The Hidden Genes of Professor K

by Gabriel Farago

  Alexandra looked up; someone was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Are you ready, Dr Delacroix?’ asked the young scientist from Sri Lanka she had inherited as her assistant. ‘We are starting in ten minutes.’

  ‘Yes; I’ll be there in a moment,’ Alexandra replied, grateful for the interruption, but embarrassed she couldn’t remember the man’s name. Her first two days at the institute were still somewhat of a blur. However, everything was slowly beginning to come back to her. The institute was holding a little memorial gathering in Professor K’s honour in the auditorium that morning, and she had been asked by the CEO to say a few words. It would be a good opportunity for her to meet her new colleagues, he had said, and introduce herself. Alexandra had readily agreed, but that was before the turbulent events of the weekend that had changed everything by casting a disturbing shadow over her future.

  Behave as if nothing happened, Alexandra heard her aunt, the countess, counsel her over the phone. Everything must appear normal. Jack had told her the same thing during their long telephone conversation earlier that morning, telling her that help was on the way. Unfortunately, he didn’t say when or how. Nevertheless, just hearing his voice had been reassuring, even though he was half a world away. Jack’s calm manner, unfazed by the amazing chain of events they had talked about, made sure she no longer felt quite so alone. Alexandra decided the best way to handle the situation was to channel all of her energies into her work and relegate all else to a back corner of her mind to be dealt with later.

  Discipline and iron-willed self-control had seen Alexandra through many a crisis before. Taking a deep breath, she stood up, locked Professor K’s notebook into the safe, and then took the lift down to the auditorium in the basement.

  The auditorium was already packed and all the seats were taken. Several hundred scientists and staff had come to honour Professor K. The CEO saw Alexandra standing at the back and waved. Alexandra walked down to the podium and sat next to him.

  ‘Thank you for doing this,’ said the CEO, obviously pleased to see her. ‘You seem to have known him better than anyone else.’

  Alexandra nodded, finding herself suddenly thrust into the spotlight with a sea of faces looking expectantly in her direction. The speech she had planned and intended to prepare over the weekend should have been in her head by now, but it wasn’t there. Alexandra knew she would be judged by how she conducted herself during the next hour. Her entire future at the institute hinged on it. Thankfully, she was an experienced public speaker who knew how to improvise. She decided to let her love and admiration for Professor K and her passion for her profession and his work do the talking.

  The CEO gave a short speech first, then one of the directors of the institute said a few words, followed by two professors. Alexandra heard none of it. She was mentally preparing her own speech. It wasn’t until the CEO returned to the lectern and introduced her that she realised it was her turn.

  Walking to the microphone to give a speech can be a very long walk. But with each step, Alexandra felt calmer and a strange sense of peace descended upon her. He’s walking with me, she thought, and suddenly everything became clear. She knew exactly what she would say.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, because I’ve just arrived a few days ago, I really don’t know any of you – yet,’ began Alexandra. ‘However, in a strange way we are all united by what has brought us here this morning. We are here to honour a man. Not just any man, but a man I’m sure all of us loved, respected and admired. To me, he was not only a true friend and mentor, but an inspiration.’

  For the next half hour, Alexandra spoke about Professor K and his work with a passion and warmth – often sprinkled with humour – that had everyone in the room spellbound. She recalled funny stories, and sad ones, describing an extraordinary man with an extraordinary mind who had a vision for science and mankind.

  ‘What sets a true scientist apart are certain special qualities. First and foremost, he must have a sense of adventure and love of the unknown. Exploring the mystery and wonder of life, understanding its beauty and its terror must be at the very centre of his being. Professor K certainly had all of these qualities, but he had a lot more: he had a vision …’

  Alexandra paused, searching for the right words. While her English wasn’t that of a native speaker, her French accent gave her pronunciation an endearing quality. ‘He believed that our generation would be the last generation to die of cancer,’ continued Alexandra. ‘He was convinced that those coming after us may die with cancer, but not of cancer. He believed that we are about to conquer the Emperor of Darkness, as he liked to call the ancient foe, and that a breakthrough was imminent. I firmly believe he was right.

  ‘True genius never dies. It is passed on to others to follow and build upon. Professor K may have left us, but his ideas and dreams live on – right here in this very place he loved so much and where many of those ideas originated. Let him guide and inspire us. There’s no better way to honour a fellow scientist.’

  Momentarily overcome by emotion as she remembered her friend, Alexandra bowed her head and just stood there, motionless and silent, her striking red hair shining like a beacon. Then she turned away from the lectern and slowly walked back to her seat.

  For a long moment, there was complete silence in the crowded auditorium, and then the room erupted in enthusiastic applause. What had begun as a sad and solemn occasion had turned into a celebration of an exceptional life and hope for a better future.

  ‘Inspirational, Dr Delacroix,’ said the CEO, escorting Alexandra back to the lifts. ‘Good to have you on board.’

  23

  The Time Machine’s London headquarters – ‘Georgie’s digs’ – as Sir Charles liked to call it, turned out to be a converted nineteenth-century bond store right on the Thames, not far from the Tower Bridge. Complete with recording studio, offices, underground parking, resident staff, guest accommodation and a spectacular penthouse overlooking the river, it was The Time Machine’s state-of-the-art nerve centre. It even had an in-house restaurant with seating for fifty, complete with twenty-four seven room service and a communications facility that would have made the BBC envious. Industrial chic at its very best. Functional, trendy, secure and totally original.

  ‘I didn’t quite expect this,’ said Jack, standing next to Lola in the lift taking them to the top floor.

  ‘You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,’ joked Lola. ‘Wait for the penthouse. We are staying in it.’

  Silently, the lift doors opened.

  ‘Wow!’ Jack took in the breathtaking view of the London skyline. The penthouse – a two-storey, open-plan steel and glass cube – looked like an art gallery perched on top of an industrial complex. One part of the large space was divided by a huge canvas. Reaching from the marble floor to the glass ceiling two stories above, the painting reminded Jack of Andy Warhol’s Blue Poles. Other, smaller paintings were displayed along galleries linked by exposed glass stairs and steel bridges crisscrossing the open space, with the odd bronze bust of a Roman emperor or Greek philosopher thrown in to enhance the eclectic collection. In pride of place on a ledge just above the lift, a stunning Maori war canoe – complete with paddles – conjured up images of cannibals, bloody raids and brutal death.

  ‘Isis likes to surround herself with art and curios,’ said Lola. ‘It inspires her.’

  Jack looked at the massive reclining stone Buddha greeting them at the lift. How on earth did they get him up here? he pondered, shaking his head.

  ‘Isis’ suite is up there at the top; the guest accommodation is right here.’ Lola opened a glass door. ‘This is yours.’

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This looks like a Picasso,’ said Jack, pointing to the painting above the bed.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I should have guessed. First a shower, then a few phone calls.’

  ‘Don’t forget your dinner with Sir Charles. Better brush up on your cricket.’

  ‘You rec
kon it’ll be a test? Colonial boy from Down Under meets establishment in the Old Country?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Do I have to wear a dinner suit?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Good; I don’t own one. Never have.’

  Jack threw his duffel bag on the bed and began to unbutton his shirt. Lola walked over to him, put her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I like your style,’ she whispered. ‘Now, let’s have that shower together, shall we?’

  ‘You’re on, but only if you scrub my back.’

  ‘What’s it worth?’

  ‘Why don’t you come and find out?’

  Sir Charles’ chauffeur collected Jack at seven o’clock sharp and took him back to the office. Sir Charles had a small but comfortable flat on the floor above. He preferred staying in London during the week, as the family home was in the country. He left the running of the mansion to his wife and only went there on weekends. The small flat and his club were his domain. It was an amicable arrangement refined by forty years of marriage.

  ‘We are dining here this evening; I hope you don’t mind.’ Sir Charles pointed to a table set for two by the dormer window overlooking the Old Bailey. ‘More private that way,’ he added. ‘Scotch?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. I didn’t think you invited me here to talk about cricket.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I have something to show you. Something quite extraordinary that may throw some light on what really happened.’ Sir Charles paused, and lifted his glass. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘If you wanted to make me curious, you’ve succeeded.’

  ‘What our pompous Mr Cross doesn’t know is this: Just before Lady Elms passed away, she briefly regained consciousness and spoke to her son.’

  Jack looked up, surprised. ‘Oh?’

  ‘A few words only, incoherent mostly, but she did manage to direct him to a secret hiding place at Clarendon Hall only she and Georgie knew about.’

  ‘A hiding place? How intriguing. But why?’

  ‘To find something,’ said Sir Charles.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hidden skeletons in the ancestral cupboard, is my guess. Every family has some.’

  ‘What are we to make of it?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Not sure, but perhaps this will help.’ Sir Charles pointed to his desk.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Isis calls it “whispers from the grave”. See for yourself.’

  Lola was still awake and working on her computer when Jack walked into the penthouse at three am. ‘Did you pass the cricket exam? Must have been quite a night,’ she said, pointing to her watch.

  ‘It was, but not in the way you might expect.’

  ‘I had no idea a bat and ball could be that exciting.’

  ‘We didn’t talk about cricket; not a word in fact.’

  ‘Secret men’s business?’

  ‘In a way.’

  ‘Care to tell me?’

  ‘In the morning. If I don’t get some sleep, I’ll keel over.’

  ‘Keeping a girl is suspense like that isn’t nice …’

  ‘I’m buggered. Showering with you is very exhausting.’

  ‘Is that a complaint?’

  ‘Not as such.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’

  There’s a lot to take in …’

  ‘Not the party boy I thought you were,’ teased Lola.

  ‘I was reading all night. Using a magnifying glass most of the time …’

  ‘A little more interesting than cricket, I suppose.’

  ‘I was trying to make sense of a puzzle. My eyes are burning and my head is spinning. Sir Charles’ brandy didn’t help,’ added Jack, rubbing his stiff neck.

  ‘Did you solve it?’

  ‘No, I’m more confused now than I was at the start. Yet …’ Jack kicked off his shoes, ‘I think Sir Charles knows a lot more than he’s prepared to share.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Just a hunch. I think he was testing me.’

  ‘How odd. Did you pass?’

  ‘Not sure. I’m off to bed. By the way … I have a surprise for you.’

  ‘I like surprises.’

  ‘You are going to meet a Russian countess and an extraordinary boy. Interested?’

  ‘Absolutely. When?’

  ‘Today. We’re off to France in a few hours.’

  Part II

  De Medicina

  “Surgeons can cut out everything except cause.”

  Herbert M. Shelton

  Deep in the jungle, Yucatan Peninsula:

  1355 AD

  The drums stopped beating and the conch shell trumpets fell silent. Mesmerised, the worshippers watched in awe as the Tlacatecuhtli lifted his arms up high and looked up at the stars blazing in the night sky above. Even the jungle appeared to obey his command and for a moment, held its noisy breath.

  ‘Let it begin,’ said the Tlacatecuhtli, looking like a god in his resplendent cloak of ocelot skins and feathers. As warrior-priest, astrologer, healer and ‘chief of men’, he presided over all the important ceremonies in the land, especially human sacrifices.

  Another priest wearing a tall helmet shaped like the beak of a bird of prey stepped out of the shadows, knelt down in front him and held up a basket. The Tlacatecuhtli lifted the lid, looked inside and smiled. He always felt a surge of tremendous excitement race through his veins every time he set eyes on the sacred skull. It was his link to the gods and the source of his power. He reached inside the basket and touched the skull with trembling fingers. Then, holding the heavy skull with both hands, he lifted it carefully out of the basket.

  The worshippers gasped. Carved out of solid crystal and transparent like glass, the spectacular skull looked almost alive as the Tlacatecuhtli held it up for all to see. According to legend, the crystal skull was a gift from the gods, and the Tlacatecuhtli was its custodian.

  The Tlacatecuhtli turned slowly around and, holding the crystal skull above his head, began the steep climb to the top of the stone pyramid looming large and ominous in the dark, like a stairway to an angry heaven. The worshippers began to chant, their voices rising like a prayer pleading with the gods to save their hero.

  The altar at the top was surrounded by torches wedged into gaps between the large stones, sending flickering shadows gliding across the polished blocks like an army of ghosts rushing into battle to face the demons of the night.

  The Tlacatecuhtli reached the narrow platform high above the impenetrable forest canopy and, catching his breath, looked around. A naked young man – drugged and in a stupor – lay on the massive stone altar with his arms tied firmly to the slab. The Tlacatecuhtli walked over to him and carefully placed the crystal skull next to his head. The living and the dead, he thought, admiring the lifelike skull reflecting the dancing flames of the torches.

  Everything needed for the procedure was laid out next to the young warrior on the slab, as tradition demanded. As an experienced healer, the Tlacatecuhtli knew exactly what was required. The large, black, razor-sharp knife fashioned out of obsidian – volcanic glass – sparkled like the eye of a malevolent demon waiting for a sacrifice. Usually, the demon would not have been disappointed. As chief priest in charge of sacrifices, the Tlacatecuhtli had used the knife countless times before to cut out many a living heart to appease the cruel gods lusting for human blood.

  This time, however, he was facing a much more difficult and dangerous task. Instead of extinguishing life, he had to save one. And not just any life. He had to use his powers and his skills as a healer to save the life of the king’s son – a celebrated hero. The young warrior had fought and won many a battle for his people and provided armies of defeated enemies needed to feed the bloodthirsty gods. And all of these captives had been sacrificed on the very same altar upon which he was now awaiting his own fate.

  A terrible illness had struck him down the year before. His powerful body had almost withered away and something inside his head was sending h
im mad. Another priest, a famous magician, had opened up the young hero’s skull, thereby easing the pressure on the brain caused by a large tumour. At first, all had seemed to go well. The young warrior recovered and quickly regained his strength. The people rejoiced. However, a few months later, the dreaded illness returned, more vicious than ever. This was seen as a sign that the gods were displeased. The magician was put to death.

  The Tlacatecuhtli knew exactly what was at stake. If he failed to save the young warrior’s life, he would forfeit his own. That was the law. However, unlike his hapless predecessor, he had a secret, powerful army of helpers – medicinal jungle plants – he could call upon to defeat the dreaded enemy inside the young man’s head. With the help of sacred knowledge carefully guarded by the Tlacatecuhtli through the ages and handed down from generation to generation, he would succeed where the magician had failed. In the cruel world of the Aztecs, violent death and oblivion were never far away. Human life was cheap, and pleasing the gods was the only way to survive.

  The Tlacatecuhtli let his splendid ocelot cloak slip from his shoulders and took off his headdress. He was ready to begin the operation. First, he reached for a torch and purified the knife with fire until it was almost too hot to touch. Then, holding the patient’s shaved head with one hand, he slowly traced the outline of the previous incisions with the sharp tip of the knife and carefully applied pressure until he could feel the blade cut through the bone. The patient moaned and opened his eyes, staring unseeingly at his tormentor before his eyes rolled back and his mind retreated into the merciful darkness within.