The Killing Files

by Nikki Owen

  I feel relief and try to remain calm. ‘Page thirty-five.’

  He turns the page and reads my words and it jolts something. That day when I went for the ice cream—I remember it so well because Papa, unlike Mama, allowed me to have my sauces served separately because Papa knew I couldn’t cope with red and yellow being mixed together back then, or even side by side. And I remember that now and recall it because, the next day … the next day I was taken to the autism facility by Mama, and Papa wasn’t there. But did I write it down?

  ‘What is the next entry?’

  ‘Wait.’ Ramon flicks the page, states the date. ‘It says something about a white room and a computer and a load of weird tests.’ He looks up, a deep frown fixed to his brow. ‘M, what on earth would you write all this for? Is it some kind of dream?’

  But I barely listen, because all I want to do right now is jump and whoop and clap my hands because even though the memory in my journal would have been hazy and distorted by Project drugs, it gives me the answer I need: Papa could not have been the Project’s contact. The date Ramon gave me kick-starts in my head a domino effect, dates toppling one into the other as I recall the times and days and even the weather on the occasions I went to the Project under the pretense of visiting the autism facility.

  Papa did not take me to a single one.

  So if he wasn’t the contact, why were his initials on the file we found? It must have been ploy, a cyber trail the Project wanted me to follow. That’s how they found me—it makes perfect, logical sense now. They knew Dr Andersson had been to my villa, knew I could kill her, take her SIM as I am trained to do, and so they planted false data in there somehow, via their covert asset in MI5, and that plant must have had a virus on it that—when the false Papa contact details were accessed and read, as they knew I would read them—it would instantly trigger a geolocation tracker for them to find me right there and then at the monastery.

  ‘Maria?’

  I jerk my head up. Ramon is staring at me, the frown on his head even deeper now.

  ‘You have a huge smile on your face,’ he says. ‘Does it help, reliving the memories of Papa?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ He beams.

  ‘Because it means that Papa wasn’t in contact with the Project. And the Project are corrupt. They hurt people. They scratched words into my arm with a green ink fountain pen and they use people only for their blood type. Did you know we have Basque lineage somewhere in our family?’

  His grin drops and he slams the book shut. ‘Jesus, M, stop it.’

  ‘Stop what?’

  ‘Talking about the Project like it’s some awful, evil thing!’

  He stops, chest heaving. I watch him and slowly, dread and fear rise up inside me all at once, as I connect together what his words signify.

  ‘What do you mean, Ramon?’ I say, barely daring to ask. ‘How do you know the Project?’

  He catches his breath. He wipes spit from his chin and levels me with a gaze. ‘You talk about the Project as if they are bad.’

  ‘They are bad. They do bad things and they have done bad things to me. They have made me do bad things, too.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, no, no!’ He starts pacing, knocking the light as he goes sending the bulb swinging into the air so the room swims in and out of light and darkness.

  I begin to worry. This is not the routine way in which my brother normally acts and when he eventually stops, his eyes are downturned and his face sweats.

  ‘They said you would say this about them,’ he says after a moment.

  ‘Who?’

  He shakes his head. ‘The Project do not do bad things. They are there to help you.’

  I keep steady and force myself to ask the next question. ‘How do you know this, Ramon?’

  He raises his head now and looks to me. ‘Because I asked them to help me with you,’ he says, then lifts his head high, jutting out his chin and chest. ‘Because I contacted them. Never Papa. It was me.’

  Chapter 28

  Deep cover Project facility.

  18 hours and 1 minute to confinement

  I let go of the pillow and throw it to the floor. The officer does not move.

  I drop to my knees and, reaching my fingers forward, check for his pulse. There is nothing, no heartbeat, no pump of blood in his veins and when I watch him and wait, expecting to feel the surge of horror and shame I felt when I killed Dr Andersson, I instead feel nothing, not a shred of upset, not a flicker of doubt. I observe his corpse and tell myself that I have done the right thing. Prepare, wait, engage. The phrase circles my head.

  I stagger to stand, wincing at the bruises that have sprung up all over me, drop my hands to my sides and glance to the speaker where the music still flows. I have to move. Soon—very soon—whoever is expecting me to arrive for tests will question where I am, will wonder where the officer in the sweater is, and, when he does not show up, they will come looking for us.

  I observe my scratched, naked body, with its ripped gown hanging from me and think. I have to get out, but I can’t run dressed like this, unprepared. I look back to the man, to the clothes he wears, to his pockets, and, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I hobble over to the corpse and start to first pat it down for anything that may be of use. From the large combat pocket on the left leg, I extract an item and, holding it out in my palm I see an old floppy computer disk. This is odd—these have not been used for over a decade, so why does this man have one?

  I search the rest of his clothes. Pulling out four more items, I examine them at speed and count a swipe card, a cell phone, an opened packet of gum and a tiny black and silver car fob. I turn the fob in my hand, clocking the make of the vehicle, then, setting the items to the floor, I scramble across the tiles and, with fumbling fingers, begin to rip the clothes from the dead body and put them onto my own.

  Slipping the sweater over my head, the clothes baggy but adequate, I scoop the stolen items back up from the floor and thrust them into the combat pockets, tightening the belt as much as it will go. I count to five, turn to the door, expecting a lock to unpick or a code to crack, but it is open, simple. I glance to the officer—he must have thought I’d be easy to handle.

  The 1930s music plays as I peer now out into the corner. The area is clear. The walls, like in the room, are white and along the crease where the floor sits is a black strip that runs as far as the eye can see. There are no windows but instead sequenced strips of clear Perspex in sections, pieces that, like the bed in the room, have rounded rather than angled edges, and when I track above me I see the lights that run the course of the ceiling have a low-stimulus glow as each area of the corridor moves along in clearly defined, compartmentalised segments.

  Scanning one more time for any officers, I clasp the sweater around my abdomen, tiptoe through the door, thinking of the cell phone. I can use it. I can use the dead officer’s cell to contact Chris via secure text so he knows my location. I pad forwards and go as steady as I can with bruised limbs and a beaten face, my eyes scanning every inch of space, and even though there are no cameras at first glance, no hidden recording devices, I tread along the walkway, slow and silent, stopping at short, defined intervals to check for any unwanted sounds.

  I turn a corner and immediately hit a problem: an officer is standing nearby talking on a phone. I dart behind a pillar and peer out, heart slamming against my chest as I watch him and think. The best plan right now is to wait—the officer may be finished with his call shortly, meaning he will vacate the area and I can move, but as I observe him and scan the area, something on his shirt catches my attention. There are regular buttons on the shirt, a soft cotton fabric, yet what makes me go very still is what is printed in black just below the right-hand shoulder. It is the letter H followed by a three-digit number.

  My mind instantly goes to the flashback. When I entered the room in that memory where Raven was, there was an officer present with the same le
ttering and number font as this officer here now. I risk another look to check in case I am mistaken, but I am not. The two are the same. Black Eyes said this facility is in Hamburg, so is that what the H on the shirt simply signifies? Hamburg? And if so, does that mean that the image I recalled where the woman told me about the room and the files, is here? I look again at the walls and the lights and curves and try to conjure any memory I have of being here, of walking here, and there are some hazy, smudged thoughts, but nothing I can hold tightly onto.

  An idea strikes. Slipping the stolen cell from my pocket and scanning the area before I start, I unclip the SIM from the cell and check for bugs. Satisfied there are none, I return the SIM, switch on the phone and, bypassing the pin code through a fast hack, I go into the device, enable text encryption and, peering around the corner and seeing the officer is still there, I message Chris.

  With Project. Injured but ok. In Hamburg. Can u trace my location. Looking for file …

  I hit send and almost immediately a reply pings back.

  Hiya! Was worried. Your cell has GPS. Project can track it. Am disabling Project tracking so only I can track u then u r safe. Doing it now … Patricia says: five fingers (??)

  Patricia, her hand sign to me. I clutch the cell and the nerves I feel pass a little easier at the thought of knowing my friend is there for me and that she, for now, is safe. I wait, anxious for the next reply. I cannot tap my foot or the officer ahead will hear, so instead I clench my teeth and count. On five, Chris finally replies.

  Done. Got you. Your location is 7 km outside Hamburg near disused factory. I can track u to a walkway in building flagging up as a pharmaceutical company. Balthus says: be careful. I say: what ;-)

  What. I find myself, for some reason, amid the chaos and anxiety, smiling just a little at Chris’s word. I text back.

  Tell Balthus: officer here with same letter (H) & number font as in flashback with Raven. Think this could be the facility with the file. Do u concur?

  Five seconds later, a reply returns.

  Balthus here. Yes. Agree. Sounds the same facility. Be careful. Stay in touch. Chris ready to help.

  I clutch the cell, breathing much easier now when ahead the officer finally finishes his call and strides away from the corridor leaving the place empty. The lights glow, casting soft yellow lines to the white walls and when I scan the area, the Perspex shimmers and the rounded edges of the plastic gain a small, gentle glint. I am about to pad through the walkway when a message comes in from Chris, and I slip back behind the pillar for cover and read it.

  Balthus said file & computer from flashback may be in ICE room. I have an idea how to locate it.

  I try to ascertain how he could do this, but when I come up blank, I text back.

  How? Not possible.

  Process of elimination, Google he texts back immediately. Do most Project facility rooms, from your memories, have server computers & internet enabled?

  Fast, unsure where he is going with this, I think through what I recall.

  Yes. 98% probability of server connection/internet. What plan? Chris: Hacking into their system now via geolocation on your cell … Wait …

  I tap my foot and feel nerves rise inside me. The longer I wait out here, the greater chance I risk of being found. After four seconds, Chris replies and I allow myself to breathe out.

  OK. Process of elimination. There are only two rooms without server/connection internet that aren’t store cupboards. One of them could be the ICE room you need.

  I stare at the phone a little shocked. How did he do that so quickly? But before I can think it through, another text comes in and this time it links to a live map tracker of the internal infrastructure of the Project building.

  I type straight away.

  Is this secure??

  100%. The red dots indicate the two rooms for you to try. Can u find them? Side note: located two cameras in the area and switched them to static image so you safe

  I look up. He’s right. There are two tiny black dots in the corner of the corridor where the ceiling meets the wall, barely visible and when I squint my eyes, I can see two microscopic lenses with a glass sheen. I exhale, wipe a bead of sweat from my brow and, counting to three to stay calm, I look back to the cell phone map from Chris. The rooms are not far away and when I calculate the time it will take to reach the first room, I realise it is only twenty seconds in the corridor to the right. I look up. The area is clear.

  Will go to nearest room now.

  As I send this, holding the cell phone out so I can watch my movements on the map on the screen, I begin to sprint along the walkway, my feet padding along the tiles.

  I reach the first room in twenty seconds as forecasted and stopping, scan the corridor to ensure I am alone. When all seems safe, I text Chris with my status and observe the door that now stands in front of me. It is silver. It stands at 204 centimetres height and when I touch it, it feels cold where the stainless steel sticks to my skin. Hinges roll on the outside of the frame and when I look to the handle, I see a scanner entry system pad with an infrared light under the shaft of metal that lies on the top. The red light shines, signalling that the door is locked, the room barred. I take out the swipe card from the dead officer, look at it then look to the door and to the scanner and see instantly that the two will match, meaning the door will open. But that is not what grabs my attention, what makes me now realise that what I am standing in front of is the room from my flashback, the one Raven was in, the one Mama must have overheard someone talking about and told Balthus of when she was ill.

  I look up, scan for any officers and, when I am sure there are none present, I text Chris fast.

  Located ICE room

  He replies instantly.

  What? You certain? How can you tell?

  I lift my eyes to the door, to a brushed metal panel with black writing that sits in the top left-hand corner. The panel reads: Isolated Computer Environment.

  ICE.

  I hold up the cell, click a picture of the panel and, sending it to Chris, text, Track me, then, swipe card in my hand, I steady my fingers and go to open up the ICE room door.

  Chapter 29

  Deep cover Project facility.

  17 hours and 52 minutes to confinement

  My fingers pinch the swipe card and are about to glide it under the scanner when a text flashes up on the phone from Chris that says STOP!!

  I whip my hand away and read the next message, anxious now that someone will come very soon and find me.

  Do not enter ICE room yet. Have detected a sensor on the door that alerts a central control room if activated. Will disable alarm now

  I look at the words and think. Disabling the alarm will enable me to enter the ICE room without the sensor triggering, but there is a huge problem with Chris’s suggestion. Palms sweating now, I text back fast, not sure if I will be in time to stop him.

  URGENT: Do not disable alarm. Control will detect if alarm disabled. Will flag on system. You must instead bypass system and switch sensor to a permanent ‘no alert mode.’ This will not arouse suspicion

  I stop and wait. My heart beats hard against my chest and when I look to the area beyond, the lights on the ceiling flicker and the walls shimmer in frost-bitten white, and in the air a clinical, detergent smell drifts in and out. After five seconds, Chris finally replies.

  OK. Good spot. Hacking into control centre system now. Hard. Will be as quick as can :-0

  I look at the symbols he has put on the end of the message. I don’t know what they mean and it bothers me. My foot begins to tap. I am exposed here in the corridor and even though the cameras have been deactivated and the cell phone cannot be traced by the Project, I am still vulnerable. I wait. My eyes scan the door, checking again the panel where the description of the ICE room lies, the words appearing etched on, thick black, rigid and straight. I risk touching the door and find it is smooth, and when my index finger runs down the centre, a streak of cold comes up so fast and unexpecte
dly that I have to snap my hand away to stop it from draining of blood entirely.

  I check the cell. Chris has not replied and it is now hard to contain the anxiety inside me, so I focus on my breathing and clench my teeth to contain what panic I can and not alert the Project to my position. My fingers hover, about to text a request for an immediate update on progress when there is a sound. I freeze. Boots in the far distance at, on initial calculation, one hundred metres away, the distinct slap of their rubber soles on tiles indicating two, perhaps three people. And they are coming towards this area at reasonable speed. I quickly text Chris.

  Urgent I text. Officers approaching. Require update now

  I jerk my head up and scan the corridor. They are closer, perhaps fifty metres away, no more, the sound becoming louder and louder in my ears and my head, and when I stop, voices whisper out, drifting up through the corridor. I look again at the phone, but still there is no message.

  ‘Where is she?’ I hear a voice say somewhere ahead, words clipped and neat.

  They are only thirty metres from me now. I could enter the ICE room and take a chance on not triggering the alarm, but this is the Project and all areas have a high probability of being monitored and checked, and if, upon entering, something alerts them, they will find me. Twenty metres now. I swallow, scan the left side of the corridor. Here, the warrens seem to disappear as if they were going down a hole, the air darker, the lights lower and the glow so muted, the colour appears to be lilac and purple rather than orange. I could run that way. I could sprint right now and take a chance at finding a route through, contacting Chris so he could track me on his laptop remotely and help me escape. I think. Fifteen metres now, round a corner somewhere the boots sound.

  The cell vibrates. I nearly jump at the sensation of it in my hand and, fingers slick with sweat, I read.

  Done. Go in room NOW

  The voices are ten metres away. Keeping my nerves as steady as I can, fast, I swipe the entry card under the sensor and, twisting the handle as softly as I can, slip through the door, and as I click it carefully shut, three pairs of boots stomp past outside and walk straight on by.