Déjà Vu

Chapter Twenty-Five

Hours later, as the aircraft skirted Greenland, Saskia stared at her blurred reflection in the cubicle mirror and considered Proctor’s story. The compass of her mind floated over an inscrutable lodestone—the instinct of a murderer, she guessed—and settled on a decision.

She reached into her jacket and withdrew her badge. She thumbed the golden letters of Föderatives Investigationsbüro. Underneath, ‘Brandt’ had been stamped on the metal. It was not her real name. The extent of her official biography ended with her nationality, her sex and her age: German, female, late twenties. Her skills were fake. Her knowledge of arrest procedure: inserted. Digital.

Her eyes closed. She saw three women on a dark plain. The Fates: Clotho, she spins the thread of life. Lachesis, she measures a length. Atropos, she cuts it.

Spin, measure, snip.

She folded her make-up kit and pulled expressions at the mirror. Her face was unfamiliar.

Proctor was sitting on a steward’s jump seat in the rearmost compartment of the top deck, flanked by stowed trolleys and two emergency exits. He was handcuffed. He looked up as Saskia emerged from the bathroom. She did not respond to his brief smile. She wanted to keep the worry bright in her mind.

‘I have thought about your proposal,’ she said, taking the spare jump seat next to him. She did not unbutton her jacket. She did not want to tempt Proctor with her gun, though it had been unloaded at the captain’s request.

‘Go on.’ His eyes moved around the small space. Occasionally they settled on her. Mostly they settled on his handcuffs.

‘It is unacceptable.’

Proctor tipped his head. ‘Ah.’

‘Professor Proctor—’

‘David.’

‘It is not within my power. You do not even know your ultimate destination.’

‘No. My memory is curiously silent on the matter.’

‘I have arrested you. It is my duty to return you to Britain. There you will face the authorities.’

‘But you believe me.’

‘I do not have the luxury of belief or disbelief, Professor. Tell the authorities what you have told me. If it is the truth, you will be acquitted.’

The lift opened and a steward emerged. He gave both Saskia and Proctor a professional smile before moving into the economy cabin.

‘A trial?’ Proctor said, turning to her. ‘Kommissarin Brandt, do you remember what I told you about your role?’

‘Yes. You said that I have a further part to play. But you cannot tell me how you came to this conclusion.’

‘You must come with me.’

Saskia listened to the seashell hiss of the engines. ‘Professor, it is within my power to have you chained to a bulkhead in the cargo bay. You can keep the poodles company.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t allow that.’

Saskia smiled. It was difficult to feel threatened by a likeable, middle-aged man who had protested his pacifism at such length. ‘Professor—’

‘Your full name is Saskia Maria Brandt. Your FIB badge number is 077-439-001. Your service records begin three days ago.’

Her hand flexed in anticipation of a swift draw, but her gun was empty. She swallowed. ‘So you’ve researched your pursuer, Professor Proctor. Full marks. How?’

‘It is being dictated to me by my personal computer, which is always on the look out for other friendly computers. Like the one in your brain.’ He looked at his handcuffs again. ‘It would be very easy to deactivate it, and will take only a keyword from me. That, I guess, would have very serious consequences for you.’

Saskia did not blink. She had no bullets. If he deactivated the chip, there would be no time to find some, load the gun, and blow her malfunctioning brains out.

‘Professor,’ she said, struggling to flatten her tone, ‘you have spent nearly two hours explaining your principles. Have they now deserted you?’

‘In the end, it comes back to protecting those principles.’

Saskia rose on her anger. ‘How pathetic. That is the age-old drivel spouted by every idiot with a cause, from the religious fanatic to the political terrorist.’

She waited for his retort. Instead, his head drooped.

‘I don’t want to do this. I’m not responsible.’

‘Listen to me. I know you’re not a bad man. But you must understand.’ She took his chin and turned his head towards her. ‘My superior. The way he operates…’ She did not blink. ‘This chip contains me, the real me. Do you understand? I cannot…go back. I choose to remain like this.’

He looked at her curiously. ‘So what does Saskia Brandt mean?’

‘What?’

‘Who are you?’

‘I don’t know.’

As the A380 rumbled into Chicago, Saskia avoided Proctor’s curious expression, though she felt its regard, and the bleeding edge of his pity. It was two o’clock in the morning. She collected the rounds confiscated by the captain and allowed a sky marshal—an ex-police officer—to escort them to the immigration control section, where the blind barrels of automatic firearms tracked them in a small room shared by Middle Eastern women and their children. Accents British, eyes downcast like Saskia’s. The marshal touched his cap and told her to go ahead and keep the handcuffs. Proctor guffawed and scratched his head. Her bound right lifted too. A salute, she thought, looking at the marshal, and thinking of Beckmann.

She sat in silence, motionless as the statue of Prometheus, and locked out the noise and constant motion of Proctor as he fidgeted, sniffed, and sighed.

Within half an hour, they were taken to a soundproofed room and left alone. Saskia bounced on the balls of her feet and rolled her neck. She shrugged her shoulders. She appraised the young immigration officer as he entered and closed the door. He read an element of her intention, but Saskia descended upon him before he could gather air for a shout. She punched nerve bundles in his chest and shoulders to undermine his strength, put her elbow into the notch below his ear, and caught his fall.