Déjà Vu

Chapter Eleven

Saskia’s apartment was a nondescript box in Schöneberg, three stops from her office on the S2 line. It had bare wooden floors, white walls, and black furniture. Its curtains were closed. There was no evidence of a previous owner. On the breakfast bar, she found paper manuals for the boiler, washing machine, and oven. She only stared at them before moving on. She felt like she had died and now haunted this apartment on Belziger Strasse.

At length, her glassy indifference cracked. She lifted her hands. There were calluses where the palms met the fingers. She walked into the bedroom and looked at herself in its full-length mirror. She leaned close, turning her head from side to side. She unzipped the boots and dropped them next to the bed. Then she removed her suit and underwear. She looked again at her reflection. The individual muscles across her belly were visible. The physique was not bulky—it was suited to running, perhaps swimming—but she could hardly imagine the level of exercise required to maintain it. The torso and thighs were pale, suggesting a one-piece swimming costume. She turned, looking for a birthmark. None; but there was an appendix scar, a vaccination mark and two dots either side of her left nipple, where a piercing had once been. She smiled at the marks until the macabre implication struck her. How different was she from Beckmann, who had commanded her movements in the office the day before?

She opened the wardrobe. There were eight identical FIB outfits along with outdoor gear, gym clothes, plastic-wrapped underwear, several racks of shoes, and bags. She selected a black, short-handled bag and closed the door. Then she took the suit from the bed and dressed. When she had finished, she considered herself a chic, professional Berliner. It felt like a disguise.

She found eye shadow in the bathroom cabinet, along with red nail polish. She looked at the polish and remembered her Russian nickname, the Angel of Death. She brushed her shoulder-length hair until it crackled with static.

She opened the curtains and the windows too. The gloom left with a bow. The black furniture turned grey. She decided to go out and buy food from the Turkish kiosk at the corner of Meininger and Gothaer.

On the threshold of the apartment, her phone rang.

‘Never mind settling in,’ said Beckmann. ‘The Proctor situation has escalated. You’re to fly to Edinburgh. Have you read the documents I provided? They’re in your apartment safe.’

She had a safe?

‘I’m… still settling in.’

‘Here.’

Like a blooming flower, the knowledge grew in her mind. She gasped and slumped against the doorframe. A distant voice said, ‘You have it now,’ then said no more.