The Curious Case of the Missing Head

by Gabriel Farago

  Alessandro slapped Giacomo on the back. ‘Well done! Don’t worry, I’ll look after you and the crew. But first, there’s something urgent we have to attend to. Right away.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want the entire vessel thoroughly cleaned top to bottom. No trace of the professor or the body must remain, clear? I’m talking fingerprints, clothing, medical things; forensic stuff. Nothing!’

  ‘Why?’ asked Giacomo, frowning.

  ‘I just had a call from the harbourmaster in Portsmouth. He had a visit from MI5 asking questions about Nike ...’

  How come?’

  ‘Don’t know. But we have to be careful. We could get a surprise visit. It may take some time, but they are bound to find us here if they are looking for Nike.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Do it now and then send the crew home; extended shore leave. And tell them to keep their mouths shut. They know what happens if they don’t. You stay here. I know you can handle the situation and you have all the papers to back up everything.’

  ‘Done.’

  ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘In the saloon. We had a rough journey ...’

  The mood in the saloon was subdued. Everyone was exhausted after the terrifying storm and five days at sea. But worst of all was the uncertainty. There had been no news from the Caritas about Stolzfus. Alessandro had made it clear: no contact between the vessels after the dramatic patient transfer.

  ‘Before you say anything,’ began Alessandro as soon as he stepped into the saloon and sat down, ‘let me say this: I am so sorry about Nadia; a terrible loss. You have handled this assignment in an exemplary way. I don’t know of anyone else who could have done better.’

  ‘Thanks, Alessandro,’ said Teodora. ‘Not everything goes to plan all of the time. Ours is a risky business. The unexpected happens.’

  ‘I appreciate that, but most of the time it’s not the problem that’s the problem, but what you do about it.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Silvanus, relieved by Alessandro’s approach to a tricky situation. After all, he was the client and held the purse strings.

  ‘And that brings me to where we’re at right now ...’ continued Alessandro.

  Stolzfus. The elephant in the room, thought Teodora. ‘And where is that, exactly?’ she asked.

  ‘Damage control.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Silvanus.

  ‘I just instructed Giacomo to scrub the vessel top to bottom. MI5 has shown an interest in us. I have no idea exactly why, but they obviously suspect something. We may be searched. We have to be careful and thorough.’

  ‘We always are,’ said Aladdin quietly.

  Teodora made eye contact with Silvanus and nodded. It was time to ask the obvious question. ‘How is Stolzfus?’ she said, cutting to the chase. ‘And where is he?’

  Alessandro sat back and looked pensively at Teodora. ‘He’s still on the Caritas. I have good news, and bad news,’ he said. ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Good news first,’ said Teodora.

  ‘The bullet has been removed and he’s alive.’

  ‘And the bad news?’ asked Silvanus apprehensively.

  ‘He’s on life support in a coma. There has been considerable internal damage. The surgeon called it severe, and a miracle he was able to hold on for that long and survive that transfer at sea.’

  ‘The prognosis?’ asked Teodora.

  ‘According to the surgeon who carried out the operation, not good. Stolzfus is unlikely to come out of the coma and will have to remain on life support indefinitely. Otherwise ...’

  ‘No good news, then,’ said Silvanus, ‘when you look at this objectively.’

  ‘Not entirely,’ replied Alessandro, smiling for the first time.

  ‘What are you getting at?’ asked Teodora.

  ‘There is this surgeon in Malta. He’s one of the owners of the Caritas and the driving force behind the entire charity operation. He has an exclusive private clinic on the island and is well known for organ transplants and other controversial, some would say experimental, procedures. His methods are unconventional and he has many critics, but he’s considered by some to be a genius when it comes to innovation and state-of-the-art surgery. He has successfully performed certain high-risk operations that no-one else has attempted before.’

  ‘Babu,’ Teodora cut in.

  Alessandro looked at her, surprised. ‘How do you know about him?’

  ‘Giacomo told us.’

  ‘Babu is just a nickname. His real name is Professor Ambert Fabry. He worked for years on the Caritas. Surgery for the destitute and the desperate he called it, mainly in Africa before he opened his clinic in Malta. He’s quite famous and very sought-after in certain circles. We’ve used him on several occasions ... He doesn’t ask too many questions and produces some outstanding results. For a fee, of course. A big one.’

  ‘And you’ve told us all this because …?’ said Teodora.

  ‘At my request, the surgeon on the Caritas approached him about Stolzfus ...’

  ‘And?’ prompted Silvanus.

  ‘Fabry has already examined Stolzfus and has an idea ... apparently quite a radical one.’

  ‘What kind of idea?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. Rodrigo and I are meeting him the day after tomorrow in Malta to discuss the case.’

  Teodora held up her hand. ‘Where do you think this is heading?’

  ‘We’ll know more after the meeting.’

  ‘You realise of course this isn’t just a matter of keeping Stolzfus somehow alive,’ added Teodora. ‘This is not just about the body. It’s all about the mind. You heard what Rodrigo said. Keeping Stolzfus alive is all that matters, and we should do whatever it takes to achieve that. That’s what this is all about.’

  ‘Fabry is well aware of this.’

  ‘Interesting ...’ said Silvanus. ‘And where does that leave us?’

  Alessandro smiled. The conversation was reaching the predictable, pointy end, and in the end it was always about money. ‘Rodrigo and I have already discussed this. Here’s the deal: If Fabry comes up with something that will bring Stolzfus out of his coma with his mind functioning and he manages to keep him alive, indefinitely, we pay you the full fee on the proviso that you pay for Fabry’s services. Whatever the cost.’

  ‘And how much would that be?’ said Teodora.

  ‘About a million, US.’

  ‘Quite a surgeon,’ said Aladdin, shaking his head.

  ‘There’s a lot at stake here,’ said Alessandro. ‘The risks are high.’

  ‘We understand that,’ said Aladdin.

  ‘What do you say, guys?’ asked Teodora.

  Teodora looked first at Silvanus and then at Aladdin. Both nodded.

  ‘It’s a deal,’ she said. ‘We’ll make this work; for Nadia.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Alessandro, looking pleased.

  ‘Do you want one of us at least to come with you to Malta?’ asked Teodora.

  ‘No. You’ve done your bit. Extremely well, if I may say so. I want you all to go home, cover your tracks, lie low and leave the rest to us.’

  21

  Time Machine Studios, London: 20 June

  The afternoon flight from Khartoum arrived late. Every time Jack visited London, he stayed at the Time Machine Studios. To do otherwise was unthinkable, as it would have insulted his close friend Isis, who insisted on providing a permanent suite for Jack in her spectacular apartment overlooking the Thames. Apart from Countess Kuragin’s chateau in France where Jack did most of his writing, the Time Machine Studios was Jack’s second home. He rarely visited Australia these days and spent most of his time in Europe or travelling.

  Boris, Isis’s bodyguard-cum-chauffeur, was waiting for Jack at Heathrow. Clearly pleased to see Jack, the huge man – a former champion wrestler – gave him a rib-crushing bear hug and opened the door of the black Bentley.

  ‘Welcome back,’ he said and skilfully manoeuvred the big car along
the motorway headed into the London afternoon traffic choking the streets. ‘Your phone call from Khartoum caused quite a stir.’

  ‘It did?’ said Jack, letting himself sink deeper into the comfortable leather seat in the back. ‘Lola’s been busy then?’ he continued. Boris saw his mischievous grin in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘You can say that again. She’s arranged everything you asked for. Everyone’s here.’

  ‘Excellent!’

  ‘Ms Armstrong flew in last night, and Miss Crawford arrived this morning from New York. I picked her up from the airport myself. They are both at the apartment with Isis, waiting.’

  ‘Like the good old days.’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Boris, laughing.

  Isis’s spectacular apartment – a cube-like architectural steel-and-glass marvel oozing industrial chic constructed on top of a converted warehouse – was more like an art gallery than the home of a retired billionaire rock star turned philanthropist. Lola Rodriguez was waiting for Jack at the glass lift on the top floor. She was Isis’s loyal PA and personal pilot, and had shared many an exciting adventure with Jack in the past.

  ‘A little thinner than last time, but otherwise in reasonably good shape,’ pronounced Lola. She gave Jack a big hug and kissed him on both cheeks. Jack patted the smiling stone Buddha next to the lift on its forehead for good luck, and followed Lola into the spacious lounge full of exotic artefacts from Africa and Oceania.

  Rebecca Armstrong, Jack’s publicist who was now also running Jack’s publishing company in New York, and Celia Crawford, a journalist working for the New York Times, were sitting next to a Maori war canoe beside the panoramic window.

  ‘I came as soon as I could,’ said Jack and dropped his well-worn duffel bag on the floor.

  Rebecca stood up and embraced Jack, tears in her eyes. ‘Thanks, Jack. I knew you would.’

  ‘And you dropped everything and came as well?’ said Jack, turning to Celia. Celia put down her champagne glass and looked at Jack, a coquettish twinkle in her eyes.

  ‘How could I refuse?’ she said. ‘Jack Rogan’s siren call is irresistible. Just think of the stories we did together. The Blackburn affair in Somalia, the fall of the British Government, Emil Fuchs and the forged Monet ...’

  ‘Thanks, Celia,’ said Jack. ‘I can’t promise anything, but something tells me this could be big.’

  As soon as Rebecca had texted Jack some of the sketchy background information about her brother’s sudden disappearance she had found out so far, Jack had immediately contacted Celia in New York and asked her to join them. He knew from past experience that a journalist of her calibre and with her connections would be invaluable in any investigation and add considerable clout from the very beginning. When a man of Stolzfus’s international standing was involved in something so intriguing, a sensational story was in the making, and there was no-one more qualified to break such a story than Celia Crawford.

  ‘Where’s Isis?’ asked Jack, looking around.

  ‘Right here,’ said a voice from the top of the stairs.

  As usual, Isis, the consummate performer, couldn’t resist making an imposing entry, even when close friends were involved. Her full name was George Edward Elms – Lord Elms, since her father’s tragic death in 2011 – but millions of fans around the world knew her as Isis, the legendary, transgender rock star and lead singer of Time Machine. Dressed in an impossibly tight black bodysuit by one of her favourite Paris designers that showed off her hourglass figure and wearing impeccable, if a little too theatrical make-up, Isis came slowly down the stairs. ‘What a wonderful surprise,’ she said, blowing kisses to her friends seated in the lounge below. ‘All of us together again. How wonderful!’

  Jack walked over to the stairs and held out his hand. Isis took his arm and, walking side by side, they swept into the room. ‘Do you like my short hair?’ asked Isis, frowning.

  ‘You look ten years younger,’ said Jack, smiling.

  ‘Not too radical?’

  ‘Not at all; just stylish.’

  ‘That’s what Lola said. Growing old is such a bitch, don’t you think; and staying slim such a bore?’

  ‘Can’t say I’ve thought too much about it. Champagne?’

  ‘Absolutely! I’m parched, darling.’

  ‘So, what’s all this about?’ asked Jack after his second glass of champagne. ‘I got this phone call from Rebecca three days ago asking for help, while I was in the middle of the jungle.’ Jack lifted his glass. ‘Well, guys, here I am; cheers!’

  ‘We thought it best to wait for you before discussing any of this,’ said Rebecca, looking serious. ‘This is all I’ve been able to find out so far; very frustrating. It isn’t much, and I am really worried ...’

  ‘Tell us,’ said Jack.

  ‘The last time I spoke to my brother was just before he was due to fly to London to attend the Stephen Hawking memorial service here in Westminster Abbey. That was six days ago. He rang me to tell me all about it. He was so excited. He rarely travels, you see.’

  Rebecca put down her empty glass and looked at Jack. ‘Just before the service began, Zachariah had some kind of fit and collapsed in Westminster Abbey. It was all on TV—’

  ‘I saw it,’ interrupted Celia. ‘It was very dramatic. I was in the newsroom and all of us were glued to the screen. We even saw him being taken to an ambulance on a stretcher.’

  ‘I heard it on the news and tried to call him on his mobile. Not surprisingly, there was no answer. Then I rang the Marshall Space Flight Center. I’ve visited him there often and have met his boss, Chuck Weinberger.’ Rebecca paused, collecting her thoughts.

  ‘And?’ prompted Jack.

  ‘I was put through to Weinberger and he appeared vague, evasive. That wasn’t like him, but I don’t think he knew very much himself. Then I rang the big London hospitals: nothing. I called Weinberger again the next day, and that’s when he gave me Major Andersen’s number.’

  ‘Who’s Major Andersen?’ asked Jack.

  ‘A CIA agent, a woman who accompanied Zachariah on his trip to London.’

  ‘Did you speak to her?’ asked Celia.

  ‘Yes, but it wasn’t easy. I called her several times but she didn’t answer her phone. I did get through to her eventually. It was a strange conversation.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Jack.

  ‘It was obvious she was expecting my call. Nothing surprising about that, I suppose, but she seemed to know a hell of a lot about me. It was a bit creepy ...’

  ‘How come?’ asked Celia.

  ‘She said I was listed as the next of kin in Zachariah’s employment contract. She spoke about him as if he was ... dead.’

  Rebecca paused, close to tears. Jack put a comforting arm around her and they sat in silence for a moment.

  ‘Did you ask her about ...?’ prompted Jack quietly.

  ‘Of course, but like Weinberger she seemed evasive and reluctant to tell me anything. It wasn’t until I told her that I would come to London straight away to make my own enquiries that she opened up a little.’

  ‘How?’ asked Jack.

  ‘She said it was all in the hands of MI5 and the Metropolitan Police, and that she herself didn’t know too much about what happened or where Zachariah was. As you can imagine, I became very upset and told her that just wasn’t good enough. To my surprise, she agreed and asked me to call her as soon as I arrived in London.’

  ‘Did you?’ asked Celia.

  ‘Yes, this morning.’

  ‘And?’ prompted Celia.

  ‘She told me she had arranged a meeting with MI5 for tomorrow morning at ten, and then I would find out more from one of the officers in charge of the investigation, a Daniel Cross ...’

  Isis shot Jack a meaningful look and burst out laughing.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Rebecca, frowning.

  ‘You won’t believe this,’ said Isis, ‘but Jack and I have met agent Cross before.’

  ‘You’re joking, surel
y,’ said Celia.

  ‘Oh no. Daniel Cross is a difficult man to forget. I met him on the morning my parents were attacked in their home here in London and my father was killed. Daniel Cross was the investigating officer.’

  ‘Incredible,’ said Celia, shaking her head. ‘What a coincidence.’

  ‘A most annoying little man,’ continued Isis. ‘I called him an arrogant little prick. Sir Charles Huntley, my lawyer, was with me at the time. I can still remember exactly what he said about Cross.’

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Rebecca.

  ‘That – and I quote – “the world is full of arrogant little pricks. The secret is to know when and how to cut off their little balls”,’ replied Isis, grinning.

  ‘I’ve also met Cross,’ Jack cut in. ‘I remember him well. A dreadful little man. But little men like that can be useful. You just have to know when and how to cut off—’

  ‘That’s just great,’ interrupted Rebecca.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll come with you and we’ll ask Sir Charles to come with us as well. He’s very well connected. That should unsettle the pompous Mr Cross and get us some more information. It did last time.’ Jack turned to Isis. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Excellent idea. I’ll call Charles straight away.’

  ‘All right, guys, that’s enough for now,’ said Lola and stood up. ‘Dinner is about to be served. Follow me.’

  The vast open living and entertaining space in the multi-storey apartment was cleverly divided by exposed steel stairs and glass partitions. The dining area, located on a gallery level above the lounge, had uninterrupted views across the Thames right up to Tower Bridge, which was a spectacular backdrop when lit up at night.

  Isis was in her element. She loved entertaining friends in her home and showing off her spectacular, eclectic art collection. Used to being the centre of attention, she told outrageous stories about her concerts, many of them performed outdoors in front of tens of thousands of adoring fans. These stories transported her, at least for a few moments, to some of the most exciting times of her life. Sadly, her dramatic collapse on stage in Mexico City in 2011 caused by a life-threatening brain tumour, had marked the beginning of the end of her days as a performer.