The Curious Case of the Missing Head

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘You look magnificent,’ said Jack and handed Isis the muleta, a long red cape used to goad the bull into charging. ‘Dressed to kill.’

  ‘Thanks, Jack. This is what I live for.’

  ‘I know. Now get out there and show them what a dead girl walking can do!’

  Sirens blaring, the chief of police’s car arrived at the hotel. Barrera got out and stormed into the lobby. ‘We don’t want any trouble,’ said the manager nervously, and ushered Barrera into his office. Two police officers were sitting at a desk reviewing CCTV footage.

  ‘Anything?’ asked the chief.

  ‘Only this so far,’ said one of the officers and pointed to the screen in front of him.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Jack Rogan talking to Celia Crawford of the New York Times.’

  ‘Rogan; the famous troubleshooting author?’

  ‘Yes, They spent an hour here in the bar together last night.’

  ‘Interesting. Anything else?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Keep at it! And put on the Isis transmission.’

  One of the officers turned on the large TV next to the desk. Isis was just coming back on stage dressed as a matador. Wearing the traditional traje de luces – the suit of light – and waving her black montera hat, Isis was greeted like a hero of the bullring with deafening cheers and applause.

  ‘She’s an amazing performer,’ said Barrera as the band began to play ‘Dead Girls Don’t Cry’, the award-winning track from Isis and the Time Machine’s sensational Dead Girl Walking album that had sold millions of copies around the world.

  ‘Here, I think I’ve got something,’ said one of the officers, becoming excited.

  Barrera walked over to the desk to have a look. ‘Who’s the big guy?’ he asked, pointing to the screen.

  ‘Isis’s bodyguard.’

  ‘And the woman?’

  The officer pointed to the housemaid standing next to him. ‘Tell us again,’ he said.

  ‘That’s Rahima Cordoba,’ whispered the woman, barely able to speak.

  ‘Are you absolutely certain?’ demanded Barrera.

  The woman nodded, looking terrified.

  Barrera shook his head, not convinced. ‘We need corroboration. We have recent photos?’

  ‘We do, but this will take time.’

  ‘Could this woman be somewhere here in the hotel?’ Because if not … thought Barrera, exploring the possible implications.

  ‘We’ll search the place and talk to the staff. This too, will take time.’

  Collecting his thoughts, Barrera looked at the other TV. Isis had just finished singing. The band was playing a medley of her greatest hits as a man wearing only a leopard skin loincloth and holding a mask of a bull with huge horns in front of his face jumped on stage. Pretending to be a raging bull – his sweat-covered body glistening in the morning sun – he charged at Isis, who held up her red muleta to further enrage him. The ecstatic crowd cheered, enjoying the mock fight. Isis, a skilful performer, imitated the classic moves and arrogant stances of the matador to perfection as the charging bull came at her time and time again. With each pass, Isis moved closer to the open coffin until she had her back almost pressing up against it.

  ‘Now!’ she shouted as the bull charged past once more. The pretend bull stopped, turned around and then came straight at her again. Instead of turning to move out of the way and miss the charge, Isis stood perfectly still as the two sharp horns came closer. The crowd gasped as the horns appeared to embed themselves into Isis’s chest, pushing her backwards. Pretending to be mortally wounded, Isis pressed her hands against her chest and, staggering backwards, let herself fall into the open coffin as the triumphant bull roared and left the stage.

  One by one, the guitars fell silent again until only the drummer continued with the same mesmerising beat that had accompanied Isis to the stage at the beginning of her epic, jaw-dropping performance. The crowd cheered as the pallbearers returned and slowly walked up to the coffin, closed the lid and lifted it up. Lying motionless inside the glass coffin, her heaving chest the only sign of life, Isis looked like a dying hero being carried out of the bullring.

  ‘What’s happening next?’ asked Barrera.

  ‘Isis is leaving. The performance is over. They are going straight to the airport. We are providing an escort. These are the arrangements we approved. What would you like us to do?’

  ‘Get my car. We are going to the airport.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘That was sensational!’ said Lola and helped Isis climb out of the coffin. ‘We should improvise more often!’

  ‘Just listen to them,’ said Jack, closing the door after the pallbearers had left the change room.

  The crowd outside was chanting ‘Isis! Isis! Isis!’ and refused to leave the bullring.

  ‘An encore perhaps?’ asked Isis, forever hopeful.

  ‘Don’t even think about it!’ snapped Lola. ‘We have to get away from here as soon as possible. I’m very uneasy.’

  ‘What about?’ asked Jack.

  ‘That housemaid.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Me too.’

  ‘Now, get your mother out of the restroom and let’s get her back into the coffin and leave.’

  Escorted by two police officers on motorcycles, Barrera’s car entered the airport’s corporate aviation area. ‘Where’s the plane?’ asked Barrera.

  ‘Over there,’ said his aide and pointed to Pegasus, its sleek, aerodynamic body glistening in the morning sun like a giant bird about to take flight. A black SUV and a van were parked next to the plane and Barrera could see Isis getting out of the car with Boris and a woman. Still wearing her stunning matador costume, she began signing autographs for a group of excited luggage handlers gathered around her.

  Barrera got out of his car and walked over to Isis while his men surrounded the plane. Lola saw him coming and walked up to him, feeling a wave of apprehension. Last-minute meetings like this were rarely good news.

  ‘May I see your papers, please?’ said Barrera. ‘I am the chief of police.’

  ‘Certainly,’ replied Lola. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Not at all. Routine,’ said Barrera, smiling.

  ‘Good, because we’ve already been cleared by the Colombian authorities and are about to take off as soon as our gear gets loaded.’

  ‘This won’t take long.’ Barrera turned to his aide standing next to him. ‘Search the plane, now!’ he hissed, well aware that stopping the plane from leaving and detaining someone like Isis and her entourage without good reason could have serious consequences, and he certainly wasn’t going to act on a hunch, or the questionable information provided by a frightened housemaid. What he needed was proof. With the eyes of the international press firmly trained on Bogota and Isis, he wasn’t prepared to take any chances.

  Jack stood next to the van with Agabe and watched the glass coffin being lifted out of the back. Four luggage handlers were about to carry it over to the plane and load it into the hold when Barrera walked over to him. ‘Ah, the famous coffin we’ve just seen on stage,’ said Barrera. ‘Put it down, please.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Jack, frowning.

  ‘Because I would like to see everybody’s papers.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘The chief of police.’

  ‘But we’ve already …’ began Jack, feeling suddenly uneasy and on guard. Looking surprised, the luggage handlers put down the coffin and stepped back.

  ‘Right now, if you don’t mind,’ continued Barrera quietly and bent down to have a closer look at the coffin. ‘What a fascinating contraption,’ he added, watching Jack carefully. ‘Could you please open it for me?’

  With decades of police experience, Barrera noticed Jack’s unease and decided to probe further. He looks just like a drug smuggler about to be busted, he thought. I wonder why?

  ‘As you can see, we keep Isis’s costumes in here to protect them when we travel,’ said Jack, trying to buy time.
‘They are very precious.’

  ‘I can imagine. Open the lid please, Mr Rogan.’

  He knows who I am! thought Jack and shot Agabe a meaningful look. Taking a deep breath to stay calm, Jack tried to open the lid. ‘It’s a little difficult,’ he said, pretending to have a problem with the lock. ‘Stuck! Is this really necessary?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is. Here, let me help you.’ Barrera reached across and lifted the lid without difficulty. ‘Is there something you would like to tell me, Mr Rogan?’ said Barrera, holding the lid open.

  Jack shook his head and stepped back, his heart racing.

  Barrera was about to reach into the coffin and look under Isis’s costumes, when the feathered dress on top began to move and Rahima’s face appeared.

  Feeling quite ill, Jack could hear Rahima talking softly to Barrera in Spanish, but couldn’t understand what she was saying. It only lasted for a few moments. After that, Barrera reached into the coffin, covered Rahima’s face with Isis’s costume and closed the lid. As he stood up and turned around – his face ashen – a police officer appeared in front of the open cabin door at the top of the stairs. ‘Everything in order up here, sir,’ he shouted.

  ‘And down here,’ replied Barrera and turned around to face Jack.

  ‘Have a safe flight, Mr Rogan,’ said Barrera. ‘Shall we see you again when Isis returns for her concert?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Jack, barely able to speak. I wonder what Tristan would make of all this? he thought, shaking his head. Destiny in action, most likely.

  After the plane had taken off and reached cruising altitude, Jack turned to Rahima, who was now sitting next to him. ‘What did you tell him?’ he asked.

  ‘One day I’ll tell you, but not now,’ replied Rahima. She stared out of the window and reached for Jack’s hand. ‘What I want to do right now is to enjoy my first few moments of freedom, and a little time with the son I didn’t think I would ever see again.’

  62

  Kuragin Chateau, just outside Paris: 26 July

  Jack was desperately trying to go to sleep, but couldn’t. Feeling drained and exhausted after the turbulent events in Bogota and the long flight to Paris, his body craved much-needed sleep, but his mind refused to comply and kept him awake. Turning restlessly in his bed, Jack’s mind drifted back to the bullring in Bogota and that extraordinary encounter with the chief of police at the airport, which he still couldn’t explain. He imagined what would have happened had they not been allowed to leave, and broke out in a cold sweat. Suddenly wide awake, Jack sat up and turned on the light on the bedside table. It was three in the morning. A cup of tea will help, he thought. He got up and put on his dressing gown.

  The cavernous kitchen in the basement – its stone walls whispering secret tales of generations past – was Jack’s favourite place in the chateau. He loved the gleaming copper pots and pans hanging from the vaulted ceiling, and the large wooden table in front of the fireplace, with a wax-encrusted candelabra standing next to the beautiful samovar gleaming in the middle.

  Cook always left a tasty morsel on the table for those looking for a late-night snack, or something to help them go back to sleep. This time, it was one of her mouthwatering orange-and-almond cakes, covered with a large linen serviette to keep it fresh and moist. A tantalising aroma of roasted almonds still lingered, teasing the tastebuds.

  Jack was about to pour himself a cup of tea when he heard a soft noise behind him.

  ‘I thought it was you creeping along the corridor,’ said Countess Kuragin. ‘I couldn’t sleep either.’

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Please. Somehow, we always seem to end up here.’

  ‘This brings back memories,’ said Jack and pointed to the samovar. ‘Remember the first time we sat here in 2010, talking about Anna?’

  ‘We had just met and I explained what a samovar was,’ said the countess, ‘because you had no idea.’

  ‘Yes. A tea urn warming generations, you called it, a precious heirloom brought here by your grandmother all the way from her dacha in Russia.’

  ‘You remembered!’

  ‘And you sat here often with her and listened to stories about long Russian winters and sleigh rides through magic forests frozen in time,’ reminisced Jack, sipping his tea.

  ‘You made a promise that night. You promised to find out what happened to Anna ...’ The countess paused, a sad look on her face as painful memories came flooding back. ‘And to see if she could perhaps somehow still be alive,’ she continued, unable to hold back the tears. The countess reached across the table and placed her hand on Jack’s arm. ‘You gave a desperate mother hope. I will never forget that. And you kept that promise and brought Anna back to me – alive!’

  ‘It was meant to be,’ said Jack. ‘We are but instruments of destiny’s bidding.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit fatalistic?’

  ‘Is it? How else can I possibly explain that the mother I haven’t seen since I was born is right here in the chateau at this very moment, asleep upstairs in the room next to mine? How else can I explain that the chief of police let us go after he discovered Rahima hiding in a glass coffin belonging to a rock star, about to smuggle her out of Colombia in her private jet?’ Jack shook his head.

  ‘It’s late and you are tired. The mind plays tricks on you when you cannot sleep and are sitting in the kitchen at three in the morning, trying to make sense of it all. Believe me, I know. I’ve been here often doing just that. Things always look different in the morning.’

  ‘You’re right. I haven’t been able to thank you yet for all you’ve done for Rahima and for Agabe,’ said Jack, changing direction to clear his thoughts. ‘The papers, all the formalities and all the strings you had to pull to make this happen. It all worked perfectly. And now this ... you’ve opened your home to us all and welcomed us with open arms.’

  ‘I owe you a debt I can never repay, Jack. Certainly not in this life. You are family, and so is Rahima. Don’t forget she’s Madame Petrova’s niece. And Madame Petrova was one of my mother’s closest friends. She played with me when I was a child and she watched me grow up.’

  ‘And yet you don’t believe in destiny?’ said Jack, smiling.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘What will happen to Rahima and Agabe now? They can’t stay here,’ said Jack, looking worried.

  ‘Why not? At least for the moment until things settle down. Rahima’s been through a lot. I had a long talk to her in the afternoon.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Many things. She would like to visit Madame Petrova’s memory trees in the morning.’

  Jack looked at the countess, surprised. ‘You spoke about that?’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘You do realise there’s a tree there that—’

  ‘Was planted in her memory,’ the countess said, nodding. ‘She knows that.’

  ‘And Agabe? What about him?’

  ‘His application for asylum has been lodged and is being processed. My lawyers are handling it.’

  ‘Thanks, Katerina, this means a lot to me.’

  ‘I know. You are worried about Stolzfus, aren’t you?’

  ‘You could always read me like a book,’ said Jack and reached across the table for the countess’s hand. ‘Of course I’m worried about him. He’s one of the big casualties in this bizarre game. It’s a bloody tragedy!’

  ‘Do you know where he is? What’s happened to him?’

  ‘Very little, I’m afraid. The CIA has been very tight-lipped about it all. National security they say. I think it’s more about a national embarrassment; a monumental stuff-up that has to be covered up and kept out of the public domain. That’s what I think, and that’s why Rebecca has been given the runaround. I promised to help her as soon as we’ve sorted things out here.’

  ‘A lot on your plate then.’

  ‘What’s new?’

  ‘There’s a book in this, isn’t there?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘You know me too we
ll.’

  ‘You better get some sleep.’

  ‘You’re right. If I don’t, I’ll turn into one of those memory trees before my time.’ Feeling better Jack stood up, gave the countess a peck on the cheek and went back to his room.

  ‘You’re up early,’ said Jack, walking over to Rahima sitting in the conservatory overlooking the garden. With the morning sun streaming through the open windows and making the palm fronds glisten, the conservatory was an idyllic place where Jack had done a lot of writing during the summer.

  ‘Come, sit next to me,’ said Rahima. ‘I had the best night’s sleep in months. This is so beautiful here. So peaceful and serene. So safe.’

  Rahima pointed to an exquisite little mahogany music box on the mantelpiece. ‘I believe that’s yours,’ she said.

  ‘Katerina told you about it?’

  ‘She did. But she didn’t tell me the whole story. She said that would be a matter for you. Apparently, it used to belong to my aunt and she left it to you in her will a couple of years ago, I believe. Is that right?’

  ‘That’s correct. There’s an amazing story attached to this little gem. It’s all about a letter, a desperate Tsarina and a long-lost masterpiece created by a musical genius just before he died.’

  ‘How intriguing. Katerina did say you were quite a storyteller,’ said Rahima, a glint in her eyes. ‘As we are about to visit my aunt’s memory trees later today, would this be a good time for you to tell me the story?’

  ‘I suppose it would. But I have to warn you, the story isn’t altogether a happy one. There’s treachery, betrayal and murder, and a family tragedy so cruel, it’s almost impossible to put it into words. History written in blood.’

  ‘My goodness!’

  ‘Do you still want to hear it?’

  ‘Absolutely. And I’ll make a deal with you. You tell me the story of the music box, and I tell you what I said to the chief of police and why.’

  ‘You’re on!’ Jack settled back into his comfortable wicker chair and looked pensively at Rahima. ‘I’ve just finished writing a novella about this,’ he began. ‘The manuscript is with my editor in New York right now and will be published later this year. In fact, I wrote most of it sitting over there next to the mantelpiece. The music box was my inspiration. It spoke to me ... it was like taking dictation from the past.’