Déjà Vu: A Technothriller (28 page)

“Here is the gate,” she said, pointing to the boarding pass with her pen, “and here is the seat.”

And here is the steeple, open it up and here are the people, he thought, still showing his teeth. He had not blinked. His eyes were itching.

“Look, I’ve just about had a tit-full of you,” said the police officer. “Get a fucking move on.”

“I’ve put you near the second emergency exit,” David’s attendant continued indulgently. “So you’ll have more leg room.”

The world was reduced to primitives. The nuances of conversation were gone, human interaction was a memory. The one remaining element was a script; normal behaviour at an airport. It was normal to take the ticket and the boarding pass.

David reached for his documents. They stuck to his sweaty fingers. The attendant said, “Good luck,” and he nearly laughed. He turned carefully and began to walk away. He inclined his head. With each step he felt the certainty build, the certainty that a voice would shout, “Stop! This is the police!” but it never came. He walked on. He watched his feet. It was the only way to be sure that he would not fall over. After twenty metres he realised that he had escaped.

For now.

They were on his flight.

Saskia took her boarding pass and ticket and stowed them with her passport. She remembered the gun and almost asked the attendant whether it would be possible to take it on the flight. But the attendant had already turned her attention to the next couple in the queue. Anyway, it would cost them time. “Come on,” said Hannah.

They headed towards passport control. Saskia glanced at her watch. Hannah saw her. “How long have we got?”

“Five or six minutes.”

“Let’s go,” he said, and broke into a jog. Saskia joined him. Nobody so much as glanced. Just two people late for their flight. Saskia remained a little behind him the entire way. She did not want to encourage him to run faster. She could hear keys jangling in his pocket. She could hear his panting. The tails of his overcoat whipped back and forth. His neck became red.

“Scottie,” she said. She tried to sound breathless. Proctor became less important. “Let’s slow down.”

Hannah turned around and jogged backwards for a few paces. “Come on, I can do with the exercise. It’ll look great in the report.”

They reached passport control a minute or so later. It was busy. Hannah stood with his hands on his hips. He took great breaths. Sometimes leaned backwards, as if to straighten his back, sometimes forwards, with his hands on his knees. He whistled and grimaced. “Saskia,” he gasped. “Let’s…jump the queue.”

“Are you feeling alright, Scottie?”

“Those bloody sandwiches,” he said. He finger-combed his hair. “OK, let’s go.”

“No, let us not,” she said. “Take a moment to recover. I can see the plane. The gate is very close and we have several minutes. We will have time to reach it.”

Hannah nodded. His breathing “OK. You’re right. I’ll just get my breath back.”

Saskia reached over to his tie. She waggled it loose. “Yes. Relax.”

“You are sweating, sir,” said the passport control officer. “May I see your documents?”

“Yes, of course,” David replied. He watched as the man fingered the documents. He watched his eyes flick from the passport to David, from David to the passport. The silence was heavy. Or was it? David forced himself to slow his breathing. His hand flexed around the briefcase handle. His nails drummed on the material.

“You seem a bit nervous, sir.” The officer cocked his head. It was a deliberate affection. It suggested control. David saw himself reflected in the man’s designer glasses. He glanced at his name tag. Christopher Garner. Senior Passport Control Officer. Then David’s stomach seemed to drop. He was nearly sick.

What was his own name?

His fake surname?

“Mr Greensburg?”

David kept looking. The officer kept looking. The queue kept looking too. David could feel their eyes, hear their whispers. They wanted drama. Greensburg. The name wasn’t right. Think. He had created an entire backstory. There was a wife living in Leeds, a son at university, a blue Corvette, lovingly restored, a farmhouse kitchen...

“Greenspoon,” he blurted.

The officer was disappointed. “Of course, sir. My mistake.”

“I’m just a little nervous,” David said. The regret followed immediately, followed by the memory of Ego’s last words to him: “Remember, less is more.”

“Really, sir?”

“Of terrorism.”

The man handed back the passport and boarding pass. “Naturally, we all are, sir.”

David nodded. He stepped over to the detector and felt a physical relief when he heard the officer turn his attention to the next person in the queue. His fingers trembled as he dumped his wallet into the little pot on the conveyor belt. The briefcase followed. He stepped through the archway. A waiting police officer with a sub-machine gun cast a lazy eye over him. Would he be recognised? The picture he had seen on posters was old: he had longer, darker hair, a heavier build. Did they expect him to flee the country? He checked around. There were at least three security cameras. Would a computer recognise him? Nothing happened. No alarms. He collected his wallet.

He was getting closer. Closer to the plane. Closer to a future he could not yet imagine.

Saskia had watched the man for a few seconds. She tried to recall Proctor’s height, but could not. She turned to Hannah and dug him in the ribs.

“What?”

“Him. The man walking through the detector.”

Hannah squinted. His breathing was still heavy. They were about six metres away. “Could be.”

“The passport checker talked to him for a long time.”

“Did he?”

David took two strides before he remembered his briefcase on the conveyor. He laughed a little too loud. He caught the eye of the armed police officer. The man’s face was blank. David turned. He was more relaxed now. He reached for the briefcase. He looked directly into the eyes of Saskia Brandt.

She did not react quickly enough. The man was too dissimilar to his picture. His hair was much shorter. His eyes were hooded, shadowed. He had lost some youth. He was thinner. But he was David Proctor.

“Proctor! Stop!”

She barged into the man in front of her, who tripped, dropping his case. Hannah cut in from the other direction. He trod on the dropped case and twisted his ankle. He pitched forward. His shoulder caught Saskia behind the knee and they both went down. It happened so quickly that people could do nothing but stare. The passport control officer and his colleagues were frozen. The armed police officer was motionless but for his thumb, which found his weapon’s safety catch and pressed.

Saskia tried to stand but there was a man sitting on the small of her back. She flicked her elbow at the narrow end of his thigh muscle. She heard a scream and the man convulsed off her. She climbed to her knees, blew her hair from her eyes and located Proctor.

Her hand went to her holster. She undid the strap with her thumb and withdrew the revolver.

There was another scream. “Oi, she’s got a gun!”

David froze too. His hand remained on the handle of the case. He was so close to the plane. It was ready to leave. It would get him out of here. He stared at the nose of the revolver.

The armed officer looked at David. His expression was blank, but the muscles in his jaw clenched and unclenched. David grabbed the briefcase. He heard someone shout, “She’s got a gun!” He expected to see people flee. Instead, the crowd roared. Like a tide, it turned on his two pursuers. Saskia went under.

The armed officer pressed his ear piece and said, “Red, red, red.” Then he advanced on the crowd. His machine gun was pointed at the floor. David hurried towards his gate.

Saskia struggled. Somebody was sitting on her again. She felt her ribs bend like bows. In case she lost control of the gun, she felt for the gun’s safety. It was off. She pushed it back.

Abruptly, the man was pulled from her back. She heard shouts. Another man said, “Break it up.”

Saskia climbed to her feet. Thirty or forty people were staring at her. Some of them wore security uniforms. One of them was a police officer with a submachine gun. The blood fell away from her head and she stumbled. She spread her arms for balance and the crowd gasped. She still held the gun.

“Armed police! Drop the gun!”

Saskia bent double and let herself breathe. Her vision began to the clear. She saw Hannah being held down by a frightened security officer. “Föderatives Investigationsbüro,” she said.

The officer looked at her. “Föderatives Investigationsbüro,” she repeated. And then, to the crowd, she said, “I am from the Federal Office of Investigation. I am in pursuit of a suspect.”

The armed officer stepped forward. “Drop the gun now,” he said.

Saskia hissed with frustration. She dropped the gun. She looked at the area beyond passport control. Proctor had gone. A voice from everywhere asked Mr Hannah and Ms Brandt to please board flight IAL 778 immediately.

“Let me show you some identification,” she said to the police officer.

“I totally agree. Slowly. Left hand. Throw it over.”

Saskia slid her badge across the floor. She noticed three more police officers running down the terminal towards her. Each wore the same outfit: black baseball cap, bullet-proof vest, combat trousers, black trainers. Each had a submachine gun pointing at the floor. The civilian security officers began to push people back. The crowd were silent at this unexpected street theatre.

Her ID landed back in her lap. “That’s yours, detective. Nice to meet you, Brandt. I’m Sergeant Trask.” He waved to the new arrivals. “Stand down, stand down.”

Saskia didn’t hear. Hannah, her deputy, was dying. His eyes moved but he didn’t see. He held his chest as though his heart was trying to break out. His skin was grey. Sweat ran from his forehead. “Scottie?” Saskia asked. Her voice cracked.

A shadow fell across Hannah’s face. It was Trask. He said one word. “Paramedic.” Saskia guessed he was talking into his radio.

She reached for Hannah’s hand. The palm was slick. She turned his chin, hoping to make eye contact. Trask touched her shoulder.

“Brandt,” he said. “We were told you were coming down. Didn’t expect this drama though.”

She nodded. Kept her eyes on Hannah. “Neither did I. What is happening to Scottie?”

“Paramedics are on the way.”

Saskia felt his wrist for a pulse. She found none. Hannah’s silver watch read something but it had an analogue display. Hers was digital. It read 12:29 a.m. Proctor’s flight left in one minute. She turned to Trask and studied him for the first time. He was a young man. He had a hard, dependable face. “I am in pursuit of a fugitive.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“The flight leaves now. I need to ground his plane.”

He nodded again. “What’s the flight number?”

She passed him her boarding pass and tried to wipe the sweat from Scottie’s forehead. His rictus had sagged into a stroke-like gape. His hand, which had been holding hers tightly, began to quiver.

“That may be a problem,” said Trask. Saskia followed his finger. Through the transparent wall of the terminal she saw the huge A380 reversing.

“Stop the plane. Call the captain.”

The police officer seemed sceptical. “I’ll try, but the captain won’t abort unless the bloke is a terrorist threat. I know from experience. We could radio ahead. Your man’s not going anywhere. The Americans can take care of him.”

“Not good enough. I do not know his name. There are over six hundred people on that flight. Please, contact the captain.”

The man sighed. “Control from Bravo Two at Tango 5, I have a request to talk to the captain of the A380 now taxiing towards runway four. Flight ILA 778, runway four. This is most urgent, most urgent. 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. Hannah had lost control of his bladder. His body was relaxed but his breathing had dwindled to tiny gasps. Trask crouched and turned Hannah’s head. He was encumbered by his swinging machinegun. “Keep his airway open.”

From his radio an American voice said, “Bravo Two, this is Captain Jameson on ILA 778. We’re moderately busy here.”

“Captain,” the police officer said, “you have a fugitive on your flight. There’s an FIB agent here ready to arrest him. We request that you return to the terminal.”

“I’m about five minutes from take-off. Is his a danger to my airplane?”

Trask turned to Saskia. She saw Proctor making his bomb. Then she saw Jobanique recruiting her into the FIB. He wanted her gut feeling. Reluctantly, she shook her head. “No, Captain.”

“I’ve got six hundred and twenty paying passengers. I’m responsible for getting them to America on time. This guy isn’t going anywhere. Give me his name. He’ll be arrested when we land.”

“But I do not know his name,” she whispered. Scottie had almost stopped breathing. Paramedics ran towards her. They had come through the gate. Their ambulance was parked outside. She kissed Scottie on the forehead and whispered, “I promise to come back.”

To Trask she said, “Tell him to request that he is pushed down the take-off queue. I intend to catch his flight. It is a matter of your national security.”

She took her gun and ran through passport control. Trask shouted that she should be let through. Then he relayed her last message to the pilot and ran after her.

Saskia ducked left down the emergency stairs that the paramedics had used. She stepped over a barrier that said ‘Heathrow Personnel Only’. Through the terminal’s glass wall she could see her aeroplane. It had reversed clear and now waited for the tractor vehicle to disengage. Then it would taxi onto the slip road that joined the runway and wait for final clearance. Somehow, she knew.

She reached the ground floor and ran outside. She was on the eastern flank of the terminal. Ahead, lost in the lights, were the four other terminals. To her left and right were docked aeroplanes. Only dashes of colour spoke to their shape and size. The air was thick with darkness, fuel and the wail of jet engines.