by Jack Hyland
14
Tom eventually regained consciousness, though he felt drugged and his ribs were sore. Where was he? How long had he been out? The world seemed to drift in and out of focus as he struggled to stay awake. He realized that he was on a plane when he felt it touch down and roll to a stop and heard the engines shut down. His captors had bound his hands and now they pulled him up roughly, walking him brusquely down the stairs to the ground and pushed him into a waiting black Mercedes.
As the car took off, Tom saw a large sign for Frankfurt International Airport.
“Where are you taking me?” Tom asked, trying to remain conscious.
“To the country,” one of the men said.
What seemed like hours later, the car drove through a large dark forest and pulled up to a tall black iron fence. The massive entry gate opened, and the Mercedes drove through, following a long, winding driveway to what looked like a medieval castle. Its massive stone walls loomed high overhead, lit by ground lights. The Mercedes pulled up and stopped under a porte cochere in front of the castle’s solid wood doors.
“Get out,” the driver said, opening the door on Tom’s side. He had a gun.
His captors walked Tom through the lobby, into the great hall. Tom looked up as they made their way to the main staircase leading to the second floor. The coffered ceiling in the great hall was easily twenty-five feet overhead. At the far end of the room, at least fifty or sixty feet away, there was a giant fireplace, big enough to walk into. Tom’s captors pointed him to the stairway and told him to “climb.”
At the head of the stairs, there were five doors. The center one was open. They entered and proceeded down a wide hallway at the end of which they stopped.
“This is your room,” one of the men said, as he unlocked the door.
“Look,” Tom said, “I demand to know what’s going on. I . . .”
The man pushed him inside the bedroom. As Tom entered, he did not see the person waiting for him behind the door. This person stepped out, behind Tom, with a cloth in his hand. He placed it over Tom’s nose and mouth and held him securely. Tom smelled the sweet acrid odor but barely had time to say, “Not again.” Blackness followed.
The next thing Tom knew, he was lying in bed. He was wearing a pair of pajamas, which certainly were not his. There was a light beside the bed that was lit. He had no idea what time it was, but he got up, and walked to the only door. It was locked. He went to a large window and pulled back the curtains. There were bars over the windows. “No getting out of here,” Tom said to himself. It was just beginning to be light outside. A mist covered the dense forest that seemed to surround the lawn, one floor below.
“Where the hell am I?” he said aloud.
Tom saw a closet, in which his clothes were neatly hung on hangers. He fished inside the pockets of his jacket. His wallet, passport, cell phone, and money were gone.
Gradually it all came back. He had been abducted by two Germans in Rome outside the hotel where he was meeting Alex. They drugged him and had taken him in a private plane to Frankfurt. He was inside some kind of castle in the country outside Frankfurt. That was all he knew. Suddenly he was struck by a thought: Had they done anything to Alex? He certainly hoped not, but he realized he had absolutely no way to know.
He heard a key in the lock, and the door opened.
“Guten morgen,” a tall man dressed in black said. He was carrying a silver tray.
“Where am I?”
The man ignored him and placed the tray on a side table.
“I suggest you eat this,” he told Tom in German. “Get dressed. I will be back in one hour.” The man turned and walked out, locking the door behind him.
Smelling the full breakfast, Tom realized he was hungry. Poisoned food? He wondered. No, I don’t think so. I was brought here from Rome. Certainly not just to poison me. He sat down and ate, then showered and dressed. Precisely one hour later, the door opened again.
“Let’s go.”
Tom followed the German down a wide corridor that led to a large conference room. A glass chandelier hung from the ceiling, and the parquet floors were buffed to perfection. There were mirrors on either side of the room, so that the chandelier with its lights was caught in the reflections of both mirrors and gave the impression of there being an infinite number of rooms and chandeliers. Tom was asked to sit down at the conference table, whereupon his captor left the room and closed the door.
After a few moments, a man walked briskly into the room from another door. He was of average height, of slightly stocky build, with short salt and pepper hair, a thin mustache, and long ears. His most distinctive features were his light blue eyes. He walked with an air of authority. Tom instinctively rose from his chair.
“Dr. Stewart, my name is Hermann Bailitz,” he said in perfect English, though with a slight German accent. He extended his hand. Tom did not take it. Bailitz appeared not to notice Tom’s unwillingness.
“I apologize for the rather unorthodox circumstances of our meeting. The urgency of the situation seemed to call for this special approach.”
“What situation?” Tom said. “Your thugs drugged me and stole my belongings. I demand to be released immediately.”
“All in good time, Dr. Stewart. Please sit down.” There was real authority in his tone.
Tom decided to listen rather than respond. Bailitz went on. “As you may know, I am chairman of Belagri, the world’s largest biogenetic seed manufacturer. These days, transparency is a virtue, so let me tell you that you are in my private quarters in the quite famous Kronberg Castle, outside Frankfurt. I hope we will be friends.
“I should explain the urgency. You confirmed for my colleagues what happened in the Roman Forum when they met you for lunch at Tivoli.”
“What are you talking about?” Tom demanded.
“The existence of an extraordinary virus. Something we had been looking for—academically at first, but recently as a critical part of our strategy. We followed up to learn as much as we could. But we discovered that someone else has been watching every one of your moves.”
Tom, surprised, said, “I don’t know of any such group.”
“Come, come, Dr. Stewart. You surprise me with your naïveté if you mean what you say. They are an undercover unit.”
Bailitz continued. “They were coming after you. They are very shrewd. They’re like a spider watching its prey, ready to pounce when the moment is right. They would have been successful, but we realized we’d better intervene first. We had already offered you a generous consulting contract, which you seemed intent on taking. But when they showed their hand, we had to take precautions.”
“Are you suggesting,” Tom said with irony, “I should thank you for capturing me?”
Bailitz replied, “Dr. Stewart, you’ll have to be the judge. I will say that it gave me unusual pleasure to ‘pluck’ you out of Rome right in front of their faces. But, enough of this background. Let me change the subject.”
Tom was irritated by Bailitz’s high-handed way of treating their conversation. “Wait a minute,” Tom said. “You mentioned a minute ago the virus was of academic interest to you, then suddenly it’s become a part of your critical strategy. What’s this all about?”
“We face competition every day—that’s fine, we always win against our competitors. But we’re fighting avarice and entrenched power that can take our business away from us, and we have no defense against this. I just returned from Nairobi. Belagri’s seeds have been declared genetically altered and illegal for us to sell. This wipes out the Kenyan market. Other African nations may follow their lead. It means millions of dollars of lost revenue to us.”
“Bad, but not catastrophic. You have the rest of the world.”
“Last week I was in Brazil arguing our case. The government plans to outlaw our products. The irony is that farmers who use Belagri have
bigger, better crops. If we’re kicked out of their markets, they lose and we do, too.”
“Can’t the farmers rise up and demand Belagri products?”
“The governments in these countries are corrupt. They collect pay-off money under the table and outlaw us publicly. We have no recourse but to out-think our competitors.”
“Can’t you plead your case before the authorities?”
Bailitz’s voice raised in frustration. “I personally have been named persona non grata in Kenya. We can’t even legally enter Kenya. Word of our being ejected is getting around.” Bailitz was visibly shaking. This discussion was angering him to the core. He was quiet for a few moments, trying to contain his fury.
Tom thought that he wouldn’t like to be confronted by a hostile, angry Bailitz. Then he realized he, too, was confronting him.
Bailitz continued, “Belagri seeds and other products account for roughly half the world’s food supply. It’s a source of great satisfaction to me personally to feed the world.”
“Your powerful company and its . . . methods are well known.”
“Ah, yes. Our competitors engineer all kinds of lies and false charges against us. Sour grapes, if you’ll forgive me a modest pun.” To this statement, Tom made no comment.
Bailitz went on, “But having one government, like Kenya, or two or three others, like Brazil, outlaw us will have a resounding and devastating effect on our reputation and, more to the point, our business.”
“What does all this have to do with the virus?”
“We can beat the competition—maybe we can even beat the things Mother Nature throws at us. But we can’t beat corrupt governments. I have to take action.
“Despite our monumental contributions to agroscience, we’ve been encountering growing resistance by political bureaucrats in many countries. Regulations about bioengineering have been written to stop our progress. If we were paranoid, we would believe that there is a well-orchestrated plan to remove us from our critical role in the global food supply. Without Belagri, the world would go back to antiquated methods.
“I won’t let that happen. It would be disastrous for Belagri and for the millions upon millions of people around the world who will starve.”
“This is all very interesting,” Tom said, “but I’m an archaeologist, not a politician.”
“It is precisely archaeology which brings you and me together.”
“How is that?” Tom inquired.
“Our foundation funds numerous archaeological explorations,” Bailitz said. “I believe that the past informs the present and the future. The dig at the Roman Forum was just one of many, but there were some interesting aspects to it.”
“Yes, Crystal Close told me of your personal interest in the effort.”
“I believe you are aware of Dr. Smith’s rediscovery of the mural from the architect Imhotep the Younger’s tomb confirming the Biblical account of plagues in ancient Egypt?”
Tom admitted to himself that this last comment by Bailitz surprised him, but he kept that surprise to himself. He said in a measured tone, “Yes, I keep up with significant finds.”
“So do our researchers. News several months ago of Smith’s substantiation of the famous biblical plagues that wiped out man and beast intrigued us. Our researchers visited Smith. We learned of the unusual contents in the three canopic jars found in the tomb, and we followed the trail of evidence to Rome.
“I did some checking, and it became evident to me that the Vatican had taken the canopic jars from the Imhotep tomb back in the 1920s. I knew from other sources that the Vatican’s Propaganda Fidei has always had modern laboratories to test the veracity of religious claims. What precisely was discovered by their labs, however, I could not discover. Our trail grew cold, due to the impenetrable bureaucracy of the Vatican.”
“Until Doc Brown’s unfortunate accident?”
“Ah, yes, Dr. Brown was a very dedicated archaeologist, but it was through the circumstance of his death that we confirmed our suspicions about the existence of a devastating virus, and we found the trail again which brought us directly to you.”
“I assume you’ve ‘persuaded’ the authorities?”
“Let’s just say that we have many advocates in governments throughout the world as well as detractors. In any event, once we met you, we knew that you would not rest, or, rather, could not rest, until you discovered the truth about what killed your colleagues, so we had you followed. It was you who led us to O’Boyle, who—eventually—told us much of the back story of what he called the Moses Virus. Set loose, this virus could have devastating consequences. We kept any ‘competitors’ for the virus from getting to O’Boyle.”
“You mean you had Father O’Boyle killed,” Tom stated with an edge in his voice.
“Father O’Boyle was an elderly man, and physically not very well,” declared Bailitz. “That he died of a heart failure should have surprised no one.”
“But why would Belagri, ‘the world’s largest biogenetic seed manufacturer,’ as you put it, be interested in a powerful virus?”
“I grant you,” Bailitz said smoothly, “it may not seem obvious—that is, a connection between Belagri and a deadly virus.”
“I don’t follow you,” Tom said.
Bailitz continued. “The future for humans on our planet is dire. Food production will have to increase 50 percent over the next twenty years.” Bailitz paused, then repeated the number with emphasis. “Fifty percent, just to feed the world’s expanding population. How will this be done? It won’t. Left in the hands of the greedy bureaucrats, there will be far more than one billion people actually starving and dying, not just hungry.
“Politicians from third world countries, through graft and corruption, enrich themselves by stealing billions of dollars each year that were intended for food production.” Bailitz raised his voice to enforce his next statement: “Africa’s birth rate is much higher than the rest of the world’s. We give them Western medicine, which spares their children’s lives from infant diseases. They have more children so they can till the pathetic little patches of ground where they live. Then politicians keep them from getting our seeds; their crop yields are anemic. This will end in cataclysmic starvation.”
“And I suppose Belagri has a solution?”
“A God-given opportunity! And you’ve found it for us—a powerful virus. Suppose a devastating virus were to attack the population of Kenya, with the result that thousands would die. Much of the government will perish, but those politicians who survive will panic because they don’t have a solution, and they can’t ‘talk’ their way out of their predicament.”
“But,” replied Tom, “the Moses Virus would not harm the food supply of that country.”
“We know that. But if we used the virus, we would also use other means to wipe out that country’s agriculture.”
“So,” said Tom, “you’d destroy agriculture, livestock, and the population, including the politicians?”
“It’s a stark way to describe it, but, yes, you’re essentially correct,” said Bailitz. “After most of the country’s politicians are eliminated, Belagri will offer our antidote for the virus, and we will immediately supply the country with the means to reestablish its food production. With our state-of-the-art facilities, I am confident we can find the antidote for the treacherous pestilence of the Moses Virus.
“With the antidote we will have a perfect weapon. Our competitors won’t stand a chance to keep up with us. We’ll feed the people in that country—forever.”
“And there will be enough food for everyone?” Tom asked.
“Exactly,” replied Bailitz, with obvious excitement.
“The sacrifice of the few to benefit the many?” Tom said, feeling both sick and sad.
“Just so.”
“And put billions of dollars in Belagri’s pocket?”
&n
bsp; “It’s a win-win situation. We are the leader in a growth industry that is essential to man’s survival. It dwarfs Apple’s or Google’s opportunities. Man can live without computers, Dr. Stewart, but all men must eat to survive.”
“You are mad.”
“Dr. Stewart, I’m a practical man. I run a large global company. We have a problem, and I have a solution. The world wins. Belagri wins. We will profitably solve the world hunger problem.”
“What makes you think I’d help you, even if I could?”
“You’ve already been quite helpful to us, thanks to your impressive investigatory skills.”
“Well, apparently you know more than I do.”
Bailitz smiled. “You are too modest, Dr. Stewart. We persuaded Father O’Boyle to help us understand the Vatican’s role in all of this. Sigmund Warburg on the other hand was not quite as cooperative.”
“What have you done to Sigmund Warburg?” Tom asked.
Bailitz smirked. “Nothing. He was an old man in frail health. I will simply say that he . . . didn’t respond well to our interview techniques.”
“What makes you think I was any more successful than you with Sigmund Warburg in learning the whereabouts of the virus?”
“Call it an educated guess. We’ll find out soon enough.” At this point, Bailitz pressed a button on a signaling device by his place at the table. The door opened and—to Tom’s surprise—Crystal Close walked into the room. She looked surprised to see Tom.
“Good morning, Dr. Stewart,” she said. “Nice to see you again.”
Tom didn’t respond.
She turned to Bailitiz. “Hermann, I had the impression that Dr. Stewart was under my direction. I was not informed . . .”
“I decided that more aggressive methods were required.”
Tom, who was watching Crystal, thought he saw a flicker of anger flash across her face.
Crystal sat down next to Bailitz without saying anything.
Bailitz continued. “We need to know what you know, Dr. Stewart. Your cooperation could make you a very rich man.”
