The Curious Case of the Missing Head

by Gabriel Farago

‘Are you saying that someone who knew exactly who Father Alexopoulos was and that he had an invitation to attend the Hawking service, managed to break into his room, steal his identity papers and then by impersonating him, entered through security at the Abbey, somehow managed to poison Professor Stolzfus and then left unchallenged and disappeared into thin air?’

  A little taken aback by this blunt summary of the facts, Cross took his time before replying. ‘That is the situation at the moment, Major, but I can assure you, we have mobilised all available resources to work on this around the clock.’

  No wonder I’ve been given the cold shoulder, thought the major. This was extremely embarrassing for both the Metropolitan Police and MI5. They’d been made to look like fools. And we haven’t even touched on the ambulance incident and the abduction. What a fiasco!

  Cross was clearly annoyed and now he became quite curt. The meeting wasn’t going as planned and he decided to cut it short. He only gave the ambulance attack the briefest attention and glossed over the real issues raised by the major, by stating that enquiries were in progress and then quickly shutting down any questions she raised.

  Sensing that the briefing was about to come to an abrupt end, the major decided to follow up one particular point that to her stood out and warranted further probing. She couldn’t quite explain why, but she decided to follow her instincts.

  ‘You did say that all major ports were immediately put on alert shortly after the ambulance attack, and authorities were notified to keep an eye on any departing vessels, right?

  ‘That’s right,’ snapped Cross.

  ‘You also said that one particular vessel came to the attention of the Ministry of Defence Police, the MDP in Portsmouth, and it was actually intercepted and boarded.’

  ‘Yes. You can see we’ve been very thorough.’

  ‘Do you know why it attracted the attention of the MDP?’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  It was clear that Cross had no idea and was considering the question a nuisance and waste of time.

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘We received a tape – it’s somewhere on the master file – I listened to it this morning,’ Cross lied. ‘The officers recorded the entire incident. Standard procedure.’

  ‘Could I have a copy?’

  ‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible.’

  ‘I see. Could I perhaps listen to it here?’

  ‘You really want to do that?’

  ‘Yes please,’ said the major, standing her ground. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Very well then. I’ll ask my secretary to arrange it,’ said Cross, irritated, and turned up his nose. He closed the file in front of him – barely touching the cover – as if he didn’t want his meticulously manicured fingernails to come into contact with something that irked him, and stood up. ‘That’s about it for now. If you don’t mind waiting outside ...’

  ‘Thank you. You have been most helpful, Mr Cross,’ said the major, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. ‘I will let my superiors in Washington know.’

  18

  In the eye of the storm: 16 June

  Throughout the afternoon, Nike had made excellent progress and appeared to be skirting around the storm. At one time, Giacomo almost thought Patrick had changed direction and was moving away from them. The sea, however, told a different story. The waves coming towards them from the south became higher and more powerful as the afternoon progressed and the wind was picking up too. Caritas was reporting something similar as the two vessels were closing in on each other.

  Hurricane Patrick was an enigma. The meteorologists watching the storm in various countries didn’t know what to make of it and referred to it as a true ‘zombie’ where anything was possible, and issued a severe weather alert.

  Teodora had barely left Stolzfus’s side and was watching him carefully, aware that he was deteriorating fast. His breathing was erratic and he seemed to have slipped into some kind of coma. Racked by a severe fever, his body began to shake uncontrollably every few minutes and he was sweating all over.

  ‘I thought I would find you here,’ said Giacomo, walking into the small sick bay. ‘How is he?’

  ‘See for yourself.’

  ‘Not looking good.’

  ‘No. How much longer?’

  ‘About two hours.’

  Teodora looked at Giacomo. ‘Something’s worrying you,’ she said. ‘I can sense it.’

  ‘It’s this storm. I’ve been watching it for hours. I can’t put my finger on it, but ...’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’ve been at sea since I was fourteen. My father was a fisherman in Sardinia and so was my grandfather. The sea is my life. It’s in my blood and you develop a sense for …’

  ‘A sense for what?’ said Teodora.

  ‘Danger. The sea is behaving in a strange way ... I thought I should tell you.’

  ‘What do you suggest we should do?’

  ‘Normally, I would have changed course a long time ago and moved away from the storm, but we are doing the opposite, we are moving right towards it. I feel as if the storm is watching us, waiting. I’m sorry, I don’t want to alarm you, but I thought you should know.’

  ‘Thanks, Giacomo. If we don’t pull this off, he won’t make it.’

  ‘I know, but ...’

  Before Giacomo could complete the sentence, the intercom crackled into life and a loud voice boomed through the speakers: ‘Giacomo to the bridge, urgent! Giacomo to the bridge!’

  Giacomo ran up the stairs and burst into the bridge. ‘What is it?’ he demanded. Outside it was almost dark and heavy raindrops began to drum against the roof and the windows. Soon the rain turned to hail, and hailstones the size of golf balls started hammering against the roof of the cabin and the deck outside.

  ‘There; look!’ shouted the helmsman and pointed straight ahead.

  ‘Good God! Give me the wheel!’ Giacomo grabbed the small wheel with both hands, his knuckles turning white, and stared at the wall of water coming towards them. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ he whispered, frantically turning the wheel to position Nike so that she could take the impact and ride the wave.

  Giacomo grabbed the microphone. ‘Strap yourselves in wherever you are and keep your heads down! We are in for one hell of a ride. Good luck!’ he shouted. The giant wave was more than twenty metres high and Nike climbed up on one side and then plunged into a deep trough on the other, landing with a thud so violent that it made the entire vessel shudder and sent flying anything that wasn’t tied down. By now the rain and the hail were so heavy it was impossible to see anything. Already the next giant wave was upon them and Nike was climbing again. Then lightning lit up the bridge with a ghostly light followed immediately by thunder so loud it hurt the eardrums.

  Silvanus and Aladdin were crawling along the dark corridor towards the sick bay. It was impossible to stand up as the vessel was lurching violently from side to side. They knew Teodora was with Stolzfus and they wanted to see if she was all right or needed help.

  Teodora was sitting on the floor under Stolzfus’s stretcher. She was bleeding from a deep cut to her forehead and holding onto a post. Broken glass littered the floor.

  ‘Are you all right?’ shouted Silvanus, dodging the broken glass as he crawled towards her.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘And Stolzfus?’

  ‘Strapped in.’

  ‘Can you believe this?’ asked Aladdin, leaning against the wall, retching. ‘This came out of nowhere,’ he said, and was violently ill again.

  ‘What’s next?’ said Silvanus. ‘There’s no way we can transfer him to the Caritas in this.’

  ‘We ride it out, I suppose,’ said Teodora, wiping blood out of her eyes that had trickled down her forehead.

  ‘Will he make it?’ asked Aladdin.

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Will we?’ asked Silvanus.

  ‘I don’t know that either.’

 
; For the next half hour, Nike rode the giant waves coming towards her with relentless persistence like a ghost ship sailing through a nightmare. At one stage, Giacomo thought the waves were getting bigger as the climbs took longer and appeared steeper. The troughs on the other side of each crest looked like an abyss ready to devour them, or tear them apart as Nike crashed into the bottom, just to rise up again with a shudder and repeat the entire gruelling process again, and again.

  It took all of Giacomo’s skill to prevent the vessel from rolling and being crushed by the massive force of the giant waves. He was an excellent seaman who didn’t lose his cool and knew instinctively how to deal with what the unpredictable Hurricane Patrick may decide to throw at them.

  Then, something totally unexpected happened. The storm clouds parted, the waves calmed down and a patch of blue sky appeared overhead. Hesitantly at first, but becoming bigger by the second until a shaft of sunlight burst through, banishing the turbulent nightmare that only minutes ago had been threatening their lives.

  ‘Can you believe this?’ said the helmsman standing next to Giacomo. ‘No wonder they call it a zombie storm. Where did it go?’

  ‘Nowhere,’ replied Giacomo, looking at the radar screen. ‘The storm’s all around us. In fact, we are right in the middle of it, about here.’ Giacomo pointed to the screen. ‘This is the eye of the storm. I’ve only seen this once before. It’s deceptive. You think you have made it and are safe, but that’s not so.’

  ‘How long does this last?’

  ‘Hard to say. Some eyes are quite wide, but with this storm, I wouldn’t want to—’

  ‘There; look!’ shouted the helmsman, pointing straight ahead.

  Giacomo reached for his binoculars. ‘I don’t believe it! It’s the Caritas!’ He said, becoming excited. ‘If we act quickly, we might just make it.’

  ‘Make what?’

  ‘Transfer the patient. Get everything ready!’

  Giacomo called the captain of the Caritas.

  ‘I can see you,’ said the captain as the Caritas and Nike closed in on each other at full speed. ‘You came out of that wall of water like the Flying Dutchman surfing out of hell. It was quite a sight.’

  ‘Let’s hope luck says with us for a little while. If the conditions stay like this and the sea calms down a little more, we could attempt a transfer; what do you think?’

  ‘I agree. We are ready. If you manage to come alongside on my port side, we should be able to lift him on board with the deck crane and we’ll cover you from the wind. We’ll do it just as I told you before. Strap him into the stretcher and we’ll lift him on board that way. We’ve done this many times before. As long as the sea is calm enough for you to come close, it should be okay.’

  ‘Done! At this speed, it won’t take us long to get to you.’

  ‘Let’s hope this eye doesn’t blink before we’ve got him safely on board, otherwise ...’

  Teodora had been watching the Caritas come towards them for a while – the white ship gleaming in the bright sunshine like a beacon of hope – as the crew was making preparations to transfer Stolzfus to the hospital ship. ‘Is it over?’ she asked, as she and Silvanus joined Giacomo on the bridge.

  ‘No. This is merely a brief lull as we pass through the eye of the storm. Look over there,’ said Giacomo and pointed to a ring of dark clouds in the distance. ‘That’s the eye’s wall. An area of violent thunderstorms that surrounds us on all sides. We are in the middle of a severe weather event. Once we reach the other side of the eye, we’ll cop it again, just as before, perhaps even worse.’

  ‘Oh? How much time do we have?’

  ‘Difficult to say, especially with this storm. The eye usually has a diameter of somewhere between thirty to sixty-five miles. But with this storm, anything is possible. Things can change very quickly. That’s why we have to move fast. This is our only chance. It’s a small, unexpected window of opportunity. The fact we both arrived here at the same time is a bit of a miracle. At least one of the weather gods has been smiling on us – so far.’

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’ asked Silvanus.

  ‘Quite simple, really, weather permitting. We pull up next to the Caritas and try to get as close to her as possible so that her deck crane can reach us. That’s the tricky bit and it all depends on the wind and the swell. The Caritas will protect us from the wind, which is blowing from the south. If we can do this, we attach the stretcher to a sling and the patient is lifted safely up and across, and we pull away. That’s about it. Stolzfus remains strapped to the stretcher just as he is right now. Look, we are almost there,’ said Giacomo. ‘Here she comes.’

  Built in 1953 as a small ocean liner for an Italian cruise company, the one-hundred-and-twenty-metre-long Angelina had been bought as scrap metal in 1978 for one million US dollars by a charity registered in Malta. Over the next three years, the ship underwent a major refit and was transformed into a hospital ship with three operating theatres, a ward with forty-five beds, X-ray machine and laboratory, and was renamed the SS Caritas.

  ‘Here we go,’ said Giacomo and slowed down the Nike. The Caritas had done the same some time ago. The two vessels passed each other with only a hundred metres separating them. Giacomo turned the Nike around and then put on speed to catch up with the Caritas. By now the ocean had calmed down even further, and the wind had momentarily dropped to make getting close to the Caritas possible, as an eerie, tense silence descended on the bridge.

  Carlo had disconnected the drips and the crew brought Stolzfus up on deck. Racked by fever and still perspiring profusely, he appeared to be convulsing and struggling against the tight straps pressing against his chest and legs.

  ‘So far so good,’ said Giacomo and skilfully manoeuvred the Nike even closer.

  ‘If we can hold it like this,’ said the captain of the Caritas, ‘it should work. The deck crane is swinging across to you right now.’

  Teodora looked up and could see the steel arm of the crane directly above them, with a cable and a sling at the end swinging wildly from side to side. After several failed attempts, one of the crew managed to snare the sling with a boat hook and pulled it down towards the stretcher waiting on deck.

  ‘Okay, guys, this is it,’ said Giacomo. ‘You know what to do.’

  As the crew was attaching the sling to the stretcher, a mighty clap of thunder shattered the silence and wild storm clouds began to race across the sky, quickly closing the narrow blue window above and obscuring the sun. The crew stepped away and one of them gave the crane operator working on the Caritas above a thumbs up. By now, heavy raindrops mixed with small hailstones began to fall and the wind was picking up again, pushing the Nike dangerously close to the Caritas. As soon as the stretcher was lifted up and cleared the deck, Giacomo pulled the Nike away, just as another giant wave was forming at the edge of the storm wall and came racing towards them out of the gloom.

  ‘Everybody inside, now!’ Giacomo shouted through the microphone. ‘Secure all hatches and get down on the floor. Quickly!’

  The impact of the huge wave was violent and swift, and only Giacomo’s quick thinking saved the Nike from colliding with the Caritas. Hurricane Patrick hadn’t just blinked; it was closing its eye, punishing everyone who dared get in its way.

  ‘It’s out of our hands now, guys,’ said Teodora, sitting on the floor behind Giacomo who was clutching the wheel. ‘We’ve done our bit.’

  ‘We sure have,’ said Silvanus, holding onto the doorframe to steady himself as the Nike crashed into another trough on her way south towards the Strait of Gibraltar and, hopefully, into the calmer waters of the Mediterranean.

  ‘Do you think he’ll make it?’

  Teodora shrugged. ‘Don’t know. But if he’s not alive in thirty days, we don’t get paid. You know that. That’s what was agreed.’

  ‘The medical team on the Caritas is excellent,’ interjected Giacomo, who had overheard the question. ‘They know all about gunshot wounds. Africa is full of violence … I’m sur
e they are operating on him right now. There’s one particular surgeon who’s quite amazing. They call him Babu …’

  ‘How curious,’ said Teodora. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It’s Swahili. It means grandfather, but in Tanzania where he got the name, it means healer …’

  Part II

  Babu

  ‘Difficulty is a miracle in its first stage.’

  Amish proverb

  19

  Nuba Mountains, Sudan: 17 June

  ‘We are almost there,’ said Tukamil, a tall, muscular Nuba guide, and pointed to a village in the distance. Jack wiped away the sweat running down his neck with his handkerchief and looked at the round mud huts thatched with sorghum stalks that shimmered in the morning haze. He held up a faded photograph showing the Nuba Mountains with the village in the front.

  This could be it, thought Jack and traced the outline of the mountain ridge in the photo with the tips of his fingers. For the past week, he and his guide had traversed the remote valleys of the Nuba Mountains in the south of the Sudanese province of Kordofan. With rutted animal trails instead of roads leading into the bush, which were often almost impossible to traverse in the battered old Land Rover he had rented in Khartoum, progress was slow and the heat almost unbearable.

  The photograph reminded Jack of Madame Petrova, a former Russian ballerina in her nineties whom he had visited in a nursing home in France a few years ago. It was during that visit he had come across that vital clue about his mother and her mysterious disappearance in the Nuba Mountains more than forty-five years ago. She had been on an assignment for National Geographic at the time, photographing the Mesakin Quissayr Nuba in a remote village. According to some vague government sources there had been some kind of massacre in the area, but no enquiries appeared to have been made about her disappearance.

  As Jack had just finished writing another book, he decided to take a break and do something that had been in the back of his mind for a long time: picking up the trail that had ended so abruptly and find out more about his mother’s disappearance. He knew it was a long shot, but Jack was used to long shots and thrived on a challenge like this. It was also a good chance to clear his mind after some intense writing at Countess Kuragin’s chateau in France, before another adventure crossed his path as invariably seemed to happen.