Several people died and many were injured during the stampede caused by the subsequent fire. To cover their tracks and create confusion, Van Cleef’s men had started an electrical fire in the engine room on their way out. By the time the first police car arrived at the scene, hundreds of screaming patrons had already spilled out into the street with only one thought on their mind: to get away as far, and as quickly as possible. By the time the ambulances made it to the scene to treat the injured, and the fire brigade went inside to put out the fire and secure the building, Van Cleef and his men were already on board Calypso, preparing to leave the harbour.
11
Determined, unstoppable and like a human tsunami, the first wave of excited fans began streaming through the gates of the huge Makuhari Messe Arena. Isis and The Time Machine’s Tokyo concert was due to start in one hour.
Isis sat at her dressing table, unable to hold still, which made it difficult for her make-up artist to apply the finishing touches. Lola was watching Isis in the mirror. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked, a worried look on her face.
‘No, I’m not,’ replied Isis, staring pensively into her own reflection. ‘I’m getting too old for all this.’
‘Nonsense!’ Lola knew that the past forty-eight hours had put Isis under enormous strain. The horror of her mother’s death, the long flights, the funeral arrangements, and the frustration of not knowing what really happened or why, was taking its toll.
However, what Lola couldn’t have known was the real reason for Isis’ disquiet was something quite different. Unable to get her mother’s last words out of her mind, and haunted by what she had discovered at Clarendon Hall, Isis was nervously drumming her fingers against the top of her dressing table.
A prisoner of her enormous success, her every waking moment was planned and accounted for, yet she yearned to be somewhere else. She could hear the five musicians who made up The Time Machine warming up in their practice rooms, the familiar sounds momentarily bringing a smile to her weary face.
‘See? That’s better,’ said Lola, putting her hand on Isis’ shoulder. ‘Now go out there and kick some ass!’
Isis lay in her glass coffin below the stage and listened to the roar of her Tokyo fans as The Time Machine finished the opening number. Usually, she would be going through her breathing exercises to help her focus on her imminent entry, but not so tonight. Suddenly it all became clear; Isis knew exactly what she had to do. Feeling calmer now, she felt the coffin begin to rise. Resurrection, she thought. So be it. I’m ready.
Concerned about Isis’ state of mind, Lola watched anxiously as the lid of the glass coffin opened on stage. She needn’t have worried. Somersaulting out of the casket to the roar of her adoring fans, Isis turned into the consummate professional she was. Usually, she would choose a face in the anonymous crowd somewhere close to the stage, and then perform for just that one person. This helped her tame the confronting crowd-beast and turn it into a personal encounter. That night, however, Isis performed for someone else.
Remembering the hide and seek games in the Egyptian room a long time ago, Isis reached for the little gold ankh she wore around her neck. There are many shades of grief, she thought, recalling Sir Charles’ words. ‘This is for you, mother,’ she whispered, and then delivered a performance the cheering fans would tweet about for years to come.
‘I don’t know how you do it,’ said Lola, handing Isis a hot towel. ‘That was amazing!’
Looking drained and exhausted, Isis wiped her face. ‘What’s next?’ she asked.
Lola glanced at her notes. ‘A short news conference in front of the stadium in half an hour – great publicity – and then a reception at your hotel given by the Tokyo division of your record label.’
‘I’ll wear the Marilyn Monroe dress,’ announced Isis, stripping off. ‘Japanese men like big tits, and mine aren’t too bad. Let their eyes pop, and the tongues wag. You know what they say; if you’ve got it, flaunt it.’ Isis looked around for her masseuse, who usually organised her shower routine after the concert and gave her a neck and scalp massage. ‘Where’s that girl?’ she called out. ‘Shower!’ Lola followed Isis into the bathroom to continue the briefing. ‘What have you found out,’ asked Isis, enjoying the hot needles of water relaxing her muscles, ‘about the author?’
‘He’s a fascinating guy.’
‘Tell me about him.’
‘He grew up on a remote farm in Queensland, Australia. His parents divorced when he was little and the mother returned to England. Life on the farm was hard. Years of drought, financial troubles, loneliness. At sixteen, he ran away from home and went to live with an aunt in Brisbane. His first job was sweeping floors and running errands at the local newspaper. That’s where he fell in love with words—’
‘How did you find all this out so quickly?’ interrupted Isis.
Lola reached for a towel and dried Isis’ back. ‘He has a terrific website; it’s all there,’ she said. ‘And then there was the feature article in TIME magazine a couple of years ago, “Man of the Year” … I’ve got a copy for you right here.’
‘What about his writing?’
‘At nineteen, he moved to Sydney and became a cadet journalist. It all went from there …’
‘Anything about the occult?’
Lola followed Isis to her dressing table and let her team go to work. ‘He wrote many articles about the occult, especially the Tarot,’ she said. ‘He’s considered a bit of an authority in that area. He also writes about the Catholic Church and the supernatural. He likes controversy and isn’t afraid to raise delicate topics and politically sensitive issues. He asks the big questions others are too scared to touch. He’s a bit of a rebel, and a fighter.’
‘Good.’ Just the man I need, thought Isis.
‘The Disappearance of Anna Popov is his second book. His first, Dental Gold and Other Horrors, was a great success. It even made it into the New York Times’ bestseller list, and stayed there for weeks.’
‘I remember. Wasn’t that all about the Swiss banks and Nazi gold? He accused the banks of having illegally appropriated mega sums of money belonging to Holocaust victims – right?’
‘Yes. It turned into a huge scandal with lots of red faces all the way to the top. He accused the Swiss government of trying to cover it up and pointed the finger at the Vatican for silent complicity. In the end, the pressure became too great and the banks capitulated. They opened their secret ledgers and offered compensation. And all of this because of a book, and a man brave enough to confront the establishment. It sold more copies than The Da Vinci Code. This guy’s words are stronger than the sword!’
‘Get it for me. I want to read it.’
‘We really have to hurry,’ said Lola, looking anxiously at her watch, ‘the cameras are waiting.’
Isis stood up. ‘How do I look?’ she asked, examining herself in the mirror.
‘Amazing!’
‘This should give them something to write about, don’t you think?’
‘You bet.’
‘You can never be too thin, or too rich. Now, who said that?’
‘Wallace Simpson.’
‘Or have too shapely an ass …’ said Isis, adjusting her bra.
‘Enough! Go and dazzle the press!’ said Lola, rolling her eyes.
Lola knocked softly and then opened the door to the presidential suite. ‘You’re up already,’ she said. ‘I only wanted to drop in the papers. The whole of Japan seems to have fallen in love with you.’ Lola walked across the room and dropped the papers on the lounge. ‘You haven’t slept at all, have you?’ she chided, looking through the open bedroom door. The huge California king-sized bed had obviously not been slept in.
Sitting on the floor with her eyes closed, Isis was doing her morning meditation. The breakfast, prepared by her chef who always travelled with her, was waiting on a trolley beside the bed. ‘I was on the phone all night,’ said Isis, without opening her eyes.
‘Oh? I thought that was my job. Who
to?’
‘Charles.’
‘Are you going to tell me what about?’ asked Lola, sounding miffed.
Isis opened her eyes and rose to her feet. ‘I will. In a moment,’ she said. ‘But first, let’s have some breakfast. I ordered for both of us as you can see.’ Isis pushed the trolley over to the dining table and turned around. ‘Come here,’ she said, reaching for the rose in the small crystal vase on the breakfast tray. Lola walked over to Isis and stood demurely in front of her like a schoolgirl standing in front of the headmistress. ‘This is for you,’ said Isis, handing Lola the flower. Then she bent slowly down and kissed her ever so tenderly on the mouth.
‘What have I done to deserve this?’ whispered Lola, tears sparkling in her eyes.
‘You deserve it; trust me. You are always there for me. You don’t question me, and you don’t lecture me. Your loyalty is unconditional. It is in times of great pain and distress that we appreciate the people who really matter,’ replied Isis, ‘and believe me, you matter to me. I’ve been to hell and back these past two days. I should know.’
‘Thanks,’ whispered Lola.
‘I asked Charles to make some inquiries for me. You know how well-connected he is.’
‘Oh? What about?’
‘Jack Rogan, the author you investigated for me.’
Lola looked up, surprised. ‘Jack Rogan? Why?’
‘Because you are going to meet him – in person – in a few hours.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You will, in a moment. Please bear with me.’ Isis reached for the orange juice. ‘I want you to fly to Sydney this morning. Pegasus is ready and waiting.’
‘You have been busy,’ said Lola. ‘But why Sydney? Our next concert is in Mexico City. My God, in three days! I have to—’
‘Because Rogan’s in Sydney right now and you have an appointment to see him,’ interrupted Isis calmly, ‘that’s why. Charles tracked down his agent in New York and we found out a few unexpected surprises about his publisher that may come in handy …’ said Isis, smiling. ‘Serendipity.’
‘No wonder you didn’t get any sleep last night. But why are we doing all this?’
‘You will deliver a proposal to him. It has to be done discreetly, with tact and, most importantly, face to face.’
Lola shook her head. ‘A proposal? What about?’
‘Let’s have some breakfast, and I’ll tell you.’
12
Jack pulled up in front of the Gordon Institute and turned off the engine. He had promised to meet Alexandra after work and drive her back to his apartment. Watching Alexandra walk towards the car, Jack knew instantly that something was wrong. He got out of his MG and opened the passenger door. ‘No red carpet on your first day at work?’ he joked.
‘No, more like a bed of nails. I need a drink. Can we go somewhere quiet? We have to talk.’
‘I know just the place.’
For a while, Alexandra just sat staring out of the car window and said nothing, a dark frown creasing her brow.
‘That tough – eh?’ asked Jack, breaking the silence.
‘It was a disaster.’
‘In what way?’
‘The professor’s notes cannot be found. When I opened the safe in his lab, it was empty.’
‘Could he have put them somewhere else?’
‘Unlikely. He died in his lab soon after he spoke to me and gave me the combination to his safe.’
‘What about his would-be successor? Perhaps he knows something.’
‘He’s dead.’
‘What?’ Jack swerved and almost hit the car next to him.
‘He died last night in that gay nightclub incident we read about this morning. He was the one in the shark tank …’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes. His name hasn’t been released yet, but the CEO knew all about it.’
‘Incredible! Where does that leave you?’
‘Good question. I’m the black widow. I turn up a few days after the professor dies in his lab as his anointed successor, and the local guy who was hoping to take his place is tragically killed the day before I start work. And on top of all that, the professor’s notes, which incidentally belong to the institute, go missing. A good start? What do you think?’
‘None of this has anything to do with you. Surely they can see that.’
‘It doesn’t work that way. A research organisation is a closely-knit community. I’m viewed as an outsider who has parachuted into a top position. This breeds resentment, and boy could I feel that today.’
‘Was anyone else present when you opened the safe?’ asked Jack.
‘No … What are you getting at?’
‘Nothing … Did you tell anyone that the professor’s notes were missing?’
‘Of course. I went straight to the CEO and told him.’
‘What happened then?’
‘He called in Professor K’s research assistant, a young scientist from Sri Lanka. He was about the only one who was pleasant to me today.’
‘And?’
‘He confirmed that Professor K always kept his notes in the safe.’
‘Can you carry on the professor’s work without his notes? What about that cancer breakthrough he was talking about?’
‘I’m not sure; I doubt it. He said it was all in his notes. The fact that the notes are missing creates a big problem. He chose me because he believed I was the most qualified person to succeed him, and most importantly, I would understand what he was doing. In a way, my entire appointment rests on that. The stakes are very high here. There is something else you should know,’ said Alexandra, lowering her voice.
‘What?’
‘Professor K used a form of shorthand when he made notes. I mean in a scientific sense. Abbreviations, formulas, references to articles and journals, things like that. I use the same shorthand. He taught me, you see. I’m sure that was part of the reason he had me appointed.’
‘Are you suggesting that no one else would understand his notes?’
‘Yes, I think that’s right. And that’s exactly what the assistant told the CEO. He couldn’t follow the professor’s notes, and he was his assistant! You must understand; these notes aren’t formal records of what the professor was doing, like data and findings, stuff like that. Those things were meticulously recorded elsewhere on a daily, if not hourly basis. That’s standard procedure. You leave a trail of everything you do. Every research scientist does that. These notes were different. Personal. Like doodling on a piece of paper, exploring possibilities, looking for connections, reaching into the unknown. Ideas. Most of the time, they were nothing more than speculation and conjecture. Hence the shorthand.’
‘Creative stuff.’
‘Precisely. The lifeblood of true research.’
‘The difference between a plodder and a Nobel laureate?’
‘Something like that. Every discovery, every breakthrough begins with an idea. Those notes were Professor K’s book of ideas. I have one too.’
‘The first few drops of an intellectual waterfall?’
‘Well put, my creative wordsmith.’
‘I like that. Here we are; my old sailing club. We can have a glass of wine on the terrace and I can show you my boat. How does that sound?’
‘Sublime. If you wanted to distract me, you’ve succeeded. And how was your day?’
‘Intriguing.’
‘In what way?’
‘Wine first; story later.’
‘A man after my own heart,’ said Alexandra, smiling for the first time that afternoon.
Sitting on the terrace overlooking the harbour, Jack told Alexandra about his surprise phone call from Rebecca. ‘I know this will sound odd,’ she had said, ‘but your publisher has asked for a favour … He wants you to meet someone tonight. At your place – it’s important. The person in question, a woman, is flying in from Tokyo just to see you. That’s all I know.’
‘Is that all you were told?’ asked Alexa
ndra, sipping her wine.
‘That’s it.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Authors have to be cooperative when their publishers ask for something. Rebecca told me so, and I’m an obedient chap. We’ll stay at home tonight, order some takeaway from a nice seafood restaurant I know and wait for the doorbell to ring.’ Winking at Alexandra, Jack lifted his glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘What an exciting life you lead. I have obviously chosen the wrong profession.’
‘Don’t be too hasty. Excitement comes at a price. Take this here, for example …’ Jack pointed to a thin white scar, running from the corner of his mouth along the jaw to his right ear.
‘What happened?’
‘I surprised an intruder in my home a few years ago. This was the result. I mentioned it in my first book.’
‘Dental Gold and Other Horrors?’
‘I have more. Look at this,’ boasted Jack, tracing a scar on his temple with the tip of his finger. ‘Gunshot wound. You would have read about this one in The Disappearance of Anna Popov.’
‘Of course, you were shot in the Wizard’s crypt.’
‘Spot on. My souvenirs of excitement; do you like them?’
‘Oh yes! You are lucky. Nothing exciting like that ever happens in a scientist’s life.’
‘Stick with me, Dr Delacroix, and that may change,’ said Jack, laughing.
‘Is that an offer?’
‘Maybe.’
Feeling relaxed after a few glasses of wine and a dozen oysters, Alexandra looked pensively across the sparkling harbour. Something Professor K’s assistant had said was bothering her and refused to go away. ‘Why did you ask me if someone was present when I opened the safe?’ she asked, looking at Jack.
‘It occurred to me that it might have been a good idea to have someone with you when you opened it. Presumably, you were the only one who knew the combination?’
The Hidden Genes of Professor K: A Medical Mystery Thriller (Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 3) Page 7
