“I think I have found it,” says Mrs Bellacci.
Standing before one of the boxes, she lifts out a compact briefcase made of black steel. She holds the case before her for a moment, checking the locks before coming over to us.
“This has a key lock,” she says. “And those boxes all belonged to theprofessore.”
She holds the case with the locks towards me, and I try the key. We watch as the key slides in, turns, and the case unlocks. When I click the clasps, the lid springs open.
Contained inside are two stiff plastic file folders. I lift them both out as Mrs Bellacci places the case on the ground.
“I suggest we return to the house to study these. The light is better there,” says the doctor, and nobody objects.
Back in the kitchen, we settle around the table with the doctor and me together on one side. Mrs Bellacci and Lorenzo remain standing together. She takes one file, and I take the other. Romano peers over my shoulder as I read through. A shiver runs through me when I read a label on top with the name Gabriel R written in felt pen, in beautiful cursive lettering.
Inside the folder, the various documents are clearly photocopies. Another note inside is clipped to the front, onceagain in the stylish handwriting I recognise instantly as Sylvie Leblanc’s, and reads simply,
Please be careful. This is dangerous information. But I agree that he should be told.
Romano and I look through the file together, with me reading then passing items to him. Each report produced by Special Operation KW—whoever they may be—refers to someone called Subject K5. Tests on general health and fitness, agility, survival skills and language skills include an official-looking document called an AFIC. Every test appears to have a scribbled rating of 98%-100%, A+ or O/S. Each is stamped with a simple Hartfield Facility seal and contains an indecipherable signature.
“AFIC refers to the Advanced Fitness, Intelligence and Cognitive test,” says Romano, as he glances over the report I am holding. “It is a dedicated and highly specialised test that elite special forces in the UK are required to undertake and pass, and a huge step up from the MATT, the annual test for all armed forces. If this is you, Gabriel, you would have been considered top of your…”
Dr Romano stops speaking, and I let him take the AFIC report from me, his attention drawn to something on the page.
“Do you think that might be you, Gabe—Aksel?” asks Lorenzo, shaking his head in defeat at the file Mrs Bellacci has in her hands and is sifting through.
“I have no idea. I wouldn’t have thought so. These tests sound punishing. And surely they’re aimed at adult soldiers. I know everything that’s happened to me since the age of twelve, and none of that included anything to do with the military.”
Dr Roman holds up the AFIC sheet with the word O/S scrawled across the top. I shrug at him. I assume the letters mean outstanding.
“As I said, I don’t remember any tests,” I reply.
“Not the score. Look at the age of the subject.”
Even Mrs Bellacci’s attention is drawn to him now. We all stare. The subject’s age is recorded as seven years old. I may not know much about the army, but I am reasonably sure no modern military service of any country would allow someone that young to be recruited.
“A mistake?” I suggest.
“No,” says Romano, holding up another. “This health report is dated a year earlier and has the subject’s age as six. If this is you, Aksel—or whoever you are—you were a part of some kind of elite armed forces unit that recruited and trained young persons.”
“Surely that would not be legal—” I begin, but am interrupted by Mrs Bellacci.
“I thought so,” she says, staring at me intently. “The tattoo on your wrist. The Knight and the number five. I believe you are the subject, K5.”
Now I am baffled. If she is right, how could Albert have known this and never told me? Does this explain who I was before my accident and memory loss? And was this the reason Albert was killed? I am confident the handwriting on the file is Sylvie Leblanc’s.
“This is why I was curious earlier,” she continues and now has everyone’s attention.
“Many years before I worked with either of you,” she says, looking at the doctor and Lorenzo, “I volunteered for an undercover reconnaissance operation in Iraq. This was before the US-led invasion. My assignment was to help rescue three political prisoners—one Italian and two Germans—from a high-security prison compound a few miles north of Baghdad. The Italian UN general who briefed me at the time said I would pose as the widow of an Iraqi officer and would be accompanied by my six-year-old daughter, another agent, who could speak fluent Arabic. I objected, naturally. I worked alone back then. And in our line of work children are a liability. But my objections wereoverridden. That is when I was paired with Jamila, a British girl of mixed parentage. To this day, I have met nobody like her. Physically, she looked like a small girl. But she had the head and wisdom of an old woman and the skills of a seasoned fighter. In public she became a sweet, innocent little girl who could charm and beguile anyone. Privately, she knew how to strategise, could climb almost as well as Lorenzo, could squeeze through small spaces, and knew how to fight. I watched her strangle a guard with a skipping rope. Without her help, getting into the compound where the prisoners were held would have been impossible. Our mission was a success, but I only found out about other outcomes when we returned. As part of our cover, Jamila had been enrolled in an exclusive preparatory school that she attended during the day. Only after we parted ways did I learn that a high-ranking officer in the Iraqi armed forces had died in an explosion in the school carpark after visiting his nephew. The UN general told me that, apart from helping me, Jamila had been assigned her own special operation.”
“But how does that relate to him?” asks Lorenzo.
“Not only would she have been around his age, but she had a similar tattoo on her wrist, a chess Knight with the number two in old numerals beneath.”
“You think they are connected, her and Aksel?” asks Lorenzo, staring at me.
“This I do not know,” says Mrs Bellacci. “But the coincidence is remarkable, is it not?”
I have a swarm of questions crowding my head. Most focus on how much Albert knew and why he told me nothing. To protect me?