The Hidden Genes of Professor K

by Gabriel Farago

  The wild card was Dr Rosen. Cross had no idea how much she knew or what her involvement was in all this. However, her international reputation and standing made her a powerful voice that couldn’t be ignored or easily silenced. It also made her difficult to control.

  Sir Charles arrived first. He entered the crowded hall full of journalists and stood at the back. He had just caught the last part of Dr Rosen’s stirring speech and the spontaneous applause that followed, when Cross tapped him on the shoulder. ‘You have to stop him,’ said Cross, breathless, his face flushed.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We have reason to believe Mr Rogan has certain sensitive information touching on national security and is about to reveal it to the press. I don’t have to tell you what the consequences would be if he does.’

  ‘That’s gobbledegook!’ said Sir Charles, unimpressed.

  ‘Will you talk to him, or do I have to arrest him?’

  ‘What? Here? Now? In front of the press? You’re bluffing!’

  ‘I have my orders.’

  Sir Charles had just heard about the sinking of the Calypso and the wild rumours circulating about Macbeth and Blackburn Pharmaceuticals. He was well aware of the financial turmoil that was likely to cause in stock markets around the globe. He knew of course about the abduction, but was as surprised as anyone else to find that Jack and Dr Rosen had turned up in London out of the blue and were holding a press conference.

  He looked at Cross. Macbeth and the black and deep desires, he thought. He suspects Jack has discovered who was behind the Elms attack, and why. That’s it! Has to be! No wonder he’s worried. However, the lawyer in Sir Charles told him to be careful. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Sir Charles, and pushed past the cameramen to get to the front.

  Jack had just taken the microphone from Dr Rosen, when he saw Sir Charles waving at him in the crowd.

  Sir Charles walked up to Jack and took him aside. ‘If you want to stay out of jail, not a word about the Elms attack and the Macbeth connection; clear?’ he hissed.

  Jack nodded. ‘I wasn’t going to talk about that.’

  ‘Good. Don’t. MI5 is watching!’

  As Sir Charles moved away, Jack stepped back to the microphone and continued.

  Sir Charles made eye contact with Cross and nodded. Cross moved to the front with two of his men. He would pounce as soon as Jack strayed into dangerous territory. However, he was desperately hoping he wouldn’t have to do that.

  87

  The door to Jack’s room was open. Lola looked inside and saw that Jack had his eyes open. ‘The sleeping prince awakes,’ she teased and walked into the room.

  ‘What time is it?’ asked Jack, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Four p.m. The next day. You slept almost 24 hours. Coffee?’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘Where’s Bettany?’

  ‘Next room. She’s been on the phone for hours.’

  ‘And Tristan?’

  ‘Downstairs, with the guys in the studio. Mixing sound.’

  ‘That’d be right.’

  ‘Sir Charles has rung several times. He wants to talk to you – urgently.’

  ‘I feel like I’ve been trampled on by elephants. I’ll hit the shower. That should help.’

  ‘You may need a little more than that,’ said Lola. ‘I’ll get the coffee.’

  Jack stood under the hot shower and let his mind wander. What happened after the news conference was still a bit of a blur. He remembered sitting next to Dr Rosen in the back of Sir Charles’ car and being dropped off at The Time Machine studios. After that, it was bed; sleep; bliss.

  Jack knew that exhaustion can distort reality and the mind can play tricks on you and turn off to cope. It had happened to him before, in Afghanistan. His body always responded in the same way: craving sleep. After that, he would quickly recover and return to normal. I’m starving, thought Jack. Good sign, and turned off the water.

  ‘That’s a lot better,’ said Lola, who had returned with much needed coffee for Jack. ‘You almost look like yourself again. Amazing what a shower and a shave can do.’

  ‘Thanks, Lola,’ said Jack. He adjusted his bathrobe, walked over to her and kissed her gently on the cheek.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Everything. You’re one hell of a girl. That helicopter ride was truly amazing. We wouldn’t be here without you. I had this strange dream, over and over.’

  ‘What dream?’

  ‘I was standing on the deck of the Calypso, waste deep in water and unable to move. I looked down into the deep and saw bodies floating up from below. One of them was Macbeth, still sitting in his wheelchair. He kept staring at me. Then came Carlotta, eyes bulging and her mouth wide open in a silent scream. Dr Gaal was next. His right hand was missing. It was floating along next to him, a trail of blood clouding the water. Then more bodies. They came from everywhere. I wanted to look away, but couldn’t.

  ‘Then along came Kobo. He shot the gunman who was about to shoot me in the head, but was himself shot. Then Tristan reached out to me with his hand and pulled me up, but the ship was sinking and we had nowhere to go. Then suddenly, there was a helicopter, hovering above us. You were at the controls and tried to land, but there was only water …’

  ‘Snap out of it, Jack, and have some coffee,’ said Lola. ‘Better call Sir Charles. He was on the phone again a moment ago. And while you think about that, here are today’s papers. You and Dr Rosen are all over the front pages.’

  Lola handed Jack a pile of papers and he glanced at the headlines: Horror crimes against humanity … Secret death camps in Somalia exposed … Blackburn Pharmaceuticals accused of illegal drug trials …

  Well done, Bettany, thought Jack and put the papers back on the table. The sensation-genie is out of the bottle. You have the ear of the world.

  Jack called Sir Charles after Lola had left the room. ‘You enjoyed our little news conference, I hear,’ he said.

  ‘I did,’ said Sir Charles, ‘but what I enjoyed most of all was to see that little weed of a sleuth shake in his polished boots. You really had Cross worried there for a while. Every time you mentioned Macbeth, he began to squirm. Well done! You certainly got your message across. The newspaper coverage is sensational. And you didn’t let anything slip about Lord Elms … smart man!’

  ‘Thanks, Charles. We have to talk.’

  ‘Sure, but first we should meet with Cross. He’s been badgering me with calls all day. He wants to talk to you.’

  ‘I bet he does. What do you think?’

  ‘We should go along with it and see what we can get out of him,’ Sir Charles suggested shrewdly. ‘We are in a strong position. He’s worried and on the back foot. You never know, perhaps we could even trade information …’

  ‘Arrange it.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as you can. Let’s strike while the iron’s hot!’

  ‘That’s my boy,’ said Sir Charles, and hung up.

  When Sir Charles called to arrange a meeting, Cross indicated that Sir Reginald Holloway, his boss, would attend. This was highly unusual and could only mean one thing: the subject matter was of the utmost importance. Sir Charles and Sir Reginald went back a long time and had crossed paths, and swords, many times.

  ‘Hello Reggie,’ said Sir Charles, walking into the dimly lit conference room at MI5. ‘How’s your golf?’

  ‘Lousy. I hardly get to play these days. It’s people like you who keep me off the green.’

  ‘In that case, we won’t keep you long,’ said Sir Charles cheerfully. ‘And you can get back to your putting.’

  ‘I can see we understand each other, as usual,’ said Sir Reginald. ‘Drink?’

  ‘Scotch, thank you,’ said Jack and took a seat.

  ‘Let’s get down to business, shall we?’ said Sir Charles. ‘First, our conditions.’

  Cross was about to say something, but Sir Reginald held up his hand. Cross sat back in his chair and said nothing.

  ‘We tel
l you what we know, and you tell us what you know. We sense you are holding back, we walk out. Mr Rogan hasn’t signed the Official Secrets Act. He’s an Australian citizen and has come here in a spirit of cooperation to assist you. He hasn’t committed any crime, or broken any law. You have no right to hold or interrogate him. You do that, the press will be down on you within the hour. Clear so far?’

  Cross looked at his boss. Sir Reginald nodded. ‘Absolutely,’ said Cross.

  ‘Intimidation or threats do not work with us. I’m sure you know that by now, Mr Cross. So, let’s start at the very beginning, shall we?’

  ‘Very well. Who will begin?’ asked Sir Reginald.

  Jack put down his glass. ‘I will,’ he said. ‘Let’s go back to where it started: the attack on Lord and Lady Elms.’ Jack paused and looked at Cross. ‘“Stars, hide your fires”. Does that mean anything to you, gentlemen?’

  Sir Reginald lit a cigarette. ‘Before we answer that, here are my conditions,’ he said, inhaling deeply.

  ‘Oh? And what exactly do you mean by that?’ asked Sir Charles, a little taken aback.

  ‘Bring him in, Cross,’ said Sir Reginald, enjoying the nicotine rush. Cross stood up and left the room. He returned moments later with a very worried looking George Underwood, the senior civil servant who had helped Sir Charles crack the Elms mission and its connection to the government.

  ‘George has, of course, signed the Official Secrets Act,’ said Sir Reginald quietly, ‘and so has everyone working with him. George has passed classified information to you, Charles. Stars, hide your fires? He’s admitted it. And that puts you in the frame as well.’

  Thunderstruck, Sir Charles was unable to look his friend George, who was now seated directly opposite, in the eye. ‘Your conditions, Reggie?’ he said after a while.

  Sir Reginald was enjoying himself. ‘Quite simple, really,’ he said. ‘You tell us everything you know about this whole affair, and we’ll do the same. You hold something back, George will not only lose his job, but he’ll be charged and go to jail. For how long would you say, Charles? Twenty years?’ said Sir Reginald. ‘You go to the press with this, or leak any information, the same thing happens. So you see, George’s fate is in your hands, gentlemen.’

  Sir Charles looked at Jack. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘Do we have a choice?’

  ‘Not really. Unless you want to send George down, or walk away.’

  ‘I have one condition of my own,’ said Jack.

  ‘Tell us,’ said Sir Reginald. He liked the plucky Australian.

  ‘I must be allowed to tell my client, Isis, Lord and Lady Elms’ son, and a few of his associates about all this.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Sir Reginald. ‘But the same conditions apply. If there’s a breach of our understanding, George suffers the consequences. And you already know exactly what that means. Fair enough?’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Jack.

  Sir Reginald looked at Sir Charles. ‘What about you?’ he said.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Sir Charles.

  ‘Now, let’s talk about Stars, hide your fires, shall we?’ said Sir Reginald. ‘I always liked Shakespeare. So full of hidden meaning and open to interpretation.’ He reached for his silver cigarette case and lit up. ‘Go ahead, Mr Rogan, let’s hear yours.’

  88

  Isis had surprised everyone, including Sir Humphrey, who hadn’t left her bedside since his arrival in Boston, with her stoic attitude and positive approach to the risky operation. Even Dr Greenberg was surprised. He had expected what he called ‘irrational last minute jitters’, when most of his patients about to face the operating table were prepared to accept certain death rather than go under his knife. Somehow, Isis appeared to be different, but all was not as it seemed.

  The face radiating confidence was in fact a mask. Years of rigorous training and discipline – especially before a performance – had equipped Isis well. She knew how to suppress her emotions and control her fears. Deep down, however, she was terrified and what Greenberg was about to tell her, would almost push her over the edge.

  Encouraged by Isis’ apparent calm and rational approach to the operation, Greenberg decided to tell her more about the complex procedure than he would normally disclose to other patients. To have Sir Humphrey – Isis’ trusted friend and physician – present, was another important factor, and Greenberg had a special role for him in mind. A pioneer at heart, Greenberg was constantly on the lookout for innovation and ways to improve his surgical techniques.

  The close relationship and excellent rapport between Sir Humphrey and his patient had given him an idea. Greenberg would ask Sir Humphrey to participate in the operation and Greenberg was about to tell his patient and her physician exactly what he had in mind, and why.

  ‘I like to start early,’ said Greenberg cheerfully, sitting down on the edge of Isis’ bed. ‘Around six a.m. And I have to warn you, the operation will take several hours.’ Isis had expected this and wasn’t surprised. ‘This is a complex operation requiring many diverse skills. It’s a team effort. I will introduce you to the team tomorrow morning before we start. They’re a terrific bunch. You’ll like them.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Sir Humphrey.

  ‘What music would you like?’ continued Greenberg. ‘I always play music during the operation. It calms the spirit and focuses the mind.’

  ‘Does it matter what I like?’ asked Isis.

  ‘Of course it does. It is the effect it will have on you that counts.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Isis. ‘I will be—’

  ‘Awake, of course. I need you fully awake and alert during certain parts of procedure. Without that, I cannot operate. I thought Sir Humphrey would have …’

  Stunned silence. Isis looked at Sir Humphrey and paled. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’ she said quietly.

  ‘Far from it; it’s the only way,’ said Greenberg.

  Sir Humphrey looked slightly sheepish. ‘We were going to discuss this later this evening,’ he said.

  ‘Now you don’t have to.’ Greenberg reached for Isis’ limp hand. ‘Cheer up, my friend, you won’t notice a thing. The good news is, the brain cannot feel pain. And besides, your head will be safely secured in a steel brace. It works a bit like a vice because you have to be perfectly still, you see. The slightest movement could be fatal. But you will have to talk to us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Isis, becoming more and more alarmed.

  ‘Because your tumour is in such a – how will I put it? – delicate position near the cortex, I will have to be guided by you to some extent, or more precisely, by your brain functions.’

  ‘What?’ Isis almost shouted.

  ‘By hearing you talk to me, I know what function of the brain is being activated, and that helps me find the best way to go in and remove the tumour without causing damage.’

  ‘My God,’ said Isis, suddenly feeling quite sick.

  ‘This is usually the point when most of my patients want to run away,’ said Greenberg. ‘Understandable. But not you – right? Of course not,’ he said, laughing, and turned to face Sir Humphrey standing behind him. Sir Humphrey knew all of this was part of Greenberg’s revolutionary operating technique. It was the main reason he was able to attempt operations other surgeons would consider too risky and walk away from.

  Not only was engaging the patient and talking to him during the operation part of this technique, but Greenberg believed the subject matter of the conversation was even more important, as it would activate quite specific parts of the brain in certain ways, which in turn gave him important pointers and clues of how to proceed. In fact, Greenberg had discovered this while playing music during his operations. Sir Humphrey realised that only a genius like Greenberg could come up with such an idea and use it effectively to save lives.

  ‘I would like you to participate in the operation, Sir Humphrey,’ said Greenberg. ‘I hope you’ll agree.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked S
ir Humphrey, surprised.

  ‘Because you know Isis so well and she trusts you, you would be the best person to talk to her during the operation. Interested?’

  ‘Certainly, if Isis agrees.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ croaked Isis.

  ‘What would you like us to talk about?’ Sir Humphrey asked.

  ‘Chess. I saw you play chess here this morning and that gave me the idea …’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Sir Humphrey.

  ‘I want Isis to concentrate. I want her to focus. To be fully absorbed by the subject matter, like solving a puzzle, or a complex mathematical problem. Does that make sense? Can you think of something like that?’

  ‘Oh yes, I can,’ said Sir Humphrey. He pointed a finger at Isis. ‘Do you remember the famous games we used to play? Without a board?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Isis. ‘But that was years ago.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Greenberg.

  ‘Sir Humphrey taught me to play chess when I was a boy. As part of my training, he made me memorise famous games. It was a lot of fun.’

  ‘What, all of it? All the moves?’ asked Greenberg.

  ‘Absolutely. In chess, thinking ahead, anticipating and planning your moves far in advance and working out possibilities is everything. So we used to memorise famous games and play them by heart. Without a board. Just calling out the moves. Well, the first ten or so, and then it was on. After that we did our own thing.’

  ‘Amazing. What a feat! Could you do this now?’ asked Greenberg.

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ said Isis.

  ‘All right,’ said Sir Humphrey, warming to the idea. ‘Which game would you like?’

  ‘How about the 1981 Kasparov v Fedorowicz game?’ said Isis. ‘It was all over in 34 moves.’

  ‘I knew you’d choose that,’ said Sir Humphrey. ‘It was your favourite.’

  ‘That’s right. Queen’s Indian Defence …’ said Isis.

  ‘Petrosian Variation,’ added Sir Humphrey. ‘Inspirational.’