by Nikki Owen
‘I know, right?’ Chris says. ‘That’s some pretty deep stuff you were involved in.’
I scan the file then look up, a sick feeling in my stomach. ‘She knew all about the NSA, this woman. It is all here. She knew who they were, what they did. And she could hack.’
‘Doc, talk more slowly.’
I read it all now, my eyes racing across the screen, pressing it all to my memory banks. ‘Sadeqa had a high IQ, could get into the CIA’s system and they did not like it, the organisations, the Project, the governments. She was a danger, and they wanted her dead. And they assigned me to do it. She said they would make me kill her. But before I did, they made me use her as an asset, get as much intelligence data out of her as possible.’
I pause, swallow a little as I read the next section, because what is there, what I now witness in black and white, smacks me hard in the chest. I sway a little, toppling slightly into Chris.
‘Whoa, steady.’
‘What does it say, Doc?’
A lone, solitary tear escapes because the answer, finally, is clear.
‘I killed her,’ I say, a quiet whisper amidst the drum beat of the market. ‘I killed Raven. I killed Sadeqa.’
‘What?’
Patricia scans the file as my sight swims a little and my brain struggles to process the facts and detail.
‘You didn’t kill her,’ Patricia says now.
‘I did.’
‘But Doc, you didn’t, not knowingly.’
‘What if there was a part of me that really knew? What if, deep down, it is who I am?’ I look at the stall and trace my finger in the wood, finding refuge in the ordered pattern of the swirls and grooves. ‘She said the file would tell me who I really am, and it has.’
‘But, Maria,’ Balthus says now, ‘the file has told us what the Project has really done, the atrocities of how they have tested on thousands and blanked out their identities. They took you for tests against your will.’
‘We can use this stuff, you know,’ Chris says. ‘We can email it to the government and show them what’s happening right under their noses. We have the definitive files.’
‘That’s what we should do,’ Balthus says. He ruffles his shirt, billowing the creased linen fabric in the heat so cool air flows. Somewhere in the distance, a chicken squawks. ‘There’s a flight out of Lisbon to London tonight. We’re all going to catch that and I’ll get this file to Harriet.’
‘Balthus’s ex-wife, Harriet, is the UK Home Secretary,’ Patricia says to Chris.
‘No,’ I say.
‘She actually is,’ Chris says.
I stand up. ‘No, I can’t go to Lisbon.’
‘Maria,’ Balthus says, ‘we have to stay together.’
But I shake my head. ‘I have killed people. I killed this woman called Sadeqa and the Project know everything I have done. MI5 know everything I have done. The only person in that loop who doesn’t know everything I’ve done is me. I thought this file would prove I haven’t killed but I have.’ I pause as the sentence sinks in and a strange wave of sadness passes over me, casting a cloud over any sun that may ever shine. ‘Being the person I am puts people in danger.’
‘Doc, no.’
‘Yes. That is what I needed to know, that is why I had to see this file, the Sadeqa file. You three are in danger near me. And because of me and what I have done, my mama and brother are not safe either. Now I know I have killed, now I know I have eliminated major assets, I am a target, my friends and family are a target. That is what I needed to know, and now I do know, I have to go and see them. I have to make certain they are not in danger from the Project, even if that means hiding them away.’
‘What? Doc, no,’ Patricia says. ‘You have to stay with us now. It’s not safe. The Project could be watching.’
I turn to Chris. ‘Keep the files and make copies. When I return from seeing Mama, we will need it. Can you help me with her security?’
‘Sure.’
‘Maria, please, no.’ Balthus says. ‘It’s dangerous.’
‘I need to know they are safe. I …’ I stop, throat dry, a strange feeling of unease inside me. I look at them, at my friends, at Chris who I barely know but feel as if I want to know more, at Patricia who means the world to me, who calms me, at Balthus, my father’s old friend who I feel an unusual bond with, a bond I have missed for so many years. They want to help me, these people, and I fight it, sometimes, because I don’t know how to handle it.
We stand there, the four of us, amidst the humming and the market rumble and the chorizo and the chickens, we stand there and we think and we contemplate what comes next.
‘I have to go to Madrid,’ I say after a moment, looking up. ‘I have to see if my family are okay.’
Patricia lets out a deep sigh. ‘I know.’
‘We’ll be close,’ Chris says. ‘If we get at all concerned, we can be there.’
‘Yeah,’ Patricia says. ‘We’ll follow you over, stay near.’
She steps forward and spreads out her fingers. I inhale her talcum powder scent, not wanting to leave her again, wishing the feeling of calm and safety she gives me would last forever.
Balthus steps forward. ‘Maria, do you really think this is necessary?’
‘I have to see them,’ I say after a moment, quiet, eyes downturned, suddenly tired. ‘I can’t keep running and hiding and leave my family open to danger, not now, not when I know what I know.’
He smiles, eyes creasing, and nods, and a lump scratches my throat.
‘Hey, who’s that?’ Patricia says.
We prop our hands on our brows and, squinting in the sun, look. There is a woman and a man, each of them dressed in black and they are scanning the distant crowd. On their wrists are heavy grey watches and as they look ahead, their sight stays fixed and locked. We are out of view where we stand, cloaked by the cover of the canopy and the narrow tin roof that juts from the wall next to an old fruit shop.
‘Do you think they’re from the Project?’ Balthus says.
‘I don’t know,’ Chris replies, ‘but, Maria, I think you shouldn’t stay to find out.’
I watch the two figures as they levitate among the crowd. Their boots are black and leather, their movements methodical and robotic, and on immediate glance, they appear out of place among the floating summer fabrics of the Sunday market shoppers.
I look to Patricia. ‘Stay out of the way, don’t let them see you.’
She nods and, for the last time, I hold my fingers to hers and feel her warm, soft cotton pads of fingertips, as, from my periphery, I see the figures moving in. My heart charges up and my pulse spikes.
‘Maria,’ Balthus whispers, ‘go. Contact us when you get to Ines’s. Stay in touch.’
I glance to them all, take a photograph of them with my eyes, try to recall every scar, pimple, curve, wrinkle, smile, crease.
‘Oh, shit,’ Chris says.
I turn. The black boots are approaching faster now. I spin back to my friends, give them one last look and, thrusting my cell deep into my pocket, I run to the wall, leap on a bin, and catapult myself over to the other side.
Chapter 36
Apartment buildings, Central Madrid.
1 hour and 13 minutes to confinement
I reach the edge of Mama’s apartment building in the centre of the city out of breath.
The early evening sun is sighing down onto the pavements, the cars on the roads having a siesta on the street. I slip behind a tree so I can see clearly across the road and check if I have been followed. The building Mama lives in when she is in the city shines with bright, white marble, and, when I scan the vicinity, I spot two figures sitting on a park bench across from the main entrance, one reading a newspaper, the other in running gear, doing up her laces. Neither looks to each other, but it is clear they are watching, two intelligence officers from either MI5 or the Project waiting for me to show up. And while that concerns me, what worries me more, what makes me tense and eager to get into the buildin
g, is that if the Project are here, what have they done to my family?
Pulling my cap down low, I stride forward along the road to a department store building made of cream-coloured stone that soaks up all the yellow of the sun, and slip into a hidden side street. The light plummets here as if in a cave and I stop, scan the area, sight adjusting. I take out my cell, text Chris my status and look around. To my left there is a set of external steps that snake up the building, zigzagging to the roof. As I turn to face where my mother’s apartment building would be, my brain automatically calculates the length and trajectory of the scale of the high wall. I think it through. If I can get up the steps that snake towards the top, I can sprint to the roof of Mama’s apartment then enter in through her balcony doors without being seen by the Project or MI5 below. It is tight, a risk, but no matter which way I turn it, I cannot see another viable route. A siren wails from the road beyond, making me jump and, not giving myself time to contemplate my options any longer, I slap a stray sweat bead from my face and scramble up.
After one hundred and seven steps, I reach the top, my thighs burning. Catching my breath, I can instantly see that the height gives me a clear view of this area of Madrid. I can see the cars circling the gardens beyond and below, spot people the size of small beetles secreting themselves along the walkways, and as I observe it, all of the noise and activity continues, and yet here it is relatively quiet and calm. I inhale. I am grateful for small mercies.
I start to move, sight set on Mama’s building, and am going so fast that I don’t spy a metal bar that juts out on the route my feet take. I trip up instantly, flying through the air and tumbling over, smacking my head onto the ledge, and, for a moment, I almost go over the side. I gasp and drag myself back, as blood trickles down my brow. I stop and wait. The airport, the market, the chaos of earlier still rattles in my head and so I think of Patricia and of Balthus, think of what they would tell me to do right now, and I find myself breathing easier, counting to ten, wiping my face and starting over. I move forward five, perhaps six steps next when I glance down and immediately halt. There is a drop. It bridges between the two buildings and is sheer, like a rock face, almost, of marble and window ledges that poke out at ninety-degree angles. Fast, I calculate the size of the gap and therefore the speed I need to run up then jump. If I am to clear the edge, I have to have a long sprint.
I count to three, think of Patricia and, swallowing hard, I run.
I fly off the edge. My legs scramble in the air as my arms reach out, heart slamming against my chest so hard that it feels as if it will explode out as my arms now spin round in a failed flap. Wind whips through my hair, cold and slicing, and when I look down, I can see the drop by the apartment roof. It rushes in closer, closer, closer … until I land with a thud, rolling to the side, knocking my shoulder hard into a long steel pipe. I come to a stop. Everything aches. My shoulder, my legs, my arms and my knees. I drag my body up, take stock and, assessing no major injuries, steady my hands, wipe the sweat from my cheeks and carry on. I have cuts on my face, and a sharp pain in my collar bone that makes me wince, but other than that, I am fine, and now I stride straight to the ledge and look down. The balcony is just below, Mama’s apartment stretching over three floors.
I go left foot first now. Inching along a ledge of stone that juts out from the level below the roof, I grip on as hard as I can but it is more difficult than I anticipated, my fingers struggling to hold on. But, bit by bit, and against my judgment, it starts to work and, eventually, the balcony comes into view. Iron railings, ornate fixtures. Gilded. Guarded.
I take one step more, two and—
I trip. I topple backwards and my cell phone slips from my pocket and, unable to stop it, I watch the phone tumble in the air, spinning to the ground below. It smashes to the pavement. I watch it for a second as my whole body drags myself upwards, sideways, anyways, my abdomen crunching inwards, until, finally, breathless, I do it. My body swings itself over and my feet land back on the flat stone and to safety.
Taking one last look at my lost broken cell below, not knowing how I can contact my friends, I gulp in oxygen and get ready for the next part.
Counting to ten, I ease myself up now to the higher ledge. This one is thicker, wider, leading to Mama’s private window, and I make quick progress, not glancing down once, not taking my eyes off the balcony ahead. In fifty-two seconds, I make it. Carefully as I can, I swing my legs over the corner of the wrought-iron barrier and parachute my feet to the floor. And within ten seconds, I am on Mama’s balcony.
Slapping hair and sweat from my eyes, I get my bearings and silently look around. The French doors to Mama’s apartment are yawning open, heavy, patterned curtains swinging in a lukewarm breeze and from this angle, I can see the room is empty. When I move next, it is slow, measured. I enter Mama’s house, tiptoeing looking for where Mama may be, anxious to check she is okay, that she is safe, and just as I call out for them, for Mama and Ramon, something smashes into my head, so fast and hard that it knocks me out entirely and sends the rooms swimming to nothing but a tiny black dot.
And some time after, I wake up with a jolt. The room is dark, damp. I cannot see properly. I have been caught, that much I know, but I am unsure by whom. The Project? MI5? Someone else?
I don’t know how I got here.
I don’t know how I am going to escape.
Chapter 37
Apartment buildings, Central Madrid.
Present Day
Ramon opens the door of the basement, light flooding in, and I charge at him.
Before he can move away, before my brother can register what is happening, I smash the metal stand across his shoulders and, locking my arms around his neck, kick out his shins. His legs buckle instantly.
I yank Ramon’s head to the side, fast, sharp. ‘You are going to take me out of here. Now.’
‘What are you doing?’ Ramon says, choking.
I drag him towards the exit. ‘I am getting out of here.’
‘Stop it, M! Stop!’ His legs are kicking forwards, his heels slipping as if on ice. I tighten my grip around his torso and shove him forward with my knee.
‘Move.’
We reach the stairs and Ramon tries to thrust his arms out, but my grasp is so strong, the fuel of my intention, of my determination so forceful, that my muscles clamp to him like a vice. He staggers up the steps, lopsided in my clench, feet half flapping along the stone and he trips a little, and I wobble, hands loosening slightly. For a second, I feel Ramon’s arms push outwards, but, sharp, I regain my footing and haul him to the door.
‘Unlock it.’
Snot trails from his nose. ‘M, don’t do this.’
I squeeze tighter. He winces. ‘I said unlock it.’
His hand falls to the side, slipping into his pocket.
I jerk my head, immediately on alert. ‘What are you doing?’
‘The key,’ he says, spit dribbling from his mouth. ‘The key is … it is in my pocket.’
‘There is a touch pad.’
‘I know … I know … It uses both systems.’
I thrust my hand into his trouser pocket.
‘Why … why are you doing this?’ Ramon yells out, yet I barely hear him, the only focus I now have being getting out of here, on ending what is happening, my whole short-term memory now of how I got here, of all the data I uncovered from the Project, from the Sadeqa file, all fresh in my mind.
‘You are with the Project,’ I say. ‘You have been helping them for years and somehow implicated Papa in it all, even though he had nothing to do with it.’
‘What? No! M, this is crazy. Stop and think about what you’re saying. The Project … they help you.’
My fingers touch the key and I wrench it out like guts from a fish. Pulling Ramon with me, I drive the key into the lock and turn it.
‘You’re hurting me,’ Ramon says.
But I ignore him, because there is one more obstacle now: an access code. I scan it, brain fast, trac
king every curve. Key pads get smudged when they are overused, but it can be hard to define if the code is changed. Keys three and seven are almost obsolete.
‘The access pad—the first two numbers are three and seven. What are the remaining two digits?’
‘M, please …’
I squeeze his skin tighter. He chokes. ‘Nine and … five.’
Not wasting a second of time, worried the Project or MI5 have got to Mama upstairs, rapid now, I punch in the numbers and click. The door unlocks.
Heart firing on maximum, I complete the final and third step and haul across the three iron bolts that guard the entrance.
A creak slices into the silence as, before my eyes, the door groans open and stairs emerge, biblical, like Jacob’s ladder in the Book of Genesis. The steps are stone and painted with a black, sleek gloss, and the walls are adorned with slate grey paint that sits matt against the glare of the gloss. When I look at it, the colour instantly dulls the air, making it dark and cold, and, as I drag Ramon forward, I realise that I have never been here before, in this part of Mama’s town house; she never allowed it.
‘Where does this lead to? Papa’s study?’
‘M, you can’t … Please, just stop.’
‘You are with the Project. It has to end.’
‘Do you even know what the Project is? M, I think you—’
But I ignore him and, gripping his head in the crevice of my arm, I haul my brother up towards the stairs and, together, we ascend the steps.
We halt next to another door. It is white and constructed of metal. There is no lock or alarm system and so, eager not to waste time and knowing Balthus, Chris and Patricia will be concerned now as to my whereabouts, I tighten my arms around Ramon’s neck. ‘How long have you had me down here for?’
‘What?’ He splutters saliva all over the wall.
‘How long have you kept me in the basement for?’
‘Twenty-three … hours.’
