The Moses Virus Read online

  “I am forbidden by law to discuss any bank business related to specific clients.”

  “I am aware of that. I can assure you, however, this is a matter of some urgency.”

  “Dr. Stewart, I’m an old man, seeking to live the rest of his life in peace. I’m no longer actively involved in bank business of any nature, routine or urgent. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “Even if it could jeopardize the lives of hundreds of thousands of people?”

  Again, more silence.

  “I cannot help you.”

  “It is complicated and very serious. My own life has been threatened as a result of my connection to O’Boyle and this matter. It’s not something I feel comfortable discussing over the telephone. Could I meet with you to explain it more fully?”

  Silence again. “I’m agreeable to a meeting,” Warburg said at last. “However, I no longer travel. You will need to come to my home in Blonay, a small town outside of Geneva.”

  “I would be happy to meet with you. When would be convenient?”

  Warburg said, “Tomorrow or the next day?”

  Tom said, “If I can get a reservation, I could fly to Geneva tomorrow morning.”

  Warburg replied, “If you let me know what flight you’ve been able to get on, I’ll have my driver pick you up at the terminal and drive you to my home. Is that acceptable?”

  “You are very kind. I appreciate your willingness to meet with me on such short notice.”

  “My driver’s name is Hubert. He’ll be waiting.”

  Warburg gave Tom his e-mail address and his telephone number. Then he concluded, “Until tomorrow, Dr. Stewart.” He hung up.

  Tom quickly called the airline and made a reservation, then e-mailed his flight information to Sigmund. “This might be another dead end,” Tom said to Alex.

  “You have no choice but to follow it. By the way, we should get going if you’re to be prompt for your 4:30 p.m. meeting with Ambassador Wilson at the Vatican.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “It’s a walk of about fifteen minutes.” Alex accompanied him to St. Peter’s Square, whose great expanse of space never failed to impress Tom. Several thousand pilgrims from all over the world were making their way into or out of St. Peter’s, and they were momentarily in the square itself, yet it seemed empty. Tom walked to the right side of the massive Bernini colonnade, saying goodbye to Alex who was returning home.

  Tom stopped at the huge, closed bronze doors at the end of the colonnade. He banged on the doors with his hand, thinking that this might be a fruitless effort. His fists made no discernible sound. No one came. He banged a second time. Still no response. He was about to walk a football field’s length away to the main front doors of St. Peter’s, but he guessed finding the place inside the church where Wilson had suggested they meet would not be easy.

  Then, slowly, one of the huge, twenty-foot doors opened. A Swiss guard appeared and beckoned Tom to enter and follow him. He was dressed in his red, yellow, and blue Renaissance costume, with its white ruffled collars and black beret. Looking to his right and left, Tom saw only other guards in identical costumes. He knew he would never have been allowed in this area if he had entered by the main front doors. He dutifully followed the guard to a large reception desk where other guards as well as several clerics were standing. He gave his and Ambassador Wilson’s names to the attendant, who entered the information in a computer in front of him. The attendant asked Tom to wait for Fra Giuseppe.

  Within a minute or so, a monk, dressed as if from central casting, appeared at the desk. He had a brown robe with a rope belt, sandals, short-cropped hair, and a kindly look in his eyes. Fra Giu-seppe motioned to Tom to follow him, and together they climbed a monumental flight of stairs.

  Fra Giuseppe smiled benignly at Tom and said, pointing to the stairs, “Scala Regia.” Tom smiled back, acknowledging his having heard the name of the ceremonial stairway pronounced, but he already knew this was the royal entrance.

  At a landing on the Scala Regia, Tom passed the marble equestrian statue of the Roman emperor Constantine, a famous statue by Bernini. They went up another flight of stairs and Fra Giuseppe continued, passing the Sala Regia as well as one of the doorways into the Sistine Chapel.

  During the Renaissance the arriving kings, queens, or ambassadors were asked to wait in the Sala Regia after making their climb. Here, the popes would detain them long enough to observe the wall paintings, which showed those visitors, obedient to the wishes of the pope, leaving Rome on ships laden with treasure. For those who failed to pay their dues, their boats were on fire and sinking in the harbor. Tom wondered if he’d be asked to wait and whether his boat would be afloat or burning when he left.

  On the opposite side of a wide corridor Fra Giuseppe walked Tom into a modest-sized chapel where he made it clear that Tom was to wait. Tom sat in the back of the chapel. Almost immediately, the tall, physically strong figure of Ambassador Wilson strode in, wearing a business suit. “Tom, good afternoon,” Wilson said, shaking Tom’s hand. The ambassador motioned Tom to sit in one of the pews, and he joined him.

  With gusto, since this is what Ambassador Wilson seemed to be full of, he expounded. “Pauline Chapel,” he said with a hint of pride. “It’s the pope’s private chapel. The pope prays here and reads mass to private audiences.”

  Wilson continued. “On your right, Michelangelo’s Crucifixion of Saint Peter, one of the last two frescoes he painted. And, on your left, Michelangelo’s Conversion of Saint Paul. This is my favorite part of St. Peter’s. Almost no one gets to see this chapel or these two last frescoes. C’mon, let’s go. I’m going to take you to our meeting room.” With this, Wilson abruptly stood up and led the way out of the chapel, walking briskly down the wide corridor. Tom had to move quickly to keep up with him.

  Halfway down the passage, Wilson pointed to the left. “That’s the pope’s balcony out over St. Peter’s Square where he makes his speeches, especially his Easter address, ‘From the City to the World.’ Here,” he added, “let’s take a look.”

  Tom quickly said, “Sure.”

  Wilson pulled aside the curtains in front of the balcony, opened the door and stood aside. Tom walked out onto the balcony. As he stood, high over St. Peter’s Square, he saw that the Bernini colonnade below curved outward, like two arms extended toward Rome, even the world. Tom could see thousands of people in the square below. He could imagine them all looking up to see him. He thought to himself, What a sense of power to stand here. Then he asked Wilson, “How many people does the square hold?”

  Wilson replied, “Bernini designed it to hold 400,000 people.”

  Tom said, “Amazing. Very impressive.”

  “I thought you’d enjoy it,” said Wilson.

  The ambassador to the Holy See continued a bit further down the corridor, then stopped at a door that he opened and waved Tom to enter. “I’d like to introduce you to Reverend Monsignor Henrik Svenson, the pope’s personal secretary.”

  Svenson immediately stood up and extended his hand, giving Tom a very firm handshake. Tom looked at Svenson, a Swede, who had a chiseled face and light brown hair and was wearing a crisp white shirt with a clerical collar and a neat black jacket. He had strong blue eyes, which he fixed on Tom’s face. The energy in his glance was so strong that Tom thought he could almost feel it.

  Tom didn’t know much about Svenson, but he had learned from the newspapers that he had become a media personality. While he was noted for his efficiency and analytical mind, Henrik Svenson had gained notoriety in Rome for having the attributes of a star athlete and playboy. He was known as being an avid skier, tennis and soccer player, as well as an amateur pilot.

  The three men sat down. Svenson, who seemed very professional in manner, yet friendly as well, said, “Let me get to the point at once. We’re fully aware that your life has been difficult, since that event in the Rom
an Forum.”

  “Worse than that,” Tom said, “it’s been downright dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” Svenson asked.

  Tom decided to expose some of what he had been through. It seemed that this was Svenson’s primary reason for requesting the meeting and that maybe the Vatican was involved. “My room was broken into last night and my computer stolen. Two days ago, I was coming back into Rome, and I was nearly driven off the road by a black Fiat sedan with darkened windows. And I’ve been pursued by two men who claimed I had a supply of something they wanted. Besides these, I’ve been hounded by the press.”

  Svenson was no longer smiling. “I’m sorry to hear what’s happened. First, we’ve had nothing to do with any of this. Second, we are as eager as you are to bring a halt to it.” Svenson paused and changed the subject. “We know you met with Father O’Boyle two nights ago. Have you learned that he died last evening?”

  Tom, surprised by the reference to O’Boyle, said, “I heard the news earlier today.”

  Svenson proceeded. “O’Boyle had a top secret assignment, working for a powerful cardinal during the Second World War, an assignment that went disastrously wrong. We’re now aware—due to the deaths in the Roman Forum—that a supply of a dangerous virus is ‘out there’ somewhere. Our assumption is that there is a group that will move heaven and earth to get hold of it.

  “Your presence at the Roman Forum puts you in the middle of the hunt. Digging up the past serves no one, which is why I asked Ambassador Wilson to set up a meeting with you. We don’t know who has been after you, but what’s happened to you tells us that whoever it is is deadly serious. The virus must be found and destroyed before it falls into the wrong hands.”

  “Why is this virus so important to you?” asked Tom.

  “The cardinal I mentioned was acting outside his authority. But, one way or the other, if the virus were used—and people died—the trail would lead back to us.”

  Tom said, “Second World War. The pope then was Pius XII. His canonization process is under way now, isn’t it? And it’s in trouble because of those who are against his being declared a saint?”

  Svenson’s face reddened. He said nothing.

  Tom continued, “I understand the virus is ferociously dangerous. Did the Church play a role in creating it?”

  Wilson was silent, as if frozen. Svenson continued to say nothing. Tom realized how difficult this was for Svenson. He also realized that he was pressing his point against Svenson, releasing years of his own irritation at the hypocrisy of the Vatican.

  Finally, Svenson spoke. “We want this virus destroyed. Obliterated. No repercussions. You are believed to know how to find it. You need help? Get hold of the ambassador.” Svenson looked directly at Wilson.

  “I understand,” Tom said with some annoyance. “I’m supposed to ‘clean up’ after some rogue cardinal who created a devastating virus. You’ll deny my existence and expect me to take all the risk. Is that it?”

  Surprised by Tom’s bluntness, Svenson’s own demeanor turned tough. “It’s supremely easy for critics to throw stones at the Church for decisions made in good faith long ago. When the world watched, expecting that Hitler would attack the Vatican, murder innocent people, destroy Saint Peter’s, and plunder Christian treasures, who would fault a program to defend the Church? No one, I say. This is what happened. Our mission now is keep this program from public exposure, and we will do whatever it takes. We had nothing to do with the incident at the Roman Forum, and we, unlike you, were not present.”

  Tom realized arguing with Svenson was getting nowhere. He decided to move on. He stood and held out his hand to Svenson.

  Svenson stood up, shook Tom’s hand firmly and, with Wilson, walked Tom to the door, where Fra Giuseppe was patiently waiting. Giuseppe smiled pleasantly. Understanding no English, he beckoned to Tom to follow him and started walking toward the Sistine Chapel where Tom joined the exiting visitors and quickly found himself in St. Peter’s Square. It was 5:30 p.m., and Tom thought as he left how different his experience had been compared to the thousands of tourists. As he walked among them, he could see them sharing their experiences of St. Peter’s Basilica, the center of the worldwide Catholic Church.

  He had seen parts of the Vatican others would never see. He concluded that the meeting was to impress him, threaten him, and give him notice that the Church would fight to keep completely separate anything to do with from the Moses Virus. Thinking back to the Sala Regia, he guessed his boat was on fire and sinking in the harbor.

  Before he left St. Peter’s Square, Tom turned and looked up at the pope’s balcony. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a person in a white robe standing on the balcony looking down, perhaps at him. But Tom wasn’t sure at all.

  Tom hailed a cab near St. Peter’s Square, giving as his destination the address to Alex’s house. He didn’t notice that as the cab moved off toward Campo dè Fiori, a black Fiat sedan followed him a few cars behind. The Fiat ducked in and out of traffic, in rhythm with the movement of Tom’s cab. But Tom was preoccupied and not aware that he was being watched. He called Alex, who was on her way back to her house, to tell her of the meeting with Henrik Svenson and Ambassador Wilson as well as his visit to the Pauline Chapel.

  Alex was quick to recognize Svenson’s name. “I’m interested,” she said, “in your having met the poster boy of the Catholic Church. Do you know he’s nicknamed by the Italian press as ‘Handsome Henrik’? Donatella Versace was so taken by him and his ‘elegant austerity’ that she made a line of men’s clothing featuring clerical collar–style black jackets. He’s been with the present pope as his private secretary for a good many years longer than the current pope has been in office.”

  “Are you admitting you read American trash magazines?” Tom said. “How else would you pick up this stuff about Svenson?”

  “You obviously don’t read Italian newspapers and magazines. Everyone knows about Svenson.” She laughed.

  Tom told Alex about the tough lecture and warning Svenson had delivered.

  Alex said, “The Church has survived for two thousand years. It is the world’s toughest bureaucracy. They won’t help you. But they will come after you if they think you’re a danger to them. Do you remember the statue of Giordano Bruno in the center of Campo dè Fiori? The Church had Bruno’s mouth nailed shut to keep him quiet. I hope they don’t do that to you!” she joked.

  “I know you’re kidding, but my meeting with Svenson confirms my own suspicion,” said Tom. “I’ve added the Catholic Church as one more group to watch out for.”

  As Alex passed through the Campo dè Fiori, she noticed that the tempo of activity had slowed, but not stopped. She spotted the somber statue of Bruno, and her conversation with Tom repeated itself in her mind. It was early evening, and the temperature had cooled. Those in the Campo dè Fiori seemed happy to be there with no cares in the world. But this was certainly not the case for Tom, who had this horrific event settle on his shoulders. She mulled this over as she turned the corner and entered the courtyard in front of the entrance to her house. No one was in the courtyard, but when she placed her key in the lock, she suddenly realized that it was unlocked.

  Alex stopped. Enough had happened in the last few days to make her suspicious. She reassured herself, thinking, “Ana simply forgot to lock up when she left.” Half believing this, Alex opened the door. The kitchen was a mess, drawers pulled out, contents spilled. Then she saw something on the floor, across the room, partly obscured by a table.

  Alex felt her heart throbbing throughout her body. Terror was rising within her. “What’s happened?” she said. She walked toward the table. As she drew closer, she realized that her housekeeper was lying behind the table, unconscious. Alex rushed to her, knelt down, and felt her throat to see if she had a pulse. There was a pulse, but it was weak.

  Alex remained in possession of her senses. Stay calm
, she counseled herself. Call for help. She telephoned the Rome emergency number. After she explained that her housekeeper was unconscious, she was told that someone would be there in five minutes.

  She telephoned Tom, whose line was busy. Alex suddenly felt abandoned and alone. She thought she should search the rest of her house, but decided to stay put so she could be on hand when help arrived.

  Almost immediately, her cell phone rang. Tom was cheerful. “Alex, did you just call?”

  “Someone’s broken in, searched through my belongings, done something terrible to my housekeeper.”

  “Is she okay? Ana, that’s her name, isn’t it?” Tom’s voice turned from one of good cheer to serious concern.

  “Yes, it’s Ana. I’m not sure,” Alex said, “her breathing is shallow.”

  Ana stirred, making a faint cry, then went totally silent. Alex said to Tom, “I’ll put you on hold. Something’s happened.” Ana had become deathly still and very pale. “Tom,” Alex cried, “she may be dead. Now what do I do?”

  “Push down on her chest, then relax, then push and relax, in the same rhythm as breathing. That may help her breathe. I should be there is less than ten minutes.”

  Very quickly, paramedics appeared at Alex’s front door. She let them in, telling them what little she knew. They administered oxygen to Ana and gave her a shot of adrenaline to her heart. Nothing happened. But, in thirty seconds, which seemed like an eternity, Ana’s body shuddered, and she began to breathe.

  The paramedics lifted Ana onto a stretcher they had brought with them, then stood up and hurriedly told Alex they were taking Ana to the hospital. She—Alex—needed to stay to talk to the carabinieri who had been called by the paramedics.

  “Are you comfortable staying here? You’re alone?” asked the senior paramedic.

  “A friend is on his way over. He should be here momentarily.”

  “I’ll have one of my men remain with you until your friend or the carabinieri arrive.”

  “Where are you taking Ana?” Alex asked.