The Hidden Genes of Professor K

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘You don’t,’ she said, concentrating. ‘The street had lots of trees, just like that one over there.’ Jana pointed to a small side street, a dead end, with lots of cars parked in front of a row of terraces.

  One of the cars caught Moretti’s eye; a black four-wheel drive. ‘Have a look at this,’ he said excitedly.

  ‘What?’ said Jana.

  Moretti pointed to the number plate. ‘I SPY4U 2. Does this remind you of something?’

  ‘A getaway car? We must be in the right place,’ said Jana. Then it was all coming back to her. The raid; the manhole on the side of the footpath; the gunfight and the arrest.

  ‘Here, I think this is it,’ said Jana. She pointed to what looked like an ordinary Sydney Water manhole cover next to the footpath.

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ said Moretti.

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘We hope and we wait. Over here, out of sight. Behind the car under the trees.’

  Van Cleef reached the top of the ladder and smiled. The car keys were exactly where Paulus had left them the day before. Set into the concrete next to them was another control panel with a flashing green light. It operated the steel trapdoor leading into the street outside. The code, he thought, what was that code? Van Cleef had a mental block. He could clearly remember the code for the tunnel door below, but after that, everything just went blank as he tried to think about the trap door above.

  Shit! What was it? Desperately trying to remember, he punched in several combinations, his fingers shaking, but all to no avail. Think man, think, he admonished himself, refusing to consider the consequences of failure. To be trapped at the exit was unthinkable. He could already hear the crew working on the door below. It was just like the other code, except for the end digits, he thought, and tried again. Nothing. Desperate by now, he kept punching in more combinations. Still nothing. Then the penny dropped. Of course, he thought, that’s it: ISPY4U2DAY. With a purring hum, the round trapdoor above him clicked open.

  ‘There, look,’ said Moretti.

  ‘What? I can’t see a thing,’ said Jana, her eyes watering from the strain.

  ‘The trapdoor. It’s opening!’

  ‘Wishful thinking …’

  ‘No! Look!’

  Moretti was right. First, the manhole cover began to lift slowly, then it opened up completely and a head began to appear.

  Van Cleef sucked in the cool, fresh air and looked around. Apart from a streetlight at the end of the lane, all was dark and quiet. Perfect, he thought, and lifted himself out of the hole.

  ‘Get ready,’ whispered Moretti, pulling his gun out of the holster. ‘As soon as he opens the car door, we move.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jana replied.

  Van Cleef closed the manhole cover and pressed the button on the car keys. A beep and a flashing light told him all he had to know: in a few seconds, he would be gone. Elated, he hurried over to the car and opened the driver’s door.

  Moretti stepped silently out of the shadows from behind and pressed his gun against the back of Van Cleef’s neck. At the same time, he pulled the gun out of Van Cleef’s belt and handed it to Jana. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Moretti. ‘Nothing would please me more than to blow your head off. Raise your hands where I can see them and kneel – now!’

  Van Cleef did as he was told.

  ‘Jana. Handcuffs; here,’ hissed Moretti, handing her his handcuffs but without taking his eyes off Van Cleef. Jana stepped forward and handcuffed Van Cleef from behind.

  ‘Now, lie down,’ ordered Moretti.

  Again, Van Cleef obeyed without a word. He knew this wasn’t the time to do anything foolish. His chance to make a move would come later, he was sure of it.

  ‘Keep him covered,’ said Moretti to Jana and made a phone call asking for urgent reinforcements.

  Moretti saw a deep scratch on Van Cleef’s right wrist and smiled. ‘I bet I know where that nasty scratch came from,’ he said, leaning over Van Cleef.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ hissed Van Cleef.

  ‘Oh, I think you do,’ Moretti contradicted him. ‘A struggle in a nightclub? Does that perhaps ring a bell?’

  Silence.

  ‘Ah, nothing to say? When the pathologist looked under Cavendish’s fingernails, she found some flakes of skin. We have an excellent DNA sample. I bet when we compare it with yours, we might be in for a little surprise. What do you think? Perhaps even another murder implicating Mr Macbeth, your employer?’

  More silence.

  ‘But then again, it’s all a bit academic, isn’t it?’ continued Moretti, enjoying himself. ‘Now that he’s dead …’

  Van Cleef said nothing, but his body went suddenly tense. Moretti smiled. ‘You’ll be facing the music all by yourself, mate, and it isn’t a pretty tune. An Australian prison for the rest of your life? Oh … Perhaps you haven’t heard the news yet? After all, you’ve been so busy abducting people and killing policemen … The Blackburn Pharmaceuticals ship was attacked by pirates in Somalia yesterday and went down, taking Mr Macbeth with it into the deep. He’s dead,’ whispered Moretti.

  ‘Lies! You must think I’m stupid,’ barked Van Cleef.

  ‘Jana, why don’t you Google today’s papers on your phone and show the headlines to our friend?’ Moretti wanted to keep Van Cleef busy and engaged until reinforcements arrived.

  Jana called up The Sydney Morning Herald and put her iPhone down on the grass next to Van Cleef’s face where he could see it. Flagship of Pharmaceutical giant sunk by Somali pirates; Reclusive billionaire goes down with his ship, read the headlines. Van Cleef kept staring at the screen without saying anything.

  ‘It’s the end of the road, Van Cleef,’ said Moretti. ‘And about bloody time too. Filth like you—’

  Moretti was interrupted by laughter and shouting coming from one of the terraces behind him. The front door opened and a group of young revellers – obviously drunk – staggered out into the street with bottles in their hands. One of them spotted Van Cleef lying on the footpath with Moretti and Jana standing over him.

  ‘What the fuck are you guys doing over there?’ asked one of the men, his speech slurred. Two women walked into the lane. One bent over the gutter and was sick.

  ‘This is a police operation,’ said Moretti, ‘stay back!’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ said one of the other men. ‘Did you hear the man, guys? He says he’s a fucking copper. And I’m Mickey Mouse, looking for my car. I left the bloody thing somewhere right here. Perhaps you can help me find it, Mr Policeman?’

  Laughter.

  ‘Stay back!’ said Moretti, aware the situation could quickly get out of hand.

  Van Cleef realised this was his chance. The distraction was a godsend; exactly what he needed. ‘Help me,’ he shouted.

  One of the young women limped over to him – she had lost one of her shoes – and looked at him. ‘Poor bastard. Come over here, guys,’ she shouted and then was sick again. Jana walked over to her and tried to calm her. ‘Fuck off!’ screamed the woman, her brain addled by party drugs. Her friends came running over to see what was going on.

  Van Cleef knew this was it. He had to make a move before reinforcements arrived. With the unexpected commotion and confusion erupting all around him, he knew Moretti wouldn’t take the risk and fire his gun. Clenching his teeth, Van Cleef rolled over onto his back like a caged tiger and, lifting his right leg, kicked Moretti in the knee. It was a mighty blow, sending Moretti staggering backwards. By the time Jana turned around to see what was happening, Van Cleef was already sprinting down the street, cheered on by the rowdy crowd.

  100

  Van Cleef realised if he could make it to the street corner without being shot, he would have a real chance of getting away. Almost there, he thought, running like a madman.

  Moretti steadied himself, his knee throbbing with pain, and lifted his gun. He shut out all the excitement erupting around him and took aim. As Van Cleef ran through a cone of light under
the lamppost at the end of the lane, Moretti had a clear line of sight and fired. Van Cleef heard the gunshot behind him and felt a searing pain in his thigh, but he didn’t slow down. He turned the corner and sprinted into the street just as the second shot echoed along the lane.

  Damn! thought Moretti. Missed! and ran after him.

  A minibus pulled up in front of the entrance to the famous Sydney Bridge Climb, a popular tourist attraction. A group of excited Japanese tourists got out of the bus and went inside to prepare for their dawn climb. It was 4:30 a.m.

  The blood running down his trouser leg and the excruciating pain confirmed Van Cleef’s worst fears: the gunshot wound was serious. Ignoring the pain was easy, but he knew the blood loss could be fatal. With his hands firmly tied behind his back, he was unable to stem the flow. Then he saw lights in the distance, and people going into a brightly lit building directly under the Harbour Bridge. For a man on the run in his condition, crowds were a much safer place than a deserted street in a quiet neighbourhood.

  Van Cleef ran through the door and looked around. Inside, the hall was packed with eager tourists looking forward to their Bridge Climb adventure they had booked months before. They would wait for sunrise at the top of the famous Sydney Harbour Bridge and enjoy the spectacle of a lifetime. The first group had already changed into the obligatory grey overalls and was walking along a narrow passage above the entrance.

  Van Cleef was very good at assessing situations quickly. Going back outside wasn’t an option; his armed pursuer would be coming through that door any moment. With people now screaming and staring at him, hiding wasn’t an option either. There was therefore only one way to go: follow the route of the famous Bridge Climb leading onto the Harbour Bridge, and take your chances.

  Moretti turned the corner and looked around. Nothing. Where the hell did he go? he wondered, and began to jog down the deserted street. In there, I bet, he thought, as he approached the Bridge Climb entrance. Van Cleef always did the unexpected.

  Moretti pushed past the eager visitors and burst into the crowded hall. Screams coming from above told him all he needed to know: Van Cleef was on a narrow, suspended walkway directly above him. He was pushing his way through a group of terrified tourists towards a gate that marked the beginning of the climb. A guide stepped forward, held up his hand and tried to stop him. A devastating head-butt from Van Cleef flattened the hapless young man who collapsed onto the floor, blood gushing from a deep cut above his eyebrow. Then more screams as Van Cleef disappeared through the gate leading outside.

  ‘Stand back! Police!’ shouted Moretti holding up his ID. Taking three steps at a time, he ran up the stairs. ‘Where does this go?’ he asked another guide who was helping his injured colleague.

  ‘Outside; the approach to the bridge, the pylon and then up the arch,’ said the guide.

  ‘Jesus!’ said Moretti. ‘Anybody else out there?’

  ‘No. This is the first group.’

  ‘Thank God,’ said Moretti, and darted through the gate.

  Jana called Moretti on his mobile. ‘Where are you?’ she asked. ‘Tactical Response has arrived and is looking for you.’

  ‘On the Bridge Climb,’ said Moretti, trying to catch his breath.

  ‘What? Are you serious?’

  ‘Deadly. Van Cleef’s been shot. He’s limping and bleeding badly, but he’s just begun to climb up the arch with his hands tied behind his back. He’s struggling, but he’s right here in front of me and I’m not far behind him.’

  ‘Shall I tell the guys to take up positions?’

  ‘Do that. They should have an excellent view of all this from below. This will be a sunrise to remember,’ said Moretti, and hung up.

  Van Cleef’s mind was in overdrive. Beginning to feel dizzy from severe blood loss, he knew he couldn’t keep up the punishing pace for long. He looked over his shoulder and saw Moretti – gun in hand – closing in from behind and realised his situation was hopeless. He was effectively trapped on the bridge with nowhere to go, especially in his condition. But for him, surrender wasn’t an option. And besides, he’d just killed a policeman. You’ll spend the rest of your life in an Australian jail, he heard Moretti say. You’ll face the music all by yourself because Macbeth is dead … Macbeth is dead …

  With his feet beginning to feel like lead and white sparks dancing in front of his eyes, Van Cleef kept losing his balance, but was doggedly dragging himself up the hundreds of steps leading to the viewing area at the top. The early morning traffic crawling across the deck of the bridge below had almost come to a standstill. Drivers cursed in frustration as they did every morning, oblivious to the drama unfolding above.

  ‘Stop right there! It’s no use,’ shouted Moretti, ‘there’s nowhere to go.’

  ‘Go to hell,’ shouted Van Cleef, and kept climbing.

  The pain in Moretti’s swollen knee was so severe by now he could barely walk. He stopped to catch his breath and looked across the still harbour and out to sea.

  Suddenly, the horizon to the east began to glow as the promise of a new day lifted the veil of the night. Hesitantly at first, but quickly gaining strength, the first rays of the morning sun began to rise out of the sea, illuminating the top of the arch of the Harbour Bridge.

  Jana stood next to one of the Tactical Response commandoes watching Van Cleef through the scope on his gun. ‘Look at that,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’

  ‘Very unsteady on his feet. Losing a lot of blood,’ said the commando flatly, ignoring her remark. ‘What is he doing?’

  ‘I can’t see; too far away.’

  The commando handed Jana his binoculars. ‘Try this,’ he said.

  Van Cleef reached the top of the arch and stood under the huge Australian flag moving gently in the morning breeze. Barely able to stand upright, he was leaning against the handrail to steady himself and appeared to be watching the sunrise.

  Moretti too, had almost reached the top by now. He was pointing his gun at Van Cleef and was slowly climbing the last few steps to the top. ‘It’s over,’ he said, panting. ‘Sit down. You need medical attention, and soon.’

  Van Cleef didn’t reply and kept staring out to sea. Suddenly, he lifted his right leg up high and over the handrail. Then, with his foot balancing on a narrow ledge on the other side, he lifted the other leg over as well. Within seconds, he managed an almost impossible feat for someone so weak, and whose hands were tied behind him: he had climbed over the handrail and was standing precariously on a narrow ledge one hundred and thirty-four metres above the harbour.

  ‘He’s going to jump,’ said the commando.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ said Jana, mesmerised.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ shouted Van Cleef.

  Moretti stopped in his tracks, put his gun back in its holster and looked at Van Cleef.

  ‘You were wrong about one thing,’ said Van Cleef.

  ‘Oh? In what way?’

  ‘I won’t be spending the rest of my life in an Australian jail.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Moretti. ‘Better that way.’

  For a long moment, Van Cleef kept staring at the rising sun like a man facing a firing squad. Then he let go of the handrail behind him, stood perfectly still for an instant, and then began to fall forward.

  ‘There he goes,’ said the commando, and lowered his gun. Jana held her breath and watched Van Cleef plunge headfirst into the dark waters of the harbour below, barely missing a ferry full of early morning commuters on their way to work.

  101

  The PM went over the questions one more time. Then he closed the dossier, looked across to Westminster Abbey and smiled. This should do it, he thought. Two things mattered in politics more than anything else: timing, and luck. With the election only weeks away and all the headlines dominated by Dr Rosen’s surprise press conference and the extraordinary revelations regarding Blackburn Pharmaceuticals and its activities in Somalia, the timing was perfect. The only potential embarrassment was the MI5
investigation implicating Blackburn Pharmaceuticals and Macbeth in Lord and Lady Elms’ murder. However, Macbeth’s unexpected death might just be enough to put the matter to rest, reasoned the PM. With so much at stake, it was worth the gamble.

  Successful politics is always a delicate balancing act, and no one understood that better than the PM. It was now up to him to establish a credible link between Macbeth and Huntington – the infuriating Leader of the Opposition who couldn’t put a foot wrong – without implicating Lord Elms. Exposure of what Lord Elms had been working on just before he died, and why, could quickly turn into political dynamite that could easily blow up in the government’s face. It now came down to tactics, and the PM was a master tactician.

  He picked up the phone and asked his secretary to come in. ‘Please have this delivered to Mr Huntington as soon as possible,’ he said, and handed the dossier to his secretary. The dossier contained a series of questions the PM would ask in parliament the next day. To maximise the damage, the PM had decided to give Huntington advance notice of what was about to happen. This was certainly not a matter of courtesy; it was a matter of strategy. If he could achieve his objective without having to expose his sources to scrutiny and possible attack, so much the better.

  The carefully crafted questions didn’t refer to Lord Elms or the recent tragedy. Instead, they focused on the notorious pharmaceutical giant, Macbeth’s murky past, and his relationship with the Labour Party and its leader. However, the most devastating blow would come from a single piece of paper the PM had attached to the questions. It was a photocopy of a document discovered by Lord Elms a few days before he was murdered. The document was like a deadly missile. The PM was confident it would not only hit its target, but obliterate it.

  Huntington looked up, annoyed. ‘What is it?’ he demanded. He didn’t like to be interrupted when he was preparing for Question Time.

  ‘This just arrived from the Prime Minister,’ said his PA, and placed a folder marked ‘Urgent and Confidential’ on the desk in front of her boss. Huntington looked at it, surprised. In all his years as Leader of the Opposition, this had never happened before.