The Killing Files

by Nikki Owen

  I read more of the file. ‘This gives extensive detail on their origins, what tests have been performed and how the subject has reacted to it all. This is key information we can use to halt the entire Project, and …’ I stop. The document, as I move it, seems to now scroll across to the right and as it does, one word emerges, the same word over and over sitting alongside each subject number as my eyes frantically scan it all and a visceral fright takes hold.

  ‘Deceased,’ I say, swallowing, even though my mouth is dry.

  ‘What?’ Balthus says. ‘Who is deceased?’

  I look again to be sure, but there is no doubt. ‘Against 2,005 of the subject numbers, the document states they are deceased. They died in the middle of being conditioned.’ I look down, confused, concerned. I played a part in this. I helped file this document of dead people with extinguished lives and existences, and I don’t even remember.

  ‘Doc, oh my goodness.’ Patricia’s low lilt sifts through my worry. ‘Breathe, okay? Breathe.’

  I do. I breathe and try to stay calm and read on and see more data that details what Raven said there would be: pages and pages of confidential information on not only who the Project have tested on, but who they have killed on operations, what targets have been eliminated, details and illegal surveillance of regular citizens, of covert terrorism operations in Iran, Germany, France, Afghanistan, Belgium and many, many other countries.

  I tell Patricia what I can see. ‘How can this be for the greater good?’ I say, eyes swimming a little.

  ‘I don’t know, Doc. I don’t know. But we’ll get them, okay? With all this information now, we can get them.’

  And as her voice lilts in my head, I see it there, two pages in. ‘My subject number is listed.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  I wipe the sweat from my head and make my eyes take in what my head does not want to see. ‘It lists …’ I stop, feel my body rock a little as I struggle to process it all. ‘It lists the people I have killed. It says I am the test child and that I am the only one who has completed the full training programme without … without dying.’ I stop, scared now at what it all really means. ‘Others have died,’ I say after a moment, ‘but I am alive.’

  ‘Doc, Doc, it’s okay. You won’t be one of them—you won’t die.’

  ‘That is not based on fact though. Your thought is being led by emotions.’ My mind is gripped by a feeling of horror and shame, but when I read a census of what appears to be ten people I have eliminated through operations, I cannot feel upset. I cannot recall any of what I did and instead, work through the names and try to spot any clues. I see lists of cyber ops I have been involved in at various ages, look at data containing the training I have completed and against all of it, against every one is my age at the time, all culminating in the same countdown device Chris and I discovered on the computer at his house in Montserrat. But what is it counting down to?

  ‘Balthus, she was right,’ I say.

  ‘Maria?’

  ‘Raven said this file would tell me who I am.’ I look at the numbers and facts on what I have done. ‘This is who I am.’

  ‘No,’ Patricia says, ‘it’s not who you are, Doc. You never knew what you were doing.’

  I want to believe Patricia’s words, but something inside me is not convinced. I look at the data. The Project have made all this happen, here in Hamburg and in places elsewhere, these deaths and crimes and no one in the world but us seems to know about it.

  ‘Is Chris there?’ I say.

  His voice pops up. ‘Yep.’

  ‘I want you to access the files on here. There is a modem.’

  ‘Already on it. I can duplicate what I see by bypassing the system. I’m still getting some movement on the sensor somewhere in the facility, but I don’t think it’s too near you. I’ll get this done then you can shut it down and get the hell out of there.’

  The temperature of the room drops a few degrees more and my limbs begin to shake as I realise I have been sitting ramrod straight for the entire time. I set down the cell for a second, roll my head and, stretching my arms, pick up the phone again when Chris’s voice crackles in fast and urgent.

  ‘Whoa. Whoa, Maria? I’m getting something odd here. It’s linking up to something.’

  My pulse quickens. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know … it should be appearing on your screen now. It looks like some kind of … Wait—is that a list of drugs?’

  Nothing comes up at first on the screen, but then, after three seconds, a report emerges. It has a black border and on the main body, the page is yellow. ‘This is an eyes-only document.’

  ‘Holy shit.’

  I scan the classified file and see details on drugs, on the names of specific medcines, ones that I know and have seen, as a doctor, before. ‘These are cancer drugs.’

  ‘I’m reading the same document now,’ Chris says. ‘Is that what they have been doing all along, d’you reckon? Testing cancer drugs on people?’

  I examine the data further and see that each drug is linked to a test subject number, and as my fingers hover above the keyboard a frightening realisation of what I am looking at hits me. ‘Have they tested these drugs on … on me?’

  ‘Oh, fuck,’ Chris says.

  My eyes check the information again, almost in a haze, a bubble. It does not add up. ‘Why would there be a need to test cancer drugs in this way? Is that why I have been ill in the past, because of these trials?’

  ‘Think back to the times when you’ve been sick,’ Chris says, ‘try to link the symptoms to the drugs on the screen.’

  I think, but there are no direct correlations to any illness I can recall within the date parameters on this file. ‘If these drugs are trial phase only, then their effects would not be documented and no one outside the Project would ever be aware of the consequences.’

  ‘Look at the final part of the document,’ Chris says. ‘It’s got information on specific amounts of money in different denominations and they’re linked directly to a cancer drug, and by each amount of money is a date and time.’

  He’s right. Leaning in, I look at the dates and see that they span three decades. ‘The dates spread back into the 1970s.’ I steady my hands and track the dates forward, when something changes and a feeling of dread floods me. ‘In 1979, the amounts rise substantially and there is a location, a place. A place I know.’

  ‘Madrid.’

  Facts slam into me, hard, forging connections as I talk fast now, thinking aloud, my brain overriding emotions with data to help me cope.

  ‘Three decades ago Black September began terrorist activities and the Project was created. These dates stretch back to that time. The cancer drug details spread back to that time also, as do the money transactions, many in Madrid.’ The conclusion screeches in and knocks me sideways. ‘Was Papa a part of this?’

  ‘Maria?’ It is Balthus. ‘You can’t tell from this who is involved. Alarico might have had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘The correlations are clear and linked.’

  ‘Yes, but what if it’s not linked to the cancer drugs? Which means Alarico is not connected at all. The dates don’t match. He was in court a lot at the times this file states. I remember because we used to talk a lot then. He was never ill, either. There’s one person who has been ill, though.’

  ‘Er, sorry to interrupt,’ Chris says, ‘but you’ve got some people approaching. They’re reasonably far away, but it’s hard to tell—best not risk it.’

  I look to the screen. ‘There is one more file unopened. Can you access it?’

  ‘Copy that. I’ll download it now.’

  ‘Doc,’ Patricia says, ‘you’ve got what you’ve come for and Chris can help crack open anything else that was on there so we have the full data. But right now, you have to get out, okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I stand, pick up the cell and, with Chris finished his download, go to leave.

  An alarm siren sounds and begins to shr
iek through the air.

  Chapter 33

  Deep cover Project facility.

  17 hours and 13 minutes to confinement

  The alarm tears through the air, ripping it apart. I crouch down, one hand covering my head, the cell to my ear, my brain desperate to escape the auditory assault.

  ‘On the plans, there’s a main exit at the end of the corridor fifty metres to your left,’ Chris says fast over the siren. ‘The sensor is hacked and set up for you to leave. When you get out, aim for Hamburg station. I’ll get a contact I know to drop you off a fake passport and cash in a locker there so you can travel onwards. I’ll text the details.’

  ‘Maria, go!’ shouts Balthus. ‘Go!’

  I run to the door, stop and listen. The low lights help me to think and I can hear voices shouting, but because the alarm is so loud, it is hard to determine their distance from me. The siren bursts in quick, sharp shocks, and slapping one hand to my ear, inch by inch, I click the door open.

  I peer into the corridor. There is a white walkway straight to my right and when I look both ways, it is clear. No intelligence officers, no sign of Black Eyes. I place my hand on the ice wall outside and, checking one more time in both directions, I sprint down the corridor towards what I hope is the exit, and after exactly fifty metres, I find a corner and I stop to assess the situation.

  Drawing in long deep breaths, I scan the area, locate the exit Chris identified then go to calculate a second contingency option, when voices shout out ahead. Heart racing, I sprint straight to the initial exit then halt, scan it fast and realise with a deep pit of dread that I have nothing to make it through—no key, no access code, no way to contact Chris without alerting whoever is near. The alarm wails on.

  I move. With the sound of shoes echoing on tiles, I turn and run, breath heavy, pulse spiking. I push against each and every door I see, but they are all sealed shut and surrounded by a black plastic mesh that is soft and sticky to the touch. Panic peaking, I race forwards and reach a red double door and brake, the rubber soles of the dead man’s sneakers screeching on the floor. I glance to the right of the exit. There is an access key pad by the handle, but it is unusual: there are no buttons to press, no code to crack and I crouch a little, peer at it until I know what I am looking at: a fingerprint access scanner, one that will require approved users only.

  A single shout rips from my right. I duck. I drop to the floor, crawling along to where the wall tucks in to the side and jerk my eyes left and right. The lights have an ever softer glow here and I know I need to hide, to move fast now, but all I spot at speed is a crevice one metre to my left and a gap that opens up all the way to the ceiling, like a chasm between two sheets of ice. The footsteps stomp closer. I glance to the exit scanner one more time, but there is no time to make it back over there, so I sprint to the chasm gap and squeeze myself into it.

  My chest compresses, the oxygen wheezing out as the ice walls lock me in, but despite the sharp pain, despite the immediate discomfort, I cannot move. Because to my right are two armed intelligence officers.

  I hold my breath as they scour the area. I count, one second, two, three, four. On five, I hear them turn and walk away, and I breathe out.

  I peel my body out from the crevice and sprint back over to the exit and examine the access sensor. There are prints there, sweat residues from the skin of previous users leaving marks on the scanner. I think. If I could replicate the prints, if there was something to stick on to the glass then I could get out. Sweat pouring off me, the combat trousers I wear start to slide down and I pull them up when I feel something in my pocket that makes me stop: the chewing gum packet.

  A vague memory floats into my head of Raven. She is working on an operation and smiling and saying, ‘The Americans like their gum.’ But she is not using it to chew. Instead, she is turning to a code pad and pressing the gum into the sensor.

  The memory rolls away like a tide going back out to sea, and I intake a breath, short and sharp. The woman, her veil, the scent of mint gum mixed with spice and turmeric drifts away. I look up.

  I know what to do.

  Moving fast, I now throw my hand into the cargo pocket and, feeling for the sharp edge, pull it out. The floppy disk from the dead officer. The floppy disk with the sticky tape on the sides.

  Steadying my fingers, I peel the tape and it comes away within a second. Crouching down, I survey the corridor and, as certain as I can be that all’s clear, I hover the tape over the scanner and, using the torch on the cell, allow my eyes to track the small, flat screen, locating the best unsmudged and whole fingerprint I can find.

  Pinching the sticky tape between my thumb and forefinger, I place the strip over the middle section of the scanner where the print sits, pressing it firmly into the glass then pause. The gum, what did she do with the gum? An image of a smile spreading like silk comes to me, of fingers working diligently, elegantly, gliding in air. I catch my breath as I realise I liked her, this woman, whoever she was, as if she was good to me, kind.

  I swallow, slot the image back away and, slipping my fingers to my pocket, rip out the stolen packet of gum. Not giving myself time to doubt my plan, I pop a piece in my mouth and chew. The gum soft, I squeeze it dry on the roof of my mouth and, clamping it between my teeth, peel off the tape from the screen and extract the gum from my mouth. Sweat runs past my brow now. Lowering the gum, I hold it onto the tape and keep it in place, counting fifteen seconds, eyes searching the area for officers the entire time. Done, I carefully unwrap the chewing gum from the tape and allow myself one small smile.

  Because there, in front of me, is a print. An authorized fingerprint.

  The alarm still shrilling, I put all my energy into shutting the sound out and I turn the gum right side down and press the fingerprint gently into the scanner, using it as a substitute person. I wait and hold my breath.

  A buzzer sounds. I feel a wash of relief as the door clicks open and a whoosh of cold air hits my face, followed by a beam of sunshine streaming onto my cheeks. There is more shouting and, from the far left direction, people are running this way.

  Chest tight, throat dry, I drag open the door and, not looking back, not daring to check how far away any intelligence officers may be, I click the exit silently shut and run towards a distant car park deck in the early morning Hamburg sun as back in the Project facility, the siren wails on.

  Confinement location—present day

  The needle is out. I stumble to my knees and gulp in large breaths. My arms and legs are throbbing, muscles weak from the ropes and when I raise my head, my neck aches so much that my shoulders seize up almost entirely, nearly cramping, and blood drips from the crease of my arm to my wrist and fingers.

  I stagger to a stand and observe what I can of the room. Blackness, two crates, padded walls. I feel dirty. I feel unwashed and smelly and when I run a hand through my hair, strands of it stick in clumps to my skin. Not wanting to remain in here a moment longer and fearful of what may happen next with Ramon, I spin round and go to escape to the door when my attention is taken by what is on the far wall where the light stream dribbles. Curious, I hobble over and halt. It is a cross of Jesus Christ. I rub my eyes, a weariness rippling across them, crouch down and look. The light is weak here, but even through the blackness I can see that, this close to the cross, something is not right where the wall runs by. I wipe my fingers free of sweat and, in the absence of full sight, let my sense of touch do the exploring.

  There, to the left of the cross sits a stretch of padded wall the same as I had seen towards the door in front of the chair where I was strapped. I feel my way along it and stop. A corner of the leather fabric is curling at one edge and when the light above swings over, I notice something under it, some writing. Kneeling down fast, I pinch the edge of the leather and pull it. It rips away. It comes free in my hand to reveal numbers scratched onto the bare brick wall underneath, numbers 31, 100, 75, 13, 21 and 26, each with specific places of birth in the Basque country and what see
ms to be a set of calendar years: 1976, 1985, 1989, 2001, 2009, 2010, none of which relate or have a specific pattern. And even though I am tired and hungry, I look at them and remember the ICE room in Hamburg and call up the picture of the numbers and places and instantly know that they all correlate somehow, that what I am seeing here, the numbers at least all match to what I saw on the file, on the file Raven directed me to.

  For a moment, I do not move as my brain attempts to compute it all. Have these been scratched on by others like me? Other subject numbers? And if so, how? Does that mean Ramon has been keeping them down here for the Project like he has with me? But how do the calendar years relate to my brother? Some of them stretch back to when Ramon was very young and therefore way before he could ever be involved as a contact for the Project. I study them again, trying to make sense of it all.

  As my head drops down, my eyes catch sight of the cross where it sticks out at the bottom. A cross. A religious symbol that represents not life or caring for others or doing good, but killing and hurting and retaliation. At the top of the wall where the padding is pulled and the subject number etchings lie, the cross is flat, but at the bottom, I can see now something sticking out from underneath the wood where the feet of Christ sit.

  I kneel down and begin to pull at it. At first it does not move, and so, listening out for any signal of Ramon or the Project, I reach over, grab the medical stand from the drug and the timer and, angling it at forty-five degrees, I use it as a hook and smash it down hard.

  The cross comes away in one go and when I pick it up from the floor a photograph drops out. Curious, nervous, I unfold it, as there in my hands is a photograph of a mother and her newborn baby, and in the top right hand corner where the faded colour of the image bleeds into the card, is a name and a year:

  Maria. 1980.

  Chapter 34

  Deep cover Project facility.

  16 hours and 2 minutes to confinement