Killing Eva

by Alex Blackmore

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, Eva, you saw what happened back there. We can’t sacrifice all of us for the sake of getting her to a hospital.’

  It was cold logic of the worst kind but it was, unfortunately, the truth.

  They arrived at an address in East Berlin which Eva felt sure wasn’t far from the Berghain club. Several people appeared from the gloomy looking building and silently removed Anya from the car.

  ‘Will she survive?’ asked Eva. A knife wound to the stomach surely required more than a home first aid kit could supply. Irene didn’t answer the request for reassurance. She was giving nothing away – not about why Irene was here or why Eva was.

  People who played games for a living, Eva recalled, ensured no one ever knew which side they were on. These people only associated with those less powerful if they were either a threat or useful. Which meant she had been brought here because she was either of the above. Which was not comforting.

  On the outside, the sprawling townhouse had a ramshackle, run-down air but, inside, it was a different story. The interiors could have been plucked straight from the pages of a high-end design magazine. Clinically whitewashed walls, smooth edges and sharp corners were softened by design features, a 70s style hanging lamp, a curved couch, a thick rug that looked so soft Eva just wanted to take her shoes off and stand on it in bare feet. It was a beautiful conversion but it made little sense to Eva that she should have been brought here. It was the wrong location.

  Irene made them both a coffee and signalled she should sit down at an industrial-sized dining table.

  ‘I doubt very much whether you know what’s going on.’

  Eva shook her head slowly. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Unfortunately, we are almost as much in the dark as you are.’

  Eva sipped her coffee. ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘It’s true, I’m afraid.’

  ‘So, why have you brought me here?’

  ‘I – and people working for me – have kept an eye on you over the past year or so, as well as that phone calls you and I have had, and things seem to have changed for you recently. For a short period of time you appeared to settle into life, to take a step back from all the questions I know remain unanswered for you. But that isn’t the case anymore, is it?’

  Eva said nothing.

  ‘You seem to have returned to your old recklessness.’

  My ‘old recklessness’? thought Eva… was that how she was defined in a file somewhere, as ‘reckless’?

  Irene continued. ‘I want you to explain where this change in behaviour has come from.’

  She was hesitant to cooperate, particularly as the question seemed odd given the circumstances. It could have been asked in London months ago. But Eva was tired and fed up with feeling isolated.

  So she told Irene why she had tried to contact her back in London – the connections with the word ‘kolychak’, the dying man at Waterloo, and the fact she had remembered where she had heard the word before – in a subterranean basement in South America. She told Irene that kolychak was a defunct weapons plant – and a private bank – and that the bank’s address was one they both knew from Paris. She felt she was telling Irene what she already knew, certainly the other woman showed no surprise at any of it.

  Eva did not mention Leon. And she didn’t know why not.

  ‘But I’m guessing you know all this anyway,’ she said, as she finished her account, her voice trailing away as Irene continued making notes.

  ‘It’s interesting to hear how you’ve come to these conclusions,’ said Irene, ignoring Eva’s attempt to place the other woman somewhere on the knowledge spectrum.

  ‘But, Irene, something is happening isn’t it? You can at least confirm that – and it’s connected to the events of last year. It’s not over…’

  Irene met Eva’s gaze.

  ‘No.’

  In this light, she seemed to have aged only slightly since Eva last shared a room with her and the small changes to her face were perhaps more attributable to the constant pressure she existed under than to the passing of time. Eva wondered how Irene’s personal life was faring – she knew there was little balance to be found between a job like Irene’s, with its unofficial hours and ‘work until you drop’ culture, and a family life.

  ‘What’s going on, Irene?’

  ‘Obviously, I wish I could tell you.’

  Eva stood and walked across the immaculate kitchen, leaning against a beautifully restored Aga on the opposite side of the room. ‘Here’s the thing, Irene.’

  The other woman waited, expressionless.

  ‘You know, as well as I do, that if something is happening here, it’s connected to what we were both part of in Paris.’

  Nothing.

  Eva continued. ‘And you also know I already have a great deal of knowledge about that situation, much more than I have told you – perhaps information that you don’t have.’

  There was the carrot.

  ‘If you don’t share what you have with me, why should I share what I have with you?’

  And there was the stick.

  Even though Eva couldn’t quite see Irene’s eyes, she knew they were narrowing.

  She put her hands behind her, against the cold metal of the huge oven. Her right hand wandered onto the large hot plate on top. If the appliance was on, her skin would have stuck to it.

  ‘We all thought that operation was over, Eva, you know that.’

  Do I? wondered Eva.

  ‘Until today, there would have been nothing to share, as you so collegiately put it.’

  It was not the truth, Eva knew that. She was silent for several seconds. ‘What about Jackson?’

  ‘There has been no word on your brother.’

  Eva moved back to the table and took her seat opposite Irene. She raised her eyes and locked them onto Irene’s. There wasn’t even a flicker in the stare of the older woman. But she was, no doubt, a practised liar and Eva had the distinct impression that, if she did know a) Jackson was alive and b) where he was, every effort would be made to keep the siblings apart. Why that should be the case, however, she couldn’t guess.

  ‘How did you find Leon?’ Eva ventured.

  The time had come to mention him; she knew instinctively, if she didn’t do it right now, it was for reasons she didn’t want to think about.

  Irene didn’t even blink at the mention of his name.

  ‘He started watching you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘In London.’

  ‘I didn’t notice…’

  ‘Not surprising. You have an incredibly sharp instinct but you’re no match for him.’

  Although she knew Irene might be right, Eva felt irritated. She was a match for Leon.

  ‘It was when we were watching him we realised we weren’t the only ones.’

  ‘Who’s the other party in this?’

  The question once again went unanswered.

  ‘They took Leon on your street.’

  Eva’s mind moved and locked onto a memory. The man in the baseball cap she had seen bundled into a waiting van…

  ‘He disappeared for several days and we couldn’t find him. Then, he reappeared in north Africa, injured. But we have no way of piecing together what happened to him in that time. And, knowing him, frankly your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘What does he want with me?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I don’t think I can. I mean, I thought he was dead – I thought he rolled off the cliff at the Iguaçu Falls in the Land Rover.’

  ‘Did anything pass between you during that incident to indicate why he would suddenly want to make contact now?’

  Irritatingly, Eva felt herself blushing. She knew Irene would notice.

  ‘Were you lovers?’ Irene didn’t miss a trick.


  ‘Once,’ she replied, ‘literally, just once.’

  ‘And you continued to carry a candle for him after the event?’ Her turn of phrase was endearingly old fashioned.

  ‘No, absolutely not.’

  ‘Did you not feel used by him?’

  ‘It was very much the other way around.’

  Eva couldn’t help noticing the slight discomfort Irene seemed to experience at the idea of Eva having used Leon for sex. Was that the line for Irene, she wondered. She could kill, maim, order death to be dished out left, right and centre but she could never use sex as a weapon, a tool, or simply as a release.

  ‘What did he want from you when he saw you?’

  ‘My phone.’

  ‘Your phone?’ Irene seemed surprised.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Give it to me.’

  And then Eva hesitated. She realised she had identified a bargaining chip. ‘I think I will hang on to it for now.’

  There was the look once again from Irene, the look that could kill.

  Joseph Smith stared at the three faces on the screen of the laptop on the table in front of him. The sleek, matte metal cast a glum reflection of the scene. Around him, the room was dark.

  ‘Ok, I’m ready,’ he said, eventually.

  There was no reaction on the screen. Three men in suits sat staring at him as his words made their way across the international connection.

  ‘It is new technology. It has been developed with the resources from kolychak.’

  The word meant little to him.

  ‘Ok,’ he said and waited for them to continue.

  ‘Check your iPhone,’ another of the men spoke this time. ‘You have been sent an “instruction manual” for the mapping. You will be required to brief others.’

  ‘I understand the basic principles but what about the chemicals?’

  ‘That will not be your role.’

  ‘To whom will the task fall?’

  ‘Not your concern.’

  Joseph Smith began to feel the bile rise in his throat. He detested anyone attempting to exert authority over him and, in particular, these three men. He hated the way they flinched when he spoke, the taint of his rough Sudanese accent offended their ears. But he had learned over many years – and several very hard lessons – there was little to be gained in reacting to snobbery and prejudice. Better to simply note it, lock away the emotion it created and use it at some future point. For, if he was ever face to face with those men and he heard that note of disdain… their connections and their cash would do nothing to preserve them. However, right now, his future depended on them, as much as theirs depended on his. And in this situation, the wise man would stay silent.

  ‘When will I be required to begin using the mapping?’

  He found himself speaking in his best English, as if he had just stepped from the screen of a colonial era film, as if he were a slave trained to ape his masters’ speech. Although he knew that would not be enough to gain even the smallest grain of respect. Perhaps just the opposite. He would never be their equal. He gazed at their ageing faces on the screen. The atrocities they had committed numbered far more than his. But all was so cleverly disguised behind a perfectly cut bespoke suit and a ski tan.

  ‘You will be told when this is required.’

  ‘I don’t understand how it works.’

  ‘It requires drug doses over a specific period of time and then possibly a drug bath and cranial implants.’

  ‘How long does it take?’

  ‘You don’t need to know.’

  ‘And am I just a performing monkey, apparently not intelligent enough to use my brain?’ It was what he wanted to say but, of course, he did not. He just nodded at the screen as if subservience came naturally to him. As those three men probably assumed it did to everyone of his skin colour.

  ‘You have the key?’

  Joseph Smith remembered the tiny key he had taken – as instructed – from the lab technician. Stefano… Stefano something. He could not remember now. It had been the first time he had been able to use his tiger claw, the most awesome of weapons.

  He was distracted, remembering the gore of it. He realised he was being questioned again.

  ‘The key?’

  ‘I have it.’ He hesitated, then asked, ‘What is it for?’ He had no idea.

  His question was ignored.

  ‘Where is the girl?’

  ‘No longer at her hotel.’

  ‘But where is she?’

  ‘I am not sure. She has been flesh-tagged but, for some reason, there is currently no signal.’

  Silence.

  ‘This is not good enough.’

  ‘It is most likely she has been taken somewhere isolated to prevent any tracking. As soon as she steps outside, we will know exactly where she is.’

  ‘What if that does not happen?’

  ‘It will. From my study of her, she is a creature of habit when it comes to exercise. I do not believe, other than in extreme circumstances, anything would prevent her from her nightly run.’

  ‘I hope you are sure.’

  ‘I am.’ And then, because Joseph Smith felt he had won a point, he took a virtual step towards them. ‘Is the grid complete?’

  Instantly. ‘That is not your concern.’

  ‘But she is required for that, too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then, it is my concern.’ He was getting angry now, despite himself. He could see the ground he had won had been instantly lost.

  ‘It is not your concern.’

  The screen went blank.

  NINETEEN

  After her conversation with Irene, Eva was shown to a bedroom in the house. It was another slickly decorated space and Eva wondered who owned this property and where the resources were coming from to fund such ostentatious accommodation. Was Irene still working for the government? Eva realised she hadn’t thought to ask. Anya had described her employer as an international network of insiders, ‘the back-up plan, when official channels can’t necessarily achieve what needs to be done to meet an objective.’ Obviously, Irene and Anya worked for the same organisation. Which may or may not be government funded and driven – ‘insiders’ was an incredibly broad term.

  Eva was troubled by the acorn she had seen on the back of the slip of paper in Berlin. Did it mean anything? She checked her pockets to see if she still had it but there was nothing there. After recent events she had no idea where that piece of paper was. It appeared to link Anya to the Association for the Control of Regenerative Networking – and by association, Irene too.

  Or did it.

  Eva realised that she couldn’t even remember what the acorn had looked like. In fact she was beginning to doubt whether it had been an acorn at all. She had not asked Anya about it at the time – and now she would not be able to. She was 99.9 per cent sure that Irene would provide nothing to fill in knowledge gaps. For some reason her, usually sharp, memory felt very confused. She tried to visualise that piece of paper with the words on the front and the symbol on the back. But she could not.

  And then there were the two words she was sure she had seen on Sam’s phone ‘Jackson calling’. Or had it been just ‘…ckson calling’ and she had assumed the rest? Or had it said something entirely different. She realised she could not remember. Eva normally recalled memories as pictures. For that moment earlier in the day, just as for events two nights ago, she had none.

  That was odd.

  Eva considered her options. A mad dash to the airport, a white knuckle flight home and then sweaty night terrors alone in her flat.

  Or she could rely on the small amount of trust she had once placed in Irene to try and piece together what was happening. What did she really have to lose?

  Perhaps she really was reckless just as Irene had described her.

 
; Her case sat next to her on the floor. Should she unpack? This wasn’t exactly a holiday.

  She stared at her case for several seconds and decided not to go through the motions of settling into the room. What was the point? Clearly she had little, or no, free will in this situation. She was effectively a prisoner, compelled into incarceration by fear of something apparently more dangerous. It was a protective incarceration – for her own good. Perhaps the worst kind.

  She sat on the edge of the broad metal bed and stared at her hands for several seconds. There was a split in the skin on her right palm, where the knife Sam had held to her throat had lightly grazed the skin. Her hand automatically moved to the point on her throat where the blade had been, marked by a now slightly raised line, but the flesh had not been broken. She shut her eyes as she felt the room rushing up to meet her.

  Sam.

  She thought of him, presumably now lying lifeless on the pavement outside the hotel. Or in a body bag somewhere. She had no idea where to start in terms of trying to figure out why he had done what he had done. She felt a confusing mix of sadness and shock. Why attack Anya? And what had he been intending to do with Eva – was she the target or just the escape bargaining chip?

  If only she’d had time to question him or could remember what she had really seen on his phone.

  Had their relationship even been real?

  Pointless thoughts, Eva scolded herself. Why waste your brain power on querying what you cannot know?

  Opening her eyes, Eva steadied herself back on the bed with her hands. She had been in situations like this before – situations where she had no control over what was happening to her, and where people apparently behaved entirely out of character. When she had experienced this before she had wasted time trying to figure out why. Actually the more important decision was really what to do next.

  So, what to do next?

  She unzipped her suitcase, removed her phone charger, plugged it in to the wall and pulled her phone from her handbag. Then she dialled the hotel’s number as she connected the phone to the charger. A rather harassed woman answered.