The Moses Virus (5 page)

“Sounds very analytical.”

“Not really. I’ve had my best results when I’ve played my hunches—like a gambler in Vegas. I deal with fragments—often there’s no complete picture. Imagine a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing. It’s very practical. Also, the police academy in New York City has me lecture their detectives. I create a scenario and show them how to analyze the physical clues at the scene of the crime. ”

“Sherlock Stewart?” Alex joked.

Tom laughed. “Hardly, but it’s fun. I like working with the police. Right after the events of 9/11, I spent several weeks with the police in the rubble of the World Trade Towers helping to find and identify human remains. There was often so little left that all we had to go on were teeth and body fragments that yielded their DNA.”

“What a depressing experience that must have been,” Alex said.

“Identifying someone, however, gave that person’s family some sense of closure. That was satisfying. Oh, here’s something less gruesome. I’m also called by WNBC, Channel 4 News—when there’s some crime being reported on, either local or national. Chuck Scarborough, the veteran news anchor, interviews me for my opinion about the facts of the case. This makes me a minor, a very minor, television personality. It’s been interesting, however, and taken me into situations in which I wouldn’t have otherwise been involved.”

“You know,” Alex confessed, “I’ve never been able to help myself. When I saw actors and film equipment in the process of making a movie in New York City, I was one of the crowd who loved watching. And once or twice I went to NBC television broadcasts at their studios in Rockefeller Center.” She smiled. “I’m hooked. I’m intrigued by your ‘celebrity.’”

Tom laughed, but was very pleased by Alex’s interest in his ‘minor’ celebrity status.

They left Giolitti’s close to midnight and walked back to Alex’s house where they said good night.

“I had a wonderful evening,” Alex said. “I’m glad you suggested it.”

“We’ll do this again soon. I’ll be here for the rest of the summer.”

“I’d like that. Buona notte.”

Tom found a taxi near the Campo dè Fiori and told the driver to drop him at the piazza in front of the Hassler. It was a pleasant summer evening, and he was in a particularly good mood.

In the midst of his short ride to the top of the Spanish Steps, Tom checked his cell phone. There were many messages from reporters wanting to speak to him. He erased them all.

5

S
ometime after midnight, three men dressed entirely in black approached the locked gate outside the archaeological precinct on the Palatine Hill in the Roman Forum. With one movement of powerful steel cutters, the lock was removed. They opened the gate quietly and slipped in. Two carabinieri posted to guard the site, about twenty feet away, were smoking cigarettes and talking.

The intruders advanced quietly toward the guards. The intruders were prepared: two shots, fired silently from a sleek black pistol, struck the guards. The carabinieri looked surprised as they crumpled to the ground, unconscious as the fast-acting agent did its work. The intruder with the pistol said, “They’ll be out for at least two hours. Let’s get going.”

One of the three intruders stood guard over the fallen carabinieri while his two accomplices pushed aside the rock that covered the underground passage. They put on gas masks, dropped down into the tunnel, and began moving forward in the passageway. They had headlamps and moved without a word, reaching the large underground tiled room within minutes. The two men were searching for something in the now spotlessly clean—and empty—abandoned laboratory.

Despite their thorough efforts, they found nothing. Disappointed and anxious not to delay things too long, they turned and began to walk back to the beginning of the underground passageway and climbed up to the surface, empty handed.

“The boss won’t be happy,” the third intruder said. “What about them?” He pointed to the bodies of the two policemen.

“Just leave them there. Let’s go.”

At 6 a.m., two carabinieri walked up to relieve the night guards. The first thing they noticed was the open gate and the snapped lock.

Rushing up the hill to the American Academy site, they found the two guards, conscious now, sitting in the dirt, holding their heads.

“What happened?”

“We were attacked in the middle of the night.” The two carabinieri stood, brushed themselves off, and walked to the entrance of the passageway.

“Over here,” the other officer said. “Somebody moved the stone.”

Shining a flashlight into the passage below, they saw nothing out of order. One of the newly arrived carabinieri said, “We’ve been told to alert headquarters if we find anything suspicious.” With that he grabbed his cell phone and immediately called his supervisor.

Tom woke up early, exhausted. He hadn’t slept well.

A fragment of a dream he had had during the night flashed into his mind. It was an image of Doc’s and Eric’s contorted bodies. He had woken up in a sweat. Now, at 6:30 a.m., he forced himself to get up, shave, and go out for breakfast at the Hotel de la Ville. At the newsstand in the hotel, he picked up a copy of the
International Herald Tribune
. As he skimmed through the paper while he ate, he looked for any articles about the deaths in the Roman Forum. There was a short article with no new information, but a reference was made to speculation that there was more to the story than the Italian officials were admitting.

After all, the reporter had written, the Italian authorities had ordered a Hazmat team to the site, and Hazmat means hazardous materials.

Pleased, however, to be finding nothing new about himself in the article, Tom immersed himself in the depressing articles about the economic conditions in Europe.

“Un altro caffè, signore?” The waiter asked.

Tom looked at his watch. He’d better get moving to make his appointment at the Swiss Institute. He declined a second caffè, paid the check, and left to get a taxi.

At the front gate of the Swiss Institute, Tom gave his name and was immediately shown to the director’s office. Georges Lundell rose from his desk and walked toward Tom, extending his hand. He was tall, thin, with dark hair thinning on top. He wore brown horn-rimmed glasses with lenses that made his eyes look considerably larger than they were.

“I’m sorry for the death of your colleagues. It’s a sad affair for all of us.” He spoke English with a decidedly German accent.

“Thank you. It certainly was a shock.”

“So, how can I be of assistance? Caroline mentioned something about a research question.”

“I’m interested in the period when the Swiss Institute acted as custodian for the American Academy during the war. It would be helpful if I could see your annual reports for 1942 and 1943.”

Lundell seemed surprised. “May I ask the reason for your request? It is rather specific.”

“I’m doing some research into Academy history for the other trustees, especially the period during the war and shortly thereafter.”

“Yes, that was certainly a chaotic time. I’ll arrange for the reports to be brought to our research room on the second floor where you can read them without interruption. I’ll have my assistant escort you there. Please let me know if I can be of any other assistance.”

Lundell called his assistant—a sturdy brown-haired woman with an attractive face. He introduced Monica to Tom. Monica smiled, through lips covered with bright red lipstick. Her eyes were deep blue. She was cheerful, but Tom guessed she also had firm German training and would heroically do all her tasks.

“I appreciate your help,” Tom replied to Lundell as he and Monica left the director’s office.

After about twenty minutes waiting in the research room, Monica brought Tom the two official reports from 1942 and 1943 he had asked for. They were very detailed and confirmed that Lily Ross Taylor was in residence at the Swiss Institute, and that two representatives of the Vatican had visited the Institute in July 1943. Further, there were a few documents relating to the visit.

The first document was an official announcement from the director of the Swiss Institute that Cardinal Visconti would be there on July 30, 1943, at 3 p.m., a guest of Lily Ross Taylor, director pro tem of the American Academy in Rome.

The second document was a bit more cryptic. It read:

Memorandum for the File—Confidential:

On July 30, 1943, Cardinal Visconti, accompanied by a young priest, visited the Swiss Institute. They said that Pope Pius XII had sent them to visit the Institute but also the American Academy, which is under the protection of the Swiss. No reason other than Vatican business was offered. The director of the Swiss Institute and Miss Lily Ross Taylor of the American Academy, a guest of the Institute, accompanied Cardinal Visconti to the American Academy on the Janiculum Hill where Miss Taylor showed them through the buildings. They requested information about the large rooms in the basement of the main building. When they had completed their tour of the American Academy, the cardinal asked the director and his associates to keep his visit confidential.

Signed: Frederick Schumann, secretary

Odd, Tom thought. Why would a senior official of the Vatican be interested in the Academy’s cryptoporticus? Had the work order he had found in Doc’s papers been connected to this visit? There was also a signed photograph of the cardinal, Lily Ross Taylor, the director of the Swiss Institute, and a young, unidentified priest, all standing in the main receiving room of the Institute. The cardinal’s arms were inside his robe; he was standing erect, with no smile on his face. Visconti looked stern, totally businesslike. There was no humor in his face. On the other hand, the young priest, the Swiss director, and Lily Ross Taylor—the others in the picture—were captured by the camera laughing with each other, appearing to be having a good time talking.

Tom read through the rest of the records for that year and found nothing of import. Monica had been waiting for him to finish, sitting at a nearby table reading the day’s German newspaper. Tom signaled to her, and Monica came over. “Do you need any more documents?” she asked very politely.

“I’m finished,” Tom replied. “Dankeschön.”

“You speak German?” she asked.

“Ein bisschen.” Tom laughed.

Again, very politely, very efficiently, and with no trace of humor, Monica led the way back to Lundell’s office.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Lundell asked.

Tom replied that the reports had been helpful. “I learned that a Cardinal Visconti had visited your Institute and asked for a tour of the cryptoporticus of the main building of the American Academy. Do you know anything about this man Vi
sconti?”

“I do. Intriguing man, even frightening. Very austere. I’ve studied Vatican history, particularly the modern period. Cardinal Paolo Visconti was one of the most powerful cardinals—some say the most powerful man in the Vatican next to the Pope himself. He was called the ‘Red Pope,’ being a cardinal, and head of the PF.”

“PF?” Tom asked.

“He was the director of the Sacred Congregation for the Propagation of the Faith or the
Sacra Congregatio de Propaganda Fide
. Hence the nickname PF.”

“I’m not familiar with that organization.”

“It was founded in the seventeenth century, and it still exists today as the Congregation for the Evangelization of Peoples or
Congregatio pro Gentium Evangelizatione,
although it does most of its work out of the public eye. It is the agency in the Roman Curia originally meant to enforce Church practices around the world. Think of it as the Pope’s police force though its role has softened over the years. In 1901, the Pope commissioned the Pontifical Biblical Commission as one of its sub-agencies, responsible for investigating scholarship and archaeological discoveries that could in some way impact Church doctrine.”

“Why would the Pope send Visconti to visit the American Academy? The Academy has always been nondenominational.”

“It does seem out of the ordinary. I don’t know.”

Tom stood up, graciously thanked Lundell, who offered to make himself available any time Tom might want. In parting, Lundell said, “I’ve invited Caroline and the rest of the Academy to the Institute Saturday night. We thought it might help the Academy lighten up after the horror of recent events. We’re having a polka evening with a genuine polka band.”

Tom couldn’t suppress a grin at the thought of German-Swiss scholars dancing polkas.

Lundell seemed to take Tom’s grin as encouragement. “The band is quite good, and we’ll have plenty of beer and wine. Please accept my invitation for you to join us.”

Tom thanked Lundell for the invitation and shook hands with the director and left to return to his apartment.

His cell phone rang. “Signore Stewart, it is Lucia. Signora Sibelius asked me to remind you of Dr. Brown’s memorial service today at 4 p.m. There’s an Academy van leaving at 3 p.m., and there’s room on it if you’re planning to go.”

“Thank her for me, but I’ll make my way to the service on my own.”

“Also, a Father O’Boyle telephoned and asked me to give you his cell number. He’d like you to call him.”

Tom took down the number. “Thanks for the message.”

Tom dialed, and O’Boyle picked up after the second ring. Tom introduced himself and said, “What can I do for you?”

“Thank you for calling me back,” the man said in a soft Irish brogue. “I won’t take much of your time. It’s about the unfortunate incident in the Roman Forum. I’ve information, which may be extremely important to you. Could we meet? I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.”

Tom was puzzled at the urgency in O’Boyle’s voice. He didn’t sound like the good-natured librarian John Connor described.

“I’m rather busy today, Father O’Boyle. Perhaps later in the week.”

“Dr. Stewart, the sooner the better—as it’s a matter of some urgency. Would it be possible for us to meet sometime this evening? Perhaps around eight?”

“Yes, I can meet you then. Would this be at the Vatican?”

“No, not there,” he said quickly, then caught himself. “I’d prefer you meet me at the Jubilee Church.”

“I don’t know where it is,” said Tom.

“Jubilee is a new church, commissioned by Pope John Paul II for the Millennium Celebration. I’ll be in a pew halfway to the front of the church.”

“Give me the address, and I’ll get a taxi. How long a drive is—”

“No taxis. It’s too . . . expensive. Please let me give you the instructions by public transportation.” O’Boyle went on to tell Tom how to get there. It was complicated. “And, please come alone.”

O’Boyle hung up.

Tom had to admit he was very curious. Perhaps O’Boyle would shed some light on what had happened to Doc and Eric.

The Protestant Cemetery was located in southeastern Rome, at the Porta San Paolo alongside the pyramid built in 30 BC by a private citizen, Gaius Cestius, praetor and tribune of the people of Rome, as his tomb. It was a small-scale Egyptian-style marble-covered pyramid, the most unique mausoleum in Rome.

Tom had been to the Protestant Cemetery previously and found the grounds as beautiful as he remembered them, with its trimmed boxwood hedges under the shade of pines and the tall cypress trees mixed with green, well-watered lawns. A number of illustrious people were buried there, including English poets John Keats and Percy Bysshe Shelley. Tom was among a group of about a hundred friends and acquaintances of Doc’s, there to honor him. They gathered around a small hole in the ground, which had been dug to hold the bronze container carrying Doc’s ashes, and that would be covered by a marble plaque in his honor.

Several of Doc’s colleagues in archaeology from the American Academy presented short remarks on the life and achievements of their friend. Michael Lowell, a classical scholar at the American Academy and head of the Department of Classics at Brown University, read some poetry in Latin, which moved a number of those present to tears. Tom found his own rusty Latin was adequate to give him the gist of what Lowell had said, but not the nuances. He made a note to himself to practice reading some Latin poetry.

As Tom glanced around, looking at the crowd, he suddenly noticed two men in the shadows of a large cypress staring back at him. Tom turned away, but when he looked again, they were gone. Knowing that he was being watched was very disturbing to him—he didn’t like it at all. What could they want?

At the conclusion of the ceremony, Tom saw Caroline talking with an impeccably dressed, stunning blond woman. Beside her was a man who looked like a staid businessman in a sharp gray suit. Caroline motioned for Tom to join them.