The Hidden Genes of Professor K

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘I have already contacted Sir Charles,’ said Lola. ‘He will meet us at the airport.’

  ‘Excellent. We’ll go straight to the Elms’ residence where it all happened and start from there.’

  ‘If they let us,’ said Lola.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Jack’s mobile sitting on top of his iPad suddenly came to life, the familiar ring tone sounding surprisingly shrill and strange in the confines of the cabin, humming with the noise of the powerful engines. It was the first time his phone had rung in days.

  ‘Alexandra!’ said Jack, answering the phone. ‘I tried to call you; did you get my messages?’

  ‘Yes, just now. I …’ Her voice faded away, banished by an annoying crackle and a monotonous buzzing noise. Jack held up his phone and shook it.

  ‘We need to talk, Jack,’ said Alexandra, drifting back. ‘I’m in serious trouble …’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Trouble; I need your help.’

  ‘I can hardly hear you,’ Jack shouted.

  ‘Speak to Katerina; she’ll explain.’ Then the voice went dead and all of Jack’s attempts to call back were unsuccessful. The plane was approaching a storm and passing through turbulence, wreaking havoc with the electronics. The pilot asked for all phones and devices to be turned off.

  That’s it for now, thought Jack, a worried look on his face. I wonder what’s happened.

  ‘What was all that about?’ asked Lola, mixing another vodka martini.

  ‘Not sure, but it didn’t sound good.’

  ‘Trouble with the girlfriend?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. And she isn’t my girlfriend.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Lola handed Jack his drink. ‘Perhaps this will help?’

  ‘It may, as long as I don’t have to use the swivel stick.’

  ‘Are Australian men always so timid?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Jack, sipping his drink; his third. ‘However, after what I’ve seen this morning, I would be risking life and limb …’

  ‘You’re not into Taekwondo, I take it?’ Lola unbuttoned Jack’s shirt.

  ‘No, I leave that to the athletic women in my life.’

  ‘Is that wise?’

  ‘Absolutely. I know my limitations,’ said Jack, feeling a little drowsy.

  Lola ran the tips of her fingers slowly down Jack’s chest. ‘Is this safer, you think?’ she asked, unbuckling his belt.

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘You like living dangerously?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Then why ask?’

  ‘As Hanna isn’t here, you should be able to take this in your stride.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘You better. One kick could ruin you for life; remember that!’

  ‘Ouch! Performance through intimidation?’ said Jack.

  ‘Something like that. The power of fear … can do wonders …’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘To enhance a girl’s pleasure, of course.’

  ‘But one has to rise to the occasion …’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Lola, nibbling Jack’s ear.

  ‘And stand up for what you believe in.’

  ‘Precisely. And what can I do to stiffen your resolve?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll think of something.’

  ‘You bet I will.’

  Jack looked at his watch and calculated the time difference. Should be about seven in the morning in France, he thought, reaching for his shirt. Time to call the countess.

  Careful not to wake Lola, Jack got up, walked to the back of the cabin and dialled the familiar number of the chateau. Jack had made an error; it was only five.

  Countess Kuragin was asleep in her bedroom when her maid tapped her gently on the shoulder. ‘The call you’ve been expecting, Madame,’ said the maid. ‘Mr Rogan is on the phone.’ The countess got out of bed, put on her dressing gown and hurried to her study to take the call.

  ‘Jack, where on earth are you?’

  ‘Somewhere above the Atlantic on my way to London.’

  ‘London? Why?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘You and your stories; what an exciting life you lead! I thought you were in Sydney on vacation. Never mind. This is serious, Jack. Alexandra called me last night; she’s is in big trouble.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I’ll tell you; just listen to this …’

  For the next half hour, Countess Kuragin recounted everything Alexandra had told her about her abduction and her extraordinary encounter with Macbeth on the Calypso.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re telling me this,’ said Jack, after the countess had finished. ‘I only saw her a couple of days ago. This sounds like something out of a James Bond movie.’

  ‘What are we going to do, Jack?’

  ‘I can’t go back right now.’

  ‘She needs help – urgently.’

  ‘I can see that. Let me think … I have an idea …’

  ‘Don’t take too long,’ said the countess.

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘What would we do without you?’

  ‘Leave it with me. I’ll call you later. And tell Tristan …’

  ‘Tell him what?’

  ‘He was right about Isis.’

  21

  Heathrow airport was chaotic as usual. Due to the heavy fog hovering over London like a malevolent blanket ready to smother the waking city, Pegasus had to join a host of other planes in a tight holding pattern for over an hour before finally being cleared to land.

  Looking dapper in his customary dark navy pinstriped suit, crisp white shirt and polka dot bowtie, Sir Charles was waiting for them with his driver in the customs hall. ‘I have bad news,’ he said, shaking Jack’s hand, ‘We are not allowed to enter the Elms’ residence as you requested. Off limits, I’m afraid; crime scene. Very hush-hush.’

  Jack shrugged; he had expected something like that.

  ‘However, I’ve some good news as well,’ continued the ebullient Sir Charles. ‘The officer in charge of the case will meet us in my office this morning for a briefing. He’s MI5.’

  ‘How did you manage that?’ asked Lola, who obviously knew Sir Charles very well.

  ‘I pulled a few strings, called in a couple of favours, made a subtle threat or two; the usual. But I must confess; it wasn’t easy. As you can imagine, this is a very sensitive case and the authorities are very tight-lipped about everything. Cone of silence; hush-hush, so don’t expect too much.’

  ‘I never do,’ said Jack, enjoying the ride in the comfortable back seat of Sir Charles’ vintage Rolls Royce.

  The bespectacled, middle-aged secretary gave Jack and Lola a stern, disapproving look as they followed Sir Charles into his inner sanctum. Located in an imposing building just around the corner from the Inns of Court, Sir Charles’ office was a reflection of his clientele: exclusive, conservative, establishment, and very rich.

  Sensing the secretary’s disapproval, Jack gave her his best smile. ‘Moneypenny of the Old Bailey, you think?’ whispered Jack, turning to Lola.

  ‘Behave yourself!’ hissed Lola, ‘You make fun of her, she might poison our tea.’

  ‘What an exciting place.’

  ‘Exciting? Dangerous more likely. Better look out.’

  ‘Why should I worry when I have you to protect me?’

  ‘Hush!’

  Great furniture, thought Jack, admiring the splendid pieces adorning Sir Charles’ huge office. Keenly interested in antiques and still smarting from the loss of his own collection when his house had been torched by a bikie gang the year before, Jack noticed such things.

  Subdued lighting, Victorian mahogany bookcases crammed with leather-bound tomes, a grandfather clock ticking away in the corner, well-worn Chesterfields and a whiff of cigar smoke reminded Jack of another lawyer’s chambers back in Syd
ney: Marcus Carrington QC’s eccentric room. Three years earlier, Jack and Carrington had crossed paths in an extraordinary case involving a Nazi war criminal, secret Swiss bank accounts and Islamic terrorists.

  Marcus would feel right at home here, thought Jack. Except for the cricket. Carrington’s chambers were full of antiquities and ancient texts; Sir Charles, however, was obviously an ardent cricket fan. The walls of his office were lined with photographs of smiling cricket teams at Lords. Taking pride of place behind his massive, intricately carved oak desk was a glass case full of cricket memorabilia. Shiny cricket balls, floppy caps and cricket bats signed by the heroes of the game were Sir Charles’ treasured reminders of past triumphs over the West Indies, the South Africans, and those annoying Aussies.

  ‘Lords, 1994,’ said Jack, pointing to one of the photographs near the door, ‘the Aussies almost won the Ashes that year.’

  ‘You’re a cricket fan too?’ said Sir Charles.

  ‘My dad gave me a little cricket bat before I could walk … Apparently, to my mother’s horror, I used to chew on it all the time. It gave me a taste for cricket, I suppose.’

  ‘All right, you two,’ said Lola, cutting short the exchange. She knew once Sir Charles started on cricket, there was no stopping him. ‘Let’s not forget why we’re here, gentlemen?’

  ‘We must have lunch in my club some time,’ said Sir Charles, ‘and have a chat about the game. No women allowed,’ he added, lowering his voice. ‘Last bastion.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  ‘Splendid.’

  As the grandfather clock chimed eleven, Sir Charles’ secretary appeared and announced Daniel Cross, the officer in charge of the Elms’ case.

  At least he’s punctual, thought Jack, sizing up the impeccably dressed man with an inscrutable face, shaking Sir Charles’ hand. The body language was obvious; the man was here under protest. Cross had received a call from his superior officer the night before, telling him to go to Sir Charles’ office for a briefing. ‘Cooperate, but don’t capitulate,’ he was told. ‘And find out what you can about this journalist chappie. We certainly don’t want a curious newshound sniffing around, putting his nose into the investigation.’ Cross knew exactly what that meant.

  ‘Allow me to explain who Mr Rogan is, and why he’s here,’ said Sir Charles, introducing Jack.

  ‘I know who Mr Rogan is,’ said Cross, a hint of contempt in his voice. He turned to Jack and looked directly at him. ‘You found Anna Popov last year,’ he said, ‘against all odds, I believe, and wrote a book about it; much anticipated and highly acclaimed. You succeeded where all the authorities failed. Are you hoping to do the same here, Mr Rogan?’

  ‘Not at all,’ interjected Sir Charles, before Jack could reply. ‘Mr Rogan has been retained by my client, George Elms, as his representative. As you know, Mr Elms – Isis, as he is better known – is presently on tour, and is therefore unable to attend to this tragic matter personally. Obviously, my client wants to know what happened to his parents, and Mr Rogan is here to do just that on his behalf.’

  ‘And to have you as his representative, Sir Charles, is not enough for your client?’ Cross shot back.

  ‘It is a choice my client made. I have to respect that, and I invite you to do the same,’ said Sir Charles frostily.

  Cross didn’t like being put in his place, but he had his orders. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Lucrative pop concerts obviously have priority over family tragedy.’

  ‘We all conduct our lives in different ways, Mr Cross. Is this a morality class, or are you going to brief us?’

  ‘Before I can go any further,’ said Cross, ignoring the rebuke, ‘I need an undertaking from you all that what I’m about to tell you will be kept strictly confidential, and will only be disclosed to your client, Sir Charles, and no one else.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Sir Charles.

  ‘I have no problem with that,’ said Jack.

  ‘And can we count on you as well, Miss Rodriguez?’ said Cross.

  ‘Certainly. I’m Isis’ PA—’

  ‘Confidante, bodyguard and pilot as well,’ interjected Cross. He knew saying ‘lover’ might have taken things a little too far. He liked to put his subjects off balance by showing them just how well informed he really was. It made ensuring their cooperation so much easier.

  ‘My client likes to surround himself with competent people,’ said Sir Charles.

  ‘I see we understand each other.’ Cross reached for his briefcase. He opened it, took out a few photographs and placed them carefully in a neat row on Sir Charles’ desk in front of him. ‘In addition to what is public knowledge, this is something you may find interesting.’

  Jack leant forward to get a better look. Taken from different angles, the photos showed the burnt out hulk of a vehicle parked in front of what looked like the ruins of an abandoned warehouse or factory.

  ‘What are we looking at here?’ asked Sir Charles.

  ‘The getaway car, or what’s left of it. It was found just outside London two hours after the alarm went off—’

  ‘A stolen courier van; we already know this,’ interrupted Jack, unable to hide his impatience.

  ‘Quite,’ said Cross. ‘But what you don’t know is what we found inside the vehicle.’ Cross paused, letting the tension grow. ‘Four men shot dead at point blank range.’

  ‘The perpetrators?’ asked Jack, surprised.

  ‘It would appear so, but we cannot be absolutely certain at this stage.’

  ‘Any IDs?’ asked Lola.

  ‘The bodies were almost completely obliterated by the fire. A lot of accelerant was used; professional job.’

  ‘No IDs then?’ said Sir Charles.

  ‘We are working on it.’

  ‘Does this rule out terrorists, you think?’ said Jack.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ asked Cross.

  ‘Terrorists carry out their own assignments, and then claim responsibility. What happened here is the opposite. Someone went to great lengths to distance himself from the crime and cover his tracks. A team of professionals was engaged here to carry out a specific task; complex and very well planned—’

  ‘And were then almost immediately eliminated to make sure that no trail of any kind was left behind,’ interjected Sir Charles. ‘Very neat. An expensive, ruthless and carefully planned operation.’

  ‘And a carefully planned operation like this has a purpose. This is not a random home invasion, or a burglary gone wrong,’ said Lola.

  ‘That is precisely what we think,’ said Cross.

  ‘Any ideas as to who and why?’ asked Jack.

  ‘I was hoping you or your client might be able to help us here.’

  Jack shook his head, watching Cross carefully out of the corner of his eye. ‘It’s too early for that. Lord Elms held a high office in Her Majesty’s Government,’ continued Jack, changing direction. ‘Was he involved in any specific project at the moment? I mean, working on something sensitive or controversial perhaps? Legislation; parliamentary committees; inquiries; anything like that?’ Jack noticed a flicker of interest in Cross’ demeanour. It only lasted for an instant, but it told him he was asking the right questions.

  ‘I’m not at liberty to disclose that,’ Cross answered curtly.

  ‘Not very helpful,’ said Jack, trying to provoke Cross into giving something away.

  ‘But completely understandable,’ Sir Charles stepped in, trying to diffuse the growing tension.

  ‘I don’t think we can take the matter much further at the moment.’ Cross gathered up the photographs, slipped them into his briefcase and stood up. ‘I’ll be in touch, Sir Charles.’ Cross turned to look at Jack. ‘You might find cracking this nut a little harder and a little more dangerous than finding Anna Popov. If I were you, I would leave it to the experts, Mr Rogan. Good day.’ With that, Cross left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  ‘What an annoying little man,’ said Lola.

  ‘Spooks are like that,’ said
Jack. ‘Full of self-importance, skulduggery and cloak and dagger stuff. I’ve seen it all before. But I believe he told us something important, albeit unwittingly.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Sir Charles asked.

  ‘An incident like this doesn’t happen in a vacuum. I think the authorities believe it has something to do with Lord Elms’ work, and so do I,’ said Jack, thoughtfully rubbing the white scar on his temple. It was a habit he had developed after cheating death a year ago in the lair of a notorious outlaw bikie gang. ‘If only we could find out …’

  ‘I may be able to help you there,’ said Sir Charles.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I have friends in high places … But enough of all this for now. You’ve had a long flight and must be tired. Are you going to stay at Georgie’s place?’ asked Sir Charles, turning to Lola.

  ‘Yes, it’s all arranged.’

  ‘Would you care to join me for dinner this evening, Mr Rogan?’ said Sir Charles, showing Jack and Lola to the door.

  ‘Delighted.’

  ‘Just you and me … I have something to show you,’ said Sir Charles, lowering his voice. ‘I’ll send the car round to pick you up.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing.’

  ‘It is; more than you can possibly imagine.’

  22

  Alexandra put down her handbag and looked around. Professor K’s lab was exactly as she had left it on Friday. It felt strange starting an important new chapter in her career in the footsteps of a dead man, however great and admired he had been. Professor K’s shadow was everywhere; she could feel it, touch it almost. Alexandra reached into her handbag, pulled out Professor K’s little notebook and placed it on the desk in front of her.

  It’s all in here, she thought. Ideas that can change the world crammed into a little notebook. Alexandra ran the tips of her fingers over the well-worn cover and opened the book. The familiar, spidery handwriting of her friend and mentor brought a sad smile to her face. I promised to carry the torch. I promised to be his heir. Then she remembered her abduction and the strange, almost surreal late-night encounter with Macbeth in his cabin on the Calypso. Did it all really happen? she asked herself. Then a shadowy image of the blond man standing in front of her in Jack’s apartment floated into her mind’s eye. Powerful, threatening. Don’t disappoint us, she heard him say, Mr Macbeth hates disappointments. Alexandra could still feel the touch of the man’s hands on the back of her neck, the disconcerting sensation sending an icy shiver of fear rippling down her spine. Remember, we have eyes and ears everywhere. Part of her still refused to believe it had all really happened. However, the little notebook in front of her told a different story.