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

by Gabriel Farago

  Out of options, Isis’ medical team had reached an impasse. The specialists concluded that the tumour was inoperable; nothing further could be done. They were resigned to the fact that Isis had less than three months to live. Sir Humphrey refused to accept this – however sound and well-founded the diagnosis may have appeared at the time – and was pinning his hopes on the famous surgeon’s legendary talents.

  Professor Greenberg had recently pioneered new, revolutionary surgical procedures and techniques that allowed him to carry out complex operations previously thought to be impossible. Medical journals around the world were singing his praises and buzzing with articles about him and his ideas. At thirty-eight, he was hailed the ‘new messiah’ of surgery, and Isis was about to meet him.

  Lola knocked softly and opened the door. Isis sat at her dressing table by the window and was putting the finishing touches to her make-up. ‘He’s here,’ said Lola, watching Isis expertly apply her eye shadow with steady, experienced hands.

  ‘What’s he like?’ asked Isis, scrutinising herself in the mirror. ‘I still look like shit!’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. He’s not here to see you perform.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘Not at all what I expected.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He’s very young; looks like a schoolboy. He worked during the entire trip like a man possessed. I’ve never seen anything quite like it before … feverish. Workaholic, I suppose.’

  ‘This is supposed to cheer me up? What’s he doing now?’

  ‘Conferring with your Mexican medical team. They are all here …’

  ‘Good. And Sir Humphrey?’

  ‘He’s participating by video link from London.’

  Isis stood up and began to parade up and down in front of the mirror to hide the fact she felt strangely nervous. An alien sensation for someone accustomed to performing in front of millions. ‘Well, what do you think? Demure enough for an examination by a medical genius?’ she said, her voice sounding hollow.

  Dressed in a pair of tight-fitting black pants, high heels that would have made Madonna green with envy, and an electric blue Chanel blouse, Isis looked like someone who had just stepped off the catwalk.

  ‘I suppose this would be a little too much,’ she said, holding up an exquisite string of baroque pearls. ‘What do you think?’

  Lola tried in vain to suppress a smile. ‘I’m sure he’ll be impressed,’ she said. She reached for Isis’ hand and squeezed it. ‘Don’t worry. I think he’s very good, and we should be grateful he’s here …’

  Feeling better, Isis bent down and kissed Lola on the cheek. ‘You’re right, I know. I’m just a little bit scared, I guess,’ she said.

  Surprised, Lola looked up. It was the first time she had heard Isis express such sentiments. As far as she was aware, fear had never before entered her boss’ head, or her vocabulary. To see Isis afraid was unthinkable! The mere thought sent icy shivers of terror racing down Lola’s spine. ‘We’ll get through this, you’ll see,’ she stammered, tears glistening in her eyes.

  ‘That’s what Tristan said …’

  ‘Tristan? What has he to do with all this?’ asked Lola, a puzzled look on her face.

  ‘The boy can hear the whisper of angels …’

  ‘You aren’t making any sense,’ protested Lola.

  ‘Yes, I am. Would you like to know what the angels kept whispering in Tristan’s ear when we met? Right here, in this very room only a little while ago?’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Lola, a little annoyed by what she considered a rather foolish and self-indulgent comment.

  ‘It isn’t my time … yet. Now, please fetch the good professor; I’m ready.’

  ‘If my daughters knew that I’m standing here talking to you,’ said Professor Greenberg, shaking Isis’ hand, ‘there’d be a riot at home, I tell you. They are ardent fans of yours. We have all your albums, and I know most of the lyrics by heart; I’ve heard them so many times. We’ve tried to attend one of your concerts for years, regrettably without success. Somehow, I’ve always been too busy—’

  ‘Perhaps one day soon, we can do something about that,’ interrupted Isis, sizing up the little man standing in front of her. He only came up to her chin, but she liked him instantly. Dressed in a pair of faded jeans, black sneakers and a Rolling Stones tee-shirt with Keith Richards in classical rocker-pose playing the guitar printed on the front, Professor Greenberg looked more like one of his young interns than the eminent surgeon he was.

  A little unkempt and a little too long, his hair kept stubbornly curling around ears that were a little too big, giving him an endearingly loutish look, like an ageing student who has made the campus his home and career. The round, Harry Potter-style tortoiseshell glasses accentuated the prominent, slightly hooked nose that dominated his face.

  However, his almost comical appearance and easygoing manner had a specific purpose: he was putting his patient at ease and carefully observing Isis’ demeanour, mood and attitude generally. In short, the professor was conducting an examination without his patient being aware of it, or so he thought. In a way, he was doing exactly what Sir Humphrey had done for years, and Isis was onto him.

  In Isis’ case, a physical examination would have been pointless, and Professor Greenberg didn’t believe in wasting time or going through the motions just for the patient’s benefit. The extensive test results told him everything he needed to know. The only thing missing was the patient’s persona, and Professor Greenberg was doing his best to find out all he could about that. ‘Bedside espionage’ he called it jokingly among colleagues and friends, and Professor Greenberg was the Sherlock Holmes of the infirmary.

  ‘Well, how do I shape up?’ asked Isis, a wry smile creasing her face.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Professor Greenberg, a little taken aback by the remark.

  ‘You’ve been analysing me since the moment we met. I recognised the signs, you see. Sir Humphrey, my physician, has done this for years. We often joke about it.’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t realise my methods were that transparent,’ said Professor Greenberg, laughing. ‘No matter. I can see we’ll get on famously. So, let me cut to the chase, pun intended, and come straight to the point: I will tell you exactly what I think about your situation – I believe every patient deserves that. The only thing that requires a little tweaking and adjustment from case to case is how this should be communicated, and when. In your case, I think the direct approach is the right way to do this. The truth always looks best if we don’t dress it up too much, don’t you agree?’

  Isis nodded, a lump in her throat. ‘Shall we go and sit on the terrace? I love looking onto the garden …’ Isis suggested, somewhat timidly.

  ‘By all means,’ said Professor Greenberg and followed Isis outside.

  ‘Where are they?’ asked Jack. Lola pointed to the terrace above them. ‘Up there. Professor Greenberg wanted to see Isis alone.’

  ‘Understandable.’

  ‘She looked worried; I’ve never seen her like this.’

  ‘Are you surprised? You heard what the Mexican doctors had to say—’

  ‘They have all but given up,’ interrupted Señora Gonzales. She reached for the decanter on the table and poured herself another glass of iced tea. ‘But we haven’t, have we?’ she said softly, looking first at Lola sitting opposite, and then at Hanna. ‘And you, Jack,’ she continued, turning to Jack sitting next to her, ‘don’t know the meaning of that, do you?’

  ‘You know me too well,’ replied Jack, introducing a little humour and much needed levity into the conversation. He would have called it small talk distraction.

  Señora Gonzales pointed to the far end of the garden. ‘Just look at those two,’ she said. Boris was seated on a stone bench playing the balalaika, the triangular-shaped instrument looking diminutive and fragile in his huge hands. Mesmerised, Tristan sat on the grass in front of him and listened intently. ‘I haven’t
seen Boris play in years; extraordinary. That boy, Tristan, is truly remarkable …’

  ‘He sure is,’ said Jack. ‘In more ways than you can possibly imagine. One day, I must tell you about his parents …’

  ‘I’ve read your book …’

  ‘The Disappearance of Anna Popov?’ interjected Hanna.

  ‘Yes,’ said Señora Gonzales.

  ‘There’s certainly a lot about Tristan and his extraordinary parents in the book,’ conceded Jack, ‘but not all—’

  ‘Look, here they come,’ interrupted Lola, pointing to the stairs leading down into the garden from the terrace above. Relaxed and chatting casually, Isis and Professor Greenberg came slowly down the stairs. They looked more like two old friends than doctor and patient who had just met to discuss a crisis.

  Señora Gonzales looked at Jack and nodded briefly, the signal obvious. Lola reached for Hanna’s hand and squeezed it. Everyone was aware the moment of reckoning had arrived.

  ‘I’ve asked David here to tell you all exactly what he just told me. That way, there can be no misunderstanding,’ said Isis, introducing Professor Greenberg.

  First names already, thought Jack, shaking the professor’s hand. Good sign.

  ‘Overall, I agree with your doctors here. Clinically speaking, their diagnosis is accurate, except in one fundamental respect,’ began Professor Greenberg, looking suddenly much older. He took off his glasses and began to polish the lenses with his handkerchief. He did that often, especially when he was concentrating and collecting his thoughts. His vision temporarily blurred, it made him focus within. ‘I don’t believe the tumour is inoperable …’ he said calmly. Relieved, Lola squeezed Hanna’s hand again. ‘However … before we become too excited, I must warn you that this doesn’t solve our problem.’

  ‘What do you mean, Professor?’ asked Señora Gonzales, speaking softly.

  ‘Despite its size and very precarious location in the brain, I’m confident that I can remove most of the tumour, but not all. If I were to do that, my patient would most likely die. Therefore, I have to leave some of the tumour behind, and that’s the problem. Why? Because it will grow back; vigorously and quickly, I’m afraid.’

  Stunned silence.

  ‘So, what’s the answer?’ asked Señora Gonzales, finally breaking the awkward silence.

  ‘I’ve been closely following a fascinating piece of research by a scientist in Australia of all places, which is right on this very subject … Unfortunately, the scientist recently passed away without having completed his work …’

  ‘Professor Kozakievicz?’ interjected Jack.

  Professor Greenberg put on his glasses and stared at Jack, disbelief creasing his face. ‘How on earth do you know this?’ he asked, shaking his head. ‘Are you a scientist?’

  ‘No, I’m a writer. I happen know the scientist who has just replaced him and is continuing his work: Dr Alexandra Delacroix,’ replied Jack calmly.

  ‘I know her!’ exclaimed Professor Greenberg excitedly. ‘She’s brilliant! I thought she worked in France. I had no idea she …’

  ‘It’s all about genomics, isn’t it?’ said Jack.

  ‘Yes. Epigenetics, to be more precise. In his most recent article, which I read again on the plane coming over here, Kozakievicz claims to have discovered certain hidden genes that, if stimulated by certain drugs, can direct the immune system to fight the tumour from within and make it disappear. Now, if this is right, the implications are staggering …’

  ‘Such a drug exists?’ asked Lola.

  ‘You put your finger right on it. That’s where matters become a little blurred, I’m afraid. Kozakievicz had hinted he knew the type of drug that could do this, and how. He even referred to the unique properties of a jungle plant, but he did caution that a lot more research needs to be done before we can be certain it really works. It all comes down to that. He did what every prudent scientist would have done in a situation like this – he was careful not to overreach.’

  ‘So, what we need is time; is that what you are saying?’ said Jack.

  ‘Precisely, and I can provide that time by removing part of the tumour now. It isn’t the whole answer; it is part of the answer. Can you see?’

  ‘And would it help if Dr Delacroix were to become involved in this case?’

  ‘Absolutely! In fact, there could be mutual advantages here. The more we know about this research and where it is heading, the better. Time is obviously of the essence here.’

  ‘I’ll talk to her.’

  ‘Do you think she would be interested?’ asked Isis, the anxiety in her voice obvious.

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  Isis glanced at Professor Greenberg sitting next to her. ‘Do you believe in destiny, David?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m a surgeon …’

  ‘And a surgeon has to have an open mind, yes?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Well then … you’ve just seen destiny at work. Here, right now. Haven’t you?’

  For a while, Professor Greenberg just sat in silence and listened to the haunting melody floating across from Boris’ balalaika. ‘You may be right,’ he said pensively. ‘In any case, we’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘And that boy over there can hear the whisper of angels and glimpse eternity,’ said Isis, pointing to Tristan sitting in front of Boris.

  ‘I don’t follow,’ said Professor Greenberg, smiling.

  ‘You will, David, trust me, you will. One day soon.’

  46

  Alexandra asked Jana to drop her at the Gordon. ‘I still can’t believe we’ve just met Lena Abramowitz. It’s sending a cold shiver down my spine. Something is reaching out of the past, guiding us and showing us the way. Astonishing. Do you believe in destiny, Jana?’ she asked.

  Jana shrugged. ‘Jack does,’ she said.

  ‘Not very scientific, I know, but I think we may have made medical history this morning,’ she said and jumped out of the car.

  ‘That important, eh?’ said Jana.

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Jack would certainly call it destiny.’

  ‘He may be right. I’m cooking tonight, remember,’ said Alexandra cheerfully, and closed the door.

  ‘No Blumenthal, please,’ Jana called out, wagging her finger.

  Alexandra and Jana had hit it off well. The instant rapport between them was quickly turning into a true friendship. Two like-minded women at a crossroads had found each other.

  Alexandra hurried to her lab, unlocked the safe and took out Professor K’s notebooks. Then she opened her handbag, reached into a side pocket and, careful to avoid contamination, pulled out the tissue with the few strands of Lena Abramovitz’s white hair folded inside. When she placed it next to the notebooks, she noticed her fingers were trembling.

  The vision and the missing link finally coming together? Incredible! Proof perhaps, she thought, feeling a little dizzy. Could it really be? Only one way to find out. If Kasper’s right, Lena’s DNA sequence should give us the answer. The recent acquisition by Gordon of an Illumina HiSeq X Ten machine made it possible to carry out this complex task right there on the premises, quickly, efficiently and at relatively low cost, which only a few years ago would have been fantasy. The sophisticated machine cost millions, and it was only by the generosity and support of donors and bequestors that the Gordon Institute had been able to afford such an expensive piece of high-tech equipment. Alexandra thanked her lucky stars: there were only a few places in the world where scientists had ready access to such a wonderful facility.

  Akhil knocked on Alexandra’s door and entered. ‘The CEO was looking for you earlier,’ he said. ‘He would like to see you.’

  Alexandra put the strands of hair into a small plastic container and handed it to Akhil. ‘Please extract the DNA and prepare it for sequencing. It’s urgent. I’ll go and see the CEO.’

  ‘I’ll do it straight away,’ said Akhil. He was tempted to ask a few questions, but thought better of it.

  ‘T
hanks,’ said Alexandra and stood up. Something about Akhil made her feel uneasy. He was polite, but aloof. Efficient, like a robot, but without initiative or independent thought. He wasn’t a man she could warm to. She had the feeling he was somehow watching her all the time, which was unsettling.

  Perhaps he resents my parachuting in here just like that, she thought. Perhaps he just needs a little more time. However, rather than sharing her ideas with him and involving him in her research as one would normally do with an assistant, Alexandra decided to keep her distance, at least for the time being.

  ‘The board was very impressed with the speech you gave at Professor K’s memorial the other day, and so was I,’ said the CEO, ‘it was inspirational.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Alexandra, acknowledging his compliment.

  ‘As you know, our funding is heavily dependent on philanthropy. We have many generous donors and “Partners for the Future” who have made bequests in their Wills, leaving a lot of money to Gordon. We have regular functions here at the institute to keep them up to date and show them what we are doing. We always choose one or two of our prominent scientists to talk about their work. It’s a great way to keep our donors engaged and motivated. There’s nothing like meeting a dedicated scientist to create enthusiasm for a cause.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Alexandra, wondering where this was heading. ‘It was the same at our institute in France.’

  ‘I know this is short notice … but we would like to invite you to address our sponsors and tell them about Professor K’s work. It would introduce you to that important group of supporters, raise your profile and, we believe, greatly benefit Gordon. Interested?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘There’s only one little problem …’ said the CEO.

  ‘Oh? What?’

  ‘The function is tomorrow.’

  Alexandra went straight back to her lab, put everything on hold and began to draft her speech for the next day. There was no way she could have refused the CEO’s request, short notice or not. In a way, she didn’t mind. Having to focus on Professor K’s work like that and put his ideas and vision into language a layman could follow and understand, was always an excellent way to strip away the noise and confusion that blurred the boundaries, and somehow seemed to accompany every complex research project.