The Moses Virus

by Jack Hyland

Tom handed her his business card.

  With this, Crystal shook hands with Caroline and Tom, as did Parker, and they walked to an awaiting limousine.

  “What do you think of all this?” Caroline said to Tom. “I was surprised to see them here.”

  “It was a strange coincidence, but they seem committed to the project.”

  “Frankly, their offer seems a bit too good to be true. Let’s see how receptive the foundation is. Thanks for going tomorrow.”

  “Anything to keep the funding alive. Doc would appreciate it.”

  “You’ll need a car to get there. Why don’t you take mine? Come by the Academy tomorrow morning, and I’ll give you my keys.”

  As he was leaving, Tom saw Alex talking with the other members of Doc’s archaeological team. She waved at Tom. He hoped that she might be joining them for dinner. He had a meeting with Father O’Boyle, so he smiled and waved back.

  6

  About 6:30 p.m., Tom followed Father O’Boyle’s instructions and headed to Rome’s major train station, the Termini, in the southeastern part of the Eternal City. People of all nationalities moved in and out of the giant train terminal. O’Boyle had told Tom to look for a trolley station near the main entrance. Tom found it and boarded a car just about to leave for Rome’s southern suburbs. Tom kept alert to see if anyone might be following him. There didn’t seem to be anyone, but Tom did notice that an old man with a decided limp remained on the trolley for the entire ride, and looked at him occasionally.

  After about an hour, the trolley came to its final stop. Tom headed for a bus stop about a hundred yards away, as O’Boyle had instructed him. A few minutes later, a bus pulled up and Tom boarded. A teenager and the old man with the limp lined up behind Tom to get on the bus. The ride to the Jubilee Church took another twenty minutes and was the next to last stop. The bus left Tom directly across the street from the Jubilee Church.

  The church itself was a modern, concrete structure. It looked to Tom like a white boat with three billowy sails. Odd, thought Tom, until he realized that the sails represented the folds on a nun’s cap. The white church was surrounded by a stone plaza broken up by a few grassy areas. There was a bell tower to the front of the entrance.

  Tom entered the main door. The soft light from the ebbing sun streamed in the narrow window at the altar and through the high-curved windows of the nun’s cap. Inside there was a peaceful silence. Beneath the whiteness of the interior walls, there were pews of brown oak. One person sat midway toward the front of the church, his head bowed in prayer. Otherwise, the church was empty. Tom walked slowly toward this person. “Father O’Boyle?”

  The man crossed himself, then turned toward Tom. “Doctor Stewart?”

  “Please call me Tom,” he replied.

  O’Boyle stood up, with some difficulty, and held out his hand. Tom realized that O’Boyle shook hands firmly, but his hand trembled a bit. He had a full head of white hair. He was dressed in his priest’s black cassock.

  “Thank you for coming,” O’Boyle said and gestured for Tom to sit beside him in the pew.

  “Stunning church,” Tom said.

  “Think it’s a bit odd that an old codger summons an American TV personality to a new church in the middle of nowhere?”

  Tom paused, not sure what O’Boyle would say next.

  “Tragic,” O’Boyle continued, looking at their surroundings. “This church was built for the millennium celebrations, but when they were over, it was forgotten. No one in Rome wants to come out this far to worship. The local people prefer their own churches. Even the priest here is part time.”

  “Seems like a waste,” Tom replied evenly.

  “That’s only the half of it,” the old priest said. Then he seemed lost in thought for a minute or two.

  “Father O’Boyle, about the tragedy in the Roman Forum . . .”

  O’Boyle was abrupt. “That photograph of you and Doc Brown at the opening to the underground passage has gone around the world.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You are tied by that newspaper to the story, like it or not.”

  “I understand. Should I be worried?”

  “Readers of that story will assume you have information they want. Information they want badly. You will have to take action to defend yourself.”

  “But I know nothing,” Tom said impatiently. “What does this all have to do with the dig? With Doc and Eric? With me?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” O’Boyle said. “You need to know more to defend yourself.”

  “If this is true,” Tom said, “are you prepared to help me? In fact,” Tom continued with some irritation, “if I’m supposed to defend myself, what am I supposed to be concerned about? The odd green moss? The crazy, inexplicable deaths of two American Academy colleagues? Someone coming after me, thinking I know something—which I don’t?”

  O’Boyle sighed. “I don’t know. What you might learn might make you more vulnerable.”

  Tom said, “It’s up to you. If I’m in trouble, I should know enough to defend myself.”

  O’Boyle said nothing. He fixed his eyes on Tom. He leaned slightly forward. “I checked up on you. The Vatican has you in their files.”

  “What?” Tom said, unable to hide his surprise.

  “The record shows that ten years ago a guard in the Sistine Chapel apprehended you for trying to make off with something belonging to the Church.”

  Tom repeated, “Ten years ago . . . Okay.” He laughed, recalling the memory. “I’m guilty.”

  O’Boyle looked puzzled. “Why are you laughing?”

  Tom replied, “I had been visiting the work area in the Sistine just under the ceiling where Michelangelo’s great fresco was being restored. An official photographer was taking Polaroid pictures—before and after—of the restoration. He gave me a discarded one.”

  “What happened?”

  “I rode down from the scaffolding in the elevator with the photograph in my hand—in complete innocence. I left the elevator. A guard, seeing me holding the photograph, came right over to me and confiscated the Polaroid.”

  “That’s it?” O’Boyle asked. “The Great Vatican Theft? Well, we’ve always been accused of caring too much when a lone sparrow falls.”

  “So, I’m a sparrow?”

  “We all are,” O’Boyle retorted. “Thank God for the Vatican security system.”

  O’Boyle was amused by this exchange, but fell quiet once again.

  Tom broke in, “Father O’Boyle—about the Roman Forum . . .”

  “Ah, the deaths in the Roman Forum and the reasons for them. Well, to understand, you have to go back a number of years. Ever hear of Imhotep the Younger? Or the archaeologist Charles Babcock?”

  “I haven’t heard of them, though Imhotep’s name rings a bell,” said Tom.

  “You might want to learn a lot more about them. The Vatican paid close attention. That’s where it started.”

  “What started?” asked Tom, lost by O’Boyle’s elliptical comments.

  Father O’Boyle said nothing for a moment as Tom waited patiently. Then O’Boyle continued. “This was before my time. The Propaganda Fidei had their proof, and the matter was closed—forgotten about.”

  Tom thought about what O’Boyle had said. It sounded like gibberish. He decided to wait the old man out.

  “In 1933 Hitler came to power. Increasingly he became a threat to Europe and the Vatican. Then, in 1939, a new pope was named: Pius XII.” O’Boyle seemed to be looking at the past, and he did so with pride.

  “Pius had previously been Vatican ambassador to Germany and had dealt with Hitler. He not only didn’t trust Hitler, he feared Germany would inevitably invade Italy, destroy the Catholic Church, and seize its property. As world events progressed, and Germany’s aggressions were more evident, the Pope became obsessed wi
th the risk the Vatican faced.”

  “How do you know all this?” asked Tom.

  “My superior was the head of Propaganda Fidei—the Red Pope, as he was called. He was a member of the inner circle, close to the pope himself.”

  “Why was he called the Red Pope?” asked Tom, believing he already knew but wanting confirmation.

  “The Propaganda Fidei is a secret organization, with strong financial resources, answerable only to the pope. Its head, a cardinal, is extremely powerful.”

  “You were part of this organization?” Tom said.

  “I was a young priest from Ireland, assigned to the Cardinal—Cardinal Paolo Visconti.”

  Tom did a double take. “Visconti?”

  “Do you know of him?” O’Boyle asked, surprised.

  “I believe so,” Tom replied. “Please go on.”

  O’Boyle continued, “Visconti was an ambitious man who had risen quickly. When he was made head of Propaganda Fidei, he was in fact the second most powerful man in the Church.

  “Everyone knew of the pope’s concern about protecting the Church from Hitler. But no one had a solution. Then, in early 1942, Hitler provided us the answer to our problem.”

  “How is that?” asked Tom.

  “A few German scientists, fearing for their lives at the hands of the Gestapo, escaped from Berlin and came to Rome. Each had a relative or ancestor who was Jewish. They knew that eventually they would be rounded up and shipped off to the concentration camps.

  “Cardinal Visconti liked to say that Divine Providence had intervened— and he, Visconti, as God’s agent, had then pulled strings that provided sanctuary for the scientists. These men had worked on top secret biological weapons projects in Berlin.”

  “Wait a minute,” Tom exclaimed, with some fear mixed with anger. “You said biological weapons. Poisons. Is this what Doc’s and Eric’s deaths were all about? Killed by some biological weapon?”

  “Let me finish,” O’Boyle said. “Visconti gave the German scientists access to the Propaganda Fidei laboratory located four stories underground in Vatican City. The Germans soon found the earlier project of the PF, which I told you about.”

  He didn’t like what he was hearing at all, but he had to let O’Boyle finish.

  O’Boyle continued. “In searching through PF projects of the past, the German scientists discovered one from ancient Egypt. They saw a great challenge, and Visconti found his solution to protecting the Vatican from a German invasion.”

  “And what was this?” Tom asked.

  “There were three canopic jars from ancient Egypt in the PF’s inventory, one containing remains of grain, another the bones of a cow, and the third—human tissue fragments. PF research had verified that a powerful virus had killed the cow and the humans. The scientists proposed to reconstruct the virus, and if they succeeded the virus could be used to defend against the Germans.

  “Visconti presented his project to His Holiness, who had reservations but allowed the project to proceed so long as it was done in total secrecy and not in the PF’s lab in Vatican City.”

  Tom had begun to see where this story was headed. “By any chance, was this experimentation performed in the Roman Forum in a secret lab?” Tom asked.

  O’Boyle smiled. “Very good. You catch on fast. As Visconti’s personal assistant, I came up with the location, under the Forum, part of Nero’s gigantic Golden House near the Trajan Baths. There were vast underground rooms, some known and explored, others just speculated about, waiting to be discovered. Perfect hiding place. I supervised. We built an up-to-date laboratory in a month, working around the clock as each day Germany’s power increased.

  “Finding traces of the virus in tissue samples from the canopic jars, the scientists performed trial after trial. Most ended in failure. But these scientists were brilliant, motivated, and persistent. Finally, we had a breakthrough. First, minute traces, then a small supply. The virus had shocking properties.”

  Tom noticed the gleam of pride in O’Boyle’s face and excitement in his voice.

  O’Boyle suddenly interrupted himself—he seemed to be shying away from his telling. Tom needed to keep O’Boyle on track. The old priest was vacillating. Suddenly, he said, “What was it like being so close to Michelangelo’s work on the Sistine Chapel ceiling?”

  Tom was floored by the digression, but decided to play along.

  “Where the work was already restored, the colors were shockingly bright pastels rather than the dull colors I had studied in art history in college. The wax and smoke from the oil torches burning for the last five hundred years lay thick on the surface of the painting.”

  O’Boyle’s curiosity about the Sistine ceiling was not yet satisfied. “What part of the painting were you able to inspect?”

  Tom said, “I was standing within a foot of the most dramatic moment in the entire ceiling.”

  “Which was?”

  “The inception of the human race. Adam lying on a cloud with his left arm stretched toward the right hand of God, whose finger was about to touch Adam’s, causing life to surge from God to man.”

  O’Boyle said, “And, did you?”

  “Touch God’s finger and Adam’s finger as well? Absolutely.”

  “Of course. Well, what was it like?”

  “Sublime.” He had touched the finger of God, the finger of man and the painting surface left by one of the greatest artists who ever lived and at the peak of his artistry.

  Tom paused, then said, “Father O’Boyle, we are diverting from your story of what happened in the Roman Forum. Please go on. Once the virus had been reconstituted, what was next?”

  O’Boyle obviously wanted to tell his story but found parts of what happened difficult to relate. He continued, “What I’m telling you, I’ve told no one else.”

  “Really?” asked Tom. “You are revealing this to me, but no one else?”

  “It’s a hard secret to keep,” O’Boyle acknowledged with a sigh. “In your case, I believe you must learn what happened if only to save yourself.” There was a brief pause, then O’Boyle continued. “Visconti insisted on a human trial to test the potency of the virus. I begged him not to do this. Even the scientists said it was not necessary. But he was adamant.”

  “Where in the world did you get human guinea pigs?” asked Tom.

  O’Boyle looked pained when asked this question. He said, “From San Giovanni, a huge hospital near the Roman Forum. We selected a small number of patients with terminal diseases.”

  “Who allowed you to do this?”

  “Those who ran the hospital. They knew the power of the Vatican and looked the other way. They never asked any questions after they gave us the permission.

  “We took over a remote ward in a small building, on hospital grounds but separate from the main facility. It was originally used to treat lepers. Our scientists sealed doors and windows. A small container of the virus was set off in the ward. We watched in horror as the patients inhaled the virus and immediately began to have difficulty breathing. Some got out of their beds and thrashed around, their faces and bodies contorted in pain. In less than an hour they were all dead. We had never seen a more lethal virus.”

  “But if the virus is as lethal as you say, wouldn’t it spread rapidly to ordinary citizens of Rome if used in an attack? And, what happened at the Academy dig? Sounds like it escaped somehow—but what kept the virus from spreading after Doc and Eric were killed?”

  “This was our dilemma,” O’Boyle said. “We had no way of stopping it. We were told by weather experts that Vatican City and parts of downtown Rome would be blanketed in the lethal virus in no more than three hours under normal prevailing breezes.”

  “A doomsday weapon.”

  “Precisely,” O’Boyle said soberly. “We never intended to release the virus, just to use it to demonstrate its power to kill G
erman soldiers. I argued with Visconti that it was unconscionable for us to possess a weapon so inhumane. To no avail. He believed that God had created it for Moses to use against the Egyptians and had resurrected it to protect His Church against the Germans.”

  Tom stopped, frozen with horror. “Moses? Against the Egyptians?”

  O’Boyle’s reply was short. “That’s where the virus came from. Visconti began referring to our weapon as the ‘Moses Virus’ or by its Latin equivalent, Pestilentia Moseia.”

  Tom asked, “You’ve explained the Moses Virus. Now come back to the present. How did it kill Doc Brown and Eric Bowen?”

  O’Boyle replied, “I’m coming to that. One day a lab technician didn’t follow protocols. The virus escaped and wiped out the entire PF staff except one scientist who had been home sick. All hell broke loose in the Vatican. The pope was both furious and horrified. I don’t think he had believed the virus could be reconstituted. He saw how wrong he had been. Pius immediately ordered Visconti to abandon the lab, destroy the virus and all the related documentation.”

  “But,” said Tom, “Visconti didn’t, right?”

  “Visconti ordered the supply of the Moses Virus removed from the lab—but not destroyed. The lab, however, was sealed shut—the fully clothed, contorted bodies of the PF lab technicians left inside. To my knowledge the lab remained undisturbed for about seventy years, until your colleagues stumbled into it. They must have come in contact with traces of the virus.”

  “Did the pope know what Visconti did?”

  “The pope never found out—he thought Visconti had shut down the lab and destroyed the virus. Visconti covered his tracks completely. He swore me to secrecy. It was as if the whole lab never existed.”

  “Weren’t there loose ends?” asked Tom.

  “You mean the supply of the Moses Virus? Visconti had me hide it in a top secret location, which I did.”

  Tom persisted. “And you kept the secret?”

  O’Boyle stirred, uneasy. “Well, I did say that it was a hard secret to keep. The Holy Father’s personal secretary once commented to me about the matter, though I held my silence. But it did seem like he knew something.”