The Hidden Genes of Professor K

by Gabriel Farago

  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 fish-net 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, her 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.

  ‘Hush … You must rest,’ cried Isis, reaching for her mother’s limp hand.

  The touch of her son’s hand seemed to revive Lady Elms. ‘Great danger … for you,’ she warned. With her eyesight gone and blood filling her lungs, Lady Elms began to choke. ‘My …’ she whispered, her voice barely audible, ‘our secret place … hide and seek – remember?’

  ‘I do. But what—’

  ‘Stars, hide your fires …’ With her last breath fading, the unfinished sentence turned into a final farewell from a loving mother leaving an inconsolable son to mourn her tragic departure.

  The surgeon’s trained ear heard it first: the alarm on the life support system had been activated. He burst into the room, followed by Boris and Lola. The furiously flashing lights on the monitors told him everything he needed to know: his patient was dead. Blood was still oozing out of Lady Elms’ open mouth. Kneeling on the floor next to the bed, her cheeks covered in blood, Isis was s
obbing uncontrollably. Sadly shaking his head, the surgeon walked over to the machine and turned it off.

  1

  Calypso, a former Russian icebreaker, was leaving Hamilton Island. It had spent the past five days cruising along the Great Barrier Reef on its way south to Sydney. Purchased for a pittance by Blackburn Pharmaceuticals from the Russian navy in the nineteen nineties, the massive ship had undergone a major transformation. The dilapidated, discarded icebreaker had become a state-of-the-art research vessel, its bulky exterior a clever disguise for the sophistication within. Equipped with cutting-edge communications technology rivalling that of the US navy, and laboratories that would have been the envy of many a university or teaching hospital, it ploughed the high seas as the floating boardroom and proud flagship of Blackburn Pharmaceuticals.

  Alistair Macbeth, founder, managing director and major shareholder of the international pharmaceutical giant, was an enigma. Because he gave no interviews, didn’t mix with his peers, had no fixed address and reported to no one, the press didn’t know what to make of him. Shunning the limelight that went with his self-made billionaire status, he lived like a recluse on Calypso and ruled his massive pharmaceutical empire from his luxurious stateroom on board the vessel. Because so little was known about him personally – apart from the fact he was a paraplegic – speculation and rumour had filled the frustrating gaps left by missing facts. The press didn’t mind; speculation and rumour were the grist of the insatiable tabloid mill, and the elusive Alistair Macbeth was a steady source of both. Annoyingly, the only thing missing was scandal.

  His staggering wealth, power, influence and rugged good looks, periodically tempted hungry newshounds to pry into his affairs – usually with little success. Some had even tried to uncover his murky past, only to find smoke and mirrors thwarting their efforts at every turn. Macbeth fiercely guarded his privacy and knew how to protect it. If a curious journalist came too close to something he wasn’t supposed to know, or in some way stepped over the line, Macbeth made sure he never did it again. This well-known cat and mouse game had gone on for years.

  Macbeth surrounded himself with only the best. With several languages and a Harvard MBA on her impressive CV, Carlotta O’Brien was very good at what she did. As Macbeth’s personal assistant, she had to be. Macbeth’s demands and expectations were legendary. Confined to a wheelchair, he had become a man who rarely slept and never rested. His useless body had turned him into a cerebral creature with an extraordinary mind and a voracious appetite for work.

  Carlotta knocked softly, and entered the stateroom. Macbeth was sitting in his wheelchair by the desk as usual. ‘Adrian Cavendish for you,’ she said, handing the satellite phone, which was encrypted with an untraceable number, to her boss. Macbeth waited until Carlotta had left the room before taking the call.

  ‘You have something for me?’ asked Macbeth.

  ‘He’s dead,’ answered Adrian Cavendish, his voice sounding hollow.

  ‘When?’

  ‘The cleaner found him this morning in the lab.’

  A hint of a smile creased Macbeth’s face; so far, everything was going according to plan. ‘When are you taking over?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s a problem …’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I will not be replacing him—’

  ‘What?’ interrupted Macbeth impatiently, ‘Why not?’

  ‘Apparently, he appointed someone else …’

  ‘You can’t be serious! Who?’

  ‘A French scientist. A former colleague of his. She’s a leading expert in genomics. The CEO just told me.’

  ‘Do you know who she is?’

  ‘Yes. Dr Alexandra Delacroix.’

  ‘But you assured me—’

  ‘I’m just as disappointed as you are,’ Cavendish cut in curtly.

  That’s an understatement, thought Macbeth, considering his options. Losing Cavendish at such a critical phase in this groundbreaking research project was a major blow. A breakthrough in cancer treatment could mean billions to Blackburn Pharmaceuticals. However, if it fell into the wrong hands – competitors, for example – it could cost the company a fortune. Blackburn Pharmaceuticals was the sole producer of a recently discovered drug that significantly slowed down the advance of the dreadful disease. It had taken years and many millions to develop, and was without doubt the company’s top earner. If there were a breakthrough in prevention or reversal, the drug could become obsolete overnight. Macbeth had made his fortune by staying ahead of his competitors – at any cost – and silencing his critics. ‘Do you have any idea how far he got?’ he asked.

  ‘Very close, that’s all I know. He barely left his lab during the past few days. He worked like a madman. Alone, as usual.’

  ‘He must have recorded his findings, surely.’

  ‘He always kept meticulous records of everything he did.’

  ‘Do you know where they are?’

  ‘Usually, he kept his notes in a safe in the lab.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s risky …’

  ‘I pay very well; you know that!’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘You’ll have to do better do that, Adrian, before it’s too late,’ said Macbeth, steel in his voice, ‘for all of us,’ he added quietly, and hung up.

  The veiled threat wasn’t lost on Cavendish. Macbeth was a master when it came to formulating an effective threat. He was also a master when the time came to carry it out. With so much at stake, there was no room for error.

  Moments after Macbeth had hung up, Carlotta re-entered the room. ‘I want you to find out everything you can about a Dr Alexandra Delacroix,’ said Macbeth, holding up the satellite phone.

  Nodding, Carlotta walked over to the wheelchair, took the phone from her boss’ hand and left the room without saying a word.

  2

  The discovery of the dead professor in his lab that morning had sent the whole institute into a spin. The cafeteria was empty, young PhD students and researchers were walking around in a daze, and the corridors were eerily silent. The CEO had called an urgent board meeting and had locked himself in his office. The undertakers had removed the body and taken it to the morgue in the hospital next door. Professor K’s personal physician had been notified and was on his way to examine the body and issue a death certificate.

  Pacing nervously up and down in his lab, Cavendish was considering what to do. Making a copy and putting the notebook back in the safe wasn’t an option. If the material was as valuable as he suspected, it was critical it disappear without a trace. The material could then safely resurface elsewhere, disguised as a new ‘discovery’ without arousing suspicion or being linked to Professor K’s work in any way.

  Macbeth’s last words had triggered alarm bells that refused to stop ringing. Because Cavendish had always dealt with faceless intermediaries, he had no idea who he was doing business with. Neither Macbeth, nor Blackburn Pharmaceuticals had ever been mentioned. However, because the stakes were so high, and the money involved outrageous, he realised that serious pharmaceutical interests had to be present. Industrial espionage in scientific circles was not uncommon. He also realised he was playing a dangerous game that could not only cost him his career, but also send him to jail. In a strange way, however, he found the danger exciting, and the secrecy and cloak and dagger meetings in gay clubs exhilarating and empowering. And on top of all that, was the money …

  The first approach had seemed harmless enough. Cavendish had met a young American in one of the gay bars he frequented. They had a brief affair, and his new lover introduced him to a friend – a South African – who appeared to know a lot about Professor K’s work. All of this happened shortly after an article by Professor K describing his groundbreaking work was published in Nature two years earlier. After that, one thing led to another. Lavish dinners in gay clubs and an all-expenses paid holiday for himself and his lover in an exclusive Fijian resort prepared the way.

  At first, Cavendish su
pplied only little snippets of information about Professor K’s research. The payments in return – always in cash – were outlandish and quickly had a significant impact on his lifestyle. After a while, Cavendish was put on a monthly ‘retainer’, which was more than double his salary at the institute.

  After that, there was no turning back. Any significant piece of information attracted a six-figure ‘bonus’. Scientists aren’t well paid. The new car, a Bondi beach apartment, expensive clothes and holidays were all very easy to get used to. Cavendish’s status and reputation in the gay community soared. Corruption had become a way of life.

  Dr Delacroix’s unexpected appointment came as a major blow. Professor’ K’s illness was no secret and his death not unexpected. However, Cavendish had been certain he would be the one to succeed him. The French interloper had changed all that. His cash flow and lavish lifestyle were now both under threat. Cavendish realised there was one last opportunity to make some serious money: he had to secure Professor K’s notes and demand a big payment. He also knew that if he wanted to succeed in this, he had to act swiftly before things returned to normal. Confusion was always a good cover.

  As a senior staff member, Cavendish had ready access to all the labs and offices in the institute. He used to visit Professor K’s lab frequently, as they had worked together on many projects over the years and shared information. His presence in Professor K’s lab, even on this tragic day, would therefore appear perfectly normal.

  Carrying his notepad and a computer printout, Cavendish walked down the deserted corridor leading to Professor K’s lab and stepped inside. A quick look around told him that the professor’s notebook wasn’t in its usual place on the workbench. It seemed unlikely he would have taken it home – which he used to do occasionally – because he had barely left his lab during the past week. It has to be in the safe, thought Cavendish, running his fingers nervously through his hair, unless someone has already secured it! He had watched the professor open his safe on many occasions and made a mental note of the combination. From time to time, the professor would change the combination according to institute policy. Cavendish had even helped him do it. They had often laughed about this. ‘Who on earth could possibly be interested in a few notes?’ the professor used to joke. ‘I can hardly understand them myself.’