The Curious Case of the Missing Head

by Gabriel Farago

  Looking relieved, Alessandro stood up and without saying a word, left the room.

  45

  Arriving in Colombia: 10 July

  Jack and Agabe stood on deck and watched the Coatilcue sail past El Morro Island and enter the Bay of Santa Marta. Jack wiped the sweat from his neck with a handkerchief and pointed down to the wooden pier as the ship’s crew prepared for docking. The entry to the pier was blocked off by a tall barbed-wire fence patrolled by men armed with machine guns.

  ‘If you thought of making a quick getaway, think again,’ said Jack. ‘Look.’

  ‘Great! Welcome to Santa Marta,’ said Agabe. ‘The first Spanish settlement in Colombia … I looked it up on Google before we left Morocco,’ he added, grinning at Jack.

  Located on the Caribbean Sea, the busy port was used by the H Cartel as a main export point for coffee and cocaine. With its own heavily armed and fortified port facility and twenty-four hour access to its ships without interference from the authorities, Santa Marta was ideally positioned to allow the lucrative drug business to flourish. Generous payments to those controlling the harbour ensured that the cartel’s operations were not interrupted.

  As the Coatilcue was being secured and the gangway lowered, two black Land Rovers approached the barbed-wire fence. A man holding a machine gun walked up to one of the cars and looked through the driver’s window. Satisfied, he raised his arm. A large gate was opened to allow the vehicles to pass.

  As the cars pulled up near the ship, Rodrigo jumped out of the first Land Rover, hurried up the gangway and spoke briefly to the captain waiting for him at the top. ‘How was the trip?’ he asked.

  ‘Uneventful.’

  ‘And our precious cargo?’

  ‘All safe and in good health. Come, see for yourself.’

  ‘We meet again,’ said Rodrigo breezily and walked up to Jack and Agabe standing in front of Stolzfus’s cabin. Jack just looked at Rodrigo without saying a word as he remembered the last time they had come across each other. On that occasion, Jack had been strapped to a steel tabletop on the Caritas, being interrogated under the watchful eye of Fabry brandishing a scalpel in his face.

  ‘I can’t say I’m too pleased to see you,’ said Jack. ‘Last time we met I almost ended up as an exhibit.’

  Rodrigo laughed, appreciating the humour. As a practical man only interested in results, he was hoping Jack realised that cooperation would be the best way of dealing with the predicament he found himself in. ‘And the only reason you didn’t,’ replied Rodrigo, ‘was because of the helpful and truthful answers you gave to my questions. I hope we can continue in the same spirit here. You strike me as a sensible man, Mr Rogan, a realist who understands that certain situations have a momentum of their own and demand certain actions, not all of which are pleasant. I’m sure you know exactly what I mean.’

  ‘I understand perfectly, but I seem to have had more than my fair share of unpleasant bits lately to embrace the concept with enthusiasm as you suggest. Seven days cooped up on this rust bucket as a prisoner on a journey into the unknown, for instance.’

  ‘Then allow me to make amends and improve things.’

  Jack shrugged but didn’t reply.

  Rodrigo turned to Agabe. ‘But first, I would very much like to meet your patient,’ he said. ‘Is he in here?’

  ‘He is. Please,’ said Agabe and pointed to the door to Stolzfus’s cabin.

  Rodrigo spoke only briefly with Stolzfus to make sure he was as lucid and alert as Agabe had indicated in his reports during the journey. Satisfied, he left the cabin and took Agabe aside. ‘This is excellent. Much better than I expected. Mr Cordoba will be pleased.’

  ‘What happens now?’ asked Jack, who had overheard the exchange.

  ‘We travel to Bogota. Mr Cordoba is anxious to meet you and, of course, Professor Stolzfus here.’

  ‘I bet,’ said Jack. ‘How far is it to Bogota?’

  ‘Less than two hours by plane. Mr Cordoba has sent his personal jet to get you there in comfort. See? I’m already working on an improvement. Gentlemen, please let’s go. The plane is waiting.’

  The flight from Santa Marta to Bogota was uneventful, but Stolzfus appeared to be enjoying himself. The stimulation of the flight and attention given to him seemed to have had a beneficial effect. He was not only alert, but joked with the crew fussing over him. He didn’t seem to mind that they were all heavily armed young men who spoke little English, obviously had no idea who he was and looked at him as a strange curiosity.

  Surrounded by armed guards, Cordoba’s helicopter gunship was waiting at Bogota airport, its noisy engine running, and took Stolzfus straight to the H Cartel compound, which was only a short distance away.

  Standing by the large window in his observation room overlooking the compound, Cordoba watched the helicopter land. He turned to his wife standing next to him and pointed to the man in the wheelchair being lifted out of the chopper. ‘All being well, that’s the man who will save our son,’ he said. ‘And the man standing next to him will help us do it.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Rahima.

  ‘A high-profile, extremely well-connected international writer who for some reason has taken a particular interest in the Stolzfus matter. His connections – especially in America – and international reputation will come in useful in preparing the way for what we have to do to get Alonso released.’

  Rahima reached for her husband’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I know you are doing everything you can.’

  ‘The writer was Rodrigo’s idea, but I think he’s right. Here they come now.’

  ‘I better leave you to it,’ said Rahima. She knew when it was time to withdraw and stay in the background. She kissed Cordoba on the cheek and hurried out of the room.

  Cordoba had arranged for Stolzfus and Jack to be brought to him straight away. He wanted to see for himself how well Stolzfus had survived his ordeal. After all that had happened to Stolzfus, Cordoba took all the reports and assurances about the professor’s condition and state of mind with a healthy dose of scepticism and wanted to assess the situation for himself. Cordoba always addressed critical matters personally, and insisted on meeting people who played an important part in his plans, face to face.

  Being a savvy tactician, and as this matter was about people and personalities, getting to know the key players was, in his view, absolutely essential if the daring plan was to succeed. That way, he could accurately evaluate the risks involved and make an informed decision. Experience had taught him that leaving this to others could quickly turn into a costly mistake. As this was about his son’s life, making a mistake was out of the question.

  Cordoba stood in front of a large TV with his hands folded behind his back, watching as Agabe wheeled Stolzfus into the room. He had just watched a small segment of the video sent to him by Fabry about the Stolzfus operation. Cordoba turned off the TV and turned around. Oh my God, he thought. The man sitting in the wheelchair, his shaved head supported by a complicated-looking contraption, wasn’t what he had expected. Recovering quickly, Cordoba stepped out of the shadows and walked towards the wheelchair. ‘Welcome, Professor,’ said Cordoba.

  ‘Please stand in front of my chair so I can see you,’ replied Stolzfus. ‘Unfortunately, I cannot turn my head.’

  Cordoba walked over to the chair and stood in front of Stolzfus. ‘I’m sorry, is that better? I’m Hernando Cordoba. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘Look at me. I wish I could say the same,’ replied Stolzfus. ‘It’s been quite a rollercoaster ride from Westminster Abbey to your fortress here in Bogota, Mr Cordoba. The mysteries I am used to are mainly about the universe, but this here is something else ... I cannot for the life of me work out why a man like you should be interested in someone like me, and go to such extraordinary lengths to bring me here.’

  ‘Then let me enlighten you,’ said Cordoba, encouraged by Stolzfus’s lucid statements and the strength of his voice. ‘To beg
in with, I would like to apologise. What happened to you was never part of our plan. Being shot was an unfortunate accident we did not expect and certainly did not intend, and what happened after that was all part of a desperate attempt to keep you alive.’

  ‘Why? Why abduct me in the first place? What possible use can I be to you?’

  ‘Because I hope that you will save my son.’

  Stolzfus closed his eyes and for a few tense seconds he appeared non-responsive. Becoming concerned, Cordoba looked at Agabe. Agabe stepped forward and was about to feel his patient’s pulse when Stolzfus opened his eyes again. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

  ‘As you no doubt know, my son is on death row in Arizona, awaiting execution.’

  ‘I know, but how can I possibly assist you with that?’

  ‘You are an important man, Professor. Perhaps more important to the US, its space program and its missile defence shield than you realise. I will let my lawyer here explain to you what we have in mind.’

  Jack stood behind Agabe. Here it comes, he thought, mesmerised by what was happening around him.

  Rodrigo walked over to Cordoba and stood next to his client so that Stolzfus could see him.

  ‘What we have in mind here is quite simple,’ said Rodrigo. ‘One life in exchange for another. Your safe return to the US in exchange for the release of Mr Cordoba’s son.’

  Stolzfus tried to laugh, but only managed what sounded more like a throaty gurgle. ‘You brought me all this way for that? Do you realise how insane this is?’

  Rodrigo shrugged but didn’t reply. It wasn’t the reaction he had expected.

  ‘That’s a matter for us, Professor,’ said Cordoba quietly.

  ‘I’m not as important as you may think, Mr Cordoba, and I doubt very much if the US Government is likely to entertain such an arrangement.’

  Cordoba turned towards Jack and looked at him. It was the first time he had paid him any attention. ‘Perhaps not straight away,’ he said. ‘But that’s where Mr Rogan here comes into play.’

  ‘I do?’ said Jack. ‘How exactly?’

  ‘It’s nice to meet you too, Mr Rogan,’ said Cordoba, ignoring the question. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you lately ...’

  Jack shook his head. ‘I can’t say the same about you, Mr Cordoba. In any event, I fail to see how I can possibly be of any use to you in this extraordinary endeavour.’

  ‘Allow me to explain,’ said Rodrigo, stepping in. ‘I do agree with Professor Stolzfus that at first there is likely to be strong resistance by the US to our proposal. However, public opinion is a powerful tool and we both know that this president, in particular, is obsessed with social media, fake news and public opinion, and you, Mr Rogan, will help us shape and manipulate that public opinion.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You seem to have excellent contacts, especially at the New York Times. People listen to you. We have certainly seen that in the past. You know how to shape and influence public opinion. You’ve done this successfully in the past ...’

  A skilful advocate with extensive court experience, Rodrigo paused to let this sink in. ‘You were instrumental in changing the law about abandoned Holocaust fortunes hidden in Swiss bank accounts, and you forced the banks to open their ledgers and their vaults and make restitutions. If I remember correctly, this made you Time Magazine’s ‘Person of the Year’. And then a few years later, you brought down the British Government by exposing the Lord Elms scandal. You are a man of great influence, Mr Rogan, and we would like to harness that influence—’

  ‘I still can’t see how that could possibly work here,’ interrupted Jack.

  ‘You underestimate yourself, Mr Rogan,’ said Rodrigo, smiling. ‘The articles you recently inspired, or shall I say instigated, have had a profound effect on public opinion in this very matter and have shaped how governments and law enforcement agencies have reacted to Professor Stolzfus’s abduction.’

  ‘Even if what you say is correct, how can that possibly help you here with what you propose to do? Forgive me for speaking plainly, but exchanging a convicted criminal on death row for a scientist abducted by a wanted drug baron? This is nothing more than a high-profile ransom demand involving a superpower. The Americans will never go for that!’

  ‘We disagree, but we can discuss all this later,’ said Rodrigo.

  Pleased by the way the meeting had been going so far, Cordoba decided to bring it to an end because more than enough had been said – for now – and he knew that saying more at this stage could be detrimental.

  ‘Quite so,’ he interjected. ‘Professor Stolzfus must be tired after his long trip. Gentlemen, please consider yourselves my guests. I will make sure you have everything you need to make your stay here comfortable. As you will see, this is a large complex. A very secure one. You are free to move around inside as you wish, but for your own safety, you may not step outside ... as you would have noticed, we have guards everywhere. Bogota is a dangerous place. Mr Rodrigo will show you to your rooms,’ said Cordoba, ‘and explain everything.’ Cordoba nodded, turned around and walked back to his desk, an obvious gesture of dismissal.

  As Jack walked to the door, he noticed a series of large photographs hanging on the wall. He stopped in front of one to have a closer look. A group of young, naked African women wearing spectacular head decorations were dancing around a fire surrounded by what looked like dense rainforest. Their painted faces reminded Jack of the love dance described by the omda he had met recently in that remote village in the Nuba Mountains. Strange, thought Jack as he read the inscription at the bottom of the photograph: Xingu River, Brazil, 1971.

  Xingu, thought Jack as he turned around and followed Rodrigo to the door. Where have I heard that name before? And then it struck him. Of course! Madame Petrova had mentioned the Xingu Indians as one of the remote tribes visited by her niece Natasha, not long before she disappeared ...

  Standing in the corridor between a security guard and Rodrigo, Jack waited for the lift to take them down to the basement. Agabe stood behind him fussing over Stolzfus, who had his eyes closed. When the lift doors opened, Jack found himself facing an elderly woman. Their eyes met and Jack could feel the fine hairs on his neck stand to attention. Something about the woman’s striking eyes seemed to affect him deeply.

  She too, felt something strange radiating from the man standing opposite that she couldn’t quite explain. It only lasted an instant and she was about to step aside when her eyes came to rest on the little cross around Jack’s neck. Rahima’s heart missed a beat. She felt dizzy and had to reach for the edge of the lift door to steady herself.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Rodrigo and reached for Rahima’s arm as she stepped out of the lift.

  Rahima pointed to the little cross. ‘Where did you get this?’ she whispered, her lips quivering and her voice barely audible.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ said Jack. Shocked by the distress and pain reflected in the woman’s eyes, he decided to add something.

  ‘This is a replica. The original belonged to my mother ...’

  ‘Are you Australian?’

  ‘Yes. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Does the Coberg Mission mean anything to you?’

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Jack, barely able to speak.

  ‘Coberg Mission ...’

  ‘Yes. I was born there ...’

  ‘Oh my God!’ whispered Rahima, tears welling up in her eyes. She quickly turned away without saying another word and hurried down the corridor.

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Jack, following Rodrigo into the lift.

  ‘That’s Mrs Cordoba. What was all that about?’

  ‘Don’t know. She probably thought I was someone else,’ said Jack casually, brushing the question aside.

  46

  H Cartel Compound, Bogota: 11 July

  Rahima had spent most of the night in the little chapel at the far end of the garden, praying, as she tried to come to terms with what her head told her must be true, but
what her heart was too afraid to believe. Red-eyed and exhausted, she stepped outside into the hot morning sun and asked one of the security guards to bring Jack to the chapel. The young guard – barely more than a boy – hurried back to the main building to fetch him. When Mrs Cordoba asked you to do something, you didn’t ask questions and attended to it straight away.

  A few minutes later, the guard knocked on the chapel door and opened it.

  ‘Please ask Mr Rogan to come inside and then leave us,’ said Rahima, speaking softly.

  Jack stepped into the little chapel and closed the door. For some reason he couldn’t explain, he felt strangely excited, his heart pounding.

  Rahima was kneeling in front of the altar, facing a small Russian icon. She slowly turned around and looked at Jack standing by the door, motionless and silent like a statue. A shaft of sunlight reached through one of the small windows, illuminating his face like some kind of blessing from above and making the little cross hanging around his neck sparkle like a beacon of hope. Rahima, a devout Christian, burst into tears.

  Jack didn’t move and just kept staring at the little silver-haired woman kneeling in front of him. Leaning forward, she kissed the icon, slowly got to her feet and then turned around to face Jack.

  ‘You were born at the Coberg Mission in November 1968; is that right?’ asked Rahima, barely able to speak.

  ‘Yes. When I was only a few days old, I was given to the Rogan family who lived on a cattle station close by, and became the son they couldn’t have. I was taken to them by Gurrul, an Aboriginal drover who later became my mentor and friend.’

  ‘M-my God,’ stammered Rahima, feeling faint and reaching for one of the pews to steady herself. Jack stepped forward and held out his hand. Rahima took it and then embraced him. As she held him tight, her slim body began to shake uncontrollably. ‘You are the son I did have, but left behind,’ she sobbed. ‘But God in his mercy has given you back to me. Here, right now. It’s a sign ...’