The Moses Virus (10 page)

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 darkened 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

W
hen 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.

As he ate, and afterward, as he left, Tom surveyed his surroundings, trying to identify who was spying on him. But no one stuck out. He was amused—the spies, who were certainly there, covered their presence completely. But his humor was dampened when he realized that this wasn’t a game—a sobering thought as he left through the revolving door at the front of the Hassler.

When Tom dropped in on Caroline in her office, she asked, “By the way, I forgot to ask you last evening, how did your lunch with the Belagri people go?”

“Well, they certainly seem to have money to spend. They offered to make a substantial grant if I agree to act as their consultant on certain historical research projects.”

“Seems a bit far afield for a global agribusiness.”

“I’ll bet Brad Phelps will say the same thing, but he’ll also conclude that he’s all for it.” Tom paused before he continued. “The grant seems straightforward enough, although it’s hard to know what they’re really after.”

Caroline nodded. “I’m sure they’re up to no good.”

Tom added, “By the way, I’d like to ask Lucia to set up a computer call for me. I’m doing some archaeological research.”

“Certainly,” Caroline said.

“Any news from the authorities about the investigation?” Tom asked.

“No. Pulesi is being very vague. But the number of calls from the media dried up yesterday. They seem to have lost interest, thank goodness. We can all get back to our lives.”

Except that I’m being stalked, Tom thought to himself. He wanted to check into some of the things O’Boyle had mentioned. As Tom left her office, he said to Caroline, “I think I’ll visit the library to do some homework.”

“Happy hunting.”

With Marina’s help, he gathered a few books about the Trajan aqueduct and water systems of ancient Rome. After his discovery in the aqueduct the day before, he had to find out more. One of the books he selected was an historical study on the sources for Rome’s water. There was a short summary of the Trajanic period in which it was stated that Trajan’s aqueduct was built during the first century and early part of the second century, from AD 98 to 117, channeling water from Lake Bracciano, twenty-five miles northwest of Rome. When the water reached the top of the Janiculum Hill, it fed watermills for grinding grain. The mills were later destroyed by the Ostrogoths when they severed the aqueduct in AD 537 during the first sacking of Rome.

More than a thousand years later, Camillo Borghese, on becoming Pope Paul V in 1605, proceeded to have the aqueduct rebuilt but altered its path slightly, so that water would be diverted to meet the Vatican’s needs, as well as to serve the suburbs west of the Tiber, which were suffering from a chronic shortage of water. The pope had a large fountain built near the top of the Janiculum Hill, just a short way down from the present position of the American Academy, to mark the success of the aqueduct’s restoration and to glorify himself. This fountain became known as the Acqua Paola. The diverted water served the Vatican, while the former main tunnel running down the Janiculum was abandoned. In Roman times this main aqueduct crossed the Tiber on a bridge and proceeded to the Trajan Baths near the Colosseum.

Tom focused on the Trajan Baths—could Visconti have wanted to use the abandoned aqueduct for more than a place to hide something? In order to build the secret lab near the Trajan Baths and the hidden chamber near the Academy, there would need to have been an unobtrusive way to move things between both places. The old aqueduct would be perfect. It would permit someone to transport material to and from the secret laboratory. But where was the entry point? Wasn’t the Academy too high profile to use for this purpose?

Looking at a map, it appeared that the likeliest place for the aqueduct to cross the Tiber River was the present Ponte Sisto, a footbridge, near Piazza Trilussa in Trastevere. There was a fountain in the piazza, and Tom learned that there were water pipes crossing over the Ponte Sisto. Where did that water come from? As he thought about it, Tom guessed that the abandoned aqueduct below the Acqua Paola probably contained a water pipe or pipes feeding the fountain in the Piazza Trilussa as well as feeding the flow of water to another fountain across the Ponte Sisto. He concluded that the downhill section of the abandoned aqueduct ended somewhere near the piazza and the last section of the Trajan aqueduct that began just across the Tiber.

Lucia texted Tom while he was in the library: “Darby Smith at the American University in Cairo will be ready to speak with you tomorrow morning at 10 a.m. Attached is the password you’ll need. There’s a computer in the office next to Caroline’s. Ciao.”

Tom texted his thanks. His time in the library had taken up the entire morning, and then some. He adjourned for lunch, sitting at one of the long tables in the courtyard. The sun lit up the cortile, baking everything in sight, but the tables were set in such a way as to be pleasantly in the shade. Tom happened to sit next to two landscape fellows who were planning to visit community gardens south of the city near the terminus of the ancient aqueducts carrying water into Rome. He took the opportunity to ask them about the construction of aqueducts, not mentioning his interest in Trajan’s. He was surprised to find that they were only vaguely aware there was an actual aqueduct forty feet directly under the tables where they were having lunch.

After a cappuccino at the Academy’s bar, Tom decided to take a field trip to test his theory about the path of Trajan’s aqueduct and where it crossed the Tiber. As he left the Academy to see where the aqueduct led, he called Alex to set the time and place for dinner. They agreed to meet at 8 p.m. at Otello’s in the alleyway off Via della Croce, not far from his apartment.

Leaving the Main Building of the Academy, Tom made a right turn onto Via Angelo Masina and walked to the end of the street, turned left and turned left again onto Via Garibaldi, passing the huge Acqua Paolo with its churning water spilling out of three great fountains, lit by lights, even though it was midafternoon. The descent toward the Tiber was steep as Tom walked the next hundred yards, turning right into Via di Porta San Pancrazio, which rejoined Via Garibaldi after another hundred yards. Tom realized his path roughly followed the path the aqueduct must have taken.

Via Garibaldi became Via di Santa Dorotea, which passed through Piazza di San Giovanni Della Malva and, after a left turn, into Piazza Trilussa. So far, so good, he thought.

Tom saw the modest fountain in the Piazza Trilussa and approached it. Standing with his back to the Tiber, Tom looked up at the Janiculum Hill. The end of the water pipe feeding the fountain had to be below one of the old streets leading off this side of the piazza. He spotted a small alley between two small buildings. An apartment house, about four stories high, painted a faded burnt Siena red, stood apart slightly from the next building, perhaps someone’s private home, which was made of stone and covered with ivy. Tom walked toward the alley, which went back the depth of the two buildings. At the alley’s end was a small stone structure no more than fifteen feet high, with a door marked with the insignia of Rome’s waterworks.

Bingo, Tom thought. He tried the door. In true Italian fashion, the door was not locked.

Seeing no one watching him, Tom opened the door and walked in. At the back of the modest building, there was a door of normal height, which Tom pulled open, revealing the end of a tunnel. The height of the tunnel was about the size of the aqueduct he had been in at the Academy. At ground level, two pipes emerged from the tunnel, each about eighteen inches in diameter, which then plunged into the floor and disappeared. Tom guessed that one of these went to the fountain nearby and the other fed the pipes crossing over the Ponte Sisto.

Tom smiled to himself. Trajan’s aqueduct ran under the Academy building, down the Janiculum, and crossed the Tiber. If he found the aqueduct on the other side of the river, he’d be able to follow it to the Trajan Baths, close to the underground lab.

Walking through the Piazza Trilussa, Tom crossed the Tiber on the Ponte Sisto, which was not as easy as it looked. As a walking bridge, it was devoid of car traffic, but it was filled with people sitting and talking. On the other side, at the end of the bridge, he noticed another small stone building marked with the same insignia. This time, however, there was a sign on the door. Tom translated the sign:

FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY. KEEP OUT BY ORDER OF THE MINISTRY OF ITALIAN CULTURAL PROPERTIES AND ACTIVITIES.

This must lead to the final section of the ancient aqueduct, Tom thought. Visconti and his team of workers could have used this obscure entry to come and go from the lab without being noticed. That explained the mystery of how he kept it secret. The pieces were all falling into place.

Lost in thought, he made his way back to his hotel. He checked his e-mail before getting ready to meet Alex. There was a message from Brad.

In the e-mail, Brad confessed to some reservations about Belagri’s reputation. He said, “They certainly have deep pockets. The proposal involves $500,000 in grant money. We can’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Tom. You know how tight the budgets are. In this economy, grant money is exceedingly hard to find.” Brad urged him to consider their offer very seriously.

Tom wasn’t entirely satisfied by Brad’s response, which seemed totally ready to take Belagri’s money. Worse, he thought, Brad is leaving me with making the decision.

Otello’s restaurant was busy when Tom arrived to meet Alex.

She was already there, waiting at a table in the garden. He waved and made his way over. Alex’s table was under a maze of grapevines that grew prolifically on a yellowing old Plexiglas roof, there to protect outdoor diners from the lunchtime sun and the occasional Roman rain.

“It’s good to see you,” she said as he sat down.

“Likewise. Otello’s nice, if a bit crowded.”

They ordered a bottle of wine and the special of the day.

“How has everything been going?” Alex asked.

Tom replied, “I’ve done some research today. But last evening after I put you in the taxi—something happened that made me very uneasy.”

Alex leaned forward, concerned. “Not again? Please tell me.”

“I was at the front door to my building, and two men closed in on me and demanded that I hand over something they claimed I have access to from the Roman Forum.”

Alex looked shocked. “First, someone almost runs you down in a car and then comes after you in the street. What’s going on?” She paused, then continued. “You told me Pulesi is now in charge of the investigation. I inquired about him—Dr. Stefano Pulesi, isn’t it? He’s the head investigator of the agency the government set up after 9/11 to prevent bioterrorism. That suggests that something very serious must have been discovered with Doc’s and Eric’s autopsies.”

Tom was startled by Alex’s statement. She had obviously been doing some investigation herself—which pleased him, even if what Alex had found out bothered him. He said, “I spoke with Pulesi yesterday. His investigation confirmed that Doc and Eric died from a powerful virus. They breathed it in from spores in the moss that was growing in the abandoned underground lab.”

“I see. So the green moss did play a role.” She looked worried and perplexed. “In any of my research, there hasn’t been a virus that acted that quickly in bringing about a person’s death since—”

Tom immediately finished her sentence: “The Spanish flu. That’s what Pulesi said and why he’s involved. Apparently, this virus is similar and could be even more potent. He’s alerted the Centers for Disease Control in the United States and its European counterparts. He’s certain some other groups know about the virus and want to get their hands on it.”

“Is this why Belagri approached you?” Alex asked.

“Probably.”

“What will you do?”

“NYU wants me to accept Belagri’s grant.”

“Where there’s grant money involved, there’re always strings attached.”

“I know,” Tom continued. “Alex,” he added, looking directly into her eyes, “I’m afraid there’s more to all of this than Belagri. With the car chase, and my being stalked—neither was likely Belagri.”

“Why not?”

“They barely knew me before lunch at Tivoli yesterday, and that was just moments before the car chase. Also, why offer me grant money and then harass me?”

“Good point. Then, who was it?”

Tom said, “I don’t know.”

Alex sat back in her chair, astonished. “If I’m going to help, I need to know everything.”

Tom replied, “I don’t want you dragged into this.”

“I’m already in it,” she said. “Talk.”

After Tom had finished giving Alex a full accounting of O’Boyle’s conversation with him—including the background of the Moses Virus, she said, “If you’re right and other groups are after the virus, shouldn’t you contact the Carabinieri?”