Working quickly now, the Tlacatecuhtli completed the incisions. Then he folded back the skin, removed a square piece of bone and exposed the brain. The large tumour was right there in front of him. Normally, that would have been the end of the procedure, but not this time. The Tlacatecuhtli reached for a small stone bowl on the slab next to him. It contained a thick paste the colour of mud, which he spread evenly over the open wound with the tip of the knife. Satisfied, he applied another soothing salve and covered the head with large, medicinal leaves, which he tied together at the back of the patient’s neck like a bandage. The operation was complete.
The Tlacatecuhtli rose, his naked chest covered in tiny beads of perspiration glistening like pearls, and held up the crystal skull once more for all to see. As the mighty roar of the jubilant worshippers rose like thunder from below, the Tlacatecuhtli glimpsed immortality, and for a fleeting moment, he felt like a god.
The wound healed and the king’s son made a full recovery. Due to the secret paste the Tlacatecuhtli had applied, the tumour retreated and did not return. This momentous event was recorded in a sacred text, which was placed next to the crystal skull in a hidden chamber deep inside the pyramid. It was also commemorated with a relief cut into the stone altar that paid homage to the Tlacatecuhtli as one of the great healers of his time. It depicted the operation and a heart-shaped jungle plant, the root of which had been ground into a thick paste, which had killed the tumour and saved the young warrior’s life.
The Ritz, Paris: December 1940
Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, Hitler’s second-in-command, swept into the sumptuous dining room with his entourage of senior officers and was shown to the table reserved for the Germans. Since the occupation of Paris on 14th June 1940, the Germans had all but taken over the famous hotel on Place Vendôme and turned it into their headquarters.
Göring had commandeered the Imperial Suite and had it modified to cater for his rather eccentric needs. One of those modifications included the installation of a huge bathtub, not for aquatic pleasure – except perhaps with company – but, it was whispered, for medicinal reasons.
Göring was a morphine addict. He had desperately tried to kick his habit for years, regrettably without much success. He was always on the lookout for new cures. One of those cures included long baths, having his huge body submerged in the bathtub between injections. Professor Hubert Kahle, who invented the new ‘wonder cure’ for morphine addiction, was a frequent visitor to the Ritz. And so was Dr Erwin Steinberger, one of Göring’s trusted personal physicians who was conducting certain secret medical experiments in the concentration camps, especially Auschwitz. Because Kahle’s wonder cure had failed to deliver as promised, Göring had once again turned to Dr Steinberger for advice.
Göring enjoyed being on show. Pompous, a flamboyant dresser and natural showman with a flair for melodrama, he liked to surround himself with the social elite, especially beautiful women. And there was certainly no shortage of beautiful women frequenting the Ritz at the time. They were drawn to the German officers in their impressive uniforms like moths to a flame.
Power is an aphrodisiac, and the occupying forces had all the power in the world at their fingertips, and mountains of caviar and rivers of champagne to whet the appetite …
‘Who is that over there?’ asked Göring, pointing discreetly to a couple dining at the next table.
‘A Mexican art dealer,’ replied the maître d’ in perfect German, ‘and his charming young wife.’
‘Ah … the man with the crystal skull?’ said Göring.
‘The very same,’ said the maître d’.
‘Excellent! Intrigue, a beautiful woman … and a stunning necklace. I want to meet them.’
‘Certainly. I’ll arrange it.’ The maître d’ smiled. Not only had he received a huge tip from the suave Mexican for seating him and his wife close to the German table in clear view of the Reichsmarschall, he would now most certainly receive an even bigger gratuity from the big man himself for arranging the introduction.
Göring’s interest in the young woman was not her striking, head-turning beauty, but her exquisite necklace. Göring was obsessed with gems. He liked to surround himself with jewels, which he kept in a bowl next to his bed. There, in the privacy of his bedroom – dressed in outlandish kimonos, furs and opera gowns, and wearing earrings and heavy make-up – he would douse himself with perfume and caress his collection of treasured rubies, sapphires and diamonds like a lover.
Göring’s fascination with precious stones was only overshadowed by a fanatical compulsion to acquire works of art. He collected art works like a man possessed and used to tour Paris with a retinue of art dealers and indiscriminately buy up every fine piece he could find, often offering a mere pittance. Of course, no one dared refuse him, and once he set eyes on something he had to have, nothing could stop him.
‘Do you see that young woman over there?’ said Göring, turning to Dr Steinberger seated next to him.
‘What a beauty,’ said Dr Steinberger, nodding appreciatively.
‘And what a necklace,’ said Göring. ‘You and I will meet the charming couple after dinner.’
‘The man with the crystal skull? What was all that about?’
‘You’ll find out.’
Used to Göring’s whims, Dr Steinberger decided to go with the flow rather than ask for an explanation.
Mr Elminger, deputy director of the Ritz in charge of managing the German ‘guests’, took the Mexican couple over to the Reichsmarschall’s table and introduced them. As the nephew of the hotel’s Swiss president, Baron Hans von Pfyffer, he went to great lengths to appear scrupulously neutral. However, he kept a close eye on the Nazis, and made sure that the other guests in the hotel felt comfortable during these difficult and challenging times.
The Ritz was a hotbed of intrigue, espionage, clandestine liaisons, excesses, lust and betrayal. A dangerous cocktail, often with deadly consequences. Göring and Dr Steinberger stood up with military precision and welcomed their guests to their table. Elminger withdrew discreetly.
The young Mexican was delighted. He had tried for weeks to get close to the Reichsmarschall by spreading rumours about an extraordinary artefact – an ancient, Aztec crystal skull with magic powers – in his collection. Making contact with the well-connected rich in high places was the way he conducted his business. And there was no better place to do that than the Ritz.
As the son of a notorious Mexican revolutionary, he lived in self-imposed exile in France and rented a suite at the Ritz as a permanent guest with his wife, young daughter and a nanny. This was by no means unusual. Many well-heeled celebrities lived permanently at the Ritz. He was an art dealer, specialising in Mesoamerican artefacts, which he sold to rich collectors looking for the unusual and the exotic. If he could turn the Reichsmarschall into a client, the sky would be the limit.
Göring’s weakness for women and jewellery was common knowledge at the Ritz, and the shrewd Mexican had used his beautiful wife and her breathtaking necklace as subtle bait. The door had been opened, the rest was now up to him.
After the obligatory small talk, the Reichsmarschall came straight to the point.
‘You must tell us about that mysterious skull of yours, Signor,’ said Göring. ‘This place has been buzzing with rumours for days about its supernatural powers. I’m sure Dr Steinberger here would be most interested to learn more about it, and so would I.’
‘Why don’t you bring it down and show it to our friends, darling?’ said the young woman, patting her husband on the hand.
‘I could do that,’ said the Mexican.
‘What better way?’ Göring agreed, enjoying himself. He lifted his glass and winked conspiratorially at the stunning beauty sitting opposite. Her husband excused himself and went upstairs.
‘I’ve been admiring your necklace, Señora,’ said Göring. ‘It’s spectacular. May I?’ The young woman nodded and leant forward. Göring ran the tips of his fingers over the gleaming
sapphires the size of ripe plums. ‘Exquisite.’
‘It belonged to my grandmother,’ said Señora Gonzales. ‘She lived in India for years.’
‘A gift from a maharaja perhaps?’ mused Dr Steinberger.
‘Quite possibly, but she never told us.’ Señora Gonzales reached for her champagne glass. ‘Here comes José. You are in for a big surprise, gentlemen.’
The suave Mexican was a natural salesman, and deep down, a bit of a showman who used his Latin charm and his exotic wares to beguile the gullible. Handsome, likeable, and well informed, he knew instinctively how to appeal to potential clients, and at that moment, Göring was just that, albeit the most powerful and important one in the land.
He placed the beautiful box made of Cuban flame mahogany on the table in front of Göring. ‘Please, open it,’ he said.
Göring looked at the young woman. ‘Why don’t you open it, Señora,’ he said, ‘and surprise us?’
‘As you wish.’
The young woman stood up and reached across the table. As she lifted the lid, the box came apart all by itself. A clever, concealed spring-operated mechanism folded down the front and the two sides of the box, leaving the back with the lid attached standing upright; the perfect backdrop for the amazing treasure within.
Göring gasped. Resting on a small blue velvet cushion in front of him was one of the most stunning objects he had ever set eyes upon. Carved out of crystal and transparent like glass, the beautifully proportioned human skull looked almost alive. Every anatomical detail, including the teeth was perfect.
‘Incredible,’ said Göring. Drawn irresistibly towards the skull, he stretched out his hand. ‘May I?’
‘Certainly,’ said the Mexican, smiling. As soon as Göring touched the cool crystal with his fingertips and traced the eye sockets and the jaw, he knew he had to have the skull – at any cost.
‘Tell us about it. Where does it come from? How old is it? Where was it found?’ asked Göring excitedly.
‘My father found it by accident during the Mexican Revolution in 1915. His unit was hiding in the jungle when one of his men came across a lost temple. My father was very interested in Aztec ruins and explored the temple, which was almost completely overgrown. The jungle had reclaimed it, you see. And there, in a hidden chamber, he found this skull and a fascinating text, an ancient Aztec codex, which you, Dr Steinberger, may find interesting.’
‘Oh? In what way?’ asked Dr Steinberger.
‘Let me show you. It’s right here.’ The Mexican opened a small drawer set into the bottom of the box, pulled out a neatly folded piece of dry animal skin and placed it on the table in front of Dr Steinberger. ‘The complete text was much larger. This is all that survived.’ He unfolded the long, rectangular piece of skin covered in intricate, colourful illustrations, like a storybook. ‘I’ve had the codex examined by experts in Mexico City, and they all agree this may in fact be the earliest record of a brain operation in Mesoamerica. It dates from around 1300 AD. They even gave it a name: De Medicina.’
‘How fascinating,’ said Steinberger, examining the illustrations with interest.
‘You read it from right to left. As you can see, it follows the various stages of the operation. Here, in the first illustration, the naked patient is lying on a stone table, perhaps drugged; waiting. The man standing next to him – obviously the surgeon and most likely a priest – is holding a large knife, ready to begin. That’s when things become really interesting …’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Dr Steinberger.
‘Have a closer look. Can you see something next to the patient’s head?’
‘Of course, it looks like … Could it be?’
‘It is,’ said the Mexican, smiling. ‘It’s the crystal skull.’
‘Astonishing. Perhaps watching over the patient with its magical powers?’ suggested Dr Steinberger. ‘Or guiding the surgeon’s hand?’
‘That’s exactly what the experts thought. But it gets even more interesting.’
‘In what way?’
‘The next six illustrations show the opening of the skull with the knife, the removal of a piece of bone and so on. A detailed, step-by-step account of the procedure. However, then comes something surprising. This here.’
‘What is that?’
‘A picture of a plant. Not just any plant – a medicinal plant that grows in the jungle. The Aztecs used hundreds of different medicinal plants and herbs. In the next picture, the surgeon is holding a bowl in his left hand, and the knife in his right. In the last picture, he is covering the wound with leaves. And then here at the bottom is one more illustration. It shows the patient dressed as a warrior, now fully recovered, going into battle. The operation was obviously a success.’
‘Astonishing,’ said Dr Steinberger. ‘Are you suggesting the plant was somehow part of the operation?’
‘Absolutely. The experts are certain the bowl in the surgeon’s hand contained a medicinal substance that was applied to the open wound. The preceding picture of the plant supports this and is consistent with Aztec iconography.’
‘Amazing. Do you think it would be possible to identify, and perhaps find this jungle plant?’
‘Yes. The illustration is very detailed and precise, and clearly shows the distinctive heart-shaped leaves of the plant. The plant has been identified. It is still being used for medicinal purposes by the natives in some remote areas.’
Momentarily overcome by a strange sense of excitement, Dr Steinberger reached for his champagne glass and looked pensively at the ancient text in front of him. A strong believer in destiny, he knew exactly what he had to do, and why.
24
St Pancras International was crowded as usual. The early morning train was very popular, especially with businessmen going to the Continent. The Eurostar to Paris was due to leave in five minutes.
‘I told you we’d make it,’ said Jack, catching his breath.
‘Here’s our carriage, slow coach,’ said Lola.
‘First class; very posh.’
Jack loved trains. Leaning back in his comfortable seat, he looked out of the window as the train slowly left the station. Soon the Eurostar would be travelling under the English Channel – one of the busiest shipping lanes in the world – reaching speeds of up to three hundred kilometres per hour. Paris in three hours, thought Jack, bloody marvellous.
‘When are you going to tell me why we are going to France?’ asked Lola. ‘I’m sure it has nothing to do with your Russian countess and the wonder boy.’
‘Yes … and no. It’s the train actually,’ teased Jack. ‘I always wanted to travel on the Eurostar. Did you know it’s one of the seven wonders of the modern world?’
‘Says who?’
‘The American Society of Civil Engineers.’
‘Seriously, Jack, why France? Why the urgency? Why now? It has something to do with last night – right?’
‘Before I tell you, I would like to ask you something.’
‘Go for it.’
‘When were you going to tell me that The Time Machine owns the company that publishes my books?’
Lola bit her lip and looked out the window. ‘That wasn’t up to me,’ she said quietly, her unease obvious.
‘And that phone call the night we met? It has bothered me from the beginning. I don’t believe in coincidences.’
‘All of that was before. I had to persuade you to come with me, get you over the line. Who told you?’
‘Isis. In essence, The Time Machine is my publisher. How did all that come about?’
‘As you can imagine, Isis has vast business interests. It’s a global empire really. When we bought an American record label a couple of years ago, the publishing company was part of the portfolio we acquired. It’s as simple as that.’
Jack nodded. The explanation made sense. Another one of life’s little ironies, he thought. ‘Isis also told me I could trust you with my life and there were to be no secrets between us. If we are going to be in th
is together, I need to know where I stand.’
Lola turned and looked intently at Jack. ‘Yes, you can trust me with your life, and no secrets. You have to believe that.’
Jack nodded. ‘Delving into the past can be very dangerous and judging by the little I’ve found out so far, the past we are trying to uncover could be about as dangerous as it gets. The passage of time doesn’t make it less so. On the contrary, it can make it more lethal as the stakes of the present become higher. We’ve seen what happened to Lord and Lady Elms. Something like that doesn’t happen in a vacuum. We are dealing with someone very resourceful, determined and utterly ruthless with much at stake, and no doubt a lot to lose. That’s a deadly cocktail. Does that make sense?’
‘It does.’ Lola leant across and kissed Jack on the cheek.
‘What was that for?’
‘You know exactly what.’
‘Sealed with a kiss?’
‘You know a better way?’
‘Suppose not.’ Jack pulled his well-worn little notebook held together by a rubber band out of his pocket and opened it. ‘What Sir Charles showed me last night, and what made my eyes burn and my head spin, was a bundle of old letters. And then there was something else I found particularly intriguing.’
‘What?’
‘Lady Elms’ last words to her son.’
‘She warned him and spoke about the hiding place …’ interjected Lola.
‘She did, but those were not her last words.’
‘Oh? What else did she say?’
Jack reached for his notebook. ‘According to Sir Charles, who spoke to Isis about this at the time and wrote it down, these were Lady Elms’ last words: “Stars, hide your fires.”’
‘What does it mean?’
‘Not sure … but I have a feeling it’s important. Very important.’
The Hidden Genes of Professor K: A Medical Mystery Thriller (Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 3) Page 14
