The Curious Case of the Missing Head Read online

  THE CURIOUS CASE of

  the MISSING HEAD

  Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 5

  Gabriel Farago

  This book is brought to you by Bear & King Publishing.

  Publishing & Marketing Consultant: Lama Jabr

  Website: https://xanapublishingandmarketing.com

  Sydney, Australia

  First published 2019 © Gabriel Farago

  The right of Gabriel Farago to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 (for example, fair dealing for the purposes of study, research, criticism or review) no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Signup for the author’s New Releases mailing list and get a free copy of The Forgotten Painting* novella and find out where it all began ... Click Here to Download

  * I’m delighted to tell you that The Forgotten Painting has received two major literary awards in the US. It was awarded the Gold Medal by Readers’ Favorite in the Short Stories and Novellas category and was named the ‘Outstanding Novella’ of 2018 by the IAN Book of the Year Awards.

  ‘Life would be tragic if it weren’t funny.’

  Stephen Hawking

  Introduction

  Westminster Abbey. Iconic final resting place of kings and queens, composers, statesmen, explorers and scientists, where every stone has a story to tell about the journey of man. Not only is it a spectacular reminder of extraordinary people and great achievements, but at the same time, every stone whispers of mortality and the certainty of death. As a repository of history, Westminster Abbey is unparalleled.

  I will never forget 15 June 2018. On that day, one of the greatest minds of our time, Stephen Hawking – who died in March that year after decades suffering from motor neurone disease – had his ashes interred close to the graves of Newton and Darwin in the Scientists’ Corner of the Abbey.

  And how appropriate it was, I thought. Hawking was born exactly three hundred years after Newton. It was Newton who formulated the laws of motion and universal gravitation, and it was Hawking’s genius that took astrophysics to new heights. The inscription on his memorial stone is a translation of the Latin text on Newton’s gravestone: ‘Here lies what was mortal of Stephen Hawking 1942–2018’. In addition, the stone is inscribed with one of Hawking’s most famous equations:

  hc3

  T= ____________

  8 PiGMk

  But that wasn’t all. The Greek composer Vangelis set Hawking’s inspirational message to the world, to music, which according to Hawking’s daughter was beamed into space that day from a European Space Agency satellite dish, aimed at the nearest black hole, 1A 0620-00.

  I have followed Hawking and his inspired, groundbreaking ideas for over thirty years. A keen interest in mathematics and physics inspired me to read all his books, especially A Brief History of Time (1988 Bantam London), which explains complex, revolutionary ideas in ways a layman like me can relate to and understand.

  The service was attended by luminaries from around the world. Martin Rees, the Astronomer Royal, made a moving speech; actor Benedict Cumberbatch, who played Hawking in a BBC drama, delivered a reading; and Nobel laureate Kip Thorne paid tribute to his remarkable colleague and friend.

  As the sound of Richard Wagner’s stirring ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ rose, heralding the end of the service, and the bells of the Abbey began to toll, conjuring up images of man’s futile quest for immortality, my mind began to wander ...

  How tragic, I thought, that such a gifted mind capable of solving some of the greatest and most challenging mysteries of the cosmos, was cut down by a terrible disease in the middle, if not at the very beginning, of what he might have been capable of, thereby preventing him from reaching his full potential, and depriving mankind of precious knowledge.

  However, was this any more regrettable than Beethoven going deaf and unable to hear some of his greatest works, or Mozart dying as a young man of only thirty-five? One can only speculate what might have been possible if these gifted minds could have stayed around for longer, allowing their creative genius to blossom and reach new heights.

  And then something occurred to me. What if we could somehow change all that and make it possible? Turn a vision into reality today, right now? Recent groundbreaking advances in medical research and technology – especially in surgery and surgical techniques and procedures – have led to some breathtaking discoveries and results, placing some concepts that only a few short years ago would have been considered science fiction, into the realm of realistic possibilities. What if a gifted mind like that of Stephen Hawking’s could somehow be liberated from a terribly disabled body, and manage to live on for some more time, allowing it to continue its groundbreaking work and reach for the stars, literally? What if ...?

  That was the thought I took away with me from this moving service. It was a thought inspired by optimism and hope for the future that stayed with me and became the inspiration for this book.

  Gabriel Farago

  Leura, Blue Mountains, Australia

  November 2019

  Contents

  Introduction

  Part I. Operation Libertad

  Part II. Babu

  Part III. The Theory of Everything

  Afterword

  A Parting Note from the Author

  More Books by the Author

  New Release Bonuses

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  Connect with the Author

  Part I

  Operation Libertad

  Prologue

  Arizona State Prison Complex, Florence, Arizona:

  Friday 13 July 2018, 9:00 am

  Alonso Cordoba was preparing himself to die. The son of Hernando Cordoba – the notorious Colombian drug lord and head of the Huitzilopochtli, or H Cartel as it was generally known – he was by far the most famous prisoner in Arizona State Prison Complex, Florence.

  Convicted of the murder of two undercover police officers while resisting arrest in Tombstone during a major drug deal, he had been languishing on death row for more than two years. After his conviction, a lengthy appeals process had slowly dragged itself through the court system until, with the final appeal dismissed and nowhere else to go, an execution date was set. Not even the ingenuity of the expensive New York legal team engaged by his father to delay the execution could stop the relentless progress of the death penalty juggernaut hurtling towards him.

  Arizona was determined to execute the drug baron responsible for importing tonnes of cocaine from Colombia via the ‘Aztec Highway’ through Mexico into the United States, and killing two of their finest law enforcement officers in the process. Death by lethal injection seemed only fair, and a proper punishment for such heinous crimes. And besides, the governor was under enormous pressure from Washington to expedite the execution as a clear signal that America meant business and was determined to do something about the huge drug problem plaguing the country. If nothing was done, voter backlash was predicted to be swift and brutal. The slippery bribery tentacles greased by a seemingly inexhaustible money supply controlled by South American drug lords reac
hed into the highest places and had spread scandal and corruption not only throughout Mexico, but in the United States as well.

  Not being a religious man, Alonso had refused to see the priest who had tried to visit him in his cell that morning. Instead, arrogant and defiant to the end, he ate his final meal – a huge steak – with gusto under the watchful eyes of the prison guards, who must have wondered how a man about to die a horrible death could devour such a meal.

  At nine am sharp, Alonso was taken from his cell to Housing Unit 9, a small, freestanding building with a gruesome reputation. This was the place where all the executions in the Arizona Prison Complex – Florence were carried out.

  Separated by a large window from the stark lethal-injection chamber, spectators who were about to witness the execution in the small viewing room had a clear view of the gurney. Apart from prison officials and several journalists, family members of the two murdered police officers were already seated, their eyes fixed in morbid fascination on the operating table-like gurney with leather straps that would shortly be used to restrain the condemned prisoner, to allow the lethal injection to take its course. The spectators watched in silence as the prisoner entered the tiny room.

  Dressed in an orange jumpsuit, Alonso – a short, stocky man in his mid-forties – was escorted to the gurney where prison medical staff were preparing the intravenous lines about to be inserted into his arms. Remembering the botched execution of Joseph Wood, who took almost two hours to die – his repulsive convulsions on the table causing horror and panic among the spectators – the medical officer in charge of the lines was determined to get it right this time. The drugs – a combination of midazolam and hydromorphone – had been improved since that execution fiasco, but they were difficult to obtain, as reputable drug companies refused to sell the drugs to the United States knowing that they would be used for executions. Alternative sources were notoriously unreliable, and the drug quality questionable.

  As soon as Alonso set eyes on the gurney with the leather straps, a wave of uncertainty and fear washed over him. For the first time that day, his unwavering belief that he would somehow be spared at the last minute began to fade. Raul Rodrigo, his father’s personal lawyer who had handled all legal matters since his arrest, had visited him just two days earlier, assuring him that all would be fine. He had told Alonso that a last-minute application to have the execution stayed was about to be heard by the US Supreme Court. He had also told Alonso that he was very confident it would succeed because it was based on solid constitutional arguments. When questioned further by Alonso about what would happen if it didn’t, a smiling Raul had sidestepped the question and refused to provide further details. Instead, he had urged Alonso to have faith, trust his father, and be strong.

  As Alonso lay down on the gurney, he glanced at the clock above the door. I hope Raul knows what he’s doing, he thought. Because very soon, it will be too late.

  Bogota, Colombia

  Rodrigo looked at his client, who was staring out of one of the bulletproof windows. Ignoring the armed guards patrolling the grounds and the tall razor-wire fences behind the exotic, manicured gardens surrounding the compound, it was a beautiful, peaceful view down to Bogota, covered in morning mist. Protected by thick concrete walls, state-of-the-art security systems and massive steel gates, most of the large fortified building was underground. The Cordoba compound on the outskirts of Bogota was more like a fortress than a villa. In Colombia this wasn’t unusual, but to be expected of the headquarters of the notorious H Cartel, one of the most powerful and ruthless cartels in the country.

  Named after Huitzilopochtli, the bloody Aztec god of war, sun and human sacrifice, the Cartel had the Xiuhcoatl, the fire serpent that the god wielded as a weapon, as its emblem. With influence, money and power came powerful enemies. As head of the H Cartel, Hernando Cordoba was still alive only because he understood that very well.

  Cordoba rarely left the compound and conducted most of his business from his ‘observation room’ as he liked to call it, overlooking his beloved garden and the city in the distance below. When he did leave – usually to inspect secret drug manufacturing sites hidden deep in the jungle – he did so by helicopter, which was more like a gunship than a civilian aircraft. Sourced from the Venezuelan Air Force and modified to suit his needs, it was equipped with the latest weapons systems, which gave it awesome firepower. Cordoba lived in a constant state of war and he liked it that way. It kept him sharp and alert, and a step or two ahead of his enemies and competitors.

  ‘We are cutting it fine,’ said Cordoba, turning to face his lawyer sitting at a desk behind him. ‘If the execution goes to plan, the boy will be dead in less than forty-five minutes.’

  For some reason that hadn’t been explained, the Arizona authorities had suddenly accelerated the execution and set a date. This had caught the Cordoba legal team by surprise, and an appeal had been lodged immediately to have the execution stayed on constitutional grounds.

  Rodrigo glanced at his watch. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But we should hear any—’ He was interrupted by his mobile ringing in his breast pocket. Rodrigo sat up straight as if poked by a hot needle, bit his lip, and answered the call he had so anxiously been waiting for. ‘I see; thank you,’ he said after a while, and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

  Cordoba watched his lawyer carefully. The look on Rodrigo’s face told him all he had to know.

  Rodrigo shook his head and stood up. ‘Only one dissenting judge agreed with our arguments. It’s a disgrace. Constitutional matters no longer seem to count. The execution is to go ahead. The US Government has the court in its pocket.’

  Cordoba stood up as well. Feeling relieved because the excruciating waiting was over, he was ready to act. And that was what he liked most of all and was good at. ‘Then you better hurry; the chopper is standing by and the ambassador is waiting. It’s all arranged.’

  Rodrigo picked up the briefcase on the table in front of him and hurried to the door. He was used to working under pressure, but the pressure at that moment was about as much as a man could take. He realised what he and Cordoba had been feverishly working on for several months to save Alonso, was hanging in the balance. The next forty minutes were crucial.

  Rodrigo stopped at the door and turned around. ‘We’ll make it, you’ll see,’ he said.

  ‘I hope so,’ replied Cordoba, staring out of the window. ‘If not, it will destroy Rahima,’ he added quietly to himself. ‘She already lost a son; losing another would be unthinkable.’

  The chopper landed in a deserted car park close to the US embassy. This was of course totally illegal, but in Bogota, Cordoba made his own rules. A black Land Rover was standing by and took Rodrigo to the front gate of the embassy a few hundred metres away.

  The US ambassador was waiting in his office with his aide. An urgent appointment had been arranged the day before by Cordoba himself. He had advised the ambassador that he had vital information concerning US national security, and that his lawyer would come to see him and explain everything the next day. He had also asked the ambassador to arrange a direct line of communication with the White House, as matters of great importance and urgency were likely to arise. Having dealt with Cordoba before, the ambassador knew better than to refuse or ask for an explanation or, God forbid, dismiss the entire matter as a meaningless nuisance. In Bogota you did what Cordoba asked, or you left the country – if you could.

  ‘I’m intrigued, Mr Rodrigo,’ said the ambassador, extending his hand. ‘I was told that the timing of our meeting had something to do with Alonso Cordoba’s execution scheduled for, well, just about now.’

  ‘Correct, Mr Ambassador,’ said Rodrigo. ‘There isn’t much time, so let me cut to the chase if I may.’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Everything I’ve been instructed to say is in this short video, Mr Ambassador. It will explain everything.’

  Rodrigo placed a DVD on the table in front of him. The ambassador motioned towards hi
s aide. The aide walked over to the table, picked up the DVD and slipped it into a hard drive connected to a large monitor behind the ambassador’s desk.

  For the next five minutes, the three men in the room watched the video in stunned silence, the atmosphere in the room electric.

  After the video stopped, the ambassador was the first to speak. ‘Are you suggesting, Mr Rodrigo, that all of this is real?’

  ‘I am; very real.’

  ‘In that case, I must make an urgent phone call,’ said the ambassador and stood up.

  ‘I was hoping you would say that, Mr Ambassador,’ said Rodrigo and stood up as well.

  ‘Please wait outside, Mr Rodrigo. My aide will show you ...’

  The ambassador waited until Rodrigo and his aide had left the room, before unlocking one of the drawers of his desk. He took out an encrypted satellite phone and speed-dialled a number at the White House.

  Arizona State Prison Complex, lethal-injection chamber: 10:15 am

  Alonso was lying on the gurney with his eyes closed, unable to move, the tight leather restraining straps cutting into his chest, arms and legs. Because the medical officer couldn’t find any veins he considered suitable, he had to – much to the horror of the spectators – surgically insert a catheter into Alonso’s groin to allow the lethal drugs to enter his bloodstream. This had delayed the execution by a few minutes, but the medical officer wasn’t prepared to take any chances. The humiliating Wood fiasco would not be repeated on his watch! The prisoner would die, and quickly.

  The medical officer stepped away from the gurney and looked at the governor standing in the corner, watching. ‘Ready, sir,’ he said.