On a perilous journey of discovery that takes them around the globe, Jack and Lola Rodriguez—Isis’ resourceful PA—join forces with Jana Gonski, a former police officer; Dr Bettany Rosen, a tireless campaigner for the destitute and forgotten; and Tristan, a gifted boy with psychic powers. Together, they expose a complex web of fiercely guarded secrets and heinous crimes of the past that can ruin them all and change history.
Will Rogan succeed? Will the dreams of a visionary scientist with the power to change the future of medicine fall into the wrong hands, or will his genius benefit mankind and prevent untold misery and suffering for generations to come?
Gabriel Farago
Leura, Blue Mountains, Australia
THE HIDDEN GENES OF PROFESSOR K
A dark, disturbing and nail biting medical thriller
Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 3
Gabriel Farago
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Edwin Smith, a colourful character, is remembered for something he did one hot afternoon in a Luxor bazaar in Egypt in 1862. He bought a papyrus that turned out to be one of the oldest medical texts in the world.
I first came across the Edwin Smith Papyrus some twenty years ago. I was studying Egyptology at the time, learning to read the hieroglyphs at night, because during the day I was a practising barrister and spent most of my days in court. Archaeology was my passion and has remained so to this very day.
Our professor used this unique text as an illustration of the extraordinary achievements of the Ancient Egyptians. The 4.6 metre long papyrus is written right to left in hieratic, a cursive form of hieroglyphs. Experts believe it was composed in about 1500 BC.
However, what is particularly fascinating about the papyrus is that it is now believed to be a copy of a much older text dating back to the Old Kingdom. And it doesn’t stop there. Some scholars maintain that the true author of the text was none other than Imhotep, a remarkable renaissance man of the Old Kingdom who lived in around 2600 BC, and rose to high office under the pharaoh Djoser. Imhotep was a gifted architect, engineer, high priest and physician who, two thousand years after his death, was deified and became the god of medicine and healing. Centuries later, the ancient Greeks associated him with Asklepios, the god of medicine.
What makes this text so unique is the fact it describes forty-eight case histories based on rational anatomical, physiological and pathological observations, without looking at them through the eyes of magic, which was the accepted way to deal with disease, injury and trauma at the time.
Fascinated by the text, I immersed myself in the papyrus, which was translated by Breasted, an eminent Egyptologist, in 1930. That was how I came across case 46.
Case 46 deals with ‘bulging tumours of the breast ... large, spreading and hard ...’ A more accurate description of breast cancer is difficult to imagine. For the first time in human history, the Emperor of Darkness – cancer – made its appearance in literature.
Every case study in the papyrus is followed by a discussion of its treatment except in case 46 for which, according to Imhotep, there was none.
Cancer is an ancient disease. Progress in medical research, especially in recent years, has been breathtaking. We have come a long way, yet have we come any closer to conquering this powerful, malevolent disease, or do we have to agree with Imhotep’s prognosis 4500 years ago – that in many cases, there is no cure?
This question has been asked countless times through the ages and has plagued the medical profession for centuries. The search for an answer became the inspiration for this book.
Gabriel Farago
Leura, Blue Mountains, Australia
PART I: MEMENTO MORI
Gordon Institute, Sydney; September 2011
Professor Kasper Kozakievicz – Professor K to colleagues because his name was almost impossible to pronounce – looked at the computer printout on his desk and smiled; the results were exactly as he had expected. A tremendous feeling of elation quickened his heartbeat, making his emaciated body tremble with excitement. Reaching for his chair to steady himself, he suddenly felt dizzy and weak. Stars began to dance in front of his eyes just before a bundle of sharp darts embedded in his brain. Moments later, his knees gave way and he collapsed to the floor.
Professor K had known for months he was dying. The cancer – a particularly aggressive one – had spread rapidly with relentless predictability. To an eminent research scientist, the prognosis was obvious: death was only a matter of time. Rather than subjecting himself to unpleasant and debilitating treatment to buy a few more feeble days, he had thrown himself deeper into his research, much to the dismay of his exasperated family, friends and colleagues. Only those who knew him well understood what he was doing, and why.
Ironically, the day he diagnosed his own cancer was the very day an unexpected breakthrough occurred in his research. From that day on, he knew he was getting close, very close. All he needed was a little more time – but time was running out.
Professor K opened his eyes. Darkness. He tried to move his fingers, but they wouldn’t obey. Then slowly, a wave of excruciating pain reached his tortured brain as he regained consciousness and the darkness receded. Professor K knew exactly what was happening: death was standing at the door! Mustering the last of his remaining strength, he got unsteadily to his feet and fell into his chair. My notes, he thought, where are my notes? Trying not to panic, he searched his cluttered desktop for his research notes with shaking hands. Finding the little notebook under a pile of papers, he relaxed as a hint of a smile creased his wan face. Then, taking a deep breath, he reached for his pen and began to write like a man possessed.
On the other side of the globe, Dr Alexandra Delacroix was fast asleep in her Marseilles apartment, located next to the Université De La Méditerranée School of Medicine where she worked, when her mobile rang. She wasn’t used to getting phone calls in the middle of the night, and sensed it must be something important. Instantly awake, she reached for the phone on her bedside table, peered at the incoming number and pressed answer. ‘Do you know what time it is, Kasper?’ she said sleepily.
‘I do, Lexi,’ replied the professor calmly. ‘Please listen carefully, there isn’t much time. I’m talking to you as a man who is about to die, but more importantly, I’m talking to you as a fellow scientist.’
Silence. Dr Delacroix had known about her mentor’s illness for some time, but was unaware how far it had progressed. ‘How bad is it?’ she asked.
‘I won’t see tomorrow ...’
‘Go on.’ ‘
I would like you to be my successor, so to speak.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think I’ve found a breakthrough in cancer diagnosis and treatment.’
Again, silence. Then, ‘Across the board?’
‘Quite possibly. It’s ground-breaking.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Absolutely!’
‘My God, Kasper, do you realise what you are saying?’
‘I do. There’s still a long way to go with all the trials and such, but the proof is right here in front of me. But only you will understand my crazy notes and abbreviations, and how it all works.’
‘What about Cavendish; isn’t he next in line?’
‘Cavendish is a plodder. Too much ambition, not enough talent. He’s not in your league. This is far too important. I want you—’
‘Because we’ve worked together before, you mean?’ interrupted Dr Delacroix.
‘Yes, and because of who you are,’ said the professor, sounding weak.
‘Speak up, Kasper, I can barely hear you,’ said Dr Delacroix, raising her voice. For a while, all she could hear was heavy breathing on the other end of the line.
‘I can’t see any more,’ said the professor, gasping for breath.
‘Stay with me, Kasper!’ shrieked Dr Delacroix, ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘It’s all in my notes and the specimens. I’ve put everything into the safe here in the lab. T
his is the combination. Write it down: 12 ... 48 ... 62. Got that?’
‘12, 48, 62,’ repeated Dr Delacroix.
‘Good,’ sighed the professor, suddenly calmer. ‘Will you be my intellectual heir, so to speak?’
‘Yes.’
‘Carry the torch; promise?’ whispered the professor.
‘I promise.’
‘As my friend?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you must hurry! A position is waiting for you here at the Gordon. It’s all arranged.’
‘And Cavendish?’ Dr Delacroix asked again.
‘Don’t worry about him!’
Her mind racing, Dr Delacroix considered the implications. She would have to give up her position at the Institute for Structural Biology and Microbiology at the University and move to Sydney. The professor’s offer was the opportunity of a lifetime. Cavendish could be a problem, but there was really nothing to consider. ‘Can’t you get some help?’ she asked, concerned about her dying friend.
‘It’s Sunday morning; there’s no one here. And besides,’ whispered the professor, ‘it’s too late for that now. At least it hasn’t been in vain ...’
‘What did you say?’ shouted Dr Delacroix, her eyes misting over. There was no reply; all she could hear was silence.
Olympic Stadium, Moscow; September 2011
The gigantic, semi-circular stage erected inside the Olympic Stadium had been transformed into a haunted cemetery, complete with cobwebbed tombstones flanked by crying angels, sad-looking willow trees, live crows in cages and a large, pale moon, suspended from a mobile crane. Set against a backdrop depicting frightening ghouls and hooded monks, clever props and light effects completed the illusion. In front of the stage, a hundred thousand eager fans waited excitedly to hear the band. They began to chant ‘Isis, Isis, Isis’ as their idols walked on stage. Whipping up the crowd, the drummer began the introduction to their signature number – ‘It’s Time; come with us’ – before the throbbing bass joined in and the guitars screamed into life. The Russian leg of Isis and The Time Machine’s Echoes from the Grave World Tour had begun.
Transformed into an Egyptian goddess in her white silk robe and golden crown, Isis lay motionless in a glass coffin six feet below the stage. The hydraulics engineer adjusted the switches and waited for the signal from the stage manager. As the band was about to finish ‘It’s Time’, the stage manager gave the nod. Slowly, the coffin ascended.
On the stage above, a large tombstone made of plywood and papier-mâché also began to rise, while green, smoke-like fog oozed out of the other tombs and covered the stage. As the glass coffin emerged from the open grave, the crowd became hysterical. The security guards in front of the stage barely managed to hold back the howling fans as Isis came into view. The guitars fell silent, and only the drummer continued with a mesmerising, blood-boiling solo.
On cue, the engineer flicked another switch and the glass lid of the coffin slowly opened. Suddenly, Isis came to life. First, she raised her arms, then her head. The guitars were back, playing ‘Resurrection’, the first track of The Time Machine’s new studio album, which had shot to number one in twenty-eight countries since its release a month earlier.
Isis now stood up in the open coffin, took off her serpent crown and tossed it towards the jubilant crowd. Then she let the white robe slip from her shoulders, exposing her stunning, tattooed body. Wearing only a tiny black bikini studded with diamonds, her trademark black boots and fishnet stockings, Isis somersaulted out of the coffin – her acrobatic feats on stage were legendary – and began to sing.
Lola Rodriguez, Isis’ fiery personal assistant, took the phone call and paled. Collecting her thoughts, she slipped the phone back into her pocket and began to look for the production manager. ‘Where’s Ed?’ she asked, hurrying to the improvised change rooms behind the stage. The sound technician sitting in his booth pointed to some scaffolding supporting the five storey high canvas backdrop. Ed Walker, the production manager, was keeping an eye on the stage through a small window cut into the canvas.
‘Can I have a word?’ shouted Lola, trying to make herself heard. The music was deafening.
‘Not now, Lola, she’s about to come off for a costume change,’ replied the production manager, looking stressed.
‘It’s urgent.’
‘Okay. What’s up?’ asked Ed. When Lola told him about the phone call, he was visibly shocked. ‘Jesus, Lola, what are you going to do?’
‘I have to tell her right now, what else?’
‘Can’t you wait until after the show?’
‘Are you kidding? She’ll eat me alive if she finds out I’ve held this back.’
‘You’re right. Good luck! Here she comes.’
Blowing kisses to her adoring fans, Isis strutted off the stage, her body covered in tiny beads of perspiration glistening like diamonds in the spotlight. Isis caught her breath, took a glass of iced tea from the waiting attendant and headed straight for her change room. The next five minutes were vital. During this short time, she would undergo a breathtaking transformation. Similar to a pit stop in a Formula One race, the costume team waiting for her knew exactly what had to be done. Every second counted.
Isis began her breathing exercises, swept into the tiny room and, standing in front of a large mirror, let her team go to work. Any interruption or distraction of any kind during this critical procedure was strictly forbidden.
Lola pushed past the frowning make-up artist and stood next to Isis. Isis watched her in the mirror and shot her a disapproving look that would have sent a grown tiger packing. ‘I must speak to you privately ...’ began Lola haltingly, ‘it’s urgent.’
‘What; now? Are you out of your mind?’ hissed Isis. Lola insisted. Isis realised at once something was wrong. ‘Everybody out,’ she commanded curtly. ‘Put my entry back three minutes and close the door.’ Everybody stopped working and left the room. ‘This better be good,’ said Isis, carefully watching her personal assistant.
During the next sixty seconds, Lola recounted her earlier telephone conversation with the London police. Isis sat down on the make-up stool, her face ashen, and for a while didn’t say anything. Her mind racing, she contemplated the consequences of what she’d just heard.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Lola, conscious of precious seconds ticking by.
‘I’ll go back on and complete the show. As soon as it’s over, you and I will fly to London. Get my plane ready—’
‘What about Tokyo?’ interjected Lola, ‘The next concert is in three days.’
‘Everything goes ahead as planned. I’ll be there in time. Does anyone else know about this?’
‘Only Ed.’
‘Good. Now, send them all back in, and not a word of this to anyone; understood?’ Lola nodded. Isis leant across to Lola and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. ‘Thank you, Lola. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
Her cheeks glowing, Lola hurried out of the room. She lived for moments like this.
Pegasus – Isis’ private jet – began its descent in preparation for landing. Lola walked to the back of the plane to wake her mistress. ‘We’re almost there,’ she whispered, gently touching Isis on the shoulder. Isis nodded, but didn’t open her eyes. ‘Your car will meet us on the tarmac. We should get to the hospital within the hour, London traffic permitting.’
Slumped into the back seat of her black Bentley, Isis was trying to prepare herself for what she sensed would be a life changing ordeal. She hated hospitals with a passion, but worst of all was not knowing what had happened. They had been told so little. For someone used to being in control, uncertainty was torture. All she knew was that her parents, Lord and Lady Elms, had been attacked in their London home. Her father was dead and her mother on life support, not expected to live.
Two policemen from the Metropolitan Police met them at the designated side entrance to the hospital’s casualty section and ushered them discreetly inside. Standing in the lift behind Boris, h
er Ukrainian wrestling-champion turned bodyguard who followed her everywhere like a shadow, Isis reached for Lola’s hand and squeezed it. Isis had always found looking at the huge man’s massive frame and bulging neck muscles reassuring, but not so this time. Boris could protect her from many things, but not from what she was about to encounter.
As she followed the policemen down a dimly lit corridor smelling of cleaning fluids and disinfectant, Isis tried in vain to calm herself. She could confidently go on stage and face a hundred thousand adoring fans, yet with each step her anxiety grew, fear clawing at her throat.
The softly spoken surgeon waiting at the end of the corridor explained with clinical efficiency that Lady Elms was conscious, but could slip away at any moment. ‘She’s waiting for you,’ he said. ‘That is what’s been keeping her alive. I don’t think she’ll be able to speak anymore, but she wants to see you ...’ Opening the door he added, ‘I must warn you, her injuries are horrific.’
Isis nodded and went into the room alone.
At first, Isis thought there had been a terrible mistake. The person lying on the bed in no way resembled her mother. The face – mutilated beyond recognition – looked as if it had been attacked with a meat cleaver. Head turned towards the door, the person was staring at her with unseeing eyes. Then something happened: sensing her son’s presence, Lady Elms’ dying brain produced a final moment of clarity. Her mouth opened and the lips began to move, but there was no sound. However, coming closer, Isis thought she could hear something.
‘Georgie?’ whispered the mangled piece of flesh on the pillow. The face may have been unrecognisable, but there was no mistaking the voice.
‘Mama!’ cried Isis, falling to her knees next to the bed.
‘I knew you would come. Listen ...’ said Lady Elms, her voice barely audible. Exhausted by the effort, she kept staring at Isis. Her lips kept moving, unable to form words.
The Empress Holds the Key Page 50
