The Hidden Genes of Professor K: A Medical Mystery Thriller (Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 3)

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘So are you.’

  ‘I sleep very little.’

  ‘I didn’t sleep at all. Professor Kozakievicz’s findings are extraordinary, just as I expected,’ said Alexandra, choosing her words carefully. ‘If it all stacks up, we may indeed have the breakthrough in cancer treatment the world has been waiting for. In fact, it could even change the way we look at cancer altogether.’

  ‘Prevention?’

  ‘Could be. And cure.’

  ‘Are you suggesting the holy grail could be within reach, and we may finally be able to tame the Emperor of Darkness?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Possibly? Possibly doesn’t sound like a breakthrough to me.’

  ‘There’s a problem.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The material in the notes doesn’t give us all the answers. It merely shows us the way. A lot more work is needed. Specific work.’

  ‘I thought you were too smart to play games,’ said Macbeth, steel in his voice.

  ‘Let’s not insult each other. I’m not playing games. That would certainly be foolish. Obviously, I can demonstrate what I’ve just told you and your scientists can verify the position. It’s quite simple really. So, what could I possibly gain by playing games? After all I’m your guest; right?’

  Smart girl, thought Macbeth, she obviously has a plan. Instead of becoming angry, Macbeth found to his surprise he was enjoying their duel of wits. A worthy opponent was rare in his world. ‘And do you know what that specific work may entail?’ asked Macbeth cutting to the chase.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I thought so. Would you care to tell me?’

  ‘All of Professor K’s ideas and findings are based on certain changes in the tissue samples he’s collected. He discovered a trend; the samples are the missing link. Without them, we cannot take the next step. He was close, very close, but couldn’t pull it all together. That’s what he wanted me to do, because he ran out of time.’

  ‘And you could complete his work?’

  ‘Yes, but only with the samples.’

  For a while, Macbeth kept playing with the two steel balls in the palm of his right hand without saying anything. Is she telling the truth, or manipulating me? he wondered, looking straight at Alexandra. Or is she clever enough to do both?

  ‘Do you know where those samples are?’ he asked at last, breaking the silence, which was beginning to turn a little awkward.

  ‘The professor hid them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘His notes aren’t clear, but I think he didn’t trust his assistant.’

  Macbeth nodded. This did sound plausible.

  ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘The best way to hide a book is in the library – right?’

  ‘What are you telling me?’

  ‘They are buried somewhere in the freezers at the Gordon Institute with thousands of others.’

  ‘Could you find them?’

  ‘I believe so. He left clues …’

  ‘Would you care to elaborate?’

  ‘I would have to retrace his research, step-by-step, especially the experiments. They are all well documented in his notes, and there are other records at the Gordon that would help.’

  ‘Could you?’

  ‘Yes. We worked together before. I’m familiar with his methods and how he thinks – thought,’ Alexandra corrected herself, sadness in her voice. ‘But it would take some time and would obviously have to be carried out at the institute …’

  Very clever, thought Macbeth. The tables have turned and it all makes perfect sense. If she’s telling the truth, the way forward is crystal clear.

  Macbeth realised another fresh approach with a new strategy was needed. ‘Please join me,’ he said, pointing to a table in the corner set for two. ‘You must be hungry. We can discuss all this over breakfast.’

  ‘You were expecting someone?’ observed Alexandra.

  ‘Yes; you.’

  By the time Alexandra returned to her cabin, drained and exhausted, Calypso had already changed course and was heading south on her way back to Sydney.

  19

  Jack woke with a start. Rubbing his stiff neck, he turned his head and looked around. Nothing was vaguely familiar. Then slowly, everything came back to him. Dreamlike at first, but as the fog of sleep began to lift he remembered the long night flight from Sydney in The Time Machine’s private jet, arriving in Mexico City and meeting Isis in the amazing underground chamber guarded by strange gods. Then he recalled the unexpected conversation with Isis, full of questions and surprises, in front of the Coyolxauhqui stone. I promised to give her my answer in the morning, thought Jack, looking for his trousers. Better get going.

  Jack had tried to call Alexandra several times the night before without success. He reached for his phone on the bedside table, hoping for a message. Nothing. Bloody time difference, he thought, and blamed the lack of response on the unreliable Mexican mobile phone reception. Jack quickly got dressed and stepped out onto the terrace.

  The sunlight was blinding. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he looked down into the garden. Isis and Lola were kneeling on mats in the courtyard below, their bodies contorted in a way that didn’t seem possible. Yoga, thought Jack.

  ‘I don’t know how they do it,’ said a soft voice from behind. Jack turned around and found himself looking at a striking, white-haired woman coming towards him with a glass in her hand. Some women radiate class and style regardless of age, commanding instant admiration from men, and envy from women half their age. Señora Gonzalez, well into her nineties, was one of those. ‘I’m Dolores,’ said the woman, her voice surprisingly deep, ‘I thought you might like some guava juice.’

  The hostess, thought Jack. She must have been quite a beauty in her day. Jack held out his hand. Sad eyes though. ‘Jack Rogan.’

  ‘I know who you are,’ said the old lady, trying to smile. Jack noticed the sadness didn’t leave her eyes. ‘I’ve read your books.’

  ‘Ah, reputation. Nowhere to hide. You know my soul then.’

  ‘Perhaps just a little.’

  Jack felt instantly at ease. ‘What a magnificent home, Señora,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘When I woke up just then, I thought I must still be dreaming. That underground chamber … full of treasures.’

  ‘My late husband built the house fifty years ago. He was an archaeologist and an art dealer.’

  Jack looked down into the garden.

  Isis untangled her legs, arching her back like a subtle bow before rolling forward into a handstand. Standing momentarily quite still, her balance perfect, she made it all appear natural and easy. It was a feat of extraordinary strength and control.

  ‘How do you know Isis?’ asked Jack, watching the impressive exercise routine unfolding below. Lola was attacking Isis from behind with a lightning kick that would have floored a less experienced opponent. But not Isis. She sensed it coming and, sidestepping the lethal blow, reached out and took hold of Lola’s ankle, her grip vice-like. Yoga had suddenly turned into hand-to-hand combat, reminding Jack of another bout in outback Australia not that long ago, where two deadly foes had tried to kill each other in the ring.

  ‘Isis has one of the finest private collections of Mesoamerican art in the world. My late husband helped her put it together and sourced some of her best pieces.’

  Isis wiped her face with a towel, put her arms around Lola and kissed her on the forehead. Then she looked up at the terrace, waved, and taking three steps at a time, ran up the stairs. ‘And what have you two been talking about?’ she said, catching her breath. She kissed Señora Gonzales on the cheek. ‘Good morning, Mamina.’

  ‘Mainly about you,’ said Jack.

  ‘He did all the talking,’ added Señora Gonzalez, shaking her head. ‘I told him nothing.’

  ‘I believe you. You have to watch writers. They are very inquisitive,’ said Isis, laughing, ‘and most persuasive.’

  ‘You thought it over, Jack?’ asked Isis, after the maid
had cleared the table. Jack noticed that Isis had only eaten fruit. ‘I have to go to the stadium straight away,’ Isis prattled on. ‘Rehearsals for tonight’s performance. A hundred thousand eager fans are waiting; I can’t disappoint them. Relentless schedule. We won’t have time to talk later.’ Isis saw Jack glancing at Señora Gonzalez sitting opposite and smiled. ‘I can see you are hesitating; no need to.’ Isis reached for the old lady’s hand and kissed it. ‘Mamina and I have no secrets, Jack. Sooner or later, you’ll find out why, so I may as well tell you right now.’

  Looking a little puzzled, Jack sat back in his chair, but said nothing.

  ‘But before I do, please let me know what you’ve decided.’

  Here we go again, thought Jack, slowly folding his crisp napkin along its creases, she wants a commitment before telling me the full story. Jack always tried to take his time and choose his words carefully before making an important decision.

  ‘You sent Lola with your plane halfway around the world to bring me here without giving me a rational explanation as to why you wanted to meet me so urgently. Yet for reasons I now cannot quite explain, I agreed to come along, and did. Then last night you gave me the briefest outline of what happened in London, which only raised more questions. You hinted that you had more to tell me later after I’ve given you my answer.’ Jack placed the neatly folded napkin on the table in front of him. ‘Looking at everything you’ve told me so far objectively, there’s precious little for me to go by to make an informed decision.’ Jack paused, and looked directly at Isis watching him from across the table. ‘Please give me one good reason why I should drop everything and accept your proposal.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Isis. ‘It’s a matter of trust.’

  ‘It’s more than that,’ Jack contradicted her, ‘it’s a leap of faith. That’s what you are asking of me.’

  ‘I suppose I am.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because of what’s at stake here. If you were to accept, you would step into my private world and I would have to show you corners of my life few have ever seen, or could possibly imagine. For this to work, nothing can be off limits. You have to admit that would be a leap of faith – by me – don’t you agree?’

  ‘It would,’ Jack conceded. ‘But why me?’

  ‘Because of who you are.’

  ‘But you don’t know me.’

  ‘Perhaps I do.’

  ‘How can you say that? We’ve just met. We’ve barely spent an hour or so together so far, and you say you know me?’ Jack shook his head.

  ‘There are many ways to know a man; you of all people would understand that. Knowing someone has nothing to do with time. Dolores here understands that too, don’t you?’ said Isis, turning to Señora Gonzales.’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Are you prepared to let Jack into the hidden corners of your life, because that’s almost certainly going to be necessary, should he accept?’

  ‘I am,’ said Señora Gonzales.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Jack, looking confused.

  ‘Oh, but you will.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Because our lives are intertwined, inextricably.’

  ‘Can you enlighten me?’

  ‘The woman who died in London so horribly the other day … was Dolores’ daughter …’

  ‘What?’ Surprised, Jack almost shouted.

  Isis reached for the old lady’s hand again and began to stroke it, her touch gentle and full of love. ‘Mamina is my grandmother,’ said Isis, her eyes turning misty.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ mumbled Jack, shaking his head. Another moment of destiny, he thought, remembering Tristan’s words – you and Isis are destined to meet … How extraordinary! Feeling a rush of excitement race to his head, Jack realised it was decision time. The familiar fork in the road. Things were moving at lightning speed, and time was quickly running out.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Jack,’ said Isis. ‘A few words scratched into an old piece of discarded furniture you stumbled across on an abandoned farm sent you on quite a journey not that long ago – right? Look where it ended up; you found Anna. Against all odds. And then there was the old photograph buried in the ruins of that cottage after the bushfire; look what happened. Is this really all that different?’

  ‘Point taken. You’ve obviously read my books; I’m flattered.’

  ‘I judge a man by his deeds,’ said Isis, ‘and how he thinks. Jack the man, is displayed in his books for all to see. All one has to do is look.’

  Taken somewhat aback, Jack shook his head. ‘Interesting … I never thought of my books in that way … And then there’s my publisher,’ he added, ‘I have commitments. I can’t just—’

  ‘I’m sure that can be resolved,’ interrupted Isis, brushing the objection aside.

  ‘It’s not that simple, I have a—’

  ‘It is; trust me,’ Isis interrupted again.

  ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘We own the company.’

  ‘You what?’ exclaimed Jack. ‘You own the publishing house I’m contracted to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a lightning bolt,’ said Jack, trying to come to terms with what he had just been told. The implications were as far-reaching as they were surprising. Suddenly, the well-timed phone call from Rebecca made perfect sense. No wonder his publisher wanted him to go along with Lola’s request. Another puzzle solved, he thought. There’s so much more behind all this. Be careful!

  Señora Gonzales sensed Jack’s unease. He obviously had reservations and was getting cold feet. It was time to play her trump card.

  ‘A moment ago, you asked for one good reason why you should accept our proposal,’ she said, her voice sounding hoarse. ‘I can give you one.’

  ‘You can?’ asked Jack. ‘Then please do.’

  Señora Gonzales took her time before answering, letting the tension grow. Then she mentioned a name Jack hadn’t heard for a long time.

  Jack just kept staring at the old lady, his face a mask of disbelief and confusion. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said at last. ‘What could he possibly have to do with all this?’

  ‘Hidden corners of our lives,’ said Señora Gonzales. ‘That is all I can tell you, for now.’

  Another one of those watershed moments, thought Jack, his mind racing. Go forward, or walk away?

  ‘You thrive on a challenge, Jack, like I thrive on the energy generated by my fans,’ said Isis. ‘This is a leap of faith into the unknown for both of us. What will it be? Are we going to jump together?’

  Jack looked first at Señora Gonzales, and then at Isis, the promise of excitement and adventure irresistible. ‘Yes,’ he said at last, holding out his hand, ‘let’s do it.’

  20

  Calypso dropped anchor in Broken Bay – a short distance north of Sydney – just before midnight on Sunday. Two hours later, Alexandra was back in Jack’s apartment.

  ‘You do know what to do?’ said Van Cleef, putting Alexandra’s small suitcase on the lounge next to her. It was more of a statement than a question, the tone cynical and patronising. Alexandra nodded. ‘Let’s go over it once more, just to make sure. You go to work in the morning after a lovely weekend away. Nothing happened. You find the professor’s notebook in his laboratory among his papers and begin to work on the project that brought you here.’ Van Cleef walked over to Alexandra and placed his hand on the back of her neck – the threat obvious – making her skin crawl. ‘You report to us daily by email; understood?’

  Alexandra nodded again. ‘Don’t disappoint us, Dr Delacroix. Mr Macbeth hates disappointments. Here’s your passport, your phone and the good professor’s notebook.’ Van Cleef placed the three items on the coffee table. ‘Ah, I almost forgot …’ Van Cleef paused for effect. ‘There’s a little surprise waiting for you in your bank account. Compliments of Mr Macbeth. Such a generous man. Look at it as an advance.’

  Towering over Alexandra sitting on the lounge, Van Cle
ef squared his massive shoulders. ‘And please remember,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘we have eyes and ears everywhere.’ Van Cleef turned around and slowly walked to the door. ‘Good to have you on board, Dr Delacroix. Make sure it stays that way. Falling overboard can be very unpleasant, as Mr Cavendish recently found out. Disappointing Mr Macbeth has dire consequences, but a smart woman like you knows that already. Don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.’

  For a while, Alexandra just sat there, hoping it had all been just a bad dream. However, Professor K’s little notebook on the table in front of her reminded her it wasn’t so. What am I going to do? Alexandra asked herself, feeling frightened and terribly alone. Jack isn’t here; I have no one.

  Running her fingers nervously through her hair, she kept staring at her phone. Suddenly, it looked like a lifeline. When in serious trouble, turn to the most resourceful person you know and you can trust. For Alexandra, the choice was as simple as it was obvious: Countess Kuragin, her aunt.

  Feeling better, Alexandra picked up her phone, selected her aunt’s number and pressed the button.

  Pegasus circled Mexico City in a wide, spiralling arc, climbed quickly to its usual cruising altitude and then turned northeast on its way to London. Lola handed the controls back to the pilot, unbuckled her seatbelt and lifted herself out of the front seat. ‘Thanks, Joe, twice in a couple of days is more flying than I managed in the last six months. She’s all yours.’

  Jack was sitting in the back of the plane going over his notes. He was trying to organise the little he had found out so far by putting pen to paper, an old habit. It wasn’t much except for one curious thing: Señora Gonzales’ cryptic parting words. ‘If you look carefully, you may find the answers in the hotel on Place Vendôme,’ she had said, squeezing Jack’s hand, the sadness in her voice still ringing loudly in his ears. What on earth did she mean by that? He asked himself. And how would she know? Shaking his head, Jack wrote down hotel on Place Vendôme and went over his notes again. Slim pickings. This didn’t trouble him too much; most of his assignments began that way, often with far less. Keeping an open mind and beginning with the obvious was the best way to start, and what appeared obvious here was to make contact with Isis’ well-connected lawyer.