Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

6

NEW YORK

Wednesday, 5 July 2006. 11:29 a.m.

Orville found himself in a darkened room. The only light came from a small lamp shining at a lectern ten feet away on which his report sat along with a remote control, just as the executive had told him. He walked over and picked up the remote. As he examined it, wondering how to begin the presentation, he was suddenly startled by a bright glow. Not six feet from where he was standing was a large screen twenty feet wide. On it was displayed the first page of his presentation, with the red Netcatch logo.

‘Thank you very much, Mr Kayn, and good morning. Let me begin by saying that it’s an honour-’

There was a small buzz and the image on the screen changed, revealing the title of his presentation and the first of the two questions:

WHO IS FATHER ANTHONY FOWLER?

Clearly, Mr Kayn valued brevity and control, and had a second remote to hand in order to speed up the process.

OK, old man. I get the message. Let’s get down to business.

Orville pressed the remote to bring up the next page. It showed a priest with a thin, craggy face. He was balding and whatever hair he had left had been cut very short. Orville began speaking to the darkness before him.

‘John Anthony Fowler, alias Father Anthony Fowler, alias Tony Brent. Born 16 December 1951 in Boston, Massachusetts. Green eyes, roughly 175 pounds. Freelance agent for the CIA and a total mystery. Solving this mystery took two months of research carried out by ten of my best investigators, who worked exclusively on this job, as well as a considerable amount of cash in order to grease the palms of some well-placed sources. That explains in large part the three million dollars it cost to produce this report, Mr Kayn.’

The screen changed again, this time displaying a family photo: a well-dressed couple in the garden of what looked like an expensive home. At their side, an attractive, dark-haired boy about eleven years old. The father’s hand seemed to be squeezing the boy’s shoulder and all three wore tense smiles.

‘The only son of Marcus Abernathy Fowler, business magnate and owner of Infinity Pharmaceuticals. Today it’s a multimillion-dollar biotechnology company. After his parents died in a suspicious automobile accident in 1984, Anthony Fowler sold the company, along with the rest of their assets, and donated everything to charity. He held on to his parents’ mansion in Beacon Hill, renting it out to a couple with children. But he kept the top floor for himself, and had it converted into an apartment containing some furniture and a whole bunch of philosophy books. He stays there every once in a while, whenever he’s in Boston.’

The next image showed a younger version of the same woman, this time on a college campus and dressed in a graduation gown.

‘Daphne Brent was an expert chemist who worked at Infinity Pharmaceuticals until the owner took a liking to her and they got married. When she fell pregnant, Marcus turned her into a housewife overnight. That’s all we know about Fowler’s family, except that young Anthony went to Stanford instead of attending Boston College like his father.’

Next slide: young Anthony, looking not much older than a teenager, with a serious expression on his face, standing beneath a banner that read ‘1971’.

‘He graduated magna cum laude at the age of twenty with a degree in Psychology. The youngest in his class. That photo was taken a month before classes ended. On the last day of the term, he collected his things and walked into the university recruitment offices. He wanted to go to Vietnam.’

An image appeared on the screen of a worn yellowed form that had been filled out by hand.

‘This is a photograph of his AFQT, his Armed Forces Qualifying Test. Fowler scored ninety-eight out of one hundred. The sergeant was so impressed that he immediately sent him to Lackland Air Force Base in Texas where he went through basic training, followed by advanced parachute regiment instruction for a Special Ops unit that retrieved downed pilots behind enemy lines. While at Lackland, he learned guerrilla tactics and became a helicopter pilot. After a year and a half of combat, he returned home a lieutenant. Among his medals is a Purple Heart and an Air Force Cross. In the report you’ll find details of the actions that earned him those medals.’

A snapshot of several men in uniform at an airfield. At the centre stood Fowler dressed as a priest.

‘After Vietnam, Fowler entered a Catholic seminary and was ordained in 1977. He was assigned as military chaplain to Spangdahlem Air Force Base in Germany, where he was recruited by the CIA. With his language skills it’s easy to see why they wanted him: Fowler speaks eleven languages fluently and can get along in fifteen others. But the Company is not the only outfit that recruited him.’

Another photo of Fowler, in Rome, with two other young priests.

‘At the end of the seventies, Fowler became a full-time agent for the Company. He retains his status as military chaplain and travels to a number of Armed Forces bases all over the world. The information I’ve given you so far could have been obtained from any number of agencies, but what I’m going to tell you next is top secret and was very difficult to come by.’

The screen went blank. In the light from the projector Orville was just about able to make out an easy chair with someone sitting in it. He made an effort not to look directly at the figure.

‘Fowler is an agent for the Holy Alliance, the Vatican’s secret service. It’s a small outfit, generally unknown to the public, but active. One of its accomplishments is having saved the life of former Israeli president, Golda Meir, when Islamic terrorists came close to blowing up her plane during a visit to Rome. The medals were awarded to Mossad, but the Holy Alliance didn’t care. They take the phrase ‘secret service’ literally. Only the Pope and a handful of cardinals are officially informed of their work. Among the international intelligence community, the Alliance is respected and feared. Unfortunately, I have little to add about Fowler’s history with this institution. As for his work with the CIA, my professional ethics and my contract with the Company don’t allow me to reveal anything further, Mr Kayn.’

Orville cleared his throat. Even though he didn’t expect an answer from the figure sitting at the end of the room, he paused.

Not a word.

‘As to your second question, Mr Kayn…’

Orville wondered for a moment if he should reveal that Netcatch was not responsible for finding this particular piece of information. That it had come to his office in a sealed envelope from an anonymous source. And that there were other interests involved who clearly wanted Kayn Industries to have it. But then he recalled the humiliating spray of mentholated mist and simply went on talking.

On the screen a young woman appeared with blue eyes and copper-coloured hair.

‘This is a young journalist named…’