Dark Shadows

by Sibel Hodge

  I ran until I got to the back of Klein’s house, where I stopped and did a few stretches as I looked up and down the path, checking for people. The only witness was a lone duck on the river, paying me no interest.

  I pulled the balaclava down over my face, pulled on a pair of latex gloves and plastic shoe covers, and hoisted myself over the six-foot wooden fence. However careful I was, I’d leave something behind—fibres, skin, or hair—but I’d protected myself as much as I could.

  I jumped down the other side, landing in Klein’s back garden, my gaze scanning the immediate area. The property was a large L-shaped mock-Tudor-style home in red brick. An alarm box sat just under the eaves of the house. Mature conifers lined the boundary fencing on either side.

  I ran across the dry grass towards a set of French doors, scanning the house for CCTV cameras. I didn’t see any, but that didn’t mean they weren’t well camouflaged. I just hoped that if there were any, they were only recording and not being monitored via an app Klein had on his phone. If he were alerted to my presence, that would cut my search time down considerably.

  I didn’t know if I’d need to smash a window to get in, hence the duct tape, which would suppress the noise. But as I looked at the French doors, I sent a silent thank you up to the house-breaking gods that it had only a simple lock.

  I peered in through the glass, looking into a kitchen-diner, straining to listen over my adrenaline-fuelled pulse pounding in my ears. The internal door leading from the kitchen to a hallway was open, and there was no sign of anyone.

  I got my lock picks from my backpack, took a deep breath, and tried the door handle, just in case. It was amazing how many people either forgot to lock their doors or still routinely left them insecure. It didn’t budge, so I inserted my tool in the lock.

  My hands shook as I manoeuvred the pick around in the metal lock casing. Sweat beaded on my forehead and at the back of my neck. One minute later, I was still having trouble.

  In the distance, a dog barked. I stopped and stood stock-still, trying to assess how close it was. Someone walking a dog in the nearby woods, perhaps, or out on the river pathway? My heart pounded as I waited.

  After hearing nothing further for five minutes, I rolled my head from side to side and got back to work, and a minute later, the mechanism released with a satisfying little click.

  I clutched the handle and swallowed a ball of anxiety before opening the door. It swung inwards silently. I stopped inside the threshold, holding my breath, waiting for the alarm to kick in. But for some reason, it didn’t.

  I quickly ran through in my head what I’d read on the police database. Klein definitely had an audible alarm only, not a silent system. So maybe the gods were doing overtime for me somewhere and there was some malfunction problem with it or Klein had forgotten to set it.

  I listened for any noises coming from inside for a few more seconds as my heart seemed to ricochet around my chest. But there was still no alarm, no music or TV, no footsteps or water running.

  I slipped inside and closed the door carefully behind me.

  Chapter 47

  Toni

  At first light, I got dressed in brown leggings, a dark-grey long-sleeved T-shirt, and black trainers. Then I stared out the window, nervous anxiety clawing in my chest as I waited for Mitchell to arrive.

  After three hours, he turned up in a vehicle I’d never seen before. I tucked my long hair up into a navy-blue baseball cap, grabbed a pair of gloves, and left my apartment.

  I slid into the passenger side of a white Volkswagen Polo and asked, ‘Did you steal this?’

  ‘Don’t want there to be a chance of the plates coming back to us,’ he said. He was dressed almost identically, in black running leggings, a camo-print long-sleeved top, and a black baseball cap.

  ‘Never thought I’d see you in a pair of tights.’ I raised an eyebrow, a slight smile tugging at the corner of my lip.

  He snorted. ‘They’re not tights. They’re performance leggings.’ He fired up the engine and drove off.

  It was 9.22 a.m. when we drove into Klein’s lane. There were no cars parked in the vicinity, and Klein’s Mercedes wasn’t on his driveway.

  Mitchell drove to a fork at the end of the country lane and took a left. He drove for a few minutes then pulled off the road onto a narrow track in between the woods that was most likely used by dog walkers. He parked up out of view of the road and killed the engine. ‘Lee’s already hacked into Klein’s alarm, and it’s now out of action.’

  I nodded.

  ‘You ready to do this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He twisted around and grabbed a small, lightweight drawstring bag from the rear seat. I got out of the car and waited for him, jogging on the spot for a moment. He locked up the car, put the keys in the bag, and strapped the rope strings over his shoulders.

  We took off at a jog through the woods. My stomach clenched with nerves as we headed towards the river and the back of Klein’s house.

  Just as we emerged from the trees, I spotted a woman ahead of us, jogging along the riverbank, a small backpack over her shoulders. Mitchell grabbed my arm and pulled me down behind a large bush about six metres high and the same in width. I crouched beside him, heart hammering, as he peered around it. He held up a hand, indicating silence.

  A few seconds passed before he turned back to me and whispered, ‘Whoever that was, she’s disappeared over Klein’s fence.’

  Chapter 48

  Mr White

  Nathan White sat in his car and rang Professor Klein, who picked up on the fifth ring. He didn’t waste time with pleasantries. ‘I need the test subjects’ files from you.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘You were at the same meeting I was. The testing phase is over, so your input is over.’

  ‘Can’t you wait until tonight? I’m at work at the moment, and I’ve got a full day of patients.’

  ‘How kind of you to be so considerate of your patients’ needs. Let me rephrase the question… I want them now. I need to pass a copy of them on to my superiors.’

  ‘I can’t. They’re at home.’

  White narrowed his eyes. ‘What did I tell you about keeping them at your house? I told you to keep them with you at all times!’ Bloody hell, what was he playing at?

  ‘I was worried in case someone stole my briefcase. I can’t watch it constantly while I’m at work.’

  White blew out an angry breath. Klein might be a genius in his field, but he had no common sense. The sooner they were done with him, the better.

  ‘Don’t worry, the files are hidden,’ Klein said.

  ‘Hidden where?’ White snapped.

  ‘Under a false bottom in my office desk drawer. The bottom one on the left. If you really need them now, you can get them from my house, but you’ll need my keys and the alarm code.’

  White pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it with a snarl, incredulous that Klein thought White would run around after him. No, White had others to do his dirty work. He was the one who did the ordering, not Klein. He pressed the phone against his ear again. ‘I’m not coming to pick up your keys from you. I won’t need your keys—I can get inside with no problem. And I know what your alarm code is.’

  ‘How do you know what my code is?’ Klein’s voice got louder.

  ‘Shut up. Do you want your colleagues to hear you? It’s my business to know everything about everyone concerned.’ White hung up and started the engine, but his frown was quickly replaced with a greedy smile. It wouldn’t take long to do a detour back to his own house to copy the files before he handed them over. He’d already secretly put the feelers out with the contacts he’d amassed over the years, and there was now a bidding war going on between the Chinese and Russians. He didn’t give a shit either way. A few more hours, and he’d have every piece of data to sell. And the best part—he had an undisputed record of patriotism, an unblemished record with MI5. His loyalty would never be questioned until it was too late.
r />   And he knew exactly where and how to hide the money for his daughter.

  Chapter 49

  Detective Becky Harris

  I stood still in Klein’s kitchen, listening to a tap dripping in the sink and an oversized clock on the wall ticking. I swept my gaze over the room, looking again for hidden cameras but spotted none.

  Klein had owned the house for fifteen years, and his décor was clinical and cold. The black cabinets looked as if they’d been polished to a high shine. The stainless-steel splashback was smudge free. The white granite worktop was pristine, apart from the usual kitchen stuff on top—kettle, toaster, mug tree, and a pile of paperwork at one end. The only thing on the glass dining table was a folded newspaper. I sprang towards the paperwork and searched through bills, receipts, and leaflets for events going on at the university. Boring, boring, boring. Until I got to a good bit. A payslip.

  It was marked in the corner with a logo and a company name. Regen Logistix.

  I opened the front flap and saw it was dated two weeks ago, for a payment due the previous month. It was for just over eight thousand pounds.

  So Klein wasn’t just a research fellow at the university. He was being paid a wage by this company, as well. And I was betting they were the people who’d manufactured the nanochip.

  I took a photo of it on my camera and then turned my attention to the kitchen drawers and cupboards and hurriedly rifled through them, but it was all cutlery, crockery, utensils, takeaway menus, and dishcloths.

  I made my way into a hallway with a thick dark-blue carpet. I opened the door to my left, which was a small toilet. Nothing interesting in there. The room opposite was a home office, the door partially open.

  I stepped inside and found an antique oak desk along one wall beneath a small window that overlooked a path at the side of the property and a row of conifers. On top of the desk was a chocolate-brown leather desk pad and a printer. I saw no personal laptop or PC, but several blue files that looked like they could be patient files were messily stacked up along one edge. On one corner sat a pen holder with a handful of biros, pencils, fountain pens, and a sharp letter opener. Along another wall was a fitted cupboard with white doors.

  I sat in Klein’s worn leather chair and picked up the top file. There was no patient name on the front, and as I quickly read through the first A4 sheet of paper, it became clear that the contents didn’t relate to any students. This was research notes on a study involving computer viruses that had infected various nanochips. The next files in the pile were also research papers involving something called Deep Brain Stimulation for Parkinson’s patients.

  I found another file with printed notes that included various subheadings: Research focusing on brain-computer interfaces. Implantable nanochips. Cybernetics and medical devices. Human-computer implant technology. Direct connections to the nervous system.

  I read through the technical jargon, but found nothing that specifically related to the students, Klein’s involvement, or anything about Regen Logistix and a new nanochip that was actively being tested.

  I took a photo of the pages anyway then turned my attention to the desk. There were three drawers on the left, ranging in size from small to large. The top drawer was full of empty file folders, pens, paperclips, and envelopes.

  The second drawer contained unopened packets of printer paper. In the bottom drawer I found a pile of medical, scientific, and technological journals. I picked them out, put them on the desk, and flicked through the pages, seeing if any notes were hidden inside, but found nothing.

  I was just about to put them back when I noticed the plywood base of the drawer sat higher than the bottom rim, and there was a gouge on one side, as if a tool had been used to lift it recently.

  I ran my fingertips along the edge of the plywood, but it was wedged tightly against the sides. I pulled my penknife from my backpack and slipped it down one edge, easing the plywood upwards. When I had enough room to slip in a finger, I lifted it, a smile curving my lips as I spotted another pile of files. This time, there was a name on the outside of the top one. Farzad Nuri.

  My heart almost stopped for a moment as I pulled them all out. Five in total.

  I put Farzad’s to one side and read the names of the other students. Vicky Aylott. Ajay Banerjee. Natalie Wheeler. Marcelina Claybourn.

  I opened Marcelina’s file and quickly read through a page of handwritten notes, which started with the initial appointment, when Marcelina had had her patient survey and blood and urine tests. After she’d been declared unfit for the memory study group, Klein had indeed contacted her about another study group, which was ultra-confidential and paid far more money. Klein described how he’d inserted a nanochip in the back of her neck via an injection, although he’d told her it was a mild muscle relaxant needed prior to having the CT scan to keep her still and calm during the procedure, telling her that sometimes people got claustrophobic with those types of scanners.

  Goose bumps prickled on my skin as I read through follow-up appointment notes, where Klein observed various memory and behavioural tests he’d carried out on the unsuspecting victim in his office. There were notes about Marcelina being followed by someone called Glover, who I suspected was Hoodie Guy. About Glover having an app on his smartphone that connected wirelessly to the nanochip in her head, emitting the same radio frequency as our own brainwaves, and how he’d manipulated her mind to produce certain thoughts or patterns of behaviour. Fairly innocuous occurrences at first, until they were sure it worked, like how he’d made her leave campus, walk to Verulamium park, and sit there for several hours. And plenty of other occasions where he’d made her do things against her will.

  Klein noted the side effects of the chip, such as nightmares and sleepwalking episodes. Then came the real crunch.

  Klein had written down conversations with Marcelina, where she’d seen him and expressed concern about her erratic behaviour. She’d been worried something in the tests had sparked it off. Klein had assured her she was okay, that nothing he’d done could’ve caused her increasingly bizarre symptoms. Following that, he’d noted a conversation he’d had with Glover about Marcelina’s suspicions and a follow-up conversation.

  Glover has spoken to White and Hughes, who are all in agreement that Marcelina needs to be silenced. She’s asking awkward questions. Glover hasn’t told me what he’s going to do. I’ve expressed my concerns about this.

  And then a note the next day.

  Glover has been following Marcelina. Today, after she spoke to a counsellor, he was on hand to arrange a car accident. This was a grave mistake, in my opinion. And the mistakes are piling up. The nanochip has been intercepted by Glover at the hospital, but to leave things in this haphazard state will invoke possible future scrutiny into Project Shadow.

  I opened the files of the other students and skimmed the pages until I got to the parts where they’d been forced to kill themselves or others.

  Vicky Aylott believed she was climbing Mount Everest prior to jumping, even though she suffered from acrophobia. The result is clear. Not only can the subjects be stimulated to act against their own free will, they can also be manipulated into losing phobias and self-preservation.

  I would not have chosen self-immolation for Ajay, but it was not my decision. However, the result is more than satisfactory. It proves a clear ability in the test subject to inflict extreme self-injurious behaviour.

  Natalie has been exhibiting paranoid behaviour, a side effect of the chip. I suspect I’m not privy to all the tests Glover is doing, but it is possible he has gone too far. I believe she may suspect there was more to the injection than simply a muscle relaxant. I’ve been told she has to be dealt with as a matter of urgency.

  Today, Natalie’s brainwaves were altered in such a way that choreographed her to run over and kill an elderly man with her vehicle. He is, of course, collateral damage, which I’m far from happy about, but the test proves the will to inflict injury and death on others.

  However,
the flow of data between the chip and the app has been slightly inconsistent. Remote signal was lost for a period of time after the event. Instead of Natalie driving to a pre-designated spot to take her own life, as planned, the loss of signal meant that she drove in a confused state back to the university. All possibility of loss of data interception will be eradicated with the rollout of 5G. This new technology will provide absolute accuracy in manipulation of the nanochip and uncompromised direct subject targeting.

  The blood curdled in my veins as I read more snippets.

  Stage 2 of injury infliction testing on others needs a more violent approach to prove success. It is one thing to kill from a distance with a vehicle, but killing with one’s own hands is a necessary escalation for the scope of the chip to be explored to its maximum potential. In this case, murder. Although, yet again, I have expressed my concerns about the methods.

  Farzad Nuri was successfully exploited to carry out this test in full and with significantly excellent, albeit distasteful, results.

  ‘You bastards,’ I whispered to myself, anger humming through my veins. ‘You’re going to pay for this.’

  I stuffed the files in my backpack and pulled it over my shoulders, adding a count of theft to my morning tally of criminal offences. What I had was explosive, but it was only half the picture. It didn’t prove any connection between what Klein was doing and the company who made them. The company that I suspected was Regen Logistix. Nor did it prove the involvement of our own security services. It wasn’t evidence of who was pulling the actual strings behind the scenes.