The Hidden Genes of Professor K

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘Alexandra, this is Mr Van Dam,’ said the CEO. Alexandra looked at the tall, blond man with piercing blue eyes, and paled. Smartly dressed in a light grey suit, her abductor was smiling at her. ‘He wants to talk to you about your work. I’ll leave you to it,’ he added, gently pushing Alexandra forward.

  ‘Great speech, Dr Delacroix; I’ve learnt a lot,’ said Van Cleef. Alexandra bit her lip, but said nothing. She was desperately looking around the room, searching for Jana. ‘As you can see, we are taking great interest in your work,’ continued Van Cleef, ‘and are happy to support it – generously. Of course, some reciprocation would be appreciated …’

  ‘What do you want?’ hissed Alexandra.

  ‘You haven’t been entirely open with us, have you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Van Cleef took a glass of wine from a passing waiter’s tray and continued to smile at Alexandra. ‘Here, let me show you.’ He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of glasses and held them up. Both lenses were broken, but Alexandra recognised the distinctive tortoiseshell frames.

  ‘What have you done to him?’ she demanded, her voice sounding shrill.

  ‘Keep your voice down and smile,’ said Van Cleef calmly. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Papadoulis will be fine. Once the swelling goes down and the bruises heal.’

  ‘Despicable monster …’

  ‘Hush, my dear. We don’t want to alarm the other guests now, do we?’ said Van Cleef, a threatening edge in his voice. ‘After a little persuasion, Mr Papadoulis was most cooperative … He told us about a parcel he delivered to you the other day … Your inheritance. Left to you by the good professor, I understand … Notebooks. Naughty, naughty. You should have told us about it. I did warn you, didn’t I? We have eyes and ears everywhere.’

  Van Cleef took a sip of wine. ‘Now listen carefully. This is what I want you to do. You will make a copy of every page, every line, and every word in those notebooks and leave the copies on your desk. Clear so far?’ Van Cleef was enjoying himself. He was sending Alexandra a clear signal: he could reach her everywhere and even her place of work wasn’t safe.

  ‘What?’ shrieked Alexandra.

  ‘You heard me. And as a token of our goodwill and faith in you, a little bonus is already waiting in your account, compliments of Mr Macbeth. Such a generous and forgiving man. Please don’t disappoint him again. Another payment will be made as soon as you provide us with the copies. Keep up the good work, Dr Delacroix. Better go now and look after your other guests. After all, you are a celebrity. I’ll see myself out.’ Van Cleef bowed, reached for Alexandra’s hand and shook it.

  Alexandra saw Jana talking to someone on the other side of the room. She hurried over to her and took her aside. ‘He’s here,’ she whispered, squeezing Jana’s arm.

  ‘Ouch! Who?’ said Jana, surprised.

  ‘My abductor!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s him over there by the door. The tall blond one.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely!’

  ‘Stay here and leave him to me,’ said Jana, and made her way across the crowded room towards the exit without taking her eyes off the man. Van Cleef put his empty wineglass on a table by the door and left the room. Jana hurried after him. As she passed the table, she picked up the empty wineglass with a serviette and quietly slipped it into her handbag.

  Van Cleef was waiting for the lift. He looked impatiently at his watch and kept staring at the indicator panel. Jana pulled her phone out of her pocket and, pretending to make a call, quickly took a couple of photos of him. Then she walked across to the lift and stood next to him. ‘Quite something wasn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Sure was,’ said Van Cleef, looking at his watch again.

  ‘Your first time here?’ Jana asked, noticing his heavy South African accent.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mine too.’ Then the lift doors opened and they got in. Jana continued to make small talk until they reached the ground floor.

  ‘Got to dash,’ said Van Cleef as soon as the door opened, and headed for the exit.

  Jana had come across men like Van Cleef before, many times. He radiates danger, she thought, just as Alexandra said. Annoyingly confident, and pedantically precise. Definitely ex-military.

  A black four-wheel drive was waiting outside with the engine running. Van Cleef got in and the car took off, but not before Jana got a good look at the number plate. Cowboys never change, she thought, smiling, and made a mental note of the number plate: I SPY 4U.

  49

  Jack pushed the pile of creased papers impatiently aside and, rubbing his tired eyes, sat back. The warm evening breeze caressing his face could do little to relax him. Searching for answers, he had worked through the whole afternoon without taking a break. Lola and Professor Greenberg were on their way back to Boston and Tristan had begged to be allowed to go along for the round trip. Persuaded by Lola and Señora Gonzales, who had been enlisted by Tristan to plead his case, Jack had reluctantly agreed.

  It’s all somehow coming together, thought Jack, looking out of the open window, the fading light casting long shadows across the terrace outside. The cryptic, hidden and often confusing clues gleaned from the letters he had copied in Sir Charles’ office were finally beginning to make some sense. The next step was slowly emerging out of the maze of dead ends, false leads and speculation. A powerful, familiar gut feeling told Jack he was on the right track. However, one main clue central to it all was eluding him, despite being tantalisingly close.

  If only I had just a little bit more to go on, he thought, staring at the piece of paper in front of him, I could pinpoint where this came from. Damn! Jack shook his head in frustration. Isis’ mother had made sure that the sender’s identity and address had either been obliterated, or torn off altogether. She had obviously gone to great lengths to conceal her lover’s name and whereabouts. However, on the page in front of Jack, a tiny, yet valuable clue had been overlooked.

  The letter had obviously been penned on some writing paper with an embossed name and address at the top that one would usually expect to find in one of the better hotels. Part of the page had been ripped off, but some of the cursive writing had been inadvertently left behind, and Jack had written it all down in his notebook.

  Beginning at the top left hand corner of the page, the letters M . K . . U . O . GE were clearly visible. Then came a wide gap. At the top right, the letters . A . . O . I . could just be made out. At the bottom of the page where the signature had been torn out was a handwritten date. After playing with the letters and trying to fill in the gaps for over an hour, Jack finally gave up. He concluded that the first part must be a name – perhaps of a hotel – and the second an address of sorts. Jack closed his notebook. It’s no use, he thought, this is going nowhere. It was time to speak to Señora Gonzales. Jack was certain she knew a lot more about the whole matter than she had revealed so far.

  The fading light and excited chatter of the birds chasing the last meal of the day told Jack it was getting late. He stood up, stretched his aching arms and looked down into the garden below. Isis was asleep in a deckchair. Careful not to wake him, Señora Gonzales was draping a blanket over her sleeping grandson. It was an endearing expression of love and affection at a time of great uncertainly, anxiety and fear. Señora Gonzales looked up and saw Jack waving at her from the terrace. She tucked the blanket in under Isis’ feet and slowly walked up the stairs towards Jack waiting for her at the top.

  ‘I think I’ve gone as far as I can with the letters,’ said Jack, pointing to the desk. ‘Would you like me to tell you what I’ve pieced together so far?’

  ‘I was hoping you would,’ said Señora Gonzales.

  ‘Once again, some of this is rather speculative, I’m afraid. There’s just no other way to close some of the gaps, but a certain picture is clearly emerging. Here it is …’ Jack walked over to the desk and picked up the bundle of letters. ‘These are love letters,’ he said, ho
lding up the bundle, ‘passionate, desperate, full of longing, desire and hope. The lovers are separated, perhaps by quite a long distance … I think we can safely assume that the letters were addressed to your daughter and that they have been sent by her lover … And I can tell you when they were written. Fortunately, one of them has a date: 13th March 1962. Please remind me how old Mercedes would have been then?’

  ‘Twenty-two,’ replied Señora Gonzales.

  ‘And how long had she been married?’

  ‘Two years. She married Lord Elms in 1960.’

  ‘Tell me about Lord Elms. What was he like? How did they meet? How long had they known each other before they were married?’

  ‘Lord Elms was one of the most eligible bachelors in England at the time. He was twelve years older than Mercedes. They mixed in the same social circles. Mercedes was quite a beauty; intelligent, popular, vivacious. She sparkled. He was rather reserved and quite shy, but well-connected and fabulously rich with huge estates in the country. Mutual friends introduced them …’

  ‘And they fell in love?’ probed Jack, watching Señora Gonzales carefully.

  ‘I know what you are getting at. Not entirely. My husband and I were very keen for Mercedes to marry well. She had refused several quite eligible suitors before and she was getting on in years for that era; girls married young in those days. People were beginning to talk … These circles can be quite cruel and unforgiving. Time was running out for her, or so we thought.’

  ‘What are you telling me?’

  ‘We encouraged Mercedes to foster the relationship, and she did.’

  ‘And Lord Elms?’

  ‘He considered her a most desirable and suitable match, and so did his family. She ticked all the required boxes.’

  ‘And love?’

  Señora Gonzales allowed herself a dry laugh. ‘Love wasn’t one of the boxes. It was a match of the head, not the heart.’

  ‘And you approved?’

  For a while, Señora Gonzales looked at Jack, a shadow of sadness clouding her face. ‘Yes, we did.’

  ‘Was it a happy union?’

  ‘You can’t look into married people’s hearts or bedrooms. And besides, shortly after the marriage, my husband and I returned to Mexico. I’ve lived here ever since.’

  ‘But you corresponded, surely?’

  ‘We did, of course, but letters can only tell you so much …’ Her reply was evasive, but it told Jack what he needed to know.

  ‘Did Lord Elms have any particular interests? Did they travel, for instance?’

  ‘As I said, he was rather reserved. British; typical establishment. But he did have one great passion …’

  ‘Oh? What was that?’

  ‘Hunting – big game. He even had a trophy room at Clarendon Hall. They travelled a lot. Africa mainly.’

  ‘Do you know where in Africa?’

  ‘Kenya. They always travelled to Kenya. Mercedes loved the place. She often sent me letters and postcards from Nairobi. She seemed so happy there … And they always stayed at some big lodge popular with the English.’

  Bingo! thought Jack. Of course! Some of the missing letters at the top of the page had just been filled in.

  ‘You know, you’ve just provided the missing link I’ve been looking for all afternoon.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘Yes. These letters were sent from Nairobi, no doubt about it. Mercedes’ lover lived in Kenya and was most likely involved in big game hunting, I’d say. There are various references in the letters to danger, adventure, living in tents and gazing at the stars. It makes perfect sense, and so does my next move.’

  ‘And what will that be?’

  ‘Going to Kenya, of course, to find out more. However, I can already tell you quite a bit about her secret lover.’

  ‘You can?’

  ‘Yes. He’s articulate, well-educated with strong, distinct handwriting suggesting discipline and order. Also, he’s widely read with a penchant for poetry. He freely quotes love poems. An English public schoolboy, I’d say.’

  Señora Gonzales shook her head. ‘Amazing,’ she said. ‘And you can tell all that just by analysing the letters?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t think we are far off the mark here. And then there’s one more thing; it could be significant,’ said Jack, leafing through the pages. ‘I tried to arrange the letters in some chronological order. We only have one date, remember, but the content does generally suggest a logical flow.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I believe the letters were all written over quite a short period of, say, months – a year at the most. I think they were all written around 1962. And then suddenly, they stop.’ Jack held up a piece of paper. ‘I think this one here is the last letter; the tone and content strongly suggest this. No more pining and longing. Instead, we have hope, joy and euphoria. Interpretation? The lovers are about to be reunited!’

  Señora Gonzales nodded, but remained silent.

  ‘Did anything significant happen in Mercedes’ life around that time?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Well, yes … she had a child; George was born in 1963. Needless to say, we were overjoyed. We were quite concerned that there were no children during the first years of the marriage … but then George came along.’

  ‘And I suppose they stopped travelling?’

  ‘Certainly. Once she had the baby, Mercedes’ life changed. She didn’t travel again.’

  Jack turned serious. ‘With her last breath, Mercedes directed Isis to the hiding place at Clarendon Hall where these letters were found. They must contain a major clue as to what happened to her and her husband. There has to be a connection, and let’s not forget, she warned Isis of a serious, imminent danger. The only baffling thing is the crystal skull. I can’t make any sense of it, can you?’

  Señora Gonzales shook her head.

  ‘You saw the skull for the last time when Sturmbannfuehrer Steinberger left Paris and took it with him. I think that was in late 1942 – right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you have no idea what happened to it after that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yet it turns up with the letters hidden at Clarendon Hall … extraordinary. There has to be a link. And Mercedes never spoke of it?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Can you think of an explanation? Anything at all?’

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘Then I will find out,’ said Jack. ‘And I know just the person to help me do that.’

  ‘You do?’ said Señora Gonzales, surprised. ‘Who?’

  ‘You’ll be quite surprised when I tell you,’ said Jack, enjoying the suspense. ‘Hidden corners of our lives …’ he teased.

  ‘Can’t you tell me now?’

  ‘Not yet. I have to make a phone call first, and then I’ll tell you.’

  Señora Gonzales shook her head. ‘You are quite something, Jack Rogan. No wonder Isis is so fond of you … Not even a little clue?’

  ‘All I can tell you for now is this: it’s a she; that’s all.’

  ‘That tells me nothing. Anything else? Please?’

  ‘In a way, you’ve already met her …’

  Señora Gonzales looked at Jack. ‘I have?’ she said, confused.

  ‘Yes, in one of my books.’

  ‘How intriguing. And she will surprise me?’

  ‘Oh, I should think so.’

  50

  Señora Gonzales woke with a start. She had fallen asleep in the chair next to Isis’ bed. Rubbing her eyes, she looked at her watch: it was just after two. Isis was breathing regularly and the night nurse was sitting by the open window, reading. ‘I’ll go now,’ said Señora Gonzales. ‘I hope she’ll be strong enough for the trip.’ The nurse nodded.

  Professor Greenberg had agreed to carry out the risky operation. However, there was one main logistical problem: he could only operate in his clinic in Boston and Isis was unable to fly, and to travel four and half thousand kilometres overland wasn’t advisable either. To overcome the
problem, it had been suggested that Isis travel by sea.

  Hanna had already made the necessary arrangements and had chartered a suitable vessel to take Isis from the port of Heroica Veracruz in Mexico, to Boston. Isis would only have to travel four hundred kilometres by car to the coast to catch the boat. Professor Greenberg prescribed certain drugs to help take the pressure off Isis’ brain and allow her to undertake the journey in relative comfort and safety.

  As Señora Gonzales passed Jack’s room on her way back to her own, she saw a circle of light under the door and could hear Jack talking. He’s still on the phone, she thought, remembering their earlier conversation. Just then, the speaking stopped. For a while, Señora Gonzales stood there and listened. Silence. Overcome by curiosity, she knocked softly.

  Jack opened the door and smiled. ‘Don’t you sleep at all?’ he said.

  Señora Gonzales shook her head. ‘Curiosity has turned me into an insomniac,’ she joked. ‘It’s all your fault.’

  ‘Then let me make amends,’ said Jack. ‘Please come in. I have some encouraging news you’ll find interesting …’

  Señora Gonzales put her hand on Jack’s arm and looked at him intently. ‘We can all do with a little encouragement,’ she said, and followed Jack into the room.

  ‘The time differences are diabolical. That’s why I had to make the calls now, but I’ve had some luck …’ said Jack, grinning.

  ‘Are you going to tell me, or are you going to wait until this little old woman drops dead of curiosity?’

  ‘I’ve just spoken to her,’ said Jack, enjoying the banter.

  ‘The woman I’ve already met in one of your books, and who can help you solve the mystery of the crystal skull turning up at Clarendon Hall?’

  ‘The very same. Can you guess who that might be?’

  ‘She’s obviously connected to Steinberger …’

  ‘Correct.’

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

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