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The Hidden Genes of Professor K; Chapter 3

Gabriel Farago — Fri, 24 Jun 2016 06:02:16 +0000

him sternly. You can afford it; trust me.

Remembering Rebecca’s words brought a smile to his face. Not only was she his publicist and literary agent, she had taken over managing his entire life. Then again, he had to admit he did need some managing, especially after the Wizards of Oz – a notorious outlaw bikie gang – had burnt down his house and he had lost all his personal belongings. Almost all, he thought, smiling. Because his house didn’t have a garage, his beloved MG was parked in the street at the time and had escaped the inferno. The material links with the past were all but gone and Rebecca had done a sterling job rebuilding his future. Jack didn’t mind. In fact, he was looking forward to seeing his new penthouse on the harbour, which Rebecca had bought – sight unseen – and had furnished for him, for the first time.

Jack had spent the past year in New York rewriting his book, The Disappearance of Anna Popov, in preparation for publication. After the tragic events that led to Anna Popov’s spectacular rescue in the Australian outback, Jack had discovered certain secrets of the past during his research which, had they been made public, could have destroyed the lives of people he held dear.

Torn between what was right and what would sell, Jack had made a courageous decision. The book would not be published. Anna’s grateful parents were relieved. However, Jack’s New York publishers were outraged and threatened to sue. Jack stood his ground. Then, unexpectedly, Countess Kuragin and Professor Popov – Anna’s parents – changed their minds. They encouraged Jack to publish his book after all, provided he was prepared to leave certain sensitive parts out of it to protect the privacy of those most exposed. Jack accepted the compromise and threw himself into the task of rewriting the book. He had spent the past year in New York under the watchful eye of Rebecca, desperately trying to repair the damage to his reputation and his relationship with the hostile publishers.

Fortunately, success heals all. The much-awaited book was an overnight sensation and all was forgiven. Somehow, even the delay had worked in his favour. His reputation intact, Jack was once again the celebrated author and darling of the New York literary set.

With the exhausting book launch behind him, Jack had pleaded for a little time off and was on his way back to Australia. You want to go for a month? Are you out of your mind? he heard Rebecca complain after he had finished all the interviews. Two weeks, that’s it! I need you here! They had settled for three and Jack was enjoying the freedom of being able to do his own thing for once. No more book signings, no more TV shows, no dressing up, he thought, no shaving, no Rebecca! Bliss!

Jack had decided to interrupt his trip back home to Australia to visit Anna and the countess. He wanted to deliver signed copies of his book to them personally; they deserved that courtesy. After all, it was theirstory. And besides, Jack was curious to see how Tristan was growing up. He hadn’t seen any of them for almost a year. Emails and skyping just wasn’t the same.

It was almost dark by the time the black hire car pulled up in front of the chateau. The countess had reopened her chateau as an exclusive boutique hotel, which had always been immensely popular with the super-rich looking for privacy and style and an opportunity to rub shoulders with a blue-blooded Russian countess.

As he got out of the car, Jack remembered the first time he and Rebecca had visited the Kuragin Chateau. The intimidating, liveried doorman had taken the two first-timers under his wing and inducted them into chateau etiquette. That was two years ago, Jack reminded himself. It had been the beginning of an extraordinary adventure leading to the sensational rescue of the countess’ daughter, Anna. The recent publication of his book, which finally told the curious public what really happened after Anna disappeared from Alice Springs all those years ago, was the culmination of a long, exhausting journey.

The countess heard the car pull up and rushed outside. ‘Here you are at last!’ she said excitedly, kissing Jack on both cheeks, ‘The famous author returns. Let me have a look at you. A little thinner than I remember,’ she teased, linking arms with Jack. ‘We’ll do something about that! Dinner’s waiting – come.’

‘Why is it women always want to fatten me up?’ remarked Jack.

‘Because we are fond of you.’

‘How’s Anna, and Tristan?’ asked Jack, following the countess into the foyer.

‘Anna is in Paris; specialists …’ replied the countess with a hint of sadness in her voice. ‘She’s slowly improving, but Tristan hasn’t stopped talking about you all week. And there’s someone else here who wants to meet you …’

‘Oh? Who?’

‘You’ll see.’

around him and hugged him tightly. ‘I knew you would come,’ he whispered. ‘You’ve stayed away far too long.’

‘You’re right,’ said Jack, gently stroking the boy’s head. ‘I had to finish the book. You know that.’ Tristan nodded. ‘Here, I have something for you.’ Jack opened his duffel bag and pulled out two copies of his book. ‘Fresh off the press and hand delivered. The first two copies in France, I believe. The French translation will be released next month.’ With that, Jack took a bow and presented one copy to the countess, and the other to Tristan. Anna’s striking painting, which had become the cover of the book, brought tears to the countess’ eyes.

‘That’s quite a welcome,’ said a voice from the other end of the foyer. Jack turned around and looked at the young woman slowly walking towards him out of the shadows. Her luxurious red hair shone like a beacon as she stepped into the circle of light.

‘I’m not always this popular,’ replied Jack, watching the woman with interest.

‘That’s not what I heard.’

‘Oh?’

‘Jack, I want you to meet my niece,’ said the countess, turning to the young woman, ‘Dr Alexandra Delacroix.’

‘So, you are coming to Sydney,’ said Jack, leaning back in the beautiful eighteenth-century dining chair. Jack had a good eye for antiques and lamented the loss of his own collection in the fire with a pang of regret. ‘A bit unexpected?’

‘Yes, Professor Kozakievicz – Professor K, as we used to call him – died suddenly and I’m to replace him,’ she replied, a melancholy look clouding her eyes. ‘He was a wonderful colleague and a true friend.’

She’s so young, thought Jack, enjoying the closeness of the fascinating young scientist. ‘And what exactly is it that you do?’ he asked.

‘I’m exploring the mysteries of the human genome.’

‘Wow! Is that what Professor K was working on?’

‘Sort of … He was on the cusp of an important discovery relating to cancer when he died.’

‘What kind of discovery?’

‘The professor’s last words to me were that he had actually discovered a breakthrough in cancer diagnosis and treatment.’

‘But that’s extraordinary!’ exclaimed Jack. ‘And you are to carry on his work?’

‘Yes.’

‘You must be very good.’

Dr Delacroix didn’t reply. Instead, she was watching this intriguing man she had heard so much about with interest. He has green eyes, she thought. How unusual. Jack’s casual, self-effacing manner had put her instantly at ease and she enjoyed talking to him. In her line of work, meeting attractive men was rather difficult.

‘Have you got somewhere to stay?’ asked Jack, lowering his voice.

‘Not yet.’

‘Well then, why don’t you help me explore my new penthouse, which incidentally, I’ve never seen My literary agent – minder would be more accurate, I suppose – assures me it’s very spacious. I’m returning to New York in three weeks, but you can stay as long as you like.’

Dr Delacroix burst out laughing. ‘You’re joking, surely.’

‘No, I’m perfectly serious. I always wanted a research scientist as a flatmate.’

‘Do you always invite women you’ve just met to share your apartment?’

‘Only attractive ones,’ bantered Jack.

‘They warned me about you!’

‘What, the incorrigible rascal bit? Surely, as a true scientist you wouldn’t believe such scurrilous rumours?’

‘Certainly not!’

‘It’s all settled then.’

‘Let me think about it.’

‘All right. Why don’t we coordinate our flights Down Under and you can think about it along the way. How about that?’

Dr Delacroix held out her hand. ‘Okay,’ she said, a sparkle in her eye.

‘Deal,’ said Jack and shook her hand.

[SA1]Jack calls Alexandra fascinating a few lines above. Perhaps use ‘intriguing’ to avoid repetition?

[GF2]Good suggestion; done

[SA3]Suggestion, not a direct question.

[GF4]Agreed; done.

The post The Hidden Genes of Professor K; Chapter 3 appeared first on Author Gabriel Farago | Official Website.

The Hidden Genes of Professor K; Chapter 2

Gabriel Farago — Fri, 17 Jun 2016 05:36:15 +0000

body and taken it to the morgue in the hospital next door. Professor K’s personal physician had been notified and was on his way to examine the body and issue a death certificate.

Pacing nervously up and down in his lab, Cavendish was considering what to do. Making a copy and putting the notebook back in the safe wasn’t an option. If the material was as valuable as he suspected, it was critical it disappear without a trace. The material could then safely resurface elsewhere, disguised as a new ‘discovery’ without arousing suspicion or being linked to Professor K’s work in any way.

Macbeth’s last words had triggered alarm bells that refused to stop ringing. Because Cavendish had always dealt with faceless intermediaries, he had no idea who he was doing business with. Neither Macbeth, nor Blackburn Pharmaceuticals had ever been mentioned. However, because the stakes were so high, and the money involved outrageous, he realised that serious pharmaceutical interests had to be present. Industrial espionage in scientific circles was not uncommon. He also realised he was playing a dangerous game that could not only cost him his career, but also send him to jail. In a strange way, however, he found the danger exciting, and the secrecy and cloak and dagger meetings in gay clubs exhilarating and empowering. And on top of all that, was the money …

The first approach had seemed harmless enough. Cavendish had met a young American in one of the gay bars he frequented. They had a brief affair, and his new lover introduced him to a friend – a South African – who appeared to know a lot about Professor K’s work. All of this happened shortly after an article by Professor K describing his groundbreaking work was published in Nature two years earlier. After that, one thing led to another. Lavish dinners in gay clubs and an all-expenses paid holiday for himself and his lover in an exclusive Fijian resort prepared the way.

At first, Cavendish supplied only little snippets of information about Professor K’s research. The payments in return – always in cash – were outlandish and quickly had a significant impact on his lifestyle. After a while, Cavendish was put on a monthly ‘retainer’, which was more than double his salary at the institute.

After that, there was no turning back. Any significant piece of information attracted a six-figure ‘bonus’. Scientists aren’t well paid. The new car, a Bondi beach apartment, expensive clothes and holidays were all very easy to get used to. Cavendish’s status and reputation in the gay community soared. Corruption had become a way of life.

Dr Delacroix’s unexpected appointment came as a major blow. Professor’ K’s illness was no secret and his death not unexpected. However, Cavendish had been certain he would be the one to succeed him. The French interloper had changed all that. His cash flow and lavish lifestyle were now both under threat. Cavendish realised there was one last opportunity to make some serious money: he had to secure Professor K’s notes and demand a big payment. He also knew that if he wanted to succeed in this, he had to act swiftly before things returned to normal. Confusion was always a good cover.

As a senior staff member, Cavendish had ready access to all the labs and offices in the institute. He used to visit Professor K’s lab frequently, as they had worked together on many projects over the years and shared information. His presence in Professor K’s lab, even on this tragic day, would therefore appear perfectly normal.

Carrying his notepad and a computer printout, Cavendish walked down the deserted corridor leading to Professor K’s lab and stepped inside. A quick look around told him that the professor’s notebook wasn’t in its usual place on the workbench. It seemed unlikely he would have taken it home – which he used to do occasionally – because he had barely left his lab during the past week. It has to be in the safe, thought Cavendish, running his fingers nervously through his hair, unless someone has already secured it! He had watched the professor open his safe on many occasions and made a mental note of the combination. From time to time, the professor would change the combination according to institute policy. Cavendish had even helped him do it. They had often laughed about this. ‘Who on earth could possibly be interested in a few notes?’ the professor used to joke. ‘I can hardly understand them myself.’

‘Good morning, Doctor Cavendish,’ said the late professor’s assistant, a young scientist named Akhil from Sri Lanka. ‘Shall I come back later?’

‘Give me a couple of minutes, I won’t be long,’ replied Cavendish, trying to appear calm. Smiling, Akhil withdrew. Taking a deep breath, Cavendish reached into the safe and pulled out Professor K’s familiar notebook. Relieved, he slipped it into the pocket of his gown, closed the safe, took off the gloves and quickly left the lab. The fact he had just betrayed a dead colleague and stolen from his employer didn’t cross his mind.

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The Hidden Genes of Professor K; Chapter 1

Gabriel Farago — Fri, 10 Jun 2016 12:22:55 +0000

The dilapidated, discarded icebreaker had become a state-of-the-art research vessel, its bulky exterior a clever disguise for the sophistication within. Equipped with cutting-edge communications technology rivalling that of the US navy, and laboratories that would have been the envy of many a university or teaching hospital, it ploughed the high seas as the floating boardroom and proud flagship of Blackburn Pharmaceuticals.

Alistair Macbeth, founder, managing director and major shareholder of the international pharmaceutical giant, was an enigma. Because he gave no interviews, didn’t mix with his peers, had no fixed address and reported to no one, the press didn’t know what to make of him. Shunning the limelight that went with his self-made billionaire status, he lived like a recluse on Calypso and ruled his massive pharmaceutical empire from his luxurious stateroom on board the vessel. Because so little was known about him personally – apart from the fact he was a paraplegic – speculation and rumour had filled the frustrating gaps left by missing facts. The press didn’t mind; speculation and rumour were the grist of the insatiable tabloid mill, and the elusive Alistair Macbeth was a steady source of both. Annoyingly, the only thing missing was scandal.

His staggering wealth, power, influence and rugged good looks, periodically tempted hungry newshounds to pry into his affairs – usually with little success. Some had even tried to uncover his murky past, only to find smoke and mirrors thwarting their efforts at every turn. Macbeth fiercely guarded his privacy and knew how to protect it. If a curious journalist came too close to something he wasn’t supposed to know, or in some way stepped over the line, Macbeth made sure he never did it again. This well-known cat and mouse game had gone on for years.

Macbeth surrounded himself with only the best. With several languages and a Harvard MBA on her impressive CV, Carlotta O’Brien was very good at what she did. As Macbeth’s personal assistant, she had to be. Macbeth’s demands and expectations were legendary. Confined to a wheelchair, he had become a man who rarely slept and never rested. His useless body had turned him into a cerebral creature with an extraordinary mind and a voracious appetite for work.

Carlotta knocked softly, and entered the stateroom. Macbeth was sitting in his wheelchair by the desk as usual. ‘Adrian Cavendish for you,’ she said, handing the satellite phone, which was encrypted with an untraceable number, to her boss. Macbeth waited until Carlotta had left the room before taking the call.

A hint of a smile creased Macbeth’s face; so far, everything was going according to plan. ‘When are you taking over?’ he asked.

‘There’s a problem …’

‘Oh?’

‘I will not be replacing him—’

‘What?’ interrupted Macbeth impatiently, ‘Why not?’

‘Apparently, he appointed someone else …’

‘You can’t be serious! Who?’

‘A French scientist. A former colleague of his. She’s a leading expert in genomics. The CEO just told me.’

‘Do you know who she is?’

‘Yes. Dr Alexandra Delacroix.’

‘But you assured me—’

‘I’m just as disappointed as you are,’ Cavendish cut in curtly.

That’s an understatement, thought Macbeth, considering his options. Losing Cavendish at such a critical phase in this groundbreaking research project was a major blow. A breakthrough in cancer treatment could mean billions to Blackburn Pharmaceuticals. However, if it fell into the wrong hands – competitors, for example – it could cost the company a fortune. Blackburn Pharmaceuticals was the sole producer of a recently discovered drug that significantly slowed down the advance of the dreadful disease. It had taken years and many millions to develop, and was without doubt the company’s top earner. If there were a breakthrough in prevention or reversal, the drug could become obsolete overnight. Macbeth had made his fortune by staying ahead of his competitors – at any cost – and silencing his critics. ‘Do you have any idea how far he got?’ he asked.

‘Very close, that’s all I know. He barely left his lab during the past few days. He worked like a madman. Alone, as usual.’

‘He must have recorded his findings, surely.’

‘He always kept meticulous records of everything he did.’

‘Do you know where they are?’

‘Usually, he kept his notes in a safe in the lab.’

‘Well?’

‘It’s risky …’

‘I pay very well; you know that!’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘You’ll have to do better do that, Adrian, before it’s too late,’ said Macbeth, steel in his voice, ‘for all of us,’ he added quietly, and hung up.

The veiled threat wasn’t lost on Cavendish. Macbeth was a master when it came to formulating an effective threat. He was also a master when the time came to carry it out. With so much at stake, there was no room for error.

Moments after Macbeth had hung up, Carlotta re-entered the room. ‘I want you to find out everything you can about a Dr Alexandra Delacroix,’ said Macbeth, holding up the satellite phone.

Nodding, Carlotta walked over to the wheelchair, took the phone from her boss’ hand and left the room without saying a word.

The post The Hidden Genes of Professor K; Chapter 1 appeared first on Author Gabriel Farago | Official Website.

Olympic Stadium, Moscow; September 2011

Gabriel Farago — Fri, 03 Jun 2016 12:27:19 +0000

flanked by crying angels, sad-looking willow trees, live crows in cages and a large, pale moon, suspended from a mobile crane.Set against a backdrop depicting frightening ghouls and hooded monks, clever props and light effects completed the illusion. In front of the stage, a hundred thousand eager fans waited excitedly to hear the band. They began to chant ‘Isis! Isis! Isis!’ as their idols walked on stage. Whipping up the crowd, the drummer began the introduction to their signature number – ‘It’s Time; come with us’ – before the throbbing bass joined in and the guitars screamed into life. The Russian leg of Isis and The Time Machine’s Echoes from the Grave World Tour had begun.

Transformed into an Egyptian goddess in her white silk robe and golden crown, Isis lay motionless in a glass coffin six feet below the stage. The hydraulics engineer adjusted the switches and waited for the signal from the stage manager. As the band was about to finish ‘It’s Time’, the stage manager gave the nod. Slowly, the coffin ascended.

On the stage above, a large tombstone made of plywood and papier-mâché also began to rise, while green, smoke-like fog oozed out of the other tombs and covered the stage. As the glass coffin emerged from the open grave, the crowd became hysterical.

Isis now stood up in the open coffin, took off her serpent crown and tossed it towards the jubilant crowd. Then she let the white robe slip from her shoulders, exposing her stunning, tattooed body. Wearing only a tiny black bikini studded with diamonds, her trademark black boots and fish-net stockings, Isis somersaulted out of the coffin – her acrobatic feats on stage were legendary – and began to sing.

Lola Rodriguez, Isis’ fiery personal assistant, took the phone call and paled. Collecting her thoughts, she slipped the phone back into her pocket and began to look for the production manager. ‘Where’s Ed?’ she asked, hurrying to the improvised change rooms behind the stage. The sound technician sitting in his booth pointed to some scaffolding supporting the five-storey high canvas backdrop. Ed Walker, the production manager, was keeping an eye on the stage through a small window cut into the canvas.

‘Can I have a word?’ shouted Lola, trying to make herself heard. The music was deafening.

‘Not now, Lola, she’s about to come off for a costume change,’ replied the production manager, looking stressed.

‘It’s urgent.’

‘Okay. What’s up?’ asked Ed. When Lola told him about the phone call, he was visibly shocked. ‘Jesus, Lola, what are you going to do?’

‘I have to tell her right now, what else?’

‘Can’t you wait until after the show?’

‘Are you kidding? She’ll eat me alive if she finds out I’ve held this back.’

‘You’re right. Good luck! Here she comes.’

Blowing kisses to her adoring fans, Isis strutted off the stage, her body covered in tiny beads of perspiration glistening like diamonds in the spotlight. Isis caught her breath, took a glass of iced tea from the waiting attendant and headed straight for her change room. The next five minutes were vital. During this short time, she would undergo a breathtaking transformation. Similar to a pit stop in a Formula One race, the costume team waiting for her knew exactly what had to be done. Every second counted.

Isis began her breathing exercises, swept into the tiny room and, standing in front of a large mirror, let her team go to work. Any interruption or distraction of any kind during this critical procedure was strictly forbidden.

Lola pushed past the frowning make-up artist and stood next to Isis. Isis watched her in the mirror and shot her a disapproving look that would have sent a grown tiger packing. ‘I must speak to you privately …’ began Lola haltingly, ‘it’s urgent.’

‘What; now? Are you out of your mind?’ hissed Isis. Lola insisted. Isis realised at once something was wrong. ‘Everybody out,’ she commanded curtly. ‘Put my entry back three minutes and close the door.’ Everybody stopped working and left the room. ‘This better be good,’ said Isis, carefully watching her personal assistant.

During the next sixty seconds, Lola recounted her earlier telephone conversation with the London police. Isis sat down on the make-up stool, her face ashen, and for a while didn’t say anything. Her mind racing, she contemplated the consequences of what she’d just heard.

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Lola, conscious of precious seconds ticking by.

‘I’ll go back on and complete the show. As soon as it’s over, will fly to London. Get my plane ready—’

‘What about Tokyo?’ interjected Lola, ‘The next concert is in three days.’

‘Everything goes ahead as planned. I’ll be there in time. Does anyone else know about this?’

‘Only Ed.’

‘Good. Now, send them all back in, and not a word of this to anyone; understood?’ Lola nodded. Isis leant across to Lola and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. ‘Thank you, Lola. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

Her cheeks glowing, Lola hurried out of the room. She lived for moments like this.

Pegasus – Isis’ private jet – began its descent in preparation for landing. Lola walked to the back of the plane to wake her mistress. ‘We’re almost there,’ she whispered, gently touching Isis on the shoulder. Isis nodded, but didn’t open her eyes. ‘Your car will meet us on the tarmac. We should get to the hospital within the hour, London traffic permitting.’

Slumped into the back seat of her black Bentley, Isis was trying to prepare herself for what she sensed would be a life-changing ordeal. She hated hospitals with a passion, but worst of all was not knowing what had happened. They had been told so little. For someone used to being in control, uncertainty was torture. All she knew was that her parents, Lord and Lady Elms, had been attacked in their London home. Her father was dead and her mother on life support, not expected to live.

Two policemen from the Metropolitan Police met them at the designated side entrance to the hospital’s casualty section and ushered them discreetly inside. Standing in the lift behind Boris, her Ukrainian wrestling-champion turned bodyguard who followed her everywhere like a shadow, Isis reached for Lola’s hand and squeezed it. Isis had always found looking at the huge man’s massive frame and bulging neck muscles reassuring, but not so this time. Boris could protect her from many things, but not from what she was about to encounter.

As she followed the policemen down a dimly lit corridor smelling of cleaning fluids and disinfectant, Isis tried in vain to calm herself. She could confidently go on stage and face a hundred thousand adoring fans, yet with each step her anxiety grew, fear clawing at her throat.

The softly spoken surgeon waiting at the end of the corridor explained with clinical efficiency that Lady Elms was conscious, but could slip away at any moment. ‘She’s waiting for you,’ he said. ‘That is what’s been keeping her alive. I don’t think she’ll be able to speak anymore, but she wants to see you …’ Opening the door he added, ‘I must warn you, her injuries are horrific.’

Isis nodded and went into the room alone.

At first, Isis thought there had been a terrible mistake. The person lying on the bed in no way resembled her mother. The face – mutilated beyond recognition – looked as if it had been attacked with a meat cleaver. Head turned towards the door, the person was staring at her with unseeing eyes. Then something happened: sensing her son’s presence, Lady Elms’ dying brain produced a final moment of clarity. Her mouth opened and the lips began to move, but there was no sound. However, coming closer, Isis thought she could hear something.

‘Georgie?’ whispered the mangled piece of flesh on the pillow. The face may have been unrecognisable, but there was no mistaking the voice.

‘Mama!’ cried Isis, falling to her knees next to the bed.

‘I knew you would come. Listen …’ said Lady Elms, her voice barely audible. Exhausted by the effort, she kept staring at Isis. Her lips kept moving, unable to form words.

‘Hush … You must rest,’ cried Isis, reaching for her mother’s limp hand.

The touch of her son’s hand seemed to revive Lady Elms. ‘Great danger … for you,’ she warned. With her eyesight gone and blood filling her lungs, Lady Elms began to choke. ‘My …’ she whispered, her voice barely audible, ‘our secret place … hide and seek – remember?’

‘I do. But what—’

‘Stars, hide your fires …’ With her last breath fading, the unfinished sentence turned into a final farewell from a loving mother leaving an inconsolable son to mourn her tragic departure.

The surgeon’s trained ear heard it first: the alarm on the life support system had been activated. He burst into the room, followed by Boris and Lola. The furiously flashing lights on the monitors told him everything he needed to know: his patient was dead. Blood was still oozing out of Lady Elms’ open mouth. Kneeling on the floor next to the bed, her cheeks covered in blood, Isis was sobbing uncontrollably. Sadly shaking his head, the surgeon walked over to the machine and turned it off.

[SA1]Do you think she needs to mention Boris, as he accompanies them as well?

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The Hidden Genes of Professor K – Gordon Institute, Sydney; September 2011

Gabriel Farago — Fri, 27 May 2016 11:05:51 +0000

Gordon Institute, Sydney; September 2011

Professor Kasper Kozakievicz – Professor K to colleagues because his name was almost impossible to pronounce – looked at the computer printout on his desk and smiled; the results were exactly as he had expected. A tremendous feeling of elation quickened his heartbeat, making his emaciated body tremble with excitement. Reaching for his chair to steady himself, he suddenly felt dizzy and weak. Stars began to dance in front of his eyes just before a bundle of sharp darts embedded in his brain. Moments later, his knees gave way and he collapsed to the floor.

Professor K had known for months he was dying. The cancer – a particularly aggressive one – had spread rapidly with relentless predictability. To an eminent research scientist, the prognosis was obvious: death was only a matter of time. Rather than subjecting himself to unpleasant and debilitating treatment to buy a few more feeble days, he had thrown himself deeper into his research, much to the dismay of his exasperated family, friends and colleagues. Only those who knew him well understood what he was doing, and why.

Ironically, the day he diagnosed his own cancer was the very day an unexpected breakthrough occurred in his research. From that day on, he knew he was getting close; very close. All he needed was a little more time – but time was running out.

Professor K opened his eyes. Darkness. He tried to move his fingers, but they wouldn’t obey. Then slowly, a wave of excruciating pain reached his tortured brain as he regained consciousness and the darkness receded. Professor K knew exactly what was happening: death was standing at the door! Mustering the last of his remaining strength, he got unsteadily to his feet and fell into his chair. My notes, he thought, where are my notes? Trying not to panic, he searched his cluttered desktop for his research notes with shaking hands. Finding the little notebook under a pile of papers, he relaxed as a hint of a smile creased his wan face. Then, taking a deep breath, he reached for his pen and began to write like a man possessed.

On the other side of the globe, Dr Alexandra Delacroix was fast asleep in her Marseilles apartment, located next to the Université De La Méditerranée School of Medicine where she worked, when her mobile rang. She wasn’t used to getting phone calls in the middle of the night, and sensed it must be something important. Instantly awake, she reached for the phone on her bedside table, peered at the incoming number and pressed answer. ‘Do you know what time it is, Kasper?’ she said sleepily.

‘I do, Lexi,’ replied the professor calmly. ‘Please listen carefully, there isn’t much time. I’m talking to you as a man who is about to die, but more importantly, I’m talking to you as a fellow scientist.’

Silence. Dr Delacroix had known about her mentor’s illness for some time, but was unaware how far it had progressed. ‘How bad is it?’ she asked.

‘I won’t see tomorrow …’

‘Go on.’

‘I would like you to be my successor, so to speak.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I think I’ve found a breakthrough in cancer diagnosis and treatment.’

Again, silence. Then, ‘Across the board?’

‘Quite possibly. It’s groundbreaking.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Absolutely!’

‘My God, Kasper, do you realise what you are saying?’

‘I do. There’s still a long way to go with all the trials and such, but the proof is right here in front of me. But only you will understand my crazy notes and abbreviations, and how it all works.’

‘What about Cavendish; isn’t he next in line?’

‘Cavendish is a plodder. Too much ambition, not enough talent. He’s not in your league. This is far too important. I want you—’

‘Because we’ve worked together before, you mean?’ interrupted Dr Delacroix.

‘Yes, and because of who you are,’ said the professor, sounding weak.

‘Speak up, Kasper, I can barely hear you,’ said Dr Delacroix, raising her voice. For a while, all she could hear was heavy breathing on the other end of the line.

‘I can’t see any more,’ said the professor, gasping for breath.

‘Stay with me, Kasper!’ shrieked Dr Delacroix. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘It’s all in my notes and the specimens. I’ve put everything into the safe here in the lab. This is the combination. Write it down: 12 … 48 … 62. Got that?’

‘12, 48, 62,’ repeated Dr Delacroix.

‘Good,’ sighed the professor, suddenly calmer. ‘Will you be my intellectual heir, so to speak?’

‘Yes.’

‘Carry the torch; promise?’ whispered the professor.

‘I promise.’

‘As my friend?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you must hurry! A position is waiting for you here at the Gordon. It’s all arranged.’

‘And Cavendish?’ Dr Delacroix asked again.

‘Don’t worry about him!’

Her mind racing, Dr Delacroix considered the implications. She would have to give up her position at the Institute for Structural Biology and Microbiology at the University and move to Sydney. The professor’s offer was the opportunity of a lifetime. Cavendish could be a problem, but there was really nothing to consider. ‘Can’t you get some help?’ she asked, concerned about her dying friend.

‘It’s Sunday morning; there’s no one here. And besides,’ whispered the professor, ‘it’s too late for that now. At least it hasn’t been in vain …’

‘What did you say?’ shouted Dr Delacroix, her eyes misting over. There was no reply; all she could hear was silence.

The post The Hidden Genes of Professor K – Gordon Institute, Sydney; September 2011 appeared first on Author Gabriel Farago | Official Website.

The Hidden Genes of Professor K; Author’s Note

Gabriel Farago — Fri, 13 May 2016 08:19:03 +0000

I first came across the Edwin Smith Papyrus some twenty years ago. I was studying Egyptology at the time, learning to read the hieroglyphs at night, because during the day I was a practising barrister and spent most of my days in court. Archaeology was my passion and has remained so to this very day.

Our professor used this unique text as an illustration of the extraordinary achievements of the Ancient Egyptians. The 4.6 metre long papyrus is written right to left in hieratic, a cursive form of hieroglyphs. Experts believe it was composed in about 1500 BC.

However, what is particularly fascinating about the papyrus is that it is now believed to be a copy of a much older text dating back to the Old Kingdom. And it doesn’t stop there. Some scholars maintain that the true author of the text was none other than Imhotep, a remarkable renaissance man of the Old Kingdom who lived in around 2600 BC, and rose to high office under the pharaoh Djoser. Imhotep was a gifted architect, engineer, high priest and physician who, two thousand years after his death, was deified and became the god of medicine and healing. Centuries later, the ancient Greeks associated him with Asklepios, the god of medicine.

What makes this text so unique is the fact it describes forty-eight case histories based on rational anatomical, physiological and pathological observations, without looking at them through the eyes of magic, which was the accepted way to deal with disease, injury and trauma at the time.

Fascinated by the text, I immersed myself in the papyrus, which was translated by Breasted, an eminent Egyptologist, in 1930. That was how I came across case 46.

Case 46 deals with ‘bulging tumours of the breast … large, spreading and hard …’ A more accurate description of breast cancer is difficult to imagine. For the first time in human history, the Emperor of Darkness – cancer – made its appearance in literature.

Every case study in the papyrus is followed by a discussion of its treatment except in case 46 for which, according to Imhotep, there was none.

Cancer is an ancient disease. Progress in medical research, especially in recent years, has been breathtaking. We have come a long way, yet have we come any closer to conquering this powerful, malevolent disease, or do we have to agree with Imhotep’s prognosis 4500 years ago – that in many cases, there is no cure?

This question has been asked countless times through the ages and has plagued the medical profession for centuries. The search for an answer became the inspiration for this book.

Gabriel Farago

Leura, Blue Mountains, Australia

The post The Hidden Genes of Professor K; Author’s Note appeared first on Author Gabriel Farago | Official Website.

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The Hidden Genes of Professor K; Chapter 3

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The Hidden Genes of Professor K; Chapter 2

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The Hidden Genes of Professor K; Chapter 1

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Olympic Stadium, Moscow; September 2011

Olympic Stadium, Moscow; September 2011

The Hidden Genes of Professor K – Gordon Institute, Sydney; September 2011

Gordon Institute, Sydney; September 2011

The Hidden Genes of Professor K; Author’s Note

Author’s Note

Edwin Smith, a colourful character, is remembered for something he did one hot afternoon in a bazaar in Luxor, Egypt in 1862. He bought a papyrus that turned out to be one of the oldest medical texts in the world.