Déjà Vu: A Technothriller (27 page)

“Scottie, do you believe in God?”

Hannah sat with his collar upturned. He seemed occupied with the traffic around them. They were about to pull into the airport. Teri had suggested Terminal 5 because most transatlantic flights originated from there. “Do you?” he asked.

Do I? she thought. Is religion a memory or a feeling?

“I don’t know.”

“I hope I never have to find out.”

She smiled. “Die, do you mean?”

“That’s the word.” He looked out of the window again. This time, he watched the sky. “When I was wee – when I was a boy – I thought that God was the sea. The sea was the biggest and most scariest thing I knew. It took my old dad.”

“I am sorry.”

He shrugged. “He was a fisherman. He took a gamble one day and he lost.”

“Do you think,” she began, and then stopped. Hannah glanced at her.

“Say it.”

“Do you think religion is a memory or a feeling?”

“Feeling,” he said. His eyes darted forward at the two police officers and Saskia realised she had embarrassed him. But then he said loudly, “Do you ever get a religious feeling, Dan?”

“Only when Teri’s driving, sir,” he replied.

Saskia grinned. Inside, she felt cold.

David slipped between two parked buses. A driver, who was loading heavy cases under the impatient eyes of his passengers, scowled as he walked past. David avoided his gaze and walked on. He avoided everybody’s gaze: the groups of teenagers back from Majorca, the retired couples with their redundant sun hats, the families with faces as long and grey as the English winter. All of them tanned, all of them freezing in the midnight chill. David avoided them all. He walked down the length of the large bus shelter and cut across the taxi rank. The terminal building towered like a glass FGcliff. It had a microclimate of exhausts and short tempers.

Inside he ignored the bright yellow signs with directions to arrivals, departures, the shops and the train and bus services. He ignored the ceiling that seemed so far away. He ignored the fleet of roaming trolleys. He stepped over a fallen teddy bear, countless old luggage labels, a Panama hat, and a sleeping man. He ignored the urgent flight calls and the thousand conversations, which reminded him, obliquely, of an orchestra tuning up. He particularly ignored the black-and-white figure of a police officer. The man was walking away from him. He held a sub-machine gun pointed at the floor.

David ignored everything but the arrow pointing to the gentleman’s toilet. He walked over, concentrating on an innocent stride and an innocent expression. There was a guiltiness about both. He stopped to examine an urgent message board. He drew slow breaths.

“You must proceed directly to the toilet to change,” prompted Ego. “The computers linked to the security cameras are quite capable of recognising you, but they sample randomly. To reduce the chance of being caught you must continue now.”

David said nothing. He did not want to arouse suspicion by talking to himself.

He walked further along the terminal. As he came to the toilet, its door opened and an arachnid robot emerged. It carried a number of cleaning utensils. It wore a blue cap and a shiny boot on each of its eight feet. David watched it creep away. A baby in a pram pointed and clapped.

The toilet was large and white. It sparkled. He could see boot-marks on the walls where the robot had climbed. The room had a low ceiling. The stalls were either side of a wall of wash basins. There were no shower cubicles. On the far wall was a store cupboard door. He collected the information without interest. There was a constant flow of people. At a given time, there would be no less than ten people present. If none of them was a security officer, then he had a good chance of assuming his disguise without capture.

He selected a basin in the middle of the row. Not at the end. He did not want to look like a man with something to hide. He dropped the container and massaged his shoulder. He whistled to fill the air and smiled at a teenager two basins down. The teenager offered his back. David opened the container and retrieved his shaving kit. He proceeded to shave. Nothing strange about that, he told himself. Just a normal bloke having a shave.

When he had removed the last of the foam, he leaned into the mirror. Not bad. He was beginning to assume his old, respectable (and, he realised, vain) self. He preferred the beard.

Next he doused his hair with hot water. He cupped it on and relished the burning sensation. It would banish the cold from his fingers for good. He took a sachet of shampoo and rubbed it into his hair. He began to feel that he was being watched. He rinsed the soap away. He was still just a normal bloke washing his hair. He whistled.

His hair was clean but dripping. He gathered his things and retreated into a stall. Locked the door. He slipped off his boots, his nylon coat and the paper overalls. He used the toilet and set about his transformation. Soon he was wearing the suit. He folded the tie from memory, but it would need straightening in front of a mirror. He splashed some aftershave around his neck and gasped. Moments later he opened the briefcase. He checked the contents: his wallet, which contained Ego and some cards; the watch; his passport; his cash. He had no physical business documents. That was normal. Everything would be stored in his personal computer. He dropped the wallet into his inside pocket and closed the briefcase.

He opened the door and walked to the store cupboard he had noted earlier. It was locked but the mechanism was a simple magnetic strip reader. Ideal. There were only two people near him. They weren’t looking. Quickly, he took Ego from his wallet, whispered, “Ego, it’s a magnetic strip lock,” and swiped it through the reader. The door clicked. He eased it open and looked inside. There were paper tissues, a replacement hand drier, an assortment of bottles, and some mops and brushes. Plenty of room. Quickly, he grabbed the container and shoved it inside. A glance around the room reassured him that he had not been seen. He opened the door again and threw a package of toilet rolls over the container. Only the robot would use the cupboard on a regular basis. It would simply work around the obstruction. He closed the door. It locked automatically.

He took his briefcase from the cubicle and left the room, pausing only briefly to straighten his tie in the mirror. Then he flattened his hair with a palm and walked on his way. Just a normal businessman walking out of a toilet. His motorcycle boots rapped a loud tattoo.

The majority of transatlantic flights originated from Terminal Five. The police car stopped at the building’s entrance and its cargo clambered out. Saskia folded her arms and shivered. Hannah leaned through the passenger window, said something dry, waited for a response, and slapped the rump of the car as it rolled away.

The terminal was huge. The roof was far away. But people could not take flight and use the space. They were trapped on the ground. They crossed paths again and again. Saskia shared the air with thousands of people. It was cold but not fresh. It smelled like the café in Brussels, where she had become wrapped in claustrophobia. It would be difficult to remain. Hannah touched her shoulder. She turned in surprise. “Can you wait here? I need the toilet.”

He was tired and distracted. He did not appreciate the spell he had broken. When Saskia smiled he was surprised. “Of course.”

He jogged along the wall and disappeared into the toilet. Saskia leaned against a huge poster advertising a travel company. She felt the picture change. Minutes passed. She gazed at the ceiling and wondered if clouds might form up there. Hannah grabbed her arm.

“Finally.”

Hannah’s face was close. It was ashen. “Proctor’s here.”

The crowds faded and they were alone. “Here?”

“Look.” Hannah opened his hand. It held a crumpled plastic sachet. Saskia shook her head. She didn’t understand. Then she saw the text. It read: Rinse and Shine at the Horse n’ Groom! Underneath, smaller, was: Wickering Breweries Ltd., Northallerton.

“Proctor’s hotel,” Saskia said. She could think of nothing else. Then she asked, “But when was he here? Perhaps he has come and gone.”

Hannah had the thin smile of certainty. “It was on a basin that still has condensation. I felt the bowl. Still warm with hot water for his hair. The other bowls are cold. It’s him. He’s cleaning up.”

“Fine, good, OK,” Saskia said. She looked away from Hannah in order to concentrate. “If we follow our original plan, then Proctor is travelling to America. To Nevada. We should check the departures board.”

David stepped from the lift into the basement locker area. His motorcycle boots had been replaced by a pair of Brogues. The floor was tiled and sang underfoot, tick-tock with each step. There were few people about. An attendant was slouched over the counter of his kiosk with his nose on a newspaper. He ignored the world around him. As David walked past, a terracotta army of lockers emerged on his right. They had been arranged in perfect rank and file. About half were ajar.

Locker J371 was a short walk away. David moved slowly. He was conscious of the tapping that betrayed him, but he saw nobody. He did not see the woman, some metres to his left, step back into shadow.

“Ego, I’m here.”

Ego said, “Good. Type in this code: P7L6WE2.”

David did so. The locker sprang open. It was as tall as a man and deep enough for several large pieces of luggage. It was empty but for an envelope. It was addressed to ‘D’. He checked up and down the row before tearing the seal. Nobody. He did not see the woman duck out of sight once more, but he heard her footsteps on the tiles. The sound came from everywhere. Because it was receding, he ignored it.

Inside the envelope was a single ticket to Las Vegas, Nevada. That was unsurprising. So he was en route to Jennifer. He was more interested in the text on the piece of paper. The paper had been perfectly white; now, as he touched it, it began to darken. The text became less distinct.

“What is on the paper?” asked Ego. “Tell me immediately.”

“It says, ‘Jennifer Proctor…’ Christ, it’s fading.”

“A security precaution. Keep reading.”

“‘Sounds like a car-parking attendant belongs to the finest.’ That’s all.”

“Information stored and encrypted.”

David laughed mechanically. The tiredness of the bike journey seemed to overtake him once more. He sagged against the locker door. “‘Sounds like a car-parking attendant belongs to the finest.’ What is that? A crossword clue?” The paper had turned black.

“Please, David, examine the ticket.”

David rubbed his eyes. He had a headache and found focussing difficult. “A ticket to McCarran International, Las Vegas. Via Chicago. So what?”

“The time?”

“12:30 a.m.”

“It is now 12:10. I would suggest that you leave immediately. It is unlikely that you will still be at liberty for the next flight.”

David noted the check-in details and tucked the papers into his jacket pocket. He hurried away.

“One final thing,” Ego said.

“What?”

“You must eat the paper.”

“Bloody hell.” He reached for the paper and stuffed it into his mouth. It tasted like liquorice.

The flight left in a few minutes. As they ran, Hannah told Saskia that it might be too late to ground the plane. They had to get aboard. The simplest method was to buy a ticket and arrest Proctor in the air. They found the check-in and jumped the queue.

Saskia glanced at some faces. She did not linger on their interested expressions. Proctor would be on the plane already. Hannah knew the same. He slapped his hand on the counter and demanded two tickets for Las Vegas. The attendant shook her hand indulgently. “That flight leaves in fifteen minutes, sir.”

“Yes, with us,” Hannah said. He produced his documents. The attendant studied the passport. In the pause, Saskia placed her FIB wallet and passport alongside Hannah’s. As her fingers left the surface, she was a chess player committing to a move. Jobanique had told her to remain in the European Union. She needed to take the next flight back, and she needed to have Proctor in tow.

The attendant looked over Saskia’s shoulder. The glance was deliberately indifferent. Saskia turned. A plain-clothes security guard stood behind them. Hannah saw her movement and turned too. The queue became still.

Hannah snorted, “Who are you, the bloody prefect?” He pointed at the attendant then stabbed a thumb in the direction of the security officer. “Tell him to piss off.”

As the attendant explained to the security officer, slowly to be clear, that Hannah was a policeman, David Proctor, who was standing not far behind, stepped sideways from the queue. His hands, which had been dry, began to drip sweat. His face, recently shaved, itched. He walked to the next attendant and said, quietly but not too quietly, “Excuse me. My flight leaves in a couple of minutes. May I check-in for Las Vegas here?”

The attendant smiled. “You got lucky, I was about to open up.” She started her computer with a flourish. “Have you flown before, sir?”

He turned so that he was facing away from the police. “No.”

“Thought so. The first time is the best, believe me. Luggage?”

He tried to swallow but his throat was too sticky. “Just the briefcase.”

To his left, close enough to touch, the middle aged police officer raised his voice and said, “Jesus, we’re in pursuit of a bloody criminal. He’s about to skip the country. Take your time.”

David released his air. He wanted to bite his knuckles. His heart raced so fast its beat became a constant hum. He could hold out for a few more seconds, and then he would scream. Instinctively, his hand crept towards his jacket pocket. Then he drew it away. The stun gun was gone. It was in the bike container, which was in the gent’s toilet, which was a lifetime away.

“Sir?” asked the attendant. Their eyes met. Hers were sympathetic.

“Yes?”

“I asked, is their anything in your briefcase that you are carrying for somebody else?”

“No.”

“Fine. Here’s your boarding pass.”

David showed his teeth. “Thank-you.” He reached for it, but she pulled it back. He swung from victory to defeat. The scream was near. Had the police officer seen him? Made a signal? Pulled a gun? But the attendant smiled. He released another breath. The air was stale and hot. He was not caught. Not yet.