The Moses Virus

by Jack Hyland

  She placed the package in her leather bag and retraced her steps as quickly as she could back to the entrance. Alex spotted a taxi when she got out, hailed it, and went directly to the airport. She arrived in Geneva around 11:30 a.m., pleased with her efficiency and that of Alitalia Airlines.

  Once in the terminal, she went to the ladies’ room, where she pulled out her secret weapon: the blond wig. Pinning up her dark hair, she put on the wig in the mirror. Not bad, she thought. I wonder if Tom will recognize me?

  She called Tom from the car rental office. He gave her the address to the hotel, his room number, and the address of the bank. He told her to park the car near the bank and walk the short distance to his hotel to meet him. It would make it easier to leave the city if they needed to.

  She rented the car for two days, and within minutes was sitting behind the wheel of a gray, four-door Saab sedan. The agent gave her directions to the bank, and it took Alex fifteen minutes to locate 16 Rue de Hollande, where Sigmund Warburg’s bank was. She parked the car a block away from the bank’s front entrance, checked the directions on her iPhone, and walked to Tom’s hotel in no time. She passed Bailitz’s men who were still stationed across the street from the hotel’s front door, but what they saw was a striking blond woman walk into the hotel. And though they thought her beautiful, this blond woman did not match the photograph of Alex Cellini that they had with them.

  Alex asked the desk clerk to ring Tom’s room. He did, announcing to Tom that a woman was on her way up. The clerk looked at Alex, his eyebrow lifted in disapproval, nodding toward the elevator. “Third floor, first room on the right.”

  She knocked on Tom’s door.

  “Who is it?” Tom asked.

  “Alex.”

  The door opened swiftly, and Tom grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the room. “I’m so glad to see you,” he said, embracing her. They remained in an embrace, then kissed.

  “I like you as a blonde,” he said.

  She smiled. “So you do recognize me?” She laughed.

  “You must be exhausted,” Tom said.

  “I slept on the plane. But I’m starving.”

  “I thought you might be.” On the small table there were some sandwiches, fruit, and white wine.

  As Alex ate, Tom laid out his plan. Alex would go to the bank, just in case it was under surveillance by Bailitz’s men. Now that Bailitz knew Sigmund Warburg’s connection with the virus, it was logical to assume that the bank would be monitored. But few knew of Tom’s connection with Alex, and certainly none knew a blond Alex. Tom felt that Alex, rather than he, had a better chance to escape detection.

  Alex rehearsed her part of their agreed-upon plan. “After leaving the hotel, I retrace my steps, and go to Sigmund’s bank, Cordier, Warburg & Cie. I’ll ask for the managing director, Pierre Villechaise, to assist me. I’ll call you when I’m finished and have the contents of the safe-deposit box. You’ll meet me at the Saab. Here are the car keys.”

  “Exactly right. If we’re lucky, the canisters holding the virus will be in the box. If not, well, this has been a wild goose chase.”

  Alex said, “I know you’re reluctant to call anyone in to help us, because you don’t know who would be on our side. Still, wouldn’t it be prudent?”

  “I know you’re right, but everyone I’ve talked to has wound up dead. Let’s see what happens at the bank. I’d call Pulesi if I called anyone. Are you ready?”

  Alex showed no hesitation.

  “Okay,” Tom said, looking at his watch. “Showtime.”

  She took her purse as she prepared to leave and kissed Tom as he followed her to the door.

  “Good luck,” Tom said. “I couldn’t do this without you.”

  Alex walked by the reception desk. A new person was behind it and smiled at her. Alex smiled back and pushed through the front door.

  Alex took about ten minutes to arrive at the Rue de Hollande. Cordier, Warburg & Cie took up the entire block and was more imposing than she had remembered from her first view of it. She walked down the crowded street to the massive marble entrance, but didn’t notice the two men across the street watching the doorway.

  Alex went in the entrance of the bank. In front of her was a flight of steps up to the main lobby, which she took, arriving at a brightly lit large area, which had highly polished wood floors. A receptionist sat behind a glossy black granite desk, with a rank of telephone buttons in front of her to contact the officers of the bank. She looked up as Alex approached, politely, but not in an overly friendly manner. Alex identified herself and asked to see Pierre Villechaise.

  If the receptionist was surprised, she was too professional to show it. She asked Alex if she could help by telling Monsieur Villechaise what the purpose of her visit was. Alex replied that it was of a confidential nature, adding, “Please tell Monsieur Villechaise that Sigmund Warburg sent me.” The receptionist looked a little taken aback, but then called over a uniformed guard and asked him to escort Alex to one of the guest waiting rooms. Alex was quickly and efficiently placed in a small waiting room. The room had deep red linen on the walls, a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, an attractive wood table with inlaid top in the center of the room, a clock, and several innocuous oil paintings on the walls. There were three chairs placed around the table. The room exuded a quiet elegance. A few minutes later, Pierre Villechaise entered the room. He reminded Alex at once of Cary Grant. He was handsome, tall, and broad shouldered. He had black hair with some gray around the temples, and a dimple in his chin. He was tanned and had a warm smile.

  “Bonjour, Madame Cellini,” he said in French. “I am Pierre Villechaise.”

  Alex smiled and greeted him in French.

  “I was expecting an American professor,” he said smoothly.

  “He and I are working together,” Alex said, continuing in French.

  “Did you speak to Herr Warburg?” asked Alex.

  “Herr Warburg called—a day before he died—to alert me to expect someone who would want to see his safe-deposit box.”

  “Oh,” said Alex, masking her surprise with a smile.

  Villechaise then said, “Would you prefer I speak in Italian?”

  “Am I that obvious?” Alex asked.

  “No, of course not,” Villechaise replied, “I just thought I’d ask.”

  Villechaise turned extremely businesslike and asked, “You have the key and his letter, I presume?”

  Alex nodded and handed him the letter.

  Villechaise read it quickly. “I worked with Sigmund for a number of years before his retirement. He was a friend and a mentor.”

  Alex thanked him. “Along with the letter, he gave me this key.”

  “Yes, this is the key to one of our security boxes. Would you accompany me, please?” Villechaise said, leading the way down a different flight of steps to a large vault, one level below the street. The vault’s thick, oversized steel door was wide open, and there were two guards standing at attention in the room.

  Alex followed Villechaise up a very small step over the raised edge of the vault’s opening. Once inside the vault itself, Alex saw rank after rank of steel boxes set in the shining steel wall, each one with openings for two keys. Villechaise stopped before one group of boxes, took out a key from a lanyard he wore around his neck, and placed the key in its proper keyhole.

  “This safe-deposit box belonged to Sigmund for many years, though I never saw him open it. Please use your key on this lock.”

  Alex turned her key in its lock, and Villechaise turned his key. There was a click, and the door to the safe-deposit box swung open. Villechaise retrieved a long steel safe-deposit box. He carried it to one of the small rooms adjacent to the vault and placed it on the table inside.

  “I’ll wait for you outside. Just press the button on the table to let me know when you are finished.” He left, closin
g the door behind him.

  She opened its metal cover. Inside was a small black lacquered box. Too small for canisters of virus, she thought. There also was a small brass plate engraved with a twelve-digit number and what appeared to be a royal crest—probably the bank’s insignia, Alex thought. There was nothing more in the lacquered box. Alex put the box into her bag and the brass plate into her pocket. She pressed the button. Villechaise appeared almost immediately.

  “May I replace the safe-deposit box, Madame?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  He did so and turned to lead them out of the vault and into his office.

  “Is there any other way I can be of assistance?”

  “Actually, yes.” She produced the small metal plate and handed it to Villechaise. “Can you tell me what this might mean?”

  Villechaise looked concerned. “That’s a combination to a locked container in our most secure offsite facility.”

  “Offsite facility?” Alex asked.

  “Twenty years ago, we realized that some of our clients needed a facility that could hold larger objects of value. To accommodate them, we converted the vast dungeon area of the Chateau de Chillon into an underground vault. My colleague, Henri Brocard, is the general manager of our Chillon facility.”

  “I don’t know anything about Chillon.”

  “Chillon is a famous fortress, built a thousand years ago by the bishop of Geneva.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Forty miles from here, on the shore of Lake Geneva, at the eastern end of the lake, about two miles from Montreux. It’s big—more than a hundred buildings joined into one complex. And, popular, with over 300,000 visitors a year. But, with all the tourists, it provides the kind of anonymity that our clients require when they visit. We have an arrangement with the Swiss government where we act as conservator of the facility through a foundation set up for the purpose. In exchange, we have exclusive access to the underground dungeon through a private entrance behind the main building. It was used to transport prisoners secretly.”

  “How do I gain access to the facility?”

  “Normally, it’s highly restricted. An appointment needs to be made months in advance and the identity of the applicant checked thoroughly before access is allowed.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t wait that long. I’m in Geneva for a very short time.”

  “I see,” Villechaise said. “It’s against bank policy to let anyone who is not the principal owner gain access. I’m not sure I can—”

  “Monsieur Villechaise, I’m here on a matter of some urgency. Herr Warburg knew of my mission, and he surely was aware of your rules. I’m certain he gave me your name since he knew you’d help me. Unfortunately, it has turned out to be his last request.”

  Alex knew she was stretching the truth, but she had come this far and did not intend to fail. She looked straight at this bank manager and said, firmly, “Please,” and smiled again.

  Villechaise looked torn. Then he seemed to decide. “Sigmund was one of the most respected members of the Swiss banking community. I will make an exception. I will ask you to fill out a few forms first, however. Please give me your passport. And, I’ll need to keep his letter of introduction for the file.”

  “I’ll be more than happy to follow your procedure.”

  “My assistant will draw up the forms immediately. I’ll contact the director of the facility and let him know to expect you. I’ll explain the background of your unusual request. Brocard, like me, was also very fond of Sigmund Warburg.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you told Mr. Brocard that I’ll be accompanied by a colleague, Dr. Thomas Stewart. He met with Herr Warburg shortly before his death.”

  “That’s not a problem. Please wait here while I collect the papers. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Alex called Tom while she was waiting.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  “Smoothly, although we need to take a trip to another facility, the Chateau de Chillon.”

  “Warburg was more discreet than anyone imagined. How long before you’ll be finished with the formalities?”

  “Not more than fifteen to twenty minutes, I think,” replied Alex.

  “Good, I’ll meet you at the car.”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  Tom left the hotel by a back entrance, evading Bailitz’s men who were stationed across the street from the front of the hotel. Seven or eight minutes later, he arrived at the Saab, unlocked the car, and climbed in to wait for Alex, who joined him a few minutes later. Neither noticed that they had once again drawn the attention of Bailitz’s men. But this time, the men recognized Tom, and, by association, finally, Alex.

  Alex and Tom took off in the Saab, not realizing yet that they were being followed. As Tom negotiated the busy traffic, he asked Alex, “Do you know where we’re going?”

  “I looked it up on my phone. Once we get on the autobahn, we follow it along the shore of Lake Geneva. The entry to the autobahn will be on the right.”

  But abruptly, the traffic ahead came to a standstill.

  Tom honked the horn at the snarl of cars in front of him.

  “What’s the problem?” he said.

  “Looks like some kind of accident,” Alex said. “There’s a police car with flashing lights ahead.”

  Tom looked in the rearview mirror. There were a dozen cars lined up behind him. He couldn’t back up.

  “What time is the manager expecting us?”

  Alex replied, “Sometime today before closing. We’ve got time.”

  “What do we know about Chillon?” Tom asked.

  “Only what Villechaise said. Apparently, it’s one of the most popular tourist sites in Switzerland. It’s about a thousand years old. It used to be a fort, then served as prison. Cordier manages the facility through its foundation and has exclusive access to the underground dungeon. That’s where they keep the vault.”

  “Chillon seems like a brilliant move on Warburg’s part,” Tom said. “Top security masked by crowds of tourists. Let’s just hope it’s where he put the virus.”

  While they waited, Tom noticed a white BMW that was following them. When the traffic began to move again, he floored the accelerator. The BMW similarly kept pace. He knew he couldn’t lose his pursuers, but he could hold them at bay. It was a cat and mouse game, where Tom would pull ahead of the white BMW by passing cars in front of him, increasing the gap between the two cars. As soon as Tom had done this, the BMW would accelerate, gradually reducing the gap again.

  After about forty minutes of attempting to pull ahead of the Belagri car, there was a sign indicating that the Montreux turn-off was just ahead.

  Tom pulled off the autobahn onto the Montreux exit ramp. He followed the signs, which led to the large parking area at Chillon Castle. There were a dozen tourist buses in the parking area. There were also many passenger cars. Nearby, there loomed a gigantic castle, and beyond that the serene blue of Lake Geneva seeming to stretch out forever. In the distance, Tom saw a wooden passenger ship bearing additional tourists heading toward the castle.

  “Villechaise said there was a private entrance to the bank’s offices,” Alex said as Tom pulled into the main Chillon parking lot. “He said it was behind the main building.”

  Tom glanced to the left of the entrance and spotted a small road that looked like a service driveway leading behind the main building. “That must be it,” he said and turned onto the road. At the end was a very small parking area, hidden behind a stand of pine trees. He stopped and they got out of the car.

  Tom and Alex looked for the BMW.

  “Where do you think it went?” asked Alex. “Could we have lost them?”

  “I doubt it. The stakes are too high. We may have fooled them by coming to this remote parking area. They’ll cruise the main parking area and eventually find our car her
e. Let’s go in the bank.”

  Directly across from the lot was a small building made of the same granite as the castle. A door opened and a uniformed guard met them.

  “May I assist you?” he said.

  “Yes,” Alex said. “We have a meeting with Monsieur Brocard.”

  “Please follow me.” The guard closed the door, which immediately locked behind them.

  Once inside the building, the guard ushered them to a private elevator. He inserted a key and the elevator door opened.

  “The reception desk is on the bottom floor.”

  Tom and Alex entered the elevator. The doors shut automatically. Within seconds, the elevator stopped, its doors opening onto a spacious wood-paneled room. The floor was polished wood, made of wide boards of rich cherry. There was a modern granite reception desk that reminded Alex of the reception area in the main office of Cordier, Warburg in Geneva. An attractive young woman was sitting behind the reception desk and smiled as she asked how she might be of service.

  Alex introduced herself, saying that the managing director of the Geneva office, Pierre Villechaise, had arranged a meeting with Monsieur Henri Brocard. The receptionist seemed to be expecting them. She pushed a buzzer by her desk and almost immediately, a well-dressed man entered the reception area. He was in a gray suit but wore a thin maroon sweater under the jacket, despite this being a warm summer day.

  “Bonjour, Madame Cellini. I am Henri Brocard, manager of the Chillon Castle branch of Cordier, Warburg.” He spoke with a heavy French accent. “This must be your colleague, Dr. Stewart. It is a pleasure to meet you both. May I see your passports, please?” He checked them and handed them back.

  “Monsieur Brocard,” Alex said, “Monsieur Villechaise said that you would be able to assist us in retrieving an item stored here.”

  “I’m at your service. May I offer you some tea or coffee first?” Brocard asked politely.

  “Thanks,” Tom replied quickly, “but we’re rather in a hurry. Also, Monsieur Brocard, we’re being followed by two men. They may try to gain entrance to the bank. We would greatly appreciate it if they not be allowed in.”