The Moses Virus

by Jack Hyland

  As he ate, and afterward, as he left, Tom surveyed his surroundings, trying to identify who was spying on him. But no one stuck out. He was amused—the spies, who were certainly there, covered their presence completely. But his humor was dampened when he realized that this wasn’t a game—a sobering thought as he left through the revolving door at the front of the Hassler.

  When Tom dropped in on Caroline in her office, she asked, “By the way, I forgot to ask you last evening, how did your lunch with the Belagri people go?”

  “Well, they certainly seem to have money to spend. They offered to make a substantial grant if I agree to act as their consultant on certain historical research projects.”

  “Seems a bit far afield for a global agribusiness.”

  “I’ll bet Brad Phelps will say the same thing, but he’ll also conclude that he’s all for it.” Tom paused before he continued. “The grant seems straightforward enough, although it’s hard to know what they’re really after.”

  Caroline nodded. “I’m sure they’re up to no good.”

  Tom added, “By the way, I’d like to ask Lucia to set up a computer call for me. I’m doing some archaeological research.”

  “Certainly,” Caroline said.

  “Any news from the authorities about the investigation?” Tom asked.

  “No. Pulesi is being very vague. But the number of calls from the media dried up yesterday. They seem to have lost interest, thank goodness. We can all get back to our lives.”

  Except that I’m being stalked, Tom thought to himself. He wanted to check into some of the things O’Boyle had mentioned. As Tom left her office, he said to Caroline, “I think I’ll visit the library to do some homework.”

  “Happy hunting.”

  With Marina’s help, he gathered a few books about the Trajan aqueduct and water systems of ancient Rome. After his discovery in the aqueduct the day before, he had to find out more. One of the books he selected was an historical study on the sources for Rome’s water. There was a short summary of the Trajanic period in which it was stated that Trajan’s aqueduct was built during the first century and early part of the second century, from AD 98 to 117, channeling water from Lake Bracciano, twenty-five miles northwest of Rome. When the water reached the top of the Janiculum Hill, it fed watermills for grinding grain. The mills were later destroyed by the Ostrogoths when they severed the aqueduct in AD 537 during the first sacking of Rome.

  More than a thousand years later, Camillo Borghese, on becoming Pope Paul V in 1605, proceeded to have the aqueduct rebuilt but altered its path slightly, so that water would be diverted to meet the Vatican’s needs, as well as to serve the suburbs west of the Tiber, which were suffering from a chronic shortage of water. The pope had a large fountain built near the top of the Janiculum Hill, just a short way down from the present position of the American Academy, to mark the success of the aqueduct’s restoration and to glorify himself. This fountain became known as the Acqua Paola. The diverted water served the Vatican, while the former main tunnel running down the Janiculum was abandoned. In Roman times this main aqueduct crossed the Tiber on a bridge and proceeded to the Trajan Baths near the Colosseum.

  Tom focused on the Trajan Baths—could Visconti have wanted to use the abandoned aqueduct for more than a place to hide something? In order to build the secret lab near the Trajan Baths and the hidden chamber near the Academy, there would need to have been an unobtrusive way to move things between both places. The old aqueduct would be perfect. It would permit someone to transport material to and from the secret laboratory. But where was the entry point? Wasn’t the Academy too high profile to use for this purpose?

  Looking at a map, it appeared that the likeliest place for the aqueduct to cross the Tiber River was the present Ponte Sisto, a footbridge, near Piazza Trilussa in Trastevere. There was a fountain in the piazza, and Tom learned that there were water pipes crossing over the Ponte Sisto. Where did that water come from? As he thought about it, Tom guessed that the abandoned aqueduct below the Acqua Paola probably contained a water pipe or pipes feeding the fountain in the Piazza Trilussa as well as feeding the flow of water to another fountain across the Ponte Sisto. He concluded that the downhill section of the abandoned aqueduct ended somewhere near the piazza and the last section of the Trajan aqueduct that began just across the Tiber.

  Lucia texted Tom while he was in the library: “Darby Smith at the American University in Cairo will be ready to speak with you tomorrow morning at 10 a.m. Attached is the password you’ll need. There’s a computer in the office next to Caroline’s. Ciao.”

  Tom texted his thanks. His time in the library had taken up the entire morning, and then some. He adjourned for lunch, sitting at one of the long tables in the courtyard. The sun lit up the cortile, baking everything in sight, but the tables were set in such a way as to be pleasantly in the shade. Tom happened to sit next to two landscape fellows who were planning to visit community gardens south of the city near the terminus of the ancient aqueducts carrying water into Rome. He took the opportunity to ask them about the construction of aqueducts, not mentioning his interest in Trajan’s. He was surprised to find that they were only vaguely aware there was an actual aqueduct forty feet directly under the tables where they were having lunch.

  After a cappuccino at the Academy’s bar, Tom decided to take a field trip to test his theory about the path of Trajan’s aqueduct and where it crossed the Tiber. As he left the Academy to see where the aqueduct led, he called Alex to set the time and place for dinner. They agreed to meet at 8 p.m. at Otello’s in the alleyway off Via della Croce, not far from his apartment.

  Leaving the Main Building of the Academy, Tom made a right turn onto Via Angelo Masina and walked to the end of the street, turned left and turned left again onto Via Garibaldi, passing the huge Acqua Paolo with its churning water spilling out of three great fountains, lit by lights, even though it was midafternoon. The descent toward the Tiber was steep as Tom walked the next hundred yards, turning right into Via di Porta San Pancrazio, which rejoined Via Garibaldi after another hundred yards. Tom realized his path roughly followed the path the aqueduct must have taken.

  Via Garibaldi became Via di Santa Dorotea, which passed through Piazza di San Giovanni Della Malva and, after a left turn, into Piazza Trilussa. So far, so good, he thought.

  Tom saw the modest fountain in the Piazza Trilussa and approached it. Standing with his back to the Tiber, Tom looked up at the Janiculum Hill. The end of the water pipe feeding the fountain had to be below one of the old streets leading off this side of the piazza. He spotted a small alley between two small buildings. An apartment house, about four stories high, painted a faded burnt Siena red, stood apart slightly from the next building, perhaps someone’s private home, which was made of stone and covered with ivy. Tom walked toward the alley, which went back the depth of the two buildings. At the alley’s end was a small stone structure no more than fifteen feet high, with a door marked with the insignia of Rome’s waterworks.

  Bingo, Tom thought. He tried the door. In true Italian fashion, the door was not locked.

  Seeing no one watching him, Tom opened the door and walked in. At the back of the modest building, there was a door of normal height, which Tom pulled open, revealing the end of a tunnel. The height of the tunnel was about the size of the aqueduct he had been in at the Academy. At ground level, two pipes emerged from the tunnel, each about eighteen inches in diameter, which then plunged into the floor and disappeared. Tom guessed that one of these went to the fountain nearby and the other fed the pipes crossing over the Ponte Sisto.

  Tom smiled to himself. Trajan’s aqueduct ran under the Academy building, down the Janiculum, and crossed the Tiber. If he found the aqueduct on the other side of the river, he’d be able to follow it to the Trajan Baths, close to the underground lab.

  Walking through the Piazza Trilussa, Tom crossed the Tiber on the Ponte Sisto, whi
ch was not as easy as it looked. As a walking bridge, it was devoid of car traffic, but it was filled with people sitting and talking. On the other side, at the end of the bridge, he noticed another small stone building marked with the same insignia. This time, however, there was a sign on the door. Tom translated the sign:

  FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY. KEEP OUT BY ORDER OF THE MINISTRY OF ITALIAN CULTURAL PROPERTIES AND ACTIVITIES.

  This must lead to the final section of the ancient aqueduct, Tom thought. Visconti and his team of workers could have used this obscure entry to come and go from the lab without being noticed. That explained the mystery of how he kept it secret. The pieces were all falling into place.

  Lost in thought, he made his way back to his hotel. He checked his e-mail before getting ready to meet Alex. There was a message from Brad.

  In the e-mail, Brad confessed to some reservations about Belagri’s reputation. He said, “They certainly have deep pockets. The proposal involves $500,000 in grant money. We can’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Tom. You know how tight the budgets are. In this economy, grant money is exceedingly hard to find.” Brad urged him to consider their offer very seriously.

  Tom wasn’t entirely satisfied by Brad’s response, which seemed totally ready to take Belagri’s money. Worse, he thought, Brad is leaving me with making the decision.

  Otello’s restaurant was busy when Tom arrived to meet Alex.

  She was already there, waiting at a table in the garden. He waved and made his way over. Alex’s table was under a maze of grapevines that grew prolifically on a yellowing old Plexiglas roof, there to protect outdoor diners from the lunchtime sun and the occasional Roman rain.

  “It’s good to see you,” she said as he sat down.

  “Likewise. Otello’s nice, if a bit crowded.”

  They ordered a bottle of wine and the special of the day.

  “How has everything been going?” Alex asked.

  Tom replied, “I’ve done some research today. But last evening after I put you in the taxi—something happened that made me very uneasy.”

  Alex leaned forward, concerned. “Not again? Please tell me.”

  “I was at the front door to my building, and two men closed in on me and demanded that I hand over something they claimed I have access to from the Roman Forum.”

  Alex looked shocked. “First, someone almost runs you down in a car and then comes after you in the street. What’s going on?” She paused, then continued. “You told me Pulesi is now in charge of the investigation. I inquired about him—Dr. Stefano Pulesi, isn’t it? He’s the head investigator of the agency the government set up after 9/11 to prevent bioterrorism. That suggests that something very serious must have been discovered with Doc’s and Eric’s autopsies.”

  Tom was startled by Alex’s statement. She had obviously been doing some investigation herself—which pleased him, even if what Alex had found out bothered him. He said, “I spoke with Pulesi yesterday. His investigation confirmed that Doc and Eric died from a powerful virus. They breathed it in from spores in the moss that was growing in the abandoned underground lab.”

  “I see. So the green moss did play a role.” She looked worried and perplexed. “In any of my research, there hasn’t been a virus that acted that quickly in bringing about a person’s death since—”

  Tom immediately finished her sentence: “The Spanish flu. That’s what Pulesi said and why he’s involved. Apparently, this virus is similar and could be even more potent. He’s alerted the Centers for Disease Control in the United States and its European counterparts. He’s certain some other groups know about the virus and want to get their hands on it.”

  “Is this why Belagri approached you?” Alex asked.

  “Probably.”

  “What will you do?”

  “NYU wants me to accept Belagri’s grant.”

  “Where there’s grant money involved, there’re always strings attached.”

  “I know,” Tom continued. “Alex,” he added, looking directly into her eyes, “I’m afraid there’s more to all of this than Belagri. With the car chase, and my being stalked—neither was likely Belagri.”

  “Why not?”

  “They barely knew me before lunch at Tivoli yesterday, and that was just moments before the car chase. Also, why offer me grant money and then harass me?”

  “Good point. Then, who was it?”

  Tom said, “I don’t know.”

  Alex sat back in her chair, astonished. “If I’m going to help, I need to know everything.”

  Tom replied, “I don’t want you dragged into this.”

  “I’m already in it,” she said. “Talk.”

  After Tom had finished giving Alex a full accounting of O’Boyle’s conversation with him—including the background of the Moses Virus, she said, “If you’re right and other groups are after the virus, shouldn’t you contact the Carabinieri?”

  “No. I want to know more before I involve them. As for Belagri, I’m not sure whether Doc was involved with them beyond a straight-forward consulting agreement—I don’t think he was, but I don’t know for sure.”

  “Why would Belagri be so interested in the virus, anyway? It has nothing to do with their agribusiness.”

  “That’s the mystery. Maybe it’s about creating superseeds resistant to such a powerful virus.”

  “Or something worse,” Alex said, quietly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bioterrorism. Corporate warfare.”

  “You think it could be used as a weapon?”

  “Anything’s possible, I guess,” Alex said without inflection. “With powerful weapons, there always seems to be someone who wants to control them.”

  The waiter showed up with their dinner.

  Afterward, they walked through the quiet streets. Nearby, the Spanish Steps were crowded with hundreds of tourists, spilling out onto the piazza below. They passed the Spanish Steps. The moon shone brightly, giving the serpentine cobblestone streets a strangely beautiful look. As they walked and talked, they grew closer. Tom took her hand. She didn’t resist. Eventually, they returned to the Spanish Steps, climbed all of its 138 steps, threading their way through the hundreds of students, tourists, and musicians gathered to talk, sing, or watch. At the top, they turned toward Via Gregoriana, and soon found themselves in front of his building.

  “Here we are. Interested in a nightcap? I’ve got some bottles of pinot grigio in the fridge.”

  “I’d like that, thanks,” Alex said and smiled.

  Tom opened the apartment building’s front door, made of steel and heavy glass, and they proceeded to the elevator.

  “It’s a little rickety, but it’s reliable.” The door squeaked as he slid it open for her.

  Stopping on the ninth floor, Tom and Alex walked down the corridor to his apartment. The door was slightly ajar.

  “Strange,” Tom said. “I’m sure I locked it.” He pushed it open.

  “Hello,” he said tentatively. He signaled to Alex to stay back.

  Silence. Tom entered the apartment. “What the hell . . .”

  The whole place had been trashed. Though the drawers of his desk were closed, Tom quickly determined that the contents had all been rearranged. Books in the shelves were in a different order than he had left them. Most importantly, his laptop was gone.

  Alex joined Tom in the apartment.

  “Oh, Tom. This is terrible.”

  Tom walked into his bedroom, then returned. “Nothing is missing except my laptop.”

  “I’m sorry. What about your book?”

  “I backed it up on a flash drive, which I happen to have carried with me.” He pulled it from his pocket to confirm that he still had it. “Luckily, there was nothing on my computer except a few stray notes.”

  “But why would only your laptop have been taken? What r
ecent e-mails did you send? Or receive?” Alex asked.

  Tom thought for a moment and replied, “I have a duplicate set on my iPhone. Let me see.”

  Tom scrolled through his incoming and outgoing e-mails. Suddenly he frowned.

  “What’s the matter?” Alex asked.

  “I e-mailed my dean at NYU that I had spoken with a senior Italian government official investigating the Roman Forum incident. I told him this official confirmed that a highly toxic virus was involved and that European and American groups were now on the alert.”

  “Anything else?” asked Alex.

  “No, nothing else.”

  “This is serious. Tom. To break into your apartment, steal your computer. You absolutely have to call the Carabinieri and file a report.”

  “If I do call them, it’ll be all over the news tomorrow.”

  “Well, it’s not safe here. You can stay at my place until you sort things all out.”

  “Thanks, but I couldn’t.”

  “No arguments,” Alex said firmly. “I’ve got a sofa bed that my friends use when they visit. Let’s pack your things and get out of here. Whoever broke in might be back.”

  An hour later, Tom and Alex were in a cab to her house.

  After he was settled, Tom joined Alex in the living room. She had set out two glasses and a bottle of chilled white wine.

  “Let’s have that nightcap,” Alex said, pouring the wine.

  “I really appreciate your help, Alex.”

  “Niente. I have a friend who owns a small hotel not far from the Termini. I’ll call her tomorrow and see if she’ll let you stay at her apartment. It’s on the top floor, which she normally uses, but this summer she’s in New York decorating a boutique hotel she’s opening near Irving Place—her latest project. I’m sure she’ll let you stay. We’ll give you a false name, right?”

  “Thanks. I hate to think this is necessary.”

  “But it is,” Alex said. “Do you know what I think?”

  “No, what?”

  “I’d guess that this break-in is more likely Belagri than anyone else.”