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

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘A term coined by Wilhelm Johannsen, a Danish botanist, in his book Elemente der exacting Erbichkeitslehre, published in 1909.’

  Alexandra looked nonplussed. ‘Bravo!’ she said. ‘How do you know all this, Jack?’

  ‘I wrote a series of articles on the Human Genome Project back in 2003.’

  ‘You’re an amazing bloke, Jack Rogan,’ said Alexandra, holding up her empty glass. ‘More champagne please.’

  ‘And you are one clever little sheila,’ said Jack, reaching for the bottle, ‘whose chosen genomics. Why?’

  ‘To integrate genomics into patient diagnosis and treatment.’

  ‘Precision medicine?’

  ‘Another time, please! Enough science for one morning, don’t you think?’ Leaning back in her comfortable leather chair, Alexandra looked at Jack. ‘Are we going to have an affair?’ she asked, lowering her voice.

  Jack put down the bottle and looked at Alexandra. Their eyes locked and for a while, he said nothing. ‘I hope so,’ he said, sounding hoarse.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Alexandra.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re blushing!’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘It’s the reflection from the windows; the sun …’

  ‘No, that’s … how do you say it in Aussie English, bull …?

  ‘Bullshit?’

  ‘Yes; that’s it.’

  8

  Calypso sailed through the Heads into Sydney Harbour just after sunrise and dropped anchor in front of the famous Taronga Zoo. Because of the vessel’s size, there was no suitable berth available, and the converted icebreaker was assigned a mooring in the harbour usually reserved for visiting warships. Macbeth liked it that way. Contact with the shore would be by tender, and would give Calypso some distance from the curious press and prying eyes of the public.

  Sitting in his wheelchair on the deck outside his stateroom, Macbeth was drinking in the fresh morning air. Sailing into one of the most beautiful harbours in the world at first light should have been exhilarating, but Macbeth had other things on his mind. Cavendish was turning into a potential liability and Macbeth was contemplating what to do about it. His Sydney agent had just reported in: Cavendish was becoming difficult. But it wasn’t all bad news. Cavendish had secured Professor Kozakievicz’s notes. However, realising his use-by date had arrived, he was behaving irrationally and had demanded an exorbitant payment for them.

  Professor K’s notes had to be obtained at any cost, so much was clear. But what to do about Cavendish? Macbeth pondered. It wasn’t the money that troubled him; the problem was the man. Macbeth had used people like Cavendish before, many times. Being gay made Cavendish vulnerable, and it was his vulnerability that made him useful. Corrupting him had been easy. Distancing oneself from him could be difficult and risky. With the stakes so high, Macbeth couldn’t afford any mistakes. Cavendish was a loose end who could very quickly turn into a loose cannon.

  No loose ends, thought Macbeth, feeling better. He always felt better when he followed his instincts. ‘Get Jan,’ he said to Carlotta, who was standing behind him. Carlotta let go of the wheelchair and walked to the stern of the ship. She knew exactly where to find Jan, and what he would be doing.

  Completing his second set of two hundred sit-ups on the helicopter pad at the stern of the ship, Jan Van Cleef was going through his morning exercise routine. It was a gruelling program, which he had perfected many years ago. For a frontline commando in the British army, survival often depended on discipline and fitness. Decorated for bravery under enemy fire, he had been one of the rising stars until something went terribly wrong. He had entered the house of a suspected insurgent during a covert mission in Afghanistan, and mistakenly shot two elderly women and a young boy. The incident turned into a serious embarrassment for the British Forces, and if all else fails, a serious embarrassment needs someone to blame. Van Cleef, the decorated hero, was the perfect candidate. After an inconclusive court martial that neither convicted, nor exonerated, Van Cleef was quietly discharged. The army told him his services were no longer required. Disgraced and disillusioned, he had nowhere to go. For two years, he worked as a mercenary in South Africa, where he had lived as a boy. A bullet in the shoulder during an assignment in Zimbabwe brought all that to an abrupt end.

  Wounded and down on his luck, Macbeth found him in a bar in Johannesburg. The army may have considered Van Cleef an embarrassment to be disposed of, but Macbeth saw him as a man of immeasurable value. Not only did he offer him a job, he gave him respect and a future. He made him his personal bodyguard and chief of security. The army had spent hundreds of thousands of pounds training him. Van Cleef was a decorated soldier with combat experience money couldn’t buy. Used to loyalty beyond question, the devotion that had once belonged to the army and his comrades, now belonged to Macbeth. Van Cleef would gladly give up his life for the only man who believed in him. Macbeth realised that loyalty like that was beyond price.

  ‘He wants to see you,’ said Carlotta, watching Van Cleef’s bulging neck muscles. Not many men can do fifty push-ups with only one hand. Van Cleef nodded, reached for his towel and wiped the sweat from his face.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Outside; in front of his cabin.’

  Tall and blond, with penetrating, cornflower-blue eyes and a powerful physique, Van Cleef looked more like a Dutch farmer from the Transvaal than the finely honed killing machine he really was. His school-boyish good looks were deceptive, disguising an extremely dangerous man in his early thirties. He reminded Macbeth of the beautifully engraved blade of a precious dagger: tempting to touch, but quick to draw blood from the unwary.

  ‘We have a problem,’ began Macbeth quietly. ‘I have an important assignment for you I want you to handle personally. Don’t use outsiders.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Van Cleef insisted on calling Macbeth sir. To him, he was his commanding officer. He felt more comfortable that way. He also insisted that all five ‘security men’ under his command – all former brothers-in-arms carefully chosen by him – did the same. To Van Cleef, discipline was the fabric that held them all together. It was the one thing he could always count on when things got tough.

  ‘No weapons of any kind are to be used. If you can, make it look like an accident, but you don’t have much time to prepare. It must happen tomorrow. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘We have a reliable man on the ground; that should help. We’ll stay right here in Sydney until the assignment has been completed. Calypso will sail as soon as you let me know that it’s been done.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Carlotta will brief you. That will be all.’

  Without saying another word, Van Cleef turned and walked away. Macbeth watched him leave and smiled. He almost saluted, he thought, thanking his lucky stars he had such a man on his side.

  9

  Pegasus had begun its slow descent into Tokyo Narita Airport and was approaching the city in preparation for landing. Isis sat up in her bed at the back of the plane and looked around. ‘What time is it?’ she asked, massaging her stiff neck.

  ‘You went out like a light and slept the whole way. We are almost there,’ said Lola.

  Isis felt calm and no longer so alone and lost in her grief. Just hearing Mamina’s voice on the phone and speaking with her in Spanish had made her feel better. It had also helped her fall asleep and get the rest she so desperately needed. However, what she had been asked to do was puzzling, to say the least. It made no sense and only added to her confusion. Unconditional trust has always been Mamina’s way, and this was certainly not the time to question her judgement. Isis reminded herself that somehow, in the end, everything Mamina suggested usually worked out for the best.

  Isis got up and walked over to Lola. ‘There’s something I would like you to do for me,’ she said, running her fingers playfully through Lola’s short hair.

  ‘Sure. Ho
w do you feel?’ Lola savoured the caress and closeness of the one person on the planet she adored with every fibre of her being. Her love for Isis was unconditional; just to be near her was more than enough.

  ‘Awful. Like a gutted fish. Somehow alive, but empty.’

  ‘Are you sure you can do Tokyo tonight?’ asked Lola, unable to hide her concern.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Find out everything you can about this man.’ Isis handed Lola a slip of paper she had torn out of her notebook.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A famous writer.’

  Lola knew better than to question Isis further. Instead, she turned to her computer and went to work.

  10

  Cavendish knew he was early. Sitting on a bar stool in the Blowhole, a bar popular with well-heeled, middle-aged gay men looking for adventure, he tried very hard to appear calm. The Blowhole had quite a reputation. It was one of the most unique establishments of its kind in the world. During the annual Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras, the queue to get in just for a look around was a couple of hundred metres long. What made the Blowhole so popular was the fact it resembled a huge aquarium. All the walls, the bar and even the dance floor were made of thick plate glass. Large illuminated fish tanks concealed behind the glass opened up an underwater wonderland, with all kinds of exotic fish, coral, seashells, and even a wooden shipwreck with a skeleton and a treasure chest. Sitting at the bar, one had the feeling of being underwater. The couples embracing on the glass dance floor looked like ballet dancers floating on water, with menacing sharks cruising slowly past in a large pool beneath their feet. Danger was a powerful aphrodisiac.

  ‘Hello, Daniel,’ said a tall blond man standing next to Cavendish. He pulled up a barstool and sat down. ‘Has Kevin explained everything?’

  Cavendish looked at the younger man with interest. Kevin, his usual contact, had indicated that due to the large amount of money involved, his ‘principals’ needed verification. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you want to see the material before—’

  ‘You’ve got it with you?’ interrupted Van Cleef.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Let’s have a drink first. There’s no rush. What are you drinking? Is that an icebreaker?’

  Cavendish nodded, and Van Cleef ordered two.

  The evening was hotting up. Suddenly, the place was crowded, with standing room only. Sitting atop what resembled a huge ice cube, a bare-breasted, she-male disc jockey dressed as a mermaid turned up the volume. The music was deafening and the atmosphere electric. On top of another ‘ice cube’, two voluptuous she-males wearing only diamond-studded jockstraps were performing a pole-dance with a difference. Leaving little to the imagination, The Blowhole – the signature dance of the establishment – would have made a less jaded audience blush.

  Van Cleef was enjoying himself; everything was going to plan – so far. The night before, he and one of his lieutenants had familiarised themselves with the unique layout and facilities of the club. The huge tanks and underwater feeding cages in the back, specially designed for sharks, suggested a unique plan. Always let your surroundings dictate the approach, never the other way round, was something Van Cleef never forgot. To make a hit look like an accident was an art, and Van Cleef was the Picasso of hit men.

  There were a few basic rules: everything had to blend in and look logical and plausible – cause and effect. Ideally, the target should never be the only victim; confusion was the best cover. Suspicion and blame should always point away from the real perpetrator, to give the authorities someone or something else to seize upon. What Van Cleef had found in the club during the night ticked all the right boxes. All one had to have were nerves of steel and the courage to see it through. Van Cleef and his men had an abundant supply of both.

  ‘We’ll have to go out the back later, so I can have a closer look,’ said Van Cleef, lifting his glass. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Are you a scientist?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I must warn you, the material is rather technical.’

  ‘That won’t be a problem.’

  ‘Good.’ Cavendish was starting to relax. The exciting man sitting next to him was sending his hormones wild.

  ‘Do you come here often?’ asked Van Cleef, putting his hand on Cavendish’s thigh.

  ‘I’m a regular. What about you?’

  ‘My first time.’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Too early to tell.’

  ‘Then let me show you round. The loos are particularly interesting. Everything is made of glass, even the urinals …’

  ‘All right. But first, can I have a quick look?’ asked Van Cleef, his face like a mask. Cavendish unzipped his shoulder bag and let Van Cleef look inside.

  ‘The professor’s notebook?’

  ‘Yes.’ Van Cleef pulled out his iPhone, took a photo of two of the handwritten pages and sent the photo to the Blackburn lab in San Francisco. The scientists, who had been working on the Kozakievicz matter for over a year, would be able to confirm authenticity. Macbeth, a careful man, had insisted on this. Van Cleef was to wait for confirmation before going any further. ‘As soon as I get the okay, we can go ahead,’ said Van Cleef, holding up his phone.

  ‘Clever,’ said Cavendish. ‘You have the money?’ Van Cleef pointed to the backpack at his feet. ‘A quick peek?’

  ‘Sure.’ As he opened the backpack, Van Cleef knew this was the right moment. Reaching into his pocket, he searched for the little capsule. Holding it carefully between two fingers, he pulled out his hand and quickly dropped the capsule into Cavendish’s glass. The capsule dissolved instantly. Five hundred thousand, thought Cavendish, his heart beating like a drum. He had never seen so much cash before.

  ‘A dance, until I get the go ahead? What do you say?’ asked Van Cleef, handing Cavendish his glass.

  ‘Why not?’ Cavendish drained his glass and got up.

  Van Cleef took Cavendish by the hand. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Are you just going to leave that there?’ asked Cavendish, pointing to the backpack on the floor.

  ‘It’s your money, unless the professor’s book is a fake,’ Van Cleef replied, laughing. ‘Don’t worry; no one’s going to steal an old backpack – come.’

  What Cavendish couldn’t have known was the reason behind this cavalier approach: the man sitting to his right was one of Van Cleef’s men. The backpack was perfectly safe …

  Van Cleef didn’t find it easy to embrace another man like a lover and dance with him in a public place. However, if his work demanded it, he would play his part to perfection, and he did. In the unlikely event that the notebook was a fake, he would immediately withdraw. If not, everything would proceed as planned. Just before the music stopped, the phone in his pocket began to vibrate. He pulled out the phone and looked at the text message. ‘We’re on,’ he whispered into Cavendish’s ear. ‘One more dance to seal the deal?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Cavendish, slurring his words.

  Van Cleef knew the drugs would kick in soon. He could already feel the change in Cavendish’s demeanour; he was unsteady on his feet. It was time to leave the dance floor. ‘Come, let’s go out the back,’ he said, holding Cavendish firmly around the waist.

  The dark, labyrinthine engine room of the club behind the huge fish tanks and all the machinery required to keep them going, was popular with regulars looking for a place to do drugs, or just fool around. Although strictly off limits, the management knew about this and did little to stop it. The maintenance staff looking after the tanks were in on it and enjoyed generous tips for ‘turning a blind eye’. There were no CCTV cameras in this part of the club.

  No one gave the two men walking into the back a second look. Locked in an intimate embrace and a little unsteady on their feet, they looked like all the other couples moving around in the dark. Drugs were the norm, cocaine the preferred poison. Cavendish was already delirious and Van Cleef had to hold him
up and drag him along. Access to the large shark tank was at the end of the corridor. Two of Van Cleef’s men were already there – waiting. A sizeable tip ensured no one would disturb them for a while.

  ‘Here, look after this,’ said Van Cleef, handing his backpack and Cavendish’s shoulder bag to one of his men. ‘The lock?’

  ‘Removed.’

  Van Cleef dragged Cavendish over to the steel feeding cage. Out of sight of the dance floor below, it gave access to the top of the pool. The grate covering the pool was usually only opened after hours at feeding time, and was secured with a padlock and chain. Looking down into the illuminated pool, Van Cleef could see several large sharks circling slowly below. Leaning over the pool was very popular with gay couples looking for a perfect setting for an illicit adventure: danger above, and danger below.

  ‘Open it, quickly!’ said Van Cleef. ‘There isn’t much time.’

  Using both hands, one of the men lifted up the heavy steel trapdoor. Sensing movement in the feeding area above, the sharks came closer. Van Cleef was about to drop Cavendish into the tank, when he thought of something. ‘Cut his hand,’ he hissed. ‘There, that rough edge will do.’ The man standing next to him ran Cavendish’s hand over the jagged steel until it began to bleed. Van Cleef knew at once that this was the masterstroke. Smiling, he watched the droplets of blood turn the water cloudy-pink.

  The pain in his hand sent a warning signal to Cavendish’s addled brain. He opened his eyes and stared at Van Cleef leaning over him. When he turned his head to look at his bleeding hand, he saw the sharks cruising past below him. Cavendish began to panic. Just before Van Cleef dropped him headfirst into the tank, he lashed out with his right hand and dug his fingernails deep into Van Cleef’s wrist.

  ‘Let’s go, guys!’ said Van Cleef, and quickly closed the trapdoor. As he turned to leave, he saw through the grate that one of the sharks had already ripped off Cavendish’s right arm. The feeding frenzy had begun.

  The couple nearest the bar on the dance floor saw it first; a human head floated into view under their feet. Eyes wide open, and with the contorted mouth frozen in a silent scream, it looked like something out of a horror movie or a ghost train ride. At first, the couple thought it was part of the setting, but when a shark shot out of the shadows and began to rip away the cheeks, they began to scream. Things turned ugly after that. Panic is like wildfire; once it starts, it’s difficult to stop.