Déjà Vu

Chapter Twenty-Four

She did not react immediately. His hair was longer than it had been in his police photograph. His eyes were hooded, shadowed. He had lost some youth. He was thinner. But he was her man.

‘Proctor!’

She barged into the passenger in front of her, who tripped, dropping his case. Jago cut in from the other direction. He trod on the case, twisted his ankle, and pitched forward. His shoulder caught Saskia behind the knee. They both fell.

Saskia tried to stand but the owner of the case was sitting on the small of her back. She jabbed her elbow at his thigh and he rolled off. She climbed unsteadily to her feet, drew her revolver and scanned for Proctor.

‘Police!’ shouted an armed officer. ‘Drop your weapon now!’

‘Föderatives Investigationsbüro,’ she said, turning to him.

‘Drop it now!’

‘Föderatives Investigationsbüro,’ she repeated. ‘Federal Office of Investigation. I am in pursuit of a suspect.’

The officer stepped forward. ‘Now.’

Saskia hissed with frustration. She dropped the gun and looked at the area beyond passport control. Proctor had gone. A voice over the tannoy asked Mr Jago and Ms Brandt to please board flight IAL 778. Jago, who was being held down by a civilian security guard, swore loudly.

‘Let me show you some identification,’ she called to the armed officer.

‘Left hand. Slowly. Toss it over.’

Saskia skimmed her ID across the floor. She saw three more police officers running in lock-step down the terminal towards her. Each wore the same outfit: a black baseball cap, a bulletproof vest, combat trousers, and black trainers. Each had a sub-machine gun pointing at the floor. Meanwhile, the civilian security officers began to clear passengers away.

Her ID landed on her foot. ‘That’s yours, Kommissarin. Good to meet you. I’m Sergeant Trask.’ He waved to the new arrivals. ‘Stand down.’

But Saskia was not listening. Jago, her deputy, was struggling to breathe. He held his chest as though his heart was trying to break out. His skin was grey.

‘Scotty?’

A shadow fell across Jago’s face. It was Trask. ‘Paramedic to my position, over.’

Saskia took Jago’s hand. The palm was slick. She turned his chin, hoping to make eye contact, but his eyes were trapped under tight lids.

‘Brandt, is it?’ Trask said. ‘We were told you were coming down. Didn’t expect this drama, though.’

She nodded. She kept her eyes on Jago. ‘Neither did I.’

‘Paramedics are on the way.’

As she pressed Jago’s wrist for his pulse, she noticed his watch. It was 12:29 am. Proctor’s flight would leave in one minute. She turned to Trask and studied him for the first time. He had a hard, dependable face. ‘I am in pursuit of a fugitive. I need to ground his plane.’

‘Flight number?’

She threw her boarding pass at him and wiped the sweat from Scottie’s forehead. His rictus had sagged to a gape.

‘You have a problem,’ said Trask. Saskia followed his finger. She saw, through the transparent wall of the terminal, the huge A380 reversing.

‘Stop the plane.’

‘We could call ahead. Chicago is tight on this kind of thing.’

‘But I do not know his name and there are over six hundred people on that flight.’

The man looked at her. ‘Control from Bravo Two at Tango Five, I have a priority request to talk to the captain of the A380 now taxiing towards runway four. Flight ILA 778, runway four. Repeat, this is a priority request, 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. Jago had lost control of his bladder. His breath had dwindled to tiny sobs. Trask crouched and turned Jago’s head. He was encumbered by his sub-machine gun. ‘Keep his airway open.’

From his radio, an American voice said, ‘Good morning, Bravo Two. This is Captain Jameson on ILA 778. We’re moderately busy. Make this quick.’

‘Captain,’ said Trask, ‘I have a request from an FIB agent that you return to the terminal. You have a fugitive on board your aircraft.’ He waited. ‘Captain?’

‘Do you have any reason to believe that he threatens the integrity of my aircraft?’

Reluctantly, Saskia shook her head. Trask said, ‘No.’

‘Bravo Two, let me put this simply. If we lose our slot, we’ll be bumped, and given the capacity restrictions at this terminal, that’s at least four hours. My first officer and I will reach our duty hours time limit before then, which I will only permit in exceptional circumstances. Pass his details to my sky marshals. We’ll contain it. ILA 778 out.’

For the first time that she could remember, Saskia said, ‘Fuck.’ She looked at the oncoming paramedics. There was no doubting the push of her instinct: she must board the plane. She kissed Jago and whispered, ‘I promise to come back.’ To Trask, she said, ‘Delay the captain for just a couple of minutes. I intend to catch his flight. It is a matter of British national security.’

She snatched her gun and ran through the passport control gate. Trask shouted at the staff to let her pass.

She vaulted a barrier that read ‘Heathrow Personnel Only’, skipped down the maintenance stairs to ground level and burst into the night. This was the eastern flank of the terminal. To her left and right were docked aeroplanes. Only dashes of light spoke to their shape and size. The air was thick with fuel vapour and the wail of jet engines.

Nearby was an orange vehicle with a flight of steps rising from its back. She eased herself into the driving seat, looked over the dashboard, and swore. The steering controls were horizontal hand bars. They had triggers and stalk buttons. Besides that, the fascia was dark. She slammed her palms on her thighs.

‘Move over,’ said Trask.

She slid into the passenger seat as Trask climbed in. ‘At the FIB, our cars are computer controlled,’ she said.

He gunned the engine, pulled away, and wrenched the hand bards. The vehicle skidded to face the receding aeroplane.

‘Vive la différence.’

Saskia attached her seat belt and remained alert for vehicles and aircraft as they accelerated. She overhead Trask’s conversation with the ILA captain. ‘Yes.’ He glanced at her. ‘In a heartbeat. What? German, I think.’ He turned to Saskia. ‘He’ll stop just before they get to the runway. He thinks you’re plucky. That’ll be our one chance.’

‘Please keep your eyes on the road.’

‘But there isn’t a road.’

He swerved left and right to demonstrate. Saskia groaned. At length, she said, ‘Trask, I appreciate this a great deal.’

‘Dinner.’

‘Not that much.’

Inside the aeroplane, where the seats were close and the ceiling low, David sipped his cup of whisky. Cabin crew answered questions and patrolled with ambassadorial ease. The passengers were relaxing and settling; opening bags of peanuts, securing their children, slipping off shoes. Not so David. He looked into his drink and wondered if one could read ice like tea leaves.

‘Sir?’ asked the stewardess. ‘Your cup.’

He gave it up and returned to his thoughts, which seemed to be about nothing at all. When his armrest beeped and its screen opened like a flower to show the flight deck, David looked down wearily.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We are pausing to take on an officer of the continental FIB. There is no cause for alarm, unless you haven’t filled in those tax returns.’

The adrenaline transpired through his tissues in a single, sparkling wave. His jaw locked tight.

‘So,’ continued the captain, ‘allow me to welcome you on board this ILA flight 778 to Chicago. In a few moments, we will leave Heathrow in an easterly direction before turning towards the northwest.’

David lost interest. Halfway down the walkway, three air stewards had gathered. David watched one of them open the door. There was a moment of quiet anticipation, then a woman was helped into the aeroplane. The nearby passengers applauded. The cabin crew slapped the back of their new arrival and straightened her clothes, but she pushed them away. She was already searching the faces of the passengers.

David looked down at the video of the captain.

‘Okay, ladies and gentleman, we now have our full complement. On behalf of ILA, the crew, and myself, I would like to wish you a pleasant trip. Cabin crew, final pre-flight check, please.’

David did not believe he would have a pleasant trip. He could only think of what might have been. Had his benefactor arranged a new life for him in America? It made no difference. He would be arrested and extradited.

He raised his arm and waved to the detective.

The woman had long brown hair and emerald-green eyes. She was tired and serious, and hopelessly beautiful.

‘Professor David Proctor, you are arrested by Frau Kommissarin Saskia Maria Brandt of the Föderatives Investigationsbüro, badge number 077-439-001, on two counts of murder. These charges will be pursued under British law. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be recorded at the discretion of your arresting officer and reproduced in a court of law as evidence against you. These data are the property of the FIB. Do you understand? Come with me. We must speak with the captain. I am armed.’