The Chimera Vector Read online

  Nasira picked up the iPod and tentatively hit the play button. She squinted at the screen. It showed a video of a security-camera recording: the programming of a young girl. Sophia had made sure none of the torture techniques applied to the girl were censored. She saw Nasira’s facial expression change. People’s jaws do actually drop, she thought. She already knew what Nasira was going to ask. She’d asked that question herself not long ago.

  ‘It’s real,’ Sophia said.

  Nasira stopped the video, but didn’t look up. ‘So you say.’

  ‘Where do you think your fear of needles came from? Vaccinations?’

  Nasira dropped the iPod. ‘You could have falsified that.’

  ‘And you could have tried to shoot yourself all on your own.’ Sophia smiled. ‘Neither of which serves logic by any stretch of the imagination.’

  Nasira swallowed. ‘Let’s pretend for a moment that what you’re saying is . . . somehow . . . true. What the hell does it mean to me?’

  ‘It means you have two choices,’ Sophia said. ‘I can put your RFID back in your arm, switch you back over to zombie mode and you won’t remember a damn thing. You continue to live in the illusion that has been carefully constructed for you.’

  Nasira ran her fingers along three fresh stitches in her right arm. Without the RFID, there was no way for the Fifth Column to know where she was.

  ‘And door number two?’ she said.

  ‘The tangible Nasira. The one that’s in control right now. The one that’s scared, confused, angry and, above all, real.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Blindfolded, Sophia felt the callused hand close over her neck. She rotated her shoulder and turned to one side, breaking the hand’s grip. She maintained contact with the arm, measured the next attack and deflected the attack ever so slightly past her head. As she did so, she stepped on the inside of the attacker’s knee, breaking his form. She could almost sense the next blow. She turned to one side. The attack brushed past her stomach. She touched the attacker’s wrist lightly, thrust her hips forward just a couple of inches.

  If this weren’t an exercise, she would’ve broken the joint in his elbow using only her hip.

  ‘Good.’ Sergey, her instructor, removed his arm and untied her blindfold. ‘You’re improving fast.’

  The base’s resident martial arts instructor was a bulky man with a weathered face and silver hair. The black T-shirt tucked into army camouflage pants and boots was as close as he came to gym clothing.

  He held up the palm of his hand at Sophia’s eye-level. ‘Press your forehead against my hand.’

  She did as he instructed, not sure what to expect. Another trick, perhaps? The old man was fond of those.

  ‘I’m going to apply pressure. I want you to resist.’

  Sophia pressed her forehead hard against Sergey’s hand, pushing the hand away.

  ‘Easy, yes?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah.’ Sophia pulled her head back.

  ‘Do not stop,’ Sergey said.

  She pressed back into his palm, pushing his hand back towards him. She was winning. Then he wiggled his hand. Suddenly, he was pushing her backwards with ease. Sophia stumbled across the gym’s floor.

  She took another step to gather her balance. ‘How did . . .? That was strange.’

  What was strangest of all was this fighting system of his. In one sense, it was strangely familiar, and in another it was like nothing she had ever learned. And she had learned a lot.

  Sergey smiled.

  ‘Why didn’t you teach us this in Project GATE?’ she said.

  ‘Denton recruited me for an earlier project. Problem was, my system had a habit of unraveling the operatives’ programming. You see, I teach people not just to fight but also to think. To free their body. To become a warrior. That cannot happen when you are a programmed soldier.’

  He paced the gym, thumbs hooked into the front of his sweatpants. The bare floor wasn’t padded to prevent injuries, and Sergey had insisted it remain that way. A real fight will not have padded floors, he told her.

  ‘I teach an arrangement of principles,’ he said. ‘They are malleable, adaptive. But Denton’s operatives are programmed and imprisoned. Restricted. And Denton wants it that way. He doesn’t want them to become too powerful.’

  Sophia ran a finger across the scar at her eyebrow. ‘I’m sure Denton wasn’t happy about you leaving just when he needed you.’

  He shrugged. ‘He found another instructor. Now, do you see what I did to your forehead?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She sniffed. ‘But it doesn’t make sense.’

  Sergey approached her. She readied herself for an unexpected attack.

  ‘Your brain can resist against one axis, but not against two, or three,’ he said. ‘By shaking my hand, I confuse your brain. This is one principle I am trying to teach you. This system is three-dimensional; in every possible way the warrior will disturb, disrupt, confuse. When the enemy attacks, the warrior can deflect, she can stretch time. If she must absorb a strike—’ He indicated his stomach. ‘Here, punch me. Hard.’

  Sophia wrapped her thumb over her knuckles and dropped a solid punch into his stomach. He exhaled sharply and quickly, hips moving for the briefest of moments. She knew how to throw a punch. And that punch should have dropped him to his knees.

  ‘If you cannot avoid it, if you must absorb it, you can disperse it.’ Sergey clamped his hands on his hips. ‘I rotate my hips. Just a bit. The energy from your punch dissipates outwards in a spiral. Once you are more proficient, you can throw the energy anywhere you want. You can even throw it right back at your opponent.’

  Sophia nodded. ‘I think I get it. But I can’t do it.’

  ‘But you will. Soon enough.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Grab my arm. Hold it tight.’

  She held his arm as hard as she could. He shook it a few times, but she did not yield. She watched as he reached for her elbow with his other hand, brushed his palm down her arm, then shoved her off. Her grip was broken before she realized what had happened.

  ‘Wait. Let me do that again,’ she said.

  She held his arm even tighter this time and watched him reach over. He brushed his hand swiftly down her arm, towards her wrist, then, with a minimal amount of effort, discarded her hand. She looked down at it. She had no idea how that worked.

  She must have looked shocked because Sergey started laughing. ‘Electromagnetic disturbance,’ he said. ‘It disturbs the signals to the brain. No matter how hard you try, you cannot maintain your grip.’

  Sophia nodded. ‘I guess it makes sense.’

  ‘Try to hit me,’ he said.

  She didn’t hesitate, shot her fist past his guard. Before it struck his chest, her front leg slipped. She almost landed on her face.

  Sergey helped her up, grinning. ‘Did you see that?’ He waved his hand over her leg. ‘I rotated your knee out. Using two dimensions, not one.’

  ‘I didn’t even see it.’

  ‘The conscious mind will never be as fast as the subconscious,’ he said. ‘That is why I don’t teach planned reactions.’

  Sophia nodded. ‘That . . . is really hard to get my head around.’

  ‘The common approach in Special Forces training is a handful of techniques, based on gross motor skills, that will usually cover most situations,’ he said. ‘Your training was more comprehensive, incorporating many martial arts. You learned more techniques, but they’re still just techniques. They can be performed under pressure and they shorten your reaction time, but they’re not as quick and effective as the principles approach.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’ Sophia said.

  ‘With the principles approach, the brain doesn’t get bored through endless repetition of the same movements. Every movement is unique and will always differ from the last. Instead of a limited number of techniques to pick from, you have an unlimited array of principle responses at your disposal. Your body is trained to develop a creative solution to any combat situation.�
�� He stepped in and shook Sophia’s arm. ‘But you need to relax. If you want to work subconsciously, you cannot be tense. If you are tense, your brain loses its ability to be creative and to multitask. Not ideal in a combat situation, is it?’

  ‘Sophia!’ It was Cecilia, calling from the gym entrance. ‘I need a word. Immediately.’

  Sophia turned to Sergey. ‘I shouldn’t be long.’

  ***

  Sophia looked up from Cecilia’s computer screen. ‘And we don’t know who tried to send it?’

  The desk fan blew strands of hair across Cecilia’s face. ‘No, we do not. We don’t know where it was meant to go or who it was meant for or even what it said. But the communication is unauthorized and highly suspect.’

  ‘If we do have a spy, they’ll try again,’ Sophia said. ‘Until they find a way through our darknet. And then we’ll know for sure.’

  Cecilia shook her head. ‘The spy has no reason to think the communication failed. I picked this up at the end of the line, so to speak. They won’t try again.’

  ‘Who leaves this base, aside from us?’ Sophia asked.

  ‘Our supply runners, our scouts. No one else.’

  ‘Are you going to lock it down?’

  Cecilia stood from her desk and started pacing. ‘I’ll have to. Until we have the Chimera vector codes.’

  ‘What about my next grab?’ Sophia said. ‘Nasira, Lucia and Renée are ready to go, but I need more. My team’s only four strong right now.’

  Cecilia clasped her hands in front of her as she walked. ‘Our Desecheo Island defector has given us the coordinates of an operation in France. Grace has been assigned to it.’

  ‘If there’s anyone who can infiltrate a high-security facility, it’s her,’ Sophia said. ‘I need her on my team.’

  ‘We’re running out of time,’ Cecilia said. ‘And you can’t take any of your deprogrammed operatives with you. We don’t know if they can be trusted. One of them might have sent the communication.’

  ‘I’ll need a spotter,’ Sophia said. ‘It’ll have to be you—you’re the only person I can trust right now.’

  ‘Fine.’ Cecilia kept pacing, thinking. ‘Grace’s operation in France . . . if it’s a trap, it will confirm our suspicions.’

  ‘Then we need to find out,’ Sophia said. ‘To be sure.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sophia surveyed the commuters as they filed out of the trains at the Part-Dieu station in Lyon, France. Grace’s target was a Chinese diplomat, Zhai Jiechi. He had a slight limp in his right leg, a hard-on for trains since childhood and a predilection for wearing women’s underwear. Cotton, not lacy. He was a sensible man.

  A little boy clung to his father as they negotiated a path through the crowd. The boy disappeared behind Zhai. Sophia scanned every face. She spotted a young Chinese woman with shoulder-length black hair, chalk-white skin and a swimmer’s physique. Grace. She cut through the crowd, moving between a patisserie stall and an elderly woman taking photos with her iPhone.

  Grace’s movements were casual and relaxed as she followed Jiechi, but Sophia could tell her pace was just a fraction faster than everyone else’s. She estimated Grace was a hundred feet ahead. Sophia maintained the distance and kept her attention on the platforms so she looked as though she was trying to find her train. She’d disguised her earpiece as a hearing aid so she could wear it in public. She needed it to communicate with Cecilia, who was in place to cover the main entrance of the train station.

  Sophia made sure to stay behind a group of commuters so Grace wouldn’t be able to see her. Between heads, Sophia could see Jiechi walking a shaky line. She hoped he’d turn left and leave through the main entrance, but it looked like he was heading for the north entrance instead, which led to another taxi stand altogether. If he took that entrance, she’d have no visual surveillance.

  She silently cursed to herself. It wasn’t like her to slip up like this.

  Jiechi turned left, going for the main entrance. Sophia exhaled slowly, only now realizing she was holding her breath. A hundred feet ahead, Grace shifted to match her target’s direction.

  It was difficult relying on an untrained observer to cover her, but at this point Sophia didn’t have a choice. As long as Cecilia remained on the lookout for any movements that were coordinated and symmetrical, she should spot any other operatives before it was too late.

  ‘Grace isn’t working alone,’ Cecilia said into her earpiece. ‘I have an operative outside. No, make that two.’

  The operation brief could have been amended at the last minute, making it a triad of operatives. But Sophia suspected a trap. Nonetheless, she needed more proof before she bailed. She discreetly held down the push-to-talk button on her throat mike, concealed under the collar of her woolen jacket. ‘I’m holding back. Keep me informed.’

  She wandered leisurely through the crowd. Rather than turning left towards the main entrance and following Grace, she continued straight ahead to the north entrance. Allowing her gaze to casually drift to her left, she peered through the glass panels at the main entrance. From her position, she couldn’t identify faces directly but could notice particular movements.

  She spotted one operative, male. He was wearing a gray jacket and stonewash denim jeans. His hands were empty but she knew he was carrying. One under the waistband, another concealed elsewhere, usually against the calf. And a knife sheathed along the opposing calf. If she knew which operative it was, she might even be able to guess where the knife was, depending on if he was right- or left-handed.

  The operative closed in on Jiechi as he approached the taxi stand. Sophia made out the side of his face and recognized him instantly. Short black hair, high cheekbones and milk chocolate skin; a mix of Portuguese and African—Pardo. And there was only one Pardo operative working for the Fifth Column. Jay.

  Alarm bells went off inside her head.

  She kept her eyes on the main entrance, hoping to catch a glimpse of the other operative. She spotted someone moving alone, purposefully. He had dark features but not quite as dark as Jay’s. His skin was a few shades lighter, a pale caramel. His hair was longer, brown, scruffy. He had smooth skin and an aquiline nose just a fraction too big for his face. Southern European, for sure. She recognized the lopsided quiff and large hazel eyes. Damien.

  She watched them move on Jiechi from behind. Their tactics were wrong. Grace should be in front of Jiechi, not behind. More alarm bells went off inside her head.

  Jiechi wasn’t the target.

  ***

  ‘One operative entering the building,’ Cecilia said into Sophia’s earpiece.

  Sophia picked up her pace. They knew she was here. They’d been expecting her. And judging by their body language, it wasn’t for a tea party. Grace had probably spotted her back at the platforms. Things were going to get messy. Very, very quickly.

  ‘It’s Damien, and he’s armed,’ Cecilia said.

  Sophia was in a tightly packed crowd. She had no exit strategy. She couldn’t run. Besides, she wanted things to be different. She wanted Damien and Jay on her side.

  ‘We need to recruit them sooner or later,’ she said into her mike.

  ‘Now’s not the time,’ Cecilia said. ‘You’re not safe.’

  ‘I can do this.’

  ‘Jesus. Get down!’

  Sophia pretended to trip. A man beside her bent down to help. There was a tiny cough: the sound of a suppressed round. Terrified screams erupted from around her.

  ‘Les terroristes!’ someone screamed.

  The man collapsed, the top of his head blown off. On her knees, Sophia crawled desperately through the crowd. Her hands slipped on pieces of pink meat and bone. She found herself at the feet of the little boy she’d seen earlier. His face was dotted crimson. He’d just seen his father’s head get blown away.

  An explosion of pain in Sophia’s ribs forced her to curl up. She couldn’t breathe. Shoes kicked into her, trampled on her arms and legs. People screamed and yelled above her. S
he got to her feet and ran with the terrified commuters, then slipped into the more oblivious crowd ahead. This lot hadn’t seen the shooting, but were exchanging nervous opinions about what had happened as they picked up their pace. Sophia kept quiet, said nothing, and wiped blood from her face with her woolen sleeve. The dead man would be surrounded by police officers by now.

  She threw herself behind a tall fern sitting in a square pot. The pot was barely large enough to conceal her. In front of her, there was a row of bar stools bolted to a high benchtop. A nervous hand rested on beige slacks. It belonged to a man in his sixties, who, until now, had been sitting peacefully with a takeout McDonald’s beverage in an oversized paper cup. He had a gray moustache and a receding hairline, both beginning to frost white. He peered over the benchtop at her as she pulled her pistol from her waistband.

  ‘Ne me regardez de de pir que je vous tue,’ Sophia said. Don’t look at me or I will kill you.

  The man averted his gaze quickly. He brought the paper cup to his lips but was too nervous to drink.

  ‘Jay’s entering through the main entrance,’ Cecilia said into her ear. ‘Grace is passing the main entrance, heading north.’

  Grace was moving to block her off at the second entrance. They weren’t wasting time. She couldn’t stay here long.

  Sophia’s hand, covered in red specks of drying blood, was shaking. She ignored it, pulled the slide back on the Beretta 92F pistol Cecilia had given her. It was a fill-in until Cecilia could source something more concealable.

  Pointing the Beretta at the man, she said in French, ‘A man holding a pistol. Look around the corner—what is he doing?’

  He craned his neck over the table to see. ‘He is walking towards us . . . he’s looking for you.’

  She peered around the pot and spotted a family of six coming towards her. They’d heard the commotion and quickened their pace.

  Sophia stood, took the man’s paper cup with a quick ‘Merci’ and stepped out in front of the family. She lifted the lid to find the cup almost full to the brim with black coffee. She didn’t risk looking over her shoulder, just kept the family as a barrier between her and any operatives behind her.