Saskia Brandt: Deja Vu Part 18

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!'

'Foderatives Investigationsburo,' she said, turning to him.

'Drop it now!'

'Foderatives Investigationsburo,' 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 pa.s.sport 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 pa.s.sengers away.

Her ID landed on her foot. 'That's yours, Kommissarin. Nice 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,' 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 pa.s.s 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 gasps. Trask crouched and turned Jago's head. He was enc.u.mbered 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?'

'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?'

'Pa.s.s his details to my sky marshals. We'll contain it. ILA 778 out.'

For the first that she could remember, Saskia said, 'f.u.c.k.' She looked at the oncoming paramedics. She kissed Jago and whispered, 'I promise to come back.' To Trask, she said, 'Convince the captain to request a later slot in the take-off queue. I intend to catch his flight. It is a matter of British national security.'

She s.n.a.t.c.hed her gun and ran through the pa.s.sport control gate. Trask shouted at the staff to let her pa.s.s.

She vaulted a barrier that read 'Heathrow Personnel Only' and skipped down the maintenance stairs to ground level. She 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 van with a flight of steps rising from its back. She eased herself into the driving seat, ran her fingers over the steering wheel, and swore. It was unfamiliar.

When she had a.s.sembled the decelerator in the West Lothian Centre, an unknown expertise had come to her aid. But she had no such feeling with this vehicle. She slammed her palms on the wheel.

'Move over,' said Trask.

She slid into the pa.s.senger seat as Trask climbed in. 'At the FIB, our cars are computer controlled,' she said.

He gunned the engine, pulled away, and swung the wheel. The van skidded to face the receding aeroplane.

'Vive la difference.'

Saskia attached her seat belt and remained alert for vehicles and aircraft as they accelerated. She overhead Trask's conversation with the ILA captain. 'Yes.' He looked at her. 'Definitely. What? 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. 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 amba.s.sadorial ease. The pa.s.sengers 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 antic.i.p.ation, then a woman was hauled into the aeroplane. The nearby pa.s.sengers 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 pa.s.sengers.

David looked down at 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 Foderatives Investigationsburo, 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, Saskia stared at her blurred reflection and considered Proctor's story. The compa.s.s of her mind floated over an inscrutable lodestone a her lost memories, perhaps a and settled on a decision.

She reached into her jacket and removed her badge. She thumbed the golden letters of Foderatives Investigationsburo. 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 s.e.x 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.

She kept the worry bright in her mind as she returned to Proctor. The lounge was quiet. A middle-aged steward tended the bar. Behind him, an artistic A380 swooped through the twilight, all lens flare and contrail. The steward raised his eyebrows at Saskia. She shook her head.

'I have thought about your proposal,' she said, joining Proctor at his low table. She did not unb.u.t.ton 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 room. Occasionally they settled on her. Mostly they settled on his gla.s.s.

'It is unacceptable.'

Proctor tipped his head. 'Ah.'

'Professor Proctor a'

'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.'

He wobbled the gla.s.s at the steward and, in the movement, Saskia studied his face for sincerity.

'A trial?' he 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 seash.e.l.l 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 a'

'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 antic.i.p.ation 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 gla.s.s again. 'It would be very easy to deactivate it. That, I guess, would have very serious consequences for you.'

Saskia did not blink, wet her lips, or cough. She had no bullets. If he deactivated the chip, there would be no time to find them, 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.