Killing Eva

by Alex Blackmore

  ‘I’m not sure I understand, Eva. Are you saying you thought that man was Jackson, or aren’t you?’

  ‘He looked like him, Irene. For a day he looked so like Jackson I believed it was him. But his face changed.’

  ‘Changed, how?’

  ‘Kind of morphed. Like a TV losing signal.’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘He didn’t look like Jackson anymore.’

  ‘I don’t think I understand.’

  ‘Neither do I, I’m just telling you what happened.’ Eva exhaled to try and release the anger. ‘I suppose the other possibility is I’ve lost the plot and am going mad.’

  ‘It’s always a possibility.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘It’s always possible.’

  ‘No, I mean do you think somehow they could have altered his face to make him look like Jackson, just temporarily? You said yourself they have huge resources at their disposal and employ many scientists.’

  ‘Anything is possible.’

  ‘Possible’, that word again. Irene had said it three times in a matter of seconds. Which had irritated Eva beyond belief. They continued to drive in silence. Eva unconsciously lifted her hand to her head, which ached with the weight of all the questions.

  She shut her eyes.

  Instantly, she saw in her mind the card falling from the wallet of the now dead faux Jackson in the car.

  It was a design she had seen before and a word had rung a bell – Veritas. But at that moment she could do nothing other than register it as another potential connection. Something to try and work out when her head was less heavy.

  As the motion of the driving and the warmth of the car gradually took over, Eva fell asleep.

  VERITAS. Both men looked at the word as it appeared, disappeared and reappeared on the tiny metal key.

  Paul enjoyed the way the other man seemed almost reverent of what he held in his hands. And so he should be. It was one of the greatest pieces of innovation the world had seen recently. Except the world had not seen it, as it remained a secret.

  Did he feel guilty he had not developed the technology himself, that he had stolen it?

  Of course not. Besides, he almost felt as if he had developed it himself now.

  In the same way he felt no guilt for having profited from the face mapping technology – although that had proven far less effective in the various encounters in which it had been used so far.

  It too, had been stolen – by the man who now sat in the seat opposite.

  Joseph Smith fascinated Paul. He had done from the moment he had met him. He was the kind of man Paul felt he understood completely. Smith never formed attachments, never trusted anyone, would always be available to the highest bidder and was driven reliably by profit, whether financially or power motivated.

  Paul realised the other man was looking at him. ‘What is it for?’

  ‘It’s a key.’

  ‘But there is no lock, is there?’

  ‘Not physically, no.’

  ‘So, what does it do?’

  Paul had been given strict instructions not to share the nature of the invention with Smith. Those who had engaged Smith knew nothing of the experience he and Paul had of working together or Smith wouldn’t be here. Smith was one of the ‘teams’ Paul had been told to keep separate from the others, and he presumed that also meant from himself. From experience, Paul knew Smith often felt belittled, talked down to or patronised by those who engaged his services. He saw being honest as a way of forming a bond with Smith, just in case he needed him.

  It was possible he was making a mistake. And, in many ways, it went against much of what Paul knew about Smith. But he did it anyway.

  ‘It unlocks a system.’

  ‘What kind of system?’

  ‘A financial system.’

  Smith looked puzzled. Paul wondered whether that was genuine. For a split second, he tried to work out just how much of this Smith already knew.

  ‘How can it unlock a financial system?’

  Paul applied pressure to two points on the tiny metal key and it began to open itself. He withdrew a small needle-like implement.

  ‘The key is in the blood.’

  Now, Smith really did look confused. ‘Whose blood?’

  ‘Whoever is nominated to be the key. Via the blood you can access their DNA. In your DNA, Joseph, you have a code which is completely unique – there is no one in the world who has the same genetic code as you.’

  Smith nodded. He picked up the key Paul had placed on the table between them. ‘But how does this use your DNA?’

  Paul took the needle from him. ‘This can be used to take a blood sample from whoever is “the key”. It will analyse that blood sample and produce a version of the genetic code in a format that can be communicated to a receptor embedded in a very specifically designed laptop.’ He patted the laptop on the side of the table next to him, now closed.

  ‘It is impossible to replicate the key because of the unique nature of DNA. And it’s impossible to fake it because it only works with the blood of a single person.’

  ‘Surely, you can just take a blood sample by force?’

  Paul shook his head. ‘No. When you are placed in a stressful situation, 99.9 per cent of the time your body will respond by releasing a stress hormone into the blood stream, such as cortisol or epinephrine. Where there is a trace of these hormones in the blood sample drawn using this key, the genetic code becomes corrupted and the sequence transmitted is fake. The same is true if there are sleep hormones present, sedation – anything unusual and it won’t work.’

  ‘So, you can’t use this key unless blood is willingly given?’

  ‘Exactly. The sample should be provided at a time of optimal relaxation, for example just before going to sleep.’

  ‘So, how will you obtain the sample from Eva Scott?’

  Paul stopped short. How did Smith know a sample would be required from Eva Scott?

  The two men stared at one another. Joseph Smith had drawn this conclusion himself but, until he saw the fear in Paul’s eyes, he had not been 100 per cent convinced he was right. He now felt angry with himself – if he had worked out earlier how essential the woman was going to be, he could have used her as a bargaining tool.

  He watched as Paul considered his options in terms of a response. In the end, he seemed to decide he had few.

  ‘She was never intended to be the key. It was supposed to be someone else. However, the technology was developed with her brother – he wanted to give it to her as a gift. That is why she is the prototype.’

  ‘Does she know?’

  ‘Unlikely. She was accidentally sent a confirmation code via her phone when the key was activated but I doubt she would have been able to make sense of it.’

  ‘So, how do you propose to make her unlock your key?’

  Paul hesitated. Was telling this man really wise? It wasn’t but Paul was entirely isolated from those further up the chain now. He craved an ally. Every inch of his brain told him Joseph Smith could be no one’s ally. But nevertheless…

  ‘There is another type of technology we have developed.’

  ‘Also stolen?’

  Was that judgement? That was laughable from a murderer. ‘Also stolen,’ agreed Paul, after some hesitation.

  ‘What does it do, block the stress hormones?’

  ‘No, it engenders trust. Trust makes human beings feel calm.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It can be used to recreate a person.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Paul leaned forward. He loved this technology, he couldn’t help but be enthusiastic about it, despite the fact that it had repeatedly failed.

  ‘It is a combination of drugs and conditioning that change the brain’s response to
certain situations to make it more accepting of some things and less so of others. After weeks of drug prep, there are implants. It’s a long process, so not an ideal piece of technology for an unwilling subject, as they must be detained physically and monitored. But it can be done – if you really need it to be. However, the implants only last for a specific period of time.’

  ‘And then what happens?’

  ‘We don’t know. There’s a possibility the implants can leak.’

  ‘Leading to death?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘How does it work?’

  ‘The technology can make someone believe they are speaking to a person they know. The person who is to be the “actor” wears “mapping points” attached to certain facial contours. The combination of the chemical alteration to the brain, the mapping points, and the cranial implants create a convincing recreation of the face you want them to see. It means you can control a specific element of a person’s perception of reality. With control, you don’t need violence.’

  ‘Is it believable?’

  ‘The visual effect is usually enough to convince the person seeing the face that it is speaking with the same voice, even that it has the same skin colour. However, you have to pick someone of similar height and build or it is not as effective, and the recipient may also notice where behaviours are not the same, or if certain responses are different.’

  ‘Does it work?’

  Paul thought back. It had worked temporarily almost every time it had been used – the drugs had been administered gradually to Eva way back in London, by a man posing as her boyfriend, by a couple in Berlin and then in high volumes during her stay at the château, when the implants had been installed. However, the flaw, they now knew, seemed to be longevity.

  ‘It will work long enough for our purposes.’

  ‘To convince Eva Scott she is interacting with her brother?’

  ‘Yes – the person she trusts the most. She will provide him with the blood sample for analysis.’

  ‘But he is dead. I saw him die.’

  ‘No one really knows if he died, you know that, Joseph.’

  Joseph scowled. He felt responsible for the lack of closure on that job – even now he couldn’t quite bring himself to admit he might have failed.

  ‘He cannot be alive. There was virtually nothing left of him.’

  ‘He is – was – a resourceful man.’

  ‘But he cannot be alive,’ Smith repeated, robotically.

  Paul just looked at him and smiled. ‘It doesn’t matter. He is not here.’

  THIRTY ONE

  Eva awoke minutes later. She stared at the road ahead of her. She was struggling to feel… anything. That wasn’t like her at all. She had often had to work hard to gain control over her feelings, to make sure they didn’t disable her in certain situations – or overwhelm her when she was alone. During all the events in Paris, with Leon and the relentless spectre of Jackson, that emotional wave had returned. She never allowed it to overwhelm her but she had been aware of its presence.

  But now? Rather than grappling with emotional frequencies there seemed to be nothing there at all. When she thought about what might have happened to her over the past week, there should be extreme fear, intense apprehension about the future, but there was just a vague sense of confused unease. It wasn’t pleasant because it wasn’t normal. There was no triumph in being free from emotional baggage, instead she felt something had been stolen from her, as if she wasn’t judging situations correctly because she felt nothing. Like she’d been broken somehow.

  ‘You’re deep in thought.’

  The sun was beginning to rise over the broad, open countryside as they drove along the road, flanked by the dark shapes of the Pyrenees on either side. The light was pastel pink, orange and shades of purple. It was aesthetically beautiful but Eva did not feel its warmth.

  ‘I don’t know what to think, Irene. Again, I’m in a situation completely out of my control, apparently – again – because of Jackson.’

  No reply.

  ‘But this time,’ continued Eva, ‘It appears impossible for me to get perspective on what’s happened. And I’ve lost a week. Maybe more.’

  Irene inhaled and exhaled steadily. ‘If I may say so, Eva, there’s very little we can do about this right now and over thinking it – as you’re doing – is going to drive you mad. Why don’t you just go back to sleep?’

  Eva looked across the cab of the van. Go to sleep? Irene met her gaze.

  ‘You look exhausted. If you can’t sleep, just watch the sunrise. You couldn’t see these colours if you were colour blind.’

  It was an odd comment. Eva didn’t reply but turned around in her seat, folded her arms and stared out of the window in front of her, watching as the colours of the sunrise changed before her eyes. I couldn’t see this if I was colour blind, she repeated to herself. What I would be seeing would be entirely different.

  She knew very little about sight, about what made the brain comprehend what the eyes were seeing. But she had often wondered how people could see the same thing so differently. She felt as if biology was only predictable up to a point – until you reached the mind. She knew about ‘retinal cones’ though, which transmitted a perception of light and colour to the optic nerve – she had researched it once for an article, and the physical idea of ‘retinal cones’ had stuck in her mind. Like ice-cream cones. Colour blindness, she mused, must either be caused by a problem with the retinal cones or with the brain itself.

  What, she thought to herself, if someone had tampered with her retinal cones to make her see Jackson?

  Or – worse – with her brain. Was it possible for a hallucinogenic substance to have been administered to make her believe she was in the company of her long dead brother? It was such a specific perception, surely achieving it would be impossible? But Irene herself had talked of the way science could be used to alter what nature had given. Perhaps that could be done via perception, as well as reality.

  Eva tried to make sense of the moment at which ‘Jackson’ had rescued her. It had all happened so quickly she had very little memory of it. As she thought about it she realised that, other than the four people pushing her gurney, the ‘rescue’ had met with little resistance. The adrenaline fuelled situation had ensured she didn’t question anything at the time and the pain inflicted by the knife blade plunged into her arms had made her black out, blocking out at least an hour afterwards and causing her to become hazy on the minutes before he had appeared too. Maybe that was intentional.

  She glanced over at Irene and wondered whether she should mention the idea she’d had. But she had a sneaking suspicion the response would be once again, ‘it’s possible’.

  Irene kept her eyes on the road as she sensed Eva going through the motions of her thoughts. Why had she mentioned colour blindness and perception? It was almost as if she wanted Eva to work out what was going on. It was incredibly unprofessional. Irene didn’t know whether she had been motivated by something in particular or whether she was simply too tired, but she was behaving recklessly.

  She had no idea how much the ‘it’s a possibility’ lines were being believed, or whether she had unintentionally given away more than she realised. Eva was as smart as her brother – all her actions would lead them to believe so – in which case it was entirely possible she could determine what had happened to her at the château, particularly after that colour blind comment. Irene knew the science ACORN used was spectacularly advanced. She knew vaguely that, for some reason, it was necessary that Eva believe herself to be in the company of Jackson, but she did not know why. Her role was one of chaperone. She merely had to deliver Eva safely and not ask questions that would require her to be eliminated. She’d never had much interest in science and it made less sense to her than cold, hard, political logic but something like this – this could change the course of many th
ings, it had serious context and was fascinating. She glanced at Eva and noticed she was asleep again.

  Perhaps now would be a good time to make the call.

  Barely moving her hands, she flicked the switch on the mobile wedged between her thighs and the seat. She heard the ring tone begin in her earpiece. A voice answered and she said a single word:

  ‘Go.’

  Paul watched the small green dot travelling across the screen in front of him; a road map of the south east of France showed the dot travelling towards the French Riviera. Which was, coincidentally, where he now sat watching the sun come up from a vast private villa overlooking azure blue seas. He was beginning to enjoy his new position as the figurative spearhead of this fascinating plan to cripple a country with its own economy. And he loved his role as double agent.

  Eva Scott’s DNA was his only focus. Obtaining it and using it. That had been the job of the idiot who had managed to die in the car crash. He had even been given the face of the one person in the world they knew Eva would trust implicitly, so broken had she apparently been by the disappearance of her brother. But he had failed and so Plan B had been set in motion – another try. This had exposed Paul to discovery – and more abuse from the ‘elders’ – but he had dealt with it and, in a way, it had all worked out for the best. She was on her way to where she should be, apparently by a fortuitous turn of events that required precisely zero effort from him, even if she was not directly within Paul’s control. Once she reached the transport, he would be released and all he needed to do then was to collect on the revenge side of the bargain and then disappear before ACORN found out that he had in fact been working for a third party all the time.

  Irene skidded the truck to a halt in an unofficial layby off the motorway. She ran around the front of the van, her shoes slipping on the loose gravel, almost sliding sideways. She wrenched open Eva’s door and pulled herself up to where Eva was jerking backwards and forwards, her mouth open, her eyes agog.

  Irene reached over the shuddering girl, undid her seatbelt and pulled her out, balancing her weight and lowering her fitting body to the floor.