The Curious Case of the Missing Head

by Gabriel Farago

  After dinner, Isis showed her guests some of her iconic costumes, which were on display throughout the apartment. ‘Jack will remember this one,’ she said, and pointed to a striking Aztec-inspired bodysuit in a glass cabinet.

  ‘How could I forget?’ said Jack. ‘The “Thank You” concert in Mexico City in 2012. It was the beginning of your Crystal Skull Tour after your operation.’

  ‘We arrived in a fleet of convertible vintage cars, remember?’ said Lola.

  ‘I was lying on a stone altar on top of a pyramid erected in the middle of the arena, bathed in green light,’ reminisced Isis. ‘Listening to a lonely drumbeat echoing through a stadium packed with a hundred thousand fans holding their breath.’

  ‘And then suddenly, the drumbeat stopped,’ Jack cut in. ‘I still get goosebumps just remembering that tension, that incredible silence before Time Machine’s guitars screamed into life and began to play your signature song ...’

  ‘Resurrection,’ whispered Lola.

  ‘Ah, yes; what a great number that was. First, I lifted my right hand and pointed to heaven, like so.’ Isis pointed towards the ceiling, her gesture theatrical. ‘Then I sat up and turned towards the crowd who were chanting “Isis, Isis” below me as laser lights came on, casting lifelike jungle images across the pyramid.’

  ‘And then you did something your doctor had strictly forbidden,’ said Jack, pointing an accusing finger at Isis.

  ‘How could I disappoint my fans? They were all expecting it ...’

  ‘What?’ asked Rebecca.

  ‘I’ll show you ...’

  ‘No! Don’t!’ said Lola, looking concerned.

  ‘Lola’s right; please don’t!’ said Jack and put a restraining arm around his friend’s waist. ‘What Isis did that night was a somersault off the altar,’ he continued. ‘It was one of her iconic moves. Boy, did the crowd cheer. And then she began to sing. It was a triumph we’ll never forget.’

  ‘Thanks, Jack,’ said Isis, her cheeks aglow with excitement. For an entertainer like Isis who lived in the past, rare moments that brought the past to life were precious.

  ‘Is it here?’ asked Celia, turning to Isis.

  ‘What exactly?’

  ‘Little Sparrow in the Garden?’

  ‘Ah, the painting. It’s here.’

  ‘Could we see it?’ said Celia.

  ‘Of course. It’s upstairs in my study. Follow me.’

  They all got into the glass lift and went up to the top floor. Surrounded on three sides by a terrace, Isis’s study occupied the entire floor. Gold and platinum records rubbed shoulders with various awards and trophies, and rows of photographs and custom-made guitars covered one entire wall.

  ‘Welcome to my memory lane,’ said Isis and switched on a spotlight. ‘There it is.’

  Monet’s Little Sparrow in the Garden, which had caused such a sensation during an auction in 2014, stood on an easel facing the window, next to a large antique oak desk. Isis had bought the painting for thirty-five-million pounds, which was then donated to charity by its rightful owner, Benjamin Krakowski, in memory of his parents who had been killed by the Nazis.

  Celia walked over to the painting and smiled as she remembered meeting Emil Fuchs in his Swiss mansion. After the auction, Fuchs, a reclusive art collector in his nineties, had claimed that he owned the original painting, and that the Monet sold at auction was a fake and the buyer had been duped.

  Jack, who after a long search had discovered Krakowski’s lost painting hidden in a sarcophagus in the Imperial Crypt in Vienna, had provided credible provenance for the painting, which had suddenly been challenged by Fuchs. To avoid a huge scandal and embarrassment, Jack and Celia had approached Fuchs to try to resolve the matter and an expert, Jacques Moreau, was called in to examine Fuchs’s painting.

  Celia turned to Jack standing next to her. ‘I can still see Fuchs looking at the painting with his magnifying glass after Moreau had pointed to that amazing “signature”.’

  ‘Proof that Fuchs’s painting was a forgery, albeit a very good one?’ said Jack, laughing.

  ‘Well, if you want to see that signature, you have to come over here,’ said Isis and turned on another spotlight. On the other side of the desk stood another easel with a painting. It was Fuchs’s forgery, which he had left to Isis in his will.

  ‘There it is, right here,’ said Jack and pointed to a certain spot in the lily pond.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Rebecca, bending down to see better.

  ‘A tiny Star of David and a small heart under the rock, here. See?’

  ‘I can see it. And this is a signature?’

  ‘It sure is, and a famous one at that. It was the way David Herzl, a notorious Jewish master forger who lived in the Warsaw Ghetto, signed his paintings. With the Star of David, obviously for David, and a small heart for Herzl, which in German means heart. In its own way, this is a masterpiece.’

  ‘Ingenious!’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  Rebecca reached for Jack’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Thanks, Jack,’ she said, lowering her voice.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For coming, and for this amazing evening ...’

  ‘Isis arranged that.’

  ‘But only because of you. For the first time since Zac collapsed, I feel ...’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Jack. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise.’

  ‘What I meant to say was, I no longer feel so alone.’

  ‘Good. And tomorrow, you will meet an interesting little man and if he doesn’t play ball, we’ll cut off—’

  ‘Stop it!’ said Rebecca, laughing for the first time since hearing that her brother had disappeared.

  22

  MI5 HQ London: 21 June

  Daniel Cross hated pressure from above. He walked impatiently up and down in his office, fuming, with his hands folded behind his back. He had deeply resented the phone call from his superior officer earlier that morning instructing him to provide full cooperation and transparency in the Stolzfus investigation.

  The meeting with Major Andersen and Stolzfus’s sister couldn’t have come at a worse time. Just when the frustrating and highly embarrassing investigation was beginning to show some promising green shoots, he would have to share everything with the CIA. And if that wasn’t enough, he had just been informed that Rebecca Armstrong had retained Sir Charles Huntley as her legal representative, who would also be attending the meeting. He and Sir Charles had crossed swords before in the murders of Lord and Lady Elms a few years ago. Cross was still smarting from the encounter, which had ended in a disaster that had almost cost him his career.

  Cross looked at his watch and decided to let his visitors wait a little longer. He would provide cooperation, not capitulation.

  Jack, Sir Charles, Rebecca and Major Andersen were sitting in Cross’s waiting room. Rebecca was chatting with the major and the two of them appeared to be getting along very well. Sir Charles had rung his contacts in MI5 the night before and prepared the way. He knew that Jack’s unexpected presence would unsettle Cross and remind him of the humiliating Elms case. However, it was decided not to bring Celia along as well, as the presence of a high-profile journalist could jeopardise the meeting, perhaps even abort it. MI5 was very sensitive when it came to publicity.

  ‘Remember what I told you,’ said Sir Charles, turning to Jack who sat next to him. ‘Let the major and I do the talking. To have you sitting in as an observer will be enough to unsettle the pompous little man. Silence can often have a greater impact than words shouted from the rooftops.’

  ‘All right by me,’ said Jack. ‘I’m really looking forward to this. And thanks again for stepping in at such short notice. You know, in a way this is deja vu. Isis certainly seems to think so.’

  ‘It is a bit like that. Look, here he comes now.’

  Cross swept into the waiting room and walked over to the major without looking in Sir Charles’ direction. To Jack, this appeared quite pointed and deliberate. He
was sure it was intended to put Sir Charles in his place and send a message that his presence wasn’t considered important or relevant. Sir Charles had noticed this as well and smiled. Such clumsy tactics didn’t faze him in the least. As a prominent lawyer with a fearsome reputation who had access to the highest echelons of London society and power, he moved in circles that Cross could never hope to even get close to.

  Portly but distinguished-looking, in his late sixties with thinning grey hair, Sir Charles was at the height of his profession. Dressed in an impeccable pinstripe suit that whispered Savile Row, he adjusted his silk bow tie and looked forward to the encounter that was about to unfold.

  After the major had introduced Cross to Rebecca, Cross turned casually to Sir Charles. That’s when he noticed Jack standing next to him. For an instant, Cross’s face registered shock and disbelief, but he recovered quickly.

  ‘Good to see you, again, Sir Charles,’ said Cross affably, extending a limp hand. ‘You seem to be involved in all the important cases in town these days,’ he added in a patronising tone.

  ‘That’s what I do, Mr Cross. And, of course, you remember Mr Rogan,’ continued Sir Charles, pointing to Jack. ‘Isis and the Time Machine?’

  ‘How could I forget?’ said Cross frostily, turning to Jack. ‘And what, may I ask, is your interest in this matter?’

  ‘Ms Armstrong is a close friend. She’s also my publicist and runs my publishing company in New York, and she’s asked me to come along as a friend for moral support. As you can imagine, this is a very distressing matter for her. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Cross, gritting his teeth. ‘Please do come in.’

  Sir Charles had decided to let the major take the lead. He liked to stay in the background and then pounce at the right moment.

  ‘Thank you once again for seeing us this morning, Mr Cross,’ began the major. ‘As you can imagine, Ms Armstrong is most concerned about her brother and has come all the way from New York to find out what has happened to him. As an alarming amount of time has now passed since his disappearance, there is now an urgency about this ...’

  ‘Completely understandable,’ said Cross and opened the little file in front of him. He had decided to focus on the major and Stolzfus’s sister and ignore Sir Charles and Jack. He would treat them as if they weren’t present at all.

  ‘I’m pleased to tell you, Major, that we have made considerable progress since our last meeting.’ Cross slowly opened his file to keep them in suspense.

  The major looked at him expectantly but didn’t say anything.

  Cross took a large black-and-white photograph out of the folder and pushed it across the desk towards the major. It showed the wreck of a van being lifted out of the sea by a mobile crane perched on top of a cliff.

  ‘We have reason to believe that this is one of the getaway vehicles used in Professor Stolzfus’s abduction.’

  ‘One of the getaway vehicles?’ said Sir Charles, raising an eyebrow. ‘How many were there?’

  ‘Two. The first one was torched at an abandoned warehouse just outside London. The only thing left was a burnt-out shell.’

  ‘And this one, where was this discovered?’ asked the major.

  ‘On a lonely stretch of the coast a few miles south of Portsmouth. A fisherman saw the vehicle plunge into the sea and alerted the local police.’

  ‘No doubt the vehicle was forensically examined?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Any leads?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no. The badly damaged vehicle was submerged for several hours in the sea. However, this made us revisit that vessel we talked about last time.’

  ‘The Nike? The one the MDP boarded just after it left Portsmouth? The body camera video?’ said the major.

  ‘Yes. She was supposed to go to Boulogne but she didn’t. Instead, Nike sailed all the way to Monaco. The vessel is registered there. Home port.’

  ‘Do we know who owns it?’ asked Sir Charles.

  Cross turned slowly towards Sir Charles. ‘Yes, we do,’ he said, looking at a page in his folder. ‘The vessel is owned by a corporation linked to the Giordano family ...’

  ‘Florence Mafia,’ whispered Jack.

  Cross looked stunned. ‘You seem very well informed about high-profile criminal elements, Mr Rogan,’ he said. ‘How do you ...?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said Jack. ‘There was a very public assassination in Florence two years ago during the funeral of Mario Giordano, the son of one of the prominent Mafia families operating in Florence. You must have heard of it, surely? I was there ...’

  Cross shook his head. ‘I must say, Mr Rogan, you certainly have the knack of turning up in the most interesting places and at times when extraordinary events seem to happen. One could almost be tempted to say you must have somehow been involved in them all. I wonder, is that the case here?’

  ‘Involved, no. Interested, yes. I like to help friends.’

  ‘Ah. Is that what it is?’ said Cross, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

  ‘Surely this is important new information,’ interjected the major. ‘Are you treating this as a significant lead?’

  ‘Of course. Nike is being searched in Port de Fontvielle as we speak.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that after Professor Stolzfus was abducted from the ambulance, he was taken to Portsmouth in that van you located and then smuggled out of the UK on Nike?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘That means he must have been on board the vessel when it was intercepted by the MDP,’ said the major, shaking her head.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘What about the charter party on board Nike?’ asked the major. ‘I saw close-ups of their passports in the MDP video.’

  ‘All fake. We are tracing the crew right now.’

  ‘This is more than just a lead, surely,’ said Sir Charles. ‘This is compelling evidence clearly pointing in a certain direction, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, but unfortunately there is more ...’ Cross looked at Rebecca. ‘I am afraid I have some troubling news about your brother.’

  ‘In what way?’ Rebecca almost shrieked.

  ‘Our investigators obtained some photos and video footage taken on iPhones by bystanders who witnessed the incident. We know the injured motorcycle police officer fired two shots before he was killed. The first bullet hit one of the kidnappers, a woman, who was killed instantly. Her body was taken away in the getaway vehicle.’

  Cross paused, collecting his thoughts. ‘We now have reason to believe,’ he continued, ‘that the second shot accidentally hit Professor Stolzfus in the side of his chest as he was being lifted into the back of the van.’

  For a while there was silence.

  ‘This puts an entirely new complexion on the matter, doesn’t it?’ said Sir Charles. ‘To abduct a man who has been incapacitated by drugs is one thing; to abduct someone who has just been shot at close range and seriously injured is something else, right?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Are you saying my brother could be dead?’ whispered Rebecca.

  ‘That is possible. Such an injury would require urgent medical attention. Needless to say, we’ve checked all the hospitals and contacted all the medical practitioners in the area; nothing.’

  The major put an arm around Rebecca, who reached for her handkerchief and began sobbing. ‘Would you like to wait outside?’ she asked. Rebecca shook her head.

  ‘The few facts your investigation has uncovered so far,’ said Sir Charles, ‘seem to suggest that the Mafia is behind the Stolzfus abduction. One of the abductors was killed at the scene and Stolzfus seriously injured, perhaps even fatally. The abductors reached Portsmouth in a getaway vehicle that was dumped into the sea, before they managed to leave the UK on a vessel owned by a notorious Mafia family, despite being intercepted by the MDP. Would that be a fair summary?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cross, sounding annoyed.

  ‘Is that all you have?’ ask
ed Sir Charles.

  To hell with instructions, thought Cross and closed his file. ‘For the moment, yes,’ he lied. He had decided to hold back one crucial piece of evidence that had just come to hand that morning. There was no way he would allow Sir Charles and Rogan to make a fool of him again. If anyone was to solve this matter, it would be MI5 and no-one else.

  ‘I can see my client is quite distressed,’ said Sir Charles and stood up. ‘And no wonder,’ he continued, preparing his parting shot. ‘It seems to me that the horse has well and truly bolted here, and all you are doing is playing catch-up.’

  Cross stood up as well. ‘You are of course entitled to your views, Sir Charles, but I can assure you that isn’t so,’ he said haughtily.

  ‘Well, in that case, we’ll let the public decide.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Cross.

  ‘We think it’s time the public learned about this fiasco. I am sure that Ms Armstrong will want to go to the press with this. After all, you didn’t insist on confidentiality regarding anything you told us here today.’

  ‘I thought that was understood,’ said Cross, running a hand through his carefully parted hair.

  ‘Not by us, it wasn’t,’ retorted Sir Charles, sensing that Cross was definitely on the back foot.

  ‘This could seriously jeopardise our investigation,’ snapped Cross, moving into damage control. He knew he was being cleverly outmanoeuvred by Sir Charles.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Sir Charles, heading for the door. ‘I don’t think things could get any worse. Good day to you, Mr Cross. May I suggest you keep an eye on the papers? Who knows, you might even get a new lead.’

  23

  Valletta, Malta: 21 June

  Malta International Airport was busy as usual. Tourists from every corner of Europe arrived in droves every day to enjoy the attractions of this popular destination. Inhabited since around 5900 BC, the strategic location of these islands in the Mediterranean – Sicily being only one hundred kilometres away, and the African coast three hundred to the south – had greatly contributed to its long and colourful history.