52
‘I’ve done more flying in the past two weeks than in the entire year,’ announced Lola, climbing out of her seat. ‘She’s all yours, guys.’ The two pilots gave her the thumbs up and took over.
‘Can I stay here?’ asked Tristan.
‘Sure, as long as you leave some of the flying to the pilots.’
‘We are doing navigation today,’ said Tristan excitedly. ‘I’ve prepared a flight plan and plotted our route across Africa to Nairobi. Here, have a look.’ Tristan showed Lola his iPad. ‘According to our airspeed and departure time in Mexico, we should be about here,’ he said.
Lola shook her head. ‘I can see where this is heading,’ she said. ‘I’ll be lucky to get near the controls next time.’
‘Thanks, Lola,’ said Tristan and climbed into Lola’s seat.
Jack sat in the back of the plane, poring over his notebook.
‘Tristan is truly amazing, said Lola. ‘He’s like a sponge. He soaks up everything around him; doesn’t forget a thing. He’ll make an excellent pilot.’ Lola sat next to Jack. ‘Do you know what he did on the way to Boston?’
Jack closed his notebook. ‘Tell me,’ he said.
‘He played chess with the good professor and they talked about comas and genomics.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me. Nothing about that boy surprises me.’
‘Penny for your thoughts,’ said Lola. She put her arms around Jack’s neck and kissed him on the cheek.
‘Careful now,’ said Jack. ‘This time, we are not alone …’
‘Tristan won’t leave the cockpit; trust me.’
‘Temptress,’ said Jack, and kissed Lola on the neck.
‘Only kidding,’ said Lola, pulling away.
‘You know about everything I’ve discovered so far, except for this …’ said Jack, enjoying the closeness of the exciting woman next to him.
‘Oh?’
‘Sir Charles called last night with some extraordinary news.’
‘He did?’
‘Two of the assassins have been identified. According to MI5, the whole affair is somehow connected to the Italian Mafia.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘That’s the official word at the moment.’
‘And Sir Charles, what does he think?’
‘He’s now almost convinced that it all has to do with Lord Elms’ work. Apparently, he was heading an enquiry into a very sensitive subject that could seriously compromise some people in high places. So, it’s all very political. And politics is a dirty business.’
‘Wow! Do you know what it is?’
‘Not yet. Sir Charles is making enquiries, discreetly. It’s all very hush-hush with many vested interests at stake here. However, he’s confident he’s getting close and expects to have something in a few days. Until then, we’ll just have to be patient, I suppose. In the meantime, our trip to Kenya could throw some more light on the subject.’
‘You think it will?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘So, what’s the plan?’
‘To begin with, I want to make some enquiries about this here.’ Jack opened his notebook and pulled out the letter with part of what he believed to be a hotel name at the top. ‘If we can find this place, we could work backwards. Forty-odd years isn’t such a long time. There’s always something left behind, some trail to follow. Just look at Madame Petrova and the Ritz stories, and where that took us.’
‘You are looking for Lady Elms’ lover?’
‘Yes. That’s our link.’
‘What else?’
‘Meeting Dr Rosen, of course; extraordinary woman. We’ll have to drive to Dadaab. She knows we are coming. You’ll like her.’
‘How far is that?’
‘We should make it in about eight hours, I’d say. She’s arranged for someone to meet us at the airport. That should make things easier.’
‘You have been a busy boy. Drink?’
‘Sure.’
‘Isis was a lot better this morning,’ said Lola, expertly mixing a martini. ‘Far more confident. She believes in Greenberg and somehow, speaking to Tristan has really cheered her up. She wants to leave tomorrow. Get it over with as soon as possible. The boat is ready.’
‘I meant to ask you. What’s happening to The Time Machine business while all of this is going on?’
‘Well, the crew went straight back to London, as you know,’ said Lola, ‘and all engagements have been cancelled indefinitely. However, record sales are soaring. I know this doesn’t make sense, but the publicity guys and spin-doctors are doing an unbelievable job turning this into some kind of social media sensation. Everything’s gone viral. Isis’ ‘mystery illness’ has created enormous interest worldwide. Business is booming. We have some very talented and capable people working for us. It’s an oiled machine all right. And believe it or not, Isis is keeping an eye on it all, even in her condition. Hanna has become her right hand for the moment and is doing an excellent job keeping her in the loop. Isis is making all the key decisions, as usual.’
‘Do you ever wonder how people cope who haven’t got the means or resources to do what Isis is doing?’ pondered Jack.
‘What prompted that thought?’
‘Dadaab. I’ve been to camps like that before. You’ll see misery and suffering on an almost unimaginable scale. The dark side of life can be very scary, especially in East Africa.’
‘I know,’ said Lola. She handed Jack his drink. ‘We’ll face that tomorrow. As for now, why don’t we drink to Isis’ recovery?’
‘Sure. To Isis,’ said Jack. They touched glasses.
Lola kicked off her shoes. ‘Now, if we were alone, hypothetically speaking, you understand,’ she said, running her toes up the inside of Jack’s trouser leg, ‘what might we be doing, do you think?’
‘If you keep this up, you’ll find out,’ said Jack.
‘Threat, or promise?’
‘Your call.’
53
The long flight from Mexico to Kenya had been more difficult than anticipated. They had to skirt around a violent storm raging in Central Africa, which had caused fuel problems and delays. By the time Pegasus landed in Nairobi, everyone was tired and irritable, but glad to be once again on solid ground.
‘I’m Kobo,’ said a tall, athletic looking young African, an aid worker with Médecins Sans Frontières – Doctors Without Borders – as he followed the customs officials into the plane. ‘Dr Rosen sends her regards. You are just in time.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Jack, handing his passport to one of the officers.
‘We are taking a delivery of medical supplies into Dadaab,’ said the young man. ‘That’s our plane over there.’ He pointed to a Fokker Friendship on the tarmac. ‘We waited for you. You can come with us. Much faster and much more comfortable than the eight-hour road trip,’ he added. ‘But not quite as comfortable as this little beauty here. What a plane! But you couldn’t land this on our dirt strip at the camp, that’s for sure. Nor would you want to. How many of you are coming along?’ Kobo prattled on.
‘Three,’ said Jack.
Kobo said something to the officer in a sing-song dialect with many clicks and unfamiliar sounds. The officer nodded and returned Jack his passport. ‘My cousin,’ said Kobo, grinning. ‘All in order. We can go now; come.’
Jack looked at Lola standing next to him, the question on his face obvious. ‘Our guys will look after the plane, no problem. The pilots know what to do,’ said Lola. ‘It’s their job.’
‘Then let’s go.’
Tristan slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and turned to Jack. ‘What a trip,’ he said, his cheeks glowing with excitement.
‘Just don’t get used to it, buster,’ said Jack. ‘I can’t promise you something like this every time …’
Tristan hurried after Kobo and fell in beside him. ‘I’m Tristan,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘You work for MSF?’
‘I do.’
By the time they rea
ched the other plane, which was just starting up its engines, Tristan and Kobo were locked in deep conversation. Kobo was carrying Tristan’s bag and had his arm around him.
‘Just look at those two,’ said Jack, pointing ahead. ‘Mates already. I suppose if we need to know something, we’ll just ask Tristan and he’ll find out, eh?’
‘It’s good to have him with us,’ said Lola. ‘Somehow, I feel safe when he’s around. Silly, I know.’
The contrast between the opulent luxury of Pegasus and the stark, spartan interior of the ageing Fokker Friendship, a seasoned workhorse, couldn’t have been more pronounced. Modified for transporting cargo, the few remaining seats had been bolted to the floor behind the open cockpit, and all kinds of exposed wires, tape, insulation and mesh dangled from the ceiling above, like a plastic curtain keeping out the flies in a country grocery store. However, worst of all was the deafening engine noise.
Tristan sat next to Lola in the front. With his nose pressed against the small window, he kept watching the monotonous brown landscape glide past below, hoping in vain to spot some wildlife.
Jack turned to Kobo sitting next to him. ‘How big is the camp?’ he asked.
‘Actually, there are several refugee camps next to each other,’ said Kobo. ‘Hagadera, Kambios, Ifo … all are serviced by Dadaab, a UNHCR base. The camps were constructed in 1999 and were designed to house ninety thousand. However, in 2011 we had a terrible drought in East Africa and numbers swelled to almost five hundred thousand, making Dadaab the biggest refugee camp in the world at the time. Now we have about three hundred thousand, mainly refugees from war-torn Somalia. Still far too many. Disease, social problems, tribal violence and crime are out of control, but we are doing our best. Since 2013, voluntary repatriation of Somalian nationals has somewhat eased the situation, but progress is slow.’
‘Any terrorist activity?’ asked Jack.
Kobo squirmed in his seat, a clear sign of his unease, and appeared to take his time before answering the question. Jack noticed the change in his demeanour. ‘Some,’ said Kobo at last. ‘Al-Shabaab mainly, a Somali rebel group. But we have more serious problems in the camps …’
‘Oh? What?’
‘I think it’s better if I let Dr Rosen tell you about that,’ said Kobo, sidestepping the question. Jack nodded, sat back and looked out the window. He realised there was obviously no point in pursuing the matter further.
On its descent into Dadaab, the plane circled the sea of white tents set out in neat rows stretching all the way to the horizon and landed in a cloud of dust almost blotting out the blood-red disc of the setting sun. Shuddering alarmingly, the plane skidded to a halt, the silence almost deafening after the engines had been switched off.
Kobo unbuckled his seatbelt. ‘Welcome to Dadaab,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you to Dr Rosen.’
‘I’m glad you know where we are going,’ said Jack, sweat running down his neck and back in the oppressive heat of the approaching evening. He was trying to keep up with Kobo wending his way through endless dusty rows of white tents, the acrid smoke from countless cooking fires making his eyes water. ‘Everything here looks the same.’
Kobo stopped and pointed to a large tent. ‘That’s Dr Rosen’s surgery over there,’ he said. A tall, grey-haired woman in a white coat stood next to an old man sitting on a chair in front of the tent. She was looking into his eyes and applying some ointment. A naked little boy with a bloated tummy sat on the old man’s lap, playing with his beard. ‘And that’s Dr Rosen.’
‘Hello, Bettany,’ said Jack, walking up to her. ‘I like your alfresco surgery … African style.’
‘You are here already,’ said Dr Rosen. Her face lit up; Jack’s familiar, easygoing banter bringing much needed humour into her camp-world of great suffering and despair. She wiped the old man’s cheeks with cotton wool and said something to him in Somali that Jack couldn’t understand. The old man got unsteadily to his feet, handed the little boy to a young girl standing next to him and hobbled slowly away.
Dr Rosen walked over to Jack and gave him a hug. ‘Good to see you, Jack,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Kobo, for bringing this man to me. He and I have shared much …’
A little thinner, and a little older, thought Jack, kissing Dr Rosen on the cheeks, but otherwise her brilliant, remarkable self. Jack introduced Lola and Tristan standing behind him.
Dr Rosen took off her white coat. ‘Come inside and we’ll have some tea,’ she said. ‘I’m dying to know what brought you here.’
After some polite chitchat, Lola sensed it was time to leave Jack and Dr Rosen alone to have an opportunity to talk in private. Pretending to be exhausted, she excused herself. Appreciating Lola’s tact, Dr Rosen gave her a knowing smile and asked her assistant, a young Somali girl, to show Lola and Tristan to their tents.
‘Scotch?’ said Dr Rosen. Jack looked up, surprised. ‘We may be on the outer edge of civilisation here, but we don’t have to be uncivilised – right?’ Dr Rosen walked over to one of the medicine cupboards in the corner of the tent and took out a bottle of Johnny Walker and two glasses. ‘Medicinal,’ she said, holding up the bottle.
‘Of course. Make it a big one, please,’ said Jack, laughing.
Dr Rosen cranked up her late husband’s old gramophone and put on a record. ‘So, what brings you here, Jack?’ she asked, sipping her scotch. ‘No one flies halfway around the world to a place like this without a good reason. You didn’t say much on the phone, which is an ominous sign …’
Appreciating her insight and candour, Jack sat back in his canvas deckchair and looked at Dr Rosen, Mozart’s clarinet concerto playing softly in the background sounding strangely out of place.
‘Your late father,’ said Jack quietly.
Dr Rosen sat up with a jolt, a worried look on her face. ‘But he’s been dead for years …’
‘But the past is very much alive,’ said Jack.
‘Please explain.’
Over several glasses of whisky, Jack told Dr Rosen how he had been approached by Isis, and why. He told her about Señora Gonzales and how the mention of Sturmbannfuehrer Wolfgang Steinberger’s name had persuaded him to accept the assignment. He spoke about Madame Petrova, the Ritz and the scandal of the crystal skull. Step-by-step, he was bringing the conversation closer to the subject of real interest. He was carefully preparing the way for the disturbing revelation to come, which he knew would shock her.
‘Firstly, did you know that your father had a brother, a doctor, who carried out secret medical experiments at Auschwitz?’
Dr Rosen paled, visibly shaken. ‘Just before my father died, he called me to his bedside and we had a conversation. The first in years. I think I told you about it.’ Jack nodded. ‘He left a significant amount of money to the Rosen Foundation and told me that he was proud of my work and what my late husband had done.’ Dr Rosen paused, collecting her thoughts. ‘He also spoke of a brother,’ she added quietly. ‘This was the first time he had ever mentioned this. At first, I thought he must be confused and hallucinating. But he was perfectly lucid. However, I had no idea that his brother was a doctor … at Auschwitz.’
‘Do you know what happened to him?’
‘No. There was nothing in my father’s papers about the brother. Apart from that brief conversation, the subject never came up.’
‘Did your father mention anything else of a private nature during that conversation?’
Dr Rosen looked at Jack, surprised. ‘No. What are you getting at, Jack? What else do you know?’
Here comes the bombshell, thought Jack, pouring himself another scotch. ‘Your father had an affair with Dolores Gonzales in Paris. She had a son. He was born in 1942,’ said Jack quietly.
‘Are you certain about this?’ said Dr Rosen, her voice barely audible.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know what happened to him?’
‘Only this: your father and his brother left Paris in a hurry in 1942 and took the baby with them. Mother and child were sep
arated. That’s the last thing Señora Gonzales, or anyone else for that matter, appear to know about the boy.’
‘So, why are you here, Jack? Surely not just to tell me about some forgotten family history?’
‘I’ve promised to find out what happened to the boy, but you’re right, there’s more, a lot more … But enough for tonight. It’s getting late. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.’
‘That may be difficult,’ said Dr Rosen.
‘Oh? Why?’
‘I too have made a promise … a promise to myself …’
‘Care to tell me about it?’
‘I’m leaving tomorrow, with Kobo. Early in the morning. We are going into Somalia. Not far; the border is quite close and the whole thing should only take a day. I have to find out about something terrible going on there. Something awful and deadly that affects the lives of many in a most brutal and horrendous way, if the rumours are accurate that is. We are talking here about greed, corruption in high places, misery, death and suffering on an almost unimaginable scale. Exploitation of the weak is nothing new, and we know all about that, don’t we, Jack?’
‘We sure do.’
Dr Rosen became quite agitated and Jack noticed she had tears in her eyes. ‘And then there’s something else, almost too shocking for words,’ Dr Rosen added quietly, ‘especially for a doctor like myself. Human nature at its lowest …’
‘Tell me.’
‘As this seems to be a night of extraordinary revelations, I will,’ said Dr Rosen. ‘But I must warn you, there’s great danger involved here. Just knowing about this could put you at serious risk.’
Another warning. How extraordinary, though Jack, remembering Lady Elms’ deathbed words to her son. ‘I’m used to danger, and risk is no stranger to me,’ he said, smiling.
‘I know that. That’s why I’m going to tell you.’
Over the next two hours, Dr Rosen told Jack what she had accidentally discovered during her work at the camp. It felt good to unburden herself and tell someone like Jack the whole dreadful story and her suspicions, and get his views.
With the bottle almost empty, the gramophone silent and the candle beginning to flicker in the lantern, Jack offered to accompany Bettany on her trip into Somalia the next day. A danger shared was only half a danger, he told her jokingly.
The Hidden Genes of Professor K Page 28