The Moses Virus

by Jack Hyland

  “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.”

  “Sigmund, surely this situation trumps the existing laws. Please reconsider.”

  At this point Sigmund seemed to want the afternoon conversation to come to an end. He stood and extended his hand. “I’m afraid I cannot. I’m grateful to you for coming to Blonay, and I hope you’ll succeed in your quest. I’ll have Hubert drive you back to the airport.”

  Warburg showed Tom out. Hubert was in the driveway, standing by the Mercedes, the door already open. Tom looked out the back window of the car as they drove away. He saw Warburg wave briefly, then turn and walk slowly back into his house.

  13

  As Hubert drove, Tom sat in silence, thinking. He was disappointed by the abrupt end to his conversation with Sigmund. Could he somehow have presented his case with a greater sense of urgency? Maybe, he told himself. He understood the ironclad nature of Swiss banking secrecy laws, but was there no exception to this, especially when the stakes were so high that a huge loss of human lives could occur? What could he do now? The Moses Virus was still locked away, somewhere, and Belagri—and perhaps others—were intent on possessing it. And they believed that he, Tom, knew where the supply was.

  Maybe he should seek Pulesi’s help, as Alex suggested. The first step would be to call Alex, he concluded. Tom was grateful for her very presence as well as her advice, but when he thought about Alex, he also worried that she was being drawn deeper into the danger he was already in. He felt trapped. Nevertheless, Tom called her the moment Hubert dropped him at the Geneva airport. His plane was due in Rome around 9:30 p.m. Tom suggested they meet at his apartment at the hotel, recommending that she change cabs twice to get there.

  “But I thought this is not a spy thriller,” she said, a bit playfully.

  “I’m not taking any chances. Someone may be watching you.”

  Around 10:30 p.m., when Alex asked for “John Jones,” Tom’s alias, at the front desk, she was told that Mr. Jones had left a message for her to meet him in the small café restaurant around the corner of the building.

  Tom stood as Alex approached. They hugged.

  “Thanks for joining me. I’ve ordered some wine.”

  She looked around. “I haven’t been to this café since Antonia opened it. It’s very attractive.”

  “Yes, and so informal that there’s no printed menu. There’s a blackboard with what’s currently available. The special today is sea bass.”

  “Fine with me.”

  The waiter approached, and they ordered.

  “How was Switzerland?” Alex asked.

  “Interesting but frustrating.” Tom related his meeting with Warburg. “The man knows more than he lets on, but says he can’t help. He’s a retired banker but still bound by the Swiss banking laws.”

  Alex frowned. “Old men and their rules. What will you do now?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll wait a day and contact him again. Maybe he’ll change his mind.”

  “What about Pulesi? If you get him involved, he might use the weight of the Italian government to force the issue with the Swiss.”

  “I’ve debated that and wanted to discuss this with you. I trust Pulesi but not the rest of the Italian government. It’s risky. There has to be another way to convince Warburg.”

  The food came, and they ate as they talked.

  “How do you like your new place? I know Antonia has a great eye for decoration.”

  “Over the top—I really do like it.”

  Alex smiled.

  Tom said, “I found a supermarket nearby, and a few doors further there’s the best gelato store I’ve seen in Rome. My fridge now has two large containers of ice cream—double chocolate and butter crunch.”

  Alex laughed and said, “Bring it on.”

  He called for the check, and they made their way up to his apartment.

  The next morning, Alex had to leave before breakfast for a morning meeting with her dissertation advisor.

  “One cup of coffee,” Tom teased. He didn’t want her to go quite yet.

  Alex kissed him. “Sorry, though I love being in this Roman ruin, I have to get back home to change. Besides, Ana will be worried.”

  “Oh,” said Tom, “I’ve been so preoccupied with my own problems, I forgot to ask you: Is Ana okay?”

  “Shaken up, but she seems to have had a complete recovery. Oddly enough, she was so frightened by her attackers that she has no memory of the person or persons who came after her. The hospital released her and told her to resume her normal schedule. Okay, I’m off. I’ll call you later then.”

  He took her hand, “And thanks.”

  “The pleasure was mine. Ciao, caro.”

  Tom ate alone, put his breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, and made another pot of strong coffee. Then he sat at the desk in the living room and turned his new computer on. He enjoyed the peace and quiet of the apartment and was thrilled to be doing nothing more than editing one of the chapters of his book. The day vanished. He broke for a quick lunch—a couple of slices of pizza, which he picked up from a local pizzeria across from the café. He returned to editing.

  Late that afternoon, Tom stood up and stretched. He’d spent all day working on his book and was making considerable progress. The new laptop made the work much easier. Now that he was sequestered in a safe place, neither the media nor the stalkers would bother him.

  He was just about to take a break at the café for a coffee when his phone rang. “Signore Stewart, this is Lucia. A special messenger dropped off a package for you—it has your name on it, but no other markings. The messenger said to tell you his name was Hubert.”

  Tom could
n’t believe that Sigmund had relented. “Thank you, Lucia. I can be at the Academy in twenty minutes. I’ll come directly to your office.” Tom felt a rising sense of excitement. Perhaps he’d been more persuasive than he realized with Warburg. With luck the package might contain the information he needed to find the Moses Virus.

  “Could you arrange to let me in the side entrance of the Academy? I don’t want to be too conspicuous.”

  “Certainly, Signore. Just ring at that entrance. I’ll have Fabio looking out for you. He’ll buzz you in and have the package with him.”

  “Thanks.” Twenty minutes later, when Tom arrived at the Academy, he instructed the cab driver to turn left before Via Angelo Masina, avoiding the front gate, and following the street around to the side entrance. Tom was buzzed in at the side gate—he presumed by Fabio. He entered the Academy grounds near the Casa Rustica and headed toward a rarely used door in the main building. Before he had a chance to ring, Fabio opened the door and handed him the package. Tom looked around to see if anyone was watching.

  In broken English, Fabio invited Tom in. In the safety of the vestibule leading down to the cryptoporticus, Tom undid the outer envelope of the package, revealing a small box about the size of a paperback novel, wrapped in tan paper, unmarked, except for Tom’s name. The box was carefully sealed. Inside there was an envelope containing a sheet of note paper with Sigmund Warburg’s name printed at the top, and a brief typewritten message: “To Mr. Pierre Villechaise, Managing Director, Cordier, Warburg & Cie., 16, Rue de Hollande, Geneva. Please extend every courtesy to the bearer of this letter. Thank you.” It was signed simply, “S. Warburg.” There was also a key in the envelope with Sigmund’s note.

  Tom knew what this meant. Warburg had seen the urgency of the situation and allowed him to pick up the trail to the Moses Virus.

  He called Sigmund’s telephone number and let the phone ring for a dozen times. No answer. Tom decided he’d call again later.

  This package was too important for Tom to carry back to his room. He’d been lucky so far to avoid being followed. He needed a secure place to keep the letter and key until he figured out his next move.

  Fabio, who had stood aside while Tom opened the package, now asked, “Do you need anything, Signore?” in Italian. Tom was struck by a thought: The hidden room in the aqueduct would be the perfect place.

  “No, thanks, Fabio. But I do need to see Lucia.”

  It was only a few steps from the side entrance to Lucia’s office on the main floor, and, once there, Tom said, “Lucia, I’ve decided I need to revisit the aqueduct for a few minutes. May I borrow a flashlight? Also, I’m going to walk in the aqueduct down the Janiculum Hill to its end. I assume that’s okay?”

  “If you want to do this, be our guest. Do you need any help, however? Someone to come with you? I’ll be glad to ask Fabio . . .”

  “No, thanks,” Tom replied. “I’ll be fine. If the aqueduct’s blocked, I’ll just come back.”

  Lucia gave him a flashlight, and Tom headed back into the main hallway. No one was in the large stairway leading down to the cryptoporticus, nor was anyone around when Tom reached the stone cover over the entrance. When Tom lifted the cover, at first it didn’t budge. But he tried a second time, and with a little effort, he found that it lifted enough for him to slide it aside.

  Tom descended the ladder far enough to reach up and pull the cover back onto its normal position. Then he turned on the flashlight and continued downward to the floor of the aqueduct.

  He found his way to the secret room, entered it, and deposited the package and the key in the small concealed alcove in the far wall. He slid the panel back over the opening, closed the door of the room, and stood for a few seconds in the aqueduct.

  He realized he could return to the Academy, but the more he thought about it, the more the idea of leaving at the exit of the aqueduct down the Janiculum Hill appealed to him. If he took this route, he’d know that this was the way he could use to retrieve the key and letter without involving the Academy. It also could be done anonymously, so that no one would know of his coming or going.

  Tom started walking in the ancient waterway. The pitch of the entire passage was sharply downward, but not so precipitous that he couldn’t handle it. About a hundred yards down the Janiculum, he saw the remnants of the debris that had been moved to the side to keep the water from pooling. He thought to himself that he must be directly under the Norwegian Academy, whose construction project had led to the invasion by the mosquitoes at the American Academy.

  Further along, he thought he heard something. Rustling. Scratching. “Rats, again,” Tom said to himself. He shined his flashlight down the pathway. The light from the strong beam caught the reflections of dozens of small beady eyes belonging to the inhabitants of the aqueduct. Once again they scurried away, anxious to avoid him. He dropped his flashlight’s beam to the path immediately in front of him and continued on his downward trek.

  The remainder of the underground passageway proceeded without further incident. He knew from his walk aboveground when he was searching for where the aqueduct led, that the entire trip should only take about fifteen minutes. Sure enough, the aqueduct came to an end as he expected. He was confronted with a door that blocked his way. He pushed on it, knowing already that it wasn’t locked. The door opened into the modest room that he had come across only three days ago.

  Tom closed the door and emerged into the alley at the back of Piazza Trilussa. The experience had not been unpleasant, he realized, once he’d grown used to the heat, the stale air, and the downward pitch. It was mostly a matter of knowing what to expect that eased the apprehension of being in the aqueduct. Once in the fresh air of Trastevere, however, and hearing the bustle of Romans walking on the street in the midst of their routine tasks, seeing the open-air restaurants situated around the piazza—Tom admitted it was joyous to see Rome alive and well. He wondered at his reaction, and guessed that his elation might be the knowledge that the key and letter in their secure hiding place might mean he was nearing the end of his ghastly experience with the Moses Virus.

  Tom hailed a cab. He looked around as the taxi drove away to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

  Once he was back in his room, he tried again to reach Sigmund but the telephone just kept ringing and ringing. Why didn’t Julian pick up as he did before? This was not good, he thought. Tom recalled what had happened to Father O’Boyle after he had met with him. What if something similar had happened to Warburg? Tom called Alex. “There are new developments. Can we meet later?”

  “What happened?”

  “I’ll explain at dinner. Helpful developments, though. Do you have a preference for where we eat?”

  Alex said, “I’ll meet you wherever’s convenient. But, I’d planned to visit the Canova exhibition at the Galleria Borghese. It’s ending today. I can’t get there much before its closing time.”

  “When is that?” Tom asked.

  “Eight,” Alex replied.

  “Okay,” said Tom, “eight it is. I’ll make a reservation at La Terrasse, the restaurant on the seventh floor of the Villa Borghese Hotel. It’s very near the Galleria Borghese. If I can make it, I’ll join you at the gallery beforehand.”

  “See you at 8 p.m.,” she said and hung up.

  Tom returned to working on his manuscript. Totally absorbed in his book, he was feeling good about the changes he had made when he suddenly realized it was 7:30 p.m., and he would surely miss the Canova exhibition, and might even be late for his date with Alex. He left her a text message that he’d probably not be able to get to the museum, but would see her at the restaurant. Tom took the elevator downstairs where he asked the clerk at the front desk to call a cab for him. He waited in the lobby for a longer time than he liked. When the taxi pulled up, he quickly climbed in and gave the Villa Borghese Hotel’s address to the driver. Two men in a dark blue Mercedes were waiting a
few doors down and watched intently as Tom left his hotel. They followed the cab.

  Tom didn’t realize this, but his careful efforts to disguise his whereabouts had proven inadequate. The dark blue Mercedes that had followed him from St. Peter’s Square to Alex’s house two nights earlier had led the two men to Alex’s house, and the next morning the car followed Tom to the Rome airport. His trip to Geneva was noted and an agent in Geneva waited for Tom’s arrival and followed him to Blonay. The team had both Tom and Alex in their focus, discreetly staying out of sight in the shadows. Waiting. Waiting for further instructions.

  A few minutes after 8 p.m., Tom’s cab pulled up across the street from the hotel. He paid, then got out of his taxi. He looked around. The street was quiet, only a couple of cars. He didn’t see anyone near the hotel entrance.

  Suddenly, Tom felt a piece of steel poke into his back and heard a voice, with a German accent, tell him to get into the dark blue Mercedes, which pulled up quickly in front of them. The German with the gun opened the back door of the car and signaled for Tom to get in.

  “What’s going on?” Tom demanded to know.

  “Schnell!” The German with the gun pushed the gun into his ribs. Tom got in, the gunman followed him into the backseat, and the car took off.

  “Who the hell are you?” Tom demanded.

  Silence.

  The man with the gun sitting next to him took white cloth and a small bottle out of his pocket. A sweet smell filled the car. Quickly he put the moist cloth over Tom’s mouth and nose. Tom struggled, but it was too late, and he passed out.