The Curious Case of the Missing Head

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘All right, Jack, tell me about general relativity,’ said Stolzfus.

  ‘Is this an exam?’

  ‘Not at all. I just want to see if you’ve been paying attention.’

  Jack put down his pen and looked at Stolzfus. ‘Yes, Professor. Here we go. General relativity is a theoretical framework of physics. It uses gravity to explain how the universe works in areas of high mass and large scale, like galaxies, stars and so on.’

  ‘Very good. Now what about quantum field theory? What can you tell me about that?’

  ‘Quantum field theory on the other hand,’ continued Jack, encouraged by the compliment, ‘is a theoretical framework that uses something quite different to explain how the universe works.’

  ‘And how does it do that?’

  ‘It uses three non-gravitational forces and concentrates on areas of small scale and low mass, like atoms, molecules and subatomic particles.’

  ‘Excellent! You have been paying attention. I will now ask my doctor here a question. Is there a problem with these two frameworks?’

  ‘Yes. They are mutually incompatible. In short, they can’t both be right, but this problem only becomes an issue in areas of extremely small scale.’

  ‘Correct; the Planck scale,’ said Stolzfus. ‘Regions that only exist in black holes and where else?’

  ‘At the very beginning of the universe. Shortly after the Big Bang,’ said Jack.

  ‘I am impressed. I wish all of my students were so switched on.’

  ‘We’ve heard nothing else over the last two days,’ said Jack, rolling his eyes. ‘How could we possibly have missed any of this and not be on top of it all?’

  ‘I firmly believe there is a way to integrate these two seemingly incompatible principles into a single theoretical framework,’ continued Stolzfus, becoming excited. ‘And it’s all about what you wrote down yesterday.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘But something vital is still missing,’ continued Stolzfus, undeterred. ‘I’ve seen what it is. In my sleep; just like Einstein conceived his famous E=mc2 during sleep, and it goes back to ancient Greece: Democritus. Do you want to know why?’

  ‘Do we have a choice?’ said Jack.

  ‘And then there was Archimedes. Now, he was a real thinker. Well ahead of his time,’ Stolzfus prattled on, enjoying himself. ‘And then came a real giant – Newton with his gravity – and it all went from there. Kepler and one of my personal favourites, Laplace, did the heavy lifting after that. And now we have an eleven-dimensional string/M-theory as a possible contender for the theory of everything ...’

  ‘I think I prefer chess,’ said Jack. ‘At least I know where I’m going, even if it’s into defeat.’

  ‘Don’t look too glum, Jack. Please write this down. You never know, we may be making history today and you, my friend, could be part of it.’

  ‘Yeah. The dumb scribe who wrote it all down.’

  ‘Don’t be so tough on yourself. I’ll explain it all to you later. Now, please pay attention. Here we go ...’

  Over the next hour, Stolzfus dictated calculations and complex equations at a feverish pace and made sure Jack got it all down on paper correctly. To anyone but Stolzfus and an initiated few, the numbers and complex diagrams and symbols would have appeared meaningless and strange, but they were in fact rare insights into the workings of the universe and the eternal laws that govern them, based on flashes of genius Stolzfus had experienced during the coma after his operation.

  Then, in the middle of one particularly long, complicated equation, Stolzfus suddenly stopped speaking.

  Jack looked up.

  Stolzfus had his eyes closed and appeared to be asleep.

  ‘He’s done it again,’ said Jack, putting down his pen. ‘Hardly surprising. This stuff is diabolically boring.’

  ‘He’s obviously exhausted,’ said Agabe, feeling Stolzfus’s pulse. ‘This huge intellectual effort must be taking a lot out of him is all I can say. In any event, what he’s doing here is absolutely remarkable. Let’s let him sleep for a while. It will do him good.’

  ‘Fine by me. I was about to fall asleep myself. Let’s go outside and get some air.’

  Standing on the small deck reserved for them at the stern of the ship, Jack watched the sun sink slowly into the calm sea. It was a particularly beautiful moment, watching the mesmerising colours turn within seconds from blazing red to warm shades of mauve as the dying sun disappeared from the horizon and the stars took over and began to appear in the sky like tiny, sparkling windows into infinity.

  ‘You know, what Stolzfus is doing here is amazing,’ said Jack. ‘In fact, this whole situation is quite surreal when you look at it objectively. Here we have a man who’s just gone through a world-first operation that until now was considered impossible. His head’s been grafted onto another man’s body to keep him alive. He’s strapped into a wheelchair – effectively paralysed with only his exceptional brain working – but he’s able to communicate because somehow his power of speech has been preserved. And what is he doing? He’s trying to solve one of the greatest remaining challenges of theoretical physics that has so far eluded the most gifted minds. He’s trying to come up with a theory of everything. How? By merely thinking about it and using his imagination. Why? Because inspired by a piece of music he heard as his head was being removed, he saw a possible solution to the conundrum and has been working on it ever since, even while in a coma. Does this sound like fantasy to you?’

  Agabe looked up at the stars. ‘The human brain has awesome powers we don’t yet fully understand. If used correctly, it can achieve astonishing things. What we are witnessing here is just that,’ he said. ‘Man reaching for the stars and trying to understand his place in the universe. It’s an age-old quest.’

  ‘And if this isn’t enough,’ continued Jack, ‘we are effectively prisoners on a ship approaching South America, floating towards an uncertain future I cannot make sense of, however hard I try. Why was Stolzfus abducted in the first place and brought here? Why have I been abducted and brought here with him? Who is behind all this and what is the purpose of it all? I can’t work it out. At least your position is clear. You are here to look after him.’

  ‘Correct. But beyond that I’m just as much in the dark as you and my future is just as uncertain as yours. Does all this make you afraid?’

  Jack gave Agabe a mischievous smile. ‘Not really. If they wanted to kill me, they could have done that easily a long time ago. No, they want something from me; I just don’t know what. How does that make me feel? Glad to be alive. I’ve been in situations like this before and they have turned out to be some of the most exciting and stimulating times of my life. I think the same is happening here, right now.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, for both our sakes.’

  ‘In any event, we’ll find out soon enough. We must be very close to South America. Perhaps another day or so and we should be there. And just as well. I don’t think I can take Zac’s dictations for much longer.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Jack. You could be holding the theory of everything in your hands.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I doubt it will do us much good. I suspect astrophysics has limited appeal where we are heading and we may need a little more than a few obscure equations scribbled on a piece of paper to keep us out of trouble.’

  Agabe slapped Jack on the back. ‘I think you’re right. In any event, I’ll never forget this journey, surreal or not.’

  ‘Nor will I.’

  44

  Florence: 8 July

  Riccardo Giordano had only been summoned to the chief prosecutor’s office once before. That had been two years ago. He remembered the occasion well. It was about the shooting of his eldest son, Mario. Grimaldi had given him certain information about whom he believed was behind the killing, and had left it up to Giordano to do something about it. What followed had been a very public assassination right in front of Grimaldi and Jack during Mario’s funeral, resulting in a certain
understanding between Giordano and the chief prosecutor about Mafia affairs in Florence, and an uneasy truce between the two remaining Mafia families ruling the city. Giordano had no doubt that this meeting had something to do with that, and the recent Fabry fiasco in Malta.

  Giordano turned to Alessandro sitting next to him in the reception on the ground floor. He could see that his son was nervous. ‘I will do the talking, is that clear?’

  Alessandro nodded and lit another cigarette. ‘What do you think he wants?’

  ‘We’ll find out in a moment. I know Grimaldi, remember? He’s a straight shooter. With him, you always know where you stand.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

  ‘Don’t be. You should be more afraid of your friends than a man like him. Always remember what happened to Mario.’

  At three o’clock sharp, Grimaldi’s secretary took Giordano and Alessandro up to the chief prosecutor’s office on the first floor.

  Grimaldi smiled when he noticed the loose tie around Giordano’s thick neck. It was the same tie and ill-fitting jacket he had worn at their last meeting two years ago. At seventy the man was still as a strong as an ox, and just as stubborn.

  ‘You wanted to see us, Chief Prosecutor,’ said Giordano, adjusting his uncomfortable tie. He rarely wore one because it chafed against his stubble. Giordano was no stranger to the finer things in life, but he had simple tastes and felt more comfortable in the barn or in the stables and preferred the rough kitchen table to a dining room filled with fine silver and antiques. But what he lacked in polish and finesse, he more than made up for in common sense and cunning, which had served him well in steering his family along the treacherous Mafia road from the austerity of Calabria to the trappings of Florence. A simple peasant who had once slept next to his livestock to keep himself warm during winter, now lived like a prince protected by an army of bodyguards in an opulent villa once owned by a centuries-old Florentine aristocracy.

  ‘Thank you for coming. I know it was short notice, but what I have to talk to you about is urgent. Very urgent.’

  ‘Oh? What’s it about?’

  Grimaldi lit a small cigar. He watched the smoke curl towards the open window behind him and took his time before replying. ‘Two things,’ he said. ‘A warning … and a proposal.’

  ‘You speak in riddles,’ said Giordano dismissively.

  ‘Let me tell you a little story and all will become clear. It’s about a famous scientist, an expensive hit squad and a Colombian drug baron. With me so far?’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ said Giordano.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything. Just listen,’ continued Grimaldi, choosing his words carefully. Having given Tristan’s extraordinary suggestion that Stolzfus could somehow still be alive more thought overnight, he felt there was no harm in alluding to that possibility to see what reaction he would get. A skilful interrogator, Grimaldi knew how to read body language and interpret even the most subtle reactions.

  ‘By all accounts, the scientist is dead, or so it seems ...’ Grimaldi paused, put his cigar in the ashtray in front of him and carefully watched both Giordano and his son.

  Alessandro flinched, but there was no reaction from his father.

  How can he possibly know? thought Giordano, his mind racing. This could change everything.

  ‘Two members of the hit squad – both women – are dead as well,’ continued Grimaldi. ‘One of them died only three days ago when her car ran off the road near her home at Lake Como during a police chase. It was the same black Lamborghini that was driven from your home and left in a car park near the train station by one of your men. The other two members of the hit squad are in custody at a US Naval base in Naples and are being interrogated. Robustly, I believe. And so are the crew of the Nike. In my experience, it’s only a matter of time before someone talks. But I’m sure you know all this. What you may not know is that Mr Rodrigo is also being interrogated. Right now, by the CIA in New York.’

  ‘Rodrigo? Never heard of him,’ said Giordano gruffly. ‘What has all this got to do with us?’

  ‘Let’s not insult each other,’ continued Grimaldi calmly. ‘You know exactly who he is. Raul Rodrigo is a high-profile lawyer working for the H Cartel. He met with your son on the Nike on fifteen June. We have a witness and a sworn statement. They discussed the delivery of something important. I believe Morocco was mentioned; isn’t that correct, Alessandro?’

  Giordano put his hand on Alessandro’s knee, the gesture obvious. Alessandro didn’t reply.

  ‘I see. Then let me help you,’ continued Grimaldi. He took three large photographs out of a drawer and pushed two of them across his desk towards Giordano. The photos showed Teodora, Aladdin and Silvanus sitting in front of a smiling Giacomo in the saloon of the Nike. ‘These were taken with the body camera of one of the Ministry of Defence Police officers who boarded the Nike just after the vessel left Portsmouth, England on fifteen June. The two men and the woman sitting at the table are members of the hit squad, and the man standing in the background, of course you know well. He is Giacomo Cornale, the captain of the Nike.’

  Grimaldi noticed that Alessandro had begun to fidget in his seat and looked nervous, small beads of perspiration glistening on his brow a clear sign of the turmoil boiling within. Grimaldi smiled and decided to press on.

  ‘And then we have this here,’ he said and pushed the third photograph towards Giordano. It was the aerial photograph showing the Nike and the Caritas next to each other in the middle of a storm off the French coast. Grimaldi didn’t bother explaining the photo and chose to just leave it on the table to let it speak for itself. He knew from experience that saying little was often far more effective than lengthy explanations, as this gave the impression that he knew a lot more about the subject than he chose to disclose. It was a mind game he knew well and had used many times. For a while there was a tense silence in the room.

  ‘What’s on your mind, Chief Prosecutor?’ asked Giordano at last.

  ‘Very conveniently, Professor Fabry is also dead,’ continued Grimaldi undeterred, ignoring the question. ‘Killed in Valletta by the woman who died the other day in the car crash, and then left in a vat filled with acetone like his famous exhibits. Nice touch, but a pity. He was such a gifted surgeon. Ahead of his time, many would say. Perhaps he was silenced because he knew too much, or made some fatal mistake? Who knows? Death seems to be following this project – and you – like a bad smell. Very soon there will be no-one left. And that brings me to the first item I want to talk about: the warning.’

  ‘What kind of warning?’ asked Giordano.

  ‘You have already lost one son. The warning is about the one you have left. Alessandro here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t take me for a fool, Mr Giordano. This is all about drugs and the drug supply from South America; the H Cartel to be precise. We’ve known for a long time that Malta is the entry point into Europe and that the Caritas and the Nike have played a significant part in bringing those drugs into the country. There are two families here in Florence involved and both use the H Cartel: your family, and the Lombardos. There’s been an uneasy truce since Gambio was assassinated, but tensions have been simmering lately as old rivalries have reignited. And I can guess what that’s about ... the Lombardos are expanding their territory and muscling in on yours. Bodies have once again been floating in the river and as you know, I don’t like that because I thought we had an understanding.’

  Grimaldi paused and lit another little cigar to let Giordano stew. He was reaching the pointy end of the conversation and was deliberately taking his time. What he was about to raise was speculation, but his instincts told him that he was on the right path and therefore he decided to take the gamble. If he was right, he was certain he had Giordano exactly where he wanted him: ready to negotiate. If not, nothing much was lost and a different approach would be needed later.

  ‘Please get to the point,’ said Gio
rdano and began to play with his tie, which was obviously annoying him. It was the first sign of unease Grimaldi had observed in his visitor.

  ‘What do you think would happen if the Lombardos were to find out that Alessandro here has been negotiating with the H Cartel behind their backs, eh?’

  ‘Nonsense!’ interrupted Giordano, raising his voice.

  ‘My guess is it was all about cutting off their supply route and giving you a free hand ...’

  Grimaldi was watching Giordano carefully. The look on the old man’s face told him all he needed to know. He had hit the nail on the head.

  ‘What do you think the Lombardos would do? Take it lying down? Hardly. They would start a war and Alessandro here could well be the next body floating in the river. And after that, everything escalates and there’s no way of stopping it. We’ve both seen this before and that is precisely what I want to prevent. What happens in London or on the high seas is a matter for MI5, the CIA and the US Navy, but what happens in my town and on my watch is very much a matter for me. And that brings me to the abduction of Jack Rogan a few days ago in his hotel not far from here. Jack Rogan is a friend – famiglia – and I want to know what has happened to him and why.’

  Grimaldi paused and listened to the chiming of the familiar church bells drifting through the open window. It was time to play his trump card.

  ‘I understand Rogan is being taken to Colombia right now,’ continued Grimaldi, lowering his voice. ‘And I want to know why, and by whom. Do you think you can help me with that?’

  How on earth does he know that too? thought Giordano, sensing a serious problem in the making. And how come he suspected that Stolzfus may be alive? Someone had obviously been talking. What a stuff-up! It was time to cut a deal to get him off his back.

  ‘And the second thing you want to talk about?’ asked Giordano, trying to appear nonchalant and calm.

  Grimaldi smiled. His strategy seemed to be working. ‘Yes, the proposal ... Alessandro, would you mind waiting outside? I would like to talk to your father alone.’