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

by Gabriel Farago

  Alexandra dried her hands and picked up the phone.

  ‘A Mr Moretti is in reception to see you,’ said the receptionist. ‘Meeting room 3 is available if you would like it.’

  Alexandra took off her apron and safety glasses and hurried to the lift.

  As soon as Moretti set eyes on the confident redhead coming towards him, he was smitten. He had a completely different picture in his mind of the famous scientist he had recently heard so much about. This tall, elegant young woman with striking red hair didn’t quite fit the image of the brainy researcher he had expected to meet.

  ‘I am Dr Delacroix,’ said Alexandra. She extended her hand and smiled at the young man in the smart, dark suit standing in front of the reception desk. Far too handsome for a policeman, she thought.

  As the only son of Italian migrants – his father was a greengrocer – Moretti had had to work hard to get to where he was. He had started work at the markets when he was just ten. He used to get up at four in the morning to help his father before school. By the time school started at nine, he had already done half a day’s work. After school, he was back at the shop, helping his parents and doing homework at the back when things were quiet. Pasquale was the apple of his mother’s eye, and she encouraged him to study hard and do well at school.

  Because he was exceptionally bright and good at sport, he found it easy to excel. He won a scholarship and later went to university at night to study law. However, he had always wanted to be a policeman. He was one of only a few cadets who entered the police force with a law degree and soon became part of a new, well-educated breed of young officers advancing rapidly in a changing police force, hungry for brainpower to fight sophisticated crime.

  ‘You will be pleased to hear that we’ve already made some progress since your interview,’ said Moretti. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notebook.

  He’s so young, thought Alexandra, watching the confident officer sitting opposite with interest.

  ‘The information provided by Ms Gonski has been most helpful. It isn’t often we are provided with photographs and fingerprints of a suspect during a first interview,’ said Moretti. ‘And the quirky registration number of the car that picked him up,’ added Moretti, smiling, ‘was another good lead.’

  Alexandra began to laugh. ‘Taking that wineglass was rather clever,’ she said. ‘And then thinking of my passport cover …’

  ‘Quite. We’ve been able to lift excellent prints from both …’

  ‘That was quick. And?’

  ‘Matching prints appear on both items. We can now link the man who handled the wineglass to your passport.’

  ‘And what of the man?’

  ‘There’s no record of him in this country. Nothing. Just as we expected. He’s like a phantom; appeared out of nowhere. Officially, he doesn’t exist.’ Moretti saw the disappointment on Alexandra’s face. ‘But that’s not the end of it,’ he added, lowering his voice.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The South African accent gave us an important clue. And so did his military bearing, Ms Gonski observed. It would appear she was right. While we couldn’t find anything about him here, it was quite a different story in South Africa. We checked with our colleagues in Johannesburg.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘His name is Jan Van Cleef. Ex-army, just as Ms Gonski suspected. A notorious character. He has quite a record. Violence mainly. Now works as a mercenary … somewhere. We’ll know more about him soon.’

  ‘Wow! I wish my research would work that quickly,’ said Alexandra.

  ‘There’s more,’ said Moretti, enjoying himself.

  ‘There is?’

  ‘The car with that silly registration number – I SPY 4 U – is registered to a company called Universal Security with offices right here in Sydney in The Rocks. One of the principals is Paulus Koenig, another South African with a long record. He too is ex-army and a known associate of Van Cleef’s.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ said Alexandra. ‘I certainly didn’t expect this.’

  ‘Ms Gonski did all the heavy lifting here,’ said Moretti, dismissing the compliment. ‘She handed the information to us on a plate. Incidentally, Ms Gonski was already a legend in the police force when I first joined. I attended several of her lectures.’

  ‘Still …’

  ‘We have made a good start, but that’s all for the moment. We need more; a lot more.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I’ve already spoken to Ms Gonski about this. I saw her this morning. As you know, she’s flying to Buenos Aires tomorrow. When she comes back, we’ll pick up the threads again and take it from there.’

  Impressed, Alexandra smiled at Moretti.

  ‘I’ve also spoken to Mr Carrington. You have influential friends, Dr Delacroix. I will be the contact point for all of you and will keep you informed.’ Moretti reached into his pocket. ‘Here’s my card. Don’t hesitate to call me, day or night.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Alexandra, and put the card on the table in front of her.

  ‘Have you been able to prepare copies of Professor Kozakievicz’s notebooks as Van Cleef has asked you to do?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Please leave them on your desk this evening before you go home, but not all. Just a few pages.’

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘To flush out Van Cleef. When he discovers that you’ve given him only a small part of what he asked for, he’s bound to make a move. He obviously has an inside contact – right here. Men like Van Cleef are used to being in control and won’t tolerate disobedience.’

  That’s clever, thought Alexandra. ‘But what about me?’ she said, the anxiety in her voice obvious. ‘If there’s someone on the inside as you suspect …’

  ‘Don’t worry, we are watching your every move. I’ll never be far away,’ said Moretti.

  To her surprise, Moretti’s reassurance made Alexandra feel a lot better. ‘Will do,’ she said. However, Moretti hadn’t told her everything. He hadn’t told her that the police surveillance team had installed cameras in her lab during the night and would be keeping an eye on her desk.

  ‘Now, please consider this carefully. Is there anyone here at the institute you can think of who could somehow be implicated in this, or in any way linked to Van Cleef?’

  At first, Alexandra hesitated. ‘This stays strictly between us?’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s only a hunch, but there is something …’

  Moretti looked at her, surprised. ‘Please tell me,’ he said and reached for his notebook.

  64

  Jana was one of those fortunate people who could, if necessary, sleep for a couple of minutes standing up in a bus. She therefore had no trouble sleeping right through the long flight crossing the Pacific to South America. She woke an hour before landing in Buenos Aires, alert and refreshed, and contemplated her good fortune.

  A few days after arriving in Sydney, she had not only met with the DPP and prepared the way to get her old job back, but was unofficially working on what could turn out to be a sensational case with international implications involving the Australian government. The DPP had arranged for Alexandra to be interviewed by a senior NSW police officer Jana had worked with before. Not only that, but a small taskforce – Operation Blowhole, headed by Detective Sergeant Moretti – had been set up to investigate the matter. Cavendish’s death had turned into a possible murder enquiry.

  Relieved, and no longer feeling so vulnerable and alone, Alexandra had returned to work energised, and quite ready to continue her groundbreaking research following in the footsteps of her former mentor and friend. The CEO of the Gordon Institute had also been discreetly briefed by the police regarding the murder investigation and the spectre of a possible conspiracy to defraud Gordon of its research results.

  Marcus too, had been fortunate. He had returned to the bar with a brief that could easily become the hottest case in town, and was well on his way to rebuilding his
old practice. The DPP had retained him to examine all potential evidence in the unfolding Blackburn Pharmaceuticals investigation, and conduct any prosecution should it come to that.

  Jack, we owe you, thought Jana, smiling. The old rascal is at it again! It was time to repay him and the long, tiring trip to Buenos Aires to interview Hoffmeister was part of that.

  Hoffmeister’s lawyers met Jana at the airport in Buenos Aires. The one hundred thousand dollars in their trust account Lola had transferred and the promise of a fat fee prepared the way for a meeting with their notorious client.

  ‘Don Antonio, as he is known around here,’ said the young lawyer sitting next to Jana in the car, ‘has fallen on hard times. He’s staying in a hostel for the poor run by nuns in a monastery just outside town. It will take us about an hour or so to get there. But I must warn you, it’s not the most salubrious part of our city and we have to drive through some rough neighbourhoods …’

  Jana nodded. To refresh her memory, she went over Jack’s email once again, summarising the main points she had to cover with Hoffmeister.

  ‘Unfortunately, he had to sell his tango clubs to pay off his son’s debts to the Colombian drug syndicate. You may remember this from last time?’

  ‘I do,’ said Jana. ‘His son was on trial in Miami for drug trafficking.’

  ‘Correct. He cut a deal and turned informer. He’s due to be released from jail next year. This infuriated the Colombians and certainly didn’t help Don Antonio here. The son is now all he has left. That’s what keeps him going, and he desperately needs money.’

  ‘You are familiar with our arrangements?’ said Jana, closing her folder.

  ‘I am. The funds are to stay in our trust account until you authorise their release. Don Antonio is confident he can demonstrate to you that he has the necessary information you seek and provide proof of its authenticity. Once he has done that, and you are satisfied, he will hand over the evidence and we’ll be authorised to release the money to him.’

  ‘Correct. Your client knows the interview is to be recorded?’

  ‘Yes. He has consented to that.’

  ‘Good.’

  As an experienced interrogator, Jana was already preparing her questions and interview approach. Having met Hoffmeister before was a big help. It had been agreed that the whole interview would be recorded on video and Jana had brought all the necessary equipment with her. At least that way, Jack would have an opportunity to evaluate Hoffmeister’s answers, body language and demeanour first hand. Just like interviewing a suspect in police custody back home, thought Jana. It felt good to have a challenging assignment again and be able to use her expertise and experience where it mattered.

  The monastery had seen better days. Years of neglect had taken its toll. The roof of the bell tower had all but collapsed and a whole wing had been closed off years ago after a fire. What was left of the crumbling monastery was used to house the homeless and the destitute, and the nuns did their best with the little they had to look after the poor souls left in their care.

  The nun at the gate spoke briefly to Hoffmeister’s lawyer and pointed to a small courtyard overgrown with all kinds of weeds. At first, Jana thought there must be some mistake. The man who sat in the cane chair in front of a weather-beaten statue of the Madonna with a missing arm in no way resembled the suave Don Antonio she had met in the fashionable Buenos Aires tango club four years earlier. Gone were the good looks, the sharp clothes, the confidence and the arrogance. What Jana saw was a defeated shell of a man in his nineties with one foot in the grave. However, as she was soon to find out, looks can be deceptive.

  As Jana came closer, the man took off his straw hat and looked up. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Gonski,’ he said. ‘I hope you’ve been practising the tango steps I taught you.’ As soon as Jana heard his voice, she knew it was Hoffmeister. The voice hadn’t changed at all; nor had his mind. Hoffmeister was as lucid and alert as she remembered. ‘Please forgive me if I don’t get up.’ Hoffmeister pointed to his legs and shrugged. ‘As you can see, the past few years haven’t been kind to me. But no matter; you didn’t come here to talk about that, did you? You came to talk about Dr Erwin Steinberger …’

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Jana.

  Hoffmeister said something to his lawyer in Spanish. The lawyer turned to Jana and told her to set up the video equipment.

  Hoffmeister watched Jana adjust the camera. ‘You look well,’ he said. He’d always had an eye for attractive women. ‘As I told you once before, you would make an excellent dancer …’ Jana ignored the remark. ‘It would seem that my prayers have been answered,’ continued Hoffmeister, undeterred. He pointed to the Madonna with the missing arm standing on a pedestal behind him. ‘And you are the answer to my prayers.’

  Jana looked at him through the camera, adjusted the focus, but didn’t say anything. She wasn’t quite sure if Hoffmeister was just joking, or toying with her. She knew it would be a mistake to underestimate the old fox. ‘Who would have thought that the few scraps of paper in this rusty old box could come in so handy one day?’ Hoffmeister held up a small tin and smiled into the camera.

  He’s sending me a signal, thought Jana.

  ‘Are you ready?’ said Hoffmeister. Jana nodded. ‘Then let’s begin. What would you like to know?’

  ‘Everything you can tell me about Dr Erwin Steinberger.’

  Hoffmeister put his straw hat back on and settled into his chair. ‘This goes back a long time,’ he said. ‘The three of us – Wolfgang, his brother Erwin and I – were close friends. We grew up in the same village in Bavaria – Berchtesgaden – and went to the same little school in the mountains. Erwin was the eldest. He knew exactly what he wanted to do when he grew up; he wanted to be a doctor. Wolfgang and I had no idea … Erwin was a brilliant student, very bright and full of promise. Not like us. When Wolfgang and I were skiing or climbing mountains, Erwin had his nose in books. We often teased him about this, but he just shrugged and kept turning the pages.’

  For the next hour, Hoffmeister kept talking about the past. He could recall dates, names and places with astonishing detail and all Jana had to do was change tapes to keep up with him. She hardly had to ask any questions because Hoffmeister was providing a precise, chronological account of three intertwined lives.

  All went well until they reached the end of the war. Then things became tricky. Hoffmeister began to fidget in his seat and asked for the camera to be turned off. He wanted to speak to his lawyer in private.

  Here we go, thought Jana, annoyed. Just as we are getting to the important bits, he baulks. I know what he’s doing … Jana turned off the camera and walked away, her displeasure obvious. Anticipating something like this, she had obtained approval from Jack to increase the money should it come to that and should the information on the table warrant such a move.

  After a few minutes, Hoffmeister’s lawyer came over to Jana. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking a little embarrassed. ‘I had no idea this was coming. I’ve been asked to show you this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A postcard from Africa; Nairobi. It has an address, a name, a signature and a date on the stamp here. As you can see, all relevant bits have been masked with some kind of tape … My client will tell you all about this and hand over the postcard. He says it will answer all your questions and tell you everything you want to know about Dr Steinberger and what happened to him after the war.’ The lawyer shrugged and showed Jana the postcard. ‘But he wants more money …’

  ‘I didn’t come all this way to play games,’ snapped Jana.

  ‘I understand.’ The lawyer shrugged. ‘As you can see, my hands are tied.’

  The old bastard’s cleverly manoeuvred me into a corner, thought Jana. He knows I’ll go for it! She didn’t like it, but there was only one way forward.

  Jana walked over to Hoffmeister, who appeared to be dozing in the sun. In fact, he wasn’t dozing at all, but watching Jana carefully out of the corner of his eye. ‘Before w
e go any further, I would like a straight answer to the following questions,’ demanded Jana.

  Hoffmeister smiled and looked up. ‘Fire away,’ he said.

  ‘Did you know that Wolfgang had an illegitimate child, a boy, who was born in France in 1942?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know what happened to Dr Steinberger after the war?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he escape and leave Europe just like his brother, Wolfgang?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know where he went to live?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he change his name like his brother, and do you know what name he used in his new life after the war?’

  ‘Yes.

  ‘Do you know what he did in Kenya?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know anything about an exotic Aztec artefact, a rare crystal skull?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Do you know what happened to the boy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jana looked carefully at Hoffmeister before asking the next question. ‘And finally, can you substantiate all this?’

  Hoffmeister took his time before replying. After a while, he held up the little tin and smiled at Jana. ‘I can. And it’s all in here.’

  ‘How much more do you want?’ snapped Jana.

  ‘Fifty thousand.’

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘Forty.’

  ‘Thirty. Final offer,’ said Jana.

  ‘Done! Now, let’s have a little break before we continue,’ said Hoffmeister. ‘All I can offer you is some water, but after our little heated exchange, you may find it refreshing.’

  Jana clenched her fists in frustration, but managed a little smile. ‘Excellent idea. Let’s do that,’ she said, and sat down on the little wooden stool next to her camera. ‘I only hope you can deliver what you’ve just promised.’