‘You look troubled, my friend,’ said Sergei, a fellow physicist from Russia, as he settled into the seat next to Zachariah. ‘Hawking?’
Stolzfus nodded. ‘You know me too well. His death is affecting me more than I thought possible.’
‘Understandable.’
Living in the tight confines of the space station for months with little or no privacy had brought the tightly knit group of four scientists closer together. So much so, they could not only read each other’s moods, but intuitively know their thoughts as well.
‘For the first time, I wish I was down there and not up here. I feel so confined, so helpless. So alone. For some reason, I want to reach out, talk about him and his work. Tell the world what he ... I want to do something!’
Sergei put his hand on his friend’s arm. ‘Then why don’t you?’ he asked quietly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Talk about him. From up here, right now. Send a message to the world down there, from up here. Can you think of a more fitting place for a tribute? After all, that’s what you have in mind, don’t you?’
‘Do it from here? That hadn’t occurred to me. What a great idea! Do you think they’ll go for this?’
Sergei floated out of his seat and turned to face his friend. ‘I’ll contact the control centre right now. Leave it to me.’
Feeling better, Stolzfus stared out the window as the familiar shapes of the continents drifted past, and contemplated what he would say about Hawking should NASA agree to such a broadcast.
The idea of a tribute to Hawking made from space, expressed by the very man who had for some time been considered his most likely successor, was a publicist’s dream. It raced from Maryland to Washington, right up to the president himself, who thought it was an excellent suggestion. Not only would it be a fitting tribute to a genius, it would also create huge publicity and awareness of the United States space program, and enhance the reputation and prestige of the International Space Station and the scientists working there. Permission for a short video broadcast by Stolzfus was given within the hour.
Stolzfus settled back in his seat in the cupola and then turned to face the camera. Three minutes are better than nothing, he thought, and cleared his throat.
‘I am Professor Zachariah Stolzfus, talking to you from the International Space Station high above our wonderful blue planet,’ he began slowly. ‘Today, one of the most remarkable minds of our time has faded into eternity, leaving behind some extraordinary insights and challenges. Professor Stephen Hawking has taken his place next to Copernicus, Galileo, Kepler and Einstein, who paved the way. Yet it was his genius as a theoretical physicist and cosmologist that gave us the second law of black hole dynamics, and the prediction that black holes emit radiation – now called Hawking radiation – that will change the way we look at how the universe works, how it began, and where it is heading.
‘But it wasn’t only the big scientific questions that occupied his exceptional mind. He looked closely at the future of the human race and pointed out the great dangers of climate change and how artificial intelligence could help us deal with the challenges that lie ahead. He was convinced, as I am, that our planet cannot indefinitely support the human race, and that to survive we would have to travel into space and find new places to colonise,’ Stolzfus paused and pointed to the window above him, ‘out there.
‘Professor Hawking wasn’t just a theoretical physicist; he was also a philosopher. One particular sentence taken from his book A Brief History of Time has stayed with me all these years: “If we discover a complete theory, it would be the ultimate triumph of human reason – for then we should know the mind of God.” I believe that this is the challenge Professor Hawking has left behind for us to take up. The laws of physics are eternal, and so are the ideas that help us discover them. Professor Hawking had many such ideas and they are out there, somewhere, forever. And that is as close as we can get to immortality. I will miss you, Stephen, but every time I look up at the stars, I can see you, and I can hear you.’
Sitting in his office in New York, Raul Rodrigo watched Stolzfus’s extraordinary tribute to the late Professor Hawking from space with great interest. As he listened to these stirring words, an idea began to take shape in his mind. At first he almost dismissed it as ridiculous and absurd, but it wouldn’t go away. In fact, it became even stronger and clearer when the NASA commentator spoke about Professor Zachariah Stolzfus and explained who he was, what he did, and what his work meant to the international space program, science, the United States, and the world.
At the end of the broadcast, which had been watched by millions and went viral on social media later that day, Professor Stolzfus, who until then had only been known in science circles, became an overnight celebrity as one of the leading theoretical physicists and cosmologists on the planet, and Stephen Hawking’s most likely successor.
Rodrigo turned off the television and walked over to the large window overlooking Central Park. Holding his hands behind his back, he stared out the window and began formulating a plan so daring, it made him smile and tremble with excitement. It was the kind of plan he thrived on because he knew there were perhaps only a handful of people who could come up with something like this, and fewer still who could even think of implementing it. However, he did know of one man who would not only embrace the idea, he would love it.
Rodrigo turned around, walked over to his desk and called his client in Bogota.
2
Cordoba compound, Bogota: 30 March
Rahima knelt in front of the altar of the small chapel in the garden, praying. Built by Jesuit missionaries in the early eighteenth century, the chapel had survived the destruction of the monastery that had stood next to it. It was also the reason Hernando Cordoba had purchased the dilapidated property on the outskirts of Bogota in the nineties and built his home there, which later became the fortified headquarters of the notorious H Cartel. He considered the presence of the little chapel a good omen. Having grown up in the slums of Bogota, the church had always played an important part in his life.
Rahima had been praying in the chapel since early that morning. She had to find a way to come to terms with the devastating news that her son’s final appeal had been dismissed, and he was now on death row in Arizona, awaiting execution. The only way she knew she could do that, was to go into the little chapel and pray. It was her place of solace and comfort. It was the only place in the fortified compound full of armed men where she could go in private to cry, and to find some peace.
The man who had rescued her all those years ago and with whom she had fallen in love, was a different man today. Hernando, the carefree, loving father of her beloved son, had turned into a feared, ruthless, all-powerful billionaire, head of the notorious H Cartel. Over the years he had become increasingly distant and withdrawn, obsessed with only two things: his empire, and his wars. He thrived on danger and taking risks. Alonso adored his father and wanted to be just like him. What Rahima had dreaded most, had just happened. Despite all her efforts and pleading, Alonso had followed his father into the Cartel, taking on more and more responsibilities for the running of the complex and dangerous drug business, with investments all over the globe.
All the riches came from cocaine, and keeping competitors out of the market. The craving for cocaine, especially in the United States and Europe, had grown exponentially over the years, consuming everyone and everything standing in its path, and delivering rivers of gold to the suppliers who found more and more ingenious ways to smuggle the addictive poison into the country and build sophisticated distribution networks.
Alonso was the reason Rahima had stayed with Hernando all these years. She adored her son, and to lose him now in such a brutal way was unthinkable. All the money and power in the world came to nothing if she couldn’t somehow save him. Rahima, an incredibly strong-willed and resourceful woman, was determined to do just that, whatever it took. She crossed herself, leant forward and kissed the Russian icon on
the altar in front of her. Then she stood up resolutely, wiped away the tears and hurried back to the compound to find her husband.
Hernando was sitting on a couch in his observation room overlooking the garden, as usual. He appeared locked deep in conversation with Raul Rodrigo, his lawyer and right-hand man, when the door opened. Hernando looked up, surprised. His wife rarely entered his inner sanctum, and never unannounced. Rahima walked over to her husband, sat down next to him, and took his hands in hers. She knew that the terrible news had hit him hard as well, but Hernando rarely showed his emotions.
‘I’m sure you will agree with me that I haven’t asked for much over the years,’ began Rahima softly.
Hernando wondered where this was heading.
Rodrigo, always tactful and polite, stood up. ‘I will wait outside if you like,’ he said, sensing that something very personal and private was about to take place.
‘No, please stay,’ said Rahima. ‘I would like you to hear this.’
‘As you wish,’ said Rodrigo, his curiosity aroused, and sat down again.
For a while Rahima just looked at her husband, collecting her thoughts. ‘This morning, I have been mortally wounded. I think both of us have been mortally wounded. Our son is on death row awaiting execution in the US. Hernando, how could we have let it come to this?’
Hernando squeezed his wife’s hands in silent reply and looked at her sadly.
‘I would like you to promise me something; here, right now,’ continued Rahima, tears glistening in her eyes. Even now, in her seventies, she was a beautiful woman, radiating intelligence and grace. Her short, silver-grey hair accentuated her prominent cheekbones and large, cornflower-blue eyes, just as her lush, curly, white-blonde hair had done in her youth. Her bearing was almost regal and her movements athletic and full of purpose, hinting at a life lived mainly outdoors and close to nature.
‘What’s on your mind?’ asked Hernando, his voice sounding hoarse.
‘I want your promise that you will do everything in your power, leave no stone unturned, use everything we have to save our son, regardless of the consequences. I don’t care how you do it, as long as you do. I need this promise, Hernando, because I cannot go on without it. It would give me something to hold onto. I know how strong and resourceful you are once you set your mind to something. You and Raul are a formidable team. I have seen you two in action many times. I’ve seen you turn the impossible into possible and make it work. I believe that together you can do it. What do you say?’
Hernando turned to Rodrigo sitting opposite. ‘Would you please tell Rahima what we’ve been discussing just before she came in?’
‘Certainly.’
Rahima looked expectantly at Rodrigo.
‘We’ve been exploring possible avenues to get Alonso out of jail.’
‘You have?’ said Rahima, surprised. ‘Tell me!’
Rodrigo looked at Cordoba, the question on his face obvious.
‘Please tell Rahima,’ said Cordoba. ‘There are no secrets between us.’ Cordoba turned to face his wife. ‘We’ve been discussing one particular possibility, quite a daring and ingenious one Raul has just come up with,’ he continued. ‘Go on Raul, please ...’
‘Before you do,’ interrupted Rahima, looking intently at her husband, ‘the promise?’
‘I promise,’ replied Hernando, squeezing Rahima’s hands again. ‘On our son’s life.’
‘And you?’ said Rahima, turning to Rodrigo. ‘Are you prepared to promise as well? Because Hernando can only do this with your help, of that I’m sure.’
Rodrigo nodded. ‘I promise; on our friendship.’
Feeling better, a hesitant little smile crept across Rahima’s troubled face, as the heavy hand pressing against her heart began to loosen its grip.
‘Thank you. Thank you both. I can’t tell you what this means to me,’ whispered Rahima, close to tears. ‘Now, please tell me. What is this plan of yours?’
For the next hour, Rahima listened in silence as Cordoba took her step by step through a plan so daring that she had to bite her bottom lip several times until it almost bled, to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. It began with the recent death of a great man in Cambridge ...
‘But we’ve been talking about London just now. I don’t understand ...’ said Rahima.
‘Tell her,’ said Cordoba.
Rodrigo held up his hand. ‘That’s the best bit, and it only happened just recently,’ he said, smiling.
Rahima looked at him and frowned.
‘A couple of days ago – on the twenty-eighth, to be precise – it was announced that a memorial service will be held in Westminster Abbey on June fifteen to honour and lay to rest—’
‘But how is this connected to this genius scientist?’ interrupted Rahima, frustrated.
‘Because it has also been announced,’ continued Rodrigo calmly, ‘that the “genius scientist” as you call him, is due to return from space in two weeks and will therefore be able to attend the memorial service to which he has been specifically invited.’
‘And this is good news because ...?’ asked Rahima.
‘Because the memorial service that will be held in Westminster Abbey in London is the perfect occasion for what we have in mind ...’
3
Amsterdam: 3 April
Rodrigo knew Amsterdam very well. He always stayed at the exclusive Hotel De L’Europe near Munttoren. It was his preferred hotel in Amsterdam and he had even secured his favourite room overlooking the Amstel River. Rodrigo had reserved a table in the Hoofdstad Brasserie that evening and had requested a table well away from prying eyes and curious ears. The person he was about to meet, and the reason behind the meeting, definitely warranted such caution.
A veteran of countless bruising legal battles – many of them fought for notorious, high-profile clients – Rodrigo had acquired an almost uncanny ability to read people and situations. His stellar rise during a highly successful twenty-year legal career in New York had come to a sudden, embarrassing end the day he brought his partner – a young man – to the firm Christmas party. That’s when the whispers and sideways looks had started, the office staff had begun to gossip and giggle when he walked past, and the partners had begun to snub him during meetings. Discreetly gay, and a flamboyant dresser with flair and style, he had always moved in the right circles, or so he thought, until it became clear that being openly gay in the conservative New York legal establishment was definitely a disadvantage as far as career advancement and client relations were concerned.
Disillusioned and disappointed, Rodrigo had left the prestigious law firm he had been with for years and set up his own practice. This was when he came to Cordoba’s notice. That had been ten years ago. Cordoba had been embroiled in a bitter commercial dispute involving a hotel he owned with a partner in Brooklyn. A last-minute change of legal representation had left Cordoba vulnerable and exposed. Someone referred him to Rodrigo, who stepped in and won the case in a dramatic showdown in court. Impressed, Cordoba continued to engage Rodrigo until a friendship had developed between two outcasts who understood what it meant to be different. Rodrigo rearranged his practice in New York and began to work exclusively for Cordoba on a multimillion-dollar retainer that would have been the envy of his former senior partners. He divided his time between New York and Bogota, and any other place his instructions demanded.
Rodrigo looked at his watch and frowned; his guest was late. The meeting with Alessandro Giordano, second son of Riccardo Giordano, the notorious head of a powerful Mafia family in Florence, had been arranged quite recently by Cordoba himself.
Since the assassination of his main rival Salvatore Gambio in 2016, Riccardo Giordano had attempted to expand his drug distribution network in Italy and beyond. What was holding him back was a reliable drug supplier he could count on. It was for that reason Giordano had reached out to Cordoba on several occasions in the hope of establishing a new business relationship he could trust. The bloody Mafia turf wars in Florence du
ring 2016 were well known, which had begun with the assassination of Giordano’s eldest son, Mario. It was rumoured that Gambio was behind the hit and that this was the reason for Gambio’s own very public assassination during Mario’s funeral, which had dominated the headlines all over Europe for weeks. As a result, the lucrative business interests of the two remaining Mafia families – the Giordanos and the Lombardos – were rearranged and ‘Gambio turf’ was divided between them during an uneasy truce.
Riccardo Giordano had been delighted when Cordoba had contacted him unexpectedly a few days earlier, suggesting a meeting in Amsterdam. What Giordano didn’t know was that the proposed meeting had nothing whatsoever to do with drug distribution, but an entirely different purpose altogether.
In fact, Rodrigo had suggested contacting Giordano as the first step in implementing the daring plan to free Alonso. Cordoba had even given it a name: ‘Operation Libertad’. It was the first move in a risky chess-like game where the stakes were about as high as they came – and losing wasn’t an option.
Rodrigo, a master tactician, always tried to be a step ahead of the game. Just like a champion chess player, he carefully planned his moves well in advance, and his opponents rarely knew where he was coming from, or why, until it was too late.
Rodrigo was about to order his second martini when his guest walked into the brasserie. Apologising profusely, he sat down facing Rodrigo. Shortish, in his early thirties with classic Italian good looks, Alessandro was exactly as Rodrigo had imagined. He was a messenger, a trusted representative of his powerful father who made all the decisions. Like Cordoba, Alessandro’s father rarely travelled, preferring the familiarity and safety of Florence. And like all traditional Mafia families, Riccardo Giordano felt more comfortable doing business through family members, preferably his sons. Tradition. Rodrigo had no doubt that Alessandro would deliver his proposal promptly and accurately. It was a solid first step, but any decision would be made by his father. The detail would follow later. However, self-interest and the possibility of huge profits would focus Giordano’s attention; Rodrigo was sure of it. And where money was concerned, the Mafia always paid attention and understood the game perfectly.
The Curious Case of the Missing Head Page 3