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

by Gabriel Farago

  Every house has a soul, especially one this ancient and with so many secrets and stories to tell. The stories were all still there, but only for those who knew how to listen. Isis’ fascination with the occult and things supernatural had begun in this very place a long time ago. The Egyptian room at the end of the corridor had been her favourite. Filled with antiquities a museum would have been proud of, it was a magical place full of mystery and wonder. As she walked down the corridor, Isis remembered sitting on her mother’s lap at the foot of a life-sized statue of the god Osiris, lord of the Underworld, listening to stories of the goddess Isis and her unlucky brother.

  Isis opened the gilded door leading to the Egyptian room and looked inside … everything was exactly as she remembered. The massive pink granite sarcophagus dominated the centre of the chamber with promises of immortality and a blissful afterlife. Tall statues of lion-headed goddesses and falcon-beaked gods stood guard along the walls, decorated with wonderful hieroglyphs – passages from The Book of the Dead – decipherable only by the initiated few. Rather than finding this place intimidating or frightening, Isis had found it a place of adventure and excitement, where the imagination of a young boy growing up on his own could run wild.

  Over the years, the imposing stone gods had become friends, and the Egyptian room a place for a favourite game Isis used to play with her mother: hide and seek. However, this was not the conventional game where one player counted to thirty while the other hid somewhere. This was a game with a unique twist: it was played with a small golden ankh, a handled cross, the Egyptian symbol of life, which had to be hidden somewhere in the room while the other player stood outside in the corridor counting to thirty.

  With so many exhibits to choose from, hiding the ankh was great fun. The art was to ‘hide’ it in plain view, but in such a way that it formed part of an exhibit and was therefore difficult to spot. The glass display cabinets containing jewellery and small ceremonial objects were favourite hiding places. Alternatively, it could be hidden inside one of the canopic jars, or wooden chests, or behind or on top of one of the statues. The more imaginative the hiding place, the better. During the game, clues were provided to guide the seeker. The more ingenious the clues and the longer it took one’s opponent to find the ankh, determined the winner. While this was often a matter of opinion, debating the outcome was almost as much fun as playing the game.

  The little golden ankh had become one of Isis’ most treasured possessions. She had worn it around her neck since her childhood days and never took it off. The belt buckle of Isis, as some Egyptologists called the ankh, had become Isis’ trademark and the symbol of her record label. It featured on all the merchandise and promotional material associated with the band and was even painted on the tail of Icarus, the band’s customised Boeing 757, designed to fly the band around the world.

  During one of these games, Isis had accidentally pressed one of the many eyes of Horus painted on the lid of a wooden chest shaped like a mummy. To the little boy’s surprise, the back of the head opened up, revealing a concealed compartment the size of a small shoebox. Isis hid the ankh in the compartment and closed it. It had taken his mother three days and countless clues to find the correct eye to press. This hidden compartment was pronounced the ultimate hiding place, and George the overall winner of the game. The mummy’s head became their ‘secret place’. Occasionally, little presents would be waiting for George in there, or his mother would leave cryptic messages for him to decipher.

  Once her eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, Isis walked slowly to the back of the room where the mummy-shaped chest stood in its usual place on a stone plinth. This has to be it, she thought, tracing one painted eye after another with the tip of her finger. Because all the eyes looked the same and she couldn’t remember exactly which one activated the mechanism, she kept pressing each eye methodically, starting at the top of the head and working her way down to the chin with the false beard.

  Perhaps it isn’t working any more, she thought, becoming anxious. Then suddenly, the back of the mummy’s head opened with a little shudder. Isis took a deep breath and looked inside. ‘My God! What is that?’ she whispered, surprise and disbelief clouding her face. Slowly, she reached inside and ran the tips of her shaking fingers along the smooth, gleaming surface of a strange object, its touch making the hairs on the back of her neck tingle with excitement. It looks almost alive, she thought. Scary. And there’s something underneath it … Letters?

  Isis had discovered something that had been hidden a long time ago for her to find when the time was right. The game was over, but this time there was no opponent, and no winner. Only questions.

  As soon as the plane reached cruising altitude and had levelled out, Isis began to relax and sat down on her comfortable bed at the back of the plane. Boris was already asleep in his usual seat at the front, and Lola was working on her computer. All was quiet.

  Isis switched on the reading light, reached for her handbag and pulled out the small bundle of letters she had found under the strange artefact inside the chest. Whispers from the grave? she wondered, untying the blue ribbon with trembling fingers. Yellowish and brittle, the small, neatly folded sheets of paper were almost transparent. There were no envelopes. Isis held one of the sheets up to the light and began to read:

  Dearest …

  After she had finished reading the letters, Isis turned off the light, closed her eyes and for a while just lay there, quite still. What does it all mean? she asked herself, her mind racing. Mamina! Mamina will know. Feeling calmer, Isis reached for her satellite phone and dialled a familiar number.

  7

  Alexandra put down The Disappearance of Anna Popov and looked at Jack, asleep in his comfortable business class seat next to her. Extraordinary, she thought, closing the book. He’s without doubt the most exciting man I’ve met for a long time. The chestnut brown hair – a little unkempt and a touch too long – and the five o’clock shadow on his relaxed face, gave the self-proclaimed incorrigible rascal a slightly roguish look. She had never come across anyone quite like him, although she had to admit that academic circles were not the ideal place to meet interesting men. Being attracted to someone has nothing to do with time, place or logic; it can happen in an instant, and for no apparent reason. All one needed was an opportunity, however fleeting. For a scientist who had spent most of her adult life in a research cocoon analysing data, this was a disconcerting realisation.

  After a short, disastrous marriage to a Belgian biologist that had ended in an acrimonious divorce a year ago, Alexandra knew it was time to reassess her life. The offer she had received from her dying colleague and dear friend had come just at the right moment. She was ready for something new and, hopefully, exciting – not just professionally but personally.

  As the only child of two eminent doctors, she had been destined for a medical career from an early age. Striving for excellence ran in the family. Her mother, as the younger sister of Professor Popov, a Nobel laureate, had become a leading neurologist. Her father, a brain surgeon, came from a long line of French doctors and was highly regarded for his work in pioneering new techniques in tumour removal.

  Jack opened his eyes, looked at Alexandra and smiled. ‘What did you think of it?’ he asked, pointing to the book in her lap.

  ‘I couldn’t put it down.’

  ‘That’s what authors like to hear,’ said Jack, sitting up. ‘We always look for approval.’

  ‘We all do. I particularly liked the – how do you say – “virtuosity” of your language.’

  ‘Wow! I don’t think I’ve ever had a compliment quite like that.’ Jack looked at his watch. ‘We must be almost there,’ he said.

  ‘Three more hours.’

  ‘Have you made a decision?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Becoming my flatmate.’

  ‘After what I’ve just read, I don’t know. You’re a dangerous man, Jack.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Abs
olutely.’

  ‘The answer’s no, then?’

  ‘No, it isn’t. I accept.’

  ‘You do? But I’m a dangerous man; you just said so. Why the sudden change of heart?’

  ‘Because you are.’

  ‘What? Dangerous?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Women!’ said Jack, pulling the blanket over his head. ‘I’ll never work them out!’

  ‘I think we should drink to that,’ said Alexandra, laughing, ‘if you are prepared to come out of hiding, that is.’

  The first thing Jack always noticed about flying into Sydney from overseas was the light: brilliant, deliriously bright. There was no other place quite like it, especially when you called it home. First, the plane circled the city, giving them a splendid view of the sparkling harbour and the blue Pacific, and then approached the runway from the south. It was a perfect morning for a homecoming.

  ‘I didn’t quite believe you when you said you hadn’t seen your apartment,’ said Alexandra, following Jack to the concierge. Jack introduced himself and collected the keys. A magnum of champagne was waiting for him at the desk with a note from Rebecca, his literary agent. Welcome home, Jack, it said, enjoy! PS. I hope you like the little surprise in the lounge.

  ‘Top floor,’ Jack said, holding up the keys. ‘Let’s go exploring.’

  The penthouse occupied almost the entire floor, with a one hundred and eighty-degree view of the city and Sydney’s magnificent harbour. ‘Not bad,’ said Jack, opening the sliding doors leading to the huge roof terrace. ‘Must have cost a bomb.’

  ‘You mean you don’t know?’ asked Alexandra, shaking her head.

  ‘No, I have no idea.’

  ‘I thought things like this only happened in movies.’

  ‘Choose your bedroom; you’re the guest.’ With three large bedrooms, each with its own en suite, splendid views and access to the terrace, there were plenty to choose from. Alexandra chose the smallest one and left the master bedroom suite for Jack.

  ‘I don’t need all this,’ said Jack, walking through the huge walk-in wardrobe. ‘I always get into trouble with my clothes,’ he joked, holding up his modest duffel bag. ‘I believe in travelling light. Much to the exasperation of my agent, who always insists on buying me stuff to wear,’ he added. ‘Champagne?’

  ‘At ten in the morning?’

  ‘Why not? You’ve just moved in with a dangerous bloke – remember?’

  ‘A bloke?’ What’s that?’ asked Alexandra, whose English, while perfect – with a charming French accent – wasn’t quite up to the finer points of Aussie slang.

  ‘Someone who would call you a good lookin’ sheila.’

  ‘Is that what you would call me? A good looking sheila?’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘Funny language.’

  ‘Welcome to Oz. Let’s have a drink, and I’ll show you the surprise in the lounge.’

  ‘I do like surprises.’

  ‘Most sheilas do.’

  ‘Does that remind you of something?’ asked Jack, pointing to a painting on the wall in the lounge room. He opened a bottle of champagne, poured two glasses and handed one to Alexandra.

  ‘Of course, it’s on the cover of your book. How extraordinary. Is that the surprise?’

  ‘It is. It was painted by your niece. Anna gave it to me,’ said Jack. ‘And my agent, who appears to be managing my entire life, has somehow managed to get it here. That’s the surprise.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Well, you’ve just read the book. It’s actually mentioned towards the end, in the epilogue.’ Jack walked over to the painting and stood in front of it. ‘This is the inside of the cave where I found Anna. Sitting on the floor here are the two Aboriginal women who cared for her, and this is Anna lying next to them. She was almost dead when I found her. And this is me in the shorts, right here, on my knees in front of her.’

  ‘And what’s that behind you?’ asked Alexandra, pointing to a shadowy human skeleton floating through a shaft of light, away from the women.

  ‘That’s death leaving, as Anna put it.’

  ‘Amazing. She captured a near-death experience, and the very moment of her rescue?’

  ‘Yes.’ But it still reminds me of the adoration of the Magi, thought Jack, with only one king, bringing the gift of life after banishing death. ‘It’s signed “Lucrezia” – here, see?’

  ‘Her nom de plume of the paint brush, as I think you put it. Another example of your language virtuosity?’

  ‘You have an excellent memory. I can see I’ll have to watch what I say.’ Jack topped up their glasses. ‘Enough about me! Let’s sit down. I want to ask you something.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Your work.’

  ‘Oh? Fire away.’

  ‘How does a geneticist as young as you, end up at the top of her field? I ask myself. From what Katerina told me, you’re apparently one of the best. She’s incredibly proud of you.’

  ‘Don’t believe everything my aunt tells you,’ replied Alexandra, laughing.

  ‘And why cancer research? It all sounds very esoteric and complicated.’

  ‘Only to old blokes like you.’

  ‘Thanks. Then why don’t you enlighten this old codger? How did it all start?’

  ‘All right. Have you heard of the Human Genome Project?’

  ‘I have, actually.’

  ‘What do you know about it?’

  ‘It was a monumental international undertaking. It began in 1990, lasted thirteen years and cost three billion dollars.’

  ‘And the aim was?’

  ‘To discover all of the twenty to twenty-five thousand human genes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘To determine the complete sequence of the three billion DNA sub-units?’

  ‘You’re right,’ Alexandra replied, surprised. ’You seem to know a lot about this. The project was a great success and resulted in the first full reading of a human genome. It was hailed as one of the greatest achievements in the history of science and a milestone in the history of mankind.’

  ‘And the results were announced jointly by President Clinton and the British Prime Minister, Tony Blair, in 2000,’ Jack cut in.

  ‘Not bad for an old bloke,’ teased Alexandra, nodding appreciatively. ‘The human DNA code has three billion letters. As researchers began to take a closer look at these letters in 2003, they found to their surprise that only one point five per cent of them actually carried instructions for genes. And inside this modest bundle, they identified twenty-five thousand genes. This was an extraordinary finding. What this meant was that man had the same set of genes as a Caenorhabditis elegans.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A humble, millimetre long, one thousand-cell roundworm.’

  ‘I’m related to a roundworm? Great!’

  ‘Don’t despair. It soon became apparent that if this were so, then instructions for creating a human being must be encoded somewhere else within the DNA, which as you know is the physical substance that makes up a gene,’ said Alexandra, becoming quite excited. ‘Your genome is a code. It has three billion DNA letters, and there are two copies of that code, one from mum and one from dad; that’s the unique you. And this is when things become really interesting—’

  ‘Is that why you became involved in all this?’ interrupted Jack.

  ‘In a way, yes. I was a PhD student in Paris at the time. That’s when I became Professor K’s assistant. He was an extraordinary man and a close friend of my mother’s. He was an iconoclast; an intellectual rebel who took nothing for granted and thought the answer in science was often to be found in the weird and the outrageous. He was right. To an impressionable, starry-eyed young student like me, he was like a god. He became my hero. He taught me how to think.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Keep an open mind at all times, think laterally and don’t be afraid to challenge dogma and be different. However, my interest in all this began well before I m
et Professor K.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘My father’s hero was Aristotle, who – according to him at least – was one of the greatest thinkers of all time. I remember sitting on my dad’s knee in our garden as a little girl, listening to stories about Aristotle, the acorn, and the egg.’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘Don’t laugh; it is. Did you know that Aristotle toyed with the idea of an acorn having within it a “plan” for an oak tree, and an egg containing the “concept” of a chicken?’ Jack shook his head. ‘When you step back from this and look at it carefully, what do you see?’ asked Alexandra.

  ‘The idea of a gene?’

  ‘Exactly. It was the beginning of a two thousand three hundred-year journey, which reached its destination in 1953 with an epic discovery: the DNA double helix.’

  ‘Compliments of Francis Crick.’

  ‘Correct. Except that the “destination” was in fact just the beginning of a much bigger and more exciting journey – the search for the physical identity of the gene. Sitting there on my father’s lap, I made up my mind then and there that I wanted to be part of that search,’ said Alexandra.

  ‘Amazing.’

  ‘Another one of my father’s favourite stories was about a monk and his peas—’

  ‘Mendel,’ interrupted Jack.

  ‘Very good. And do you know why?’

  ‘Obviously bored with monastic life, Gregor Mendel, a monk, turned to breeding peas, which was far more exciting. This was in the eighteen sixties. As you would expect, he was a man of iron discipline and great patience; you had to be if you wanted to be successful in breeding peas – right?’

  ‘Absolutely. So far, I find your story far more interesting than my father’s version. Go on,’ said Alexandra, laughing, ‘let’s hear the rest.’

  ‘After a lot of pea breeding, Mendel discovered that breeding was by no means arbitrary. On the contrary, he realised there were certain rules, quite precise ones that governed hereditary factors with mathematical precision. Mendel’s hereditary factors later became known as …?’

  ‘Genes,’ answered Alexandra.