Authors: Alex Blackmore
SIX
By the time
Eva arrived home, the pressure in her head felt immense, unbearable almost. She shoved her key in the lock, threw open the door with unintentional force and jumped as it bounced off the wall behind and flew back at her. She steadied herself.
Calm down.
Inside the flat, she closed the door and walked quickly into the bedroom. After pushing a chair that reclined in a curved âS' shape over to a large wood wardrobe in the corner of the room, she gingerly stepped on it. It wobbled precariously. She glanced around for a better stepladder but the design brief for her furniture had been âcontemporary' rather than âpractical', so this would have to do.
When she was steady enough, she reached up and felt for a large canvas bag she knew was pushed down into the recess of the top of the wardrobe. Her fingertips made contact with the rough fabric and she tried to create a hold for herself then pulled sharply. The bag was too heavy. She ran her hand over the bag until she found one of the canvas straps and hooked her fingers underneath it. Then, she pulled with all her strength. Gradually, the bag started to move. Finally, she had it balanced unsteadily on the edge of the wardrobe, right above her head. She pulled it towards her one last time and leaned quickly out of the way as it thudded to the floor.
A small cloud of dust rose up.
Eva looked down on the sports bag as she stood on the chair.
This bag had been Jackson's. When she had left Paris, everything from her hotel room had been thrown into it and zipped up. It had not been opened since.
Eva jumped down from the chair and dragged the bag over to the bed, where she took a seat on the edge of the smooth covers. For several seconds, she stared at the bag in front of her. Then she ripped open the zip and began pulling out the contents. Papers flew into the air as she emptied the bag at high speed. She realised there were tears flowing down her cheeks as she continued hurling everything from the bag on to the floor. She had never wanted to look at any of this ever again. And yet she had not thrown any of it away. Why could she not just move on?
He sat in the car outside her house and debated his next move. It was early afternoon but darkness was already beginning to fall and he was unsure about the best way to proceed. If there was one thing he had learned about Eva Scott, it was that she was unpredictable â always. Of course, she felt fear like every other person but it didn't seem to stop her. Even from stepping into situations that might end her life. It wasn't a superhuman type of bravery, though, from what he could make out, more like an instinctive need to move forward at speed. She was either very careless or had an inbuilt recklessness. Or perhaps she was just damaged.
In his lap, his phone jumped to life and began flashing a warning light that indicated someone was trying to call him. He looked at the name on the display but couldn't bring himself to answer the call.
He glanced again at the building where Eva lived. The best thing he could do for her would be to end her involvement right now. Otherwise, she would continue to be dragged through an ordeal she had neither chosen nor deserved â again. But that meant either convincing her to let go of whatever trail she felt she was on to or⦠well, or forcing her to let go of it. He knew either would be almost impossible for him.
A tap on his window distracted him from his thoughts. He looked up into a beautiful face, with striking green eyes, framed by flame-coloured hair disguised under the fabric of a hood. He quickly wound down the window and then drew a sharp breath as the muzzle of a gun was poked through.
âOpen the door.'
A glance to the left and right revealed there was no escape route from the hire car. He had been forced to pick an inconspicuous city car rather than the huge urban vehicles he usually preferred and, as well as being incredibly uncomfortable to sit in for long periods of time, this model had little power. If he lunged for the passenger door, he knew he would feel a bullet in his back. Maybe the back of his head. He looked up into those green eyes and nodded slowly.
âOk,' he said, raising his hands.
She took a step back from the car, allowing him the space in which to open the car door. He dropped one foot and then the other from the car, took a step to the side so that he was standing in front of the rear passenger door and leaned against it.
âWhat now?'
He was a good third of a metre taller than she was and he was pretty sure he was much stronger. He glanced up at Eva's kitchen window; a bolt of electricity travelled through him. He could see the pale oval of a face staring down.
Then everything began to move very fast.
Eva watched the scene below her in a state of near paralysis. A man whose face she could not make out was being hustled into a van that had pulled up next to him at high speed. He appeared to try and fight and then he stopped. She could clearly see the dark shape of a gun in the hands of a hooded figure who pushed him towards the other side of the van. Should she do something?
She ran into the bedroom and grabbed her mobile phone. When she returned to the kitchen window, both man and van were gone. She stared down at the street below. The door of the car from which the man had emerged was left open.
Grabbing a pair of boots and her house keys, she ran quickly downstairs. Outside, it was bitterly cold and she wished she had thought to pick up a coat. She ran across the quiet road and then stopped. She looked up at the houses all around. The windows were dark and empty. It was early afternoon on a weekday and most of the residents around here would be at work. But still, she could never shift the feeling there might be someone who would see something and draw conclusions over which she had no control.
She climbed inside the car and quietly shut the door behind her.
The air inside the car had a strangely familiar smell â an aftershave of some sort and strong French cigarettes. The keys were still in the ignition.
On the passenger seat was a small carry-on size bag, unzipped and virtually empty. There was a drained coffee cup wedged between the dashboard and the windscreen.
The floor on the passenger side was littered with chocolate wrappers, sandwich packets and fruit peelings, as well as several cans of an energy drink she didn't recognise. Had that man been living in here?
She looked around the car for further clues, opened the glove box, felt underneath the seats and checked the footwell and seats in the back. There was nothing to provide any indication about who the man was and why he should have been sitting in his car â coincidentally outside her house? â or any explanation for what had just happened.
She looked again inside the small piece of cabin luggage on the seat next to her, briefly wondering why she was going through someone's possessions and not calling the police. But really she knew why. Paris had blown away any trust she had in institutions. She would never again ask for help. For Eva, involving the authorities now meant handing over control to an organisation where corruption potentially flourished. Anyone who thought any collective body of humans could escape that kind of decay was a fool.
Control. There was that word again.
She picked up the cabin luggage and emptied it of its contents. A hotel key, several packets of chewing gum, a large bottle of water, a map of London branded with the logo of a hire car company and a small black hardbacked notebook.
Eva opened the notebook and flicked through it. Inside, was a mess of writing, none of which she could identify. As she stared harder at the page in front of her, she realised part of what she was looking at was the Cyrillic alphabet. Her skin chilled. Another possible connection?
She glanced up as she sensed movement in one of the wing mirrors and then swiftly switched on a smile as she recognised one of her neighbours walking towards her, his eyes focused on the car in which she was sitting. He approached the car. Her heart began to beat faster.
âNew car?' he smiled.
âAh, it belongs to a friend.'
âOh right, a ââfriend.''?' He grinned. In his mid 30s, crisply turned out but inexplicably always âaround', he always went that bit too far with Eva, made her feel slightly threatened. She didn't know why he had to introduce a sexual element into every conversation.
âJust a friend.' She smiled innocuously back at him.
âYou still with that blonde boyfriend of yours?'
Sam, shit. She had been supposed to call him and explain why she had not shown up at work.
âYes.' She just let the tail end of the conversation drift. She couldn't be bothered to make polite conversation if all he wanted to do was pry.
âWell, should that change you know where I am,' he said, laughing falsely and holding her gaze for just a little too long. He stood outside the car door.
Eva looked at him. She had the feeling he was contemplating something. He glanced around them at the empty street. Was she just being paranoid? Probably. But nevertheless she needed to move. She pushed open the car door and he stumbled back as it knocked him on the hip.
âOh sorry,' she said, slamming it behind her.
She didn't glance back at him, it was obvious what he would be looking at. He wouldn't really have done anything, she was fairly sure of that, but if he had Eva could have coped. After Paris Eva had taken on a personal trainer. Together, they had worked out a four-times-a-week plan of training sessions focused on self defence, including Krav Maga moves used by Mossad. The plan had taken eight months to complete and it was only after she had reached the end that she had started to feel she might be recovering. Now she could act, instead of being at the mercy of blind luck.
She turned and walked back to the car. She opened the door again, reached for the keys she had seen in the ignition. As she did, she noticed a black top shoved down the other side of the car, between the passenger seat and the door. Her heart missed a beat. Had this man been her silent intimidator from the other night?
She looked again at the fabric of the hoodie and then at her neighbour. He still seemed interested in what she was doing but he no longer had the predatory look she had seen before she had hit him with the door.
âHi Sam, I'm really sorry about not calling earlier.'
âIs everything ok, I've been really worried about you.'
Eva sighed and stared at her reflection in the windows of the kitchen as she searched for a response. She felt a sense of unreality that made her feel isolated and detached. Was it someone's intention that she should be isolated with the knowledge she had? Knowledge that only she and the, now disappeared, Irene shared.
At the same time she couldn't shake the sneaking fear she was inventing this. What if she was simply bored and looking for conspiracy where in reality all that was there was a series of coincidences? She hardly felt she knew where reality lay anymore. Which was frightening.
âI'm fine,' she said finally, âI've just not been feeling very well. You know how illness makes you do funny things.'
âOf course. Do you want me to come over? I'll bring chicken soup.'
Eva smiled. âI'm fine, thanks, Sam.'
âOk, well if you change your mind.'
âI'll let you know.'
âOh, just one other thing.'
âYes?'
âI don't know if they contacted you but there was some talk about sending you to Berlin.'
âBerlin?'
âYes.'
âWhy?'
âI'm not sure, exactly. I just heard jealous whisperings about it around the office â gossip, no real details. But it sounds like they need you to interview someone.'
âAnd when am I supposed to be leaving?'
âTomorrow, I think.'
Eva said goodbye and put the phone down.
Berlin. That was the last thing she needed. She had more than enough on her plate. Who was the man in the car, for a start, and had he been watching her?
But Berlin. She had never been to Berlin. Which meant she knew no one and she would need a map to negotiate its streets.
Why were they sending her to Berlin, for God's sake?
Perhaps she should just quit. She'd had enough of the petty bureaucracy and the office âpersonalities' to realise she actually hated working in an office. The commute seemed inhuman, being cooped up at a tiny desk in a room full of resentful failures was depressing and what was she actually getting out of it anyway? Was this a career move?
She laughed to herself. Career. That was funny.
But, as she looked around the expensive flat, she realised she couldn't give up the job. Yes, Jackson had left her cash that ensured she was comfortable but she was just not programmed to live off savings. She would go mad. And maybe every job would be just like this one anyway â what was the point in going from office to office and just finding the same state of affairs in each one? At least here she had Sam and she knew how it worked.
And maybe Berlin would do her good.
SEVEN
âAre you telling
me the problem has not been dealt with?'
âI'm telling you we have it under control but I want to use this situation a little bit creatively.'
âCreatively.'
âYes, you know, think outside the box.'
Outside the box. What an awful phrase that was. It was corporate bullshit of the worst kind.
The man with the fading Mediterranean tan took a seat at his expensive desk and angrily snipped the tip off a Cuban cigar. The young man on the other end of the phone was not his type of person. Was it the exuberance of youth that annoyed him or was it simply the half-arsed way that Paul seemed to operate? They had worked together for such a short length of time but he was still able to discern that this was someone who flew by the seat of his pants, who progressed via others' mistakes and failings, not his own talents. How he had come to be in possession of all this innovative technology remained something of a mystery. And one that he did not care to clear up apparently.
âAre you still there?'
He could hear the hard edge in the voice on the other end of the line and he wondered whether this man-child had it in him to do business the old fashioned way â with his own bare hands â or whether, if it came to the crunch, he simply didn't have the stomach. That's how the man with the Mediterranean tan judged a person, whether they outsourced the carrying out of their own threats. It was unlikely that Paul had ever taken a life but it was always unwise to underestimate people. That's why he supposed caution would be advisable for now, no matter how much the man irritated him. Just in case.
âOk, explain,' he said finally, in a cold, hard voice.
âThe Scottâ¦'
âNo,' the older man snapped, interrupting immediately. âNo names over an unsecure line.'
That was satisfying. The more silly mistakes the younger man made, the more justified his older colleague felt in the dim view he had taken of him. Youth never trumped experience. Or, rarely so.
âOh. Sorry.'
He really didn't sound that remorseful but he did at least hesitate.
âWell?'
âI thought it might be more fun to test it by putting him in a situation where he believes he has to kill to survive.'
âMore ââfun''.'
âYes. And it will mean there's no connection to us if he fails.'
The man with the Mediterranean tan felt irritated again. Paul had been on the project a matter of months and yet he talked as if the decade of work it had taken to get to this stage was all his. He changed well laid plans without asking, he had no respect for existing authority.
âAnd how do you propose to do this?'
âKind of fox and hare, I thought. Set the hare running and make the fox chase.'
âBut for that to succeed the technology has to be ready â and to work. We both know that this technology â
your
technology â has not yet been properly tested. Are you saying it's now magically ready?'
There was a tight response on the other end of the line. âNo. But this can be the test.'
âIsn't it a risk to test it when it's incomplete, and to do it on someone so close?'
âIt should workâ¦'
âShouldâ¦'
âYes.'
âAnd he's the right test subject?'
âI believe so.'
âWhat if it fails?'
âIf it does not work, the location we've chosen is too remote for him to escape.'
âIs all this really necessary?'
âWe need her to believe it, correct? Well, what better person to test this on â other than her? If it works this time, the odds are it is ready.'
The man with the Mediterranean tan leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully puffing on the cigar. This was the second phase, and it was just as crucial as the first, and the third that would follow soon. But, as was so often the case, there was no blueprint for any of this and they were using multiple pieces of innovative technology that were still largely untested. Whilst it was exciting, he also felt incredibly nervous. And a part of him wished for the days when you could see your weapons, your battlefield and your enemy.
He was also still unable to chase from his mind his unease over Paul's arrival. What really troubled him was why Paul had become involved and how he had known this network even existed. One had to assume someone, somewhere had asked that question but, if they had, the answer had not been revealed to him. Paul had appeared at the exact moment the operation had happened to falter â and with precisely the right tools to correct its path. He claimed to have created this technology and yet he seemed to know very little about it and one always felt as if he was making it up when questioned on the specifics.
And then there was his attitude in general, a lack of respect for human life, the way he approached everything as a game. What he was suggesting in this instance was unnecessarily cruel â sport at the expense of at least one human life for no other reason than to test a product. It was not uncommon but it was also not necessary. However, ultimately, the man with the Mediterranean tan didn't want to appear weak in the face of a more ruthless and, possibly, bloodthirsty junior.
âAre you absolutely sure this is the way that we should do this?'
âTrust me, it will all work out.'
Eva watched the cabin safety demonstration without interest. It had been months since she had flown anywhere but, even so, the robotic moves and fixed smiles were just repeating information she had already absorbed somewhere along the line. She leaned back in her window seat and watched as the plane taxied through the early mist of a London morning. She had been up since 5am, quickly packed a suitcase after a few hours sleep, and taken a taxi to the airport. The call had come late the night before from Janet, whose reasoning for sending Eva to Berlin was based solely on the fact she was the only person in the office with any real journalistic experience. Despite herself, Eva found that she felt excited. She realised she missed the thrill of researching and writing a good story. Not that this was a good story â carbon emissions. Of course, it was interesting but it was not one of those heart-pumping, palm-clenching pieces she thought she craved â she had never even heard of the person she was going to meet. Annoyingly, the brief time she'd had to do research hadn't turned up anything either. There was almost nothing online except a few academic listings. This meant the interview was either a puff piece with someone who was completely irrelevant or this person was so important that they had achieved that elusive state of online anonymity.
She was escaping London and so could leave behind, at least for 24 hours, everything that had so alarmed her recently. The man at the station, the apparent abduction from outside her flat, the hooded figure, Irene Hunt's apparent disappearance off the face of the earth and the odd sense she couldn't shake that something was wrong. Maybe it was a good chance for some perspective she thought as the plane began to pick up speed. Stepping back from this situation could reveal it as just a series of coincidences, as deep down she suspected it might be.
Eva leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes as the front wheels of the plane lifted off and gravity pushed her back against the seat. She always felt that, at the moment the last part of the plane lifted from the ground, there was nothing she had control over anymore. In fact, perhaps 30,000 feet up in the air was the only place she really ever relaxed.
When they landed in Berlin, it was to a surprisingly bright and sunny morning. The air was cold but less so than London and, without the chilled fog, the conditions were far more pleasant. Eva took a taxi to the hotel booked for her â a stark, modern building that appealed to all her minimalist tendencies. It was not too pricey, not too cheap, the perfect option for someone travelling on the budget of an NGO.
She checked in and found her room, an attractive enough space on the third floor, with a window that looked out on to wide roads and glass-sided buildings, the closest of which housed another hotel. The street was lined with cars; on one side a fleet of cream-coloured Berlin taxis waiting to pick up, and on the other a selection of private vehicles. At the front was a large black bus with âVIP' emblazoned in the kind of silver lettering that indicated no one âvery important' was on that vehicle.
She deposited her suitcase on a chair, unzipped it and began unpacking, quickly hanging up a pair of black jeans, a dark dress, the only pair of smart trousers she still owned, a bright orange sweater and several lightweight shirts with tiny prints on them, one miniature lemons and the other swallows flying in regulated geometric lines. She retrieved her wash bag and walked into the bathroom where, once again, she found herself looking into a face that didn't feel like hers.
Her resting expression now appeared to be a combination of exhaustion and wariness. She looked like she hadn't slept properly for a week. Which, actually, she hadn't.
She put down the wash bag and unpacked toothbrush and paste, which she placed neatly in a glass holder by the sink. She took out her hairbrush and pulled it through her dark hair and then retrieved make-up that would disguise some of the exhaustion that she felt.
Once she had finished, she looked better. And felt better.
She left her room, slamming the door behind her, and decided to walk around the hotel. It was the kind of place she knew would have conference and meeting rooms, as well as a âfine dining' restaurant with white tablecloths, sparkling silverware and a jus on the menu.
She found the reception desk and asked where she could buy a coffee and breakfast. It wasn't time to leave the hotel just yet. The receptionist indicated the âGrande Gallerie', a modest space housed in what was essentially a glass atrium in between the lifts.
Once the waiter had handed over the Wi-Fi password Eva, like anyone alone in a restaurant, began to pay excessive attention to her phone. She scrolled through old messages, tidied up her emails and then browsed a few social networking sites. She decided to clear out some of the older texts and began methodically working her way through the list.
There, towards the end, were the texts she had received from âJackson' when she had been in Paris. Thirteen months ago. She had looked at these only twice after she had received them. There had simply been no time to find out what they meant. But now, she had time.
She scrolled through the two messages. The content looked like lines of code â it was certainly not English, nor any other similar language. But neither was it the Cyrillic alphabet she had come across several times recently. When she realised she was unlikely to make any progress alone, she took a screenshot of the message on her phone and sent it to Sam. He seemed naturally gifted with computer stuff so perhaps he could help her decipher what âJackson' had been trying to send her.
She didn't trust Sam to the extent that she would reveal why she needed his help, but she figured he was an innocuous enough person to ask in her current situation. Perhaps working on this might deter him from asking more of the searching questions he seemed to specialise in â when can we be exclusive, do you love me, that kind of thingâ¦
Eva shifted awkwardly in her seat at the thought of it.
At first, the attachment refused to send. She noticed her phone seemed to have dropped the hotel's Wi-Fi connection. She waited and then, several minutes later, the bars returned and the message went through straight away.
As she was online, she decided to try her own translation, opened an internet page on her phone and copied and pasted the message content into a free translation website. There was no result. She was not surprised, she couldn't even see what language it was supposed to be, so she couldn't blame a machine for being unable to do it either.
Out of interest, she pasted the copied text into the search engine of the internet page. At first, the jumble of letters and symbols appeared to generate no response. And then she noticed it. She had been about to close the internet page on her phone but the word was there on one of the search engine hits â âkolychak'.