Feeling a little better, Isis went through her breathing exercises once more to calm herself, her iron-willed discipline and self-control coming to her aid and serving her well. With only moments to go before the lid of the coffin was due to open under the spotlight, Isis felt suddenly dizzy and her head began to spin. ‘Something is wrong,’ she whispered, barely able to move her lips as The Time Machine launched into ‘Resurrection’, her signature number indicating her entry. Then the coffin began to rise.
27
All was quiet in the chateau after the splendid dinner. Everyone except Jack and the countess had retired to their rooms some time ago. ‘Nightcap?’ said the countess, taking Jack by the hand. ‘In the kitchen. We always seem to end up in there this time of night.’
Jack ran his fingertips along the polished timbers of the kitchen table, worn shiny and smooth by countless elbows of generations past. ‘I love this old table and the stories it could tell,’ he said and sat down facing the countess.
‘About Russian winters and sleigh rides through enchanted forests?’ said the countess, recalling their last late-night conversation in the very same place two years before. On that occasion, Jack had made a promise to find Anna. Against all odds he had succeeded, earning him not only the gratitude of a distraught mother, but a place in her heart and her family as well.
‘Exactly.’
‘Why is it that every time we come here – usually late at night – you help me?’
Jack shrugged, but said nothing. Deep down, under the easygoing larrikin-layer, Jack was actually reserved and quite shy. It was this hidden, endearing quality the countess loved so much about him. ‘Thanks, Jack,’ she said and reached for his hand.
‘Perhaps this time you can help me in return,’ said Jack.
‘Oh? How?’
Jack told the countess about Dolores’ cryptic parting words regarding the hotel on Place Vendôme.
‘That’s the Ritz,’ interrupted the countess.
‘Correct. And I was hoping you may know someone who could help me here. I’m particularly interested in the war years.’
The countess began to laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Jack.
‘I know just the person. You’ll get on like a house on fire; trust me.’
‘Oh? And who might she be?’
‘A famous Russian ballerina. I can take you to her tomorrow if you like. She lives in a retirement home not far from here,’ said the countess.
‘See; what did I tell you?’
Jack saw a moving shadow near the open door out of the corner of his eye and turned around. Barefoot and in his pyjamas, Tristan stood in the doorway watching them. Something about the boy’s demeanour made Jack uneasy.
‘What’s up, darling?’ asked the countess. She stood up and walked over to Tristan.
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ said Tristan, coming closer. ‘I kept seeing this … image, over and over. And I heard—’
‘What image?’ interrupted Jack.
‘Noise; crowds; sirens … I think Isis is in danger.’
‘Hush now,’ said the countess. She put her arm around Tristan’s shoulder and stroked his burning forehead. ‘You’ve been talking to Lola all night and I bet you listened to The Time Machine in your room. Am I right? And the Isis poster is hanging on the back of your door. You’re excited, that’s all. Come; sit with us. I’ll make us all a hot chocolate and you’ll sleep like a baby, you’ll see.’
Ten minutes later, Lola burst into the kitchen, a haunted look on her face. ‘That’s where you are,’ she said excitedly. ‘I thought I could hear voices. Something terrible has happened …’
‘What?’ said Jack, almost knocking over his mug as he turned around to face Lola.
‘I just had a call from Mexico …’ Obviously distressed, Lola could barely speak. ‘Isis collapsed on stage and has been taken to hospital. The concert’s been cancelled. The crowd panicked. There was a stampede; several people died. It’s a disaster!’
28
The Calypso was steaming north again towards the Great Barrier Reef, one of Macbeth’s favourite places. He decided to stay close to the east coast of Australia for the time being. This would give him an opportunity to monitor Alexandra’s progress at the Gordon, and be available to intervene at short notice if necessary, without arousing suspicion. With so much at stake, he thought this was definitely warranted.
Something about Alexandra made Macbeth feel uneasy. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but her confident manner and sparkling intelligence told him she wouldn’t be easy to control and manipulate. During their breakfast together, she had radiated independence and defiance. Compared with her, Cavendish had been an easy target. Macbeth realised there was only one way to make sure Alexandra was reporting truthfully and wasn’t trying to deceive him. A reliable contact was needed on the inside. Someone had to keep a close eye on her activities at the institute and report back to him.
‘Any progress?’ asked Macbeth, playing with the two little steel balls in his left hand.
‘Yes,’ said Van Cleef. ‘My Sydney contact is confident he has identified a suitable target. In fact, I believe an approach is imminent.’
‘Who is the target?’
‘Dr Delacroix’s assistant. We’ve had him in our sights for some time. He was working with Cavendish … he’s now working with Dr Delacroix. A piece of luck.’
‘What do we know about him?’
‘He’s Sri Lankan, a Tamil. Very bright and ambitious. He studied in England and took up a position at the Gordon three years ago. He has a wife and a small child. He also has a great weakness …’
Macbeth looked impressed. ‘Well done, Jan. Keep me informed.’
‘Certainly. We should know more in the morning.’ Van Cleef nodded and left the cabin.
Akhil Achari was watching the dealer intently, his face flushed with anxiety. He was counting the cards. He had been sitting at the blackjack table for hours and was down to his last three hundred dollars. Usually he had no problem concentrating, but not that night. Lady Luck had turned her back on him. Akhil had already lost one month’s wages and was desperately trying to win it back.
Akhil looked at the two cards he had just received. Hit or stand, he thought, his mind racing. Split, or take the risk and double down? Double down allowed him to increase the initial bet by one hundred per cent. Akhil decided to double down. It was the wrong decision.
As Akhil stood up to leave the table, a man behind him put two hundred dollars into his shirt pocket. ‘I’ve had a good run, mate. Take it and have another go,’ said the man. All of his instincts told Akhil to return the money and walk away, but the little gambling demons in his head began to whisper seductively in his ear, urging him to stay.
The dealer looked at him, his face an inscrutable mask without expression. For an instant, Akhil wavered, his huge losses making his stomach churn. Then he sat back down and placed another bet.
Paulus put his hand on Akhil’s shoulder and leant forward. ‘There’s more if you like,’ he whispered, and slipped another two hundred into Akhil’s pocket.
29
Everyone was up early the next morning. With the Mexican rock concert disaster all over the news, there was no escaping the tragedy. The reports were unclear as to what really happened. However, six people had died in the panic that followed Isis’ dramatic collapse on stage. Teary-eyed and obviously distraught, Lola was packed and ready to go. Pegasus was already in the air on its way to Paris to collect her and fly her back to Mexico City. Marcus and Jana had decided to leave as well and offered to drive Lola to the airport. The weekend that had started with such promise and good cheer the night before had lost its sparkle and was suddenly over.
Jana kissed the countess on the cheek. ‘I should be on a plane to Sydney by tomorrow night at the latest,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about Alexandra, but you definitely have to watch this man,’ she added, pointing to Jack standing in the doorway.
‘I know,’ said
the countess and rolled her eyes.
‘Beware of charming men.’
‘Story of my life.’
Jack helped Marcus put the luggage into the boot. ‘I may need to pick your brain about the crystal skull, Marcus,’ he said.
‘Nicely put. Any time, and thanks for letting us stay in your apartment. We’ll look after Alexandra; don’t worry. And the break will do Jana the world of good.’ Marcus slapped Jack on the back. ‘Stay in touch.’
Jack held the car door open for Jana. She put her arms around him and gave him a hug. ‘Take care of yourself. I’ll call you,’ she said, and got into the car.
‘Where’s Lola?’ asked Jack.
‘Here she comes now,’ said the countess.
Looking dejected, her eyes red from lack of sleep, Lola hurried towards them with a duffel bag slung over her shoulders. ‘Last night was magic,’ she said to the countess, ‘then the sky caved in.’
‘Any news?’ said Jack.
‘She’s in hospital, that’s all I know.’
‘Call me as soon as you know more. In the meantime, I’ll carry on unless—’
‘You do that. Nothing’s changed,’ interrupted Lola.
Lola was about to get into the car when Tristan came running towards her out of the garden with a bunch of flowers in his hand. ‘This is for you,’ he said, handing the flowers to Lola. ‘And this is for Isis.’ Tristan held up a small Celtic cross carved out of whalebone. ‘It belonged to my mother.’
Lola took the cross out of his hand, but before she could thank him, Tristan turned around and ran back into the house.
‘Do you know what his mother said about him?’ said Jack. Lola shook her head and slipped the cross into her pocket. ‘He can hear the whisper of angels and glimpse eternity.’
With everyone gone, the chateau felt suddenly quite lonely. Jack sat on the terrace, deep in thought with a melancholy look on his face. He was going over the events of the past twenty-four hours. How quickly things can change, he thought. The countess watched him from inside. He needs cheering up, she thought.
‘Are you coming?’ said the countess.
‘Are we going somewhere?’
‘Of course. You are about to meet a Russian ballerina, remember?’
‘Anastasia Petrova was already famous in her early teens,’ said the countess as they drove through the ornate wrought iron gates. The exclusive retirement home, a converted chateau, was popular with well-heeled aristocrats and celebrities. ‘She was one of the baby ballerinas of the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo and later became a film star. She was also one of my mother’s closest friends.’
‘I can’t wait.’
‘You won’t be disappointed.’
‘And we are going to meet her because …?’
‘She lived at the Ritz during the war.’
A nurse in a crisp uniform who seemed to know the countess well, welcomed them in the entry foyer and showed them to Madame Petrova’s room on the ground floor. ‘She’s expecting you,’ said the nurse and opened the door to a large room overlooking the manicured grounds.
Madame Petrova sat in a chair facing the open window. Elegantly dressed in a tight-fitting black dress and wearing a priceless string of baroque pearls and a pair of beautiful earrings that whispered ‘Tiffany’, she certainly had presence; even in her nineties. ‘Elegance and style are timeless’ was her motto, and she certainly lived by it. Her snow-white hair was pulled back and tied in a neat bun, exposing a long, swan-like neck. Impeccable make-up accentuated her prominent cheekbones and made her almond-shaped, slightly slanted eyes look large, giving her an exotic, almost feline look.
‘How wonderful of you to come, my dear,’ said Madame Petrova in French, struggling to stand up with the aid of a walking stick she hated. ‘I saw you arrive.’
The countess walked over to her friend and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘I’ve brought someone who wants to meet you,’ she said in English.
‘A young man,’ how exciting,’ said Madame Petrova, switching to perfect English. ‘Please come a little closer so I can see you.’ She refused to wear glasses.
‘He’s a writer,’ said the countess, lowering her voice. She knew that would excite her friend even more. She had a soft spot for writers.
‘So, you want to know about the Ritz during the war,’ said Madame Petrova after the maid had served petits fours and tea. ‘It was without doubt the most exciting time of my life; exciting and dangerous …’ Madame Petrova paused, and let her eyes roam over the photographs on the grand piano next to her.
‘What made it so dangerous and exciting?’ asked Jack.
‘The people. Especially the Germans. Here, have a look.’ Madame Petrova pointed to the photographs on the piano, her fingers shaking. Jack noticed that her parchment-like skin was almost translucent.
‘That’s Reichsmarschall Göring with von Stulpnagel, the military commander of occupied Paris. Göring was crazy, but everyone was dancing around him, like moths drawn to a flame. And here, that’s Canaris, head of the Abwehr, the German intelligence offices in Paris. He was a double agent.’ Madame Petrova pointed to another sepia photograph. ‘The man next to him is von Choltitz, a general. He was in charge during the last days of the German occupation. He defied Hitler and refused to burn Paris. As you can see, all of these photographs were taken at the Ritz. And look, over here, that’s me standing next to Charles Ritz, Coco Chanel and Marlene Dietrich. You know what Charles used to say?’ Jack shook his head. ‘Luxury stains everyone it touches. And it certainly did.
‘And then there were the writers. You would be interested in that,’ said Madame Petrova, becoming quite animated. ‘That’s Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, Hemingway’s drinking buddies. My God, we had some wild times together.’ Exhausted by the memories of her youth, Madame Petrova slumped back into her chair.
‘May I?’ asked Jack, pointing to the photographs on the desk by the window.
‘Go right ahead,’ said Madame Petrova.
The photographs on the desk were much more recent. One in particular had caught Jack’s eye. Two ladies in fur coats and a young girl were standing on the Tower Bridge in London. One of them was obviously Madame Petrova in her middle years. The other looked vaguely familiar, and Jack tried to remember where he had seen her before. ‘Who is that standing next to you?’ he asked, pointing to the photo.
‘Show me, please.’ Jack handed the photograph to Madame Petrova.
‘Ah. That’s a good friend of mine and her daughter. We met during the war. She too was living at the Ritz at the time.’ As soon as Madame Petrova said that, Jack remembered where he had seen the woman before, the realisation making the hairs on the back of his neck tingle.
‘Can you tell me her name?’ he said, his voice sounding hoarse.
‘Of course. That’s Dolores Gonzales and her daughter, Mercedes. Why do you ask?’
Barely able to control his excitement, Jack began to question Madame Petrova about her friend.
‘Please, not so fast,’ interrupted Madame Petrova, holding up a shaking hand. ‘If you live life in the rear-view mirror like I do, things become a little blurred.’
Obviously exhausted, Madame Petrova sank back into her chair again and looked suddenly quite frail. The sparkle ignited by her memories had gone out. All that remained was a little old lady, struggling with the present. ‘The nurse will come any moment. It’s time for my pills and my nap,’ she said. ‘The pills keep my body alive, but do little for my spirit.’
‘We should go,’ said the countess to Jack, quickly standing.
‘But if you want to find out more about Dolores and our time at the Ritz, you should talk to my biographer,’ said Madame Petrova.
‘I didn’t know you had a biographer,’ said the countess, surprised.
‘Oh yes, she lives in Paris and comes every Thursday. You may know her; she’s quite famous.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Adrienne Darrieux.’
30
Boris, Isis’ bodyguard, met Lola at Benito Juárez International Airport in Mexico City and took her straight to the hospital. Because Boris was a man of few words, Lola knew it would be pointless to question him about Isis’ condition and what had really happened at the concert. Unable to sleep on the plane, Lola felt drained and exhausted, but concern and worry kept her going, running precariously on nervous energy.
‘What’s that?’ asked Lola. She pointed to the huge crowd almost blocking their approach to the hospital.
‘They’ve been here all night,’ said Boris. ‘Fans with candles, praying for Isis. There are thousands of them. There’s even a little shrine by the entrance with a mountain of flowers.’
‘Incredible.’ Lola looked out the window at the multitude of silent faces staring back at her. What she saw reflected in those young faces moved her deeply. It was genuine grief and distress of a generation worried about its idol.
Police had cordoned off a narrow corridor leading to the hospital. Policemen on motorbikes patrolled the street and held back the excited crowd pushing against the barricades.
Being ushered through the maze of brightly lit corridors of the huge hospital with Boris by her side reminded Lola of another hospital visit not that long ago. On that occasion, Isis had rushed to her mother’s bedside in London only to be met by horror and death. Lola hoped that this visit would be less traumatic and have a happier ending.
Boris spoke briefly to the security guard in front of Isis’ room. The guard nodded, stepped aside and opened the door. Lola felt suddenly dizzy and weak, with needles of apprehension and fear churning through her empty stomach like shards of glass. All hospitals smell the same, she thought, the sickly-sweet smell of disinfectant and cleaning fluids assaulting her senses. Boris took her by the arm and gently guided her inside the silent, dimly lit room.
Her eyes closed, Isis was lying on an elevated bed with all kinds of tubes and monitoring devices attached to her arms and chest. Her pale face looked strangely serene and at peace. It reminded Lola of someone lying in state in some bizarre science fiction movie. Oh my God, thought Lola, tears blurring her vision. At first, she didn’t notice Señora Gonzales and Hanna sitting in the shadows; watching. Then she felt someone put a comforting arm around her shoulders. It was Hanna.
The Hidden Genes of Professor K: A Medical Mystery Thriller (Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 3) Page 16
