Killing Eva (4 page)

FOUR

When she opened
her eyes, she felt she was dead straight away. There was a lightness to her limbs and a heaviness in her heart that told her she hadn't managed to escape this time with her life. She didn't live in fiction; she wasn't superhuman and her dreams of being something more had all been snatched away.

And then the pain started.

First, a gnawing sensation in her stomach that grew in intensity like a rising decibel and suddenly was so loud that she felt as if her entire body might split in two. She was bent double, screaming now.

Agony.

She couldn't end the pain, she knew that. There was no way to stop this anguish that had sliced through her and opened her up from stomach to heart. She would be stuck, forever – screaming.

Eva awoke with a start. She was sweating heavily. She reacted instantly to the darkened room and lurched for the light switch, knocking a book and a bottle of water on to the floor as she did so.

She pushed herself upwards against the headboard and ran a hand through damp hair.

The room around her was entirely still; outside the windows, a velvety darkness enveloped the peaceful sleepers of London.

She realised she was shivering, reached for a white robe that lay on the chair next to the bed and pulled it over her shoulders.

Her first nightmare in more than six months.

Eva had the distinct impression her dream had a vaguely religious undertone, that she had somehow dreamed herself into a state of purgatory.

She leaned back against the pillows and sighed out loud. While no one else had held her accountable for those two deaths in Paris, she seemed unable to allow herself to forget them. She was her own worst enemy, judge and jury.

One had been a fight to the death – if Eva hadn't fired that fatal shot, she would have been killed, without a doubt. As for the other, it was an unknown assassin wielding a needle filled with the virus that would have killed her exactly as it killed him if she hadn't pushed the plunger home into his flesh. He had died quickly and she had never forgotten the look on his face as his organs collapsed and the virus took control of his body, reprogramming his own immune system to kill.

‘I had no choice,' she said out loud. Her voice sounded uncharacteristically weak and strained.

I'm
actually
going crazy.

She dismissed the thought, threw back the bedcovers, pulled the robe around her and belted it tightly. The air in the flat was cold and she could see her breath as she walked through her bedroom, along the boards of the hall floor and into the large open plan living room and kitchen. She had specifically chosen a flat with a minimalist feel – clutter did not work for her. She stood at the kitchen island and waited for the kettle to boil. For some reason, she felt as if she was not the only person in that room. It was almost as if she was waiting for someone – or something – to speak. But no one did. Nothing moved.

Eva turned back to the stainless steel kitchen area and retrieved her favourite mug from one of the cupboards; a heavy, insulated piece of stoneware designed to keep tea warm for ‘up to an hour'. The clock on the kitchen wall read 5am. It was virtually morning. She gave up on the idea of going back to sleep, of entering that purgatory place again, and made herself tea with two strong caffeinated teabags. Milk, no sugar. Grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl, she made her way back into the bedroom.

As she walked through the darkened hallway, all the hairs stood up on the back of her neck.

Eva walked faster, quickly closing the bedroom door behind her.

When she reached the bed, she put the tea down on the bedside table before taking a large bite of the apple. For a moment she contemplated wedging a piece of furniture against the door but decided the fearful little girl apparently inhabiting her imagination did not need any encouragement.

She climbed back into bed and pulled the still warm covers over her chilled skin.

After a few sips of tea and the rest of the apple, Eva reached for her laptop and opened it. Instantly, it jumped to life, showing her the search engine she had been using the night before to look for information on ‘kolychak'.

She stared at the screen.

There were two hits at the top of the list she was pretty sure had not been there the night before. Nothing relevant had appeared last night, she was almost 100 per cent sure of that.

But there was something there now.

Eva's stomach flipped.

She navigated her way onto the first page.

The headline read:
‘This country remains committed as a party to the Geneva Protocol, and a party to and depository government of the Biological and Toxin Weapons Convention.'

The rest of the page appeared to be written in the Cyrillic alphabet but she could clearly see the world ‘kolychak' in English lettering, halfway down the screen. She stared at the page. It looked like a photocopy of a document, a pdf. It had an official stamp on the right hand side at the top and had been signed at the bottom – two signatories – and another stamp, this time so small and round that it was impossible to see what shape the ink was meant to convey.

Eva opened a second window and searched for ‘Biological and Toxin Weapons Convention'. She was taken to a page that revealed the full name of the convention: the Convention on the Prohibition of the Development, Production and Stockpiling of Bacteriological (Biological) and Toxin Weapons and on their Destruction. It had been signed simultaneously in Moscow, Washington and London on 10 April 1972 and entered into force on 26 March 1975. She read on.

‘The Convention bans the development, production, stockpiling, acquisition and retention of microbial or other biological agents or toxins, in types and in quantities that have no justification for prophylactic, protective or other peaceful purposes. It also bans weapons, equipment or means of delivery designed to use such agents or toxins for hostile purposes or in armed conflict. The actual use of biological weapons is prohibited by the 1925 Geneva Protocol and Article VIII of the BTWC recognizes that nothing contained in the Convention shall be construed as a derogation from the obligations contained in the Geneva Protocol.'

It was clearly a Cold War consequence, some 40 years old but, when she navigated back to that first screen again, there was ‘kolychak'. A word she had heard very much in her own present.

Eva opened a third window and, this time, she searched for the name of the convention alongside the word ‘Russia'. This brought up numerous pages where concerns were expressed, with various degrees of strength, about the country's compliance with the convention. It seemed that Russia – and formerly the Soviet Union – had covertly operated an offensive biological weapons programme in contravention of the convention for more than fifteen years. Many commentators appeared concerned about whether or not this programme had ever actually been dismantled.

Eva went back to the first page she had found and copied the text surrounding the word ‘kolychak'. She located a free translation website and put it through the system.

The result was garbled but she could see that kolychak was one of the weapons plants that had been causing concern to international commentators and that the document with the signatures on it indicated it had been closed more than two decades ago.

Eva reached for her tea and realised it was cold. More than an hour of searching and she had returned exactly to the point at which she started.

She threw back the covers, picked up her mug and padded through to the kitchen. It was still dark outside and the night was silent. She flicked the ‘on' switch on the heating as she waited for the kettle to boil and then made herself a second strong cup of tea. This time, when she went back to bed, she left all the lights on.

Back in front of her laptop, Eva tried the second search engine hit that had popped up in response to ‘kolychak'.

As soon as the page appeared on her screen, she frowned.

‘Kolychak private banking will protect and grow your wealth.'

The page was silvery grey with a royal blue logo that showed a crest of some sort. It did not look particularly Russian.

Eva clicked through to the ‘about' page.

‘Kolychak private banking offers investment advice and opportunity. Our wealth management offering is unprecedented, both with respect to our network reach and our proven success.'

And that was it. The page was cryptically absent of any information that could definitively tell Eva what the organisation was.

She copied and pasted the words ‘kolychak private banking' into another search window and the single accurate hit that appeared was the same website she had just been on. There was nothing else at all.

Then she noticed the search had brought up a Maps result. She clicked on it and found herself looking down on an address in Paris. Kolychak private banking was located in Paris.

Her heart started to beat faster.

Opening up the Maps page, she tried to place the location.

She read through the address again and felt sure she had seen it before, written down – perhaps scribbled onto a piece of paper somewhere. She shut her eyes and tried to visualise the ghostly scrap of writing. She tried harder. Then, instantly, the image was clear in her mind.

Paris, 13 months ago.

FIVE

Eva awoke with
a start. Bright sunlight was streaming in through the gaps in her curtains. Groggily, she reached for her phone. 9.30am. She groaned. She was already late for work.

Typing a quick text message to Sam, some lie about a burst pipe and a plumber, she quickly made the bed and headed for the shower. She flicked the switch on the powerful device with its enormous rainforest head and waited for the room to fill with warm clouds of steam as she cleaned her teeth. A haunted face stared back at her. She looked as if she hadn't slept for a week. Gradually, the mirror misted over.

Eva rinsed her toothbrush, stripped off and stepped under the huge silver showerhead. This hotel style bathroom was what had attracted her to the flat in the first place. She loved good bathrooms. Chrome fittings, a roll top bath, pale wood fixtures and a round contemporary basin that was satisfyingly smooth. She had lived most of her life in London with cracked avocado bathroom sets and mouldy grouting and she was fed up renting from landlords who seemed to think that was ok. She had chosen this flat because it was expensive, which made her feel it would at least guarantee a landlord who understood his legal responsibilities and wanted to take care of a (relatively) high rolling tenant. But, of course, it didn't. The expensive looking fixtures and fittings were as breakable as the avocado bathroom sets and she was already embroiled in running battles over the landlord's maintenance obligations.

The warm water energised Eva and she stepped out of the shower with a surprising enthusiasm for the day ahead. She combed her hair through, dried off and then padded through to the bedroom, enjoying the under floor heating that, for once, seemed to have come on when it was supposed to. She selected a pair of cigarette-style pants – black – a crisp white shirt and a close cut jacket in a matching dark shade. Then, she slipped her feet into some dark boots, dried her hair and spent at least 15 minutes trying to make herself look more human with the contents of her make-up bag. Finally, she pulled on the oversize coat, reached for her bag and dashed for the door.

It was 10.15.

By 10.30, she was sitting on the bus with a coffee.

‘Oh, my God!'

Eva only realised she had spoken out loud because several people in the seats in front of her suddenly turned around to look at her.

She had to stop doing that.

But she had remembered something. She knew where she had heard that word ‘kolychak' before.

He watched Eva's lithe figure as she jumped off the bus, strong legs carrying her through the closing doors and back to earth. She stood still on the pavement for several seconds before a large man going the other way knocked her, hard. Unusually for Eva, she didn't react. She looked dazed, almost shocked. And, he realised distractedly, she looked good. He wondered what had happened to her upstairs on that bus. This was not her work stop; in fact, she had jumped off the bus in the middle of the city, in a location miles from where she worked and miles from where she lived. What was she doing?

As he watched, Eva retrieved her phone from her bag and raised it to her ear. When the call apparently connected, she seemed to speak quickly and forcefully and then hung up, frustration written all over her face. Straight away she made a second call but, apparently, the results were the same. Worry creased her features – and something more: fear.

Then she was on the move and he had to walk quickly to keep up with her. She crossed the busy street, bustling with traffic, and narrowly avoided colliding with a black cab. She looked shocked and shaken as the driver sounded his horn and shouted a curse from his window, as if she hadn't even been aware she was on a road.

He was puzzled.

No matter what was going on inside, Eva usually portrayed the picture of a confident and well organised woman – at least to the outside world – but right now she looked utterly lost.

He gazed at her. She was only metres away…

Suddenly, she turned her head and appeared to look right at him. He moved away, averting his eyes and browsing his phone, glancing in her direction through sunglasses, and out from underneath his baseball cap, to see whether she had either seen him or recognised him.

She turned in the other direction but he was not reassured. That could mean that she was about to start running.

Sure enough, she began to move again, quickly through the crowds, until he realised she was heading for the tube station.

She flew down the stairs at breathtaking speed and traversed the barriers without ever looking back.

He realised that he had no ticket, nor a contactless card, and that the queues were too long.

He had lost her.

Eva stared down at her hands as she sat on the Northern Line train, heading south. At Charing Cross, she jumped from her seat, narrowly avoiding a collision with the woman attempting to get into it, and went in search of the Bakerloo Line connection. As she walked, she thought back to the realisation that she'd had on the bus. The word ‘kolychak' had been spoken during a conversation via video link in the underground bunker in Paraguay.

Thirteen months ago.

There were four men from the Association for the Control of Regenerative Networking. After Daniel had announced his blackmail, one of them had said:

‘You have no interest in being part of our ongoing organisation?'

And Daniel had replied.

‘No, I don't have the patience to play the long game – not for kolychak or the rest.'

Eva frowned as she stepped on to the escalator and began moving upwards. ‘Kolychak or the rest.' What did that mean?

And what was the ‘ongoing organisation' those men were talking about?

Eva had tried to call Irene before she went underground but had been unable to reach her. She had once again tried Irene's secretary, who had simply trotted out the same line as the day before, and then she had tried Irene's home number. The number appeared to be disconnected.

Eva had almost lost it in the middle of the street. Something was happening, something bad. And it was linked to everything that had occurred thirteen months ago in Paris. The only other person she knew to be still alive who had any shared memories of that situation was Irene Hunt and Eva had to see her.

Irene lived in a Maida Vale mansion with her husband, Henry, and two children. Eva had once visited it under rather different circumstances – meeting the woman who she believed broke up her family. Years before, Irene had conducted an affair with Eva's father. After that, nothing had been the same.

Although it was some time since she had been to Irene's house, Eva thought she could remember the route from the station and she was determined to make contact. It was easy to ignore a phone call but a person on your doorstep, not so much.

When she emerged from the tube station, the bright sunlight was blinding. Normally, she would turn her face to the sun but today she ducked it.

She set off at pace across the wide roads, ignoring the large, aesthetically pleasing houses on either side, focused only on finding the gate she would recognise as Irene's.

Fifteen minutes later, there it was. The same gate, entry through the same garden and the same comfortingly solid front door.

She raced up the stairs and rang the doorbell. There was no response.

She rang it again, slightly too quickly.

The door was opened by a harassed looking woman. In the background, Eva could hear a baby crying.

‘Yes?'

‘Is Irene here?'

‘Who?'

‘Irene. Irene Hunt.'

‘I think you must have the wrong address.'

The woman attempted to turn and shut the door.

‘Wait!' Eva realised her voice was not calm. She took a deep breath. She smiled. The face opposite her was wary.

‘I'm sorry, I've had to rush to get here. It's just that a woman called Irene Hunt – and her husband Henry – they lived here. I came to see them just over a year ago. And I really need to find out where they are.'

The woman just stared at Eva. She almost looked sympathetic but there was more suspicion in her eyes than anything else.

‘I'm really sorry, I can't help you. We have lived here for more than five years now.'

Eva stared at the woman, taken aback.

‘I was here just over 13 months ago and she was living in this exact house. I'm sorry but that can't be true.'

She couldn't have made a mistake, could she?

Suddenly, the woman was angry. ‘Look, I don't know who you are or whether this is some kind of wind-up but this is my home and you're standing on my doorstep making me feel worried about what you're going to do next. I have an infant upstairs. If you don't mind, I'd like you to leave.'

Eva stepped back. She hadn't meant to intimidate. ‘I'm sorry, of course.'

Immediately, she turned and walked back through the garden area, noting the same distinctive water feature she had seen on that night she had come here with Leon. It was Irene's house. She had not made a mistake. There was no way that woman could be telling the truth, no matter how genuine she might have seemed.

When she was outside the front gate, Eva shut it and turned to look at the house again. She closed her eyes and pulled back the memory from that misty night when she had come here looking for help, when Leon had kissed her, when she had confronted Irene for the first time.

When she opened her eyes again, she was standing in front of exactly the same house. Even the curtain arrangements hadn't changed.

Eva glanced around her at the wide streets, suddenly aware of being very alone. A fleeting thought crossed her mind that, given the way events unfolded last time, perhaps she needed to start carrying a weapon. She began walking back towards the tube. Maybe a pair of scissors. Or even a knife. She certainly felt like she needed something. Irene had disappeared, ‘Jackson' was calling her again and, after six months of good sleep, her nightmares had returned.

The police who had found Stefano Cirza's body were horrified by the state in which it had been left. It looked almost as if he had been savaged by a wild animal and the gore… that was too much for some. There had been white faces all round and hastily distributed sick bags. Most of the flesh seemed to have been removed from his right thigh, which was horrific enough, but the neck wound had almost severed his head entirely. It appeared to have been delivered with such force there was suspicion that perhaps an animal had indeed been to blame. It would explain the inhuman claw marks at least and the ferocity with which he had been attacked.

What the police could not piece together was why this man had been the victim of such a heinous crime.

He was a doctor, a scientist, and his work was innocuous as far as anyone could tell. He was not working on biological warfare, he was not dealing with any particularly lucrative pharmaceuticals and he had done nothing other than research human genetics.

The young officers charged with trying to understand what was behind the attack had found the man's research interesting. It was a novel idea and, yes, what he had developed was pioneering. However, there seemed no reason to kill him for it. None at all. It could have been bought at a relatively cheap price.

When they had managed to reach his research assistant, a difficult conversation on a long-distance line had revealed there were buyers interested and that the whole process was under way to bring such a ‘genetic key' onto the market. Some sort of mapping technology was also mentioned but there was no evidence of that anywhere in the lab so the officers focused on the key. They considered whether an English business partner the assistant had mentioned could be to blame but he had apparently disappeared in mysterious circumstances.

The officers thought that using one's own genetic code to provide the key to a digital lock was innovative. The key could never be lost and it could never be faked. Stress hormones detected in the blood sample used to activate the key would shut the whole system down. So, unlike eyeball or fingerprint recognition, the owner of the key could never be coerced into providing access. It would appeal to anyone who had something to hide, whatever the reason. From what the police could make out, there was only one issue with the research and that was the lack of a fully completed test. That was what Stefano Cirza had been working on before he died. And that also puzzled them. Why stop him before he had finished what must be the most essential task of all? His product was surely worthless without the final approval.

When they had finished with the blood on the floor – it always amazed them how much blood the human body really contained – they realised some of Cirza's computer equipment was missing. Which convinced them this was a crime that must really have been about his work. The only unexplained element of the whole scene was a small metal box on a chain, clutched in the victim's hand. The box was empty.