CHAPTER 1
It was nearly thirty-four years ago that Father John Russo, an American priest attached to the Vatican, walked into my laboratory in Zurich, Switzerland. Russo moved quickly up the ranks of the priesthood. Born in Chicago, he made easy connections with the financial director of the Archdiocese of Chicago. The Chicago diocese had been suspected of passing underground funds through the Vatican bank for laundering purposes. Russo attended St. Mary’s Seminary in Mundelein, IL, where he met Monsignor Callahan. The aging Callahan was the primary contact for underworld money. The old man liked something in the seminary student Russo. Maybe it was the same thing that he saw in himself when he stared in the mirror. It was that “do whatever you have to do to reach your goals” look. Once Russo graduated, Callahan brought the new priest onto his staff.
In a few years, the Vatican bank needed a new financial director. The last chief of Catholic finances had run into an “accident.” Callahan was the logical choice. He already knew where the money came from and he simply would work now on the receiving end, the laundering process. Callahan had brought his most trusted aid, John Russo, on to Rome with him.
Father Russo did well inside the sacred walls of the Pope’s domain, often debating theology and social matters with the Pontiff himself. The youthful priest rose quickly but had wanted it to be faster. He had set his sights on his goal—to be the Vicar of Christ, the Pope. Russo knew every pathway, every pitfall and, looked for all avenues to fulfill his dream. But it wasn’t until he read my doctoral thesis that his vision cleared and he set his direction. In his diary he wrote, “It is an idea that would bring me to the pinnacle of power within the Roman Catholic Church.” It was from his diary, mistakenly left behind in my office years later, that I discovered the real Father Russo and the thoughts behind the man.
I remember our first meeting clearly. Father Russo’s olive-skinned, slight form moved gracefully toward me as he extended his thin, tight hand. “I’m Father Russo. Your lab assistant said I’d find you in here. You are Dr. Matthew MacDonald, aren’t you?”
“Yes, how can I help you Father?” I asked. I felt tense like in the old days at Catholic school when a priest walked into the room. There was always a sense of nervousness, and the lingering question “What did I do wrong?” I had continued my association with the church after college and into grad school. Even while working on my doctorate, I never gave up on the church. Lots of my friends had left to search for what they called “the truths of life.” Instead they found themselves chasing after mammon while letting their faith evaporate. In my mind, I saw the connection between my work as a genetic engineer and the works of God as a genetic designer. Of course, if the Vatican had known that I was writing my thesis on cloning a human being they wouldn’t have been overjoyed with their Catholic educated biologist.
I watched as Russo guided his gaze along my reddish face. His diary’s entry read that he knew there was something inside my young scientific mind that could help revolutionize the religious world, or at least refocus it to fit his plans. I noticed how different we looked from each other. My reddish blonde hair and slightly freckled face towered over the dark-skinned priest. We shook hands and Russo spoke again. “Dr. MacDonald, I’m with the Vatican. We are investigating the theory of cloning and I wondered if you could explain the process to me.”
I was preparing a slide for the microscope and, as was my procedure, I set it meticulously aside before answering. I was being cautious and this gave me the time to think. I wondered if the Pope considered it a mortal sin to believe and experiment with cloning. I decided that I needed to be careful of what I said. When I spoke again, I asked Russo, “That’s not an easy task. Do you have any particular questions on the matter?”
“Actually, I do. I read in your thesis that you believe that cloning a human from DNA samples is possible. I was wondering, is it just theoretical or is it really possible?” the priest quizzed.
I was concerned. Was the Pope angry over my thesis? Was there a possibility of excommunication? I rarely held back my thoughts so I blurted out, “Am I in trouble with the Pope?”
Father Russo laughed, turning his mouth’s corners up so his white teeth could accentuate the humor of my question, and the harmlessness of his own query. Russo swung his arm around my shoulder and pulled me to a slouch. “No, no. I guess I’m being a little vague here. I have a very special situation, and I’m trying to find the right biologist to assist me in fulfilling the wishes of the Holy See.” Father Russo continued, “It seems that you’ve done ample research on its plausibility. Please, don’t fear my questions. I’m sure I can pass on from the Vatican that you are appreciated as one of the brightest young men to come out of our educational system.” Russo paused and noticed that disbelief covered my face. The priest spoke again, “Maybe this isn’t a good time to talk. May I come back tomorrow?”
“I guess so. I’ve already put in too many research hours this week, at least my wife thinks so. You pick the time and we’ll get together, but I would prefer that it would be soon.”
“What about breakfast? Say about 9 a.m. at my hotel?” Father Russo scrawled the address, shook my hand and left. I was puzzled but my scientific curiosity was definitely sparked. I hung my lab coat on the hook behind my door, and turned off the equipment and lights. I was still thinking about the conversation as I headed home. My car tooled through the streets of Zurich, and arrived at the small apartment that the Amrich Corporation had found for my pretty wife and me nearly a year before.
My work on the thesis seemed so long ago. I knew my concepts would work. All I needed was the equipment and time to work out a few variables. Amrich talked about funding the project somewhere in the future. In corporate talk, that meant “don’t hold your breath.” I tried to convince them that once the DNA code was deciphered it was simply a job of replacing the DNA of a fertilized human egg with the new code. And bang, you would have it—a clone with the original DNA of another being. The equipment to do this didn’t exist then but I had already designed it.
If only the Amrich Corporation would’ve supported me on this. I wanted desperately, too desperately, to have the opportunity to perform the experiment but there were two limitations—both money and lab space. Lab space I could find, but the money? Well, on my salary, and with the living expenses in Zurich, I was not able to afford it.
As I reviewed the process, my car seemed to pull automatically into the driveway. My wife, Beth, a beautiful, thin waisted blonde with deeply expressive eyes, was always worried that I’d have an accident while in this Jerry Lewis Nutty Professor mode. It’s not that I wasn’t careful, but on this one subject of cloning this scientist was almost possessed. My last thought before entering the house was “if I get the opportunity to clone a human, then where does the money come from?”
Beth had started to clean up the dinner dishes when I walked through the door. I remember her sweet, laughing smile as she said, “Let me try to guess. This time you were almost done with the experiment when one of the chimps escaped, grabbed a secretary, climbed up the side of the building, and you had to save the whole world from destruction.”
“How do you know what happens at work before I tell you? Do you have a camera in my lab? I smiled back and brushed her cheek with a kiss. We had an understanding. A tense one, but still it was an understanding. Dropping my black tweed overcoat on the antique chair in the hallway near the staircase, I kept talking to her as my ever-present briefcase and I went into the kitchen, “Actually I got the most interesting visitor today. I almost felt like I was back in Catholic grade school.”
“Who was it, Sally Field, the Flying Nun?” It was Beth’s humorous attempt at keeping up with my incessant referencing of old TV shows. She always thought it unusual that I, a Mensa member, stuffed my mind with more TV trivia than any other Baby Boomer in the U.S. And she said that to me, often.
With a smirk, I barely acknowledged her attempt at humor, and went on with my story. “No, it was a priest named Russo. He’s out of the Vatican. Can you believe that, a Vatican priest? And he came all the way up here to see me.”
Beth’s interest was raised. I still remember how her soft slippers sounded like satin on our hardwood kitchen floor when she crossed to sit near me at the table. When she sat, I continued, “He had read my doctoral thesis on cloning.”
“What? Someone actually reads those things?” she exclaimed with a mixture of surprise and cynicism.
“Yeah, I guess they do. He wanted to know if I could actually do what I said in the paper. Yeah, if I had the…”
Beth finished the statement, “…lab and the money. Does it seem like this Father Russo is serious? Do you think the Vatican wants you to clone someone for them? Maybe one of the Popes? You know, after the loss of that earlier one so soon after being elected, maybe they’re trying to protect themselves. Kinda like in the movies where they have a stand-in. Like a body double.” Her fast paced, rattling speech demonstrated her excitement.
“I don’t know, but I plan to meet with him tomorrow morning for breakfast. I’ll see then what he wants. And speaking of food, I am starved. Have you and Capri eaten already?” My hunger moved me to the refrigerator. As I yanked on the door, Beth moved up behind me with a warm plate from the oven. “Matthew dear, are you looking for something?” When I turned, she planted a firm kiss on my mouth and handed me the plate.
We continued to talk about the small items of the day like Capri’s cute little actions, the mail, and in particular, the letter that came from my old college friend, Mary Grace. But my mind was still on the earlier meeting, and the one coming the following day. I wondered if I could really do what I spent years developing in theory. Somewhere in the back of my mind there was a fear. It rarely showed but Beth could see it. Then again, she used to see everything that went on inside me. She watched my eyes as I ate and talked. Later she admitted that she also wondered if I could do everything I wrote about? Was it possible?