Déjà Vu

Chapter Twenty-Three

Saskia closed her eyes on the crowds and settled against a poster, though she still felt every centimetre of the cavernous and crowded terminal. Nearby, somebody dropped a guitar. Its empty chamber conked, and in the moment that followed the dampening of the sound, Saskia became aware of a similar vibration within herself. Had the sound reached the steppe-like expanse of her mind? She opened her eyes. The guitarist had vanished. In his place, a boy whispered into his mobile phone.

Saskia watched the glow on his cheek.

The sound in her head was electromagnetic interference. There were so many phones, music players, and computers on the concourse that her brain chip inducted their activity.

She remembered her conversation with Klutikov. ‘You need to protect that chip. If you switch off the chip, you switch off ‘you’.’ Did she need a foil hat like a man she had seen near the Brandenburg Gate, the happy man that drew ridicule? The man whom she had labelled insane?

‘Saskia.’

‘Finally, Deputy. How can it take you so long to find a toilet? There must be many on this stretch of the concourse.’

‘Actually, there’s one.’ His face was close and ashen. ‘And Proctor just used it.’

‘What?’

Jago showed her a crumpled plastic sachet. Saskia shook her head. She did not understand. Then she saw the text. It read: Rinse and Shine at The Poor Players!

‘Shampoo? The idiot. But when was he here?’

Jago wore the thin smile of certainty. ‘It’s still sticky. Not long.’

‘It can’t be a mistake.’

‘Think. He wants us to find him?’

‘I don’t know.’ In order to concentrate, Saskia looked away from Jago. She turned back. ‘The departures board.’

There were fewer than a dozen people in the basement locker area. An attendant slept on the counter of his kiosk with his cheek on a newspaper. As David walked by, monitoring the attendant, a regiment of lockers emerged on his right. He had substituted his boots for brogues, and they clicked like a pen nervously thumbed.

‘Ego, I’m at the locker.’

‘Good. On the keypad, type: upper-case M, four, nine, hash, lower-case D, lower-case X.’

Locker J371 sprang open. David touched all five sides. It was empty but for an envelope addressed to ‘You’. He checked up and down the row. Nobody. But he heard footsteps. It took him a moment to confirm they were receding. He tore the seal. Inside the envelope was a piece of paper and a single ticket to Las Vegas.

‘What is written on the paper?’ asked Ego. ‘Tell me immediately.’

‘It says, “Sounds like…” 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.’

The fatigue of the bike journey seemed to overtake him, propelled by the knowledge that he was headed for America. He sagged against the locker. ‘“Sounds like a car-parking attendant belongs to the finest.” What is that? A crossword clue?’ The neat handwriting had faded to nothing.

‘Examine the ticket.’

David rubbed his eyes. ‘McCarran International, Las Vegas. Via Chicago. So what?’

‘The time?’

‘12:30 am.’

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

As they ran, Jago shouted that the simplest approach would be to buy their tickets and arrest Proctor in the air. They found the check-in and jumped the queue. Saskia did not linger on the interested expressions of the waiting passengers. This close to departure, Proctor would be on the flight already. Jago slapped the counter and demanded two tickets. The attendant shook her head.

‘That flight leaves in ten minutes, sir.’

‘Yes, with us,’ Jago said. He produced his warrant card. The attendant studied the passport. In the pause, Saskia placed her FIB wallet alongside Jago’s. As her fingers left its surface, Saskia was a chess player committing to a move. If she left the EU without Beckmann’s permission, she would be executed. But if she allowed Proctor to escape, she would be executed for that. She prioritised the fugitive pursuit.

The attendant looked over Saskia’s shoulder. The glance was deliberately indifferent. Saskia turned. A plain-clothes security guard was standing behind them. Jago turned too. The queue became still.

Jago said, ‘Who are you, the bloody prefect?’ He looked at the attendant and stabbed a thumb in the direction of the security officer. ‘Tell him to piss off.’

David Proctor, who was standing not far behind the two police officers, detached himself from the queue. His hands, which had been dry, began to drip sweat. His face, recently shaved, itched. He walked to the next desk and said, ‘Excuse me. My flight leaves in a couple of minutes. May I check in for Las Vegas from here?’

‘You got lucky, I was about to open up.’ She started her computer with a touch. ‘Are you feeling alright, sir?’

He turned to face away from the police. ‘I haven’t flown for a long time.’

‘Thought so. Luggage?’

He tried to swallow but his throat was too sticky. ‘Just the briefcase.’

To his left, close enough to touch, the middle-aged officer said, ‘Jesus, we’re only in pursuit of a criminal. Take your time.’

David released his air. His hand crept towards his jacket pocket. Then it dropped. 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.

‘Yes?’

‘I asked if you are carrying anything in your briefcase for somebody else.’

‘No.’

‘Your boarding pass.’

‘Thank you.’ He reached for it, but she pulled it back. He swung from victory to defeat. Had the police officer seen him? Made a signal? Pulled a gun? But the attendant smiled. David released another breath. The air was stale and hot.

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

‘Look, I’ve just about had a tit-full of you,’ shouted the police officer. ‘Get a move on.’

‘I’ve put you near an emergency exit,’ David’s attendant continued. ‘So you’ll have more leg room.’

David reached for his documents. They stuck to his sweaty fingers. The attendant said, ‘Deep breaths,’ and he nearly laughed. He 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!’

It never came.

He watched his feet. It was the only way to be sure that he would not fall over. After twenty metres, he knew that he had escaped.

For now.

‘Come on,’ said Jago.

They headed towards passport control. Saskia checked her watch. Jago saw her. ‘How long have we got?’ he asked.

‘Five or six minutes.’

‘We can make it.’ He broke into a jog. Loose objects jangled in his pocket. Saskia joined him, but she was careful to remain behind. She did not want to make him run faster. The tails of his suit jacket whipped back and forth.

‘Scotty,’ she said, trying to sound breathless. ‘Let’s slow down.’

‘Just a bit of running. It’ll look great in the report.’

They reached passport control. It was congested. Jago stopped and removed his coat. He took great breaths and leaned forwards. ‘Let’s,’ he said, swallowing, ‘let’s jump the queue.’

‘Are you feeling all right, Scotty?’

‘Indigestion. Those bloody sandwiches,’ he said. ‘We should keep moving.’

‘No. 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.’

Jago nodded. ‘I’ll just catch my breath.’

Saskia loosened his tie.

‘Do that.’

David told himself to breathe as his retina was scanned. When the machine thanked him and asked for the next passenger, he watched the passport control officer frown at something on his terminal. The man’s eyes flicked from the passport to David, from David to the passport. The silence was building. Or was it?

‘You seem nervous, Mr…’ The officer cocked his head. It had to be a deliberate affectation. 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 hand flexed around the briefcase handle.

What was his own name?

His fake surname?

‘Mr Greensburg?’ the officer prompted.

David tried to recall the back-story. There was a wife living in Leeds, a son at university, a DB7 Vantage (lovingly restored), a farmhouse kitchen…

‘Greenspoon,’ he blurted. ‘Mr Greenspoon.’

The officer seemed disappointed. ‘I’m sorry, of course. Mr Greenspoon.’

‘I am a little nervous,’ David offered. The regret followed immediately, accompanied by the memory of Ego’s last words to him: ‘Less is more.’

‘Really, sir?’

‘Of terrorism. Terrorphobia, you might call it.’

The man handed back his papers. ‘Naturally, we all are, sir.’

David moved towards the detector and felt physical relief when he heard the officer attend to the next person in the queue. His fingers trembled as he dumped his wallet into the pot on the conveyor belt. The briefcase followed. He stepped through the archway. A waiting police officer with a sub-machine gun cast an empty eye over him. Would he be recognised? Nothing happened. He collected his wallet.

Saskia was watching the man. She turned to Jago and touched his arm.

‘What?’

‘The man walking through the detector.’

Jago squinted. His breathing was still heavy. ‘Could be.’

‘The passport officer talked to him for a long time.’

‘Did he now?’

David took two strides before he remembered his briefcase on the conveyor. He laughed a little too loudly. The armed police officer turned towards him. His face was young and blank. David smiled. The man did not smile back. David reached for the briefcase. He looked directly into the eyes of Saskia Brandt.