The Moses Virus (14 page)

Alex was quick to recognize Svenson’s name. “I’m interested,” she said, “in your having met the poster boy of the Catholic Church. Do you know he’s nicknamed by the Italian press as ‘Handsome Henrik’? Donatella Versace was so taken by him and his ‘elegant austerity’ that she made a line of men’s clothing featuring clerical collar–style black jackets. He’s been with the present pope as his private secretary for a good many years longer than the current pope has been in office.”

“Are you admitting you read American trash magazines?” Tom said. “How else would you pick up this stuff about Svenson?”

“You obviously don’t read Italian newspapers and magazines. Everyone knows about Svenson.” She laughed.

Tom told Alex about the tough lecture and warning Svenson had delivered.

Alex said, “The Church has survived for two thousand years. It is the world’s toughest bureaucracy. They won’t help you. But they will come after you if they think you’re a danger to them. Do you remember the statue of Giordano Bruno in the center of Campo dè Fiori? The Church had Bruno’s mouth nailed shut to keep him quiet. I hope they don’t do that to you!” she joked.

“I know you’re kidding, but my meeting with Svenson confirms my own suspicion,” said Tom. “I’ve added the Catholic Church as one more group to watch out for.”

As Alex passed through the Campo dè Fiori, she noticed that the tempo of activity had slowed, but not stopped. She spotted the somber statue of Bruno, and her conversation with Tom repeated itself in her mind. It was early evening, and the temperature had cooled. Those in the Campo dè Fiori seemed happy to be there with no cares in the world. But this was certainly not the case for Tom, who had this horrific event settle on his shoulders. She mulled this over as she turned the corner and entered the courtyard in front of the entrance to her house. No one was in the courtyard, but when she placed her key in the lock, she suddenly realized that it was unlocked.

Alex stopped. Enough had happened in the last few days to make her suspicious. She reassured herself, thinking, “Ana simply forgot to lock up when she left.” Half believing this, Alex opened the door. The kitchen was a mess, drawers pulled out, contents spilled. Then she saw something on the floor, across the room, partly obscured by a table.

Alex felt her heart throbbing throughout her body. Terror was rising within her. “What’s happened?” she said. She walked toward the table. As she drew closer, she realized that her housekeeper was lying behind the table, unconscious. Alex rushed to her, knelt down, and felt her throat to see if she had a pulse. There was a pulse, but it was weak.

Alex remained in possession of her senses. Stay calm, she counseled herself. Call for help. She telephoned the Rome emergency number. After she explained that her housekeeper was unconscious, she was told that someone would be there in five minutes.

She telephoned Tom, whose line was busy. Alex suddenly felt abandoned and alone. She thought she should search the rest of her house, but decided to stay put so she could be on hand when help arrived.

Almost immediately, her cell phone rang. Tom was cheerful. “Alex, did you just call?”

“Someone’s broken in, searched through my belongings, done something terrible to my housekeeper.”

“Is she okay? Ana, that’s her name, isn’t it?” Tom’s voice turned from one of good cheer to serious concern.

“Yes, it’s Ana. I’m not sure,” Alex said, “her breathing is shallow.”

Ana stirred, making a faint cry, then went totally silent. Alex said to Tom, “I’ll put you on hold. Something’s happened.” Ana had become deathly still and very pale. “Tom,” Alex cried, “she may be dead. Now what do I do?”

“Push down on her chest, then relax, then push and relax, in the same rhythm as breathing. That may help her breathe. I should be there is less than ten minutes.”

Very quickly, paramedics appeared at Alex’s front door. She let them in, telling them what little she knew. They administered oxygen to Ana and gave her a shot of adrenaline to her heart. Nothing happened. But, in thirty seconds, which seemed like an eternity, Ana’s body shuddered, and she began to breathe.

The paramedics lifted Ana onto a stretcher they had brought with them, then stood up and hurriedly told Alex they were taking Ana to the hospital. She—Alex—needed to stay to talk to the carabinieri who had been called by the paramedics.

“Are you comfortable staying here? You’re alone?” asked the senior paramedic.

“A friend is on his way over. He should be here momentarily.”

“I’ll have one of my men remain with you until your friend or the carabinieri arrive.”

“Where are you taking Ana?” Alex asked.

“San Giovanni—it’s the nearest hospital with a major emergency facility.”

Tom arrived, running from the taxi on the street into the courtyard to Alex’s house. Alex opened the door for him, and Tom grabbed Alex in an embrace. Alex pulled herself together. “I’m frightened for Ana’s life—she hasn’t done anything to deserve this. It must have something to do with whoever has been coming after you.”

Tom said, “I’m so sorry.” Then he repeated himself.

Two officers of the Carabinieri showed up. They were sympathetic with Alex’s condition, but they were insistent on learning what had happened. Alex told them what she knew. The carabinieri went upstairs to the upper part of Alex’s house. They came down again in a few minutes saying, “There’re signs of an intensive search, but no one is now in your house. We may find clues so it’s important we investigate for evidence. Could you come up with us?” one of them said to Alex. “We’d like to have you help us find out what’s missing.”

Alex agreed and went upstairs. Tom remained in the kitchen. While Alex was upstairs, Tom’s cell phone rang. Tom looked at it and recognized that Dr. Pulesi was calling.

“Tom,” Pulesi began, “I understand that Signora Cellini’s house has been broken into.”

“How in the world do you know this?” Tom asked with disquiet in his voice. “Oh, yes, I remember. You’ve been keeping tabs on us. Is there anyone else watching?”

“It’s likely. As you know, I’m keeping the U.S. Centers for Disease Control informed.”

“I remember.”

Pulesi went on. “This situation is getting out of control. Your apartment was broken into, then Signora Cellini’s, and now her housekeeper’s been attacked. I wanted you to know you can call me at any time. And I decided you’d better know we’re still watching what happens to you. The CDC is keenly interested and ready to help if you need it.”

Tom said, “Alex is coming downstairs, and I should get off the telephone.”

“Understood,” replied Pulesi. “Goodbye.”

Alex reentered the kitchen. “I can’t discover anything that was taken. It’s a mystery to me.”

Alex and Tom remained in her kitchen while the carabinieri finished up. Tom poured Alex and himself a glass of wine. He offered wine to the carabinieri, but they declined.

Alex gradually began to relax, shuddering from head to toe once or twice. To Tom she said, “I was panicked. I tried to contact you, but I couldn’t get through.”

Tom replied, “I was on my cell phone. Sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

“It’s not your fault,” Alex said. Then she added, “By the way, were you just on your cell phone? I thought I heard you talking when I was coming down the stairs.”

“I received a call from Pulesi.”

“Really? Isn’t that odd?”

“He said that he’d heard about the break-in and wanted to help if he could,” replied Tom.

“Wait a minute,” said Alex. “Just how did they know about the break-in?”

“It was a surprise to me,” Tom replied. “But, now it’s obvious that Pulesi’s group is watching our every move.”

“I don’t know whether to be angry or reassured,” Alex replied.

“A little of both, I guess,” Tom said.

The carabinieri told Alex and Tom that they’d leave an official car with two officers stationed on the street outside Alex’s house for the night.

After the carabinieri left, Tom asked, “What’s troubling you?”

Alex said, “It’s bewildering. I’m a part of the American Academy team on a simple, straightforward summer excavation in the Roman Forum. A totally innocent bystander. Something devastating happens that I have nothing to do with. Nothing. Nor do you. Suddenly, you’re pursued, hounded. Then I become pursued. What angers me is that Ana is attacked and hurt. I don’t even know if she’s going to be okay.”

“Why don’t I call the hospital to see what her condition is?” Tom asked.

“I’d love it, but I’d better do that. Your Italian is good, but I think I’ll have a better chance to get through whatever accent the person on the other end of the line has.”

It took half an hour of waiting for one person after another for Alex to find out that Ana’s condition was stable. She had been knocked unconscious but was making a quick recovery. She would be able to leave San Giovanni the next day.

Tom responded, “I’m so glad that there’s no serious harm to her.”

“Tom,” Alex said, astonished, “Do you think they would have killed her?”

Tom said, “Somebody wants the Moses Virus and will let nothing get in their way. Father O’Boyle died after I met with him—he knew where the Moses Virus was hidden, but wouldn’t tell anyone, not even me. The official cause of his death is heart attack. I’m not sure I buy that. If someone did kill O’Boyle, they still don’t have the virus, which may be why they came after us.”

Her demeanor began to change. Alex was growing angry. “This has gone too far.”

“The Vatican refuses to become involved, but they are. They know about the meeting I had with O’Boyle.”

“How could they have known that?” Alex asked.

“I don’t know. But O’Boyle’s death certainly is suspicious.”

Alex was quiet for a moment. “Tom, Pulesi’s call—you didn’t alert him? How did he find out about the break-in?”

“By tapping our telephones, I believe. Disconcerting, isn’t it?”

Alex blurted out, “That means Pulesi—and therefore the Italian authorities—have us under surveillance. They aren’t admitting anything, but they know more than I realized.” Alex went on. “Tom, the break-in to your apartment and mine. The attack on Ana. I assume they’re all connected?”

“I think so.”

“Do you know who would do this?” Alex asked. “I know we’ve talked about Belagri. Others?”

Tom said, “I thought the Vatican might be involved, but I think they’re trying to stay as far away from this as they can. I believe Belagri is definitely involved.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Alex commented. “Anyone else?”

“I don’t know,” Tom said. “I don’t think so, but I’m not sure.”

Alex was silent, thinking things over. Then she said, “Until we find the Moses Virus, we’re not safe.”

Tom replied, “You’re right.”

12

T
om left Alex’s house the next morning to pick up some croissants and a copy of the
International Herald Tribune
. As he walked back to Via del Pellegrino, Tom scanned the paper for stories on the Roman Forum. None, and that’s just fine, he thought. There was,
however, a short obituary on Father O’Boyle. Laudatory, Tom said to himself, and uninformed on some important aspects of his life that are better left unreported. Also, the gaps in the obituary—that was evidence of the long arm of the Vatican when it wanted to use its power.

After breakfast, Tom was about to leave Alex’s place to return to his room near the Temple of Minerva to get ready for his trip to Geneva. But, before he left, his cell phone beeped. Caroline was texting him. “O’Boyle’s memorial service at 11 a.m. today at San Clemente. He’s been cremated and his ashes will be placed in a vault near the Temple of Mithras.”

Tom replied, “Can’t go. I’ll be out of town. Tell Lucia I’m not fleeing the country, in case any reporters call.”

Caroline texted, “Always the joker, aren’t you. Talk to you when you’re back. Ciao.” On his way to the airport in a taxi, Tom realized that he shouldn’t go to O’Boyle’s service even if he were around. His appearance would surely draw attention to his connection with O’Boyle.

Tom arrived in Geneva about 12:30 p.m., a few minutes ahead of schedule. With no baggage, he made it through the airport customs quickly. When he got to the baggage area, he noticed a man holding a sign that spelled out the name of Warburg’s driver: HUBERT. Strange, Tom thought. Usually drivers held a sign with the name of the company or party to be picked up. Discretion at all cost, I suppose.

Tom walked up to the man and introduced himself. Hubert was embarrassed that it was Tom who had spotted him and not the other way around. He told Tom he’d go to the parking lot to pick up the car and, rather than wait, Tom tagged along behind Hubert to the limo parking area where a spotless black Mercedes was waiting. The driver opened the back door. Tom climbed in, and, within seconds, they were headed out of the airport.

Almost immediately, the driver’s cell phone rang. “Yes, sir, the plane was on time,” he said in German. “I have picked Dr. Stewart up. Everything’s fine. We should be there in about an hour.”

When they reached the eastern end of Lake Geneva, the road they were taking began to climb, and the traffic thinned out. They were headed up the hills, through the terraced vineyards. Homes were discreetly set back into the hills but designed to maximize the views of the lake. Tom had much to think about, and the hour passed swiftly.

Around a bend in the road, quite far above Lake Geneva, the driver turned into a long driveway that curved around tall, perfectly manicured hedges. At the far end, there was a stone mansion surrounded by a large lawn sloping down to vineyards. The Warburg house was a two-story stone building that easily dated back to the mid-1800s. There was a slate roof, and ivy clung to most of the walls. As soon as Hubert brought the car to a stop at the entrance, a large polished wooden door opened and a man neatly dressed in a white jacket emerged and walked down the steps. He opened the car door and introduced himself as Julian. Tom followed him into the front hall, then into the living room and through doors that opened onto a large outdoor veranda overlooking the lake. An older, well-dressed man was sitting, studying Tom’s arrival.

Julian announced Tom to Sigmund Warburg, who immediately stood to shake Tom’s hand. Sigmund was short, thin, and in his late eighties, or even his nineties. He had most of his hair, a mix of gray and black. His eyes were dark but fixed intently on Tom, who surmised that Sigmund missed nothing. He seemed full of energy.

“Herr Warburg,” Tom said, extending his hand.

Warburg shook it firmly. “I trust you had a good flight,” he said, smiling. “The weather today is so beautiful.” He waved at the mountains in the background: “Please allow me to introduce you to my favorite spot on earth. Such magnificent views of the hills, mountains, and the lake below. Now that I’m retired I enjoy living here full-time in this modest place.”

“It is beautiful, Herr Warburg,” Tom said.

Warburg touched Tom on the shoulder and said in a friendly manner, “Please call me Sigmund. May I call you Tom?”

“Please do, Sigmund,” Tom replied. “The views of the lake and mountains are breathtaking. And you must enjoy looking at them from your swimming pool.”

“Oh, the pool,” said Warburg, glancing down at a long lap pool below the veranda. “That was my wife Eva’s idea. She swam any day the weather permitted. Oddly enough, I haven’t been in it since she died. My own passion is literature—books I never had the time to read.”

“Have you lived here long?” Tom asked.

“I had the opportunity to purchase this property years ago, but I never enjoyed it until I retired. I was involved with my bank, I didn’t realize just how restful this place can be. Eva was so fond of Blonay, and she was always trying to get me to spend more time here. She was right. I’m sad to say that she’s been gone for several years, and I’m alone in enjoying it now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You must be hungry,” Warburg said. “I’ve had Julian prepare some lunch; if you don’t mind, let’s eat outside, here in the sunshine.”

Lunch had already been placed on a table covered by a white cloth on the veranda. Warburg invited Tom to sit. Julian immediately stepped forward with a pitcher of iced water, which he poured into Tom’s and then Sigmund’s glasses. Next he came around with a bottle of chilled white wine. Warburg was a gracious host, inquiring about Tom’s work, his role as trustee at the American Academy, and his time in Rome. It was obvious that he had done his homework. Julian served a lunch of cold trout, garden salad, and crisp, warm baguettes. Once the dishes were cleared and the coffee served, Warburg inquired about the purpose of their meeting.

“Now, perhaps you can explain a bit more about this urgent matter you mentioned on the telephone.”

Tom started with the events at the Roman Forum, the mystery of the modern lab found during the excavation, and his subsequent contact with O’Boyle. Warburg listened with great interest.

“The Italian authorities have admitted to me there was an extremely dangerous virus that caused the two deaths. According to O’Boyle, there is a supply of the virus that a number of international parties are after. I’ve been questioned by the authorities, harassed by the press, and pursued by unknown parties who seem to be after the virus.”

“Tom, I don’t understand how I may be of assistance.”

“The item your bank agreed to store for Pope Pius XII after his death—I got this from O’Boyle—is a supply of virus developed by Vatican scientists during the Second World War. It is an immensely powerful, dangerous substance. The supply was kept secret from the pope who had ordered it destroyed. O’Boyle was involved in hiding it, but traces of it, which killed the American Academy archaeologists, frightened O’Boyle, who sought me out. Before his death, he gave me your name, urged me to contact you to obtain the virus and destroy it completely before it falls into unfriendly hands.”

Warburg recoiled, visibly shaken, at this disclosure of Tom’s. “I am speechless. I had no idea of the gravity of this matter. I did a favor for an old friend. But I know nothing of what you speak nor anything about what was given to me.”

“Sigmund,” Tom quickly said, “I believe what O’Boyle told me is true, just as I believe what you’re saying is true. None of this lessens the dilemma I’m in.”

Sigmund calmed himself. “If you will indulge an old man, I’d like to give you some background about my relationship with the bank and with the Vatican. Perhaps it will provide some illumination.”

“As they say in America, ‘You have my attention,’” Tom said and smiled.

“I come from a long line of German bankers and farmers,” Sigmund said. “In each generation, the eldest son would inherit the family farm in a small town outside of Munich, and any other sons would be bankers. My great nephew is in charge of my family’s farm today. I was the youngest in my family. My oldest bother took over the farm and so, barely twenty and newly married, I joined a bank in the 1930s in Berlin. It was in the middle of the Great Depression, and Germany—as with most of the world—was in financial and political chaos. Fear was everywhere, from out-of-control inflation to hysteria about communism taking over Europe. In this environment, Hitler became chancellor in January 1933.

“Rumors soon surfaced about actions taken against prominent Jewish businessmen, many of whom were my clients and colleagues. It concerned me, and I asked a family friend, Hitler’s secretary of state, who owed me a favor, to look into it. Informally of course. He did investigate and later confided to me that Hitler was in fact disenfranchising the professional Jewish class. They were stripped of their possessions and positions, and were just disappearing. And he also said he and I were unwise to be seen together again. The secretary of state’s family had a farm next to ours. I could see fear in his eyes.

“After this conversation, I realized I could be in personal jeopardy from Nazi policies. Right then and there, I decided that my wife and I must leave Germany—as soon as possible, no matter what the consequences. I hurried home and explained the situation to Eva. At first she thought I was exaggerating, but after I explained what was happening to several important people we knew, she agreed. Over the next few days, she had all our belongings packed. I resigned from the bank, citing family problems, withdrew our savings. Switzerland seemed to be the best place to go due to its neutrality and large banking community. We were on the train to Geneva before the end of the month.

“When we arrived in Geneva, we settled in a flat outside the city. Through a friend, I contacted a small private bank called Cordier et Cie and secured a position there. I worked hard, but being German, I was at a disadvantage. The Swiss banking community is very close knit, you see.”

“Yet you became a majority partner in the bank,” Tom said.

“Yes, eventually, but I had help.”

“From the Vatican?”

“Precisely. Before I left Germany, I had made the acquaintance of the cardinal secretary of state, Eugenio Pacelli. He represented the Vatican to the German government. In his dealings for the Vatican with Hitler, there were some very sensitive issues, and he from time to time, discreetly asked my opinion. Naturally, I gave him my judgment.

“We remained in cordial, though less frequent contact after I moved to Switzerland. Then he became pope in 1939.”

Tom asked, “I gather that the pope didn’t trust Hitler. Is this true?”

“It didn’t start out that way,” Sigmund replied. “Pacelli had a large ego and thought he could outsmart Hitler, but this expectation was very short lived.

“To consolidate his power, Hitler acted to weaken the Catholic party’s influence in Germany. Cardinal Pacelli negotiated a pact with Hitler, called a concordat, in which Hitler agreed to permit the Vatican to regain control of the appointment of German bishops—something the pope and Pacelli desperately wanted—in exchange for the Vatican’s promise not to involve itself henceforth in any domestic German political matters.”

“A pact with the devil?” Tom asked.

“As it turns out, yes. Hitler reneged on his promise to the Vatican. Then, after Hitler’s armies invaded Poland, another stronghold of the Catholic faith, and it looked like Germany might not stop until it controlled Europe, the Vatican realized that it had made a terrible mistake in its dealings with Hitler. My friend Pacelli, now pope, ordered all the Vatican assets in German banks to be transferred to Switzerland. He instructed his envoy to contact me, and we, at Cordier, were most generously favored. Needless to say, our large new account was very helpful in my being made a partner. That envoy whom the pope sent—cut from the same cloth as Pacelli—was Cardinal Visconti, an intensely ambitious man.

“Go forward in time to the pope’s death in 1958, and then a further three years—I was visited by Visconti’s former assistant, a young Irish priest, whom I’d met several times—your Father O’Boyle. He gave me a letter from Visconti with an unusual request.”

“O’Boyle.”

“Yes. He told me that Visconti, on his deathbed, had requested him to carry out one of Pius XII’s last wishes, which was to safeguard an important Vatican treasure. Since Visconti could no longer perform the pope’s directive, Visconti asked O’Boyle to contact me. I found this request by the pope to be strange, as the Vatican has some of the most secure vaults in the world to keep its valuable objects. I asked O’Boyle what the item was, but he said that the nature of the item must be kept secret from all outside parties. Swiss banking law would ensure this, of course. The Vatican still had a substantial account at Cordier, Warburg, so I agreed to accommodate O’Boyle.

“The next day, O’Boyle arrived at my office in Geneva with a small leather suitcase. I arranged for a highly safe and secure place for this package, but—I swear to you—I had no idea or even suspicion of what was in the leather suitcase. This all happened years ago, and I had completely forgotten about it until you contacted me.”

“I believe you. Will you help me retrieve it?”

Warburg grimaced. “Only the holder of the lockbox key can gain entrance. It is against the Swiss banking laws for me to give you or anyone else access to the package on any basis. One would have to obtain permission from the source.”

“You mean the Vatican?” Tom asked. “That is highly unlikely. The current pope and his staff wish to have nothing to do with this cache. Visconti destroyed all records before his death. He charged O’Boyle with contacting you. Now O’Boyle’s dead.

“My problem is this: Other groups know of this powerful biological weapon. And they know I was present when the two American archaeologists were killed. I’ve been tracked down and threatened. I believe Father O’Boyle may have been tortured and then killed. I’m at risk. Many people’s lives are at stake if the weapon falls into the wrong hands. I appeal to you. Please help me.”

“Even if I were still active in the bank’s activities, I couldn’t violate the Swiss secrecy laws.”