Operation Sparrow

By Peter Emm

Pierro Cognetto, an elderly and unassuming doctor, suddenly realizes that the Hugh family rarely gets sick despite its members being very advanced in age. A little research proves that the Hugh Factor can

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Mungai
• Release date: Sep 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781734104370

Peter Emm

Peter Emm grew up in a household where the art of telling a spellbinding story was considered a valuable form of siblings-tertainment. Exciting stories always saved the day when the family needed a good, hearty laugh while cooking dinner or doing dreary chores.Today, Peter still tells stories but to a broader audience. He has authored Operation Sparrow, a novel, and Your Credit Score Debugged, a non-fiction book that demystifies the Credit/FICO Score. To relax, he likes to read anything newsworthy, watch comedy shows, and write whenever he feels like it.

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Operation Sparrow by Peter EMM

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2020 by Peter Emm

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Book cover design: Clark Kenyon

Interior book design: Clark Kenyon

Cover photograph: Used under license from depositphotos.com

Author photograph: Kurt Burton Photography

ISBN: 978-1-7341043-2-5 (Paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-7341043-7-0 (eBook)

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To Ayda, Abby, and Naomi, with thanks.

Greed and lust,

Are like roses,

Soft to touch,

Fragrant to smell,

Beautiful to look,

Electrifying to experience,

For the vain,

Amongst us mortals.

—Ice Cold, Vanity of Vanities

San Francisco

At the junction of Market and Montgomery Streets in San Francisco, there lies an old, brown three-story building. Ninety-nine percent of those who have seen this boring building think it has always had the same unkempt look. However, the fact is that the building is well taken care of. Even when newly painted, its dismal shade of coarse burlap never seems to revitalize its appearance. Instead, it simply maintains its old, brown, boring facade. The building has no name, and just like at any other time in its history, the house has only one owner, the head of the Cognetto family.

The Italian family that built this building five generations ago has always boasted a medical practitioner in its ranks, and this is for whom the top floor has always been reserved. Above the main door on the third floor, almost unrecognizable, tiny burnished wood letters proudly announce, P.C. Family Practice. Dr. Pierro Cognetto inherited this family tradition from his father the day after he turned twenty-five—fifty-seven years ago.

On this evening, Pierro poured himself his umpteenth cup of stale coffee and headed straight to the large window that overlooks Market Street. The sight of people—all types of people, walking, riding, and driving—had a calming effect on him. From his vantage point, people on the street looked small and fallible, unlike himself, he thought. He wondered what each one of those people was up to.

Down there, a doctor may be wondering whether his or her practice will flourish or fail. Down there is a lonely man, much like myself, who may be wondering if he will have someone to hold him tonight or for the rest of his life. And down there, guardian angels, thieves, robbers, and hookers all wonder if their next moves will make them winners or losers. Isn’t life exciting? he mused.

He sipped at his hot, stale coffee and remembered the day he started practicing as a doctor. He clearly recalled that rainy, foggy Monday morning in May of 1963 as if it was yesterday. But what was important about that dank morning was that he met a patient who was fifty years old, and today, that same patient, though over 100 years old, still paid him visits for checkups.

He didn’t know how long he had stood by that refreshing window, although he realized that the paper cup he was holding was empty and street lighting was slowly replacing the natural light in the street. He had work to do. He threw the empty cup onto the overflowing trash can pushed into one corner of his office, and he slowly settled into an ornate chair. Before him was an old, thick file that belonged to Howard Hugh, who happened to be the oldest patient that he had ever treated. He scanned through the document from cover to cover and realized that it contained more than he had initially thought it did. He surmised that the file contained either a key to human longevity or a curse with which he would retire, his reputation as a medical practitioner besmirched forever. If the key to human longevity turned out to be right, his name would be forever etched in history; otherwise, the same narrative would probably consider him the worst doctor ever. The amazing thing about Howard was that despite his age, Howard looked decades younger and the only sickness that occasionally afflicted him was the common cold.

Why would a hundred-plus-year-old man be living like he is seventy? Am I getting paranoid over nothing? Pierro asked himself.

When Howard visited Dr. Pierro’s clinic for the first time in 1963, records that Pierro entered himself—because he had no secretary then—indicated his year of birth as 1913. The same file also mentioned that Howard used a driver’s license and ID card to prove his identity. Records also indicated that, two weeks later, Howard paid the full sixty-five cents that he was charged for the treatment of a minor cold. From the same address in Oakland, California, Howard seemed to have paid all his bills, one to two weeks after every treatment, for all those years.

At nearly 103 years old, Howard looked younger than Pierro in many ways—the later couldn’t deny a hint of jealousy for the client he had served for so long.

Old bastard, he whispered.

A quick comparison between himself and Howard did nothing to help. He was short, while his client was tall. He was pot-bellied; his client was not. He had no children. His client had two. He considered himself wealthy, while his client wasn’t. Indeed, he could remember Howard telling him that he lived off his Social Security benefits, which didn’t amount to much. He was on several medications for his heart and arthritis, but his client was on none.

So what is it about this old bastard? Pierro whispered to himself. He stared at the ceiling.

Pierro Cognetto was born in 1938 in San Francisco. He had three brothers and three sisters, all younger than him. Each of the seven siblings was born two years apart, but Pierro was the only one alive. In the last four years, five of his siblings had died of old age. One of his brothers, indeed the first of the seven siblings to die, was gunned down in his thirties after his mobster colleagues suspected him of snitching. As the oldest child, Pierro learned early in life that he was required to become a doctor so that he could step into the shoes of his father. The third floor of their old San Francisco building was meant for him.

His father, Pierro, Sr., had also followed in the footsteps of his father. In short, he was following a family tradition that had been in place since his great-great-great-grandfather had traveled from Sicily, and settled in San Francisco, 220 years ago.

Pierro, Jr., considered himself lucky in that, over the last fifty-three years of medical practice, he had been able to meet four of Howard’s brothers. From what he had been able to construct from his patient, Howard’s brothers were scattered all over the United States. All five of the Hugh brothers were born and grew up in Oakland, California. Howard’s younger brother, Sean, was born one month prematurely the same year Howard was born, 1913. The third Hugh, Lloyd, was born in 1914, while the last two, Alfonse and Freeman, were born in the same year, 1915.

This is insane, he whispered to himself, with a smile. Why were they in a hurry to reproduce? Were their parents young and that lusty for each other? That seems to be what the records suggest.

Howard had told Pierro that his parents were in their early thirties when they met and gave birth to their children, but that explained nothing about their long lives. Pierro knew many clients whose parents were much younger when they were born, but they didn’t even come close to the Hugh brothers in age!

He suddenly stood up and started pacing up and down in his office, occasionally glancing through his favorite window. Memories of his meetings with Howard’s brothers came flooding into his mind like a deluge. Through the years, while visiting Howard, the younger siblings had fallen ill and ended up in his office. The toughest ailment any of the five brothers brought to his office was diarrhea. It was mainly the common cold that brought them to his practice, and this happened mostly in winter. He thought that it was probably that the brothers aged gracefully without getting sick like most people their age because their genes played a role in their health. At that moment, his eyes opened wide, like a man awakened suddenly from a deep sleep. Quickly, he put the brothers’ records in a safe, closed and locked it, and made his last call of the day, his heart pounding.

May I speak to Professor Riebeck, please? he inquired.

Sure, hold on for a moment, said a deep-throated voice.

He had a habit of estimating the time spent while waiting for people to come to the phone by counting, and he always disconnected the phone when he reached sixty. But this time was different. He was ready to count to a million or a zillion just to talk to his old friend. It was that important.

This is Professor Riebeck. With whom am I speaking? the inquisitive, Dutch-accented voice demanded.

This is Pierro. How are you?

Great. And you?

I’m great too. I know you’ve had a long day, as I have, and I’m surprised that you’re still in the office. Can we meet?

Would Saturday afternoon suffice?

No. It’s urgent.

How soon then would you . . . .

Now.

Okay. Location?

How about the Ace of Hearts?

Never heard of that. Where is it?

At the junction Grand and Market.

Good. Time?

ASAP.

Okay, in ten minutes.

Good.

Ace of Hearts

In the dimly lit, noisy pub in downtown San Francisco, two men wearing baseball caps from two rival San Francisco Bay Area teams leaned toward each other across a small table, occasionally sipping beer from mugs.

I’m in a fix, Pierro said, taking another sip of his beer.

Money, women, writing a will? Riebeck said, looking into his friend’s eyes as if searching for clues. What is it?

None of that, Pierro said slowly, looking vacantly beyond his friend to the farthest wall in the bar, which had been painted into a colorful setting sun on a deep blue sea. For what he thought Riebeck would consider an eternity, he didn’t speak.

Are you going to tell me what it is or not? Riebeck demanded, consumed by curiosity, his eyes growing wider by the minute.

It’s complicated, Pierro said, fanning his friend’s fire of interest even further.

Blurt it out, Riebeck said in a whisper, his eyes wide with curiosity.

Pierro knew his friend well enough to know the right time to move in for the kill.

I’d call this classified info because I’m not supposed to talk about it, Pierro said slowly.

Sounds like I’m being sworn to secrecy here, or am I not? Riebeck said in a whisper.

Precisely, whispered Pierro.

Go on then, Doctor, Riebeck prodded.

I have three questions for you, Pierro said, looking into his friend’s eyes.

Go on, Riebeck said, nodding his head.

Is it genetically possible to improve human lifespan at any age? Pierro asked.

I don’t know about any age, but I know it might be optimized at fertilization, assuming all other factors remain constant, Riebeck explained.

Pierro nodded, not saying a thing, and gulped his beer.

What is your second question? Riebeck inquired.

How is that possible? Pierro asked.

Using layman’s terms, you can ‘copy’ any desired qualities from a superior human gene pool, then ‘paste’ them on gametes being upgraded just before fertilization, Riebeck explained.

Thank you. My last question— Pierro stopped mid-sentence and took a long, noisy gulp of his beer, which prompted Riebeck to do the same.

I love this beer’s smoothness and aroma. Well, my last question. Can you ‘genetic engineer’ longer human lifespan at the right remuneration on a large scale? Pierro asked, a sly smile playing the corners of his mouth.

Yes, was Riebeck’s curt reply.

The Spoor Flight

As the Aero Airlines jet gathered speed on the Mineta International Airport’s runway in San Jose, Pierro’s body tensed. He was scared. He had taken hundreds of flights around the world, and they had been uneventful. But he hated flying because he felt helpless when airborne. He tried to concentrate on his project. The tremendous number of preparations he had to make over the past month had been brutal to him. First, he had to hire the same temp doctor that he always hired when he went on vacation. He had to ensure that his clients were taken care of by someone they trusted. He had a physical fitness class to attend because he had to be fit for this assignment. Then, he had shopping to do, a lot of shopping. He bought clothes and accessories that would transform him into a different man or woman any time he chose. He also bought a miniature toolkit with an assortment of tools, some of which could be used as weapons if the need arose.

The pilot’s Southern drawl boomed over the loudspeakers and punctuated the doctor’s thoughts. Ladies and gentlemen, we are now at cruising speed. You’re free to unbuckle and enjoy the flight. Pierro wondered why pilots seemed so eager to tell their passengers their cruising height, probably to scare flight chickens like himself, but before he could answer his own question, his mind drifted to his immediate plans. Miami, Florida, would be his first city of call, and if things went according to plan, he would be done within hours. According to Howard, both of his parents were buried in a small town north of Miami.

Pierro was bored because his flight had too many stops. It had already stopped in Los Angeles, Phoenix, and Dallas, and the pilot had just announced the fourth stop they would make before heading to Miami. Passengers who sat next to him after every stop made the situation worse because none of them seemed interested in any conversation. He wondered why one of the three passengers who had sat next to him had just stared at him when he asked him how he was doing. The only one that talked didn’t look too friendly, so Pierro couldn’t say anything else to her. At least I tried, the doctor thought.

Even though Pierro had napped several times, read a quarter of the novel he thought would keep him busy, and read all the magazines stuck behind the seat in front of him, seemingly, there would be one more stop in Orlando according to the pilot. To keep himself busy and protect himself from becoming insane, he ordered