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

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘Correct.’

  Señora Gonzales took her time before replying. ‘His daughter?’ she ventured quietly.

  ‘Bravo! Yes – Dr Rosen. I knew you’d work it out.’

  ‘Now we are really delving into hidden corners, aren’t we?’ said Señora Gonzales, a troubled look on her face. She sensed she was passing a point of no return. To stop now was unthinkable, to go back impossible, yet she was strangely afraid … afraid of what she might find. ‘You realise of course that Dr Rosen would be my son’s half-sister; if he’s still alive, that is,’ she added sadly.

  ‘I’m well aware of it. And that’s our link of course; has to be. As you know, Dr Rosen is the head of the Rosen Foundation, doing wonderful work in some of the poorest countries in the world, especially in East Africa. She’s an ophthalmic surgeon and fundraiser extraordinaire. She has restored the eyesight of countless unfortunates across the globe. She’s quite something. We’ve shared some amazing adventures … But you would have read about all that in the book. I’ve tracked her down, which wasn’t easy – she travels a lot – and I’ve just spoken with her …’

  Señora Gonzales sat up with a jolt. ‘You have?’ she said. ‘Where did you find her?’

  ‘That’s the really interesting bit, I suppose, especially in light of what we spoke about in the afternoon. Nairobi – remember?’

  ‘I don’t quite follow.’

  ‘Dr Rosen is in Dadaab.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘It’s one the biggest refugee camps in the world at the moment. It’s in Kenya, close to the Somali border.’

  Señora Gonzales looked thunderstruck. ‘Kenya again,’ she whispered. ‘It’s turning up everywhere …’

  ‘It is,’ said Jack, and I’ll find out why.’

  ‘And how will you do that?’

  ‘By going there, of course. Tomorrow, in fact. I’ve arranged to meet Dr Rosen at the camp. And I’ve already spoken to Lola – she just returned with a very tired Tristan. Apparently, it was quite a flight. They were delayed in Boston. Air Force One was in the area and all flights were grounded. That’s why it took them so long to get back.’

  Jack turned to Señora Gonzales. ‘As long as Countess Kuragin doesn’t find out about all this, I’m in the clear. If she does, she’ll skin me alive,’ lamented Jack, lowering his voice. ‘I just hope the boy hasn’t posted anything on Facebook! Otherwise … Be that as it may, because Isis is travelling by sea to Boston, the plane isn’t needed. So we are free to go; we are leaving in the morning.’

  Señora Gonzales stood up. ‘Then you must get some sleep,’ she said. ‘I firmly believe you were somehow meant to come into our lives, right now at this extraordinary time.’

  ‘You may be right.’

  Señora Gonzales stopped at the door and reached for Jack’s hand. ‘I cannot tell you what all of this means to me. I must find my son. Now, before it’s too late. I must know what happened to him. Now, more than ever! You do understand, don’t you?’

  ‘I do.’

  Señora Gonzales turned to Jack and kissed him tenderly on the cheek. It was a spontaneous gesture of genuine affection and gratitude by an old woman nearing the end of her life, yearning for answers about a past too painful to remember, but impossible to forget. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Now I must go to my own room and face my ghosts … Sleep well.’

  Part IV

  Detego

  ‘The path

  to paradise

  begins in

  hell.’

  Dante Alighieri; Divine Comedy

  51

  Sir Charles looked at his watch. He’s late, he thought, trying to stay positive. He had arranged to meet his contact, a senior civil servant and good friend, at his club. He knew his friend was taking a huge risk in passing confidential information to him and Sir Charles was hoping he hadn’t changed his mind.

  To find out what Lord Elms had been investigating at the time of his death turned out to be almost impossible. The cone of silence that had descended upon the entire affair appeared impregnable. This had only hardened Sir Charles’ resolve to pursue the matter.

  Then Sir Charles had a lucky break: he discovered that his friend’s department had worked closely with Lord Elms and his team just before he died and assisted him with certain research. Ironically, it was Daniel Cross of MI5 who had let this slip during one of their briefings. Sir Charles was hoping the subject matter of the research would throw some light on what Lord Elms had been working on, and why.

  Here he is. Sir Charles stood up to welcome his friend.

  ‘Sorry, Charles. Diabolical traffic,’ said George Underwood.

  Sir Charles and Underwood had met at Oxford many years ago and remained friends ever since. Underwood owed Sir Charles a big favour. A few years ago, Sir Charles had helped his son deal with a serious negligent driving charge that could have sent him to jail and cost him his career.

  Sir Charles slapped his friend on the back. ‘Don’t worry, George. Scotch?’

  ‘Please.’

  Sir Charles liked the intimate atmosphere of his club. With privacy and discreet, attentive service assured, it was the perfect place to conduct a sensitive conversation well away from prying eyes and curious ears. It was obvious his guest thought so too, because he appeared to relax immediately. No doubt, the excellent scotch helped.

  ‘We may be in luck,’ said Underwood. He crossed his long legs and let himself sink into the comfortable leather Chesterfield. ‘I checked all the records …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The pieces of an intriguing jigsaw puzzle are beginning to fall into place.’

  Sir Charles ordered two more whiskies and waited until the waiter had withdrawn. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘You’ll be surprised. I double-checked everything to make sure we were not mistaken.’

  Sir Charles knew his friend was a cautious and meticulous man and therefore had no doubt that the information he was about to receive would be both accurate and reliable.

  ‘Lord Elms was investigating the illegal dumping of toxic waste along the Somali coast in the nineteen eighties and nineties. I know this sounds odd, but the records are clear. We even had to delve deep into our archives to retrieve some of the stuff he requested.’

  ‘That is strange,’ said Sir Charles, sipping his scotch. ‘The real question is, why? There has to be a lot more to all this. Otherwise, why all this secrecy and fuss about an issue that is now history?’

  Underwood smiled. ‘There is,’ he said, lowering his voice.

  ‘You know?’

  ‘Perhaps. What I’m about to tell you is all based on Whitehall corridor- whispers, if you know what I mean …’

  ‘I sure do. So what are the corridors whispering about?’

  ‘Apparently, Lord Elms digging up the past had a very specific purpose.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s all about the upcoming elections. You know the Conservatives are on the ropes and well behind in the polls – the papers are full of it. Losing government is a distinct possibility and most of it is due to the young, popular, charismatic Labour leader leading the charge.’

  ‘So? What could all this possibly have to do with illegal waste dumping in Somalia twenty years ago?’

  ‘A lot, as it turns out.’

  ‘More corridor whispers?’

  ‘Absolutely. You know there are no secrets in Whitehall, only rumours. Sooner or later, everything gets out … somehow. The trick is to separate fact from fiction and peel away exaggeration and gossip. If you can do that, you’ll eventually find the truth, or at least part of it.’

  ‘And you’ve been able to do that?’

  ‘Perhaps. I can only be the messenger delivering the rumours. The rest is up to you.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘So, what are the rumours telling us?’

  ‘It goes like this. For the Conservatives to have any chance at all of remaining in office, they somehow have to stop the Labour juggernau
t. Apparently, they’ve tried to do this for years now, but the man at the helm has turned out to be exactly what his public persona suggests, and that is what makes him so appealing to voters. He’s a young, talented, honest, squeaky-clean politician who gives voice to the masses who feel let down and ignored by years of Conservative rule and neglect. Tired of countless scandals and corruption, the voters are desperately searching for someone they can believe in and trust. He’s a champion of the underdog. Public opinion reflected in the polls strongly suggests that in David Huntington, they have found their man.’ Underwood sipped his scotch before continuing.

  ‘So, the question for the government is this: What can be done about it? The answer? Simple. Discredit the man at the top and destroy his image. But you have to be careful. You have to do this convincingly, with overwhelming proof to support your allegations or the whole thing will backfire and blow up in your face, giving your opponents even more credibility and power. In short, you need the right man to undertake this extremely important and delicate task, and it would appear that Lord Elms – an ardent supporter of the government – was that man.’

  ‘That’s hardly surprising,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Lord Elms has been a Conservative power-broker for decades. He’s guided at least two Conservative PM’s into office and kept them there. He was without question one of the most powerful, if not the most powerful and influential politician in the Conservative camp.’

  ‘And very well-connected at the Palace. They say he had the Queen’s ear,’ said Underwood. ‘Let’s not underestimate that.’

  ‘Correct. Politics was his life.’

  ‘He was a king-maker all right, and then chose to be the power behind the throne. That’s why he lasted so long. He held high office in the last two Conservative governments and was no doubt hoping to do the same, if this one got re-elected. If he could have pulled that off, it would have been quite a coup, right?’ said Underwood.

  ‘Coming from that far behind, sure,’ said Sir Charles. ‘However, that looks virtually impossible at the moment, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Sure, but that was precisely what he was working on; to pull off the impossible. And this whole affair and the underlying strategy is classic Elms; Machiavellian, behind the scenes, ruthless, clever—’

  ‘There is evidence of all this?’ interrupted Sir Charles, sitting on the edge of his seat and hanging on his friend’s every word. ‘Lord Elms didn’t strike me as a political dirt-digger.’

  ‘I’m only the messenger, remember?’ said Underwood, laughing. ‘But we live in difficult times. GFC aftermath, immigration problems, talk of leaving the European Union …’

  Sir Charles shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’m not convinced. It doesn’t fit. What about that brutal attack on Lord Elms and his wife? MI5 are hinting that the Italian Mafia was somehow behind it all, which makes it even more baffling.’

  ‘I heard that too, and it fits better than you may think.’

  ‘Oh? In what way?’

  ‘Do you know who the main player was in the illegal Somalian waste dumping enterprise?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘The Calabrian Mafia.’

  Sir Charles looked up, surprised. ‘Now, that is interesting,’ he said, ‘but it still doesn’t make sense.’ Sir Charles shook his head. ‘Assuming there is a connection, why would the Mafia carry out such a shocking, high-profile murder? Why murder a man who is making enquiries about something that happened twenty years ago? And why mutilate his wife? Doesn’t add up.’

  ‘Perhaps it does.’ Underwood was enjoying himself. He had more startling information, but was taking his time revealing it. This was quite deliberate. He wanted to lead his friend step-by-step to the extraordinary conclusion he had come to. ‘So, if you cannot effectively attack your political opponent, what do you do?’ Underwood asked rhetorically. ‘You attack those close to him and discredit your opponent by association – right? Provided you can establish a credible link,’ added Underwood. ‘Classic Elms.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘I did some more digging and, it would appear, so did Lord Elms. Not much is known about Huntington’s family and background. All the public knows is that he’s well-educated, married to a doctor, lives in a modest house in Putney, has two children attending the local school, and has rapidly risen through the ranks and was propelled to the top by talent and hard work.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘This is a bit of a fairytale and only part of the story. Huntington wasn’t born in the UK but abroad. He’s an illegitimate child and was brought up by a single mother. He spent his early childhood in Africa and was later sent to an exclusive boarding school in Kent. In effect, he grew up without a father. His mother never married. Exceptionally bright and good looking, he studied law at Oxford and excelled at cricket.’

  ‘Do we know who his father is?’

  ‘Ah. Murky waters … but as usual, you are asking the right questions,’ said Underwood, hinting that more was to come.

  ‘Nice bio, but is this all really relevant?’ interjected Sir Charles, the impatience in his voice obvious.

  ‘Oh, yes it is. Please hear me out.’

  ‘Sorry. Please go on.’

  ‘After graduating top of his class with honours, Huntington could have had any job he wanted. But what did he do? He went into politics and there, almost from day one, the doors began to open and opportunities and advancement kept coming his way until he ended up as the youngest Labour leader in British history.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘This meteoric rise didn’t happen all by itself,’ said Underwood. ‘Huntington had a mentor and a powerful backer who stood in the background pulling all the right strings and preparing the way for the golden boy. And that, my friend, is still very much the case today. Look; almost unlimited campaign funds, a sympathetic press moulding his public profile and praising his policies while at the same time attacking the government on all fronts? Almost too good to be true? How did he manage to do all this by himself without putting a foot wrong? The answer is, he didn’t. He had help on an almost unimaginable scale and Lord Elms found out about it. He had discovered Huntington’s Achilles heel and was gathering information for an attack. That’s what he was working on when he was killed.’

  For a while, Sir Charles sat in silence, digesting what he had heard. The implications of what his friend had just told him, if true, were staggering. ‘How did you find all this out so quickly?’ he asked.

  ‘All I had to do was listen to the corridor talk. The walls are abuzz with all kinds of sensational gossip. And then I had a little bit of luck …’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Lord Elms had only one trusted helper. A retired librarian called Maud.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She likes to play bridge, and has one weakness …’

  ‘Tell me; I can’t wait,’ joked Sir Charles.

  ‘Gin and Tonic. She even has a nickname: G&T. I have a close friend who plays bridge with her every Thursday night. They talked …’

  ‘What about?’ asked Sir Charles.

  ‘I’m only the messenger – remember?’

  ‘Huntington’s Achilles heel?’

  ‘Ah. That’s the real question here, right?’ said Underwood.

  ‘It would appear so. Do you know who this all-powerful, silent mentor standing in the shadows is supposed to be?’ said Sir Charles, carefully watching his friend.

  ‘I know enough for now, but not all of it, not yet. That’s exactly what Lord Elms was working on when he died. A lot more still needs to be done before all the pieces fall into place. It’s complicated, but we have enough to give it a go.’

  ‘Well? Are you going to tell me?’

  ‘Lord Elms’ project had a name. A kind of slogan if you like, a rather curious one. In fact, there were two. In the beginning, his team referred to the project as Detego.’

  ‘Any idea what that means?’ asked Sir Charles.

  ‘How�
�s your Latin?’

  ‘Ah … Detego … Something like uncover, reveal, lay bare?’

  ‘Not bad. Try unmask.’

  ‘Oh? Why that?’

  ‘More corridor whispers, this time about MI5 and what was apparently found hanging around Lord Elms’ neck after the attack—’

  ‘No one said anything about that,’ interrupted Sir Charles.

  ‘True. It was all hushed up, but this is all rumour – remember?’

  ‘So, what was it?’

  ‘A Venetian carnival mask. And not just any mask. In fact, it was one of the most bizarre and recognisable masks.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The Medico della Peste, the Plague Doctor mask. Originally, it wasn’t a carnival mask at all, but something worn by physicians treating plague victims. It was thought to be a method of preventing the spread of that deadly disease.’

  ‘How odd. A message?’

  ‘Yes. A memento mori,’ said Underwood. ‘Latin for “remember you have to die”. Classic Mafia. They like to leave something behind, as a warning.’

  ‘Like a bloody horse’s head in your bed?’ joked Sir Charles.

  ‘Something like that, but consider this: first we have Project Detego – unmask – but then the name changes …’

  ‘Word games?’

  ‘Lord Elms was a classical scholar. Each of his projects had a name. Quirky habit.’

  ‘Hidden messages?’

  ‘You’re getting closer.’

  ‘What’s the new name?’ asked Sir Charles.

  ‘Stars, hide your fires.’

  Sir Charles looked stunned. ‘Now, that is interesting …’ he said after a while.

  ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘But not for reasons you may think,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Do you know what Lady Elms said just before she died; her very last words?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Her son was with her when she passed away. First, she told him that he was in great danger and then, just before she died, she said the cryptic words, “Stars, hide your fires”. What do you make of that?’

  ‘But that’s incredible! There has to be a connection, surely. But what does it all mean?’ said Underwood.