The Curious Case of the Missing Head

by Gabriel Farago

  Rahima nodded, tears in her eyes, and handed the little cross to Jack.

  ‘Definitely Fabergé, I’d say circa 1930. Beautiful workmanship. Quite unique,’ said Jack, introducing a little humour into the emotional moment. Rahima looked at him gratefully as he fastened the gold chain around her neck.

  Destiny, thought Rahima and stood up. She walked over to the mirror hanging above the fireplace and stood there for a moment, admiring the little cross around her neck. Then she turned around, walked over to the countess and embraced her. ‘I will never forget this, Katerina,’ she whispered and kissed the countess on both cheeks.

  ‘I also have something,’ said Jack, realising the right moment had arrived. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small parcel wrapped in plain brown paper and put it on the coffee table. ‘This is for you.’

  ‘For me? This is definitely my day of surprises.’ Rahima sat down again and looked at the parcel.

  ‘Open it.’ said Jack.

  ‘What is it? Any clues?’

  ‘Something that once belonged to you and you left behind a long time ago,’ said Jack with a lump in his throat.

  Rahima reached for the parcel and began to open it. Moments later, her eyes widened in disbelief and surprise. ‘Oh no! It can’t be,’ she stammered, tears welling as soon as she realised what it was.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the countess, leaning forward.

  ‘Something precious from a different, distant life.’ Rahima peeled back the rest of the paper and put a battered camera on the table in front of her. Its lens was broken and the case was badly scratched, but the name – Leica – was still visible.

  ‘Where did you get this, Jack?’ whispered Rahima.

  ‘In a remote village called Fungor in the Nuba Mountains in Sudan. An old man who remembered you well gave it to me.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘About a month ago.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘Looking for you. Little did I know then, that a few weeks later ...’

  ‘Destiny?’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘This definitely calls for a toast,’ said the countess, trying to ease the tense, emotional moment.

  ‘Great idea,’ said Jack. ‘But this is a retirement home. I doubt—’

  ‘Oh, we can easily remedy that,’ interrupted the countess. ‘I have a whole cellar full of the stuff back at the chateau.’

  ‘Then what are we waiting for?’ said Jack, smiling. He stood up, walked to the door and opened it. ‘After you, ladies ...’

  64

  Greenberg Private Clinic, Boston, Massachusetts: 30 July

  Jack got out of the taxi, took a deep breath and looked around. Feeling tired after his long flight – he had been travelling for more than sixteen hours since leaving Paris – Jack was preparing himself for the critical meeting he knew would have far-reaching consequences.

  Set in serene, manicured grounds in a peaceful, leafy Boston suburb, the exclusive Greenberg Private Clinic was the famous treatment centre of Professor David Greenberg, one of the most gifted and sought-after brain surgeons in the United States, if not the world. Jack had received a phone call from Rebecca the day before advising him that she had finally been contacted by the CIA about Stolzfus.

  Apparently, Stolzfus had been under the care of Professor Greenberg at his clinic in Boston for the past week and was about to be discharged. Dr Hubert of the CIA had suggested that Rebecca come to the clinic and meet with Professor Greenberg before Stolzfus was released, to learn firsthand what the professor had to say about the current state of her brother’s health, the prognosis for his future, and how that should be handled.

  When Rebecca spoke to Jack she sounded most concerned, and once again asked for his help because she remembered that Jack knew Professor Greenberg personally through Isis. She pleaded with Jack to attend the meeting with her, as so much appeared to be riding on it. Jack, who was still at the Kuragin chateau at the time, agreed at once and made travel arrangements.

  Jack smiled as he remembered his first meeting with Professor Greenberg seven years earlier. Isis had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour after collapsing on stage, and was given only months to live. Sir Humphrey – Isis’s personal physician – had turned to Professor Greenberg for help in a desperate attempt to save his patient. Professor Greenberg had travelled all the way to Mexico to examine Isis, and it was that particular meeting Jack remembered as he walked up the tree-lined driveway leading to the entrance of the stately nineteenth-century mansion. Cleverly transformed into a state-of-the-art clinic equipped with the latest medical facilities, including a sophisticated operating theatre that Isis had donated, the impressive building radiated confidence and class.

  Jack remembered the professor as a diminutive, shortish man wearing Harry Potter-shaped tortoiseshell glasses that accentuated his prominent, slightly hooked nose, which dominated his youthful, almost boyish face. Looks can certainly be deceptive, thought Jack. Professor Greenberg had operated on Isis, removed the tumour, which no-one had thought possible, and saved her life. As he opened the door and walked into the foyer, Jack was wondering if the professor could perhaps do the same for Stolzfus.

  Rebecca had arrived earlier from New York and was waiting for Jack in the spacious reception on the ground floor. ‘I can’t tell you what this means to me,’ she said and gave Jack a hug. ‘Thank you so much for coming. I’m very nervous about this.’

  ‘I can imagine. Have you met Greenberg?’

  ‘Not yet. I was waiting for you …’

  ‘How’s my little mate?’

  ‘What? Oh; Gizmo?’

  ‘Yes.’ This was a typical Jack Rogan question, intended to put Rebecca at ease. ‘Two walks a day, I hope?’

  ‘Is that all you can think of?’ asked Rebecca, laughing and suddenly feeling more relaxed. Jack had that effect on people.

  Professor Greenberg came through the revolving doors and walked up to the receptionist, who pointed to Jack and Rebecca sitting on a lounge facing a large window overlooking the gardens.

  ‘Ah, the intrepid Mr Rogan,’ said Greenberg, walking over to them. ‘The last time we met was in Mexico City during Isis’s “Thank You” concert six years ago, I believe.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Jack and stood up. ‘It was the beginning of Isis’s Crystal Skull Tour, which would never have happened without you.’

  The professor waved dismissively. ‘My two daughters were hoarse for days. They screamed so much during the concert they could hardly speak afterwards. It was an amazing event.’

  Rebecca looked at the fascinating little man in front of her as Jack introduced Greenberg. Dressed in a pair of faded jeans, black sneakers and a tee-shirt with Bob Dylan playing a mouth harmonica printed on the front, he looked more like a middle-aged student who had never left campus than the eminent surgeon he was.

  ‘Thank you both for coming,’ said the professor, turning serious. ‘The matter I would like to discuss with you is best addressed face to face. That’s why I suggested you come here if possible so that you can see for yourself … I believe it’s the only way I can explain what I have in mind and what’s at stake here. But first, let’s go and meet the patient.’

  Feeling suddenly ill, Rebecca turned to Jack as they followed Greenberg up the stairs. ‘I don’t like this,’ she whispered, sounding apprehensive.

  ‘Don’t worry. He’s the best, but remember what I told you. Zac will look very different.’ Aware that Rebecca hadn’t seen Stolzfus after his operation, Jack had done his best to prepare her for what to expect by trying to describe the likely state he would be in.

  Greenberg walked to the end of the brightly lit corridor on the first floor and opened a door. ‘After you,’ he said and stepped back.

  Jack reached for Rebecca’s hand and held it tight as they walked into the room. To his surprise, he too felt suddenly uneasy as he remembered the last time he had seen Stolzfus. On that occasion,
Stolzfus had just been lifted into a helicopter after suffering a fit on a deserted beach in Colombia, and was drowning in his own blood.

  Rebecca walked into the room and gasped as she looked at the strange, motionless figure sitting strapped into a wheelchair by the window. At first, she refused to believe she was looking at her brother. The shaved head held up by a metal neck brace, the pale, emaciated-looking face and open mouth and various tubes connecting him to a machine next to the wheelchair, in no way resembled the brilliant, vibrant man she had seen only a few weeks before.

  ‘Good God,’ whispered Rebecca, unable to hold back the tears. ‘That’s him?’

  Jack squeezed her hand in silent reply.

  ‘He can hear you and he can see you,’ said Greenberg cheerfully. ‘Go and talk to him.’

  Jack let go of Rebecca’s hand and they walked over to Stolzfus. ‘Not quite ready for that chess game you owe me, are you, mate?’ said Jack. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve come all this way for nothing. We better ask the professor here to do something about that; what do you reckon?’

  Greenberg began to laugh. Jack’s humour was infectious and precisely what was needed to defuse the awkward moment. ‘That’s exactly what I want to talk to you about,’ he said, noticing Rebecca’s distress. ‘Let’s go to my office and have a chat and you can come back later for another visit. Professor Stolzfus isn’t going anywhere just yet.’

  ‘Before we do that,’ interjected Jack, ‘Zac will be pleased to hear that I delivered his calculations about the theory of everything to the Genius Club, as promised. However, I think they had problems interpreting what he was getting at. The blackboard was full of fancy equations when I left them to it,’ Jack prattled on. ‘Lots of head scratching. The guys definitely need help, because even Gizmo – who was with me at the time – couldn’t come to the rescue.’

  Having composed herself, Rebecca stepped forward. ‘We’ll get through this, Zac, I promise!’ she said, a lump in her throat.

  ‘And in case you’re wondering,’ continued Jack, ‘Gizmo is with Rebecca, living in her apartment in New York. Two walks a day in Central Park with all the posh pooches. Lucky little bugger! We’ll come back later.’

  ‘Who is Gizmo?’ asked Greenberg on their way out.

  ‘Stolzfus’s little dog who attends all of the professor’s lectures and knows more about astrophysics than most of his colleagues.’

  ‘Ah!’

  Back in his office, Jack and Rebecca sat down and Greenberg handed Rebecca a glass of water. ‘I knew this would be confronting,’ he said. ‘But this was quite intentional. I wanted to shock you.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Jack as he looked around Greenberg’s surgery. It reminded him of a similar meeting not long ago in Malta, where Fabry had tried to impress Isis by singing the praises of the Caritas.

  ‘I wanted you both to see what life would be like for Professor Stolzfus if we don’t do something about it,’ said the professor, sitting at his desk.

  ‘Do something about it? What do you mean?’ asked Rebecca.

  ‘Before I answer that, let me give you an assessment of your brother’s current situation. To begin with, Professor Fabry and his team have done an extraordinary job. I would call it medical history. To my knowledge, no-one has successfully performed a head transplant on a live human patient before. Until now. Unfortunately, being the guinea pig often comes at a price; a big one.’ Greenberg paused, took off his glasses and began to polish them with his handkerchief. It was a habit Jack remembered from their last meeting. By taking off his glasses and intentionally blurring his vision, Greenberg focused on something important within.

  ‘As you have just observed, the side effects can be severe,’ he continued. ‘In my view, having a successful, groundbreaking operation like this is pointless if the quality of life of the patient isn’t improved at the same time. Technical brilliance alone cannot justify such a radical step. In short, to prolong life without quality may celebrate the technical skills and brilliance of the surgeon, but at the expense of the patient. To be truly successful, such an operation must do both: prolong life, and at the same time provide a certain modicum of quality to make it meaningful and bearable. Unless that can be achieved, there is – in my view – no point to all this.’ Greenberg put on his glasses again and looked at Rebecca. ‘It’s a moral tightrope. I hope this makes sense,’ he said quietly.

  ‘It sure does,’ said Rebecca, feeling relieved. Greenberg had just articulated what she had felt a moment ago.

  ‘I have been asked by the Department of State to examine Professor Stolzfus and submit a report,’ continued Greenberg. ‘I have done that. Your brother is in remarkably good health considering what has happened to him. All his new organs are working well and, as you have just seen, they are keeping him alive. The main problem we have is that he has no motor functions. He is completely paralysed and cannot move anything. On top of that he has lost his speech, which I don’t believe can be restored. In short, he is alive, but trapped in his new body without being able to communicate in any way. Not even by moving a muscle.’

  ‘But that’s dreadful,’ said Jack. ‘For a man like Stolzfus, that’s worse than death.’

  ‘My point exactly. And this is especially tragic because I believe his extraordinary brain is completely intact and functioning perfectly. I have performed tests that show this. In a way, his situation is not dissimilar to that of Steven Hawking during his latter years after he lost his speech. As you know, his disability was caused by motor neurone disease, but with one major difference. He was not as disabled as Stolzfus is, and he could communicate. He did that by activating a small sensor with a muscle in his cheek. The sensor communicated with his computer, allowing Hawking to type characters and numbers on his keyboard, one at a time. Very slow and laborious, but it worked.

  ‘When the Department of State saw my report, they lost interest. Professor Stolzfus is no longer of value to NASA and the sensitive defence programs he had been working on. In fact, I got the impression he has become an embarrassment and a liability that has to be put to bed, quickly and permanently. Asking you to come here so that I could explain Stolzfus’s hopeless situation to you was obviously part of this plan.’

  ‘But that’s not how you work, is it?’ said Jack.

  ‘No it isn’t. When I agreed to examine Stolzfus, he became my patient, as indeed he is right now. He is in my care and is therefore entitled to the best I can offer him.’

  ‘And is there something you can offer him?’ asked Rebecca quietly. ‘In addition to the technical brilliance that is keeping him alive?’

  Greenberg smiled at Rebecca. ‘I believe I can. I also believe that providence has brought your brother here and placed him into my care.’

  ‘Can you please explain what you mean?’ prompted Jack.

  ‘A few months before Stephen Hawking died, I began to work on something I believed could help him. Something revolutionary and groundbreaking, combining the latest technology – including artificial intelligence and surgery – that could transform how we deal with severely incapacitated patients like Hawking was at the time. I had been a great admirer of Hawking for years, and had followed his extraordinary ideas and theories about the origins of the universe since I was a student. When he lost his speech I began to think, what if we could do something about this? That was the trigger …’

  ‘A trigger for what?’ said Jack, sensing the growing excitement in Greenberg.

  ‘This. Let me show you.’ Greenberg stood up, walked over to a glass screen next to his desk used for examining X-rays and turned it on. A large X-ray of a human head came into view. ‘This is what the brain of a genius looks like,’ said Greenberg and pointed to the X-ray. ‘This one belongs to Professor Stolzfus. At the moment, this extraordinary brain cannot communicate with us because of the reasons I pointed out earlier. That is not only tragic, but an enormous loss to us all. So, is there something we can do about this? I believe there is, and it’s this.’ Greenber
g stepped forward, picked up a small piece of wire the size of a paper clip from his desk and held it up.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Jack.

  ‘This is a device that can be surgically implanted into a blood vessel in the brain.’ Greenberg turned around and pointed to the X-ray. ‘Right here in this area known as the motor cortex, which controls movement. What this small device can do is pick up signals from the brain and transmit them, say, via bluetooth to artificial intelligence software. This could help an incapacitated patient like Professor Stolzfus communicate with a computer and control it – like you and I do with a mouse.’

  ‘Is that really possible?’ asked Jack, looking incredulous.

  ‘Absolutely. A lot more work needs to be done,’ conceded Greenberg, ‘but I firmly believe it’s possible. And an intelligent patient like Professor Stolzfus with his extensive knowledge of computers and how they work, and a passion for artificial intelligence, is the perfect candidate for a prototype.’

  ‘Amazing,’ said Rebecca. ‘So, where does this leave us now?’

  ‘When I put this to the Department of State, they were not interested. Too risky, they said, and too costly. The patient could die and that would be a disaster after all that had happened to him. I did explain that to implant the device would be quite easy. It could be done by way of simple day surgery. It would not require complex and risky open brain surgery, which Professor Stolzfus in his condition would most likely not survive. They were still not interested.’

  Greenberg turned towards Rebecca and looked at her. ‘That’s where you come in. I believe you hold a power of attorney for Professor Stolzfus and are officially listed as his guardian at the moment. Is that right?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘You could therefore give consent for such an operation should I be able to convince you of its enormous potential and likely benefits.’

  ‘I suppose I could.’

  ‘How would it work? Could you explain this again? asked Jack.