Chapter Fourteen #2
“That is also correct, but—and this is something I have always considered speculation or even carefully planted misinformation—there were rumours in the early part of the new century about the British military having raised an elite team of ethnically diverse children in early- to mid-childhood, nicknamed chassin—short for child assassin. The story sounded too fanciful for me—in Italy we laughingly called them bambassino—because, to begin with, young children of any nationality are impossible to discipline effectively, lack concentration and dedication, and moreover, they would never be allowed into highly secure places where targetable figures might congregate. Except Teresa’s account substantiates this crazy theory.
What if Jamila had been part of a team?”
“If I am number five and she was number two, how many of us are there?” I ask, staring into space. “And where are the others?”
“What parent would allow their child to be used in this way?” asks Mrs Bellacci. “I remember thinking that at the time, when I worked with Jamila.”
I had not even considered who my parents might be. Maybe because I have never had any real parents in my life. My anger is still aimed at Albert and why he kept this crucial information from me. I notice Dr Romano has become quiet and appears troubled.
“If you wish, I could make enquiries. I have already sent the photograph of your tattoo to a few close colleagues at UN command headquarters. But, in light of this file, I am wondering if that was such a good idea. The note says this is dangerous information, but not why, or for whom it might be dangerous. I can only assume this means you, Gabriel. Did you ever hear from the girl again, Teresa?”
“Never,” says Mrs Bellacci. “Could they both have had their memory taken from them?”
“No,” I reply, because this I know beyond any doubt.
“Mine was due to head trauma from the train accident. The doctors who treated me in the public hospital studied me and wrote reports about my retrograde amnesia. It’s not common, and they took time to analyse me.
And, from what I understood, the kind of amnesia I suffered from is not something that could be induced. ”
“Moreover,” says Dr Romano. “If the military had been involved, they would never have allowed reports to be published. Can I see the other folder?”
“This is entirely different,” says Bellacci, handing over the file. “I cannot understand much, but you might have better luck with your medical background. Come on, Lorenzo. You too, Aksel. While the doctor sits and studies the file, you can help me prepare dinner.”
The opportunity to do something commonplace has an oddly calming effect.
After she doles out instructions, Lorenzo and I work around each other to peel and chop onions, garlic, red peppers and other legumes while she sets about preparing the meal.
Every now and then, Lorenzo finds the opportunity to move past me, brushing the back of his hand along my groin or leaning across me to grab a bowl or utensil, breathing hotly on my neck or ear.
I glare my disapproval at him, but he just smirks at the ground, refusing to meet my gaze.
Eventually, as Mrs Bellacci instructs us to sit at the table while she finishes cooking the meal, a thought comes to me.
“Did you find out where this girl, Jamila, came from in the UK?” I ask, wondering if this might give me a place to start my search.
“We only ever talked about the mission. Never idle chat. I had the impression she would not have told me anyway.”
“Do you think the information on the first file got Professor Callico killed?” asks Lorenzo.
“No,” says Romano decisively. He has been quiet all this time, a frown painted across his forehead, but he looks up at Lorenzo’s words and taps his forefinger on the documents in front of him.
“I believe what is contained in this file got him killed. However, I think he was not the target, simply collateral damage. There are two medical reports in here. The larger is the official paper on a three-year clinical trial of a new combination super vaccination against coronavirus and other common diseases. From the comments, it looks like licenses were granted based on the outcomes. But there appears to have been another trial conducted in parallel—unofficially, I believe, but not unlawfully—by a small group of immunology specialists, the results of which were either ignored or rejected. The efficacy and success rates in the official report are notably higher than those in the secondary. The second also includes a list of significantly longer-term, serious and sometimes fatal side effects for people suffering from certain blood or respiratory diseases. There is a copy of an email from a senior clinician to members of a medical council, bringing into question the results of what he describes as a ‘rogue trial by disgruntled ex-colleagues behaving unprofessionally to hamper official efforts’.”
“Who headed up the main clinical trial?” I ask, wanting my suspicions confirmed.
“Have a guess?” says Romano.
“Puchinsky?”
“Professor SJ Puchinsky.”
“And the secondary?” asks Lorenzo.
“It does not say, but I am sure none of us would be surprised if Dr Sylvie LeBlanc’s name appeared in the team roster somewhere.
What I do know is that if the WHO had been officially presented with this supplementary report, this drug would never have been granted a manufacturing license.
Not until further checks and balances had been carried out.
But that would have delayed the release. ”
“Which would have lost Puchinsky significant publicity, credibility and, above all, money,” I add. “Medical companies must be clambering over themselves to patent the drug.”
Mrs Bellacci serves the meal, a bed of flat ribbons of pappardelle served with minced wild boar and a deliciously creamy sauce. I still find it hard to believe this talented chef also shoots people for a living.
“You know, Aksel,” says Dr Romano, raising a glass of red wine to Mrs Bellacci. “There is still somebody who might be able to help unravel this mystery.”
“Sylvie Leblanc.” I was thinking the same thing. Across from me, Lorenzo was wiping his bottom lip with a thumb and catches me staring at him. Almost imperceptibly, he smiles, and I know tonight in bed will be as satisfying as the meal. “But she is in a coma in a hospital in London.”
“Or so we are led to believe,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “There is only one way to find out. And I am sure she would not object to a visitor. Especially if that visitor is a ghost. We also have a minor job that needs taking care of in London.”
“He is not ready,” says Mrs Bellacci, looking abruptly at Romano.
“I thought that was to be my assignment,” says Lorenzo, at the same time.
“No, he is not ready. Not yet,” agrees Romano. “But I don’t believe it will take much. A few weeks of intensive training will get him combat ready. And he has another reason to be there, Lorenzo.”
“Then I will go with him—”
“No. London is not a two-person job. You will stay.”
I witnessed the sharp defiance in Lorenzo’s eyes before, when I first arrived. I can see he is not happy with the decision as he folds his arms, sits back and stays silent.
“The question is, Aksel, do you feel ready for a challenge?”
To begin finding answers to my existence?
Does he really need to ask?