The Killing Files

by Nikki Owen

  ‘It’s the same number we saw back at my place, right?’ Chris says.

  It has to be Raven. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thought so. Thing is—’ he breathes out ‘—I think it’s connected to something beneath it, to another layer of data and if we could just—’

  Balthus steps forward. ‘No. No, no, no, no. Guys, leave this.’

  ‘Hey?’ Chris says. ‘But we’re getting somewhere here.’

  I look at Balthus and hesitate. I trust him, but this information—it could make a difference. ‘This data may lead us to the Project facility. It was you who encouraged me to find it. You who said I should find the file Raven talked about and then, if I did that, we could—’

  ‘End it all. Yes, yes I remember.’ He billows out a breath.

  ‘They threatened my family,’ I say to him. ‘They threatened you all.’

  Balthus sighs and rubs his chin. ‘Do you think it’s a code to crack that will uncover something else, this data you think lies beneath?’ he says to Chris after a moment.

  I stride to my rucksack, pull out my notebook and return. I flick the pages.

  ‘Doc,’ Patricia says, ‘what are you doing?’

  ‘I am searching for an algorithm.’ My eyes scan fast and after three seconds, I find it. There. At the bottom of the page under some sketches of an intricate iron bridge I dreamt about is the algorithm I need, one I flashbacked to in prison. I show it to Chris. ‘This can help. Can you feed it in?’

  He whistles. ‘Jeez, that’s some code.’ He begins typing in the data. I instruct him as to what it means, but he seems to know already, his brain working fast and it surprises me the level of intelligence he displays. He listens well, responding to my points and I am surprised at how rapidly he works. I smell the air, his skin—I like the scent of his sweat.

  ‘I don’t think it’s going to work,’ he says after one minute of trying.

  I analyse the data. Something is missing. A single number, a solitary dash, dot. I flick again through the notebook, page after page of codes and decryptions and strange sketches.

  ‘Jesus, what is all that?’ he says, catching sight of my notebook pages.

  ‘They are fragments of dreams I recall that mirror, I believe, events from being conditioned by the Project.’

  ‘Oh.’ He shifts in his seat. ‘Right.’ He looks at me, his breathing slow, measured, his eyes on my arms then on my neck and lips.

  ‘Try this code,’ I say. Seven pages in is a small encryption code I dreamt of during the first traumatic week in prison. I point to it.

  Chris peers in. ‘Okay, yeah, that’s cool. There is another idea, though.’

  ‘Do this first.’

  ‘Okay. No worries.’ He types, fast, efficient, but still it does not work.

  I step back and stamp my foot.

  ‘Y’okay, Doc? Take it easy.’

  ‘Maria,’ Balthus says, ‘we can’t keep at this forever. We have to leave soon. The Abbot has a car ready for us.’

  ‘Wait!’ We look at Chris. He is grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘The code worked?’ I say.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘See, what I was trying to tell you is that the age thing, you know, the clicking countdown age odd thing we found?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well—you’re gonna love this, right—I changed the last two numbers on it through a small hole in the encryption programme used to set it up and then I was able to go through a different system, and, well—’ he points to the screen ‘—voilà! Information uncovered.’

  ‘Holy Jesus,’ Balthus says.

  I look at what Chris is now pointing to and cannot believe what I am seeing. There are multiple times, dates and locations, all of them listed throughout the 1980s and 90s, leading up to now, to the present day.

  ‘You see that thing at the bottom?’ Chris says.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can decrypt that code fast, right? I mean, right now? Like I can?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Patricia leans in. ‘What does it say?’

  Chris looks to her. ‘It says test child. What is the test child?’

  A shiver ripples down my spine. ‘The test child is me.’

  ‘What? You’re this test child chick they’re talking about? Have you seen all this they have on you? It’s like, full surveillance.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Balthus says, ‘they have everything.’

  I read it all, photograph it to my memory, but find myself shaking slightly as I do. Because the file contains extensive details about me and as I scan it, my heart starts to race. There are details on my handlers, on my test dates with the Project, flights I took with my mother from Madrid as a teenager, my trip on the train to Barcelona when I was twenty, surveillance notes, conditioning documents. They all collide in my head and when I sniff, the incense in the air fills my nostrils and then my head, and I feel my mind on the verge of zoning out to cope with it all.

  ‘Doc, are you all right?’

  I turn to her but keep my eyes down at her shoulders. ‘They have all the details on my movements recorded.’

  Patricia spans out her fingers as Balthus scans the information and looks to Chris. ‘Is this proxy you set up safe?’

  ‘As houses.’

  ‘Maria,’ Balthus says to me now, ‘I know this is hard, but can you see any link on here that may indicate which facility that woman was at, the one you remembered?’

  I make myself look and focus. There are dates and places, but nothing that, when I correlate all the facts between my head and the screen, connect together to formulate an answer. ‘There is nothing about Switzerland here.’

  Chris shakes his head. ‘I searched for that link, too, but you’re right—no correlation. But,’ he says, ‘look here. If you click on this part of the age countdown, just there—’ the cursor hovers over a tiny black dot in the far right corner of the yellow box with my age in ‘—there’s another page hidden beneath it, hard to access, but I managed it.’

  ‘How?’

  He shrugs. ‘Just used the last segment of your algorithm and adapted it.’

  I look at him. ‘Oh.’

  He grins. ‘You’re welcome.’

  I read the next level of files and, as I do, further facts on my living arrangements are documented. I catch my breath and my fingers shake a little because what I am reading is effectively a map of my life. Each person and place has been categorised and when I cross-reference it all, some elements are hazy due to the Project’s drug programme, but essentially, the data is correct down to the last second.

  ‘They have been monitoring every step of my movements.’ There is a tiny tremble in my voice.

  I read again and arrive at a file towards the end. The font on this one is smaller, but just about readable and, leaning in past Chris’s scent, I squint.

  ‘Hey, look at that,’ Chris says. ‘There’s a portion down here that’s blacked out in, like, little strips.’

  Balthus bends in. ‘Can you get to what’s underneath?’

  He shrugs. ‘It’s tricky.’

  I grab my notebook, open it at page seventy-two and thrust it in front of him. ‘Use this code.’

  ‘Whoa! You know how to do this?’

  Somewhere in the monastery, monks begin singing a hymn and their voices drift into the room and it distracts me. ‘Can you type it in?’

  ‘Right, yeah, sure.’ He blinks at me, just nodding for a few seconds and nothing else. ‘You’re pretty neat.’ He stares at me and it makes me uneasy.

  ‘The code,’ I say.

  ‘Oh. Yeah.’

  Even though Chris’s fingers fly fast, the code takes some time to input, but, after thirty-seven seconds, the screen begins to change.

  ‘Whoa,’ Chris says, ‘it’s working. You’re freakin’ genius.’

  The black strips on the end of the document first turn to grey then, pixellating, begin to fade entirely then stall. Chris taps two more keys, then
stops, a small gasp escaping his lips.

  ‘What?’ Balthus looks at him, at me. ‘Maria, what?’

  ‘The black strips have gone.’ I look at the screen, at the tiny words revealed, and read them over and over again. ‘No,’ I say. ‘No, no, no!’ I stand, a chair to my left toppling to the side and clattering to the grey stone floor.

  ‘Doc, what?’

  Balthus presses his face to the screen, frantically reading then, stumbling back, slaps his hand to his mouth. ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘What?’ Patricia says.

  Chris frowns, drags his chair to the laptop. ‘Okay, so this reads initials A and V. And there’s a name, a contact for the Project programme: Alarico Villanueva.’ He swivels round. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Their contact,’ Balthus says, his face pale. ‘He … he is the contact who’s been …’ He wipes his face. ‘Who must have been liaising with the Project to ensure Maria was always accessible …’

  ‘Huh? But who is the guy?’

  Patricia looks from Chris over to me. ‘It’s Maria’s dad.’

  Chapter 23

  Monastery of Santa Maria de Montserrat, nr. Barcelona.

  24 hours and 51 minutes to confinement

  I look at the computer and the information on the screen and it all collides in my head. I step back, wander, I think, to the left, but when I do, I stumble and the bread from the board on the table topples and falls, scattering crumbs and grapes all over the floor.

  I drop down and begin scraping it all up, my head concerned at the random disorder it has created. Everything is chaotic. The food thrown everywhere, I pick up every fallen piece of bread and place it back on the table in neat, ordered lines, my fingers taking each grape too, and setting them in rows, shifting each one that moves so it stays where I need it to.

  Patricia comes to my side. ‘Doc? Doc, breathe.’

  ‘How could Alarico be their contact?’ Balthus is saying. He is pacing the room, head shaking. ‘It doesn’t … it doesn’t make any sense.’

  It is all too much. I close my eyes, count up in fives, recite some quantum theory, try to remember happy times with Papa, the creases by his eyes, the way he would give me firm, strong hugs because I couldn’t bear light ones, but when I open my eyes, there is a lump in my throat and my fingers begin to grab whatever they can on the table—plates, glasses, napkins—and rearrange them into neat, set squares. I reach into my rucksack and pull out the torn photo of the two of us from my villa.

  ‘Doc?’

  I look up to Patricia. Her hand is held out with five slim, familiar fingers. I blink at it. I watch her arms and her chest and the way her long neck bends, each movement of it pressed to my memory.

  ‘Papa gave me to the Project,’ I say. I trace a finger over the rip in the picture of us.

  ‘The document could be false,’ she says, ‘have you thought about that?’

  I hesitate, confused. ‘It is a Project file.’

  ‘Yeah, and the sodding Project could have planted the data deliberately. Think about it—it could be absolutely anything.’

  But the mixture of the data and Papa’s name and the confusion and the smells in the room and even the feel of the denim fabric on my legs all start to overload my mind, and I begin to moan and rock a little to let off the steam of the chaos I feel inside.

  ‘What’s she doing?’ Chris says.

  I sense everyone staring at me, but there is nothing I can do to stop it now. Like an avalanche, it has exploded.

  ‘She’s stimming,’ Patricia says to Chris, then looks back to me. ‘It’s all been too much for her.’

  ‘Can she hear you?’

  But Patricia ignores Chris and speaks just to me. ‘Hold up your hand, Doc.’

  I raise my eyes. Patricia’s fingers are spread out in front of her and I blink at them, briefly glancing to the blurred faces of Balthus and Chris.

  ‘Is she going to be okay?’ Chris whispers to Balthus.

  ‘Doc?’ Patricia says, her voice soft, low. ‘Doc, your hand.’

  I watch her. I keep my sight fixed on my friend and, slowly, my body starts to settle and my humming becomes less then ceases entirely as I focus on Patricia, on her hand, her fingers, her talcum powder scent.

  ‘He was my papa,’ I say. ‘He worked for the Project.’

  Patricia tilts her head. ‘We’ll work it all out, okay?’

  I look at her, her soft cheeks, wide eyes as, gradually, my hand rises until our fingertips touch and my breathing begins to slow.

  ‘Er, guys?’ Chris steps into view. ‘There’s someone here.’

  The Abbot stands in the doorway where the room snakes out into a dimly lit corridor. He wears black robes that skim the floor in a triangle shape, and around his neck hangs a single silver chain with a thick cross on the end of it.

  Balthus turns to him. ‘Father, what is it?’

  ‘We have visitors.’

  The Abbot holds out a phone and on it is a photograph. I pull myself up a little now as, ahead, Balthus strides over to the monk, stares at the digital image and shakes his head. ‘I don’t know them.’ He turns. ‘Maria, I know things are difficult for you right now, but do you recognise these two?’

  He approaches me, crouches down and holds out the cell. ‘Have you seen them before?’

  My eyes are blurred from zoning out and at first it is hard to see, but, after two seconds, something in my brain kicks in and memories start to function and connect. I rise a little and take the phone from Balthus. The initial face I do not recognise, but the second … Mahogany hair, skin the colour of buttermilk, black jeans painted to her legs, a worn leather jacket. A memory slips into my mind. The counselling sessions after my acquittal, the woman who brought coffee, the one who the Project therapist, officer—Kurt—said was his girlfriend.

  Balthus steps forward. ‘They are with the Project, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looks to Chris. ‘Copy those files. We have to leave. Now.’

  ‘This way,’ the Abbot says. He turns, sweeps to the left and as he does, his feet seem to hover over the floor as if they weren’t touching the stone at all.

  We gather our belongings and rush out of the room, shoving past the wooden doorway, plunging into ribbons of walkways, my head switched to a focus I was not sure before I could achieve. Staying close to each other, we criss-cross left then right, bright lights flickering against walls that are arranged in exposed, raw slabs of stonework splayed out under effigies of Jesus Christ and Mary. Everything hits my senses at once. The lights, smells, sounds, thoughts of Papa with the Project. I document all of it. It is almost too much to handle, but I focus on Patricia, on the heads of Chris and Balthus and the ordered robes of the Abbot and I move on.

  We turn a corner. Our feet are running now, all in time, but, on a polished tile Chris slips and he topples into a cemented recess, air billowing out of him as his chest hits the wall. I hesitate. The others have not noticed and are racing ahead.

  ‘You go,’ Chris says. ‘I’ll catch up.’ He moves to stand but winces, his palm slapping to his injured shoulder.

  Unsure what to do, I glance once more to the corridor and catch sight of Patricia’s head. They are nearly out of sight. I look back to Chris. We are supposed to be running, leaving—that is the plan, the routine—but the laptop is with Chris and he has a lot of knowledge and … and he helped me.

  I drop to the floor. Hooking my arms underneath his shoulders, I heave up his body but he is heavy and the corridor warm, and sweat seeps through the fabric of my T-shirt and jacket, and even though it is cotton, the fabric irritates my skin and makes the whole thing difficult to deal with. But I keep going. Chris locks eyes with me for one second and, for some reason, I find myself unable to look away.

  ‘They must have found you through me,’ he says. ‘Those people on the phone image—they must have tracked you through my laptop.’

  ‘Negative.’ I hoist him upright and tug on his arm. ‘The higher probab
ility is that they found me through following Balthus or Patricia.’

  Propping up Chris on one elbow, we begin to move again, but progress is slow, the two of us inching along until I can barely hear the others ahead at all, and sweat now forms two dark pools under my arms as the thought that they are here, the Project, somewhere near, makes my breathing short and sharp.

  After a few seconds, Chris manages to jog again alongside me as we finally reach a wide arch at the end of the tunnel that stretches out towards the exit beyond. Balthus and Patricia are there, catching their breath as the Abbot ahead unlocks a bolt on a cast-iron door to the right and gestures to Balthus, who goes to talk to the Abbot in hushed tones.

  ‘They’ve arranged a car,’ Balthus says to us now, walking over, his voice dropped, a single light beam illuminating every line on his face, ‘out towards the rear side of this section. We can get to it, but—’

  ‘We cannot go as one group,’ I say.

  Patricia turns to me. ‘Doc, we have to stay together. We can’t let the Project get you on your own.’

  ‘I won’t come,’ Chris says. ‘They could have tracked you all through my laptop.’

  I turn to him. ‘It was not your laptop they traced.’

  Patricia glances between the two of us.

  ‘It is time for you to leave,’ the Abbot whispers.

  ‘Chris,’ Balthus says, ‘you’re coming with us. End of discussion. Okay?’

  He nods. ‘Okay.’ He then reaches into his pocket and gives something to me. A USB stick. ‘You should have this. It’s got it on all the documents we found just now.’

  Unsure why he is helping me, I take the memory stick.

  ‘If we get split up at all and you need to contact me, I wrote down my secure email and cell.’ He gives me a scrawl of paper. ‘The geolocation’s off, so they can’t find me. Use Text Secure or Signal to contact me—you can send encrypted messages via those.’

  I read his details, memorise them, then rip the paper up into tiny confetti pieces.

  ‘What, you don’t want it?’

  ‘No. I memorised it.’

  ‘Oh.’ He opens his mouth as if to announce something, but instead simply blinks at me and says, ‘Oh,’ again.

  ‘Doc?’ Patricia says. ‘Let’s go.’