Perfect Kill

by Helen Fields

  The man standing inside the door was all brawn. Six foot four with tattoos peeking out of the top of his shirt and below his cuffs, he could have been a doorman at any club in the city.

  ‘Your name, please?’ he asked, in an accent a long way from Paris chic.

  ‘Luc Chevotet,’ Callanach replied, making sure his hand had a just-noticeable tremor to it as he held out his fake driver’s licence.

  ‘The password?’

  ‘Is this all really necessary? I’m just here to get more information.’

  ‘The password has to be given before you can go through,’ the doorman said blankly.

  ‘Okay, sure. Cathedral. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Will there be a presentation, or—’

  ‘I have to check you.’ He was polite but obviously not prepared to answer any questions.

  Callanach put his arms up slowly, giving a faint groan as he did so, conscious of possible hidden cameras and who might be watching. The security officer ran an airport-style electrical monitor over his body, pointing at the pockets which elicited a beep.

  ‘Leave your mobile in this box.’

  ‘Um, I don’t really like to leave it anywhere I can’t see it, for privacy reasons. Do you think you could make an exception?’ Callanach asked, knowing the answer, but the pretence was necessary.

  ‘You’ll get it back afterwards,’ was all the response he got.

  He left his mobile in the security officer’s keeping and was shown through to another room. Taking the chair on the side of the desk that didn’t have a file, Callanach stared out of the window and waited. The whole place was bland, anonymous. It was clever. Use an apartment for a couple of weeks, then move on. Presumably not just up a floor or across a street, but to a different area of the city altogether.

  An internal door opened and a man walked in, serene smile fixed in place, suited and tied, hair neat, hand ready for shaking. Callanach made a show of effort in standing up, gripping the offered hand only weakly, breathing hard.

  ‘Monsieur Chevotet,’ the man began. ‘I’m here representing Group 2029. We’re so pleased you decided to find out more. Please sit down. Take all the time you need. Would you like a bottle of water?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Callanach said.

  The man made his way to a mini-fridge. Cheap, temporary, portable. Callanach opened the offered water and took a long drink as he studied the man in front of him. He hadn’t noticed him at the clinic, but then he’d have been easy to miss. Early to mid-thirties, clean cut. Nothing remarkable. Unathletic, erring on the too-skinny side of thin. Eyes that didn’t want to settle anywhere.

  ‘So let’s begin,’ the man said, taking his seat behind the desk and opening the file. ‘First of all I have to cover the issue of confidentiality.’ He picked up a pen and ran its nib along the text as he read. ‘The treatment we offer is not one you will find in any traditional hospital or practice. It has been developed—’

  ‘Sorry,’ Callanach interrupted. ‘I didn’t catch your name. Are you a doctor?’

  ‘Um, no, I’m a …’ the man’s eyes flicked to the top of the page he was reading from, ‘a client liaison executive.’

  ‘And your name is?’

  ‘We don’t give out our names at this stage. As I was explaining, the confidentiality issue—’

  ‘I understand, it’s just that I was hoping for a more personal approach. I’ve had so many different doctors, it can be difficult to trust when there’s no connection,’ Callanach explained.

  The man coughed into his hand.

  ‘I wonder if I could just read this. There’s a section at the end for questions. I think when you hear all the information you’ll feel much better about it.’

  ‘Sure. I get it. Go ahead.’

  ‘Thank you. Right … our need for confidentiality relates to threats received from large pharmaceutical companies who have rejected our calls to understand the value, validity and nature of our treatments. The corruption of these big corporations, and the extent of their reach into the political sphere, including the police force, means that it is unsafe for us to reveal too much about our company, our practitioners and researchers. Their refusal to recognise our treatments means that we have not been able to roll them out wide scale but we continue our work, to help the few, because a single life saved is worth our time. Big pharmaceuticals receive billions each year in grants, in drug sales, and even more in fundraising. They refuse to open up the marketplace to newer, more innovative treatments because of the financial risk to them.’

  ‘How exactly does the treatment—’ The man held up a hand to stop him. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Because of the extreme danger to our staff and our practice through breach of confidentiality and sharing of information, we ask you to pay the fees for treatment up front. The fee structure is in thirds. Two-thirds of it remains with our company, and the final third is a returnable deposit, repayable to you once your treatment is complete, and when we are certain that you have not breached the confidentiality contract. It will be repaid to you no more than seventy-two hours after treatment.

  ‘You’ve been assessed as suitable for our treatment, given the lack of probability of traditional successful ongoing treatment or transplant, taking into account your age, and previous record of good health. The cost of treatment and payment facility will be notified to you by email at the end of this meeting. We recognise that our charges are high, but that’s because we have to recompense the family who will contribute to your future well-being.’

  Callanach watched him reading. His expression was almost blank. Whatever role he had in the company, he was either in the dark about the details or he had the best poker face imaginable.

  ‘The treatment itself consists of specific and targeted living cell transfer. Stem cells have been used in treatments for many years now, but that is dependent on having access to the right cells. Our innovative new treatment identifies living donors without the risks involved in transplants and organ rejection, without the need for donor-to-recipient matching, and with a full consensual and compensatory practice that fulfils our legal and moral obligations to all involved.’

  ‘Living donors?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘I’m just getting to that bit. Our donors are all in vegetative states, but prior to reaching that state, they all signed and agreed to take part in this programme. We have identified a donor who would meet your needs in terms of the age and health of their organs. None of our donors have organ damage that relates to the organ whose cells you require. We are able to provide you with medical assessments, photographs, and evidence of the donor’s desire to help others live on after their death.’

  ‘But why would they—’

  ‘We have limited scope to discuss an individual donor’s decision-making processes, as you’ll understand. This is a personal decision they reach with their families. Some have received spinal injuries, for example, and are seeking end of life treatment, but wish to help others before they die. Some might have the onset of a genetic disease which you will not be affected by.’

  ‘Where do these donors come from? Are they all French or—’

  This time the man didn’t bother with the hand. He just continued speaking.

  ‘Healthy cells can be introduced orally into your body. Eating raw is a cornerstone of all good cancer advice. This is because the raw consumption of all cells …’

  Callanach’s stomach hit a zero gravity moment. He frowned, blinked, realising the man had paused and was waiting for him to compose himself.

  ‘I’ll wait,’ he said. ‘This is revolutionary science. It’s important you understand how it works.’ But his eyes were still on the page. Even this pause, this reassurance, was scripted.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Callanach said. ‘You can keep reading.’

  ‘The raw consumption of cells is the purest, cleanest way to reinvigorate the body. Contrary to popular belief, not all cells are completely broken down in the digestive process. With treatment and coating from
our newly developed and proven formula, those cells can be absorbed into the body with their individual organ benefits intact, with medical properties that the body can recognise and incorporate into the body’s own failing organ to begin the regenerative process.

  ‘Our success rate with the treatment is more than fifty per cent, which in chronic or late-stage cases marks a dramatic breakthrough in life-saving procedures. Again, we stress that everything we do is consensual. If you decide to proceed with the treatment, your donor’s family will be provided with your generic details – no name – so that they can treasure the knowledge of the life their loved one has helped save. Here are testimonies,’ he handed over a sheaf of papers, ‘from people we have already successfully treated. At this stage, I am able to offer you some details of your potential donor. Would you like that?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  The man handed over more pages of A4 that Callanach scanned for logos. Not a leaf in sight. It was starting to look as if whatever Azzat had seen on the van had no relevance at all to Group 2029’s organisation. On the first page were several photos of an adult female, Caucasian, face slightly blurred.

  ‘We’ve blurred her facial features to protect her anonymity. Some donors consent to all their details being known and others opt for a level of privacy. Her medical records are on the following pages, again, with redactions.’

  Callanach glanced through the photos. Some were obviously taken before the so-called donor was bedridden, standing up, showing a healthy body, good muscle tone. In the next she was in a hospital bed, hooked up to a variety of machines and monitors.

  ‘Those last photos are a little distressing, I’m afraid, but the point is that we’re very careful to prove that the patient has reached a point of unresponsiveness.’

  The photos were a wide shot of a doctor – face obscured by a mask – putting something into the patient’s thigh. The close-up showed that it was a needle, a substantial distance into the flesh. Certainly far enough that a normally responsive individual would be unable to remain still.

  ‘That’s very reassuring,’ Callanach managed. He turned the page. A variety of convincing details were listed, from childhood immunisations to an adult diagnosis of cervical cancer.

  ‘You’ll see that this cervical cancer has been assessed as non-threatening to you, but the donor’s age, race and other fitness make her cells the perfect gift for your future well-being. We cannot allow you to take these documents away, but you would see the donor immediately prior to her life support being switched off, so you’ll be able to confirm that she matches the details given here.’

  ‘Immediately before she passes?’

  ‘Donors are kept in peace and comfort, ensuring end of life takes place in controlled circumstances at the optimum moment for transfer of cells and to add our life-prolonging formula before it’s administered to you in our laboratory environment. You can now ask questions and I will provide answers as far as possible.’

  ‘Okay, well that’s obviously a lot of information. Um, is this legal? Sorry if that sounds rude, but, you know, it’s something I haven’t heard of before …’

  The man scanned the page.

  ‘All treatments are legally compliant in the same way any organ donation where consent is freely given is lawful. Donors are being kept alive by machines only. No life is terminated without the family’s express consent, and terminations only take place once life would not be sustainable without artificial medical and mechanical assistance. One-third of the money you pay goes to the family or assignee of the donor, to help them in their grief. You will receive a copy of the legal donor agreement, contract and consent form at the donation ceremony.’

  ‘Donation ceremony?’

  ‘The donation ceremony takes place on short notice due to the nature of the donor’s illness. Cells need to be transferred quickly, but no life may be shortened artificially to ensure that we at no stage breach medical oaths. You will be sent a message giving you an address, then taken via company transport to our facility. The ceremony involves a purification ritual which is important to the donor and their families, a blessing, and a period of gratitude and reflection, before organs are transferred. The donor’s family or friends may also be present but in a separate room so as to respect their grief at such a delicate time. Sometimes they request a meeting with the donor, which we urge you to accept.’

  ‘That’s really amazing,’ Callanach said. ‘I think I’d like that. And as to the science …’

  ‘Our formula is designed to maximise cellular transfer benefits, to minimise intra-patient infection and to bolster the strength of cells as they meet your own body’s organ. Our formula is combined with antibiotics and a steroidal treatment to ensure efficiency.’

  ‘And by consume, you mean what, exactly?’

  The man took a breath, and continued reading.

  ‘The cells and medical formula are provided to you orally. You will see the organ prior to its preparation to prove its fitness. The organ will then be taken to our laboratory for preparation and returned to you for consumption with medical oversight.’

  ‘I eat it?’

  ‘Oral consumption,’ the man repeated.

  Callanach fought the desire to grab him by the throat.

  ‘What if it goes wrong? Where do I go? Do I get my money back?’

  ‘All medical treatment for chronic or late-stage illness is unpredictable. Our success rate is better than any other treatment offer you may receive. Our treatments have been tested in line with current regulations over a number of years. The treatment itself may carry side effects of nausea, and you will be given an injection to help prevent this. Other side effects may include stomach cramps, diarrhoea and headaches. A full list will be provided to you. You will need to sign a liability waiver as is standard in all hospitals. You’ll be given a twenty-four-hour emergency phone number for the first seven days after treatment, and a doctor’s appointment will be sent to you roughly two weeks after treatment for a check-up.’

  ‘Why can’t I just drive myself to the facility?’

  ‘Corporate spies are a constant threat to our life-saving work. Information sharing, even inadvertently, can threaten our ability to work with you and for you. All arrangements are made to ensure both your safety and our ongoing mission to fight otherwise incurable diseases.’ He scanned the page. ‘Our session has now come to an end. You will be emailed further instructions within the hour.’

  ‘How soon can I have the treatment?’ Callanach persisted.

  ‘Oh, yes, I can answer that one. Treatment can be assumed to be within the next forty-eight hours subject to payment being made.’

  ‘Forty-eight hours? That’s … wow.’

  The man stood up and held out his hand to shake Callanach’s. It was cold and slightly damp.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Callanach said. ‘I feel like I’ve been given a chance. I hope I didn’t keep you too long.’

  ‘That’s all right, I’ve finished for today,’ the man replied, giving the first genuine smile since Callanach had entered. He looked relieved it was over.

  That was good. It made what they needed to do now so much easier.

  ‘Will I see you again?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘No, I’m only involved at the front end, so to speak. I hope it goes well for you, and I’m, you know, really sorry for what’s wrong with you.’ He sounded vague and embarrassed.

  Callanach gave a nod to the doorman as he reclaimed his mobile and left. He made sure he was clear of any prying ears or eyes, taking the stairs and exiting onto the street. Giorgia Moretti-Russo, queen of her cell in Europe’s most notorious prison, had been right about the organ transplant. It hadn’t been what they were expecting. Preying on the vulnerable, the terminally ill, taking advantage of people staring down the barrel of a premature death – all of that had become increasingly obvious. But unwitting cannibalism of a murder victim, paid for at vast expense? That was something he’d never imagined he might enc
ounter. He took a deep breath and got on his phone.

  ‘I’m out,’ he told the police unit leader outside the doors. ‘Two men will follow. One’s a security guard, looks more like a bouncer, Caucasian, early forties, shaved head, six four, wearing a suit but with visible tattoos on his neck and hands, extremely heavy-set. Follow but do not detain. We want him acting normally. Keep eyes on him twenty-four hours a day until we make other arrests, but get access to his communications and bank account to see if there’s relevant traceable activity.

  ‘The other male, also Caucasian, is thirty to thirty-five years old, short brown hair, slim, no noticeable tattoos, five eight, brown eyes, clean-shaven and wearing a tan suit with a dark blue tie. I want him picked up as soon as you’ve established that he’s definitely not being watched or followed by anyone else. Keep the pick-up away from this building in case other flats are occupied by the same company. Take his communications devices and let me know what you find. Immediate interview, and tell him it’s in his interests to cooperate. Try to persuade him not to lawyer up. And log his phone call to his lawyer. I don’t want information passed through the legal team.’ Callanach hung up.

  He went to dial Ava’s number before remembering she was on an operation, and called the incident room instead.

  ‘This is Callanach. Notify DCI Turner as soon as she’s available that there is a third victim in the Malcolm Reilly case. Currently kidnapped but believed still alive. Female, Caucasian, late teens to early twenties, between five six and five ten, blonde hair, eye colour unclear. Slim build. I’m working on the assumption that she might also be Scottish. Please check missing persons files or crime reports asap and come back to me. We need to establish an identity.’

  He rang off. A door slammed around the corner and footsteps headed for the stairs. This was their best chance at finding Bart Campbell and hopefully also saving the life of the young woman who was in the process of having her liver sold to him. Quite possibly their only chance.