The Hidden Genes of Professor K

by Gabriel Farago

  Cavendish walked over to the small wall safe, put on a pair of latex gloves and punched in the combination. The door opened with a beep. That’s when he heard it: footsteps outside, approaching! Alarmed, he spun around and tried to busy himself with a few papers lying on the desk. The gloves, he thought, his heart beating like a drum, but it was already too late. The door, which he had left ajar, opened slowly.

  ‘Good morning, Doctor Cavendish,’ said the late professor’s assistant, a young scientist named Akhil from Sri Lanka. ‘Shall I come back later?’

  ‘Give me a couple of minutes, I won’t be long,’ replied Cavendish, trying to appear calm. Smiling, Akhil withdrew. Taking a deep breath, Cavendish reached into the safe and pulled out Professor K’s familiar notebook. Relieved, he slipped it into the pocket of his gown, closed the safe, took off the gloves and quickly left the lab. The fact he had just betrayed a dead colleague and stolen from his employer didn’t cross his mind.

  3

  Jack Rogan looked at the army of waiting drivers holding up signs and was trying to find one with his name on it. Having experienced hair-raising trips to the Kuragin Chateau from Paris’ Charles de Gaulle airport in the past, he had taken his publicist’s advice and arranged a hire car to take him there this time. Don’t be silly, Jack, you’re a celebrity now, he remembered Rebecca Armstrong tell him sternly. You can afford it; trust me.

  Remembering Rebecca’s words brought a smile to his face. Not only was she his publicist and literary agent, she had taken over managing his entire life. Then again, he had to admit he did need some managing, especially after the Wizards of Oz – a notorious outlaw bikie gang – had burnt down his house and he had lost all his personal belongings. Almost all, he thought, smiling. Because his house didn’t have a garage, his beloved MG was parked in the street at the time and had escaped the inferno. The material link with the past was all but gone and Rebecca had done a sterling job rebuilding his future. Jack didn’t mind. In fact, he was looking forward to seeing his new penthouse on the harbour, which Rebecca had bought – sight unseen – and had furnished for him, for the first time.

  Jack had spent the past year in New York rewriting his book, The Disappearance of Anna Popov, in preparation for publication. After the tragic events that led to Anna Popov’s spectacular rescue in the Australian outback, Jack had discovered certain secrets of the past during his research which, had they been made public, could have destroyed the lives of people he held dear.

  Torn between what was right and what would sell, Jack had made a courageous decision. The book would not be published. Anna’s grateful parents were relieved. However, Jack’s New York publishers were outraged and threatened to sue. Jack stood his ground. Then, unexpectedly, Countess Kuragin and Professor Popov – Anna’s parents – changed their minds. They encouraged Jack to publish his book after all, provided he was prepared to leave certain sensitive parts out of it to protect the privacy of those most exposed. Jack accepted the compromise and threw himself into the task of rewriting the book. He had spent the past year in New York under the watchful eye of Rebecca, desperately trying to repair the damage to his reputation and his relationship with the hostile publishers.

  Fortunately, success heals all. The much-awaited book was an overnight sensation and all was forgiven. Somehow, even the delay had worked in his favour. His reputation intact, Jack was once again the celebrated author and darling of the New York literary set.

  With the exhausting book launch behind him, Jack had pleaded for a little time off and was on his way back to Australia. You want to go for a month? Are you out of your mind? he heard Rebecca complain after he had finished all the interviews. Two weeks, that’s it! I need you here! They had settled for three and Jack was enjoying the freedom of being able to do his own thing for once. No more book signings, no more TV shows, no dressing up, he thought, no shaving, no Rebecca! Bliss!

  Jack had decided to interrupt his trip back home to Australia to visit Anna and the countess. He wanted to deliver signed copies of his book to them personally; they deserved that courtesy. After all, it was their story. And besides, Jack was curious to see how Tristan was growing up. He hadn’t seen any of them for almost a year. Emails and skyping just wasn’t the same.

  It was almost dark by the time the black hire car pulled up in front of the chateau. The countess had reopened her chateau as an exclusive boutique hotel, which had always been immensely popular with the super-rich looking for privacy and style and an opportunity to rub shoulders with a blue-blooded Russian countess.

  As he got out of the car, Jack remembered the first time he and Rebecca had visited the Kuragin Chateau. The intimidating, liveried doorman had taken the two first-timers under his wing and inducted them into chateau etiquette. That was two years ago, Jack reminded himself. It had been the beginning of an extraordinary adventure leading to the sensational rescue of the countess’ daughter, Anna. The recent publication of his book, which finally told the curious public what really happened after Anna disappeared from Alice Springs all those years ago, was the culmination of a long, exhausting journey.

  The countess heard the car pull up and rushed outside. ‘Here you are at last!’ she said excitedly, kissing Jack on both cheeks, ‘The famous author returns. Let me have a look at you. A little thinner than I remember,’ she teased, linking arms with Jack. ‘We’ll do something about that! Dinner’s waiting – come.’

  ‘Why is it women always want to fatten me up?’ remarked Jack.

  ‘Because we are fond of you.’

  ‘How’s Anna, and Tristan?’ asked Jack, following the countess into the foyer.

  ‘Anna is in Paris; specialists …’ replied the countess with a hint of sadness in her voice. ‘She’s slowly improving, but Tristan hasn’t stopped talking about you all week. And there’s someone else here who wants to meet you …’

  ‘Oh? Who?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  As soon as Jack stepped into the grand foyer, he sensed something. Jack stopped and looked up. Tristan was watching him from the gallery above. Their eyes locked. He has grown quite a bit, thought Jack, watching the boy. Quite tall for fifteen. Then slowly – one step at a time – Tristan came down the stairs. Jack didn’t move, nor did the countess. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Tristan stopped without taking his eyes off Jack. Then suddenly, he ran towards him, threw his arms around him and hugged him tightly. ‘I knew you would come,’ he whispered. ‘You’ve stayed away far too long.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Jack, gently stroking the boy’s head. ‘I had to finish the book. You know that.’ Tristan nodded. ‘Here, I have something for you.’ Jack opened his duffel bag and pulled out two copies of his book. ‘Fresh off the press and hand delivered. The first two copies in France, I believe. The French translation will be released next month.’ With that, Jack took a bow and presented one copy to the countess, and the other to Tristan. Anna’s striking painting, which had become the cover of the book, brought tears to the countess’ eyes.

  ‘That’s quite a welcome,’ said a voice from the other end of the foyer. Jack turned around and looked at the young woman slowly walking towards him out of the shadows. Her luxurious red hair shone like a beacon as she stepped into the circle of light.

  ‘I’m not always this popular,’ replied Jack, watching the woman with interest.

  ‘That’s not what I heard.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Jack, I want you to meet my niece,’ said the countess, turning to the young woman, ‘Dr Alexandra Delacroix.’

  After dinner in her private dining room, the countess excused herself and joined the ‘paying guests’, as she called them, for coffee and liqueurs in the music room. ‘It’s expected,’ she explained. ‘It won’t take long.’ Tristan had reluctantly gone back upstairs to finish his homework and Jack had to promise to come to his room later for a chat, man to man. This left Jack and Dr Delacroix momentarily alone at the dinner table.

  ‘So, you are coming to
Sydney,’ said Jack, leaning back in the beautiful eighteenth-century dining chair. Jack had a good eye for antiques and lamented the loss of his own collection in the fire with a pang of regret. ‘A bit unexpected?’

  ‘Yes, Professor Kozakievicz – Professor K, as we used to call him – died suddenly and I’m to replace him,’ she replied, a melancholy look clouding her eyes. ‘He was a wonderful colleague and a true friend.’

  She’s so young, thought Jack, enjoying the closeness of the fascinating young scientist. ‘And what exactly is it that you do?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m exploring the mysteries of the human genome.’

  ‘Wow! Is that what Professor K was working on?’

  ‘Sort of … He was on the cusp of an important discovery relating to cancer when he died.’

  ‘What kind of discovery?’

  ‘The professor’s last words to me were that he had actually discovered a breakthrough in cancer diagnosis and treatment.’

  ‘But that’s extraordinary!’ exclaimed Jack. ‘And you are to carry on his work?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You must be very good.’

  Dr Delacroix didn’t reply. Instead, she was watching the intriguing man she had heard so much about with interest. He has green eyes, she thought. How unusual. Jack’s casual, self-effacing manner had put her instantly at ease and she enjoyed talking to him. In her line of work, meeting attractive men was rather difficult.

  ‘Have you got somewhere to stay?’ asked Jack, lowering his voice.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Well then, why don’t you help me explore my new penthouse, which incidentally, I’ve never seen. My literary agent – minder would be more accurate, I suppose – assures me it’s very spacious. I’m returning to New York in three weeks, but you can stay as long as you like.’

  Dr Delacroix burst out laughing. ‘You’re joking, surely.’

  ‘No, I’m perfectly serious. I always wanted a research scientist as a flatmate.’

  ‘Do you always invite women you’ve just met to share your apartment?’

  ‘Only attractive ones,’ bantered Jack.

  ‘They warned me about you!’

  ‘What, the incorrigible rascal bit? Surely, as a true scientist you wouldn’t believe such scurrilous rumours?’

  ‘Certainly not!’

  ‘It’s all settled then.’

  ‘Let me think about it.’

  ‘All right. Why don’t we coordinate our flights Down Under and you can think about it along the way. How about that?’

  Dr Delacroix held out her hand. ‘Okay,’ she said, a sparkle in her eye.

  ‘Deal,’ said Jack and shook her hand.

  4

  Isis had only one thing on her mind; to get out of the hospital as fast as possible. The horror of witnessing her mother’s appalling death was taking its toll. She almost threw up in the lift and couldn’t stop shaking. Afraid she might collapse, Boris held her tightly and Lola tried to wipe the blood from her pale cheeks with her handkerchief. Her mind racing, Isis was trying to come to terms with her mother’s dying words, ‘Stars, hide your fires.’

  As soon as they stepped outside, Isis felt better. Calm down and think, she told herself as they hurried towards the waiting car. Boris opened the door and helped her get in.

  ‘You okay?’ asked Lola, handing Isis a bottle of water.

  ‘I will be … in a moment.’

  ‘What do we do now?’

  Isis took a deep breath and looked at Lola sitting next to her. ‘Ring my lawyer.’

  ‘But it’s four in the morning.’

  ‘We are going straight to my parents’ house. Tell him to meet us there.’

  The quiet Chelsea street was cordoned off, the flashing blue lights of a dozen police vehicles casting crazy shadows across the wet pavement. Police officers wearing flak jackets and armed with machine guns patrolled the barricades, and commandoes dressed all in black guarded the entrance of the elegant Georgian mansion at the end of the street. Men in white overalls were examining a vehicle – all four doors wide open – parked in front of the house.

  Before Lola could stop her, Isis hurried across to one of the police officers standing at the barricade. ‘Who’s in charge here?’ she demanded curtly, her voice hoarse. ‘I want to see the officer in charge!’

  The police officer looked suspiciously at the breathless woman with dishevelled hair standing in front of him. ‘He’s a bit busy right now, luv,’ he said. ‘This place is off limits; better push off.’

  ‘Don’t patronise me! That’s my parents’ house over there. I am George Elms.’

  ‘And I am Mickey Mouse. For the last time, get lost!’

  Isis was about to vent her frustration and anger by hurling a barrage of abuse at the infuriating officer, when a man grabbed her from behind. ‘Don’t! Let me handle this, Georgie, please,’ he said. ‘I’m Sir Charles Huntley, solicitor,’ continued the man, addressing the police officer. ‘And this is my client, George Elms, son of Lord and Lady Elms … Am I making myself clear?’

  ‘Yes Sir,’ replied the perplexed officer, sizing up the strange little man in front of him.

  Shortish, overweight, in his middle sixties, Sir Charles had looked after George Elms’ business affairs since his client’s Eton days some twenty years ago. As Isis’ solicitor, he was used to the unusual and the unexpected. ‘I would like to speak to the officer in charge, please,’ he said calmly.

  ‘Wait here.’

  Sir Charles turned to his client. ‘What do you think you’re doing, Georgie? Do you want to end up in the back of a police van under arrest? The press would have a ball! You look terrible, by the way.’

  ‘Thanks, Charles,’ said Isis, relieved to see her friend and confidant.

  ‘What on earth has happened?’ asked Sir Charles.

  ‘My father was shot dead in the house and my mother died in hospital less than an hour ago.’

  ‘Jesus! I’m so sorry! Anything else?’

  ‘That’s about all I know.’

  ‘Then, let’s fill in the gaps, shall we?’ Isis nodded. ‘And please let me do the talking – okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And one more thing, George; you are legally a man – clear?’ said Sir Charles.

  ‘Yes, yes … we’ve been through this before; it’s tedious.’

  ‘It may be tedious to you, but people do get a little confused,’ Sir Charles prattled on, trying to distract his obviously distressed client. ‘You may be one of the highest paid rock stars on the planet, but you still have to live in the real world occasionally.’

  ‘Yes, Charles.’

  ‘This is one of those occasions; are you with me?’ Isis nodded. ‘Let’s try and stick to the facts – okay? Isis is your stage name. You dress like a woman, you look like a woman, you consider yourself a woman, but you are George, Edward, Elms, a man. You do understand that, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m a woman trapped in a man’s body, that’s all. I can’t help it if I was born with a dick …’

  Sir Charles tried hard not to show his exasperation. ‘Please, Georgie, not now! Do it for me?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘My God, you do lead a complicated life!’

  ‘That’s why I have chaps like you – to simplify things for me,’ said Isis.

  ‘I thought you were in Russia on tour.’

  ‘Flew in last night, as soon as I heard.’

  ‘Well, the private jet does come in handy after all … isn’t that right, Lola?’

  ‘It does come in handy at times,’ Lola agreed.

  ‘Tell me this is all a bad dream, Charles,’ interrupted Isis.

  ‘I wish I could. Shush; here comes the officer in charge now,’ whispered Sir Charles, holding up his hand. ‘Remember what I just told you.’

  ‘Daniel Cross, MI5,’ said the man in the immaculate dark suit, holding out his hand.

  ‘MI5? I thought this was a matter for the Metropolitan Police,’ said Sir Charles
, carefully watching the man.

  ‘It is, but when a member if Her Majesty’s Government is involved, as is the case here, we like to keep an eye on things – especially in these unsettled times. I’m sure you understand. Please follow me. Just you and your client, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Sorry, Lola,’ said Isis, following the man to an unmarked black van parked in a side street.

  The man slid the door open and spoke to someone inside. Two men in suits jumped out and walked away. Spooks, thought Sir Charles. The inside of the van was full of electronic equipment, computer screens and wires.

  Sir Charles and Isis sat down on a bench seat facing Cross. ‘Allow me to introduce my client,’ began Sir Charles.

  ‘I know who your client is,’ interrupted Cross. He reached for a slim manila folder, put it on his lap and opened it. ‘I know you prefer to call yourself Isis, but I would prefer to address you by your real name, George Elms,’ said Cross, looking at Isis. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Your personal assistant received a phone call from the London Metropolitan Police during your Moscow concert last night, informing her that your father had been killed, and your mother was dying.’ Cross paused and turned a page. ‘Your private plane landed five hours later in London, and you went straight to the hospital where you arrived at two-thirty in the morning. Your mother passed away at three-forty six—’

  ‘I’m sure you have your reasons,’ interrupted Sir Charles, the tone of his voice icy, ‘but we already know all this.’

  ‘I appreciate that; please bear with me. Lord Elms attended a cabinet meeting at three yesterday afternoon and then met with the PM in his office for about an hour,’ Cross continued, undeterred. ‘He was due to chair a committee meeting after that, and then give a speech at the French Embassy, followed by dinner.’ Cross paused again – Sir Charles thought for effect – turned a page in his file and then continued. ‘Apparently, Lord Elms felt unwell and asked his driver to take him home after the committee meeting. He arrived at his house at seven fifty-five. Lady Elms was at home alone last night; it was the maid’s night off and the cook had left at around six after preparing dinner. We understand that the intruders entered the house from the back a few minutes later.’