Free The Manuscript I the Secret by Blanca Miosi, Gretchen Abernathy Page A

would get away with Quentin to see him, and it did not bother me that he kept on drawing blood. I loved him so much I would have done anything to make him happy.
    “How did Mengele get into the USA?” I asked, emerging from my reverie.
    “That was the easiest part of all. The president of Interpol was a former Nazi. He arranged everything. You have no idea how many of those... people ...held important international positions in the postwar era.”
    “I think I’m getting the picture. Did Mengele get what he was after?”
    “He was on the verge. Claudio began having lung failure. Even so, I don’t know if you had noticed, but your father—Claudio—looked extremely young for his age, sixty. He could easily have passed for forty. Mengele died, and the research remained unfinished. Claudio stopped receiving treatments, and his illness slowly began worsening.”
    “I thought Josef Mengele died in Brazil in the late 70s. I read that somewhere.”
    “Yes, that’s what was reported. But Josef Mengele actually lived to be eighty-two years old; that is, he died six years ago. Ever since then Claudio’s health began to decline, though it wasn’t obvious at first. He held onto all of Mengele’s research documents since they were partners. And the radioactive isotope that set off this entire wild goose chase is still in the original chest, which they kept for old time’s sake. Claudio wanted to continue the research with the US-based pharmacological group where he was partnered. They were interested in Mengele’s work, and they even studied Claudio since he was living proof of what was possible, but things didn’t work out. Apparently there was a big blow up when two of the partners of Jewish background learned about the origins of the research. Things dragged on and on, unfortunately for Claudio. But believe me, Dante, it is possible. All the studies were based on him and several others. The thing is that none of the other subjects demonstrated such positive results as Claudio did. He had a particular genetic mutation that meant that, in his organism, stem cells regenerated tissue at an uncommon rate. And you are genetically similar to your father. Only you can carry on the work that cost your father his life. Do you understand me now? Do you know what this would mean for humanity?”
    “Of course. Population explosion,” I quipped, though the irony was lost on Martucci.
    “Don’t be naïve, Dante. The formula would only be available to a small, select group. NASA would be keenly interested in it for their long-term space explorations, just to mention one example. The thing is that, before his death, Claudio hid several pieces of essential information, and, according to him, you are the only one who could find them. He told me so himself. It grieves me that he did not trust me with it, but I understand, because I know I’m not long for this world.”
    “What do you mean?” I asked, taken aback.
    “I was also exposed to the radiation, though to a lesser degree. That’s why my lungs no longer work as they should.”
    After this conversation I knew without a shadow of a doubt that Martucci was one of the most gullible people I had ever known. He had a blind faith in other people’s honesty. How could he think Uncle Claudio would limit the sale of the formula to just a select few? Knowing my uncle, I was confident that his haste to make it a reality was driven by the desire to turn the formula into a cash cow. Yet perhaps I thought along those lines because I felt cheated. I would rather have been the product of love.

10
    Non-Catholic Cemetery, Rome, Italy
    November 12, 1999 – 11:00 a.m.
     
    Francesco Martucci and I had arrived at an imposing mausoleum that reminded me of the one in which Uncle Claudio’s remains now lay. I halted for a moment with the strange sense that I was being watched. Subtly I turned and caught a glimpse of a silhouette between the gravestones and the spindly cypress trees. A man