Déjà Vu: A Technothriller (30 page)

Saskia laughed bitterly. “How pathetic. That is the age-old drivel spouted from the mouth of any idiot with a cause, from the religious fanatic to the political terrorist.”

She expected, hoped, that he would react angrily. Instead his head drooped. “Saskia, you don’t understand. I don’t want to do this.”

“Listen to me,” she interrupted. She grabbed his wrist. “You must understand. My boss. The way he operates.” She checked the room for eavesdroppers. “This chip contains me, the real me. I do not want to go back. That is not who I am. I choose to remain this way.”

“What does the chip do? My computer says that it has interfaced with your cortex.”

“It is a new personality. A donor. It suppresses the old. I was...a criminal. My boss wishes to harness that criminality. That criminality gives me a certain empathy with the people I try to catch.”

Proctor’s expression was blank with competing questions. She released his wrist. “But,” he said, “doesn’t the new personality overwrite the old one? Doesn’t that mean that the element of criminality from the old you has been, so to speak, deleted?”

“No.” Saskia stared into her empty glass. “Someone once said it has been ‘knocked sideways’. It is still there. It is dormant. If you deactivate the chip, I will become a murderer.”

David frowned. “Do you think that will be a significant change?”

“Of course I do.”

“You think murderers are insane?”

“No. I do not wish to talk about this any more.”

“What would you do if I told my computer to deactivate the chip?”

Saskia shrugged. “I would load my gun and I would commit suicide.”

Proctor said, “Oh.” She had embarrassed him. He called the steward over. “Another whisky, please. Double.”

They watched the steward inject two shots. He placed it before Proctor, who pushed it towards Saskia. “That’s for you. Come with me to find my daughter.”

“I have no choice.”

He smiled. The man with principles. He had blown up a research centre because of them. He had murdered his friend. He was the real murderer, not her. But as he looked, shyly, at the backs of his hands, she was reminded again of the sheriff waiting for high noon. She took the whisky and knocked it back.

John Hartfield smiled and blinked as the aide held open the side door for him. “You may take the call in here, sir,” she said. As the door closed, the corridor noise muted. Hartfield sank into an ornate armchair and appreciated the bookcase to his left. His eyes stopped on a leather-bound Mark Twain.

The aide said, “The room is secured with lead-panelling, sir. The second Bush.” She paused. “Would you like some privacy?”

He smiled and blinked again. The gesture unnerved some people, but the aide was blank. Hartfield could imagine her as a personal assistant.

“Would you like to work for me?” he asked “I will double your salary.”

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”

The aide left the room in a perfect reverse of her entrance. Before the door closed, Hartfield had placed his computer – a cylinder the size of cigarette – on the edge of the adjacent table. He licked his index finger and dabbed a four times on the surface.

In the rough square, a graphical interface appeared. The bottom half showed a keyboard. He began to type.

A face appeared and he sat back.

“You are connected to the local server. Your caller is waiting,” said the face.

“Take the call,” he replied.

Another face occupied the square. It was a young man in a cap. He was unshaven and nervous. Behind him was a highstreet. “Hello?”

Something changed in Hartfield’s expression. A light began to radiate, or the muscles around his eyes and mouth began to work properly, or his concentration returned. But it was a mask. When Hartfield did not wear that mask, talking to him was like talking to an answer phone. The aide knew that.

“I am here,” replied Hartfield. He leaned back further. The cigarette-sized computer contained a camera, but he did not adjust it for a better angle. The computer would supply a false image and a false voice by default.

“I’m in a public phone booth,” said the man.

“That is good. What do you have to tell me? I’m about to have an important meeting.”

“It’s our man. He’s en route to Las Vegas. There was a drama at Heathrow. It was on the news.”

Though he was unseen, Hartfield frowned. His voice was easier to modulate when he immersed himself in the role. “I told you to follow him. You should be on the plane.”

The man adjusted his cap nervously. “It would have been easier to take him when the glider crashed.”

“I wanted you to follow him. To lead me to his benefactor.”

“Not in Scotland. Too open. Spot a tail in a no time.”

Hartfield steepled his fingers. He had read many books on body language. Finger-steepling indicated control. Control was a impression he wished to create. “You may die tonight. You should put your affairs in order.”

The man clapped a hand to his mouth. Hartfield noted the gesture. He associated it with women, or effeminate men, but the operative on the phone was an especially brutal individual. “You can’t do that,” he hissed.

“Remember what you are,” Hartfield said. He cut the connection.

He dropped the computer in his pocket just as a knock came at the door. It opened immediately and the aide entered. Corridor sounds followed her. “The President will see you now, Mr Hartfield.”

He stood and brushed his thighs, though there was nothing to brush off. He felt a pause was needed. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”

“Sorry, what?”

He smiled and blinked. “I have urgent business in Las Vegas. I’ll be in touch.”

When the aircraft touched down at 5:15 a.m. in McCarran International, David was listening to his favourite piece of music, a guitar instrumental called Cavatina. He had not slept since the connection in Chicago. He unplugged the earphones and raised his cuffed left hand. Saskia’s right arm rose too. She remained asleep. The airframe juddered and they began to decelerate. David stared at her. Her hair had fallen across her face. It was greasy. In their thirteen hours together, she had made no attempt to brush it or push it behind her ears. She was almost without vanity.

He looked through the window. It was still dark. In the east, the horizon was a chalky blue line. They had raced the sun and stretched the night to nineteen hours.

The juddering became worse and Saskia awoke. She wiped her mouth with a sleeve and looked around. She seemed to take in information in an oddly systematic way. David was reminded of an old film where a man lost the ability to form new memories. He had used instant photographs and body tattoos instead. He read and re-read them from moment to moment. Saskia looked at the ceiling: I’m in a plane. She looked down at her body: I’m Saskia Brandt. She looked at the handcuffs: I’m cuffed to someone. She looked at David: I’m cuffed to Professor Proctor.

David smiled. She did not smile back.

“We’re here,” David said.

“Is this Las Vegas?”

He wanted to ask, Do you know what Las Vegas is? Did you know it existed before you read your ticket? How do you feel about it? Can you name all the American states? but he said, “Yes.”

“I will remove the handcuffs soon,” she said.

“Thanks. I’m sorry about all of this.”

She smiled. “You’re English. You’re sorry about everything.”

They paused briefly for Saskia to make a phone call to Edinburgh. She didn’t say why. She couldn’t get through. They made their way through the terminal and came to a slot-machine parlour. Though it was 5:30 a.m., every machine in sight was occupied. Gamblers inserted their money, pulled the handle or pressed the button, and watched the result. Suitably reinforced, they repeated the process.

“Look at all the money,” Saskia said.

David nodded. The gamblers inserted dollar after dollar. While the rest of the developed world had made the transition from physical to electronic transactions – stored on a mobile phone, or a bankcard, or a personal computer – gamblers preferred cash. You needed to see physical money going in and money coming out. Mostly, thought David, going in.

They kept walking. Saskia said nothing more. David wanted to talk to her. Chat. He wanted her to know that there were no hard feelings. That it was a professional thing. That he couldn’t afford to be arrested. And that, Jesus, who could?

McCarran International was within walking distance of Las Vegas. They could see the casinos. The sky was cloudy and the soil was brown-yellow. The vegetation was a washed-out green.

David said, “Saskia, I need your help.”

She turned to him. There was far-away look in her eyes. “What is it?”

They stepped onto a moving walkway and stood shoulder to shoulder. David checked in front and behind for eavesdroppers. “How did you know I was going to America?”

Saskia pursed her lips. “I should not tell you that.”

David blurted, “But I told you my story.”

“Yes. A story. Remember that you have me under duress. I could call for help.”

David bristled. “You know what would happen if you did that.”

“And you know what would happen to you. You are surrounded by airport security. They are quite visible.”

“I would take my chances,” he said quietly. “I’ve got this far.”

“I accept that you do not intend any genuine harm towards me. Or, rather, that you would avoid it.”

“True. But remember that I’m a man with very little to lose.”

“Is that so? I would say, Professor Proctor, that, as a father, you have a great deal to lose.”

David’s fingers curled around the handle of the briefcase until the nail beds became white. “Don’t threaten my daughter, Detective, or I will harm you. Genuinely.”

Saskia said smugly, “The killer has a heart.”

“I am not a killer.”

“You have killed.”

“So have you.”

“We are,” said Saskia, “‘quits’ then, Professor. So, now that we have established each other’s qualifications, what help do you need?”

David was confused. He decided to ask his original question. “I need to know where Jennifer is. I think she’s wrapped up in the whole thing.”

“Whole thing?”

“The situation.”

“I know what ‘whole thing’ means, Professor,” Saskia snapped.

“Stop bloody calling me ‘Professor’,” David snapped back.

“Fine. You will not get my help.”

David raised his voice. “Jesus Christ…do you know where my daughter is or not?”

A armed security guard, who was leaning against a coke machine, gazed at them as they drifted past. David smiled with embarrassment, pointed at Saskia, and made a circle by his temple. The guard did nothing. Saskia watched the exchange contemptuously.

“You are stupid, not me.”

David stared at her. In the midst of his anger, he nearly gave Ego the command to deactivate her chip. He was a single breath from killing her. He stared at her a little longer.

“Saskia.” He touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry. As soon as I find Jennifer you will be free to leave. I promise.”

She adjusted her shoulder bag. “Do you want me to feel grateful?”

He was back in Northallerton. “Oh, I get it. You’re a hero. You’re going to go home to your little family in fucking Chelsea and brag about how you played Dr Bernardo up north.

“No, of course not.” He struggled to catch the right words. “Just…I’m doing what I’m doing for the right reasons.”

“As they seem to you.”

“Yes.”

Saskia pointed. “Watch out. The end of the walkway.”

They both stepped down. David followed the arrows and walked ahead of her. From the periphery of his vision, he watched her shadow.

“Fine,” she said. “I will help you find your daughter because it will aid my own release. I can tell you now that she is somewhere in the state of Nevada. That is all.”

“Great. That narrows it down to about a million square miles.”

A voice in his ear said, “Actually, 110, 567.”

“Thanks, Ego,” David replied acidly. “Ego, I don’t suppose you know where Jennifer is?” he asked.

“I’m afraid not. My information has been limited to the essentials from the very beginning. This is for security reasons in the event of my capture.”

“Can’t you give me a clue?”

“You already have one.”

David winced. Of course. The paper he had eaten. How did the clue go? Sounds like a car-parking attendant belongs to the finest. Was that a clue to Jennifer’s location? Had to be. He repeated the clue aloud to Saskia.

“A cross-word clue,” she said. “The difficult type.”

“Ah, clever. That must be why you’re the detective.”

Saskia nodded seriously. “Indeed.”

They found a hotel and slept until 9:00 a.m. David was more tired when he awoke. His back was tight; his muscles ached. If he were a young man, he would have recovered by now. They headed towards the centre of town and soon came to the central artery known as the Strip. The traffic was cattle stampede. David hugged his coat closer – it wasn’t warm – and nodded towards a diner on the corner of their block. Saskia followed him with her arms folded and her head bent against the wind.

The diner smelled of plastic and coffee. A single fan swung in the centre of the ceiling, too slow to stir the air. A large screen showed a baseball game. It was muted. Three or four customers sat silently in booths. An old man sat at the counter. A Latino waitress was wiping the counter around him. The man didn’t move. “Morning, folks,” said the waitress.

“Good morning,” David said. The other customers glanced at them briefly, blankly. He steered Saskia towards a booth near the window. They sat with David looking out and Saskia looking in. That suited him.

The waitress wandered over. She had a pencil behind her ear and another in her hand. She wore horn-rimmed glasses. Her make-up had been applied unevenly. She produced a pad from her apron and stood poised. “What’ll you have?”

“Just a coffee for me, please,” David said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you have croissant?” asked Saskia.

“We do, honey,” replied the waitress. She smiled brilliantly. “You bet. You want some jellies with that?”