Professor K- The Final Quest, page 32
part #4 of Jack Rogan Mystery Series
‘As I mentioned before,’ said Gambio, ‘he’s a business associate. Well-connected in Istanbul. He went there to assist. He offered …’
‘What about the young woman we found locked in the cellar?’ asked Conti, changing the subject again.
‘My client cannot help you there. As we stated before, he has no knowledge of those matters. I suggest you ask Mr Belmonte. He is the one leasing the property.’
Conti closed the folder on his desk and stood up. ‘Thank you, gentlemen; you may go,’ he said, ‘for now.’
Gambio gave his lawyer a meaningful look, the question on his face obvious. Giuliani shook his head and stood up too. Gambio didn’t understand why Conti was terminating the interview so abruptly. Too many questions had been left on the table, unanswered. And when he didn’t understand something, Gambio became concerned.
‘You will be talking to Mr Belmonte, I presume?’ he asked, pushing back his chair.
‘How do you know we haven’t already?’
Gambio shrugged and followed Giuliani to the door.
‘And by the way, congratulations,’ continued Conti casually.
Gambio stopped and turned around. ‘Congratulations? What for?’
‘Your recent property deal; quite a coup. I hear you’ve just secured a building you’ve been after for quite some time. Right next to the Medici Grande. How fortuitous. Hotel expansion? An upgrade for Prince Khalid’s next visit perhaps?’
A flash of anger raced across Gambio’s face. He didn’t like being made fun of. ‘Is this a police matter?’ he snapped.
Two can play this game, thought Conti. It felt good having the upper hand for once. ‘Not yet,’ he said, ‘and please don’t leave town for the time being without letting us know. We may wish to talk to you again – soon.’
Conti sat in his office, alone, and listened to the church bells. He realised that Gambio and his lawyer were playing a clever game: explaining what couldn’t be denied, and denying what couldn’t be proved. They are pointing the finger at Belmonte, thought Conti. They must be pretty confident we won’t be able to find him. It all comes down to that. Perhaps he’s dead already.
Conti reached for the photograph showing Belmonte, Amena and Nazir in front of Gambio’s plane in Istanbul, and held it up. Who is this man? he wondered. Is he the man behind the golden mask Lorenza mentioned in her statement? And is he also the man behind the red mask who officiated at the Ars Moriendi ritual and shot Tristan? Are they both one and the same? Is it Luigi Belmonte?
Conti was about to slip the photograph back into its envelope, when Cesaria burst into his office, breathless and excited.
‘You won’t believe this,’ she said, holding up a piece of paper.
Conti smiled. Cesaria’s enthusiasm was infectious. ‘What is it?
‘Forensics just finished examining the gun …’
‘The one the shooter dropped?’
‘Yes, after shooting Tristan. As expected, there were excellent prints all over it,’ said Cesaria.
‘And?’
‘Of course, Forensics went straight to the database—’
‘You are drawing this out for a reason?’ interrupted Conti, becoming a little impatient.
‘You won’t believe this,’ Cesaria said again.
‘Try me.’
‘The prints belong to … Raffaele Bangarella,’ announced Cesaria, beaming.
For a long, tense moment, there was complete silence in the room as Conti kept staring at Cesaria, stunned.
‘What did you say?’ he asked after a while.
‘Raffaele Bangarella. You know, the notorious killer who disappeared—’
‘The Archangel of Palermo. I know who he is,’ interrupted Conti, ‘are you sure?’
‘No doubt about it; perfect match. Here, have a look.’
Cesaria handed Conti the Forensics report.
Good God! thought Conti, feeling dizzy. He reached for his tie and loosened it.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Cesaria.
‘Do you believe in destiny?’
‘I suppose so. Why do you ask?’
‘Raffaele Bangarella was the most-wanted man in Palermo when I was there; Mafia, of course. He was an executioner working for the mob. Known as the Archangel – the angel of death. We were hunting him for years. No-one really knew what he looked like, but we had his prints from one of the murder weapons. He also had a signature …’
‘What kind of signature?’
‘He only killed on Tuesdays.’
‘How weird; why?’
‘It’s complicated. It has to do with an early Judaic system of seven archangels. Michael is Sunday; Gabriel, Monday; Raphael, Tuesday – see?’
‘Incredible! And that became his signature?’
‘Yes. And then we were getting close,’ continued Conti. ‘One of his associates was in jail and wanted to make a deal … he was going to hand us the Archangel in return for a shorter sentence. That’s when it happened …’ Conti paused and covered his face with his hands.
Cesaria walked over to him and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘What happened?’ she asked quietly.
‘My wife was killed,’ whispered Conti, ‘on Tuesday, the seventh of January 2014. I was the target, but the shooter missed and shot her instead.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Cesaria. ‘But …’ She looked at Conti, withdrew her hand and stepped back. ‘Surely you are not suggesting ...?’
‘It was widely rumoured that the assassin was Bangarella, the Archangel. After that, he just disappeared without a trace.’ Conti sat up and looked at Cesaria, his eyes misting over. ‘Until now!’
Part III
Medicus
“There are no incurable diseases –
Only the lack of will.
There are no worthless herbs –
Only the lack of knowledge.”
Avicenna
52
Sydney: 11 June
Feeling drained and exhausted, Alexandra caught the lift up to the top floor of her apartment block on the harbour. Another long day at the Gordon had taken its toll. Too tired to think about dinner, she stopped in front of the door, opened her handbag and began looking for the keys. A bath and cheese on toast, again, she thought, and opened the glass door to the penthouse. How pathetically boring.
As soon as she stepped into the lobby, she knew something was wrong: the lights were on, and she could smell garlic. There’s someone in the kitchen, she thought, cooking? Impossible! A shiver of fear washed over her as she remembered a dreadful incident in the very same apartment five years before. As she tiptoed down the hall towards the kitchen, she could hear music and someone humming along with it.
The kitchen door was ajar. Taking a deep breath, Alexandra peered inside – and gasped. Jack was standing in front of the stove with his back towards the door, a glass of wine in his left hand and a wooden spoon in his right.
‘Jack? I don’t believe it!’ Alexandra cried out, dropping her handbag and bursting into the kitchen.
Jack spun around, grinning. ‘Perfect timing,’ he said. ‘Almost ready. Spaghetti marinara; your favourite.’
Alexandra threw her arms around Jack and covered his face with kisses.
‘Wow!’ said Jack, trying not to spill the wine, ‘I must cook dinner more often.’
‘When did you get in?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’
‘Spur of the moment decision after we found Lorenza.’
‘How’s Tristan?’
‘Recovering.’
‘You could have called.’
‘I wanted to surprise you.’
‘You sure did that!’
Jack pointed with his spoon to a small table set for two by the window. ‘Food first, talk later,’ he said. ‘Light the candle, pour the wine, and leave the rest to me.’
‘Yes, chef. Apron suits you, by the way.’
‘This was seriously good,’ said Alexandra. She pushed her empty plate aside and reached for her glass. ‘It’s great to see you.’
‘I’m impressed. Two bloke-sized serves that would have stopped a starving truckie in his tracks, and half a loaf of bread. Either my cooking is irresistible, or you haven’t eaten in a week.’
Alexandra lifted her glass. ‘Both,’ she said.
‘Ah. And I rather naively thought it was just my cooking. Let’s go out onto the terrace; come.’
Alexandra followed Jack outside. The roof terrace overlooking the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House was huge and one of the main reasons Jack had bought the stunning apartment.
‘It feels good to be back home,’ he said, watching the evening traffic crawl across the bridge towards Sydney’s North Shore.
‘How long are you staying?’
‘A few days.’
‘Is that all? You flew halfway around the world just to be here for a few days?’
Jack shrugged. ‘You know me; rolling stone.’
Jack had offered his apartment to Alexandra as a place to stay when she first arrived in Sydney to take up her position at the Gordon after Professor K’s death. That was five years ago. What had begun as a temporary arrangement of convenience had turned into a permanent home for Alexandra, and somewhere for Jack to stay when he was in the country, which wasn’t often. When he wasn’t travelling the world promoting his books, Jack spent most of his time in Europe or New York with his publishers. But Sydney was still home.
‘Come on, Jack, I know you too well. Why did you come?’
‘The painting ...’
‘The mystery Venetian physician? What of it?’
‘I know who he is ...’
Alexandra turned to face Jack and looked at him, surprised. ‘You do?’
‘Yes. He’s Osman da Baggio, a fascinating character. But that’s not all.’ Jack paused, trying to create a little more anticipation. ‘I also know a lot about him, which you of all people will find most interesting.’
‘Is that why you came? Just to tell me that? Or did you miss me desperately and just couldn’t stay away any longer?’ teased Alexandra, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.
‘There’s more,’ continued Jack, ignoring the bait.
‘Oh?’
‘What you really want to know is if the book he’s holding in his hand still exists.’
‘Yes, of course. That’s what the Nazis were after, and Professor K was so keen to—’
Jack looked at Alexandra and smiled.
‘No way!’ she said. ‘It does exist! I know that triumphant grin. Do you know where it is?’
‘Not yet.’
‘What do you mean “not yet”?’
‘I haven’t found it, but I know where to look.’
‘You speak in riddles; tell me.’
Jack reached into his pocket, pulled out a bundle of papers and held it up.
‘What’s that?’
‘A copy.’
‘Of what?’
‘The da Baggio family chronicles that could help us find Osman’s book.’
‘His al-Qanun with annotations? That’s incredible! How on earth did you come across all this?’
Jack put down his empty glass. ‘I’ll get another bottle and tell you.’
It was well past midnight by the time Jack had told Alexandra how he’d discovered the da Baggio connection and how it all fitted together. It was all classic Jack and it was obvious that Alexandra thought so too.
‘That’s quite a story,’ said Alexandra, ‘but hardly surprising.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Somehow, you are always in the right place at the right time. Stuff just seems to fall into your lap. You sure have the knack. I could use someone like you in my research team.’
‘I guess I’m just a lucky bloke. Tristan calls it destiny.’
‘Oh, does he now?’
‘You know Tristan ...’
‘Have you studied the chronicles?’
Jack pointed to the bundle on the table in front of him. ‘There’s a little problem ...’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s all in Latin,’ he said. ‘Not exactly my forte. I’m a boy from the bush, remember?’
‘You need someone to translate it for you? Someone fluent in Latin? Someone discreet?’
Jack nodded. ‘Exactly.’
‘I may be able to help.’
‘Latin? Another one of your hidden talents?’
‘It’s not me, but I may know someone ...’
‘You do?’
‘Maybe.’ Alexandra held up her empty glass. ‘You are not the only one with a good story. I’ll tell you about mine, but only if you fill up my glass.’
‘Deal.’
Alexandra paused for a while, collecting her thoughts and then told Jack how she had been approached by Cardinal O’Brien with an extraordinary request. She told him about the pope’s mystery illness, the part she and the Gordon were playing in coming up with a diagnosis and, if possible, a cure – or at least a way to manage the devastating disease. She also told him about the confidential nature of ‘Project HH’ and what was riding on its outcome.
Jack listened without interrupting, growing more excited with each extraordinary revelation.
‘So, what do you think about all this?’ asked Alexandra, looking dreamily across the harbour and watching the last ferries pull into Circular Quay below.
‘Wow! I’m gobsmacked! I could write a whole book about this.’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Alexandra. ‘I’ve told you all this in strictest confidence – remember?’
‘Only kidding.’
‘I hope so.’
‘This is truly amazing.’
‘It is, in more ways than you can imagine.’
‘Oh?’
‘Remember how my Exceptional Responders and CRISPR projects stalled and almost came to a standstill because of bioethical issues? Especially trialling CRISPR on humans.’
‘I know. Very frustrating. Isis was very disappointed, especially after she sponsored your Chair at the Gordon.’
‘Tell me about it. How do you think I feel? But all that could change.’
‘How?’
‘Cardinal O’Brien offered to help.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘If we can help His Holiness and do something about this dreadful disease, the cardinal hinted that the bioethical issues could be resolved. He’s completely on side.’
‘That’s marvellous! I’m obviously not the only lucky one here.’
Alexandra turned towards Jack and pointed a finger at him. ‘And you could be playing an important part in all this ...’
‘Me? How?’
‘I believe Professor K was onto something important that could have a direct bearing on the pope’s illness. As you can imagine, I’ve been studying his papers in great depth and what do you think keeps coming up?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Al-Qanun. What the Nazis were after.’
‘And you think Osman da Baggio and his annotated copy of the book could help here?’
‘More than that. It could perhaps not only point us in the right direction; it could hold the key.’
‘You really believe that?’
‘I do.’
‘Then we better go and find it, don’t you think?’
‘Exactly. And we should start right now,’ said Alexandra.
‘What’s on your mind?’
‘Translating the family chronicles. Surely that’s the first step.’
‘Obviously.’
‘And I know just the man who will help us do that.’
‘Who?’
‘The cardinal.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Aha. After a little convincing from you.’
‘You want me to meet him?’ asked Jack, surprised.
‘Yes. You two will get on famously. As it turns out, I’m due to meet His Eminence for an urgent progress report. His Holiness had another bad episode ... the pressure’s on. You could come with me.’
‘When?’
Alexandra glanced at her watch and sighed; almost one am. ‘This morning at ten.’
‘You don’t waste time, do you?’
Alexandra put down her glass and gave Jack a coquettish look. ‘Speaking of wasting time ... are you going to take me to bed, or was the cooking your only show of prowess tonight?’
‘Is this a challenge?’ asked Jack, rolling his eyes.
‘Take it any way you like, buster.’
Jack stood up and turned towards the open bedroom door facing the terrace. ‘Race you,’ he said and began to unbutton his shirt.
‘You’re on!’
53
Cardinal O’Brien’s Residence, Sydney: 12 June
Alexandra had barely slept at all, but felt energised and refreshed. Jack’s surprise visit had come at just the right time. She couldn’t get Osman da Baggio out of her mind and kept going back to Professor K’s notes over and over. She could sense a breakthrough. Jack was still blissfully asleep when she left the apartment. He would join her later in the morning and come with her to meet the cardinal.
Instead of taking a taxi, Alexandra decided to walk to work. She found strolling through the Royal Botanic Gardens early in the morning was not only a great way to start the day; it helped her organise her thoughts and focus on the challenges ahead. Alexandra did some of her best thinking that way.
The pope’s latest decline had put her team under enormous pressure. However, it had also given her an important clue of how best to navigate the uncharted waters of this complex, groundbreaking project full of uncertainties. Like Professor K before her, Alexandra thrived on exploring the unknown. By the time she arrived at the Gordon at seven am sharp, she had a clear idea of how to approach the next stage.
Her assistants, Ayah Gamal and Vimal Singh, were already at their desks, waiting.
‘This is crunch time, guys,’ said Alexandra. ‘Let’s take stock. As you know, HH’s condition is rapidly deteriorating. Knowing what we do about the disease so far, this is hardly surprising. However, I have to brief His Eminence later this morning and give him an update of where we’re at, and where we’re heading. So, let’s see what we’ve got. Ayah, why don’t you begin?’
