The Tulip Virus

by Danielle Hermans

Dick nodded. “I was so appalled by what I read that I decided I had to do something. Stupidly, I showed the report to Frank. If I hadn’t done that, none of this would ever have happened. Frank would still be alive, and everything would be fine.”

  He wiped his face. “I should have realized from the start that Frank couldn’t leave well enough alone. I knew what he was like. But I let him in on the secret, and that was the start of all our troubles. This report, right here.”

  Damian picked it up. “‘Toward a World at Peace.’ Sounds like a noble goal, but what does it have to do with—”

  Dick held up his hand. “Bear with me, I’ll get to that. Science was everything to Paul. He was an anthropologist, applying the scientific method to human culture, and his specialism was religion. He looked at religion in the broadest sense of the term, including things that we would call cults or superstitions but other cultures take very seriously. He was fascinated by the need for religious faith and its influence on social communities all over the world. Paul knew better than anyone else where religion could lead.”

  “To war,” Damian said ironically.

  Dick shook his head. “No, that wasn’t his position at all. Paul was a humanist. He believed in the power of love, human fellowship, tolerance, and mutual understanding, and he saw Christian humanism as one expression of those values. His research convinced him that faith could strengthen communities and create a peaceful society where people help and support each other.”

  “Atheists can build strong communities too.”

  “I agree, and until two thousand one, Paul felt the same way. It was the attacks on the World Trade Center that changed his mind, just as they changed the attitude of so many people. One of the effects of nine/eleven was that Americans and Europeans started demanding measures to protect Western values, to defend our freedom and our democratic principles.” Dick shook his head. “Our world today is ruled by fear, Damian, you know that as well as I do. And a fearful world is quick to turn to religion. People are looking for something they can depend on, something to make their lives seem purposeful and manageable, something to give them hope.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?” Damian said.

  “Nothing at all. As far as I’m concerned, people can put their faith in anything they choose. They can believe in an intelligent designer, or ‘something out there somewhere,’ or a man with a white beard who looks down at us from heaven. What ever they like.”

  “And Paul?”

  “Paul was one of the people who believed we had to take some kind of action. So he decided to found a think tank.”

  “A think tank? Do we have think tanks in Holland? They’re like research institutes, right?”

  “That’s right. There are lots of them in America, often financed by interest groups who expect to benefit from their findings. The American business sector loves think tanks.”

  Dick held up three fingers. “In America, private organizations have three ways of influencing government policy. The first is by supporting political candidates. The second is by lobbying, persuading politicians to make laws and policies that benefit your business. The third and most lucrative way is by donating the money a think tank needs for its research. Some business groups go even further and set up think tanks of their own.”

  “Sounds very cunning.”

  “When a think tank produces a position paper, it provides scientific arguments, with figures and research results to back them up,” Dick continued. “That makes it look like the paper comes from a neutral source, even though it doesn’t. What’s more, think tanks can stir up public debate.”

  “Clever. So they influence not only politicians but also public opinion.”

  “Exactly. Now, Paul set up his think tank as a scientist, independent of political parties and the private sector. But they gave him plenty of support when he reached out to his network. Paul was very well connected. Not just at universities but also in the art world, politics, the media, and business. He asked some of his contacts to join the think tank and help him come up with a plan for peace and a renewed sense of community. To achieve those goals, he aimed to establish a new missionary movement.”

  “Missionary? You mean they wanted to convert people?”

  “Yes, they did. Paul and his associates believed that the values of Christian humanism formed the path to a world without war and aggression. They argued that those values were inherent to Western culture but had been watered down and distorted through the centuries. Paul needed not only collaborators but also donors to finance his project. Thanks to his connections, the money rolled in. Everyone involved was committed to the project and thought that it could bring people together.”

  Dick looked at Damian. “You’re probably wondering what this has to do with Frank and Simon. I want to explain the background, so that you’ll understand what they had in mind when they set up the Fund. I think it’s important for you to see the big picture. That’s why I’m telling you all this.”

  He held up the report. “This report presents the outcome of their efforts. What it boils down to is this: They concluded that to achieve their goal they had to exert influence on three traditional institutions, which they saw as the basis of civil society—the family, the church, and the school.”

  “But you can’t force values down people’s throats. What were they actually planning to do?” Damian asked.

  “Their strategy was based on mass psychology and took advantage of people’s need to put their faith in something in today’s uncertain world. But you’re right— in fact, they were declaring a holy war, an invisible war without any casualties. Their plan had several stages. They were going to start with a massive media campaign to promote Christian values and traditions. Then they would recruit ‘opinion leaders,’ people with influence and prestige, to promote their brand of Christian humanism to their friends and acquaintances. But at this point, Paul discovered that his well-intentioned plan was being twisted to serve a cause that he would never support.”

  FIFTY

  The leaves of the dusty rubber plant brushed against her neck. Dawn swiveled around and toed aside the flowerpot. Peering down the long row of cubicles, she wondered how Ben could work there. The rubber plant was not the only thing covered with dust. Everything was grimy and gray: the walls, the doors, the computers, and even the people. That was the strange thing about the Dutch, she thought, the contrast between their working lives and the way they acted in their leisure time. When they were on vacation, they lingered over meals for hours, sampling each other’s food and sharing carefully chosen bottles of wine. But in their everyday lives, it was as if they were doing penance for those indulgences, working their way through mounds of bland potatoes and drinking wine only on weekends. A friend had told her their birthday parties were even worse: “They look like monkeys, sitting in a circle and eating peanuts.”

  She looked over at Ben, who was still focused on his screen. On top of his monitor were three photographs. The first was of a woman with short red hair, looking cheerful and carefree. The next photo was of a little boy, whose sun-bleached hair stood out against the cool blue of the swimming pool. The last was of the whole family, smiling into the camera, all dressed in orange from head to toe. Ben was even wearing an orange wig. They were in the middle of a large park full of market stalls, between which other vendors had spread out their wares on the grass.

  “Football?” she asked, pointing to the snapshot.

  “What? Oh, no, that was for the queen’s birthday. We celebrate it every year on April thirtieth. Everyone has the day off, and we throw a big party. We wear orange to honor the royal family— the House of Orange.”

  “What about those vendors?” she asked. “Aren’t they working?”

  “Those aren’t vendors. On Queen’s Day anyone can sell things, without a permit. Sandwiches, soft drinks, stuff they find in the attic, what ever.”

  “So you celebrate the queen’s birthday by selling each other your
old junk from the attic?”

  “I guess you could put it that way. Of course, it’s really her mother’s birthday.”

  I give up, Dawn thought. I’ll never understand these people.

  “Here, I’ve got it. This is what we know about Versteegen. I’ll print it out.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  “But who twisted Paul’s plan, and how?” Damian asked.

  “As I said, Paul wasn’t working alone. He had a large network of advisers and financial backers.”

  “Sure, but you said they all shared his belief in Christian humanism.”

  Dick leaned close to Damian and murmured, “Listen carefully. That’s exactly what went wrong. Paul found out that not everyone involved shared his ideas or his goal of world peace. Some of them had a hidden agenda.”

  “What was that?”

  “They wanted to propagate Christian fundamentalism in Western Europe, using the plan developed by the think tank. They saw religion as a vehicle for achieving their ultimate goal: the global dominance of the West. And what better place to start than here in Holland, with our Christian schools, universities, hospitals, nursing homes, newspapers, broadcasting companies, and political parties. Of course, our country has all sorts of denominations, from Catholics to mainline Protestants to strict Calvinists, but they all share a common faith. These people wanted to exploit and manipulate that faith, to make the Christian community in Holland not only larger but also more radical.”

  “So there were fundamentalists involved.”

  Dick looked at him sadly. “Paul tried to stop them, but he very soon realized he’d lost control. That’s when he killed himself.”

  “Wasn’t there anything he could have done?”

  Dick ran his hands over his face and replied, “When Paul saw them misusing his life’s work for their purposes, his world collapsed. Like any reasonable person, he understood that religious fanaticism is the enemy of individual freedom, that it leads to a world where women are oppressed, where homosexuals are persecuted, and where all sorts of books, films, and music are banned. A world that has no place for dissent and diversity. That had never been Paul’s intention. He’d wanted to strengthen our sense of community and believed the only way to accomplish that was through a common faith.”

  “Dick, do you think that could ever really happen in Holland? Book burning and all that? I mean, this is a pretty levelheaded country. And religion has been in decline here for years.”

  “If you’re talking about the decline of organized religion, then you’re right, but at this point in history, people are desperate for the reassurance that religion provides. And there’s nothing wrong with that, as long as no one takes advantage of the situation. But that’s exactly what’s going on now, and it’s partly because of Paul.”

  Dick’s face darkened. “In the worst case, our country will see a resurgence of fundamentalist groups hostile to all the liberties we’ve won over the centuries. That prospect was so repugnant to Frank that he decided to join forces with several wealthy business leaders to oppose the extremists. Frank was the instigator and the mastermind behind this counteroffensive.”

  “The Fund.”

  “Exactly. And I believe he and Simon were murdered by the Christian fundamentalists who had infiltrated Paul’s think tank. They felt threatened by the Fund and its activities. Frank and Simon were trying to stop the extremist movement that had grown out of Paul’s initiative, to uphold the scientific method, and to prevent independent-minded individuals from degenerating into a herd of sheep, living their lives according to religious dogma. The Fund had a lot of money that it could use to find even stronger evidence for fundamental scientific theories, like evolution, and to oppose the ideas of reactionary religious movements.” He seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then he continued, in a quiet voice, “When Frank learned that centuries ago Wouter Winckel had defied religious extremism without using violence, he decided to pursue the same strategy.”

  “Winckel? The tulip dealer?”

  “Yes, that was his shining example. And Wouter Winckel paid for his beliefs with his life, just like Frank did in the end.”

  “But what did Wouter Winckel believe in, exactly?”

  “Freedom of action, freedom of expression. And that means the freedom to express your opinion, not the freedom to hurl crude insults at those who think differently, though these days some people don’t seem to know the difference. As far as I’m concerned, that kind of abuse has nothing to do with freedom of expression.”

  Dick nervously picked up a coaster and started tearing it into tiny shreds, which he tossed into the full ashtray.

  “We’re only human,” he said. “We have to make a go of it together.” He looked at Damian. “Frank had found something that had once belonged to Winckel. A priceless treasure.”

  He motioned to Damian to move closer and whispered, “The Semper Augustus.”

  “Semper Augustus?”

  Dick nodded. “The most precious tulip of all. So precious, that for hundreds of years historians wondered whether it had ever truly existed. Apparently, in the seventeenth century there were only three Semper Augustus bulbs. Nobody knew who owned them.”

  “If it was just that this tulip was so scarce, why didn’t they grow more?”

  “No, you don’t understand, that was precisely the problem. The tulips in the catalog I showed you, with flamed petals, were almost impossible to cultivate. That’s why they were so rare and valuable. Seventeenth-century growers just couldn’t understand it. An offset from the bulb of a flamed tulip might well produce a single-colored flower, or one with hardly any color at all. What they didn’t realize was that the tulips with flamed, or ‘broken,’ petals were diseased. That came to light only in the twentieth century. The patterns were a side effect of a virus transmitted by aphids: the mosaic virus.”

  “So it was a harmful virus that produced the most beautiful tulips in history, and then it was the beauty of those tulips that caused so much misery,” Damian muttered.

  “Three people were said to own Semper Augustus bulbs. Wouter Winckel was supposed to be one of them, but no one ever found out whether the tale was true.”

  “Surely if he had owned one, it would have been auctioned off with the rest of his collection.”

  “That’s just it. No Semper Augustus was sold at the auction. So everyone assumed it had been an idle rumor. That is, until Frank found the bulb, more than three centuries later.” Dick laid his hand on Damian’s arm. “Can you imagine what would happen if the Semper Augustus were restored to life? If the latest technology and scientific advances allowed us to clone the bulb?”

  “You could make millions.”

  “Tens of millions. That was Frank’s goal.” He raised a finger. “Not for himself, mind you. He wanted to use that money to give science a huge financial boost. With those enormous profits, think of all the research he could have funded.”

  Dick paused for a long moment, brooding.

  “I think the people who killed Frank and Simon are after the bulb. They know how much it’s worth, and they want it for themselves. They intend to use the Semper Augustus to finance their plans for the worldwide expansion of fundamentalist Christianity.”

  “But who are they?”

  “That’s the problem. I haven’t been able to identify them yet. In his farewell letter to his wife, Paul told the whole story. He said he knew who they were but would carry their names with him into the grave.”

  Damian nodded. “To protect his family.”

  “Exactly. But I’ll find out who’s responsible. I’m the only one left who can stop them.”

  Coetzer was sipping his third cup of coffee by now and still had his eyes on page three of his newspaper. He had shuffled his chair toward Dick and Damian, as far as he could without attracting attention. Thanks to the miniature speaker in his ear, he had heard every word of their conversation.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Tara started at the shrill sound of the doorb
ell, which echoed through the empty house. She went to the front room and peeped out of the window.

  The man at the door was so small that for a moment she thought it was a child. His black coat came down to his ankles. He wore gleaming black shoes and a red knitted scarf tucked into his raised collar. The briefcase he carried had seen better days. When she saw him reach for the bell again, she decided to risk it— he looked harmless enough. She unlocked the front door and pulled it open.

  For a moment, his eyes widened in surprise. “Good afternoon.” He extended his hand. “Jacob Wolters. I’m here to see Mr. Vanlint.”

  “He’s not in. Come in, Mr. . .. Wolters, was it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Tara, Alec Schoeller’s girlfriend. You’re from the auction house, right?”

  He nodded hesitantly.

  “It’s all right, I know what you’re here for.”

  “I, er, do you have any idea when Mr. Vanlint will be back? I should have called before coming over, I suppose. But you see, I was running an errand just around the corner.”

  “He won’t be back for a while. But please, come inside. Have you made any progress with the message from the tulip book?”

  He looked relieved. “Yes, that’s why I’m here.”

  “Tulipa—that was the code word, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded.

  “Come on, let’s sit down.”

  As he followed her into the kitchen, she turned to glance at him.

  “Coffee?”

  “I’d love some.”

  Wolters took off his coat and sat down at the kitchen table. Tara brought him a mug, which he grasped with both hands, taking a large gulp of the hot liquid. When she took a seat across from him, he said, “You and your friends were right. The code word is tulipa.”

  “We thought it was. It was hard to imagine it being anything else.”

  “I don’t mean to pry, but I’m very curious how you figured it out.”

  “So you managed to crack the code?” Tara asked.