The Curious Case of the Missing Head

by Gabriel Farago

  Jack stood up as well and smiled. ‘I’ll get you a cab. Does this remind you of something?’

  ‘Yes it does. The Waldorf in London after the Monet auction in 2014. We had a drink just like this and you told me the story about the painting and how it was discovered.’

  ‘And you had to leave in a hurry to call your editor in New York with the story, remember? Just like now.’

  ‘It’s a bit like deja vu,’ said Celia. ‘Some things never change. Looks like tomorrow will be an interesting day.’

  ‘In more ways than you can possibly imagine,’ said Jack. He escorted Celia outside, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and put her in a cab.

  60

  Benedictine monastery, above Bogota: 24 July

  The rundown Benedictine monastery up in the hills just outside Bogota was a sanctuary and place of contemplation where time stood still. The monks tended the gardens and the orchard, celebrated mass on Sundays with Gregorian chants as tradition demanded, and educated the children of the poor. Their customs and way of life had remained virtually unchanged since Saint Benedict of Nursia had established the order in the sixth century. However, without the generous support of Rahima, who for almost fifty years had lived in the Cordoba compound close by, the monastery would have closed its doors long ago. Lack of funds, civil unrest and changing times had eroded community support and respect for the monks and their work.

  Jack and Boris arrived just after sunrise in a rented black SUV. A thick mist hovered over the city below and covered Bogota like a shroud, hiding the toxic turmoil boiling within.

  ‘This place has seen better days,’ said Jack as he walked along the gravel path overgrown with weeds, leading to a small belltower. Damaged by fire, the roof had collapsed a long time ago and the tolling of bells was but a distant memory.

  As he came closer, he could hear soft organ music and chanting drifting across from a building behind it. Jack realised that the next few hours would be critical, and approached the meeting with trepidation. While Agabe had assured him over the phone that Rahima was well enough to travel, he had also said that the trauma of the attack and the deaths of Hernando and Alonso had affected her deeply.

  An elderly monk was waiting for them at the wooden front door riddled with woodworm holes, and ushered them inside. ‘We’ve been expecting you,’ he said. ‘Come. Mass is almost finished.’

  As they crossed an inner courtyard, Jack could see Agabe coming towards him. Agabe walked up to Jack and embraced him. ‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ he said.

  ‘Where is Rahima?’

  ‘At mass. She knows you are coming and has been in the chapel praying for most of the night, preparing herself. It’s how she copes with what’s happened.’

  Jack introduced Boris and pointed to a bench in the courtyard. ‘Let’s go over there. While we wait, let me tell you how we are going to do this—’

  ‘Before you do,’ interrupted Agabe, ‘you should know that soldiers have come here several times looking for survivors after the attack. I don’t know what would have happened had they found us. The monks here have been marvellous. Without them …’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I hope you do. This is an extremely dangerous place, Jack. As soon as we walk out of here, we are on our own and very vulnerable.’

  ‘Even more reason for us to discuss this without Rahima.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Agabe and looked anxiously at Jack. ‘Are you seriously suggesting you can get us out of Colombia?’ he asked, sounding hesitant. ‘Because if you don’t …’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  During the next ten minutes, Jack gave a brief outline of the ambitious plan he had worked out with Lola and Boris during the night while Isis had her beauty sleep.

  ‘You really think this will work?’ asked Agabe, shaking his head.

  ‘It has to. We’ll get only one shot at this and today’s the day.’

  ‘All right. Then let’s give it our best one, Jack. Here come the monks now. Mass is finished.’

  ‘And Rahima?’

  ‘Most probably still inside, praying.’

  Jack stood up. ‘Give me a moment, guys,’ he said.

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ asked Boris.

  ‘No, thanks. I have to do this on my own.’

  The door to the little chapel was ajar. As Jack looked inside, he could see Rahima kneeling in front of the altar, alone. The scene reminded him of a medieval fresco by Ambrogio Lorenzetti he had admired in Siena not long ago. Jack walked up behind Rahima and knelt down next to her, the pungent smell of incense and snuffed-out candles drifting across from the altar stirring up long-forgotten childhood memories of loneliness and pain, and kneeling in church on hot Sundays in dusty outback Queensland, praying for rain.

  ‘I knew you would come,’ said Rahima and placed her hand on Jack’s arm. ‘My prayers have been answered. You are the light in all this darkness.’

  Jack reached for his mother’s hand and for a while just held it tight without saying anything.

  ‘We’ll get through this, you’ll see,’ he said. ‘By the end of today, all this will be a distant memory.’

  ‘God willing. How will you do this, my son?’

  ‘Let’s go outside and I’ll tell you.’

  Lola was waiting for them in the hotel car park. Security was tight and the police had almost completely surrounded the building during the night and cordoned off the street in front to hold back the crowd. ‘Come, quickly,’ she said. ‘We have to get Rahima inside! This is Agabe’s security pass. He’s Isis’s doctor, clear? Everyone is aware of her health problems and will not question this.’ Looking anxiously around, Lola handed Jack the pass. ‘Our problem isn’t Agabe, but Rahima,’ continued Lola, lowering her voice. Boris nodded, put his huge arm around Rahima’s shoulders and walked her to the lifts.

  ‘How do you want to handle this?’ asked Jack, following Lola into her suite on the top floor.

  ‘We didn’t count on the crowd. Apparently, it’s chaos at the bullring already. Police everywhere. We have to get out of here fast. Police have been asking all sorts of questions of the hotel management here. I think this whole thing has taken everyone by surprise. The size of it, and Isis hasn’t even made an appearance, nor has she made her announcement. You can imagine what will happen when she does.’

  ‘The crowd will go berserk.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘Depends, but I think it could be an advantage,’ said Lola with a mischievous little smile.

  ‘So do I,’ said Jack, the eternal optimist. ‘What we need here is a little creative thinking.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  ‘The coffin?’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Lola. ‘We have to get Rahima safely out of here and into the bullring, and from there to the airport at the end of the concert. As you know, we are not coming back here, but going directly to Pegasus. The crew is already there and standing by, ready to take off.’

  ‘We have to move fast.’

  ‘Yes. Isis is already dressed for the occasion and ready to go, thank God. She’s on fire, I tell you.’

  ‘Then, what are we waiting for?’

  Boris had a protective arm around Rahima and was walking along the corridor flanked by Lola and Jack. Isis followed with Agabe and two security guards provided by the hotel, and a porter with a luggage trolley trailing behind. As soon as the lift doors opened, a housemaid stepped out of the lift and almost collided with Rahima. Their eyes met and a flash of recognition raced across the young woman’s face.

  Rahima turned to Jack. ‘I think I’ve been recognised,’ she said quietly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The housemaid; just now. She used to work at the compound. I remember her well.’

  ‘Jesus! That’s all we need,’ said Jack.

  He turned to Lola, who gave him a ‘shit-happens’ shrug. ‘Let’s just get ou
t of here!’ she said.

  The police provided a motorcycle escort for the SUV and the black van Lola had hired for all their gear – especially the glass coffin, which took up quite a bit of space. Jack sat in the back next to the open coffin, talking with Rahima, who was lying inside.

  ‘A little ahead of my time,’ said Rahima, a sparkle in her eyes. ‘But it pays to get used to this, I suppose.’

  ‘I’m glad you see this in the right way,’ said Jack, stroking his mother’s hand. ‘This is necessary to get you safely out of the country.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Rahima and winked at Jack. ‘I haven’t had this much fun since my twenties.’

  As they approached the bullring, the crowd almost blocked the entire street and they had to slow to a crawl.

  ‘We haven’t seen anything like this since Mexico, have we, guys?’ said Isis, her cheeks glowing with excitement. Because of the heavily tinted windows it was impossible for the crowd to recognise Isis sitting in the front. Had it been otherwise, the mob would have overwhelmed them.

  ‘All right, guys, this is how it will work,’ said Lola, as soon as they had been escorted to the changing rooms inside the bullring that were normally used by bullfighters. Erected in 1931, the popular stadium normally had a capacity of fourteen thousand, but it was already packed with more than thirty-thousand excited fans chanting ‘Isis! Isis! Isis!’ The police were unable to control access to the bullring and had been overwhelmed by the crowd that had assembled at the gates since well before midnight, hoping to catch a glimpse of their idol.

  Lola pointed to the glass coffin on the floor. Workers who had hastily erected the makeshift stage in the centre of the bullring overnight, had carefully carried it into the change room as directed, unaware that someone was actually lying inside. Covered completely by the elaborate costumes Isis intended to wear during the performance, it was impossible to see Rahima – lying motionless and silent and barely daring to breathe – underneath them.

  ‘So far so good,’ said Lola. ‘Rahima will stay here and hide until the performance is over. Then we’ll take her back to the plane the same way she came here: inside the coffin, covered by Isis’s costumes. No-one will know she’s in there. Simple and effective.’

  Jack looked at Lola. I hope you’re right, he thought, and helped Rahima climb out.

  Oblivious to everything going on around her, Isis could hear only one thing: the chanting of the crowd, conjuring up memories of previous performances that had been the highlights of her extraordinary career. Intoxicated by long-forgotten emotions, she looked at her reflection in the mirror in front of her and liked what she saw. Dressed in a spectacular costume she had worn on one of her South American tours, Isis travelled back twenty years and saw herself as the young, vibrant megastar she once was. Then the band outside began to play one of her bestselling numbers, which usually sent the fans wild. A lump in her throat, Isis looked at Lola with dreamy eyes.

  ‘It’s time,’ said Lola and pointed to the glass coffin. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be,’ replied Isis. My God, how I’ve missed this, she thought and climbed into the coffin.

  Instead of being lifted up by a hydraulic system as they would normally use, the coffin would be carried on stage by six Colombian ‘pallbearers’ wearing traditional costumes while the band played ‘Resurrection’. After that, Isis would emerge from the coffin and begin her stunning performance that the excited fans had come to see.

  ‘All right, boys, let’s go,’ said Lola, and closed the coffin lid. ‘Let the show begin!’

  61

  Santamaria Bullring, Bogota: 24 July

  The popular morning show presenter who worked for the Bogota TV station sponsoring the event, walked up to the microphone and held up her hand. The band on the stage behind her stopped playing and slowly the excited crowd became quiet, the atmosphere in the arena electric.

  ‘Good morning, Bogota!’ announced the woman, her familiar voice booming through the sound system. ‘The moment you have all been waiting for has arrived.’

  Cheering and thunderous applause filled the arena.

  The woman paused to let the anticipation grow as the cameras zoomed in. ‘I give you the legendary, the fabulous, the one and only … Isis!’ With that, the woman turned to her left and pointed to the entry into the arena where the police had cleared a narrow path leading into the bullring. Moments later, the band’s drummer began whipping up the crowd with a spine-tingling solo introduction before the throbbing bass joined in and the guitars screamed into life, heralding the arrival of the megastar.

  ‘Here we go,’ whispered Jack and blew a kiss towards Isis who was looking up at him through the glass. ‘Good luck, my dear friend!’

  With the famous crystal skull resting on her chest, and wearing her tight-fitting, Aztec-inspired bodysuit she had worn during her famous ‘Thank You’ concert in Mexico City in 2012, Isis looked like an Aztec queen beginning her journey into the afterlife.

  With leopard skins draped over their bare shoulders and donning spectacular headdresses made of brightly coloured feathers, the six tall, muscular pallbearers added to the drama as they lifted up the coffin and carried it slowly outside. A mighty roar echoed through the arena as the glass coffin appeared, reflecting the morning sun like a magic beacon sent by the gods to illuminate the faithful. Step by step, the pallbearers ascended the stage in the centre of the bullring, put down the coffin on a raised platform covered in flowers in front of the band and stepped back, forming a circle. One by one, the guitars fell silent, until only the beat of the drums echoed through the packed arena like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant. Then one of the pallbearers stepped forward, opened the glass lid and knelt down next to the coffin. The other pallbearers did the same and looked up at the sun as a sudden hush descended on the spellbound crowd.

  Holding the crystal skull with both hands, Isis sat up in the coffin, lifted the skull high above her head and pointed it towards the sun. This was the signal for the band to start up again. The guitars were back, playing ‘Resurrection’, one of Isis’s all-time biggest hits. The spell was broken and the crowd erupted.

  As Isis stepped slowly out of the coffin and placed the crystal skull on a pedestal next to the microphone for all to see, the crowd became hysterical and began to cheer wildly. Savouring the moment of adulation, Isis looked at the sea of adoring faces and began to sing.

  Joselito Barrera, the chief of the Administrative Department of Security, the country’s secret police, sat in his office in downtown Bogota. He was watching the Isis concert at the Santamaria Bullring with concern, as the concert was quickly turning into a sensitive political statement no-one had expected. Isis had just announced that her upcoming South American concert tour would begin in Bogota in three months’ time and would be dedicated to the many desperate refugees fleeing Venezuela. She had also announced that she would donate a million US dollars to the soup kitchens operating at the border. Barrera was about to turn up the volume, when one of his officers burst into the room.

  ‘I think you should see this, sir,’ he said and handed his boss a piece of paper.

  Barrera read the note and swore under his breath. ‘When?’ he asked.

  ‘About an hour ago.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the Four Seasons.’

  ‘This has to be a mistake. It can’t possibly be right.’

  The officer shrugged.

  ‘Where’s the woman?’

  ‘Downstairs.’

  ‘Bring her up straight away.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  After the frightened housemaid had repeated her account of the sighting, Barrera sat back in his chair and stared at the television screen. Isis had just finished making her surprise announcement and had left the stage to change into another costume to wow her fans in preparation for a spectacular concert finale.

  Could this possibly be true? Barrera asked himself, shaking his head. ‘We need more,’ he sai
d to the officer standing next to the housemaid. ‘Check all the CCTV footage.’

  ‘Happening right now, sir.’

  ‘Excellent. Let’s go to the hotel to save time. And bring her with you.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘That was magnificent,’ said Lola as she helped Isis take off her tight bodysuit. Covered in sweat, her face aglow with excitement and breathing heavily, Isis looked at Jack standing next to her. ‘How did I go?’

  ‘You certainly haven’t lost your touch, that’s for sure, but your announcement is bound to create quite a stir. Here and overseas, especially in the US. Celia will have a field day with this. We gave her a free hand.’

  ‘Good. That’s exactly what it was supposed to do,’ said Isis, putting on a taleguilla – close-fitting pants secured with tasselled chords – and a camisa, an embroidered white shirt worn by matadors. ‘Good choice, don’t you think?’ said Isis, buttoning up her shirt. Knowing that her surprise concert would take place in a bullring, Isis had decided to perform her closing number dressed as a matador in full, traditional regalia. There would even be a mock bullfight on stage she had hastily arranged with one of the pallbearers, to add to the drama.

  ‘One song, that’s it!’ said Lola, an anxious look on her face. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’

  ‘Two,’ said Isis and gave Lola a peck on the cheek. ‘From Dead Girl Walking. I already spoke to the band. I’ve been waiting a long time for this.’

  ‘Talk to her, Jack!’ pleaded Lola, exasperated. ‘This is a dangerous place. We’ve got to get out of here! Think of your mother!’

  Jack shrugged and helped Isis put on the chaquetilla, a stunning short, gold-embroidered jacket with shoulder pads. A pair of white silk knee-high stockings called medias and a pair of zapatillas, flat black slippers that looked like ballet shoes, completed the spectacular traditional attire.