Killing Eva

by Alex Blackmore

  The woman – small and blonde – slowly nodded in agreement. She found a curved tumbler and poured a small amount of water from a tap situated on a white basin fitted into the corner of the room. Then, she dropped the white powder into it.

  He hadn’t seen him coming. Perhaps it was the hunger, the disorientation, or the fact he had taken his eye off the ball, for just a second, to consider his options. But he had not seen it coming. That was not like him and there were few other men who could take him unawares, not with his training. He was now fielding blow after blow. A punch to the side of the head made his ears burn and ring. A low stab with a clenched fist to the solar plexus forced him to bend double in agony. For some reason, he felt unable to defend himself, he couldn’t even stand up. When it came down to it, he realised this was the one person he couldn’t – wouldn’t – fight. And, of course, that had been intentional. That was why Jackson was here.

  As the blows rained down on him, Leon felt this was the moment he had spent so much of his life trying to escape. Disconnection of body and soul. Perhaps it had been over as soon as he saw the man’s face and recognised, in those features, the anger over his betrayal all those years ago. Inevitable.

  And now that it was over it was almost a relief. He would no longer have to deal with the constant struggle between right and wrong that had recently become his daily internal monologue. He deserved this. Maybe it was even what he wanted.

  As acceptance descended, he felt his body relax and the air around him seemed to tense, to vibrate at a slower pace. He was waiting for the final blow, the one to extinguish the light and leave him in the comfort of darkness.

  And then, in the pale light of a fingernail moon, he suddenly saw something change in the face of the man opposite. It flickered, almost imperceptibly, but it was there – almost as if a mask was being lifted to reveal the real face underneath. And that stirred something in Leon. He began to fight back.

  ‘I have no idea how he got the knife.’

  ‘Well, he clearly didn’t buy the face.’

  Silence.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Paul finally, ‘our man must have been carrying it – against the order I gave him.’

  ‘I think your problem is that you underestimate people,’ replied the man with the Mediterranean tan, ‘the technology doesn’t work, we should report it.’

  ‘No!’ the younger man was indignant. ‘You don’t understand, this should be foolproof. It was just because we couldn’t put the implants into him.’

  ‘It is faulty – or unfinished.’

  Paul lit a cigarette and turned away. ‘Do you think he really saw beneath?’ he asked, childlike. ‘The drugs and mapping alone should have been enough for such short exposure.’

  At first, the older man didn’t respond. Then, finally, ‘he must have, what other reason could there be?’

  Angrily, the young man threw his cigarette on to the floor and ground it down with his heel. He lit another.

  ‘He should have been the one to die.’

  ‘The risk you took was too great. We should have executed him when we had the chance.’

  The older man was right, Paul knew that. But he had been so sure that such a painful, humiliating and emotionally draining revenge was the satisfaction he needed. To watch Leon unable to fight, paralsyed by his own guilt. Guilt that he had seemingly never felt for the death he had visited on others – others who had once meant so much to Paul.

  But it had not worked. The technology had failed – or rather he had left it incomplete, made a mistake.

  Silence hung in the room as Paul lit another cigarette and the older man continued gazing at the screen of a wafer-thin laptop.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked the younger man, finally. He felt as if the ground was shifting beneath him and he needed the balm of normal conversation.

  ‘Checking the grid.’

  Paul continued to smoke in silence.

  ‘Where are we with the corporate identities?’

  The question was posed in a completely different tone to the way the man had spoken to Paul earlier. A point had been made and they were moving on. This, Paul liked about his new colleague. What he didn’t like was that, at some point, what happened today would be used against him. In the short time he had been here, Paul had realised the other man stored up events as weapons against others. Against anyone who could do him damage. He had a harmless, Gentleman Criminal, exterior but he was, in reality, ruthless, efficient and deadly.

  Paul set aside the plans formulating in his mind concerning the escaped man. He would still be able to deal with the situation, it would just take more time and imagination. He had not lost. It was not over. He began to compose himself. For now, he had to keep a neutral front.

  Quickly, he put out the cigarette and took a chair at his position at the table, accessing his own laptop. He spent several seconds working his way through electronic files.

  ‘Most are already registered and running.’

  ‘Most?’

  ‘Ninety-five per cent.’

  ‘And the rest?’

  ‘Within days.’

  ‘Are they proofed?’

  ‘I…’

  ‘As in, will they stand up to full scrutiny?’

  ‘They are based on the exact model developed.’

  ‘So they are impenetrable?’

  ‘Yes, they should be. Completely disassociated corporate entities. No connections can be made by sector or location.’

  ‘All of them?’

  Paul looked at the grid. The lines splayed out from each name on the page but went nowhere. There were no connections made between them, no links.

  ‘According to the grid, not a single one.’ Paul was careful to choose his words properly – he must answer based on what was in front of him and not his own opinion or the responsibility for getting it wrong would land on his shoulders. He was learning.

  ‘And where do we stand in terms of ownership?’

  ‘We are on target.’

  ‘No alerts?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any interest from the FCA?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Authorities abroad?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So the activity has gone unnoticed.’

  ‘It would seem so.’

  Paul nodded silently. He marvelled at the preparation that had gone into this – the foresight of paying off a myriad of insiders for ten years before they might be required to do anything. And he wondered, most of all, where the money for this had come from. He understood vaguely what was happening – to the extent he had been told before he had even begun this journey – but there was obviously more.

  Paul knew he needed additional information to piggyback on the situation. He also knew that he was walking a relatively precarious line. Soon, his own contribution would really be tested – the reason they had taken him on. And, if he was going to achieve the results he needed to, that contribution would have to live up to expectations. Which, so far, it hadn’t. So far, he had failed. And, in this company, that was a dangerous position to be in.

  ‘Infrastructure contracts?’ The questioning continued.

  ‘Ahead of schedule. All key utilities and public service provision.’

  ‘And the shares?’

  ‘We already have volume to wield a controlling interest in most.’

  ‘Do you know, I really hate the vagueness of “most”?’

  He did know that.

  ‘We have a controlling interest in 85 per cent,’ came the amended response. For the first time, the older man looked satisfied. ‘This is good,’ he said quietly.

  TWELVE

  The sun was burning the bare skin on his forearms. He could feel the stinging sensation of cooking flesh as he lay motionless on the ground. He opened his eyes and tried to
push himself into a sitting position. Dust rose from the dry earth with the movement; he began choking on it. His arms gave way and he fell back to the ground.

  As he lay on his back, Leon became aware of being watched. He turned his head to the right.

  Dead eyes glared back at him.

  The other man lay motionless.

  Momentarily, Leon wondered whether he was actually dead but there was no way he could have survived the knife wound, a cut made sharply under his ribs, splitting the flesh and piercing his heart.

  As Leon’s eyes focused, he saw a dark area around the body where the blood had seeped into the sand. He looked again at the face opposite.

  It was not Jackson.

  A dull pain in his ankle interrupted the thought process. Gradually, the pain grew less dull, growing in intensity. He gritted his teeth as the sensation seemed to radiate throughout his body, waves of warm agony almost too much to bear.

  After several seconds, adrenaline gave him just enough strength to drag himself upright and he could see the bloody mess of flesh just below the ankle bone. The other man had tried to slash the tendons in his ankle but the knife had cut millimetres to the left. It was a piece of luck, nothing more. But it had allowed him to live. Leon pulled the leg of his combats back for a better view; the flesh was crawling with insects. He could feel their fast-moving bodies, consuming his rotting flesh; realisation dawned: danger. Infection. Frantically, he began to clear the wound of seething movement. How long had they been feasting on his broken skin?

  His movements were laboured. He must have at least one broken rib, he thought, and there would surely be more damage visible once he got behind an X-ray machine.

  With enormous effort, he cleaned the wound as best he could, wrapping it in a strip torn from his shirt to protect it. Then he was on his bare feet, looking around. His head was spinning, his eyes unfocused. The fear that he was beyond help, that death might be imminent, washed over him. He had to get help. He had to get help.

  He felt his pockets but they were empty. He looked around him.

  There was nothing other than the man who lay dead, his face a mess of angry purple bruising where Leon had been unable to hold back his anger. Quickly, Leon limped over to the deceased and searched his pockets. He took the knife and searched for a phone but there was none. He did, however, find a bulging money clip, an Omega Seamaster watch and a tiny remote control, single button, of the kind that would open a garage door. Other than that, there was nothing but a single black business card – ‘Veritas’. He took it too and, once again, felt an urgency to move.

  He glanced around.

  The landscape felt African to him. Perhaps north African.

  It was arid, dusty and dry and the sun was incredibly strong. It was high in the sky, so he must have been lying there all morning.

  He turned his face to the sun and began limping towards it. There was no way of knowing where he was, or which was the best direction to take, but he must begin to move, to make decisions and, hopefully, find help along the way. If he did not, he would die.

  He did not want to die.

  Before, it had felt inevitable but now… after what he had seen. No.

  Every step brought sharp pain in his right ankle and severe discomfort each time the bandage touched raw flesh underneath.

  As he tried to force clarity through the pain radiating from all over his body, he realised he could see on the horizon the dark outlines of buildings. He began to move faster, dragging the injured leg that would not move quickly enough.

  He had to get help.

  Slowly but surely, the horizon loomed closer. He was approaching a settlement. It looked small and remote but there would be a mobile phone. There was always a mobile phone.

  When she awoke that evening, Eva could remember almost nothing of what had happened to her since she left the club the night before. She was lying in bed fully dressed but when she started to undress she found she was wearing a pair of long black socks underneath her jeans. She stared at herself in the mirror. She looked like a character from a porn film. The socks finished at her thighs, although one had rolled down when she removed her jeans. The look was at odds with the rest of her underwear.

  They are not mine.

  Her heartbeat began to flutter. She didn’t own a pair of socks like this.

  She sat, fell back onto the bed. Her head began to swim.

  Who had put them on her? Who did they belong to?

  Confusion and disbelief began to whisper and then scream in her ears. What had happened to her? Why didn’t she know? Automatically, she raised her hands to cradle her head, to try and trigger some memory. But there was nothing there. There was just nothing there.

  As she lowered her hands, she noticed she had bright red marks around her wrists. She gazed at them and began to rub them. The flesh was sore, it had been cut in places.

  She looked from the black socks to her wrists and back again.

  It was like a nightmare. If she could just remember.

  ‘Remember,’ she said to herself, rocking slightly forward, ‘remember!’

  But her mind was just a dense grey fog.

  She began clawing at the black socks, tearing them from her legs. She bundled them up and threw them into the bin, then ran to the door of her hotel and checked it. It was not locked from the inside.

  She stumbled backwards.

  Could someone really have broken in and done this to her? Could she somehow have done this to herself? Eva had had more than her share of painfully embarrassed awakenings after a drunken night out but this was something else. This was more than drunk texting abusive messages to an ex or throwing up in the street. She had never blacked out like this before.

  She forced herself to calm down by sitting on the bed and taking deep breaths for several minutes. Then she checked the rest of the room to make sure there was no one still there. She indulged all her wildest worries and looked for hidden cameras, condom wrappers, any sign that she might not have been in there alone. She checked her bag for her phone and wallet, both were still there. What on earth had happened to her?

  She was half-inclined to call Andre and ask him whether he had seen her leave but one thing she did remember was that, by the time she left the club, he was nowhere to be seen. But that was all she could remember. Almost at that exact point, her memories stopped.

  Slowly, she stood up and headed for the shower, trying not to allow rising waves of anxiety to take hold. Had she taken something? Had she been spiked?

  She had felt absolutely fine when she left the club. Perhaps a little drunk – drunk enough to think it was a good idea to set off into the city on her own to find a taxi in an area she didn’t know – but she hadn’t felt drugged or high, which was something she should have been able to identify. Eva began running the shower and clouds of steam billowed into the bathroom. She turned the heat right up and stepped under the scalding stream of water. She began scrubbing furiously at her skin. She wanted to be outside it. Why had this happened to her?

  Panic continued to pluck at her mind.

  Again, she had to physically force herself to slow down her breathing and her thoughts. She did not feel as if she had been raped. She would know.

  She began to breathe normally.

  She turned the heat down on the shower.

  She stopped scrubbing at her skin, closed her eyes for several seconds and reached for the shampoo.

  That’s right, she thought to herself, if something like that had happened, I would feel it. There would be damage – bruising at least. Wouldn’t there?

  She looked down at her thighs and felt the flesh around her middle and back, but nothing hurt. In fact, other than her wrists, she didn’t even feel she had been touched.

  Try to make sense of this, she told herself, don’t fall into fear and become overwhelmed. But her mind
felt clouded.

  She began to force herself to think backwards. The last thing she remembered was the moment Andre had disappeared. Or was it? No, she knew she had left the club and she knew she had been on her own trying to find a taxi. So, what had happened between that point and this? Eva tipped her head back and allowed the warm water to soak her hair. Another memory began to surface. Two people – a couple – walking towards her in the dark, and the woman…

  Eva stopped shampooing her hair. She remembered the strange movement the woman had made with her hand, lifting it to her mouth, opening her palm and apparently blowing something at Eva. That was odd.

  But it was also a clue. More of a clue than she’d had several seconds ago.

  Eva felt her mind begin to settle; the ground returned to beneath her feet. She had something to go on, she could take some action.

  Nevertheless, she was still shaking.

  She quickly finished her shower, wrapped towels around her trembling body and cocooned her hair then walked back to the bed. There, she took her laptop and typed ‘drug you blow in someone’s face’ into Google.

  She hadn’t, of course, expected anything to come up, but there were pages and pages on it.

  The results made her heart beat faster. Numerous links discussing a VICE documentary about a drug called ‘scopolamine’ – the ‘world’s scariest drug’. It could be administered by being blown into someone’s face. It was a drug that rendered someone incapable of exercising free will. Victims became docile and helped the perpetrators of the crime being carried out against them. Women had been drugged and gang raped or rented out as prostitutes, tourists relieved of all their cash at ATMs.

  The drug came from Colombia, but most of the information the search engine generated suggested it was already quite widespread across Europe, so there was every chance there would be some here in Berlin.

  But why use it? And why her?

  Eva curled up on the bed. She looked at her phone and saw all the texts and missed calls from Sam and others wondering why she had not come home that day. When she got out of the shower, she’d noticed a note from reception telling her she would be charged for another night after apparently failing to hear all the polite knocks on the door. That was fine. She wanted to stay exactly where she was. Until she worked out what had happened to her, she didn’t feel she could go anywhere.