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

by Gabriel Farago

  65

  Johannes knew the only way to properly investigate the disaster was to fly straight down south and visit Alpha Camp personally. Incidents like this had to be dealt with quickly, without letting the trail go cold.

  As a seasoned campaigner and pilot with many years of combat experience in hotspots around the world, Johannes believed in travelling light. In his early fifties, powerfully built with broad shoulders and massive biceps kept supple by years of pumping iron, but completely bald with an earring in his left ear and a small dagger tattooed on the back of his neck, Johannes was an intimidating man. Despite his bulk, he moved with surprising agility and grace, like a jungle cat ready to pounce. He decided to take along only one of his trusted lieutenants, Abuukar, a senior member of the notorious Al-Shabaab rebel group. Al-Shabaab was well-connected and active in the south, which could come in handy, he thought.

  The light plane that belonged to HAU – a subsidiary of Blackburn Pharmaceuticals – was always on stand-by, fuelled and ready to go. Registered in the Cayman Islands, HAU was impossible to trace.

  Wearing his trademark battle fatigues, side-arms and aviator sunglasses, Johannes hurried across the tarmac, climbed into the plane and started the engine. He had already radioed ahead and asked for the body of the doctor to be brought to the camp. He knew that the nurse in charge had been badly beaten during a botched interrogation session. Johannes had made it clear she wasn’t to be harmed any further, as he wanted to question her as soon as possible.

  Trying to reconstruct what really happened after the event was always difficult and subject to error. Conflicting versions were the norm and considerable skill and experience were needed to piece together a likely scenario. It was therefore imperative to obtain as much information as possible from eyewitnesses to minimise speculation and serious mistakes.

  It was almost dark by the time the plane touched down on the narrow dirt strip near the camp. The plane was met by a group of Somali youths no older than 17 or 18, all armed with AK-47s.

  Johannes shook his head. ‘That’s what you get when you leave kids in charge,’ he said to Abuukar standing next to him. ‘Did you know about this?’

  ‘No. They shouldn’t be here. I’ll find out what happened.’

  Abuukar turned to one of the youths. ‘Where’s the nurse?’ he asked.

  ‘At the camp, waiting.’

  ‘And the body?’

  ‘Just arrived.’

  ‘Take us to it; let’s go.’

  The body had been dumped on the beach. Johannes lifted up a corner of the bloodstained tarpaulin and winced in disgust. ‘Jesus, look at this,’ he said to Abuukar. ‘They must have had some fun with this one.’ The body was encrusted with dried blood and covered in flies. The stench was already unbearable. The right eye had been gouged out and the ears were missing. The whole face was badly bruised. ‘And all for nothing, I bet. I just hope we can get more out of the nurse.’

  Johannes turned to one of the armed youths watching him. ‘Anything found on the body?’ he asked. At first, the youth didn’t reply and just stood there with his mouth open.

  ‘Answer him!’ snapped Abuukar. The youth reached into his pocket and pulled out a mobile phone.

  Johannes held out his hand. ‘Anything else? Last chance.’

  The youth reached into his other pocket and pulled out a small wallet.

  ‘Is that all?’ said Abuukar. The youth nodded and handed both items to Johannes.

  After questioning the nurse for half an hour, Johannes had found out everything he needed to know and was already planning his next move. ‘We have a serious problem,’ he said to Abuukar. ‘We must act quickly before it’s too late.’ Johannes held up Dr Gaal’s phone. ‘This has been very useful,’ he said. ‘I want you to go to Dadaab as soon as you can.’

  ‘No problem. And what do you want me to do when I get there?’

  ‘Deliver a message and retrieve something for me. We have reliable contacts in the camp?’

  ‘We do,’ said Abuukar.

  ‘Excellent. Come.’ Johannes hurried back down the beach to the body. ‘Get rid of the tarpaulin,’ he said. Johannes pulled his razor-sharp army knife out of his belt and knelt down in the sand. ‘The poor devil hasn’t died in vain after all; watch.’

  Dr Rosen hadn’t slept a wink. The disturbing events of the previous day kept her awake all night. Every time she closed her eyes, trying desperately to fall asleep, the dying wretches left behind in the horror camp kept whispering to her, Don’t forget us … Don’t forget us …

  Dr Rosen was pacing up and down in front of her tent and kept staring at the phone in her hand. It was just after sunrise. The left column must be the blood pressure, she thought, looking at the photos of the charts she had taken in the huts the day before. The next one looks like quantities of sorts. Dosage of the drug administered on the day … must be. The date was obvious, but the last column made no sense at all. However, the saddest entry was a number; the number of the patient. No name, just a number and the patient’s gender and age. Just like Auschwitz, thought Dr Rosen. We haven’t learnt a thing!

  ‘You’re up early,’ said Jack, stepping out of his tent.

  ‘We must try to get away as soon as possible,’ said Dr Rosen. ‘I feel very uneasy. We shouldn’t have left Gaal behind. I’m worried about him.’

  Jack put his arm around Dr Rosen. She looked at him gratefully, the comforting touch making her feel better. ‘He knew the risks,’ said Jack.

  ‘Doesn’t help. Thanks for coming along yesterday. I don’t think we would have made it back without you. I must get that medicine bottle away from here,’ said Dr Rosen, ‘and to a secure lab for analysis. That’s all we have apart from these charts here—’

  ‘And our account of what we’ve seen, of course,’ interrupted Jack.

  ‘And the word of an African doctor and a pirate? Do you really think that would amount to much without some concrete evidence to back it all up? About a subject people would rather forget? Think about it, Jack! At times, I feel so helpless.’

  A small boy with a runny nose walked up to Dr Rosen and just stood there, eyes cast to the ground.

  ‘What’s up, little one?’ asked Dr Rosen, recognising one of her young patients. Jack noticed that the boy was holding a small parcel with both hands. Without saying a word, the boy handed the parcel to Dr Rosen and then ran away.

  As soon as she touched the limp parcel, Dr Rosen felt a cold shiver rippling down her neck. Something quite heavy was wrapped in brown paper tied with coarse string.

  ‘Payment for services rendered?’ quipped Jack, ‘From one of your young patients? And so early in the morning?’

  Dr Rosen handed the parcel to Jack, a worried look on her face. ‘Would you open it for me, please?’

  Jack pulled off the string, unfolded the brown paper and looked inside.

  ‘Good God!’ he shouted and dropped the parcel. Dr Rosen let out a scream and stared at the severed hand lying at her feet in the dust. The little star-like tattoos on each of the knuckles left no doubt as to whose hand it was.

  66

  Dr Rosen tried to look away but couldn’t. The severed hand on the ground in front of her – so vulnerable and surreal – held her gaze like a malevolent magnet; repulsive, yet impossible to resist. But when a swarm of flies settled on the bloody stump, the spell was broken. Feeling quite sick, Dr Rosen turned and hurried into her tent. Jack took a deep breath. Not knowing what to do about the hand, he quickly kicked some sand over it and followed her inside.

  ‘What have we done, Jack?’ stammered Dr Rosen, trying in vain to calm herself. ‘This is spinning out of control!’

  ‘You and Gaal have done what’s right, that’s all. Remember that.’ said Jack. ‘However, this changes everything …’

  Somewhere in the tent, Dr Rosen’s mobile phone began to ring. At first, she tried to ignore it, but in the quiet tent it sounded like a siren. She walked across to her table, picked up the phone and answ
ered it.

  ‘You have something that belongs to us, Dr Rosen,’ said a voice speaking in a heavy South African accent, but quite slowly as if to make sure that every word found its mark. The voice sounded dreamy and distant, yet chilling at the same time, and dangerous. Dr Rosen beckoned to Jack and held up the phone. Jack walked over to her and listened.

  ‘Who is this?’ asked Dr Rosen, her voice sounding hoarse.

  ‘You took some medication out of the drug cupboard, didn’t you? Don’t deny it; the nurse checked. One of the bottles is missing. She was quite certain about this … before she died …’

  ‘Who are you?’ Dr Rosen almost shrieked.

  ‘We want it back,’ continued the voice, ignoring the question. ‘The little boy you met earlier will come to your tent in five minutes to collect it. I hope for your sake he doesn’t leave empty-handed. You already know how we deal with thieves … Five minutes.’ Then the phone went dead.

  ‘They are right here, Jack. What are we going to do?’ said Dr Rosen, feeling suddenly strangely composed. Now that the danger had a voice, it was out in the open and somehow no longer so frightening.

  ‘We stay calm and we think. How much of the drug do you need to have it tested?’

  ‘Not much. About a thimble-full should do it.’

  ‘Where’s the bottle?’

  ‘In my bag over there. I packed it already to take with us.’

  ‘Bring it over here, quickly!’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? We’ll keep a little of the stuff for ourselves and hand the rest over. Get me a small container, please. Hurry!’

  By the time the little boy came back to the tent, Dr Rosen was already waiting for him outside. She handed him the bottle, gave him a biscuit and sent him on his way.

  ‘Now, let’s get out of here,’ said Jack. ‘Collect your stuff and meet me at the plane with Kobo. I’ll get Tristan and Lola. Act naturally, as if nothing happened.’

  ‘I did warn you about this,’ said Dr Rosen.

  ‘You did; don’t worry.’ Jack patted his shirt pocket with the small glass container inside. ‘We’ll make sure this ends up in the right hands. Dr Gaal didn’t die in vain, you’ll see. We’ll get those bastards!’

  Abuukar watched the little boy come running towards him and smiled. He could see the bottle in his hands. Johannes’ instructions had been very clear: Get the drugs back, do not approach, stay in the background and observe.

  Once Johannes had realised that in Dr Rosen he was dealing with a high-profile identity with influence and international standing, he changed his approach completely. He sent her a clear warning, but using violence or force of any kind would not only be counterproductive, it could easily focus the international spotlight on the whole affair and give Dr Rosen’s story credibility, which was the last thing he needed.

  Instead, a more subtle approach was required. He would make sure that her story, if told, would lack credibility. Without proof, the whole matter would die down and disappear from the radar of public interest and scrutiny. Macbeth had already given instructions for the camp to be destroyed immediately. The drugs and precious records had been secured and the nurses silenced. Within a day or so, there would be nothing left, and it would appear as if the camp had never existed. ‘Take the wind out of her sails,’ Macbeth had told Johannes, ‘and soon she’ll be becalmed; you’ll see.’

  It was highly unlikely that Dr Gaal’s death would be investigated by anyone. Southern Somalia was a lawless, dangerous place. There was fighting everywhere and people died every day. Violent death was nothing unusual. The doctor was just another casualty.

  Johannes had carried out his instructions to the letter. However, he made one fatal mistake. He failed to investigate the other European who had accompanied Dr Rosen. There was nothing in Dr Gaal’s phone records about him, nor had the nurse mentioned him. With all the attention on Dr Rosen, Jack had somehow fallen through the cracks as just another MSF volunteer who didn’t feature in the bigger picture. It was a mistake that would cost Johannes and his boss dearly.

  67

  As soon as the Fokker Friendship became airborne and started to climb, Dr Rosen began to relax. Before leaving, she had forced herself to retrieve Dr Gaal’s severed hand, wrap it in plastic and dispose of it in the field-hospital bio-waste container. This hadn’t been easy for her, but she owed her friend that last bit of dignity and respect. Leaving the hand where it was, to rot in the sun, was unthinkable. Dr Rosen looked down upon the sea of white tents that was Dadaab, shimmering in the searing heat below like an apparition, and sighed. She was leaving with a heavy heart because she realised it was unlikely she would ever return.

  Jack turned to Lola sitting next to him. ‘As we are all together, I would like to raise something important,’ he said. He had earlier filled Lola in on everything that had happened that morning. Tristan had gone to the front of the plane and was sitting behind the pilot and the engineer, talking shop.

  ‘What about?’ asked Dr Rosen, turning around.

  Jack pulled the little glass container with the drug they had saved out of his shirt pocket and held it up for all to see. ‘This here,’ he said, ‘is precious. It’s all we have to show for what we’ve been through during the past 24 hours. It’s what Dr Gaal died for. This is a silent witness, a direct link to the horrors we’ve seen at the camp. I have a suggestion …’

  ‘Tell us,’ said Lola.

  ‘We have to secure this at all cost and get it to a lab for analysis as soon as possible.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Dr Rosen.

  ‘What would you say if we were to send it to the Gordon Institute in Sydney and ask Dr Delacroix to do the job? She’s eminently qualified and currently working in this very field. And most importantly, we can trust her.’

  ‘Great suggestion, but how do we get it there quickly and safely?’ asked Dr Rosen.

  ‘We need a reliable courier we can trust.’ Jack put his arm around Lola. ‘I know this is a big ask … but could you take it?’

  ‘What? Fly to Sydney? Now?’ said Lola, surprised.

  ‘Yes. We were going to approach Dr Delacroix and ask her to become involved in Isis’ case – remember? You’ve met her; you could talk to her and explain the situation. I have to stay here and make some more enquiries unrelated to all this. You know what about, Lola …’ added Jack. ‘Kobo has offered to assist me in that and has kindly invited me to stay at his house. In light of what happened this morning, I think it would be prudent for us to split up and be seen to be going our separate ways rather than giving the impression we’re acting in concert. I’m sure we’ll be watched … This has suddenly become a very dangerous game. Bettany will stay at MSF headquarters in Nairobi and see what she can do about that shocking camp and what’s been going on there. I would feel a lot better if Tristan were to be well away from here. He could go with you, Lola.’

  For a while, everyone sat in silence, contemplating what Jack had just suggested.

  ‘Makes sense,’ said Dr Rosen, after a while.

  ‘Looks like it’s up to you, Lola,’ said Jack.

  ‘I suppose we could do the round trip in a few days,’ said Lola.

  ‘And you and Tristan can of course stay in my apartment,’ added Jack. ‘Marcus and Jana are staying there as well, and so is Alexandra. Pegasus isn’t needed here at the moment. I’ll need at least a few days here to sort things out …’

  ‘When do you want us to leave?’ asked Lola.

  Jack turned and spontaneously kissed her on the cheek, the exuberant gesture bringing a much needed smile to everyone’s face.

  ‘You’re blood’s worth bottling, luv,’ said Jack. ‘Straight away, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Funny saying, but I get the drift,’ said Lola, laughing.

  68

  Kobo lived in a humble shack on the outskirts of Nairobi with his two goats, a few chickens and a dog that took a shine to Jack and wouldn’t leave his side. Jack felt instan
tly at home, because it reminded him of the Outback. The anonymity of the place was exactly what he needed. Kobo had lived in Nairobi all his life and Jack knew that his local knowledge and vast network of contacts would be invaluable for what he had to do.

  Pegasus had just taken off on its long haul to Sydney, and Dr Rosen had settled into her room at MSF and was already talking to overseas agencies and prosecutors at The Hague about the sinister camp she had discovered in Somalia.

  At first, Tristan pleaded with Jack to be allowed to stay. However, when Lola hinted at further flying instructions and the possibility of holding the controls along the way, Tristan was ready to go.

  ‘Not a word of this to Katerina, you hear?’ Jack reminded his young charge. ‘This is strictly secret men’s business. At least for now; is that understood? If she finds out I’m letting you fly halfway round the world by yourself, I’ll be dead meat. You want me to stay alive don’t you, mate?’

  After a tight man-hug, Tristan was on his way.

  Kobo, an excellent cook, grew all his own vegetables. He was busily preparing dinner in the tiny kitchen and swaying to the beat of African music blaring out of the tinny speakers of his vintage transistor radio on the windowsill. The mouth-watering aroma of a curry simmering on the stove filled the air with the promise of an excellent meal to come.

  Jack sat on the rickety wicker chair in Kobo’s veggie patch, which came right up to the back door, and opened his iPad. It was the first private moment he had managed to snare after their arrival in Nairobi. The feverish activity to prepare Pegasus for departure and send Lola and Tristan on their way had taken up almost the whole day.

  Jack had only briefly glanced at the video Jana had sent him from Buenos Aires during the night. It was only now that he was able to view the entire footage and give it the attention it deserved. Jack reached for the bottle of beer Kobo had handed him through the kitchen window earlier, settled back in his chair and pressed the play button.

  Is that really him? thought Jack, as Jana’s camera zoomed in on an old man with a straw hat sitting in the sun. But as soon as Jack heard the old man speak, all doubts disappeared. For the next hour, Jack sat glued to the small screen, hanging on Hoffmeister’s every word. He only got up once to get his notebook from inside and ask Kobo for another beer. Then he watched the whole video again, stopping it from time to time to take notes.