“I’m aware of that, Slava Danilovich.” Lavoisier rebuts. “But you of all people know that no system is foolproof. And it seems thatsimilar intrusion attempts were taking place acrossallthe major private schools in Europe at this time.”
“What do you mean across all the major private schools in Europe?” Bella speaks up before I can. “How could you possibly know about those?”
Lavoisier grimaces. “European regulation requires timely disclosure of cybersecurity intrusions in the event it’s nation-state actors. We weren’t the only ones impacted.”
“And was it the same information they were after?” Bella asks, and I feel a surge of pride ballooning in my chest at her need for thoroughness.
“Unfortunately, Ms. Creminelli, those same regulations also prohibit us from disclosing the exact contents accessed.” Lavoisier is getting agitated now, clearly fuming at having his own expertise being questioned by Bella. “The only thing I can tell you is that someone sent out a continent-wide attack against school enrollment, and usedthatto attack us. Now, if?— ”
“Tell me about the breach,” I interrupt him.
He gives Bella one quick glare, and then looks back at me.
“The infiltrator was stopped by a staff member. An Eloise Marchand. She’s worked in the dormitory for ten years now on night supervision. She encountered him in the hallway just outside of Alessandro’s room.”
“Encountered?”
“Confronted, actually,” Lavoisier says with pride. “Madame Marchand placed herself between the attacker and managed to trigger a silent alarm. But she was seriously injured in theprocess. We’re following up with her recovery at this time, but her prognosis is uncertain.”
Bella’s hand tightens against mine, and I nod. This Eloise Marchand almost died protecting my son.
I’ll make damn sure that she’s well taken care of.
“And then what happened?” I ask.
“My team responded within ninety seconds of Madame Marchand triggering the alarm. The assailant was subdued. He chose to resist arrest.” Lavoisier pauses for a moment. “Fatally.”
Suka blyad.
There’s a savage satisfaction in the knowledge that the bastard is dead. But there’s also frustration, because corpses don’t answer questions.
“Any other complications?”
“Several children heard the commotion and some of them woke up. But we’ve explained it as a security drill.”
“And you’re sure there was nothing you have about the assailant’s identity?” Bella asks. “Did you collect anything at all? Any personal items?”
“Nothing.”
“What about ethnicity?”
“What are you suggesting, Ms. Creminelli?”
“Answer her fucking question, Lavoisier.”
“He was Mediterranean, but that’s about all I can say with confidence.”
“Any pictures of the man? Maybe there’s something you might’ve missed that Slava could pick up.”
Lavoisier looks at her with annoyance again. But slowly, he produces a folder and opens it up to reveal photos of a body on a morgue slab. Each one is of another part of the body. Hands, feet, arms, and torso.
“No identifying tattoos as far as we can tell.”
I pick up the photos and start going through them one by one. The first one is the top down shot of the man’s body, and it’s exactly like Lavoisier says. Nothing identifying as far as we can tell.
I move onto the next, the one of the man’s hands. Also clean. Next come the arms. Clean. Feet. Clean. Then, the man’s face.
He has a brutish looking face, and even in death, his lips are arranged in what looks to be a permanent scowl. But the face is also clean.
