The Manuscript I the Secret (16 page)

“Yes. I’d seen the car when I was waiting for you. And it turned both times I changed directions.”

“You think it was waiting for me to leave Irene’s house?”

“Probably.”

“Don’t forget to look into the matters I asked you about, Nelson.”

Things were getting complicated. I needed answers, and fast. I also needed to figure out what to do with Merreck.

When we got home, I told Nicholas about everything, and in his habitual way of organizing the facts, he began listing things out: “Let’s see. Irene shows up in your life when you went to a party in San Francisco. But it just so happens that she, too, lives in New York. First coincidence. Remember what Nelson said? Well, then she presents you to some dude who’s a stock broker. What was his name?”
“Jorge Rodríguez.”

“Who at first helps you make money, all the while gaining your trust. You take a bit more risk, despite his warnings, and two million dollars disappear. Jorge Rodríguez himself disappears, and you’re in a real bind. Then Irene Montoya shows up again and offers you five thousand dollars so you can go bury your uncle. Second coincidence.”

“I went looking for her. She didn’t come around offering me the money.”

“Same difference when you look at the results. Jorge Rodríguez, it turns out, is Colombian, just like Irene. Third coincidence.”

I nodded and let him keep going.

“Now, Jorge Rodríguez, according to Irene, is dead. She hasn’t seen him dead with her own eyes, but his wife told her. That’s really convenient, don’t you think? Whatever the case, she can always say ‘they told me’ he died.”

“I hope Nelson can find the answers. I’ve already thought of everything you said, but it’s really hard for me to believe Irene is wrapped up in some conspiracy.”

“And to top it all off, there was someone following you coming out of her house. What for? Who would benefit from knowing your movements?”

“Obviously someone who doesn’t know my plans. I think that’s what I’d do, Nicholas, if I wanted to know what somebody was up to. The first thing I’d do is follow them to know who, what, when, where, why, and how; what they’re doing and what their habits are...”

“Nelson’s lessons seem to be sinking in.”

“He’s schooled us both!” I said, with a good hard laugh. “You think like a detective. Have you considered giving up writing and opening an agency?”

The jovial smile that had lit up his face seconds ago suddenly vanished. “I’m writing. I started today. Dante, writing isn’t just a cute hobby for me. It’s my passion. If it weren’t for writing, I wouldn’t be here right now.” His eyebrows did that jumpy thing I had gotten used to by now, and with his hand cupping his chin he paced back and forth a bit before stopping again. “I think I’ve been chosen by the gods,” he said gravely. “I have absolutely no other explanation for what is happening to me.”

“For what is happening to us,” I clarified.

“Dante, you have to understand each person is an individual. We go through the world with our own existential problems, and we look at each other like everyone else is just playing a side role in a play in which we are the main character. Everyone else is a bit player that moves and exists but is hardly more than a glorified decoration. That’s how I see the world. And surely you do, too. Quentin sees things from his perspective, and you see him like a piece on a chess board. You put him where it best suits you. And most of your life you’ve acted like that, not because you’re good or bad, but just because that’s how it has to be for you. So when I say I’ve been chosen by the gods, I have my reasons for thinking I’m right. It’s my world, my way of looking at life. One fateful day I met a little man who presented me with a manuscript in which part of your life, and the life of your uncle, or father, was written.”

I got overwhelmed listening to him. I felt like we were all pieces on a giant chessboard moved by invisible strings, a chessboard on which we believed we lived and moved about freely but that was actually covered with delicate chains that forced us to act a certain way, leaving us no opportunity to choose. In my case, in those moments in particular, the chains pulled in two opposing directions, as if the force doing the pulling could not make up its mind. How I longed for the days gone by! Things used to be so simple! At least I lived with the illusion of being the one to determine my own actions....

Nicholas did an abrupt reverse out of his philosophical musings: “You said there were people who had something to gain by knowing your movements. The question is, then, who doesn’t know your plans yet? Who would benefit from knowing them?”

“The truth is that nobody knows my plans,” I was surprised to hear myself say. “
I
don’t even know them. What I mean is that right now everyone who knows me, even you, is suspect.”

Nicholas blinked several times and watched me through squinted eyes.

“You’re absolutely right. Nobody knows what you’re going to do. And I wouldn’t dare ask you. But in terms of the people who might do you harm, who would you mention?”

“Right this minute...Caperotti. And the Jews. I don’t know if Caperotti knows about the formula, but if you’d seen him, I think you’d put him on the list.”

“You’re forgetting about the priest Martucci,” Nicholas reminded me.

“Right. For all intents and purposes, he does know about the existence of the formula, though I doubt he’s looking to benefit from it.”

“Do you think that because he said he was likely to die soon?”
“Yes, of course. It wouldn’t do him any good,” I concurred.

“So we should frame the questions from a different angle: who would be willing to do anything, even commit murder, to get their hands on that formula? And why?”

“I know Merreck wants the formula. And he’d do it for eternal life,” I said. “The Jews would do it to keep the formula from being developed. I think we can scratch Irene off the list. She doesn’t know the formula exists.”
“Exactly. And I would also scratch Merreck off. He made a really good point: they had nothing to gain by knocking off your uncle, nor would they now by getting rid of you. Caperotti is a possibility. He might be out to get the formula, presuming that he even knows it exists,” Nicholas suggested.

“Quentin said he was really close with Uncle Claudio, that they talked every day. It’s possible he knew. But Nelson thinks that the man from the restaurant who was following us was one of Caperotti’s men and that he was actually trying to look out for me. Probably so nobody kills me before I can get his money back.”

“Unfortunately, the only one left is Martucci.”

I shrugged apathetically.

“Martucci is in love with my mother. Therefore, he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.”

Nicholas ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

What I really needed to do was get in touch with Fabianni. I called the number on his card and he himself answered.

“
Buona sera
, Mr. Fabianni.”

“
Signore
Dante,
buona sera
...”

“Mr. Fabianni, please, I need to speak with Bernini. He’s in charge of the financial state of the Business, right? I need a number to reach him. I left his card in Rome, and I’m in New York now.”

“Just a moment.... Ok, I have it. Are you ready?”
I wrote it down and then immediately called Bernini. After a brief wait, his secretary put me through.

“
Signore
Massera, how may I be of service?”

“Is Merreck & Stallen Pharmaceutical Group one of the companies or businesses that the Business deals with?”

“Absolutely not,” was his immediate reply. “I know by heart all the companies that are part of ours.”

“Have you ever heard of them?”
“No...well, actually, yes. But nothing having to do with us. Merreck & Stallen is one of the leading laboratories in the world. Could I ask why you are interested in them?
“I was just wondering if they were worth buying.”

A long silence ensued.

“Don’t worry; I’m only joking.” I could not contain my laughter.

“
Mannaggia, signore mio
, you’re as much a jokester as your uncle, may he rest in peace.”

“Thank you, Bernini. We’ll talk soon.”

And I hung up.

“Well, now we know for sure where all those millions ended up. Uncle Claudio really was involved up to his neck in this research; so why would he hide the formula? Let’s see what news Nelson brings,” I said, giving up for the time being.

“I need a cigarette, Dante. You don’t smoke at all?” Nicholas asked.

“No way, friend,” I answered, smiling at the tragicomic slant of his eyebrows.

The National Security Agency, NSA, has protected the information systems of the United States of America since 1952. Given the millions and millions of bits of data filling its archives, it was the perfect place to search for what I was after. The NSA works in close collaboration with the CIA and the FBI. Thus, if there were any doubt whatsoever about a person, it would surely jump out with flashing neon lights from one of the files. Almost without knowing it, I had walked into a web that would have been modus vivendi for Uncle Claudio yet which I would not even have realized existed had I not needed to get answers to the unknowns that grew more obscure by the day.

As I had presumed, Nelson still had connections with agents in the CIA. They pointed him to the FBI, and a contact there gave him access to the National Crime Information Center, which has information about arrests and all kinds of felonies and crimes. The database serves as support for state and city governments, making it possible for authorities to access any information they need within seconds. As a result, thousands of fugitives and criminals that would otherwise have slipped under the radar are detected and subsequently jailed every year. At least that was the brief explanation Nelson took the trouble to give me before continuing with his report.

“Jorge Rodríguez Pastor, which is the victim’s full name, was of Colombian origin and had become a U.S. citizen six years ago. He studied business at the Cali campus of the Universidad Estatal del Valle, in Colombia, and graduated with honors. He got a job with a U.S. company that moved him to New York, and then he started working on his own as a stock broker, advising clients who wanted to invest capital. He was married and had two children, and their economic situation was stable. At the time of his death he had three million, seven hundred and twenty thousand dollars in his checking account. He shows up in the FBI records for two reasons: at one time a client filed a complaint that Rodríguez had misused funds by investing in low-return stocks. Nothing came of the accusations, but the information is still there. The other instance was for driving under the influence of cocaine. He seems to have been a user. He was being watched to see if he was involved in a drug ring, but there was no indication of any connections, so in his file he appears only as a user. The immigration department registered several entries into Italy, four of them in the last year and a half. His death was the result of a traffic accident. He was run over by a truck that witnesses say never even stopped. They said it seemed the truck was intending to run him over, but, in a country like Colombia, any death could likely be called a murder. No one got the license plate number of the vehicle.”

“In other words, he was never in jail like Martucci had told me.”

“That is correct. And a review of his bank account indicates that for the past six months his average monthly deposits had increased.”

“Why would Martucci say he’d been in jail?”

“That’s something we’ll have to find out.”

“And what do you know about Irene Montoya?”

“Irene Montoya is her full name. She has no other last name, which, in South America, means she’s using her mother’s name, which would indicate that her father is unknown. She lived until she was seventeen in Medellín, Colombia. She became involved in prostitution at age thirteen. She arrived in the United States at age eighteen with a tourist visa, and this is where it gets interesting. She was a special case of citizenship, recommended by the Italian embassy. The name of the person who sponsored her is never mentioned. It must have been someone very influential because there is no trace of who it was. Her entries and exits from the country show that she occasionally went to Italy. At first she worked in New York at a beauty salon and within a short time bought the business. A review of her bank accounts shows that she holds quite a respectable amount of money, an average of ten million dollars. Jorge Rodríguez was her financial advisor. The flower shop is very lucrative, with branches in several other states and agreements with similar businesses in many other countries. They make home deliveries of fresh flowers to any part of the world. The flowers come from Colombia. She has no criminal record in this country. She’s clean.”

“She said she’d known Rodríguez since they were kids.”

“They were both from Medellín. He went to Cali to study, but he was born in Medellín. It’s likely that they met and kept in touch later.”

“Do you have any idea why Rodríguez was murdered?”

“Murders of this sort typically happen when somebody wants to keep someone quiet. His file didn’t mention any enemies, but something must have happened, or somebody needed to silence him about something. I plan on talking with his wife. She might know something without even realizing it. That tends to happen.”

“Thank you, Nelson. You’ve been a huge help.”

“It was good to catch up with my old friends,” Nelson shrugged and turned to go with something like a smile playing over his face.

So Irene had a risqué past. The scar on her backside could indicate nothing good. But that was not what was important to me. Each person is the master of his or her own past. What mattered to me was finding out the connection between her and the mysterious high-up Italian. And my interest had nothing to do with feelings; it was simply a matter of survival. I thought the time had come to have an honest conversation with her. I waited for Nelson and Nicholas to get back with the cars since mine was still parked near Irene’s house and the other was in a public lot.

Thanks to his new black Reeboks, Quentin’s signature gait no longer announced his arrival. They gave him a very casual look, and he seemed quite content walking around in them. He came into my office with a cup of hot chocolate and his signature homemade donuts. That was the best part about having him around. He always knew exactly what I wanted.

Yet as hard as I was trying to distract myself from thinking about Merreck, I could not get him off my mind. Four billion dollars would not keep me from utter ruin, but if Merreck offered more for the missing documents, surely I would no longer have to worry about Caperotti. There was no doubt in my mind: if Caperotti were watching out for my life, it was because he did not want to lose his money.

And once I again I wondered why Uncle Claudio had hidden the formula. If he had let them keep going with the research or even finish the studies, he would perhaps still be alive. Everything indicated that he chose death instead of continuing the endeavor. Maybe he discovered something macabre about the experiments that made him reconsider. Mengele was not exactly a saint. The little I had read about him would make anybody’s hair stand on end. I could picture him in a lab like Merreck’s, with all the money in the world at his disposal and the technological advances of the day. It would be frighteningly easy for him to get human guinea pigs even without a concentration camp. I recalled the sensation I had had when I broached the subject with Merreck: “Everything we do
here
is legal.” He had said it as if he were speaking about that particular spot. Semantically, it was correct. He spoke with extreme caution, as if aware that each of his words would be evaluated. The laboratory they called the “ranch” was huge. Perhaps something unthinkable was hidden on any one of its ten underground floors—and there may have been more.

Or maybe it was simpler than I thought. Before sealing the deal, I could make it a condition that they show me everything about Mengele’s studies, and by everything I meant
everything
; then I could make a responsible decision. If I had the guts to.

I let out a long, pent-up sigh. It may not be this way for everyone, but for me sighs are like the pressure relief valve on the pressure cookers Quentin used to use. One day he took the time and patience to explain to me how they worked. To me it seemed like an incredibly dangerous instrument to use around the house. But I was starting to get off track, as I often do when my mind prefers not to focus on the important matters at hand.