The Manuscript I the Secret

by Blanca Miosi

  “It’s the only secret he ever kept from me. I never asked him, and he never told me.”

  “That’s too bad, because if I knew, I would go talk with them.”

  “And what would you gain by doing that?”

  “At least I’d know what the research was about and maybe find out if everything was just a pipe dream of Uncle Claudio’s.”

  “I don’t think it was just a dream, carissimo amico mio. Claudio invested a lot of money in it. There’s no other way to explain why he would have bankrupted the Business.”

  “I think those Jews are following me. What do you know about them?”

  “I know they were against the studies your uncle was funding. Please, be careful. How do you know they’re following you?”

  “I saw one of them in two different places, always close by to me. I presume they are Jews, though you never really know.” The silence on the other end was just a bit too long.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you had met Irene?” I asked.

  “I don’t remember telling you I had not met her.”

  “True enough. And you also met Jorge Rodríguez, the guy who lost my two million. I don’t understand how Uncle Claudio could have let himself be bamboozled by him.”

  “What are you referring to?”

  “To the fact that Rodríguez managed the finances for Irene’s business, which was actually Uncle Claudio’s business, so therefore when he swindled me, it was like he was ripping off Claudio Contini-Massera himself.” I could sense a level of tension at the other end of the line. “I’m going to go to the jail where he’s being held and ask for an explanation,” I added.

  “I would not advise that, Dante.”

  “Perhaps because he’s not in jail?”

  “Ah, that little detail...well, my dear Dante, that was really just a dramatic flourish for the situation. It makes no difference whether he’s in jail or not. The point is that you trusted blindly in someone you didn’t know. It’s a lesson you’ll never forget.”

  “No, Martucci. I assure you I never will. Do you know where I can find him? It seems like the earth just swallowed him up. Irene doesn’t even know where he is,” I lied again.

  “Signore mio, I’m in Rome, you’re in America, how could I know where he is? I only saw him once, when he came to Rome with signora Irene, of course. That was a long time ago.”

  “I’ll keep trying to find the damned formula. Martucci, do you remember the deal we made in Villa Contini?”

  “Perfectly well.”

  “I’ve thought more about it, and I’m calling it off. It’s no longer valid.”

  “You’re setting me free, then. I do not like manipulating a neighbor.”

  “I’ll keep you informed, Martucci.”

  “Go with God, Don Dante.”

  “Martucci, I never told you about my trip to America. How did you figure it out?”

  “Every now and then I put my poor powers of logic to work, Don Dante.”

  Relief flooded through me as I hung up. I had been very anxious about that phone call. Nicholas did not deserve it, though it is true that when I made the deal with Martucci I hardly knew Nicholas. Our agreement to play along with him long enough to see if the manuscript were for real no longer made sense. Nicholas had won my affection, and at this point I would never relieve him of what had become his most treasured possession.

  The door to Nicholas’ room was ajar, and when I walked in I saw him sitting at his computer. He was typing furiously. I gathered that the drought of ideas that had plagued him a few days earlier had disappeared, and I was glad for his sake. With his back curved toward the machine and his hair all in a mess, he reminded me of a musician pounding away at the piano keys in a fit of inspiration. As always, the blank manuscript was open at his side, just waiting to be read. Not wanting to interrupt him, I went to my room.

  I needed to be alone, to think through everything that had happened in such a short time, and to get things straight in my head. Though I did not want to admit it, I was on pins and needles for a call from John Merreck. I knew that he was used to dealing with highly sensitive matters and perhaps he would wait for me to make the first move. What would Claudio Contini-Massera have done? Probably wait. At this point, I could not stop asking myself the question that had been buzzing around in my head for days: Why had my father hidden the formula and not let Merreck continue with the studies?

  I tried to put myself in his shoes, a rather difficult task, but with a little effort I at least made an attempt:

  “If I were Claudio Contini-Massera and had invested such an enormous amount of money, I would be extremely interested in finishing the studies Mengele left notes on and that supposedly held the key to longevity. If my illness were incurable and if at Mengele’s death I knew that I could no longer benefit from the discovery, at least I would let other scientists, trained in other disciplines, make the world a better place for humans to live and would let other people enjoy the benefits of long life. However, I have a son, and even though he doesn’t know he’s my son, he’s got my blood...”

  Suddenly one of Martucci’s rather cryptic phrases flashed through my mind: “You don’t understand. Your father rests in peace thanks to you.” What was the priest talking about? Had he died because of me? Or had he died peacefully knowing that I would continue what he had started, namely, the formula? And so why had he not done it himself instead of hiding it? “Your father rests in peace thanks to you” meant much more than all that; I was sure of it. I needed to talk with Martucci. He would have the answer. The problem was that I now thought of him as a suspicious character, though only based on supposition: because of a photograph that might very well be totally innocent in which he happened to be standing beside Jorge Rodríguez.

  I dialed Martucci’s number again and waited anxiously for him to answer. It rang once, twice, three times, and finally, at the fourth ring, I let my breath out in relief as I heard his unmistakable voice.

  “Yes?”

  “Abbot Martucci, I need you to answer something for me. That day in the Non-Catholic Cemetery, why did you tell me, ‘You don’t understand. Your father rests in peace thanks to you’?”

  “Cavaliere, your father suffered from an incurable disease due to exposure to radioactivity. Over time he developed lymphatic cancer, but he was a very strong man, and the symptoms appeared very slowly. Mengele managed to stop the disease through genetic therapy, and you were the donor.”

  “How did he do it?”

  “With your blood.”

  “I see.” The answer was simpler than I had thought. We were perfectly compatible. I had forgotten.

  “Thank you, Martucci. Forgive me for bothering you.”

  “No problem at all, Dante. Go with God.”

  So my blood had somehow served to prolong my father’s life. I felt deeply gratified to have been of service to him in something. I returned to my reflections:

  “...However, I have a son, and even though he doesn’t know he’s my son, he’s got my blood, which is identical to mine. I’ll bequeath to him Mengele’s completed studies so that he can make the decision about what the right thing to do is.”

  Well, it seemed like none to brilliant a deduction. After all, I was right back to where I had started. I remembered that Uncle Claudio used to say, “If you can’t figure something out, don’t drive yourself crazy. The answer will show up when you least expect it. Don’t waste your time. Just busy yourself with something else.” Just as I was about to do so, I heard a few light raps on my bedroom door. It was Quentin.

  “A man on the telephone wishes to speak with you. He declined to give his name. Will you take the call?”

  “Yes.” I knew exactly who it would be.

  “Hello? Mr. Contini, this is John Merreck. Let me be brief. Could you bring the missing notes? Before making good on my offer, as you will understand, I need to see them.”

  “That’s fair. Is it the amount we had agreed upon?”

  “Twen
ty billion.”

  “And the names of the Jewish stockholders?”

  “I’ll give you all their information.”

  “I’ll take the first flight.”

  It was such a short conversation for such a monumental endeavor. I thought of Neil Armstrong’s words when he walked on the moon. I called Nelson but could not reach him. Where the hell had he gone? I went to Nicholas’ room, but the door was locked. I knocked a couple times.

  “Please, I’m at the most interesting part...”

  I did not hear the rest of his sentence, and I did not want to interrupt him. I turned and headed for the street.

  “Quentin, if you get in touch with Nelson, please let him know I went to the bank and from there to Peoria.”

  “Signore, it does not seem wise for you to travel alone. Remember, the security measures.”

  “You know what, Quentin? I think we’re all being a little paranoid. It’s actually pretty simple. I go, I give them the documents, and I get more money than I need to cover all the debts.”

  “And Mr. Nicholas?”

  “He’s writing, and I don’t want to cut his inspiration short.”

  Quentin looked at me with consternation, and though I understood his concern, I felt safe enough. For the first time in a long time I felt like I was calling the shots. In any case, I figured Nelson would be of no help even if he did come. The security measures at the ranch were extreme. We would need an entire army to come against the place if things went badly. I made notes of the necessary information in my office. I figured Merreck would make a transfer.

  “Signore Dante...I do not think you should go alone,” Quentin insisted.

  “Quentin, listen well to what I’m about to say: they are going to transfer twenty billion dollars into your account. Capisci? I’ll verify the transfer from there. I have the access codes to your account.”

  “Very well, signore. Va bene...” he answered with resignation.

  “Even so, I’d like you to verify that the transfer goes through. If I don’t get in touch with you, tell Nelson to let Caperotti know.”

  “Caperotti, signore?”

  “Yes, Caperotti.”

  “Very well, signore Dante; I’ll do as you say.”

  “Oh, and I almost forgot: I’ll call you from Newark to give you the flight number.”

  I hailed a taxi and went to the bank for the documents. In a relatively short time I was in Newark, waiting for the next flight to Peoria. I called Merreck to let him know I was on my way. The thick packet with Mengele’s notes and the formula was tucked safely under my arm. I had left copies on my desk, though they would be of little use. The only people who could decipher what was written were in Roseville. After talking with Quentin, I called Nelson’s cell phone one last time from the airport but it seemed to be disconnected. I cursed the damned things; they never worked when you needed them most.

  A face in the waiting room looked familiar to me. I only saw it for a fraction of a second. When I tried to locate it again after a little boy walked in front of me, I could not find it. Even so, I recalled Nelson’s advice. I got up and subtly lost myself among a crowd, and the face did not reappear. I knew that despite the peace I felt, an operation of such magnitude as I was undertaking would leave some mark on my emotional state.

  In airports most people have some sort of bag or carry-on with them, except for people like me who travel with a single objective. I searched among those milling about the gate and saw one traveler who was as empty-handed as I was. Though his back was to me and he was wearing a Yankees ball cap, I recognized him. I went directly up to him.

  “I know you followed me from Tribeca,” I blurted out.

  He gave little sign of surprise, though I am confident he was not expecting my approach.

  “I think you must be mistaken.”

  “I don’t have much time to talk. Who sent you?”

  “I’m afraid you must be confused, sir...”

  My patience was running thin. I realized he was nervous, and it irritated me highly that this guy thought I was a complete imbecile.

  “Look, my life might be in danger. I don’t know who you are, but if you’ve been sent to attack me, you’re in for a big surprise.”

  “Attack you? You ought to be grateful that we’re watching out for you.”

  “Who is ‘we’?”

  “I’m not authorized to answer.”

  I lowered my head to his height and got close enough to nearly touch his nose with my own.

  “I’m not up for games just now. Tell me once and for all who sent you.”

  The man hesitated a few seconds, but something in my determination must have convinced him.

  “Giordano Caperotti. He sent us. From the movements we’ve observed you make, he thinks you might be in grave danger.” He gestured with his hand, and three men appeared out of nowhere. At first glance, they were such ordinary-looking people I would never have given them a second thought.

  “Tell your boss that a helicopter will pick me up in the city of Peoria. We’ll go to Roseville, to a place called the ranch. It’s about 58 miles outside of Peoria, near Raritan and Smithshire. It’s a house that looks like a big one-story cabin, surrounded by a huge yard like a golf course. And try to get in touch with Nelson at this number.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Contini-Massera; we’ll rent a helicopter.”

  “If I’m not back to Peoria in about,” I glanced at my watch, “seven hours, do whatever you need to do.”

  “Here’s my number, Mr. Contini-Massera.”

  I stored it in my phone.

  After we arrived in Peoria, I took one taxi and they another, following at a sensible distance.

  Everything happened just as it had the first time. I arrived at the Merreck & Stallen Pharmaceutical Group building and was led straight up to the heliport. Fortunately, the helicopter made so much noise I could hardly even feel the pounding of my heart. I was about to take a step that could end in one of two ways: I could walk out of there a very rich man, or who knew what would befall me. I had started mulling over the latter option after facing Caperotti’s men. Why would someone like Caperotti fear for my life? I started to feel like I had made a terrible mistake by not talking directly with him. Though it was true I had not liked the man, appearances could be deceiving. As I was learning, sometimes the least suspicious people turn out to be the most dangerous. I started thinking about Martucci again just as the helicopter gave a great lurch. The copilot pointed westward to an approaching storm. The air was thick with the smell of the humidity. I looked down and saw that the wind seemed intent on ripping the trees up by the roots. Roseville is in the tornado zone. The vast stretches of Midwestern prairies—the famous breadbasket of America—are home to more than grain. They also host a great number of the tornadoes that crop up toward the end of autumn. I identified wholeheartedly with the climate. I felt like I had been swept up in a tornado that at any minute would destroy the doldrums my life had been. I caught sight of the deceptively fragile-looking cabin that would doubtless weather this storm without a scratch, and I trusted that the pilot was skilled enough to land without mishap.

  A few moments later I was headed into the metal detectors and all the security paraphernalia of the ranch. Ten floors below no one paid any attention to tornadoes and cyclones. It was, indeed, another world.

  John Merreck greeted me with the same friendliness as before, trying not to be too obvious about staring at the thick envelope I was carrying.

  “My dear Mr. Contini, they tell me the weather is frightful.”

  I was about to make the most significant exchange of my life, and the guy was talking about the weather.

  “Luckily you have very skilled pilots.”

  “Do have a seat, please. I see you brought the documents. May I?”

  Noting my hesitation, he added, “I could do nothing by just seeing them, my friend. We’ve made a deal, and I tend to keep my promises.”

  I held the envelope
out to him. He opened the thick cover, took out the papers, and paid special attention to the sheets bound by the paper clip. He seemed to know what he was looking for. He started reading the symbols that to me had seemed like incomprehensible equations, and as his eyes lingered with special attention on what was written there, the expression on his face changed to incredulous. I started worrying when the crease between his brows deepened. I was not prepared for this. I had thought the matter would be a straightforward give and take.

  I suppose I had a big question mark painted on my face by that point. Merreck raised his eyes and scrutinized me as if I were a guinea pig.

  “Do you know what’s written here?” he asked, dropping the sheets on the desk and pointing with his index finger.

  “More or less,” was all I could think of to answer. To him I surely must have seemed like a mentally challenged fool. I know, I know. Why had I come without Nicholas? I needed the speed of his wit, his power of persuasion, his...

  “And you’re willing to go through with it, I suppose?”

  “Go through with what? I brought you the documents, and you make the transfer. That was the deal.”

  “Mr. Contini, I’m afraid there’s something more. We cannot carry out these studies without your full cooperation. Your physical cooperation is required. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Do you mean you’re going to do some kind of organ transplant or something to me? If that’s the case, the deal is off.”

  I stood up and made to take the documents.

  “It’s not about an organ transplant, never fear. Mr. Claudio Contini-Massera was working in cooperation with Josef Mengele, here, in the laboratory. He came on numerous occasions, and they spent long hours together. I understand that, thanks to the treatment he received for the cancer he was fighting, his youthful aspect was accentuated. For us, that was proof that Mengele’s work in this direction was effective. In these documents it says that everything came about due to the blood inter-transfusions with his nephew Dante Contini-Massera. This means that you received his purified blood, and he yours. It was the perfect symbiosis of your blood cells with the larrea plant cells he was receiving. You, my dear Dante, possess the longevity we have sought for so long. But there are two missing ingredients for your state to be permanent. The formula written here can only be effective if it is subjected to the radiation from an artificial isotope with unique properties. It is the only way to activate the key components of the formula. To summarize: it’s the perfect catalyst your uncle must have left you. According to these notes, the isotope has an active half-life of thirty billion years.”