The Moses Virus (12 page)

“Belagri has a reputation for being highly secretive. Did they ever tell you what they hoped to do with what they found?”

“They told us nothing,” Darby said.

Tom said, “Did you get the million dollars?”

“The first installment—the rest is payable over five years.”

“Darby, I’m very grateful for your time and explanations. Your information has been extremely helpful. Many thanks.”

Darby replied, “I won’t ask you any questions about the details of the Roman Forum tragedy, though I’m very curious.”

“Thanks. I’m under restrictions not to talk about what happened,” said Tom.

“Fill me in when you can. Next time, why not come to Luxor? I’d like to show you around in person. And, if you come up with an explanation for the eleventh plague, let me know.”

“I will. Until I can get to Egypt,” Tom concluded, “thanks again.”

11

A
lmost immediately after his conversation with Darby Smith, Tom was interrupted by a telephone call. It was Ambassador Wilson, whose big, hearty voice projected even over the telephone. “I enjoyed meeting you at Caroline’s office. Could we get together? I’d like to introduce you to one of my colleagues in the Vatican. It’s about the events in the Roman Forum.”

“Meet with me? Certainly, I’d welcome a meeting,” Tom said, somewhat surprised.

“Would later today be possible?”

“Where and when would you like?”

“Let’s meet at St. Peter’s Basilica. Come to the Bronze Doors. Knock and you’ll be taken to the front desk, and there’ll be someone there to escort you. Is 4:30 p.m. okay?”

“Yes,” Tom replied, “but I’m not sure where the Bronze Doors are.”

“I’m sorry,” laughed Ambassador Wilson. “As you face St. Peter’s, look to the right at the end of the Bernini columns, and you’ll see big ceremonial bronze doors—these are called the Portone di Bronzo. This is where visiting royalty used to enter the Vatican palace to meet with the pope. It’s an imposing entrance, but a great shortcut to our meeting. See you then.”

Tom remained seated in front of the computer going over what he had learned from Doc Smith. Caroline entered the room with a worried look on her face. “Tom, did you know that Father O’Boyle died two nights ago?”

“Died? Are you sure?” Tom asked, a shiver running down his spine. “What happened?”

“He was found by his landlady early yesterday morning, in his apartment, dead—apparently of a heart attack. No warning—he wasn’t sick. He has no immediate family. It’s very sad. Doc was very fond of him, as are most of our scholars.”

Tom nodded. “I’m sorry—I only barely knew him.”

Tom’s mind was racing at the news. He had hoped to persuade O’Boyle to give him the missing piece to the puzzle of the Moses Virus. How would he find out the name of the Swiss banker now?

Caroline continued. “Have you heard anything more about the investigation? Pulesi hasn’t responded to my efforts to reach him.” She sighed. “It’s just like the rest of the city government here. Everything gets so wound up in red tape, nothing ever gets done.”

Tom changed the subject. “Have the Belagri people contacted you?”

“Yes, I heard from their foundation. They faxed me the additional paperwork. At least they’re efficient, although I don’t know how I’ll be able to help them if the dig stays closed.”

“I’d guess that the Academy will be allowed to reopen the excavation once the official investigation is closed. On a different topic, I had a computer meltdown last evening.”

“What about the loss of your manuscript? You must be panicking!” Caroline said.

“I’m fine—at least I had my manuscript on a memory stick, which is intact. But I’d like to borrow an Academy computer to download and send some e-mails.”

“Of course. The one you just used for your archaeological research—use that for as long as you like.” Caroline’s cell phone rang. She glanced to see who the caller was. “Excuse me,” she said, “but I have to take this. Talk to you later.”

Tom logged onto his e-mail. Brad had left a message saying that he had cleared the concept of a relationship with Belagri with NYU’s administration and that Tom should proceed. “Thanks, Brad. Why am I not surprised?” Tom said to himself.

Looking through the rest of his messages, he was struck by one e-mail, whose subject was in Latin,
Pestilentia Moseia
. It was also, Tom noticed, untraceable. Tom felt a rising sense of excitement. Could O’Boyle have sent him the information he needed—and how did he do this if he was dead? The date on the e-mail was noon yesterday, delayed for some reason. He opened it immediately. The message was just a few words:

SIGMUND WARBURG

CORDIER, WARBURG, & CIE., GENEVA

May God Protect Us All

“O’Boyle.” Tom whistled under his breath. “It has to be O’Boyle’s work. He must have changed his mind and sent the note before he had a heart attack.” Tom Googled “Sigmund Warburg,” but only got articles on Warburg’s career in banking. He assumed that Cordier, Warburg was the name of his bank, found the address and telephone number, and called the office in Geneva.

“Sigmund Warburg, please.”

The bank telephone operator was exceedingly precise in her conversation with Tom. “Herr Warburg is no longer at this office. He retired several years ago.”

“It’s important that I speak to him on a business matter. Do you have a number where he can be reached?”

The operator paused. “I am sorry, but we are not permitted to give out the private contact information of our people. I may be able to give him a message, however.”

“Thank you. Please have him contact Dr. Thomas Stewart at this number as soon as possible. I am referred by Father Timothy O’Boyle.” He gave her his cell number.

“I will pass this message to my manager,” she replied courteously, then hung up.

Satisfied that he could do nothing more, Tom called Alex to see about his new place.

“It’s all set. I’ve even had your things sent over to your apartment at the hotel. You can get settled anytime. You are registered under the name John Jones. Clever, eh? No ID will be required.” She gave him the address.

“John Jones as an alias . . . not very original,” Tom said, amused. “But, good thinking. It’ll be harder for anyone to trace me.”

“Best I could do at the time.”

“Seriously, thanks. I’ll head over there after dark.”

“I’ll meet you there. There’s a little restaurant nearby where . . .”

“No. You’re been exposed too much already. If they’re following me, you’ll be a target also.”

Alex agreed. “Then when will I see you?”

“I’ll need to let you know. I may be going to Switzerland.”

“Switzerland?” Alex asked.

“Sorry,” Tom replied. “I’m going too fast. Caroline just told me that O’Boyle died last evening. Heart attack.”

Alex seemed shocked. “Dead? How will you find the virus?”

“I’ve received an e-mail—which O’Boyle must have managed to send just before he died.”

Alex sighed with relief. “With the banker’s name?”

“Both his name and that of his bank in Geneva.”

“Tom,” Alex seemed troubled. “You said heart attack. That can be faked. Do you think he was killed?”

“Possibly,” Tom replied. “I’d guess there’ll be an inquiry. I also tried to verify that it was O’Boyle who sent me the e-mail. But it was untraceable, though I’m sure he wrote it.”

“Father O’Boyle wasn’t sick, was he?”

“Not that I know of. I called the Swiss bank and asked that the banker contact me. If and when this man calls, I want to meet with him as soon as possible.”

“How sad—about O’Boyle. Please be careful. Let me know if I can help.”

“The first thing you can do is tell me where I can buy a new laptop.”

“That’s easy.” She gave him the name of a large electronics store in the business district. “But I hope that’s not the only way I can help.”

Tom smiled. “Hardly. I’ll call you later. Ciao.” He hung up.

Purchasing a new laptop turned out to be easier than he thought. There was a markdown on a Dell computer, which made buying one irresistible. Still, Tom seriously contemplated a MacBook Air, which was the best looking, thinnest computer he had seen, but he stayed away from it thinking that he still wasn’t free from another break-in, and he definitely did not want to lose it.

Tom took a cab part of the way to his new place, near a large piazza, and hailed a second taxi. He was determined to shake anyone trying to track him. He got out at the Termini, walked its length, deciding that it was truly the longest train station in Christendom. The hotel, which Alex’s friend owned, was located at 401 Via Giovanni Giolitti directly across the street from the Temple of Minerva. Tom saw that this ancient monument was in ruins, a beautiful hunk of bricks and broken arches.

Tom checked in at the front desk and was greeted by the owner’s nephew. They took the old elevator to the sixth floor, and the nephew opened the front door of his aunt’s apartment, handing the keys to Tom. The nephew was fastidious, and easily spent ten minutes showing Tom each cupboard and closet. The kitchen was fully stocked with basic supplies. Quietly, Tom took in all the details and couldn’t help smiling. It was a wonder—modest in size, with one bedroom, living room, kitchen, small office, and bathroom, but had been “done” in an over-the-top style as a Roman ruin. It had painted sky views on the ceiling, and, on the walls, crumbling bricks (all painted), faux marble sculptures of male and female torsos, and dozens of photographs of the owner with friends. The lighting was soft and dramatic. Yet, though all appeared real, it actually was accomplished with paint, pins, glue, and tape.

Despite the stage setting of the interior, when Tom was shown the view out the large plate glass windows, he saw there was a good reason for making the apartment a contemporary ruin. Across the street were the remains of the Temple of Minerva Medica—or, as the nephew said, “Minerva the Doctor.” To the left was the great train station with its tracks running south. The temple itself had been a large domed building, constructed with Roman brick. As the dome was gone, only parts of the arches were still standing. Tom was pleased at the apartment Alex had found for him. After the nephew left, Tom set up his new computer in the small office and brewed himself a cup of coffee on the small modern cooktop in the kitchen.

Around one in the afternoon, Tom descended the six flights, passed the reception desk, and walked to the corner of Via le Manzoni and Via Giovanni Giolitti. There was a small restaurant owned by the hotel where Tom had lunch. He studied a map while he ate so he could familiarize himself with the neighborhood. The apartment buildings around him gave evidence of a fairly modern, though nondescript, residential area. He looked around carefully as he exited, and seeing no one suspicious, felt relieved that for once he might be free from the surveillance of the past week.

He turned onto Via le Manzoni, a wide boulevard leading toward the Colosseum. He walked leisurely for about fifteen minutes when he passed the street where the San Clemente Church was located. Remembering that John Connor had called this church O’Boyle’s favorite haunt, Tom entered San Clemente. Tourists were wandering around on all levels. At the Mithraic temple, three levels down, he was impressed by the quietness and sanctity of the place. He sat on one of the stone benches and thought about Father O’Boyle. Had he been murdered? And, if so, by whom? But he found no answers here, and so Tom retraced his steps and continued on his walk.

From San Clemente, Tom went to the Colosseum and into the Roman Forum, observing guards standing in front of the iron gates on the Palatine Hill, behind which lay the archaeological excavation where Doc and Eric lost their lives. Tom could not avoid reliving the incidents that had turned his own life upside down.

Again and again, Tom checked to see if he’d been followed. He headed back toward his hotel. Once more on Manzoni, he saw a large supermarket where he picked up some coffee, soft drinks, cheese and crackers, and a couple bottles of white wine. And, on leaving, he saw that a few buildings away there was a gelato shop with an enormous variety of ice creams, two of which he bought to take back. He was at his apartment around 3 p.m. and thought he’d head to the Vatican. Before leaving, he called Alex and asked if she’d like to meet him and they’d walk over to St. Peter’s Square for his appointment with Ambassador Wilson.

“I know we’ve got to be careful about someone following us. But if you’re okay with meeting me, at least we’ll be in the crowds around Vatican City,” Tom cautioned.

Alex replied, “I’d like to get out. It’s a beautiful day, and I’ll be careful. Besides, I’ve been doing some homework on plagues and viruses, which I’d like to tell you about. Why don’t I meet you on the walking bridge over the Tiber near the Castel Sant’Angelo?”

“Sounds good,” said Tom, and he set off, taking a taxi part way, and a second taxi to the bridge.

Tom and Alex met on the Ponte Sant’Angelo. Alex was waiting midway across the bridge. “Do you see the statue on the top of the drum?” she asked after they had greeted each other.

“Yes. I’ve seen it dozens of times, but never thought much about it.”

“It’s the angel that answered Pope Gregory’s prayer for help when a major plague was devastating Rome in AD 590. Pope Gregory asked God for help. Saint Michael, the patron saint of doctors, appeared on top of the Castel Sant’Angelo, signaling God’s response to the pope’s prayer. Saint Michael is shown sheaving his sword, which signifies the ending of the plague.”

Tom said, “Okay, what can you tell me about plagues and killer viruses?”

Alex laughed, and proceeded. “You’re asking for it. The worst plague—until modern times—was the black death, which arrived by ship in Venice in October 1347. It was carried by rat-infected sailors from a Genoese colony called Kaffa on the Black Sea. Entire crews were infected, and some ships were found grounded on Italian shorelines with no one alive. Within eighteen months, one-third of Europe’s population was dead, somewhere on the order of 25 million people.”

Tom said, “I didn’t know it was that powerful.”

Alex replied, “It was horrible. I’ve found a short account written by an Italian named Agnolo di Tura.” Alex read from some pages she had Xeroxed and brought with her. “‘They died by the hundreds, both day and night, and all were thrown in ditches and covered with earth. And as soon as those ditches were filled, more were dug. And I, Agnolo di Tura, buried my five children with my own hands. And so many died that all believed it was the end of the world.’”

“That’s horrifying,” said Tom.

“And I’m not sure that the Spanish flu wasn’t worse,” said Alex. “I’ve been thinking. Suppose some group gets hold of the Moses Virus and sets it off? It could be far worse than the black plague. If the Moses Virus is as deadly as the Spanish flu, then the fallout is unthinkable.” Alex paused, contemplating the impact of a pandemic killer. “We’ve simply got to stop this from happening.”

Tom surprised himself. In the middle of the bridge, with countless numbers of people walking by, he took Alex in his arms. Her directness was compelling to him, and he felt, with her support, anything might be possible. He kissed her, and she welcomed it. “I’m so glad we met. I need you,” he said. Alex pulled her head back, smiled and said, “I’m glad, too.”