by Jack Hyland
As Tom approached, all three stood up. Crystal smiled and extended her hand. “Good afternoon, Tom,” she said, fastening her gaze directly on Tom’s eyes. “You remember Robert Parker. He’s not only the head of Belagri’s foundation, he’s the senior executive in charge of our marketing and promotions. And this is our head of research, Dr. Ralph Winch.”
Tom shook hands with Parker and Winch, and then everyone sat down. Crystal asked Tom if he’d like something to drink. A young waiter named Pietro came over and presented everyone with menus and took their drink orders. “You’ll love the food here,” said Crystal with a big smile. “This place has been owned by the same family for a couple of generations. Our chef, Maria, is Pietro’s grandmother. The Belagri facility is located next to the grounds of Hadrian’s Villa, and our people eat here frequently.”
“It certainly is a lovely place,” Tom said.
Pietro returned to take their luncheon orders, then he withdrew into the kitchen. Crystal said, “Thanks for coming this far to meet with us. We are fortunate that we happen to be the only guests at the restaurant this afternoon. Do you know much about our company?”
“Only by reputation.”
“We’re the leading factor, worldwide, in biogenetic research in agriculture. Dr. Hermann Bailitz, our chairman and president, has a mission—to rid the world of hunger, but of course to do so at a profit. We develop modified seeds and related products that dramatically improve crop yields. After lunch, if you’d like, we can show you through our facility. We own facilities in each of the countries where we do business. Growing conditions vary enough that we need to test our products in each of these markets.”
“I’ve heard that Belagri is somewhat controversial.”
“Anyone on the cutting edge of science is,” Crystal replied smoothly. “Some people think we upset the natural balance by introducing genetically modified seeds. I assure you, our products are tested, retested, and tested again, and only made available when fully approved by all relevant official bodies.”
Pietro brought the first courses, after which the conversation turned to general topics including Tom’s study of forensic archaeology.
Pietro cleared the dishes, then brought cappuccinos or espressos for everyone, and a plate of complimentary amaretti cookies.
“I’m still a bit surprised by your company’s interest in archaeological excavation,” Tom said.
“As I mentioned,” Crystal said, “our chairman has a particular fascination with the ancient world. We support explorations all over the world. He is an amateur historian and firmly believes that the past informs the present . . . and the future.”
“An unusual position for the chairman of a global company to take.”
“Yes, he is quite an interesting man.”
“Still, Nero’s Golden House seems a bit outside your core business concerns. How could it inform your agricultural research?”
“There is much we can learn from the ancient world, so long as we remain open to the lessons of history,” Parker said.
“No disputing that,” Tom said.
Winch took over. He had steel gray eyes that stared coldly, directly, at Tom as he spoke. The tone of his voice was self-satisfied, as if he thoroughly enjoyed showing whomever he was talking to that he was the brightest person in the room. “The culture of the ancient Mayans produced a city on the top of a mountain—Machu Picchu, but the Mayans disappeared. Were they wiped out by disease, a virus? We don’t know. In our Old Testament, at the time of Moses, there was a virus or viruses that killed crops, animals, and humans.”
Tom felt himself tightening up inside at the mention of a killer virus. He also realized that Winch was watching him very carefully while he talked. Tom wondered if Winch had seen Tom react to the mention of viruses. Maybe, Tom thought, I’m overreacting.
Winch pedantically continued. “What kills crops and animals is as important to us as what heals or improves them. It would be a major advancement for Belagri and for the world to find out what happened at Machu Picchu or determine the nature of the biblical plagues to prevent them from ever happening again. I wonder, for example, what happened at your excavation in the Roman Forum. It’s hard to believe that the fuss is about a collapsed roof over the underground passage.”
Tom noticed that Winch was still observing him with piercing interest. Tom said nothing.
Before Winch could finish his rambling thoughts Crystal interjected, “Ralph has just given you a hypothetical example that illustrates our chairman’s interest in archaeology. Ralph’s division is responsible for following up on all leads that can help Belagri protect the global agricultural community and our interests.”
“I understand,” Tom said, agreeably. Then, ignoring Crystal’s efforts to change the subject, Tom decided he ought to smoke out what Winch was hinting at. “I’m interested, though, Dr. Winch, in your question regarding the Roman Forum. What did you have in mind?”
Winch replied, “Hazmat teams were dispatched to the site immediately. We read that the bodies were cremated—that’s an unusual precaution. The cause for the incident is said to be a collapsed tunnel, but press reports question the truth of that statement. What, Professor Stewart, is going on? It sounds to me like a cover-up for an escaped deadly virus. In the Roman Forum? Does that make any sense?”
Tom decided that he didn’t like Ralph Winch. The man had a staccato method of asking tough questions in a way that seemed meant to intimidate.
“Dr. Winch,” Tom said, “I’m totally in the dark about what happened to Doc Brown and his colleague. I’m sorry I can’t tell you any more—I’d like to know myself.”
Winch sat back, staring at Tom. He had a look of smug satisfaction on his face, which Tom concluded meant that Winch hadn’t believed anything he had said. Tom stared back.
Parker broke in to ease the tension, changing the subject.
“We admire your work in forensic archaeology, Dr. Stewart,” Parker said. “Am I correct that you are writing a new textbook?”
“Yes, but this tragedy at the Forum seems to be taking up a great deal of my time.”
“Regrettably. However, we would like to support your work at NYU. Your skills in forensics would be particularly useful in our attempts to derive knowledge from the past. If we could call upon you from time to time as a consultant, our foundation is prepared to make a sizable grant to your department at NYU.”
“That is quite generous,” Tom offered, “but I’m busy with my coursework and other consulting commitments. I’m not sure I could . . .”
“It would not be very time consuming. Perhaps an occasional peer review of our research reports,” Winch said. “And, any insight you can give us on special projects would be helpful. We had a similar arrangement with Professor Brown.”
“Approved by his department at Bryn Mawr, of course,” Crystal was quick to point out.
“It seems interesting. Of course I’ll need to check with my dean, Dr. Brad Phelps, first.”
“We understand. If you or your dean has any questions, we’d be glad to answer them,” Crystal said. “We have in mind a grant of $500,000 payable to NYU, spread over some mutually agreed period, such as five years.”
Tom was shocked—this was a huge sum of money. He reacted quickly. “I appreciate your most generous proposal. Let me think about it and speak with Brad. I’ll do this right away. Whom should I contact regarding my decision?”
“Please call me,” Crystal said. “Once we hear, we’ll forward the paperwork to Dr. Phelps.” She stood. The other men followed suit. “Now, would you like to visit our laboratory? You might find it interesting.”
“I’d like to.”
The hot summer sun filtered through the trees as they walked the short distance from the restaurant to a low stone building.
“Belagri has owned this building for some time,” Parker said. “We
also have several farms in this valley, which Belagri keeps under continuous cultivation. We grow crops from the latest Belagri seed collections, and we test new fertilizers. Our objective is to evaluate all of our products being sold into a given market, so that we know what each farmer’s expected results are likely to be.”
Parker and Winch excused themselves to return to company meetings being held in a conference room in Hotel Adriano. Crystal said she’d join them after she showed Tom around.
Crystal proceeded to the Belagri facility, walking through the glass doors that led into the building, and Tom followed. Tom was immediately impressed with the facility. Contrary to what anyone might have expected from the nondescript exterior, the inside was starkly modern, well lit, and hygienically clean. Technicians wore white lab coats. To one side, there was a bank of refrigerated units.
“Many of the seeds must be stratified—have a period of cold prior to placing them in the ground to sprout. We can also keep seeds in cold storage for long periods of time.”
As they continued the tour, Tom noticed that everything about the Belagri lab space was hyperprofessional, almost manically so. The five white-gowned Belagri employees were each introduced to him, by name, and each responded in a friendly way and explained their functions. They all spoke English.
“I’m impressed,” Tom said to Crystal. “While I don’t know much about this field, it certainly seems as if your work is first rate.”
Crystal smiled a warm smile and said, “Yes. We run a tight ship. This is one of our smaller facilities. But I did want you to see it. We do great work, despite what you might read in the press about us.”
Tom didn’t respond. He was thinking—what were you doing earlier this morning in Rome then . . . were you meeting with Dr. Pulesi?—but he held his tongue.
“Well, that’s about it,” she said, as they returned to the front entrance. “Unless you have any questions, I’ll let you return to Rome. I’ve got to get back to business.”
“Thanks for lunch and the tour. I’ll consider your offer and be back to you very soon.”
“Fine. You have my number. Have a safe drive back to the city.”
They shook hands, and Crystal walked back to the Hotel Adriano to join her colleagues, Parker and Winch. Tom watched her, a beautiful woman in a lemon-colored dress. A dangerous woman? He dropped that thought—he really had nothing to go on. Pulling out of the parking lot, Tom considered the meeting. “These people are slick, tough, corporate types, especially Winch. How much are they to be trusted?” He wondered now how Doc had dealt with them.
Then he returned to their offer. Tom was sure Brad Phelps would jump at the chance for the Belagri money. But was Belagri really sincere about being interested in his research in forensic archaeology, or was this a cover for their clear interest in what Doc Brown might have been killed by—a formidable virus? Pulesi had suggested certain groups might come after him. Was it possible that they were just trying to find out what he, Tom, knew?
8
Tom’s route back into Rome took him through the town of Tivoli and onto the autostrada. There was little traffic at this time of the afternoon. Once on the highway, no more than ten minutes passed, however, before he became aware that he was being followed by a black Fiat sedan with darkened windows. Each time he looked in his rearview mirror, he saw the Fiat several car lengths behind. As he focused on the car, he guessed it was identical to the Fiat that had followed Crystal as she had driven off after meeting with Pulesi. He corrected himself—after meeting with Pulesi or someone in his office.
Tom picked up speed and passed several cars. He watched as the Fiat did likewise. He tried this again, and the same pattern repeated itself. As he got closer to Rome, the traffic began to build. Tom started to weave in and out, but the black Fiat kept a close tail on him.
Tom took the next exit. The Fiat was right behind him.
“Damn.” Tom was in a part of Rome he didn’t know. He was now on local roads, heavy with traffic, without much room to maneuver. “What do they want?” Tom said aloud in irritation and frustration.
Almost as if to answer that question, the Fiat pulled up directly behind Tom, and then began bumping into the rear of the Lancia. Tom took a sharp right. The Fiat followed. They were in an old, industrial district. Wide streets. Narrow alleys. No traffic. Some abandoned buildings. Frantically, he looked for a way out. The Fiat accelerated and bumped him hard. He nearly lost control, but recovered. Out of the corner of his eye he spied an alley immediately to his left. He yanked the steering wheel to the left, and the Lancia’s tires screeched, and, barely avoiding concrete walls, he sped through the narrow road.
Tom checked his rearview mirror. No Fiat. They’d double back. He had to find a way out.
The alley dead-ended at railroad tracks. An unpaved road barely wide enough for a car to pass, ran along the tracks. He took it. The Lancia squeezed along the narrow path until he was past the next building, then he turned right into another alley, which, with one more right turn, led back to the main street. He turned and headed onto the autostrada, but the Fiat was waiting for him.
Tom saw a sign for central Rome and followed it. Soon, the street opened up to four lanes. Business and apartment buildings lined the street on both sides. He was back on major roads, which would take him into the center of Rome. Tom looked for a police car hoping he’d be pulled over, and thus spook his pursuer.
Tom began to weave back and forth across the four lanes, cutting ahead of car after car, darting in and out of the bus lanes as well.
The Fiat stuck with him.
Suddenly, he heard a siren. A police motorcycle was flashing its lights behind him on his left. “Thank God,” he said and moved over into the right shoulder of the road. As the traffic cop pulled over, Tom saw the Fiat speed by and disappear into the traffic.
He was never happier to get a ticket in his life.
Tom made his way back to the Academy, arriving at 6 p.m. Norm at the front gate recognized Caroline’s white Lancia and waved as Tom drove by and pulled into Caroline’s space.
Tom stopped at Caroline’s office. She was there and invited him in. “I’d like you to meet Ambassador George Wilson. You probably remember that the State Department leases one of our buildings—the Villa Richardson—for the U.S. Ambassador to the Holy See, and George has been our neighbor since his appointment.”
Tom extended his hand, and Wilson grabbed it. Tom was surprised how large the ambassador’s hands were, almost like those of a full-time farmer. Wilson exclaimed, “I’m so sorry about what happened at the Roman Forum. We all are.”
“Thanks,” replied Tom. “The newspapers won’t let go.”
“I know,” said Wilson. “Reporters are like that—eventually they’ll tire. Well, I must be off. Can’t keep God’s Vicar on Earth waiting. Tom, if you need any help, just call on me.”
With that, Wilson gave Caroline a kiss on both cheeks and walked out of her office. When Wilson had gone Tom said, “Here are the keys, but there’s bad news. A car bumped into me on the way back into Rome. I don’t think there’s much damage, but I want to look at it with you.”
“Forget it. That old Lancia has plenty of bruises from other skirmishes on Italian roads and streets. If you want me to look at it with you, let’s do that tomorrow because I’ve got a dinner I’ll be late to if I don’t run now.”
Caroline rushed off. Tom didn’t feel like going back to his apartment quite yet. His adrenaline was still in high gear. He wandered through the Academy’s salone, where several of the fellows were gathered around the pool table watching two fully engaged players. Others were sitting in chairs or on the sofas reading the daily newspapers. A couple of fellows were working at their computers. Tom went into the bar where he decided to have a cappuccino.
Michael Lowell, a classical scholar and fellow trustee, who had spoken at Doc Brown’s memorial
service, walked up to Tom. “How’s it going?” he asked solicitously.
“If you mean, am I enjoying being hounded by the press, no, I’m tired of it.”
“Well, as the Persian poet Attar of Nishapur wrote, ‘This too shall pass,’” Michael said.
“I hope so,” Tom replied. “Speaking of poetry, I was impressed that you moved everyone to tears at Doc’s service when you read Latin poetry. I’m sorry to say that most of what you said was over my head.”
“That’s Latin poetry for you,” Michael smiled. “Read it, and everyone will cry until you stop.”
Tom laughed, as did Michael, pleased with his joke. Then Tom asked Michael, “You’re a friend of Father O’Boyle, right? What’s his story?”
“No one knows, really,” Michael volunteered. “There are rumors he was on the fast track at the Vatican. But something went wrong—years ago—and he was sidelined to running the Vatican Libraries. No slouch of a job, either, but he was not part of the inner circle. He ran the Vatican Libraries exceedingly well. We all admire him. Why do you ask?”
Tom said, evasively, “No particular reason. We had a conversation, and I enjoyed meeting him—that’s all. It’s getting late. Guess I’ll head back to my apartment. Good night, Michael.”
Norm was still on duty at the Academy’s front gate and called a taxi for Tom. By 7:30 p.m., he was in a taxi on his way to his apartment, and he admitted to himself that he was exhausted.
Just before retiring, Tom sat at his desk, sipping a glass of wine and eating some grapes from the refrigerator. He e-mailed Brad Phelps in New York to get NYU’s reaction to his working with Belagri.
Brad,
At their request, I met with representatives of Belagri, an international genetic seed manufacturer. They supported Doc Brown’s dig and periodically consulted with him. They’ve offered $500,000 in funding over a five-year period to NYU if I give them advice from time to time on forensic archaeology. They’re known as a tough, litigious company, and a very successful one as well. The offer is generous—maybe too generous. I’m really not sure what their agenda is. I’m assuming NYU would like me to accept this, correct?