The Moses Virus

by Jack Hyland

  I’m also being hounded by reporters wanting information on the incident. And the attitude of the Italians is odd—the man in charge of the investigation as much as confirmed to me this morning that there’s a highly dangerous virus involved and that European and American government groups—and others as well—are nosing around trying to get their hands on a supply of this virus. Where this trail leads, I’ve no idea. I’m hoping the ruckus around the incident all dies down so I can focus on editing my book. Please give me your reaction to the Belagri grant proposal. Tom.

  Tom wanted to pursue two names Father O’Boyle had mentioned—Imhotep the Younger and Charles Babcock, archaeologist. A quick search on the Internet revealed that Imhotep was chief architect for Ramesses II, one of the most powerful of all pharaohs, who ruled for the exceedingly long time of thirty-five years. Imhotep built cities, temples, and monuments, all for Ramesses II, and died at ninety years of age in 1213 BC. Imhotep was descended from Imhotep the Senior, the world’s first architect, who designed the step pyramid at Saqqara a thousand years earlier.

  For his work, Imhotep the Younger was treated like royalty, and when he died he was buried in a tomb befitting the most powerful priests.

  Tom discovered that there were unexplained mysterious aspects to Imhotep the Younger’s death. Remains of other human bodies were found in the tomb, all of which were discovered to be in contorted positions—as was Imhotep. His tomb lay undiscovered for 3,135 years, until Charles Babcock, an American archaeologist, came upon it by accident in 1922.

  There was an odd postscript. In the months after its discovery, Babcock was busy going through the artifacts in Imhotep’s tomb, making a record of his finds. Suddenly, without any warning, Babcock contracted an unknown disease and died within hours. His death was treated as a most sensitive matter by Egyptian authorities. At that time, there was a rumor going around of a pharaoh’s curse, which claimed the lives of a number of people associated with Tutankhamen’s tomb. Tom figured that the Egyptian authorities were trying to quell the pharaoh’s curse rumors.

  Tom paused in his research. Babcock, the American archaeologist, and Imhotep the architect, were connected by Babcock’s excavation in Luxor in 1922. So what O’Boyle may have been hinting at was for Tom to find out more about Imhotep’s tomb.

  Tom learned very little more about Babcock or Imhotep that seemed relevant. He was about to give up when he discovered a current reference to something found in Imhotep’s tomb.

  On February 20, 2011, Professor Darby Smith, American archaeologist teaching at the American School in Cairo, announced the restoration of a wall painting discovered in the tomb of ancient Egyptian architect, Imhotep the Younger. The restored wall painting, more than three thousand years old, displays Egypt reeling from the onslaught of the ten plagues visited on the country by Moses prior to Pharaoh Ramesses II agreeing to permit Moses to lead the Hebrews out of Egypt. Smith gave credit to the restoration to a team headed by his wife. The team worked for seven years to restore and interpret the wall painting.

  Tom checked his contact list on his iPhone. He still had Darby Smith’s e-mail address. Why not contact him?

  Tom immediately wrote the following e-mail:

  For Darby Smith—you may recall we met at the archaeological conference at the New York Hilton two years ago. I’ve read recently about your restoration of the wall painting from Imhotep’s tomb. Congratulations, by the way. For reasons I’ll explain, it’s important for me to understand something about what you and your team discovered. Could we talk by telephone? I’m in and around the American Academy in Rome, working on editing my new book. Kind regards, Tom Stewart, Professor of Forensic Archaeology, New York University.

  Tom sent this message off to Smith. Tom was playing a hunch, that Father O’Boyle’s suggestion that he should learn about Imhotep might provide insight into the origins and nature of the virus. Tom took a final sip from the wine, then, dressed only in his shorts and a T-shirt, he went out of his apartment onto his terrace. Rome spread out before him as if he was at the rim of a huge valley of twinkling lights. He filled the watering can and enjoyed walking around from one geranium box to another under the starry sky as he fed the plants. When this was done, having saved the best thing for the last, he called Alex.

  “Hi—it’s Tom.”

  Alex laughed. “I know. How are things going?”

  Suddenly, Tom’s fatigue vanished. “Are you interested in a night-cap?”

  “Maybe,” Alex replied. “Where?”

  Tom took no time to reply. “The roof restaurant of the Hassler. The views are spectacular—it’s a beautiful evening. We can have some snacks and wine. And, I’ll tell you about my encounter with Crystal . . . ”

  Alex immediately responded, “Crystal—she’s that blonde who was standing with you at Doc’s memorial service?”

  Tom, surprised, replied, “You remember her?”

  “Tom. Of course. I didn’t know who she was, but how could I fail to notice her? That black dress she was wearing was the most provocative mourning outfit I’ve ever seen! She’s hardly what I’d call innocent or naïve.”

  “Appropriate then for a senior officer of Belagri—and, they offered me a grant.”

  “A grant? Okay,” Alex said, “that’s enough. I want to learn more. I’ll meet you in twenty minutes.”

  It was earlier in the evening at the Basilica of San Clemente near the Colosseum. There were a few tourists still in the upper church, and a bell had just rung to announce that it was time to leave. The night watchman began making his final rounds. He was alone, as was customary at this time of the evening. He enjoyed his job and felt that he intimately knew all three levels of the church’s famous history and would often tell his story to anyone who was willing to listen. He particularly liked his version of the story of St. Clement, the fourth pope, who ruled from AD 90 to 99, and was exiled to the Crimea and martyred after he was tied to an anchor and drowned.

  The watchman looked around again, seeing two tourists earnestly studying the mosaics. He sighed. There was no obvious person to tell his story to.

  “Nothing amiss,” he muttered to himself as he completed his survey of the ground floor of the twelfth-century church. He paused at his favorite fresco in the church depicting the legend of a boy found alive in St. Clement’s tomb beneath the Black Sea.

  Candles flickered in the stairway to the first lower level, which was once a fourth-century church. He’d blow these candles out for the night after he checked the still lower levels. For now, they lit his way.

  But as he made his way down, he noticed something different. “Strange,” he said, “there’s no reason for it, but the deeper I go, the less strength the candles seem to have.”

  The final flight of steps would take him to the catacombs level containing sixteen wall tombs, as well as the Temple of Mithras slaying the bull. The watchman was superstitious about this lowermost part of the church, this place where men used to meet in secret prior to Nero’s fire of AD 64, which had destroyed the area. Men had met in secret to practice Christianity or its rival religion, Mithras. There was a gap in one of the walls through which he could see the ancient Roman street.

  While the watchman was making his rounds, Father O’Boyle was sitting peacefully in one of his favorite places—on a stone bench in the anteroom of the Temple of Mithras. He knew that it was time to leave and was preparing to get up. He was surprised as a man in a dark business suit entered the temple, walked over, and sat beside him. Father O’Boyle did not recognize the man at all.

  The man in the black suit spoke. “Father O’Boyle?”

  “That’s correct. What can I do for you?”

  “It’s about your conversation at the Jubilee Church with Professor Stewart.”

  “Oh?” replied O’Boyle, suddenly concerned his talk with Tom Stewart had been overheard and reported.

  “I’ve been
sent to ask you some questions.”

  “It’s late, and I must be leaving. Perhaps another time,” O’Boyle said, hoping to end this exchange.

  The man rose, apparently willing to accede to O’Boyle’s request to be left alone, but as he did, the man touched Father O’Boyle on the shoulder. Father O’Boyle looked at the man and recoiled. The stranger held in his hand a gun and pointed it directly at O’Boyle. “Get up,” the man growled, his voice low. “We’re leaving. Say nothing to anyone or I’ll shoot them and you.”

  The watchman stopped in his tracks as he reached the lowest level, surprised to see two figures walking toward the stairs when normally everyone would have already departed. One of the men was clearly a priest, dressed in a cassock, walking slowly just in front of a man in a black suit. The man in the black suit walked with a slight limp.

  As the watchman moved toward them, he recognized the priest. It’s Father O’Boyle, he thought to himself. He’s always down here.

  The man in black guided Father O’Boyle up the stairs, and as they neared, the watchman saw the priest’s startled, wide-open eyes. Father O’Boyle sought to make eye contact with the watchman, but as the priest passed, he did so without saying a word. The watchman was puzzled—he expected O’Boyle at least to say good night to him. Instead, it was the man in black who bade him a good evening. He spoke with a strong accent, but one the watchman could not place. There was no friendly banter with Father O’Boyle as the watchman was accustomed to. He watched as the two men slowly made their way up the stairs.

  Then, because he still had his job to do, the watchman moved on.

  Tom switched into khakis and headed up the street to the Hassler. He had plenty of time to order a glass of wine, some olives, crackers, and peanuts. As he looked around, he saw that the roof restaurant was almost empty.

  In a darkened corner, there was a couple talking earnestly. The man looked American, middle-aged, wearing a suit. The woman who was talking very quietly to him was attractive, wearing a slightly too tight dress. What Tom could hear was a heavy Italian accent when the woman spoke. Tom imagined that she might be negotiating the price for spending some time with him.

  True to her word, Alex was there in exactly twenty minutes. Tom saw Alex leave the elevator. She walked toward him. He quietly admired this sharp-looking woman as she approached.

  He rose to greet her, offering her a seat with a panoramic view of the Eternal City. “I’m glad to see you,” Tom said, and Alex gave him a warm smile in return. “I’ve ordered you a a glass of white wine. Okay?”

  “Thanks. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like an accounting of your meeting with this company Belagri. And, of course, I’d like to hear more about Crystal. Do you know the company?”

  “Oddly enough, yes. When my grandfather died, my grandmother continued to run his farm in Illinois. It was 4,000 acres of corn alternating with soybeans on the flattest land you’ve ever seen. Flat all the way to the horizon in every direction. ”

  “Where in Illinois?”

  “On the outskirts of a small town in the middle of nowhere, called Teutopolis.”

  “What did this have to do with Belagri?”

  “It was Belagri seed that the farmers in the area used. The surrounding farms were vast compared to my grandmother’s property—hundreds of thousands of acres. Big businesses, really. The Belagri seeds were like a drug. Using them led to bigger, better crops. But each year the farmers had to reorder new seeds whose prices, set by Belagri, kept rising.

  “I remember my grandmother, who didn’t use Belagri seeds, telling me of small farmers caught in the ruthless cycle of dependence in good times and bad. These farmers were gradually squeezed out of business by the economics that made the largest farmers wealthy and kept Belagri rich.”

  Alex looked intently at Tom. “And you want to get into bed with this company?” she asked. Alex suddenly blushed, probably thinking that if she had paid more attention to her brain, she would have used a different image than “getting into bed.” She looked at Tom again. He had not reacted right away. Then he responded.

  “Not particularly, but I’m sure that my dean will push me to accept their offer. Grant money is not easy to come by, and they’ve offered an amount that will be difficult to turn down.”

  “How much?” Alex asked.

  “Five hundred thousand dollars.”

  Alex whistled softly in surprise. “I agree. No one would turn that down.”

  Tom then told her about the black Fiat with the darkened windows that tried to run him off the road on the way back into Rome.

  “You should report this incident,” she said, aghast.

  “I didn’t get the numbers on the license plate, nor do I have any idea who it might have been. And I’m not sure whom to trust.”

  “This horrifies me. Why not tell Caroline?”

  “I’ve already put the Academy in the spotlight with the newspapers mentioning my name and printing my picture.”

  “You had nothing to do with this. You and I just happened to be on the scene, and you were the senior person.”

  “Still,” Tom went on, “Caroline is concerned about negative press. The Academy doesn’t need it.”

  “You’ve got to be the judge. Your life is involved. You don’t know that someone may come after you again,” Alex said.

  After they finished their drinks and conversation, Alex suggested that it was time for her to be getting home. Tom paid the bill. As they walked toward the elevator, Tom noticed that the table, where the American and the Italian woman in the too-tight dress had been whispering to each other, was empty. Two glasses drained of their contents remained.

  Alex commented, “They’re gone—I’ll bet they’re in his room.”

  Surprised that she had noticed, Tom replied, “Think so? Will money change hands?”

  “You can be sure of it,” Alex said and laughed.

  Tom was amused that they had both observed the scene, though nothing had been said until now.

  They walked out of the hotel to the taxi stand. Tom put Alex in a cab and asked if she might like to have dinner the next night. “I’d like that very much. I’m free. Just tell me the time and place. Please watch out for Fiat sedans with darkened windows.”

  Tom said, “I will, and I’ll call you tomorrow.” Then he walked slowly back to his apartment. He was savoring the peacefulness of the evening, especially the warmth of his conversation with Alex. Her concern for his safety was reassuring and offset to some extent his own anxiety at what had been happening to him.

  As Tom approached his building, he saw two men standing on the sidewalk smoking cigarettes to the right of the front entrance. Not thinking anything of it, he took out his key and approached the door.

  “Dr. Stewart?” one of the men said, moving closer to block Tom’s way.

  Doing a double take, Tom was suddenly apprehensive. “Yes?” he replied warily.

  “We want what you’ve found.”

  “Found?” Tom said, “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

  One man pushed Tom against the apartment building wall. “The Roman Forum. There’s a supply of the stuff, and we’ve been sent to warn you that we want it, and that we’ll be back to get it.”

  “Look,” Tom said. “What’s this got to do with—”

  “Shut up,” the man said and backed off. “Have it your way. We’ll be back. And next time, we won’t ask so politely.”

  The two men walked away quickly and disappeared into the darkness. Shaken, Tom entered his apartment building. He took the elevator up to his apartment, quickly checked to make certain no one was inside, then locked and double-locked his front door; he also double-locked the door to his terrace.

  The shock of this encounter made Tom restive. As Alex had warned, another threat happened—this time with two men and no Fiat with darkene
d windows. How could they know about the virus? Or that there was a supply of it? And who were they? Could these two men have been sent by a group O’Boyle had speculated about? Why was he being pursued? Gradually, he calmed down and went to bed. He began to go over the turbulent events of the day and became overwhelmed with them. Eventually, sleep came and Tom recalled nothing further until he awoke the next morning.

  9

  When Tom checked his e-mails, there was a message from Darby Smith.

  Glad you’ve contacted me. I’d be delighted to show you what we’ve found in Imhotep’s tomb. I’d rather show you this in person, but, failing that, why don’t we talk tomorrow at 11 a.m.? I’ll assemble some photographs and an old video, which you can see on the Internet while I describe them. Have somebody at the Academy arrange for my call. By the way, I’ve been reading about you in the International Herald Tribune—publicity you probably don’t want. Sorry about that incident in the Forum—very puzzling.

  Puzzling, yes, Tom said to himself.

  Tom decided to have breakfast at the Hassler Hotel rather than the Hotel de la Ville. He told himself he wanted a change and admitted he wanted to see if Pulesi’s spies would figure it out. Also, he was curious.

  The stuffy nature of the staff in the Hassler lobby confirmed his preference for the Hotel de la Ville. But once in the dining room, he looked around at his fellow diners—they looked about the same as those at the Hotel de la Ville. Then, across the room, he spotted the American businessman, eating alone, engrossed in his copy of the International Herald Tribune. So, Tom said to himself, I guess his tryst is over. He began to look through his own copy of the paper. Fortunately, there were no references to the Roman Forum tragedy or to himself. After breakfast, Tom headed to the American Academy.