by Hocking, Ian
Hannah squinted. His breathing was still heavy. They were about six metres away. “Could be.”
“The passport checker talked to him for a long time.”
“Did he?”
David took two strides before he remembered his briefcase on the conveyor. He laughed a little too loud. He caught the eye of the armed police officer. The man’s face was blank. David turned. He was more relaxed now. He reached for the briefcase. He looked directly into the eyes of Saskia Brandt.
She did not react quickly enough. The man was too dissimilar to his picture. His hair was much shorter. His eyes were hooded, shadowed. He had lost some youth. He was thinner. But he was David Proctor.
“Proctor! Stop!”
She barged into the man in front of her, who tripped, dropping his case. Hannah cut in from the other direction. He trod on the dropped case and twisted his ankle. He pitched forward. His shoulder caught Saskia behind the knee and they both went down. It happened so quickly that people could do nothing but stare. The passport control officer and his colleagues were frozen. The armed police officer was motionless but for his thumb, which found his weapon’s safety catch and pressed.
Saskia tried to stand but there was a man sitting on the small of her back. She flicked her elbow at the narrow end of his thigh muscle. She heard a scream and the man convulsed off her. She climbed to her knees, blew her hair from her eyes and located Proctor.
Her hand went to her holster. She undid the strap with her thumb and withdrew the revolver.
There was another scream. “Oi, she’s got a gun!”
David froze too. His hand remained on the handle of the case. He was so close to the plane. It was ready to leave. It would get him out of here. He stared at the nose of the revolver.
The armed officer looked at David. His expression was blank, but the muscles in his jaw clenched and unclenched. David grabbed the briefcase. He heard someone shout, “She’s got a gun!” He expected to see people flee. Instead, the crowd roared. Like a tide, it turned on his two pursuers. Saskia went under.
The armed officer pressed his ear piece and said, “Red, red, red.” Then he advanced on the crowd. His machine gun was pointed at the floor. David hurried towards his gate.
Saskia struggled. Somebody was sitting on her again. She felt her ribs bend like bows. In case she lost control of the gun, she felt for the gun’s safety. It was off. She pushed it back.
Abruptly, the man was pulled from her back. She heard shouts. Another man said, “Break it up.”
Saskia climbed to her feet. Thirty or forty people were staring at her. Some of them wore security uniforms. One of them was a police officer with a submachine gun. The blood fell away from her head and she stumbled. She spread her arms for balance and the crowd gasped. She still held the gun.
“Armed police! Drop the gun!”
Saskia bent double and let herself breathe. Her vision began to the clear. She saw Hannah being held down by a frightened security officer. “Föderatives Investigationsbüro,” she said.
The officer looked at her. “Föderatives Investigationsbüro,” she repeated. And then, to the crowd, she said, “I am from the Federal Office of Investigation. I am in pursuit of a suspect.”
The armed officer stepped forward. “Drop the gun now,” he said.
Saskia hissed with frustration. She dropped the gun. She looked at the area beyond passport control. Proctor had gone. A voice from everywhere asked Mr Hannah and Ms Brandt to please board flight IAL 778 immediately.
“Let me show you some identification,” she said to the police officer.
“I totally agree. Slowly. Left hand. Throw it over.”
Saskia slid her badge across the floor. She noticed three more police officers running down the terminal towards her. Each wore the same outfit: black baseball cap, bullet-proof vest, combat trousers, black trainers. Each had a submachine gun pointing at the floor. The civilian security officers began to push people back. The crowd were silent at this unexpected street theatre.
Her ID landed back in her lap. “That’s yours, detective. Nice to meet you, Brandt. I’m Sergeant Trask.” He waved to the new arrivals. “Stand down, stand down.”
Saskia didn’t hear. Hannah, her deputy, was dying. His eyes moved but he didn’t see. He held his chest as though his heart was trying to break out. His skin was grey. Sweat ran from his forehead. “Scottie?” Saskia asked. Her voice cracked.
A shadow fell across Hannah’s face. It was Trask. He said one word. “Paramedic.” Saskia guessed he was talking into his radio.
She reached for Hannah’s hand. The palm was slick. She turned his chin, hoping to make eye contact. Trask touched her shoulder.
“Brandt,” he said. “We were told you were coming down. Didn’t expect this drama though.”
She nodded. Kept her eyes on Hannah. “Neither did I. What is happening to Scottie?”
“Paramedics are on the way.”
Saskia felt his wrist for a pulse. She found none. Hannah’s silver watch read something but it had an analogue display. Hers was digital. It read 12:29 a.m. Proctor’s flight left in one minute. She turned to Trask and studied him for the first time. He was a young man. He had a hard, dependable face. “I am in pursuit of a fugitive.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“The flight leaves now. I need to ground his plane.”
He nodded again. “What’s the flight number?”
She passed him her boarding pass and tried to wipe the sweat from Scottie’s forehead. His rictus had sagged into a stroke-like gape. His hand, which had been holding hers tightly, began to quiver.
“That may be a problem,” said Trask. Saskia followed his finger. Through the transparent wall of the terminal she saw the huge A380 reversing.
“Stop the plane. Call the captain.”
The police officer seemed sceptical. “I’ll try, but the captain won’t abort unless the bloke is a terrorist threat. I know from experience. We could radio ahead. Your man’s not going anywhere. The Americans can take care of him.”
“Not good enough. I do not know his name. There are over six hundred people on that flight. Please, contact the captain.”
The man sighed. “Control from Bravo Two at Tango 5, I have a request to talk to the captain of the A380 now taxiing towards runway four. Flight ILA 778, runway four. This is most urgent, most urgent. Over.” He tapped the device on his lapel and the controller’s voice became audible.
“Bravo Two, stand by, over.”
Saskia looked around for the paramedics. Hannah had lost control of his bladder. His body was relaxed but his breathing had dwindled to tiny gasps. Trask crouched and turned Hannah’s head. He was encumbered by his swinging machinegun. “Keep his airway open.”
From his radio an American voice said, “Bravo Two, this is Captain Jameson on ILA 778. We’re moderately busy here.”
“Captain,” the police officer said, “you have a fugitive on your flight. There’s an FIB agent here ready to arrest him. We request that you return to the terminal.”
“I’m about five minutes from take-off. Is his a danger to my airplane?”
Trask turned to Saskia. She saw Proctor making his bomb. Then she saw Jobanique recruiting her into the FIB. He wanted her gut feeling. Reluctantly, she shook her head. “No, Captain.”
“I’ve got six hundred and twenty paying passengers. I’m responsible for getting them to America on time. This guy isn’t going anywhere. Give me his name. He’ll be arrested when we land.”
“But I do not know his name,” she whispered. Scottie had almost stopped breathing. Paramedics ran towards her. They had come through the gate. Their ambulance was parked outside. She kissed Scottie on the forehead and whispered, “I promise to come back.”
To Trask she said, “Tell him to request that he is pushed down the take-off queue. I intend to catch his flight. It is a matter of your national security.”
She took her gun and ran through passport control. Trask shou
ted that she should be let through. Then he relayed her last message to the pilot and ran after her.
Saskia ducked left down the emergency stairs that the paramedics had used. She stepped over a barrier that said ‘Heathrow Personnel Only’. Through the terminal’s glass wall she could see her aeroplane. It had reversed clear and now waited for the tractor vehicle to disengage. Then it would taxi onto the slip road that joined the runway and wait for final clearance. Somehow, she knew.
She reached the ground floor and ran outside. She was on the eastern flank of the terminal. Ahead, lost in the lights, were the four other terminals. To her left and right were docked aeroplanes. Only dashes of colour spoke to their shape and size. The air was thick with darkness, fuel and the wail of jet engines.
The ambulance had been parked neatly in a red-lined space. Nearby was a orange-coloured van with a flight of steps on the back. It was unlocked. She eased herself into the driving seat. She ran her fingers over the steering wheel. Touched the gear stick. It was unfamiliar.
She couldn’t drive.
When she had dropped into the West Lothian Centre using the decelerator, an unknown expertise had guided her. But she had no such feeling with this vehicle. She slammed her palms on the wheel.
“Need help?” asked Trask.
She moved over to the passenger side. “Follow that plane.”
He reversed it out aggressively and swung the wheel. The van skidded to face the receding aeroplane and swayed under the weight of the steps. Saskia fumbled for the seat belt. “At the FIB, our police drivers have thorough training.”
Trask grinned. “Vive la difference.”
The van pulled out. Saskia stayed vigilant for other vehicles and aircraft. She overhead Trask’s conversation with the ILA captain. “Yes, captain...we’re nearly alongside...I’m curious about that too...German, I think.” He turned to Saskia. “He’ll stop just before they get to the runway. That’ll be our one chance.”
“Please keep your eyes on the road.”
“But there isn’t a road.”
He swerved left and right to demonstrate. Saskia groaned. Her abrasiveness was amusing him. At length she said, “Trask, I appreciate this a great deal.”
“Dinner.”
“Not that much.”
David sat with a whisky in one hand and his briefcase in the other. To his left, a young boy stared at him. To his right, the boy’s mother read a paperback novel. The safety briefing had just finished. David stretched his legs into the access aisle for the emergency exit. The briefcase lay across his shins. He drained the whisky with a single gulp. As his eyes lingered on the bottom of the glass, a stewardess appeared and took it from him. She also took his briefcase and placed it in the overhead compartment. The boy, who was still staring, said, “First time?”
“No.”
“But you asked for a seat near the emergency exit.”
David regarded him coldly. He was about ten years old. He had a crew-cut and glasses. “Why do you say that?”
“I asked the stewardess. I like to know who I’m sitting with.”
“Oh, do you,” David said. He wondered if there was time for another whisky before take-off. He relaxed. For the first time since leaving the terminal, he began to think clearly. The police officers should have grounded the plane and searched it. That was within their power. They hadn’t, so…they were intending to have him arrested when the plane touched down in Chicago. They knew he was on the flight. Everything was over. He would fly to America, be arrested, and be flown straight back.
“Are you deaf?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You have a hearing aid,” the boy said. He touched David’s ear.
“Don’t touch. It’s for my phone.”
“The stewardess said that phones should be deactivated, along with any other electronic devices such as computers and music players.”
“Did she.”
The boy patted David on the arm. “I haven’t flown before, either.”
David closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.
He awoke when the boy poked him in the leg. He had been dribbling. His neck was stiff. His back was a corset of hard muscle. “What’s happening?” he asked.
“They’ve opened the door.”
David gripped the armrests. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t worry, we’re not in the air.”
There were two aisles on their deck of the aeroplane, but David was too far away to look down one. To stand would draw attention. He could hear passengers muttering. There was a bleep as the screen on his armrest flickered into life. It was the captain. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We are halting briefly to welcome a police officer of the Continental FIB on board. There is no cause for alarm, unless you haven’t filled in those tax returns.” Pause for polite chuckles. “While I’m here, I’d like to welcome you once more on board this ILA flight 778 to Chicago. In a few moments we leave Heathrow in an easterly direction before turning towards the north-west...”
An air steward had opened the forward door and was leaning out. Saskia had already passed him her shoulder bag. Five metres below, Trask gave her the thumbs-up. She could not be sure if this was a sign of general encouragement or a signal to jump. She decided to jump. Only her arms were successful. Her body whipped against the fuselage. For a long moment she swung helplessly. She watched Trask. Her fear fell away when she saw him spread his arms to catch her. Then two stewards hauled her inside. Her breasts were squashed painfully. She felt carpet on her face and warm air. Some passengers near the door clapped slowly.
“...Chicago, which is five hours ahead.” There was a pause as the captain turned away from the camera. “OK, ladies and gentleman, we now have our full complement. On behalf of ILA, the crew, and myself, I would like to wish you a pleasant trip. Cabin crew, final pre-flight check, please.”
David did not believe he would have a pleasant trip. He tried to sleep but he could only think of what might have been. Had his benefactor created a new life for him in America? It made no difference. He would be arrested and kept in a maximum-security prison. When he saw trial (though he knew, on one level, that he might not) his bail would run into millions. He would never see his daughter after all.
There was one thing he could do.
He could use his head. Plan.
Twenty minutes passed. He had an idea. He saw a woman walking down the aisle. He recognised her as the owner of the gun that had been trained on his face only a few minutes before. She was carrying a clipboard. She stopped twice to check passengers. Males travelling alone, perhaps. Males in their early fifties. People who might be David Proctor.
He raised his hand. She saw him and approached.
“My name is David Proctor,” he said. “You are looking for me.”
The woman was pretty, though she looked tired and serious. She had long brown hair and emerald-green eyes. Her suit was creased. She nodded. “I have been following you. I am Detective Saskia Brandt.”
The boy, who David had forgotten, asked, “Are you a murderer on the run?”
David wanted to say that, certainly, he had eaten the liver of a little boy and washed it down with a nice Chianti, fuh-fuh-fuh. Instead he replied, “Yes, I am.”
“You are arrested by Detective Saskia Brandt of the Föderatives Investigationsbüro, badge number 077-439-001, on two counts of murder. These charges will be pursued under the British constitution. You have the right to remain silent,” she said. “Anything you say may be recorded at the discretion of your arresting officer and reproduced in a court of law as evidence against you. This data is the property of the FIB. Do you understand? Come with me.”
She made sure that David walked in front. They found the bar in the middle of the plane. He had a scotch on the rocks. She had a gin and tonic. She said, “Talk.” He told his story. The whole story.
The paramedics wheeled Hannah down to the ambulance. He was covered to the chin with a red blanket. His head
and shoulders were raised. He breathed cold oxygen through a loose mask. His hands lay on his belly with the fingers knitted. One paramedic, called Gareth, chatted the entire way.
He did not see a woman detach herself from the crowd as he was led away. He did not see her follow the trolley. He did not see her reach the ambulance shortly after the paramedic had closed the door. She opened the door and stepped in as Gareth’s back was turned. He showed no surprise. “Can I help you?”
She sat down opposite and produced a badge. Gareth grunted and returned to his work. Hannah looked, but not quickly enough to read it. She slipped it in into a trouser pocket. He tried to focus on her face. She was in her late forties. She had long brown hair and emerald-green eyes. The paramedic turned away.
“How is he?” she asked.
“He’s stable at the moment.”
Hannah pulled weakly at the mask. His arms were too heavy. The paramedic forced his hand away. What was happening? Where was Saskia?
“I’m here, Scottie,” she said. “As promised.”
She leaned forward and smiled. It was Saskia, but she was older. He smiled back until the heaviness reached even his mind. He slept.
Part III
The ravine was widest at their point of landing. To their left, rock had tumbled from the face to form a scree slope. To their right was a flat plateau of shingle. It stretched out for nearly a kilometre before it met the right-hand wall of the ravine. At its face was a little hut. It was crude but sturdy. From this distance, nothing could be seen but for a bonfire set before it.
The Devil, Jobanique and the Deep Blue Sea
The mirror buzzed against its screws. Somewhere, a woman laughed. Saskia looked at her eyes. In a staring contest the reflection was always last to look away. She considered Proctor’s story. It was plausible. He lacked the edge of Hannah, the menace of Jobanique. Her mind floated as a compass above an inscrutable magnetic source – her lost memories, perhaps – and believed Proctor.
She reached into her jacket and removed her badge. The golden letters of the Föderatives Investigationsbüro reflected her many times. Underneath, ‘Saskia Brandt’ had been stamped on the metal. It was not her name. She was not Saskia Brandt. She was a German woman in her late twenties; she knew nothing more. Her skills were fake. Her knowledge of arrest procedure: inserted. Digital.