danger.”

  “Explain why,” Tom replied.

  “I hid the Moses Virus twice—first, right after the lab accident and, second, just before the Germans invaded Italy. I did my work well, and though the virus was never found, from time to time I’d awake in a cold sweat from a nightmare. A recurring dream. The world destroyed by some evil force that had found my hiding place, which stole the supply of the virus and set it loose in the world.”

  “But that never happened,” Tom said.

  “Not yet,” O’Boyle replied.

  “Pope Pius XII died in 1958 and took his part of this story to his grave—unless he left a secret diary of his time as pope. I don’t know if he had such a diary or not. Some popes have and some haven’t.

  “Three years later Visconti, an old man by then and retired, summoned me to his house. I had then been reassigned to the Vatican Libraries. I found him ill. He asked that I hear his confession, which I did. He was consumed with guilt about the Moses Virus. He asked me twice about the location of the supply of the virus and, twice, I told him. Did he tell anyone where it was? I don’t know.

  “At the end of my visit, he pressed a small envelope into my hand. It was sealed and inscribed in Latin, “Do Not Open Until My Death, Paolo Visconti.” He reminded me of my priestly oath of secrecy. Then, too weak to continue, he fell asleep before I could ask what it contained. Several days later, I read in the newspaper that he had died.”

  Tom realized that O’Boyle was under a great internal need to unburden himself of the secret that Visconti had shifted to O’Boyle’s shoulders. But it still wasn’t easy for him to tell this part of his story.

  O’Boyle continued, “That night, I opened the envelope. There was a bank check made out to me for several thousand dollars and a short note with a letter. The note said that the letter was addressed to a Swiss banker whom Pope Pius XII knew. I was asked by Visconti to contact this banker and say that Cardinal Visconti had been entrusted by Pope Pius XII before he died to ask a last request on the pope’s behalf. The request was for the banker to provide a secure resting place for ‘a Vatican treasure of immeasurable value.’ The note ended with further instructions regarding this ‘treasure.’”

  “The cache of the Moses Virus.”

  “Precisely,” O’Boyle said.

  “What did you do?”

  “I followed my instructions to the letter. The Swiss banker was only too happy to help as his bank had been given tens of millions of dollars of Vatican assets to manage. From then until now, I considered the matter closed. That is, until your colleagues met their horrible fates. The publicity and suspicion that the Italian government is covering up the escape of a powerful virus is being watched by a number of foreign governments.

  “How is this information about the supply of virus getting out?” Tom asked.

  O’Boyle scoffed. “The Italian government leaks its secrets like a sieve. Money changes hands, and news that the authorities are trying to downplay the event in the Roman Forum gets around. The word ‘dangerous virus’ is enough to alert groups in a number of countries. The stakes are huge—some will want to gain control for themselves, others will insist on possessing it to keep others from using it.”

  O’Boyle continued, “Perhaps the German scientist is still alive somewhere in Israel. Some group, somewhere, will assume there is a supply of the virus. This may explain the break-in of the underground lab the other night. Every group will connect you with Dr. Brown and will come after you to find out where the virus is.”

  O’Boyle took a deep breath. “You must for your own protection find and destroy the Moses Virus. The hunt is on then. You are the only public face connected to it.”

  Slowly Tom realized he was being given a mission by this old Irish priest. He suddenly felt the full force of his predicament. If he succeeded, he might live. He was suddenly afraid. “Tell me how to find this supply,” he said to O’Boyle. “I’d go to the Italian authorities, but—listening to you about how information gets out—I don’t know whom to trust. What’s more, I’m not sure what I’d tell the American authorities if I even knew whom to contact. Right now, I’ve learned what you’ve told me, but who would believe me? It all sounds preposterous.”

  At this moment, Tom heard some scuffling coming from the back of the church. He turned to see who made the noise. So did O’Boyle. In the back row, Tom spotted a lone figure sitting. This figure, a man, was looking at the ceiling, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t straining to hear everything being said. Tom recognized that he had seen this man before. It was the man with the limp, the man who had been on the trolley from the train station and then on the bus with him.

  O’Boyle stiffened. “I’ve already told you too much,” he said between clenched teeth. “I must be sure the information will be safe with you.”

  In exasperation, Tom said, “My friends and colleagues died from the Moses Virus. Others could be in jeopardy. You . . .”

  “I must pray on it further. God forgive me.” And with this Father O’Boyle rose and shook Tom’s hand. As he faced the altar, he bowed slightly, crossing himself. Then he walked somewhat unsteadily to the front of the Jubilee Church and out through a side door on the right-hand side.

  Tom remained behind for a few minutes, dumbfounded by what O’Boyle had told him. It explained a great deal. But what could he do now? Then Tom rose, walked to the back of the Jubilee Church. The man with the limp was gone. Strange, thought Tom, could he have followed me all the way from the Termini? Tom left the church through the door he had entered. Out on the stone plaza, he looked back at the Jubilee Church, rising in majesty, impressive in its grandeur.

  What irony, Tom thought, the Catholic Church is the source of hope and salvation for more than a billion people, yet it created a supply of the world’s most deadly virus, capable of killing millions. How could this be possible? Why wouldn’t O’Boyle help him find the virus?

  Tom retraced his steps, finding the trolley station with a car ready to begin its return trip to the main train station. He arrived in central Rome at the Termini and found a taxi at the stand, which took him back to his apartment. It was late, and yet he was too wired to sleep. He checked his e-mail. More reporters. There was also a message from Belagri, from Crystal Close’s assistant, with driving instructions to their facility at Hadrian’s Villa.

  Belagri, Tom puzzled, what brought them into the picture? He knew something about the company’s reputation—not good, but perhaps times had changed things. He Googled “Belagri.” The first two searches made clear to him that dealing with Belagri would not be straightforward.

  One article was entitled “Terminator Seeds.” It
reported that Belagri’s technology produced plants that had sterile seeds so that they would not flower or grow fruit after the initial planting, requiring customers to purchase new seed from Belagri for every planting. The article pointed out that opposition from environmental organizations arose from farmers’ dependency on Belagri seed, especially farmers in the third world who had few resources.

  The second article concerned Belagri’s “predatory” lawsuits. These accused Belagri of suing farmers to intimidate them and to defend its patents, particularly in the area of biotechnology, essentially to monopolize the market for its seeds around the world.

  So much for helping mankind, Tom thought. To him it was clear that Belagri had something else in mind, and it was not likely to be anything good for the world’s farmers.

  Before he turned off his computer, Tom quickly deleted the messages left by reporters, all asking for information, then sifted through his office e-mails. Most were routine until he found one from Brad Phelps, his department chair at New York University: “The news about Doc Brown and the excavation horrified us all. Please let me know what’s happening as soon as you can. Can we do anything to help you?”

  Tom typed a simple reply: “I’m still shocked by Doc Brown’s and Eric’s deaths. The police continue to investigate but say nothing. I’ll keep you posted on any further developments.”

  7

  Tom awoke early. It was a beautiful day, destined to be very hot, he thought. His terrace, however, was still cool, and he feasted on the luxury of looking out over the city. The red geraniums on the terrace loved the sun. “I guess they don’t get skin cancer,” he muttered, half out loud and fully in jest.

  His cell phone rang. “Pronto,” he said.

  “Dr. Stewart?” inquired a distinctly Italian voice with a strong accent. It reminded Tom of a Columbia classmate who had grown up in Naples. Very musical cadence.

  “This is Tom Stewart. Who is this? I don’t see any identifier on my telephone.”

  “Our calls are masked. Sorry. My name is Pulesi, Dr. Stefano Pulesi. I’m the chief investigator . . . ”

  “Aren’t you the senior director in charge of viruses and other communicable diseases?” Tom asked.

  “That’s what I’d like to speak to you about. Could we meet? Perhaps in my office?”

  “I can do that,” Tom replied. “Where do I go?”

  “We’re located in the Quirinal Palace.”

  “Isn’t that the official residence of the president?”

  “It is, but there are certain government offices here as well. If you walk from your apartment or from the Hotel de la Ville, along Via Sistina, down to Piazza Barberini, then up to the Quattro Fontane, turn right onto Via del Quirinale, the main entrance is midblock, opposite the refurbished stables. A ten minute walk—certainly no more than fifteen minutes. Or, you can take a taxi.”

  Tom asked, “How do you know where I’m living?”

  Pulesi laughed. “We make a point of knowing as much as we can.”

  “Like where I live and where I eat my breakfast?”

  “That, too, although I am surprised you don’t go to the Hassler Hotel for breakfast—it’s closer,” Pulesi replied, pausing.

  Tom was shocked by how much Pulesi seemed to know.

  “Well,” Tom replied, “I prefer the Hotel de la Ville—it’s less formal.”

  Tom mulled over his next comment. Then he said, “Okay, I’ll come to your office.”

  “Fine,” Pulesi replied, “shall we say 9:30 a.m.?”

  “See you then.” Tom looked at his watch. It was 7:45 a.m. Time for breakfast at the Hotel de la Ville.

  Tom left his apartment building, walking up Via Gregoriana toward the Hassler. He looked to the left and right, but spotted no one suspicious. At breakfast he also looked around the room but saw no one observing him. Tom realized the irony—he was relieved because he couldn’t spot anyone obviously watching him. Yet, if he was in physical danger, perhaps being watched by the Italian government might be of some help to him. He concluded, I’ll never see them—they’re clever enough not to let me catch them tracking me.

  The International Herald Tribune had a follow-up article on Doc’s and Eric’s deaths. Eric’s parents had spoken angrily about the Italian government’s unauthorized cremation of their son’s body. The reporter conveyed his belief that the government was lying and covering up what happened. The fact that a group from the laboratories for communicable substances had shown up at the Roman Forum was enough evidence that a biological contaminant of some kind had been present. As was the cremation of the bodies. The article hinted at all of these factors, but at least it didn’t name Tom again.

  After breakfast, Tom set off down Via Sistina. Ten minutes later, about 9 a.m., Tom found himself standing in Quattro Fontane, at the crossroads of Via Sistina and Via del Quirinale. He immediately spotted the famous Borromini church, San Carlo. He was half an hour early. He found the front door locked and no one around. Typical, he thought, it’s supposed to be open and it’s closed to the public. Only in Italy.

  Tom proceeded down Via del Quirinale. Just before he came to the main entrance of the palace, he saw Bernini’s church, Sant’ Andrea al Quirinale. Since he was still early for his meeting with Pulesi, he walked in through the open front door of the church. He liked the interior but preferred Borromini’s San Carlo with its complex geometric forms. In the pews, as he passed by, were four musicians with string instruments preparing to rehearse.

  Tom had visited this church on a number of occasions. He remembered the fascinating black stone sculpture of Saint Stanislaus Kostka. Saint Kostka was shown either dead or dying. Tom felt an urge to visit the sculpture. He found it in a room upstairs. Tom imagined that the saint was sick with a fatal flu or virus—dressed in a black robe lying on a black marble bed. He studied the saint’s face. But no enlightenment came. Nothing telling him about the fates of Doc and Eric, either.

  Glancing at his watch, Tom knew he had to get to Pulesi’s office. As he returned to the main body of the church, Tom could see and hear the four musicians who were deep into rehearsal of a Bach piece. The music reverberated in the large space as sunlight streamed in from windows high above the altar. The beams from the sun caught the specks of dust in the air and gave the appearance of tangible shafts of light landing on the musicians and on the empty pews. Tom was struck by the peacefulness of the moment, especially when contrasted with the disruption of his own life.

  Tom emerged from the Bernini church at 9:25 a.m. He stood at the top of the steps looking some yards away, across the street, to the front entrance of the Quirinal Palace. He was about to descend the church steps when he was stopped by the startling image of a stunning blonde leaving the Quirinal Palace entrance in a bright, lemon-colored dress. He looked more closely, almost transfixed. He wasn’t sure, but the woman seemed a lot like the Belagri officer Caroline had introduced him to at the Protestant Cemetery. If it was she—Crystal Close—could she be visiting Pulesi, and, if so, why?

  Tom stood still. He watched the woman in the lemon-colored dress. He felt like an eavesdropper or stalker. She was waiting, looking first to her left and then to her right. She’s impatient, Tom thought. Abruptly, almost in front of him, a dark blue Fiat limousine pulled out from the curb and drove toward her. Tom remained transfixed. He didn’t think she had seen him. The woman—surely it was Crystal—got into the car, and it merged into the traffic.

  Tom had seen the whole pageant and now started down the steps of the church. But there was more to come. A sleek black Fiat with darkened windows emerged out of nowhere and quickly followed the blue limousine. Tom was mystified by what he had seen, but had no explanation. He crossed the street and headed toward his meeting.

  At precisely 9:30 a.m., Tom entered the address that Pulesi had given him. It was in the midst of the vast sweep of offices in the Quirinal complex. He
was immediately shown into Pulesi’s office.

  Dr. Stefano Pulesi rose from his desk as Tom entered. He was a tall, slim man with dark hair, an aquiline nose, and a warm smile. He had dimples on both cheeks when he smiled, which Tom found disarming. Pulesi wore a business suit.

  “Welcome, Dr. Stewart. I’m glad to meet you,” Pulesi said and thrust his hand forward, giving Tom a firm handshake. For all of Caroline’s talk of Italian bureaucrats, Pulesi seemed very different to Tom.

  Pulesi continued. “Let me get down to business. Lieutenant Gabrielli has told me about his conversation with you and Director Sibelius.”

  Tom said, “We were surprised to hear that your agency is involved.”

  Pulesi paused. “As you know, the official story is that your colleagues were killed by a cave-in. In fact, we believe that they were killed by a highly toxic virus. So toxic, the only parallel we know is the Spanish flu of 1918 to 1919. That virus caused a pandemic that spread around the world, killing as many as 50 million people—3 percent of the world’s population. This virus could be worse, and it seems it may have been manufactured in quantity in the underground lab where the bodies were found.”

  Tom was shocked into silence. Fifty million repeated itself like a drumbeat in his brain. Father O’Boyle’s concerns mingled with the idea of vast numbers of victims. The image of the dead in lab coats in the underground room presented itself. As these images collided, Tom began to get hold of them.

  “What’s happened to the skeletal remains that were also in the lab?”

  “We’ve removed them,” replied Pulesi.

  “Why do you think the dead bodies were there?”

  Pulesi said, “Maybe an experiment gone disastrously wrong.”

  “But why would anyone put a lab underground in an ancient building in the Roman Forum?” Tom asked, trying to see how much Pulesi knew.

  “Secrecy, for one thing—nobody would ever suspect an underground lab in the Roman Forum. And also, deniability. A lab in the Roman Forum would be difficult to trace . . . to the Vatican, or to anyone else.”