Eva suddenly felt a rush of anger. Raw, burning, uncontrollable rage. The gurney began to pick up speed. She couldn’t stand this situation any longer; she wouldn’t be treated like this anymore. She kicked out at one of the figures at her feet. The kick was so weak it didn’t even merit a swerve. But Eva could use the freedom in her unsecured legs. Turning on her side, she swung her right leg across her body and levelled a kick to the head of one of her escorts. This time she kicked as hard as she could. And she had the element of surprise. As soon as her foot made contact, the man swerved and stumbled, letting go of the edge of the gurney. The others kept the gurney moving forward as the man peeled away. They picked up speed again.
Eva shifted her weight, tried the same move on the woman on the other side but she batted away her legs. A sense of urgency overcame her as they moved closer and closer to the noise of the helicopter, whose whining blades were beginning to spin faster and faster. She couldn’t get in that helicopter. She wouldn’t get in that helicopter. She wanted her autonomy back.
Violently, she began twisting and turning her body, attempting to destabilise the gurney enough to stop forward momentum. The trolley began to rock precariously. She heard one of the men swear in French and suddenly the gurney was tipping to one side. She felt hands trying – and failing – to set her upright. The gurney hit the floor. Eva was face down on the ground, her wrists still attached to the gurney at her back. For several seconds there was a silence in which she had a sense that the men were backing away. Why? Then Eva could hear shouting. The helicopter blades sounded as if they were slowing down.
She jumped violently as she heard the sound of automatic gunfire and lay still on her front. The shots were coming from behind her, the other side of the gurney. Hunching up against it she tugged again at the wrist ties but they held her fast.
An uncontrolled flow of thoughts overtook her mind. Was this a recue? An assassination? Pains ripped through her forearms each time she pulled at the straps but she had to get free.
She flattened the soles of her feet against the mattress of the gurney behind her. She pushed with her feet, tensed her arms and pulled them towards her. The straps were thin fabric. They did not look made for the gurney. Surely they would not hold.
Finally they snapped, first one and then the other. The pain in her forearms almost caused her to black out. She caught her breath, rolled onto her stomach and jumped her legs up into a crouch. It was quiet all around, eerily so. The blades of the helicopter were coming to a stop, the slowing whine almost a concession of failure. The lights on the machine had gone off, plunging the very back of the lawn into near darkness but there were bodies, she could see them in the light of the moon. She had grown used to recognising the lumpen form of a slain human being.
She breathed hard. Her breaths were rasping. Looking around, she tried to see anyone or anything moving around in the darkness. She considered running but the thought made her forearms throb even harder.
Eva turned so that her back was against the gurney and suddenly a face loomed out at her from the darkness. A face she thought she had seen consumed by fire not that long ago.
Jackson.
Irene sat in the car, listening to the gunshots from two miles away, echoing over the radios. Someone else was executing their plan – and doing it fairly efficiently by the sound of it. Someone else had waited until the chopper arrived, until Eva was wheeled out on the gurney, and then had – apparently – killed everyone on that lawn to reach Eva.
But who?
And why?
The second of these questions troubled Irene but the first was curious too. It would be a hard job to do single-handed so either there was a team of people carrying out the shooting, or one very competent individual. She could think of only a few who had both the skill and the potential interest to carry out the job and she didn’t want to contemplate the involvement of any of them at that moment.
The question of who had ordered the removal was troubling – she did not know of other interested parties. Eva was only valuable to her for a very specific reason, connected to knowledge that had not been widely shared. Either this was a random happening or it was someone attempting to capitalise on Eva’s value to others.
She turned to her assistant, who was listening to the ongoing chatter on the radio from the men she had concealed on the site.
They appeared to be panicking, or at least stunned into inaction. The plan was defunct and apparently they did not know how to respond.
Irene was not used to this. It would not have happened when she was inside the system.
She snatched the radio from the hand of her assistant.
‘Listen, you fuckwits,’ she hissed, ‘don’t lose that girl. DO NOT LOSE HER – do you understand me?’
A shocked silence, and then, ‘Understood.’
‘And keep us informed when you are on the move. We will follow.’
They had loaded up a new car with the equipment they needed, leaving the rest behind for the clean-up team to take home. Now they had speed, technology and muscle on their side. But that was about it.
Eva stared into the face of her long dead brother as he lay on his front opposite her on the grass.
It couldn’t be…
‘Breathe, Eva,’ he said quietly, holding her gaze. Her mind hurt, it was too much to process after what had just happened. He kept his eyes locked on hers for several seconds more before turning over her forearms to look at the plasters. He held her arm up to the light and ripped off the sticky fabric.
She gasped and tried to pull her arm away but he was stronger. The dim light revealed a mass of stitches and swollen skin where the plaster had been. It hurt like hell.
‘What are you doing?’ she said, breathlessly.
‘You can’t leave here with these,’ he said, pointing to her arms. ‘But we have to move soon as they will come from the house.’
‘With what? I don’t understand. Are you really Jackson?’
He looked at her in the moonlight. ‘Yes,’ he said and then he produced a large scalpel.
TWENTY SIX
Eva would remember, for many years, the agony of the moment the man with her brother’s face plunged the scalpel into her right forearm. It was a pain like nothing she had felt before. More shocking and raw than anything she had ever experienced. The ripping apart of semi-healed flesh, the tearing of skin, the instant flood of warm, sticky blood.
As to what happened after, she would never know. She blacked out almost immediately.
He worked quickly on the unconscious woman, aware of the danger they were both in. At the same time, he queried the decision to take her with him alive. But those were the instructions he had been given and he was not the kind of person who questioned authority. He was reliable for that very reason, which was why he was here. This – right now – had to be believable, credible. Especially for her.
He had removed the two devices that would have prevented her from leaving the château grounds. The wounds on her forearms were not large but they were open and that made them vulnerable. They would hurt a great deal as they healed under the bandages he would eventually apply. He was concerned that this was not a sterile environment, but that had not been his call. As he felt the blood drip from her lifeless limbs he knew there was no way they could stay there any longer.
It was time to go.
When she was clean of the devices, he heaved her over his shoulder and began to run. He was surprised, and not surprised, that there was no one to intercept them. He had almost fallen over one of the bodies of the men who had been pushing Eva’s gurney but had righted himself and kept moving forward. Eva was slim but heavier than she looked, which indicated the muscle mass of a committed exerciser. It made her difficult to carry. Nevertheless, he had to take her back before she awoke because she would be distressed, injured and frightened. And that would make her a lia
bility.
The noise inside the château was audible from the outside. With her team in silent pursuit of Eva, Irene had taken the opportunity to move closer to the location in which Eva had been held. It was not difficult to do as the grounds were extensive and open, which made Irene wonder how on earth they had prevented Eva from making her escape, particularly given how relentlessly she would have been trying to achieve it.
From her position across from a small river at the edge of the grounds, Irene used night vision goggles to observe the figures running around the edges of the grand building. Although she couldn’t see with any kind of accuracy, from the conclusions she drew as to the pattern of their movements and the speed with which they were going about them, these people appeared to be packing up, loading equipment into transport; there was a lot of shouting. Oddly enough, it seemed strangely ordered. There was very little panic. Which was unexpected, given the person who was the object of all that effort was now gone. She switched to binoculars, which she could use to see the lit-up areas of the château. She watched a man with a Mediterranean tan at the centre of it all as he stood smoking a cigar under the light of the hallway, quietly giving orders to the individuals approaching him every couple of minutes. There was also a younger man, who seemed to have some authority but stood slightly aside, very still, almost as if he were stalking the movements of the older man.
Irene was about to put away the binoculars when she stopped. There was a woman approaching the cigar-smoking figure now – striding through the well lit entrance to the château and out towards the man, with a purposeful gait. Irene adjusted the binoculars. She recognised the woman, surely. Perhaps not from an encounter in real life but certainly from photos. But who…?
Irene lowered the binoculars, then quickly raised them again.
This was not possible. That woman was dead, she had seen the report herself. Hadn’t she?
She focused once again on the figure, now standing whispering in the ear of the standing man. As she readjusted the binoculars for focus, the glass cleared. Her heart double beat. It seemed as if the woman was looking straight at her.
Then, as her own vision adjusted to the distance, she realised the woman was not at all who she had thought. She was just a very clever imitation.
Eva was almost used to waking up in rooms she didn’t recognise. But this was the first time she had woken up in such pain. The skin on the inside of her forearms felt raw and burned, as if someone was holding a hot iron to them. The desire to scream was overwhelming. But once again, she was strapped to a bed and it was that which gave her pause for thought.
For the first time she had memories of what had happened to her prior to waking up. Some, at least. Although there was no recall of being deposited into this bed. Or tied up.
But some memory was better than none. The small amount of context she had gave her the foundation for a sense of normality. Even though she was in desperate pain, she felt some clarity. She realised that she had not felt that since before Berlin.
I am real.
Strength started to flow in her veins – real, capable strength.
For several minutes, she focused her thoughts on the two areas of her arms that were burning so intensely. She encouraged her body to feel calm, to begin to numb the pain; it was hardly morphine but at that moment mental strength was all she had.
Once the feeling in her arms had ebbed to a low burn and her breathing slowed, she began to take in her surroundings.
They were nondescript.
Nothing told her anything about where she was.
The room was simple – a bedroom – with cream walls and a window through which she could see only sky. She was attempting to push herself up on the bed when the door opened and there stood a tall man with unruly brown hair and deep brown eyes.
Eva stared at him until the atmosphere in the room became uncomfortable.
Finally, he walked over to the bed and set a tray down on a small table next to it. The tray contained a gloopy orange liquid in a whisky glass, an apple and a bowl of couscous dotted with multicoloured blobs. It did not look appetising.
Eva noticed the man did not untie her hands.
He stared at her for several seconds, as if waiting for her to speak first and, when she didn’t, he began to talk.
‘First of all, I’m sorry.’
He made eye contact, brown eyes, moist. Eva stayed silent.
He seemed nervous.
‘I know you have had to deal with so much on your own and some of it has been my fault… as a result of my actions.’
Still, there was no response.
He gazed at her and then looked away.
‘Untie my wrists.’
Those deep brown eyes met Eva’s as she spoke. Suspicion was written all over his face.
The two stared each other down, as they might have done during one of their childhood spats. She remembered a game to see who could hold eye contact the longest but, now, it didn’t seem like much fun. For once, Eva won. As soon as he looked away, she repeated herself.
‘Untie my wrists.’
‘I’m not sure that I should.’
‘If you don’t, I’m going to assume there’s a reason you want to keep me chained up like a prisoner.’
‘You’re not chained.’
Eva didn’t respond. He was splitting hairs. That was not like him.
Silence.
‘Jackson.’ She said his name almost testingly and looked directly into his eyes to work out whether they revealed the right response. They were not the open eyes – windows to the soul – she had been used to in her brother. She had always been able to read him like a book. These eyes were guarded, perhaps afraid – it was clear he wasn’t who he had been when they were last in the same room together.
I knew it, she thought to herself with a tiny surge of triumph, I knew he was still alive.
‘Eva, I’m concerned about what you will do if I untie you.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re obviously annoyed. And I completely understand that. You must be so fed up with being manhandled by people you don’t know.’
She looked at him. He seemed to almost bow his head under her gaze. She just couldn’t figure him out.
‘Look,’ he continued ‘it’s important that you stay immobile – for now.’
‘Why?’ She was sticking to monosyllabic responses. Her mouth was dry as a bone and she was wrestling internally with the situation. The face in front of her was her brother’s, there was no doubt about that. However, the mannerisms, the turn of phrase, the wariness were not like the man she had known. He could be… he could be what? she questioned herself, a fake?
Of course, this had to be Jackson – how could she doubt the physical evidence in front of her? That face was his face. Down to the last stubble hair. That kind of detail could not be faked. However, the question was what kind of person was he now and what did it mean for her?
‘You need to remain immobile because I don’t want you to hurt yourself,’ he said, indicating her arms. ‘I don’t have any pain relief for you and those will take some time to heal.’
‘I don’t understand why you cut me.’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘I’m sure you can shorten it.’
He blinked.
‘What was in my arms that you cut out?’
‘You wouldn’t understand, even if I told you.’
Eva’s anger ticked up a notch.
‘Try me.’
He met her gaze evenly, made her wait several seconds before he spoke. ‘Subcutaneous tracker implants. Inserted under your skin to allow a degree of control over your movements. You are linked up wirelessly and if you try to go beyond certain defined physical boundaries – dictated by an electromagnetic field – your internal organs are shocked.’
Jesu
s, thought Eva to herself, how the hell do I end up in these situations? She looked back at the man who was, essentially, the answer to that question.
‘They shock you unconscious,’ added Jackson, helpfully.
‘But these scars are not small,’ said Eva, indicating her arms, ‘I would have thought this would be something like a microchip?’
‘It’s not the most advanced form of the technology. But they are slim and long, rather than short and thick, and they weren’t inserted deeply enough to damage tendons or muscles, so you should have no trouble using your arms when the scars heal.’
‘So, the scars are superficial?’
‘Yes. The most superficial cuts are always the ones which hurt the most.’
‘Ok, untie me then.’
Gotcha, she thought.
Once again, Jackson eyed her suspiciously, obviously realising he had walked into a trap and would need fresh justification to keep her tied to the bed.
She stared back at him. Something inside her had changed course, something had snapped – perhaps the link between the decisions she was considering and the fear of their consequences. It didn’t seem to matter what she did, she still ended up at the mercy of someone who seemed to wield greater power. So why be cautious anymore – where had that taken her? Irene describing her as ‘reckless’ could prove to be quite prophetic.
But she didn’t care, she was fed up with being a victim.
‘Do it,’ she said, more forcefully.
‘Ok, fine,’ Jackson said, eventually.
He walked across the room, closed and locked the bedroom door. It was an action that made Eva’s heart palpitate. He took the key from the antiquated keyhole, put it in his pocket, walked back across the room and began to untie her from the bed.
When he had removed the plastic ties, Eva rubbed the skin around her wrists and looked at the scars, now covered once again with bandages.
Killing Eva Page 20