Déjà Vu sb-1

by Ian Hocking

  What was his own name?

  His fake surname?

  ‘Mr Greensburg?’ the officer prompted.

  David tried to recall the back-story. There was a wife living in Leeds, a son at university, a DB7 Vantage (lovingly restored), a farmhouse kitchen…

  ‘Greenspoon,’ he blurted. ‘Mr Greenspoon.’

  The officer seemed disappointed. ‘I’m sorry, of course. Mr Greenspoon.’

  ‘I am a little nervous,’ David offered. The regret followed immediately, accompanied by the memory of Ego’s last words to him: ‘Less is more.’

  ‘Really, sir?’

  ‘Of terrorism. Terrorphobia, you might call it.’

  The man handed back his papers. ‘Naturally, we all are, sir.’

  David moved towards the detector and felt physical relief when he heard the officer attend to the next person in the queue. His fingers trembled as he dumped his wallet into the pot on the conveyor belt. The briefcase followed. He stepped through the archway. A waiting police officer with a sub-machine gun cast an empty eye over him. Would he be recognised? Nothing happened. He collected his wallet.

  ~

  Saskia was watching the man. She turned to Jago and touched his arm.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The man walking through the detector.’

  Jago squinted. His breathing was still heavy. ‘Could be.’

  ‘The passport officer talked to him for a long time.’

  ‘Did he now?’

  ~

  David took two strides before he remembered his briefcase on the conveyor. He laughed a little too loudly. The armed police officer turned towards him. His face was young and blank. David smiled. The man did not smile back. David reached for the briefcase. He looked directly into the eyes of Saskia Brandt.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  She did not react immediately. His hair was longer than it had been in his police photograph. His eyes were hooded, shadowed. He had lost some youth. He was thinner. But he was her man.

  ‘Proctor!’

  She barged into the passenger in front of her, who tripped, dropping his case. Jago cut in from the other direction. He trod on the case, twisted his ankle, and pitched forward. His shoulder caught Saskia behind the knee. They both fell.

  Saskia tried to stand but the owner of the case was sitting on the small of her back. She jabbed her elbow at his thigh and he rolled off. She climbed unsteadily to her feet, drew her revolver and scanned for Proctor.

  ‘Police!’ shouted an armed officer. ‘Drop your weapon now!’

  ‘Föderatives Investigationsbüro,’ she said, turning to him.

  ‘Drop it now!’

  ‘Föderatives Investigationsbüro,’ she repeated. ‘Federal Office of Investigation. I am in pursuit of a suspect.’

  The officer stepped forward. ‘Now.’

  Saskia hissed with frustration. She dropped the gun and looked at the area beyond passport control. Proctor had gone. A voice over the tannoy asked Mr Jago and Ms Brandt to please board flight IAL 778. Jago, who was being held down by a civilian security guard, swore loudly.

  ‘Let me show you some identification,’ she called to the armed officer.

  ‘Left hand. Slowly. Toss it over.’

  Saskia skimmed her ID across the floor. She saw three more police officers running in lock-step down the terminal towards her. Each wore the same outfit: a black baseball cap, a bulletproof vest, combat trousers, and black trainers. Each had a sub-machine gun pointing at the floor. Meanwhile, the civilian security officers began to clear passengers away.

  Her ID landed on her foot. ‘That’s yours, Kommissarin. Good to meet you. I’m Sergeant Trask.’ He waved to the new arrivals. ‘Stand down.’

  But Saskia was not listening. Jago, her deputy, was struggling to breathe. He held his chest as though his heart was trying to break out. His skin was grey.

  ‘Scotty?’

  A shadow fell across Jago’s face. It was Trask. ‘Paramedic to my position, over.’

  Saskia took Jago’s hand. The palm was slick. She turned his chin, hoping to make eye contact, but his eyes were trapped under tight lids.

  ‘Brandt, is it?’ Trask said. ‘We were told you were coming down. Didn’t expect this drama, though.’

  She nodded. She kept her eyes on Jago. ‘Neither did I.’

  ‘Paramedics are on the way.’

  As she pressed Jago’s wrist for his pulse, she noticed his watch. It was 12:29 am. Proctor’s flight would leave in one minute. She turned to Trask and studied him for the first time. He had a hard, dependable face. ‘I am in pursuit of a fugitive. I need to ground his plane.’

  ‘Flight number?’

  She threw her boarding pass at him and wiped the sweat from Scottie’s forehead. His rictus had sagged to a gape.

  ‘You have a problem,’ said Trask. Saskia followed his finger. She saw, through the transparent wall of the terminal, the huge A380 reversing.

  ‘Stop the plane.’

  ‘We could call ahead. Chicago is tight on this kind of thing.’

  ‘But I do not know his name and there are over six hundred people on that flight.’

  The man looked at her. ‘Control from Bravo Two at Tango Five, I have a priority request to talk to the captain of the A380 now taxiing towards runway four. Flight ILA 778, runway four. Repeat, this is a priority request, 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. Jago had lost control of his bladder. His breath had dwindled to tiny sobs. Trask crouched and turned Jago’s head. He was encumbered by his sub-machine gun. ‘Keep his airway open.’

  From his radio, an American voice said, ‘Good morning, Bravo Two. This is Captain Jameson on ILA 778. We’re moderately busy. Make this quick.’

  ‘Captain,’ said Trask, ‘I have a request from an FIB agent that you return to the terminal. You have a fugitive on board your aircraft.’ He waited. ‘Captain?’

  ‘Do you have any reason to believe that he threatens the integrity of my aircraft?’

  Reluctantly, Saskia shook her head. Trask said, ‘No.’

  ‘Bravo Two, let me put this simply. If we lose our slot, we’ll be bumped, and given the capacity restrictions at this terminal, that’s at least four hours. My first officer and I will reach our duty hours time limit before then, which I will only permit in exceptional circumstances. Pass his details to my sky marshals. We’ll contain it. ILA 778 out.’

  For the first time that she could remember, Saskia said, ‘Fuck.’ She looked at the oncoming paramedics. There was no doubting the push of her instinct: she must board the plane. She kissed Jago and whispered, ‘I promise to come back.’ To Trask, she said, ‘Delay the captain for just a couple of minutes. I intend to catch his flight. It is a matter of British national security.’

  She snatched her gun and ran through the passport control gate. Trask shouted at the staff to let her pass.

  ~

  She vaulted a barrier that read ‘Heathrow Personnel Only’, skipped down the maintenance stairs to ground level and burst into the night. This was the eastern flank of the terminal. To her left and right were docked aeroplanes. Only dashes of light spoke to their shape and size. The air was thick with fuel vapour and the wail of jet engines.

  Nearby was an orange vehicle with a flight of steps rising from its back. She eased herself into the driving seat, looked over the dashboard, and swore. The steering controls were horizontal hand bars. They had triggers and stalk buttons. Besides that, the fascia was dark. She slammed her palms on her thighs.

  ‘Move over,’ said Trask.

  She slid into the passenger seat as Trask climbed in. ‘At the FIB, our cars are computer controlled,’ she said.

  He gunned the engine, pulled away, and wrenched the hand bards. The vehicle skidded to face the receding aeroplane.

  ‘Vive la différence.’

  Saskia at
tached her seat belt and remained alert for vehicles and aircraft as they accelerated. She overhead Trask’s conversation with the ILA captain. ‘Yes.’ He glanced at her. ‘In a heartbeat. What? German, I think.’ He turned to Saskia. ‘He’ll stop just before they get to the runway. He thinks you’re plucky. 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. At length, she said, ‘Trask, I appreciate this a great deal.’

  ‘Dinner.’

  ‘Not that much.’

  ~

  Inside the aeroplane, where the seats were close and the ceiling low, David sipped his cup of whisky. Cabin crew answered questions and patrolled with ambassadorial ease. The passengers were relaxing and settling; opening bags of peanuts, securing their children, slipping off shoes. Not so David. He looked into his drink and wondered if one could read ice like tea leaves.

  ‘Sir?’ asked the stewardess. ‘Your cup.’

  He gave it up and returned to his thoughts, which seemed to be about nothing at all. When his armrest beeped and its screen opened like a flower to show the flight deck, David looked down wearily.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We are pausing to take on an officer of the continental FIB. There is no cause for alarm, unless you haven’t filled in those tax returns.’

  The adrenaline transpired through his tissues in a single, sparkling wave. His jaw locked tight.

  ‘So,’ continued the captain, ‘allow me to welcome you on board this ILA flight 778 to Chicago. In a few moments, we will leave Heathrow in an easterly direction before turning towards the northwest.’

  David lost interest. Halfway down the walkway, three air stewards had gathered. David watched one of them open the door. There was a moment of quiet anticipation, then a woman was helped into the aeroplane. The nearby passengers applauded. The cabin crew slapped the back of their new arrival and straightened her clothes, but she pushed them away. She was already searching the faces of the passengers.

  David looked down at the video of the captain.

  ‘Okay, 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 could only think of what might have been. Had his benefactor arranged a new life for him in America? It made no difference. He would be arrested and extradited.

  He raised his arm and waved to the detective.

  ~

  The woman had long brown hair and emerald-green eyes. She was tired and serious, and hopelessly beautiful.

  ‘Professor David Proctor, you are arrested by Frau Kommissarin Saskia Maria Brandt of the Föderatives Investigationsbüro, badge number 077-439-001, on two counts of murder. These charges will be pursued under British law. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be recorded at the discretion of your arresting officer and reproduced in a court of law as evidence against you. These data are the property of the FIB. Do you understand? Come with me. We must speak with the captain. I am armed.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Hours later, as the aircraft skirted Greenland, Saskia stared at her blurred reflection in the cubicle mirror and considered Proctor’s story. The compass of her mind floated over an inscrutable lodestone—the instinct of a murderer, she guessed—and settled on a decision.

  She reached into her jacket and withdrew her badge. She thumbed the golden letters of Föderatives Investigationsbüro. Underneath, ‘Brandt’ had been stamped on the metal. It was not her real name. The extent of her official biography ended with her nationality, her sex and her age: German, female, late twenties. Her skills were fake. Her knowledge of arrest procedure: inserted. Digital.

  Her eyes closed. She saw three women on a dark plain. The Fates: Clotho, she spins the thread of life. Lachesis, she measures a length. Atropos, she cuts it.

  Spin, measure, snip.

  She folded her make-up kit and pulled expressions at the mirror. Her face was unfamiliar.

  ~

  Proctor was sitting on a steward’s jump seat in the rearmost compartment of the top deck, flanked by stowed trolleys and two emergency exits. He was handcuffed. He looked up as Saskia emerged from the bathroom. She did not respond to his brief smile. She wanted to keep the worry bright in her mind.

  ‘I have thought about your proposal,’ she said, taking the spare jump seat next to him. She did not unbutton her jacket. She did not want to tempt Proctor with her gun, though it had been unloaded at the captain’s request.

  ‘Go on.’ His eyes moved around the small space. Occasionally they settled on her. Mostly they settled on his handcuffs.

  ‘It is unacceptable.’

  Proctor tipped his head. ‘Ah.’

  ‘Professor Proctor—’

  ‘David.’

  ‘It is not within my power. You do not even know your ultimate destination.’

  ‘No. My memory is curiously silent on the matter.’

  ‘I have arrested you. It is my duty to return you to Britain. There you will face the authorities.’

  ‘But you believe me.’

  ‘I do not have the luxury of belief or disbelief, Professor. Tell the authorities what you have told me. If it is the truth, you will be acquitted.’

  The lift opened and a steward emerged. He gave both Saskia and Proctor a professional smile before moving into the economy cabin.

  ‘A trial?’ Proctor said, turning to her. ‘Kommissarin Brandt, do you remember what I told you about your role?’

  ‘Yes. You said that I have a further part to play. But you cannot tell me how you came to this conclusion.’

  ‘You must come with me.’

  Saskia listened to the seashell hiss of the engines. ‘Professor, it is within my power to have you chained to a bulkhead in the cargo bay. You can keep the poodles company.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t allow that.’

  Saskia smiled. It was difficult to feel threatened by a likeable, middle-aged man who had protested his pacifism at such length. ‘Professor—’

  ‘Your full name is Saskia Maria Brandt. Your FIB badge number is 077-439-001. Your service records begin three days ago.’

  Her hand flexed in anticipation of a swift draw, but her gun was empty. She swallowed. ‘So you’ve researched your pursuer, Professor Proctor. Full marks. How?’

  ‘It is being dictated to me by my personal computer, which is always on the look out for other friendly computers. Like the one in your brain.’ He looked at his handcuffs again. ‘It would be very easy to deactivate it, and will take only a keyword from me. That, I guess, would have very serious consequences for you.’

  Saskia did not blink. She had no bullets. If he deactivated the chip, there would be no time to find some, load the gun, and blow her malfunctioning brains out.

  ‘Professor,’ she said, struggling to flatten her tone, ‘you have spent nearly two hours explaining your principles. Have they now deserted you?’

  ‘In the end, it comes back to protecting those principles.’

  Saskia rose on her anger. ‘How pathetic. That is the age-old drivel spouted by every idiot with a cause, from the religious fanatic to the political terrorist.’

  She waited for his retort. Instead, his head drooped.

  ‘I don’t want to do this. I’m not responsible.’

  ‘Listen to me. I know you’re not a bad man. But you must understand.’ She took his chin and turned his head towards her. ‘My superior. The way he operates…’ She did not blink. ‘This chip contains me, the real me. Do you understand? I cannot…go back. I choose to remain like this.’

  He looked at her curiously. ‘So what does Saskia Brandt mean?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ~

  As th
e A380 rumbled into Chicago, Saskia avoided Proctor’s curious expression, though she felt its regard, and the bleeding edge of his pity. It was two o’clock in the morning. She collected the rounds confiscated by the captain and allowed a sky marshal—an ex-police officer—to escort them to the immigration control section, where the blind barrels of automatic firearms tracked them in a small room shared by Middle Eastern women and their children. Accents British, eyes downcast like Saskia’s. The marshal touched his cap and told her to go ahead and keep the handcuffs. Proctor guffawed and scratched his head. Her bound right lifted too. A salute, she thought, looking at the marshal, and thinking of Beckmann.

  She sat in silence, motionless as the statue of Prometheus, and locked out the noise and constant motion of Proctor as he fidgeted, sniffed, and sighed.

  Within half an hour, they were taken to a soundproofed room and left alone. Saskia bounced on the balls of her feet and rolled her neck. She shrugged her shoulders. She appraised the young immigration officer as he entered and closed the door. He read an element of her intention, but Saskia descended upon him before he could gather air for a shout. She punched nerve bundles in his chest and shoulders to undermine his strength, put her elbow into the notch below his ear, and caught his fall.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It was sunrise before Saskia would speak to him. Proctor dozed in driving seat of the rental car, slightly reclined. His personal computer was in a dashboard cup holder. The Ego unit had instructions to deactivate Saskia’s chip if she did anything other than sit and wait. So she watched the dawn blaze on the landscape, flat as a page. Las Vegas was a ten-hour drive on I-70, but their counter-surveillance precautions would slow them. She saw a billboard slide by. It advertised Iowa sushi. She frowned. She felt empty. The flesh of her memory had been picked clean from her bones. Ahead, a truck’s indicator blinked. Beckmann had said something about epaulettes. She raised her fist and looked at the hurting, swollen knuckles. She wondered if her unarmed combat skills were intended for the use of harder, more robust hands than those she had grave-robbed.