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

read 12:29 a.m. Proctor’s flight left in one minute. She turned to Trask and studied him for the first time. He was a young man. He had a hard, dependable face. “I am in pursuit of a fugitive.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“The flight leaves now. I need to ground his plane.”

He nodded again. “What’s the flight number?”

She passed him her boarding pass and tried to wipe the sweat from Scottie’s forehead. His rictus had sagged into a stroke-like gape. His hand, which had been holding hers tightly, began to quiver.

“That may be a problem,” said Trask. Saskia followed his finger. Through the transparent wall of the terminal she saw the huge A380 reversing.

“Stop the plane. Call the captain.”

The police officer seemed sceptical. “I’ll try, but the captain won’t abort unless the bloke is a terrorist threat. I know from experience. We could radio ahead. Your man’s not going anywhere. The Americans can take care of him.”

“Not good enough. I do not know his name. There are over six hundred people on that flight. Please, contact the captain.”

The man sighed. “Control from Bravo Two at Tango 5, I have a request to talk to the captain of the A380 now taxiing towards runway four. Flight ILA 778, runway four. This is most urgent, most urgent. 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. Hannah had lost control of his bladder. His body was relaxed but his breathing had dwindled to tiny gasps. Trask crouched and turned Hannah’s head. He was encumbered by his swinging machinegun. “Keep his airway open.”

From his radio an American voice said, “Bravo Two, this is Captain Jameson on ILA 778. We’re moderately busy here.”

“Captain,” the police officer said, “you have a fugitive on your flight. There’s an FIB agent here ready to arrest him. We request that you return to the terminal.”

“I’m about five minutes from take-off. Is his a danger to my airplane?”

Trask turned to Saskia. She saw Proctor making his bomb. Then she saw Jobanique recruiting her into the FIB. He wanted her gut feeling. Reluctantly, she shook her head. “No, Captain.”

“I’ve got six hundred and twenty paying passengers. I’m responsible for getting them to America on time. This guy isn’t going anywhere. Give me his name. He’ll be arrested when we land.”

“But I do not know his name,” she whispered. Scottie had almost stopped breathing. Paramedics ran towards her. They had come through the gate. Their ambulance was parked outside. She kissed Scottie on the forehead and whispered, “I promise to come back.”

To Trask she said, “Tell him to request that he is pushed down the take-off queue. I intend to catch his flight. It is a matter of your national security.”

She took her gun and ran through passport control. Trask shouted that she should be let through. Then he relayed her last message to the pilot and ran after her.

Saskia ducked left down the emergency stairs that the paramedics had used. She stepped over a barrier that said ‘Heathrow Personnel Only’. Through the terminal’s glass wall she could see her aeroplane. It had reversed clear and now waited for the tractor vehicle to disengage. Then it would taxi onto the slip road that joined the runway and wait for final clearance. Somehow, she knew.

She reached the ground floor and ran outside. She was on the eastern flank of the terminal. Ahead, lost in the lights, were the four other terminals. To her left and right were docked aeroplanes. Only dashes of colour spoke to their shape and size. The air was thick with darkness, fuel and the wail of jet engines.

The ambulance had been parked neatly in a red-lined space. Nearby was a orange-coloured van with a flight of steps on the back. It was unlocked. She eased herself into the driving seat. She ran her fingers over the steering wheel. Touched the gear stick. It was unfamiliar.

She couldn’t drive.

When she had dropped into the West Lothian Centre using the decelerator, an unknown expertise had guided her. But she had no such feeling with this vehicle. She slammed her palms on the wheel.

“Need help?” asked Trask.

She moved over to the passenger side. “Follow that plane.”

He reversed it out aggressively and swung the wheel. The van skidded to face the receding aeroplane and swayed under the weight of the steps. Saskia fumbled for the seat belt. “At the FIB, our police drivers have thorough training.”

Trask grinned. “Vive la difference.”

The van pulled out. Saskia stayed vigilant for other vehicles and aircraft. She overhead Trask’s conversation with the ILA captain. “Yes, captain...we’re nearly alongside...I’m curious about that too...German, I think.” He turned to Saskia. “He’ll stop just before they get to the runway. 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. Her abrasiveness was amusing him. At length she said, “Trask, I appreciate this a great deal.”

“Dinner.”

“Not that much.”

David sat with a whisky in one hand and his briefcase in the other. To his left, a young boy stared at him. To his right, the boy’s mother read a paperback novel. The safety briefing had just finished. David stretched his legs into the access aisle for the emergency exit. The briefcase lay across his shins. He drained the whisky with a single gulp. As his eyes lingered on the bottom of the glass, a stewardess appeared and took it from him. She also took his briefcase and placed it in the overhead compartment. The boy, who was still staring, said, “First time?”

“No.”

“But you asked for a seat near the emergency exit.”

David regarded him coldly. He was about ten years old. He had a crew-cut and glasses. “Why do you say that?”

“I asked the stewardess. I like to know who I’m sitting with.”

“Oh, do you,” David said. He wondered if there was time for another whisky before take-off. He relaxed. For the first time since leaving