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

by Gabriel Farago

  Alexandra heard the key turn in the lock and looked up. It was Jana. ‘Smells good,’ she said. ‘All is forgiven. Let me introduce you to a very hungry man who’s travelled halfway around the world for a good meal,’ joked Jana, pointing to Carrington struggling with two large suitcases behind her at the door.

  ‘Now, that’s what I call pressure,’ said Alexandra, shaking Carrington’s hand. ‘Table’s set; dinner’s in the pot; wine’s opened. Let’s eat.’

  ‘A woman after my own heart,’ said Carrington, following Alexandra into the dining room. ‘What’s for dinner?’

  ‘Oysters, and Aussie beef,’ said Alexandra, ‘washed down with Barossa shiraz.’

  ‘You beauty,’ said Carrington. He reached for the bottle on the table and began to pour the wine.

  56

  Carrington stopped at the lichgate and looked into the silent cemetery. It had been four years since he had buried his wife and daughter. They had died right next to him at Luxor, torn apart by the senseless mayhem unleashed by terrorists in Egypt. He could still hear the screams of the wounded and see the mutilated bodies lying in pools of blood with gunfire raging all around.

  Somehow, he had survived, but he had not been spared. Some people never stop grieving; they can’t. Loneliness and regret can be a harsher sentence than years in a filthy Egyptian jail.

  To escape the haunting memories and deal with his devastating loss, Carrington had decided to leave Sydney and the bar, and bury himself in new work. That was almost four years ago. He accepted an appointment at The Hague as a judge on the War Crimes Tribunal. However, his term was up, and it was time to come home.

  In Jana, Carrington had found a loving companion who shared his pain and helped him rebuild his life. But deep down in his soul, nothing could replace the love he had shared with his wife and daughter, leaving an emptiness he had to face alone. Jana sensed this, and they had slowly drifted apart, hoping for a new beginning.

  Carrington opened the gate and walked slowly along the silent rows of graves, some covered in fresh flowers, others overgrown with weeds of neglect, each step bringing him closer to the final resting place of his family. He had prepared himself for days for this visit but nothing could have prepared him for the moment he set eyes on the two identical graves under the rosebush he had planted.

  With tears blurring his vision, he read the inscriptions on the headstones. First his wife’s, then his daughter’s, the finality of their untimely death stabbing at his heavy heart. As he bent down to place the flowers he had brought onto the graves, Carrington noticed his hands were shaking. Then, overcome by emotion, he stepped back and began to pray.

  Carrington hadn’t prayed in years, but Jana had taught him a little prayer she had learnt from her Polish mother:

  Love is always patient and kind.

  It is never jealous.

  Love is never boastful or conceited.

  It is never rude or selfish.

  It does not take offence and is not resentful …

  Feeling better, Carrington placed his hand briefly on each of the headstones and then walked slowly back to the gate. It was time to return to the world of the living and a fresh start. Carrington had kept his old chambers and was ready to resume his life as a respected QC at the Sydney bar. This would be his first day in his old, familiar surroundings and he was looking forward to making contact with his colleagues and friends.

  Just as Carrington closed the lichgate behind him, his phone began to ring. He reached into his coat pocket and answered it. It was Jack. The reception was bad and Jack’s voice sounded faint and distant, but his enthusiasm was infectious and Carrington was pleased to hear from him. After the solemn cemetery visit, it was just what he needed.

  ‘I can’t talk for long, Marcus. I tried to call you all morning, but the reception out here is very bad; satellite phone. I need a favour – urgently!’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In a refugee camp in Kenya … I’ll explain later.’

  ‘What is it you need?’

  ‘I want you to make contact with Anton Hoffmeister …’

  Momentarily taken aback, Carrington said nothing.

  ‘Are you there?’ Jack shouted.

  ‘Why?’ asked Carrington.

  ‘It’s not over!’

  ‘What isn’t over?’

  ‘The Steinberger Nazi affair …’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You will, trust me. Can you do this for me?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Thanks, Marcus. I’ll call you.’

  That’s Jack for you, thought Carrington, shaking his head but feeling strangely rejuvenated. I only left The Hague two days ago, and here he is, with a case for me already. Amazing! Carrington got into his car and drove straight to his chambers in the city. Thanks to Jack, his first case back at the bar would most likely turn out to be a continuation of his last four years ago, the irony of it all bringing a fleeting smile to his weary face. Like Jack, Carrington didn’t believe in coincidences … only destiny.

  57

  Carrington was waiting for the rickety old lift to take him up to his Sydney chambers, when his phone rang again. This time it was Jana calling from Canberra. She was about to meet with George Cunningham, the Commonwealth Director of Public Prosecutions. Carrington had suggested Jana approach Cunningham to see if he could pull a few strings to get her old job back.

  ‘Wish me luck, Marcus,’ said Jana. ‘I feel a little nervous.’

  ‘You’ll be fine, you’ll see. You always got on well with him.’

  Jana and Cunningham had worked on a number of high-profile cases in the past, which thanks to Jana’s exemplary police work, had been hugely successful and significantly advanced Cunningham’s career and reputation. Until the embarrassing photograph fiasco during the Newman trial four years ago, Jana had been one of Cunningham’s most capable and trusted field officers. However, her fall from grace had been both memorable and spectacular. Shamed and compromised, her stellar career had come to a sudden end and Jana was forced to resign.

  ‘Last time I was there was terrible …’ said Jana, remembering the humiliating photographs she’d had to face in Cunningham’s office.

  ‘I know, but that was ages ago, and now you have something to offer him … I know Cunningham; he won’t be able to resist, trust me. Don’t even mention the job. The subtle approach is always best.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. And good luck with your first day back.’

  ‘Thanks. I already have a brief of sorts, and you won’t believe what it’s about …’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Jack just called and asked for my help.’

  ‘About Alexandra?’

  ‘No. Ghosts from the past. Sturmbannfuehrer Steinberger …’

  ‘What? You can’t be serious!’

  ‘Apparently, the Newman matter isn’t over yet.’

  ‘Incredible. Got to run. I’m about to go in.’

  ‘Good luck!’

  Jana missed her old job dreadfully; Carrington’s decision to return to the bar had only made things worse. She stood up, straightened her skirt and followed Cunningham’s PA down the corridor.

  Since his arrival from The Hague two days ago, Carrington had given Alexandra’s situation a lot of thought. As they were all staying in Jack’s apartment, discussing the matter had been easy. Jana decided to wait for Carrington and get the benefit of his vast experience before advising Alexandra what to do. As it turned out, this had been the right decision.

  After questioning Alexandra at length about her abduction, Carrington was convinced she was not only telling the truth, but was correct in her assumptions, fears and conclusions, and would make a reliable and believable witness should it come to that.

  Carrington agreed with Jana that Alexandra had to go to the police and make a statement. However, Jana and Carrington were at odds about when and how this should be done. Jana was of the view that Alexandra should approach the
local police immediately. Carrington on the other hand, saw an opportunity. He knew Cunningham well and suggested that Jana take Alexandra’s case directly to him and ask his advice on how best to approach the situation, before going to the local police.

  It was a shrewd suggestion. If it turned out that Alistair Macbeth – the iconic head of Blackburn Pharmaceuticals – was in fact involved in fraud, industrial espionage, kidnap and murder in Australia, then this matter would quickly become a sensational case involving the Federal Police and the government. Thanks to Jana, who brought the matter to his attention in the first place, Cunningham would get the kudos for exposing an extraordinary crime and tracking down a high-profile international criminal. And as for Jana, she would have improved her prospects of re-employment to the point of certainty.

  Knowing how the system worked was definitely an advantage, and there were only a handful of people in the country who knew the system as well as Carrington.

  The PA knocked, opened the door and let Jana enter.

  ‘It’s really good to see you, Jana,’ said Cunningham, extending his hand. He seemed genuinely pleased to see her. ‘How was life at The Hague? I hear Marcus is going back to the bar. Good decision.’

  After the initial polite chitchat, Jana came straight to the point. She told Cunningham that she had come to seek his advice on an important matter involving a friend. She then outlined Alexandra’s predicament just as Carrington had suggested. Jana could see that she had the DPP’s undivided attention. Coming from one of his former star officers, Cunningham knew that everything Jana told him had to be taken seriously, and he was certainly doing just that.

  ‘This is truly extraordinary,’ said Cunningham. ‘And the police know nothing of this?’

  ‘It would appear so,’ said Jana.

  ‘And Marcus spoke to her at length, you say?’

  ‘He did. He’s convinced she’s telling the truth based on her accurate recollection of the recent events …’

  ‘You are right, of course; she must go straight to the police. However, let me make a call first. I’ll let you know whom she should see … I want this to be handled correctly from the start. Then make an appointment as soon as possible. Could Marcus go with her, do you think?’

  ‘I’m sure he could.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘And what about you?’ asked Cunningham, walking Jana to the door. ‘What are you doing now?’

  ‘Looking around …’

  Cunningham understood at once. ‘I’ll see what I can do …’

  Jana smiled. The signal had found its mark. ‘Thanks, I’d appreciate that,’ she said.

  ‘Good work, Jana,’ said Cunningham, placing his hand on Jana’s shoulder. ‘I’m glad you came to me first. I’ll be in touch.’

  Jana gave Cunningham’s receptionist her best smile on the way out. The meeting had gone exactly as Carrington predicted. Cunningham – an ambitious man – was hooked; Alexandra’s predicament had come out of the shadows into the open, and Jana’s prospects of re-employment had gone through the roof.

  Thanks, Marcus, thought Jana, you’re a bloody genius!

  58

  Jack stepped out of the tent and stretched his stiff back. It was just after sunrise and already quite hot. Tristan was still fast asleep inside and Jack didn’t see any point in waking him, as the boy had to stay in the camp. A little more sleep will do him good, thought Jack. Lola will look after him.

  ‘Here, put this on, Jack,’ said Dr Rosen. She handed Jack a tee-shirt with the Médecins Sans Frontières logo printed on the back. Jack noticed that Kobo and Dr Rosen were each wearing one too. ‘We are making a delivery of medical supplies and you are an MSF volunteer – understood?’

  ‘Sure.’ Jack pointed to the camera gear under Dr Rosen’s arm. ‘A spot of wildlife photography along the way?’ he joked.

  ‘I wish. Sadly, the photos we’ll take today will have quite a different purpose.’

  ‘Oh? What?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later; let’s go.’

  The route to the Somali border they had chosen was nothing more than a remote dirt track through dense bush frequented by migrating wildlife. They were avoiding the main road. Kobo was driving the old Land Rover and because he tried hard to miss deep potholes and rocks littering the track, progress was slow.

  ‘We do this run regularly,’ said Dr Rosen, almost choking on the dust rising up from the parched land around them. ‘There’s a small camp near the coast. It’s a very sad place, as you’ll see. It houses refugees too sick to travel. They are the unfortunates who couldn’t make it across the border into Kenya and were left behind, mainly to die. There’s a small clinic there run by a couple of nurses and a Somali doctor who visits from time to time, Dr Ina Cabdille Xasan, but we call him Dr Gaal. A wonderful man; he’ll meet us there. As you can imagine, medicines – even basic stuff – are in short supply. That’s where we come in. The border is officially closed, but everyone’s turning a blind eye when we travel. Even the Somali warlords don’t bother us, but fighting can erupt at any time. We have to be careful. But that’s not the main danger …’

  ‘Oh?’ said Jack.

  ‘Our trip today is merely a cover …’

  ‘A cover for what?’

  ‘Gathering information.’

  Jack looked puzzled. ‘Information? What about?’

  Dr Rosen turned around and looked at Jack sitting in the back. ‘I’ll tell you,’ she said. ‘Every time we deliver medical supplies, we help out a little with treating the sick, especially the terminally ill. I run an eye clinic for a couple of hours before we drive back. That’s when I first noticed it.’

  ‘Noticed what?’ said Jack.

  ‘People with some horrific skin disease I have never seen before. Disfigured faces, blindness, open, weeping sores. Terrible stuff. As we found out later, these were the survivors. Many had died before reaching the camp, and they all appeared to come from the same region on the coast. We spoke to Dr Gaal about this and made some enquiries …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Tell him, Kobo.’

  ‘Apparently, it’s all to do with illegal toxic waste dumping along the Somali coastline. It has gone on for years and the people living on the coast have developed some dreadful illnesses. Deformed babies are common. Food and water have been contaminated. People have died by the thousands,’ said Kobo.

  ‘There are some powerful players involved here,’ explained Dr Rosen, ‘both local and international, and governments and organisations have looked the other way. This is one of the poorest countries in the world and one of the most vulnerable. However, as you can imagine, a lot of money is involved here and many shady people have made a fortune over the years. Corruption is rife everywhere.’

  ‘How awful,’ said Jack.

  ‘However, we are going to meet some people today who want to fight back,’ said Dr Rosen. ‘Dr Gaal will take us to them. These are people who are determined to stop the exploitation of their country, whatever the cost. That’s where the danger comes in. They want to show us something …’

  ‘Show us what?’

  ‘Evidence.’

  ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘That’s the irony of it all,’ said Dr Rosen. ‘Pirates.’

  By the time they finally arrived at the camp, thirsty and covered in dust, everyone was exhausted. The heat was unbearable and they had almost run out of water. The camp consisted of a few tents and a dozen or so hovels constructed mainly out of sheets of corrugated iron held together by rusty wire, empty oil drums and driftwood.

  Two frightfully thin men sat in the shade under a tree, talking to a tall man wearing a stethoscope around his neck. A tiny, naked boy was coaxing a goat along a dirt track with a stick. Jack noticed that an open sore on the top of the boy’s bald head was covered in flies. Otherwise, the camp appeared deserted.

  ‘Where’s everybody?’ said Jack.

  ‘Most of the patients here are too sick to come outside,’ said D
r Rosen.

  ‘Jesus.’

  The man with the stethoscope turned around and waved. ‘Good of you to come, Bettany,’ he said, as he hurried towards them.

  Dr Rosen introduced Jack. Noticing the concern on Dr Gaal’s face, she took him aside. ‘You can trust him with your life, Gaal. I vouch for him. Jack Rogan is a well-connected journalist and writer. He could be very useful to your cause.’

  Dr Gaal nodded, relieved. ‘We must hurry,’ he said. ‘If we don’t turn up on time, they’ll leave. It’s not far.’

  ‘Tell us about your contact,’ said Dr Rosen, turning to Dr Gaal sitting in the back of the Land Rover.

  ‘It’s not often that one would turn to pirates in a humanitarian cause, but these pirates are different,’ said Dr Gaal. ‘Allow me to explain.’

  Jack noticed that Dr Gaal was speaking perfect English with a pleasing, melodious accent. Educated in England, I bet, he thought, watching the fascinating man sitting next to him with interest. The shades of grey around the temples suggested a man in his fifties with rugged good looks and an expressive face pockmarked with traces of severe acne common in many Africans of his generation.

  ‘It all began with fishing in the nineteen eighties before the outbreak of civil war in our country,’ said Dr Gaal. ‘The Somali fishing industry had great potential due to vast, unexploited marine stocks along our long, remote coastline. We had many promising joint ventures with foreign companies. The future looked bright. Then came the civil war. The central government collapsed and the Somali Navy was disbanded, leaving territorial waters undefended and open to exploitation. And that is exactly what happened.’

  Dr Gaal became quite animated and spoke with passion, his long hands flying through the air every time he made a point. Jack noticed that each of the knuckles of his right hand had a small, star-like tattoo, which expanded every time he clenched his fist. ‘The rape of our country had begun and continues to this very day,’ continued Dr Gaal. ‘Illegal fishing rapidly depleted the fishing grounds and foreign companies began dumping toxic waste into the sea just off the coast, further killing and contaminating marine life and the ocean floor. This continued throughout the eighties and nineties and became a highly organised and lucrative business for the corrupt, privileged few.’