Déjà Vu

Chapter Nineteen

Besson opened his clamshell computer. The heat of his fingertips summoned a keyboard, red-glowing, as Jago, Saskia and Garland watched a projection on the wall. One pane showed a taxi against the frontage of the Park View Hotel. The other was crowded with a set of image processing tools.

‘I’ll say this for you,’ murmured Jago. ‘You’re well connected.’

‘I am,’ Saskia replied. ‘Paul, go.’

They watched the video from beginning to end. The story was simple: a car drove in from left of frame and stopped; Proctor opened the door, hesitated, then closed it. The windows remained opaque with reflected sky. Five minutes later, he opened the door a second time and walked out of the frame. The taxi drove away. For a period during those five minutes, he had made the transmission.

Saskia asked, ‘Ideas?’

‘The door,’ said Jago. ‘Why did he open it twice?’

‘Yes. He is the only person in the car. What model of car is that? Does it have an advanced computer?’

Besson shook his head. ‘That’s a Merc with a hands-off driving module. The computer is thick.’

Saskia approached the projection. ‘McWhirter said that Proctor used an industrial prototype to detonate the bomb. Perhaps his computer handled the communication too. Picture it: Proctor arrives, he opens the door, then the computer calls him back in. He closes it again and receives the transmission.’

Jago grunted. ‘Maybe the computer announced the caller.’

Saskia clicked her fingers. ‘One day, you will make a fine Kommissar, Deputy.’

‘Gee, thanks.’

‘Paul, can we see a plot of the sound at that point?’

Besson nodded. On the projection, Proctor reversed towards the car and opened the door. Besson wound it back still further. The door closed. He kept cuing. Thirty seconds later—for Proctor, five minutes earlier—the door opened again. ‘Alright,’ Besson said, ‘here’s a visual of the sound.’ The image was replaced by two graphs, each with a tiny peak halfway along. ‘I’ll play it. Quiet.’

As it played, Saskia heard a component deep inside the sound. It might have been a footfall, a snapping branch or a voice.

‘Anyone?’ she asked.

‘Hold on, I can enhance it.’

They waited for Besson to select a smudge in the spectrogram.

‘This is it. Quiet again, please.’

A voice, swept with wind, said, ‘Professor Proctor, it is your daughter.’

Saskia clapped Besson on the back and shared a nod with Garland.

‘N’bad,’ said Jago.

While Jago spoke to his boss about arranging an interview with Jennifer Proctor, Saskia donned her glasses and monitored the virtual workspaces of Besson and Garland, who were engaged in a review of communications between David and Jennifer Proctor. Pictures and text fluttered into the foreground and disintegrated, or joined to represent relationships suggested by Nexus, the semantic parser used by the UK Police Service.

‘Interesting,’ said Garland. ‘David Proctor is flagged for surveillance. Turns out this isn’t the first time he’s blown something up at the West Lothian Centre.’

‘How does that help us?’

‘Here,’ said Besson. In Saskia’s glasses, a data tile rushed towards her. She stopped it with a thought. It was a scan of a paper document, headed ‘GCHQ’. ‘Proctor has been flagged since 2003. Some analysis has already been carried out on his correspondence.’

‘Can we use that to our advantage?’

‘It should speed up the process. Hey, Charlotte, is that video of our man?’

‘Yeah. A robotics conference in Amsterdam in ’21. Looks like Proctor was the keynote. Nothing doing, though.’

Saskia tuned out. Beyond the graphical interface—which she could slide away on command—was a world where she had committed murder. There would be data for that too. Photographs. Video footage. Court documents. Witnesses.

In Cologne.

And yet she could not investigate a datum of it. The previous morning, when she had stood with the revolver in grisly salute, Beckmann had marked her limits. Any attempt to investigate herself would not be tolerated.

Forget it, Brandt.

‘Wow,’ said Garland, ‘look at this.’

It was an email. Garland highlighted some text in the centre and tossed it towards Saskia.

b2kool 2 use an encrypted transmission, dad

‘What did her father say to that?’ asked Saskia.

‘The reply is missing.’

‘Shame.’

‘Kommissarin,’ said Besson. ‘Read these.’

In the latest transmissions, Proctor seldom wrote more than two lines. They were invariably apologetic: ‘Sorry I can’t write any more right now,’ ‘CU Gotta go,’ ‘Write more soon, I prooomise!’, and so on, but the follow-ups were never sent. Jennifer’s e-mails shortened. She made jokes about her father’s tardiness, jokes that became sardonic and accusatory. At the same time, Proctor’s replies became defensive, hurt and confused. The messages described a dying relationship. Saskia could not suppress her sadness.

The e-mails dried up. There was no code.

‘Okay,’ Saskia said. ‘Tune out for a moment.’ She removed her glasses and watched their faces. ‘Charlotte, the e-mail about the cipher. When was that sent?’

‘Back in ’21,’ said Garland.

‘The cipher would have to be complicated,’ Besson said.

Saskia looked at him. ‘You said something earlier about using one-time pads to teach students the basics of cryptanalysis. Maybe she completed it as part of a school project. What was the name of her school? The one in New York?’

‘Wayne’s College,’ said Garland.

‘Find their electronic documents archive. Search for projects by Jennifer Proctor.’

Garland smiled. All three replaced their glasses. Garland tore through the data and Besson and Saskia followed in her slipstream. A list of projects appeared. One was titled: ‘An algorithm for one-time pad encryption using the Homo sapien haploid genome, by Jennifer B. Proctor’.

Quite unexpectedly, Saskia thought of Simon.

‘Bingo,’ she said.

‘Proctor’s DNA was sequenced in 2017,’ said Garland, ‘as part of a research project at the Institute for Stem Cell Research, University of Edinburgh. The sequence was on a thumbdrive in his office when it was raided by MI5. There’s a copy bundled with the GCHQ data. Besson?’

‘Got it. Looks like about 750 megabytes. Not a strong OTP after all, though it might have taken us years to crack using a brute force method. What does Jennifer’s project say about a hash function? I’ll start with no hash and a simple XOR of the data against the DNA sequence.’ Besson smiled. ‘It worked. We have it.’

Detective Superintendent Shand took a box of paperwork from a chair and dropped it into his wastebasket. Saskia settled into the empty seat. Politely, she smiled about the narrow, high-ceilinged office. Jago sat on the windowsill.

‘Always good to meet our continental counterparts,’ said the DSI. He had a grey goatee beard and a lopsided, friendly expression. ‘Treating you well?’

‘Saskia made the breakthrough in the Proctor case,’ Jago said.

‘Team effort,’ she replied. ‘We now have a full transcript of the conversation that took place in the car between Proctor and his daughter.’

Jago gave him a sheaf of loose A4 paper, creased lengthways. The DSI glanced through. ‘Nothing jumps out. You two have had time to think about it. Talk to me.’

‘I have a hunch,’ said Saskia. ‘I think that Proctor has left the country, perhaps via an airport.’

‘Why?’

‘He has received a threat to his life. His daughter says, “Watch your back. Something may happen.” This warning comes true, does it not?’

The DSI arched an eyebrow. ‘I thought that the “something” was a result of Proctor’s own actions.’

Saskia said, ‘I realise, sir, that we are not in a position to verify or falsify Proctor’s charges. But we are also not required to accept them. I mean, we must not accept conclusions unless we make them ourselves from available evidence. Nobody, so far, has been able to produce evidence to show that Proctor is responsible for anything. It is conjecture. A jury might not convict him.’

The DSI was grim. ‘You should attend more trials.’ Seeing Saskia’s expression, he pulled a face, as if to dismiss his own comment.

‘If Proctor is an innocent party, then I believe he will wish to gather more information about his predicament. At the very least, more information would bolster his defence against the charges. Under EU law, it is not illegal for an innocent person to attempt an escape.’

Jago gave her a warning look but the DSI nodded. ‘Well, I can’t argue with your research, Detective.’

‘Kommissarin,’ Saskia said. She felt her voice strengthen. ‘Proctor is a university professor. It is a comfortable existence. We know from his e-mails that his relationship with his daughter is strained. The last few days will have proved to be very difficult, even life-altering. Proctor will undoubtedly feel the need to leave the country. Here he is hunted. In America he is not. His daughter is in America. In addition, she gave him the warning. If he is indeed innocent, then his search for answers must begin with her. Flying out would “kill two birds with one stone”. We must assume it is within his capability.’

The DSI said, ‘I’m with you. Jennifer is his daughter. The person who helped organise his escape is someone who would risk everything for him. Jennifer fits the bill. Was she the woman who broke Proctor out of the Park Hotel? Who knows, maybe her employers—if they are the US government, like you say—helped to falsify her passport and formulate Proctor’s escape plan. If we get her, we get Proctor. But is she still in the country?’

‘I think it is unlikely,’ Saskia replied. ‘If you are correct and she has the backing of the American government, they would advocate a plan with minimum risk. Perhaps she has already risked a great deal by personally overseeing her father’s escape. If they were to attempt an escape together, the probability of their apprehension would increase. In that case, I would suggest that she left immediately via the nearest airport, Edinburgh.’

Jago shook his head. ‘I don’t know. If the Americans really wanted Proctor, why not smuggle him out by military transport?’

‘Secrecy,’ the DSI said. ‘And cost. How much do they want him? What can he be worth?’

Saskia replied, ‘Perhaps everything, perhaps nothing. However, with the correct advice and documentation, there is no reason why Proctor should not be able to leave the country through an airport.’

‘Edinburgh?’ Jago asked. ‘You think he showed up in Northallerton to throw us off the scent?’

‘Why not?’

‘No,’ said the DSI. ‘We had Edinburgh locked down tight. To get lost in the crowd he would need somewhere bigger.’

‘Like where?’ Saskia asked.

‘Heathrow, Gatwick, Luton, Stansted,’ Jago said. ‘Take your pick.’

‘Which is the largest?’

‘Heathrow,’ said the DSI. ‘And its surveillance is poorest due to the volume of traffic. We’ve had a team researching this scenario. If he took a car or a train, he would have left the country by now. If he’s still on the bike, and using minor roads, he could catch a flight at midnight—if he rides hard. Personally, I think he’ll lie low for a week.’

‘Those flights need to be checked, sir,’ said Saskia.

‘I agree with you, Brandt. Check each person who flies to America between midnight and 6:00 am. Check them by hand. If you don’t find Proctor, we can assume he’s already gone or he’s lying low. We have other people working those leads.’

Jago said, ‘There are about thirty-five thousand people who can do that for us, sir. They’re called the Metropolitan Police Service.’

The DSI shook his head. ‘Think. If Proctor takes his holiday tonight, I want us to nab him, not our Cockney friends. No sense having the Met solve our cases.’

‘But Saskia is a neutral party.’

The DSI grinned, revealing a gold canine. ‘It’s that kind of clear thinking that stops you advancing through the ranks, Phil. Saskia is a neutral party accompanied by a Lothian and Borders liaison officer.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Jago said quietly.

‘You two can hitch down to Heathrow with a friend of mine, Sam Langdon. He comes here for the golf. My secretary will give you his number. Have a nice trip.’

He held open the door. Saskia and Jago walked through. In the waiting room, Jago said, ‘I was his mentor when he joined the service.’ He checked the time. ‘Right, we’d better find this Langdon character. Saskia?’

She was watching Besson and Garland at the coffee machine. They looked up and smiled. Even the loneliest person has the memory of company, but she did not even have that.

David glanced at the bike’s dashboard. It was 4:00 p.m. He had been riding for nearly nine hours. It was time to gather the elements of his disguise. He took his lead from Ego, who had downloaded three SAS survival guides and related them to David in a digested, if sensational, form. Ego wanted him to change his vehicle and his clothing. David disagreed. Clothing, yes; vehicle, no. The bike was uncomfortable but it was fast, all-terrain, and easily camouflaged.

Now he stood next to the parked, cooling Moiré and considered Ego’s advice. He leaned towards the microphone in the helmet, which he had secured to the petrol tank. ‘Bike, change to green,’ he said. ‘Do it gradually, over the next hour.’

David walked into town. The pedestrians cut unpredictable zigzags in front of him. After only two days on the bike, he had forgotten how to walk in a crowd.

Inside the first shop, the owner’s smile froze on contact. To be sure, David had a thickening beard and grimy clothes. His head was bowed to avoid surveillance cameras. And he paid cash. Physical money was risky, but he had to assume that the credit card, issued in the name of David Harrison, had been blown since his escape from The Poor Players. Prudently, his passport carried a different name.

He abandoned his old coat in a public toilet and walked on. He purchased new clothes and, item by item, left their predecessors about the city centre. In a gentleman’s outfitters he bought a suit. In another he bought a beige briefcase, a pair of tinted glasses, a shaving kit, some paper overalls, a wedding ring, and a startlingly expensive belt. In each shop he lamented the loss of his bank card and shrugged wistfully at the need to carry so much cash. The shopkeepers made clicking noises and were sorry to hear that, sir, and said no more. Finally, he bought some aftershave and a universal storage crate for the bike. At the invitation of the last sales assistant, he stuffed his shopping into the box. Both he and the assistant stared at the crumpled suit for moment.

‘Travel iron, sir?’

‘Can’t hurt.’

Shopping completed, David returned to the bike. The universal box was not as universal as its manufacturers had enthused. It took fifteen minutes to attach. He rode away with his new clothes and a bike that was nearly green. He rode away a different person.

Different enough?

He was still a man on a bike.

‘Ego,’ he said, pulling out into traffic.

‘David.’

‘Does it strike you as odd that I haven’t been captured?’

‘Yes, you have been lucky to an extent, but it is not surprising that you have evaded capture. Though there is an All-Points Bulletin out for your arrest, the description is rather average. I have read two more espionage novels in the past hour and, judging by these, I do not believe that the British police have the manpower to find you unless you make a serious mistake: that is, break the law. They do not know your location, your destination, your purpose; nor do they have a current physical description. If you continue to ride under the speed limit and use minor roads, your chances of reaching locker J327 are good.’

David snorted. ‘I’m sure I broke the speed limit once or twice.’

‘No, you did not.’

‘Maybe up near Sheffield. I was going pretty fast.’

‘I have global positioning and accelerometer data that proves you have not broken any speed limits.’

He turned onto the southerly road. In the sunshine, his visor darkened. ‘You’ve saved me,’ he said glumly.

‘I do not understand.’

‘Like a data file. Saved.’

‘It is a precaution designed to provide an objective source of information in the event of a trial. It will guard against tampering. Perhaps I may also act as a black box if you have an accident. The probability of my survival is far greater than yours.’

‘Ego, how much battery life do you have?’

‘Eight weeks.’

‘Switch off for now.’

‘I am still monitoring radio stations and Internet sites.’

David revved the engine and accelerated. It was time to break the speed limit. ‘Switch off. Now.’