Déjà Vu: A Technothriller (29 page)

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.

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 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.

Did she believe Proctor?

Could he help her?

You are a detective. Detect.

Her eyes closed. Sleep was close. In her mind, she saw the witches, the Fates: Clotho, she spins the thread of life. Lachesis, she determines its length. Atropos, she cuts it.

Who were the fates?

There was a knock at the bathroom door.

“Yes?” she called.

“I really need the bathroom.”

“Of course.”

She collected her things. She guessed she had been staring in the mirror for nearly ten minutes. It was an indescribable feeling to find one’s own face unfamiliar.

She found Proctor in the bar. He was sitting as she had left him: slumped, exhausted. She had said virtually nothing for the past two hours. For Proctor, by contrast, words had been a great pressure inside him. She had sipped her gin and tonic. He had sipped his whisky.

“I have thought about your proposal,” she said. She sat but did not unbutton her jacket. She did not want Proctor to reach for her gun, though the captain had insisted that she unload it.

“Go on,” he said. His eyes moved around the small room. Occasionally they settled on her. Mostly they settled on his glass.

“It is unacceptable.”

Proctor nodded. “Ah.”

“Professor Proctor –”

“David.”

“– it is not within my power to release you. You do not even know where you are going.”

Proctor smiled. “No. My guide has become curiously silent on the matter.”

Saskia swivelled on her stool to face him. “I have arrested you. It is my duty to return you to England. There you will face the British authorities.”

“But you believe me.”

“I do not have the luxury of believing you or disbelieving, Professor. I only have my orders.”

Proctor rolled the empty glass between his palms. Saskia half-smiled. It was a curious gesture. She recalled an old memory

– surely from her former self – of man sitting at a bar, making the exact same action. He was a sheriff in the American Wild West, but character in a film, building his courage, drop by drop, so that he could run the bandits out of town. “Look,” she said. “Tell them what you have told me. If you are speaking the truth, you will be acquitted.”

He laughed. He wobbled the glass at the steward and Saskia, as her attention switched, remembered the film’s name: High Noon. “There may be a trial. You know what happens in these David-and-Goliath contests, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “David beats Goliath.”

“No, that’s the fiction. The truth is that David is beaten every time.”

Proctor surrendered his glass to the steward. The man placed the glass under a small bottle that was attached to the wall. The bottle was upside-down. He pressed against the nozzle and some amber liquid fell into the glass. As liquid fell, bubbles rose. Saskia watched David. The process fascinated him. When he received the glass, he took a sip and tossed the liquid around his mouth like a wine taster. He swallowed. “Detective Brandt, I’m sorry. You remember what I told you about your role?”

“Yes. You said that were certain 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 held his gaze. “Professor Proctor, I have spoken to you from politeness because I am curious and this is a long flight. It is well 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 raised an eyebrow. It was difficult to feel threatened by a scruffy, middle-aged man who had protested his pacifism only moments before. “Go on.”

“Your full name is Saskia Maria Brandt. You speak German, English and a little French. You are proficient in firearms and aikijutsu. You live on Rue Franz Merjay, 1070 Ixelles, Bruxelles. Your FIB badge number is 077-439-001.”

She dropped her hand to rest on her thigh. She needed to feel closer to the gun. Professor Proctor was not an unthinking zealot after all. He had researched her. She should have realised earlier. “Who told you that?”

“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. My personal computer wonders if I want to deactivate it.”

Saskia did not blink. She did not wet her lips, swallow, or cough. She had no bullets. There would not be time to find them, load the gun, and blow her malfunctioning brains out.

“You have spent nearly two hours explaining your principles, Professor. Have they now deserted you?”

He smiled. “David. No. They haven’t deserted me. In fact I still hold them in high regard. In the end, it comes back to protecting those principles.”