Déjà Vu: A Technothriller by Hocking, Ian (ebook reader that looks like a book .TXT) 📗

bowed and did no more. David could not speak. It was time to go inside. Other mourners were queued behind him. David wondered what he would say to each. He entered the church.

Saskia was rocked left and right as the tram wended through the streets of Brussels. She studied the passengers. She wondered what secrets they had. She watched the streets flicker past. The sky was overcast and, though it was early afternoon, the light already had a dusky quality. She thought of sunsets. She could not remember having seen one.

She wandered around the district for an hour or more. She drank coffee, read the news, tried on clothes and, finally, found herself in an internet café staring at a blank computer screen. It was an old ray-tube box that flickered. She located a search engine and typed saskia brandt.

The computer searched the internet. It found over two million pages. She checked through the first fifty. Nothing. Next, she typed, bonn AND prison. The computer found the official prison webpage. Jobanique had said that the prison had held her the previous week, but the public webpage unhelpful.

She dropped her fists on the table. What could she do? Her mind seemed to jam. She couldn’t think of the next step. Maybe whoever had programmed her brain had, after wiping her memories, inserted a safeguard. Maybe she would never be able to investigate herself.

She couldn’t breathe.

She fell from the café. One or two passers-by stared at her. A tall man regarded her with interest. She walked away selfconsciously. She soon reached Fauçon and took the steps to the upper city. The streets were simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar. She crossed the street and ascended the ramp that led to the Palais de Justice. Though its ornate entrance was inviting, she did not enter. She could see its huge foyer. It was not huge enough to accommodate her claustrophobia.

“Be careful, Saskia,” said a man.

She made a fist and turned. Her nails scored her palm. With the pain, she focused and became more calm. She remembered her revolver in its holster.

It was the man who had stared at her outside the cyber café. From his mode of dress and his expression, she guessed he was English. “Relax, Saskia,” he said. “Have I seen you somewhere before?”

“In a previous life, perhaps.”

The man laughed and the ritual was complete. This was another of Jobanique’s agents. He was intimidatingly attractive and tall. His shoulders bulged under his coat, but his eyes were gentle. The eyes swept across her and then to a piece of paper in his hand. Saskia guessed he was checking a photograph. He nodded.

This was her. Then his gentle eyes glanced around the street.

Keeping to German, he said: “Cigarette?”

“No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”

“You did until last Friday.”

His statement found its way into her head and exploded. She faltered, as though ready to faint, and, when the man thrust the cigarette in her face, she was confused enough to accept. It was already lit.

He laughed again. “Pretend you know me. Keep the fag in your mouth when you talk. It’ll make it harder for them to read our lips.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know precisely. I can see three or four possibilities. Don’t look now. The woman by the tree wearing the long coat. The black bloke over there talking into his phone. We need to move.”

Saskia drew on the cigarette. She held her breath and let her grateful blood soak up the nicotine. She felt good. She felt normal. “OK. Thanks for the cigarette.”

“We need to get moving.”

“Moving where?”

“A park. Somewhere with people. On foot but near.”

Saskia did not consciously decide to go to the Place Poelart, but go there she did; she was surprised, but not surprised, to see the panoramic view of the downtown area, and the telescopes available to search it, and the children playing and the dogs barking. She sky was larger here. She followed her feet through the subway under the rue de la Regence. She turned into the British memorial garden, but he grabbed her arm. “Too quiet,” he said.

She took them past the memorial. They walked downhill. A gradual sense of her position had begun to emerge. It was as though she had walked these streets in a past life. They passed through the wrought iron gates of Place du Petit Sablon. It was busy with tourists. He nodded. The park was a combined recreational space and monument. Countless bronze statues stood on columns: caricatures of The Carpenter, The Baker, The Fish Monger and forgotten trades from the medieval guilds. In the centre was a statue of two noble-looking gentlemen.

Autumn leaves of gold, red and brown blew across the wet grass. A bored-looking civic employee supervised a dozen insectile robots, painted autumnal tones, as each collected the leaves in a hopper strapped to its back.

Near the gate, the man bought two croquettes and handed one to Saskia. “Don’t eat it till we reach the statue.”

They wandered slowly. The path was gravel. It crunched under their feet. He did a full circle of the plinth with his fingers running along the edges. Saskia took the opportunity to read the inscription. The noble gentlemen were the Counts Egmont and Hornes. They had been executed by Spanish oppressors in 1568. Saskia looked at their faces until the man walked into her line of sight. He said, “Go on, eat your croquette.”

She bit into the cheese snack and burned her mouth. “Ow.”

“That’s right, act natural,” he said. He stuffed his mouth with food and managed to say, “Always talk with your mouth full.” He winked.

“Fine. So what’s going on? Why did you walk around the statue?”

“Checking for bugs,” he replied, spitting cheese. “I have a little gadget in the palm of my glove. Just a little home-made electromagnet and a battery. If it detects an electrical field – even the weak one from a listening device – it makes a buzzing sound. It’s not so good here. Radio interference from the litter robots.”

Saskia began to