The Killing Files

by Nikki Owen

But he moves again so I try to roll off the bed, but my limbs are still weak, and he stalks towards me, the man with the mask from my nightmares and my flashbacks, the man with the Scottish accent. Dr Carr.

  Black Eyes.

  ‘Where am I?’

  Black Eyes walks to my right side, drags out a chair and sits. I press myself backwards into the bed, muscles firing to work now as I feel the cold metal of the bedstead on my skin. I knew, when I let them capture me, that I would see him again, but nothing could prepare me for the horror of seeing the man in the flesh that for the last six months I have seen only in my nightmares.

  ‘You gave us quite the run around, didn’t you? Oh, but it is so nice to see you again. You look tired, Maria.’ His skin is pale and rigid, and on his face pockmarks form craters around his chin and on his cheeks, and his mouth, when he speaks, reveals the tombstone teeth that stalk the corridors of my dreams.

  ‘Where am I?’ I repeat.

  He crosses one leg over the other. ‘You are at our Project Facility in Hamburg.’

  Hamburg. My heart races, adrenaline shooting out. Something about the city clicks and vaguely connects, but what and how? The sedative is still making my cognitive thought fuzzy and when I attempt to think it through, I keep arriving at a halt, the music colliding to blur my brain. I talk, focus on buying some time until I function correctly. ‘Your facility is in Scotland, it is not in Germany.’

  ‘Our Scottish facility, Maria—Subject 375—is merely the one we would take you to when you were younger. We are an international programme. We have more than a single facility.’

  ‘Why have you brought me here?’ My eyes flip to the door, the exit, escape.

  He follows my gaze. ‘There’s no need to run.’ He picks up a tiny black remote control with three buttons and points it at the ceiling speaker. The music dies and the room slips into a loud silence.

  ‘You can’t get out,’ Black Eyes says now, returning his focus to me. ‘Not yet anyway. And besides, I’ve missed seeing you. I’m just sorry we’ve had to get you over to me—us—in this way.’

  ‘Why do you want me?’

  He smiles, but nothing happens to the skin around his eyes, no eye wrinkles or creases. I observe him. Without his white mask, I can see his entire face. His lips are thin in a kind of washed-out pale, dishcloth type of pink, and on his left cheek is a two-centimetre scar. His ears, when I track them, are large elephant affairs that seem to flap when he moves, and on his skull are weeds of black hair, his wiry body attired from his chicken neck down in a white robe over green surgical trousers and tunic.

  There is a plastic file in his hand and he opens it. He consults a document then looks up and when he does, a shiver ripples down my limbs, as I realise with anticipation that my muscles are thawing now, some feeling returning and my mind is beginning to gradually function.

  ‘Black September,’ he announces, ‘do you know of it?’

  My brain hits alert. Black September: the organisation Chris found data on at his villa. I stay very still while I think, while I try to determine what he is aiming to do.

  ‘Why are you asking me this?’

  ‘You wanted to know why you are here—I am simply trying to explain.’ He tilts his head and as he does, it reminds me of the gargoyles chiselled into the stone on Mama’s apartment building in Madrid. ‘Black September was a terrorist organisation,’ he says. ‘I believe you discovered one of our documents referring to them.’

  A small stab of panic hits my chest. ‘The eye on the computer, it was—’

  ‘Me, yes. Well, not actually me, but an image downloaded.’ He smiles and I see his murky teeth. ‘I thought you would appreciate the … intelligence of it, let’s say. Some may not. But, well, I know you well, my dear.’ He sighs. ‘Oh it really is so good to see you. I get lonely here, you know. Things have … well, they’ve changed. Time moves on.’

  My panic rises. Patricia. She has my rucksack with the USB stick containing the downloaded files from the computer in Chris’s house.

  ‘Anyway, Black September,’ he says now, ‘carried out murders and bombings at the Munich Olympics in 1972. There was also an attack on an electrical installation in Hamburg.’ He pauses, scans my face like a laser, then recommences. ‘In response to those events, and others, professionally trained counter-terrorism groups were created. Two of these groups were called GSG9 and GIGN. Another was called Project Callidus. Every organisation has a—’ he flurries a hand in the air ‘—a code name, if you will. Ours is Callidus. Project Callidus.’

  ‘Callidus,’ I say, on autopilot, unable to stop myself. ‘It is a Latin word which means astute, clever or cunning.

  Black Eyes nods. ‘Good. Good.’

  I think now, brain beginning to turn a little faster as some semblance of normal function returns in tiny parts. The classified documents I discovered in Balthus’s prison office said the Project began in the 1970s, and the ones from Chris’s house correlate with the year 1973. Does this mean Black Eyes is telling me the truth? An unease swells in my stomach and I tap my fingers and clench my teeth as he continues talking.

  ‘Of course, unlike the other groups, no one knows about us.’ He looks at my rhythmic finger. ‘I see your original little Asperger’s traits are still there.’ He tilts his head. ‘No matter. You have been without our chaperoning for a little longer than we’d have liked. It is to be expected.’ He shuts his file then looks up. ‘So, I have been informed that you killed an MI5 officer this week. You knew her as Dr Andersson, correct?’

  I don’t reply, a fear taking over me now. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Oh, Maria,’ he sighs. ‘We have known each other for so long now, so when will you realise, hmmm, that I—we—we know everything.’ He leans in and I smell his garlic and tobacco stench, and I almost gag.

  ‘Everything,’ he whispers.

  Chapter 25

  Deep cover Project facility.

  18 hours and 42 minutes to confinement

  Black Eyes moves back from me and sits on his chair. He folds his legs one over the other and delivers me a wide stare. ‘We want you back into the Project fold, Maria. Back to your surrogate family.’

  His statement takes me by such surprise that a screech slips from my lips. ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  He regards me for a moment. ‘You, Maria, are the one the conditioning programme has worked on. You must know this—you have seen the classified files. Did you think we’d spend all the money we have on training you and what? Just give you up, just like that?’ He shakes his head. ‘I don’t think so. People can only hide for so long.’ He pauses. ‘My own daughter used to like to hide. Peek-a-boo. Isn’t that what they call it?’

  Something fires in me. I jump at it. ‘You said I am the only one the conditioning has worked on, which implies you have tested on others. Who else have you used the programme training on?’

  He smiles. ‘A good question.’ He shifts in his seat and his surgical scrubs rise up showing mud-brown socks on white, wiry ankles.

  He sighs and, without saying a word, scrapes his chair nearer towards me so that when I look to him, I can see the pockmarks on his face so clearly, my brain can count each and every one.

  ‘I want you to know something, Maria.’

  My arms press flat and hard into the mattress. ‘I said, who else have you used the programme training on?’

  He narrows his eyes. ‘You think we are the bad guys, is that right?’ I open my mouth to speak, but he wags a finger. ‘No, no. No need to answer. I know your response.’ He leans back a little in the chair. I barely breathe. ‘But what you may not be aware of is that we are also known as Cranes. It’s a … nickname, if you will.’ He waves a hand. ‘Oh, I know, nicknames are childish, and I doubt, given your non-typical neurological patterns, they are something you deal in, but this one, well, we are affectionate towards it. You, naturally, know of the country of Japan, yes?’

  I do not respond, i
nstead calculate how long it would take me to jump to the exit from the edge of the bed.

  ‘I want you to answer, Maria.’ He sits forward. ‘Now.’

  ‘I know Japan.’

  ‘Good.’ He rests back again and I feel my jaw tremble. ‘Now, after World War Two, in Japan, a crane came to symbolise hope and peace. A young girl—her name was Sadako Sasaki—she contracted leukemia due to the atomic bombings. She knew she was dying, so she took to making thousands of origami cranes.’ He tilts his head. ‘She died aged twelve, and the world held her up as a figurehead for the innocent victims of the war.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  He inhales. ‘The cranes Sadako made symbolised peace, Maria. Peace. We, too, stand for peace.’ He pauses. ‘Cranes—our nickname—it means peace because that’s what Project Callidus represents, that’s what we are about, what we fight for: peace. The National Security Agency scandal was just a red herring that threw us off track.’

  ‘The NSA were carrying out unauthorised surveillance on non-political citzens.’

  ‘What? And you have a problem with that?’ He leans in. ‘Let me tell you something: the work we do saves lives, Maria, lives. Does everyone really think they are protected online?’ He tuts. ‘This is the real world. Terrorists. Cyber hack hits, all of them threatening our infrastructures, our economies—our way of life. We do what we do to protect our security and freedom of speech.’

  ‘For the greater good,’ I find myself saying.

  His lips tilt upwards. ‘Ah, you remember our training mantra.’

  I ease my back into the bedstead and feel the metal screws of the steel frame dig into my skin. ‘The Project is not a peaceful organisation.’

  He bolts out of his chair. It is so fast, so unexpected that, at first, I think I am imagining it, but then his face is in front of mine, pressed almost into my nose, his rough skin on my cheeks and his hot breath on me, sending my brain into spirals of chaos. It makes me gag. It makes my stomach want to convulse and my throat want to vomit, yet I do not move. The file. I need to know where the flashback was located so I can get to Raven’s file.

  ‘Peace!’ he spits. ‘We represent peace, Subject 375. You are a member of Callidus and you will not forget that. Will not! Do you understand?’

  ‘Y-yes.’

  He remains there for two more heat-filled seconds then finally peels his face away and returns to his seat. I exhale, hyperventilate, desperate to wipe his stench from my skin, wipe away his slimy spit and breath, but I know that if I do so, it will alert him to the fact that the sedative has worn off and I can move. My hospital gown hangs in a tent over my legs and when I glance to my knees, I see they are rattling.

  ‘I am sorry I have to be so sharp with you at times, Maria, but I cannot stress to you enough the importance of what we do.’ He leans in. ‘You are shaking. You must be cold. Here.’ He drapes the end of my gown over the goose bumps on my legs and I go so ridged with fear, my bones feel as if they could snap in two.

  ‘So,’ Black Eyes says sitting back, ‘we know you were online, hacking.’ He smiles, a slit, a sharp spike. ‘What did you find?’

  ‘I found surveillance data.’

  ‘On whom?’

  I pause. Do I tell him? ‘On me.’

  ‘On you and your father.’ He consults his file. ‘An Alarico Martinez, correct?’

  My teeth clench at the sound of Papa’s name. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the information you accessed detailed this man as a contact, yes?’

  I don’t answer, can’t.

  ‘Answer me.’

  Do it. Buy time. ‘Yes,’ I force myself to say. I close my lips as I feel my legs and arms returning to me, the sensation of it flowing in and as it does, in my head I can feel my brain finally firing, drug free.

  Black Eyes crosses his legs and delivers me a stare. For a moment, I don’t know what is happening or what to believe. I want to ask Dr Carr about Papa, but I am scared to, because what, when I ask if Papa was the Project’s liaison, will I do if I am informed it is true?

  The lights in the room cast out a soft glow. They pulsate into the air and fill it with a sun-kissed colour, and when I look at the walls, at the whiteness of them, they seem cream now in the light, and the familiarity of it all calms me somehow and enables me to think.

  ‘Let me tell you, something, Maria,’ Black Eyes says now, his boney face protruding outwards, ‘something you should have been told a very long time ago.’

  I don’t move. I keep my limbs still and try to focus on why I am here and what I need to do.

  ‘You understand,’ he says now, ‘what it means to be Basque, yes?’

  I press my lips together, unsure why he is asking me this. My mouth is dry and the air is tepid, and I can feel my head rush with nerves and adrenaline.

  ‘I asked you a question.’

  ‘I know what it means. Yes.’

  ‘Of course, you do,’ he says. ‘So tell me, Maria: what do you think I have to tell you?’

  ‘I cannot read your mind, therefore I am unable to give you an answer.’

  ‘Come, on,’ Black Eyes says. ‘We trained you better than this. You are intelligent, you have an exceptionally high IQ. You tell me what you have deduced from the information you found.’

  ‘My father was helping you,’ I say.

  ‘ So that is your conclusion. Hmmm.’ Black Eyes tilts back his head and looks down at me through creased lids. ‘It’s interesting to see you notice everything, yet you have not noticed what is right under your nose.’ He pauses. ‘Fascinating. Peek-a-boo this certainly seems to be.’

  His eyes flutter briefly shut and I quickly look to the exit and see the shadow of a person outside.

  ‘Blood,’ he says now, eyes opening, ‘is the key here, you see. Your blood, its origins, is, well, let’s say it is special to us.’

  A vague fear begins to surface upwards. ‘Why would my blood be special?’ I speak slowly, carefully, as if speaking the words too fast would trip me over and I’d never be able to get up again.

  He unclips a pen from his jacket and tips it like a spirit level, lowering it forward towards the file that sits, now, fanned open on his lap. ‘You are blood type A, yes?’

  I nod.

  ‘Aloud!’ he shouts.

  I jump. Every hair on my body shoots upright, rigid. ‘Yes.’

  His shoulders soften. ‘Thank you. My apologies. And you are Rhesus negative?’ He provides me with one, sharp stare.

  ‘Yes,’ I hear my voice reply. ‘I am RhD negative.’

  Dread begins to creep through me as my brain fires, neurons charging. Blood, it whispers. Blood. Blood. Blood …

  ‘You recruited me for my blood type,’ I say, quietly, almost to myself.

  He angles his head to the left. ‘Very good.’

  ‘Why?’

  He taps the nib of the fountain pen on the file. ‘Only fifteen percent of Europeans are Rhesus negative, fifteen percent, but you see we have discovered over the decades, that these Rhesus negative types make excellent test sources.’ He pauses. ‘In Basque natives, did you know, the number of Rhesus negative types is an unusual thirty-five percent, and they all tend to be blood types O or A. Perfect subject material.’

  My brain connects and links. ‘Why are you telling me this? I am not Basque.’

  He regards me for a moment. ‘You like patterns, yes?’

  I hesitate. ‘Yes.’

  ‘We discovered the quality of Basque blood via DNA patterns, helixes. That was how the real core of the Project took off.’

  ‘The Project used only Basque subjects to test on,’ I say, repulsed at my words, at my conclusion.

  ‘Precisely, because their blood is perfect for use in our conditioning programme, yes, and, of course, with a thirty-five percent ratio, there have been so many of them at our … disposal,’ he says. His pen hovers in mid-air by his side. ‘Once we made this discovery, from then on we used only pure-Basque subjects, ideally with some
Asperger’s, with an autism link, like you. Their blood—your blood and your brain—they are really fascinating.’ He pauses. ‘Do you understand what I am saying now?’

  But I can’t speak. My mind is moving fast now, but I want it to stop, want it to halt the course it’s hurtling towards at a trajectory so rapid, it will smash everything I recognise into tiny, unrecognisable pieces.

  ‘Maria—Subject 375—do you understand?’

  And even though I do understand, my lips say, ‘No.’

  Black Eyes stays still. He remains in his seat and regards me for a second until, inhaling, he removes the file from his lap and taking his fountain pen from his pocket, he unclips the lid, walks over to me and leans in.

  ‘Then let,’ he says, grabbing my arm, ‘me enlighten you.’

  Fear floods me. He holds his fountain pen above me and plunges it down, his talon fingers pinching my upper arm, locking it down as he starts scratching green ink into my skin.

  ‘No!’

  He scratches deeper into me. ‘This has to be so, my dear. I know, I know. Ssssh, there, there. It hurts me to do this, it truly does, but it must be done. It must.’

  The sound of my own screaming vibrates around the room until I pass out in pain.

  Chapter 26

  Deep cover Project facility.

  18 hours and 26 minutes to confinement

  I come to. Black Eyes watches me then replaces the lid on his pen, sits down on the metal chair and crosses his legs. I raise my right arm, my hands and limbs, head trembling, as inch by inch I pull my shoulder round towards my face and view what he has done.

  A shriek escapes my lips.

  ‘Rather like your very own custom-made tattoo, hmm? I loved tattoos when I was young. Of course, my father wouldn’t allow it.’ He studies me. ‘I see the sedative has worn off. Good, good.’

  The lights glow in the room. With my fingers shaking, I touch my skin and wince as the tips touch the ink from Black Eyes’ fountain pen and I see with horror what is now permanently etched into me.

  The words: I am Basque.

  I throw up. I lurch to the side of the bed, haul my head over it and vomit on the floor, drips of food hanging from my mouth and spritzing up my nostrils. Black Eyes frowns. He slides a beige handkerchief from his pocket, flaps it out whole then, bending forward, dabs his shoes clean.