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

the terminal, he began to think clearly. The police officers should have grounded the plane and searched it. That was within their power. They hadn’t, so…they were intending to have him arrested when the plane touched down in Chicago. They knew he was on the flight. Everything was over. He would fly to America, be arrested, and be flown straight back.

“Are you deaf?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You have a hearing aid,” the boy said. He touched David’s ear.

“Don’t touch. It’s for my phone.”

“The stewardess said that phones should be deactivated, along with any other electronic devices such as computers and music players.”

“Did she.”

The boy patted David on the arm. “I haven’t flown before, either.”

David closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.

He awoke when the boy poked him in the leg. He had been dribbling. His neck was stiff. His back was a corset of hard muscle. “What’s happening?” he asked.

“They’ve opened the door.”

David gripped the armrests. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t worry, we’re not in the air.”

There were two aisles on their deck of the aeroplane, but David was too far away to look down one. To stand would draw attention. He could hear passengers muttering. There was a bleep as the screen on his armrest flickered into life. It was the captain. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We are halting briefly to welcome a police officer of the Continental FIB on board. There is no cause for alarm, unless you haven’t filled in those tax returns.” Pause for polite chuckles. “While I’m here, I’d like to welcome you once more on board this ILA flight 778 to Chicago. In a few moments we leave Heathrow in an easterly direction before turning towards the north-west...”

An air steward had opened the forward door and was leaning out. Saskia had already passed him her shoulder bag. Five metres below, Trask gave her the thumbs-up. She could not be sure if this was a sign of general encouragement or a signal to jump. She decided to jump. Only her arms were successful. Her body whipped against the fuselage. For a long moment she swung helplessly. She watched Trask. Her fear fell away when she saw him spread his arms to catch her. Then two stewards hauled her inside. Her breasts were squashed painfully. She felt carpet on her face and warm air. Some passengers near the door clapped slowly.

“...Chicago, which is five hours ahead.” There was a pause as the captain turned away from the camera. “OK, 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 tried to sleep but he could only think of what might have been. Had his benefactor created a new life for him in America? It made no difference. He would be arrested and kept in a maximum-security prison. When he saw trial (though he knew, on one level, that he might not) his bail would run into millions. He would never see his daughter after all.

There was one thing he could do.

He could use his head. Plan.

Twenty minutes passed. He had an idea. He saw a woman walking down the aisle. He recognised her as the owner of the gun that had been trained on his face only a few minutes before. She was carrying a clipboard. She stopped twice to check passengers. Males travelling alone, perhaps. Males in their early fifties. People who might be David Proctor.

He raised his hand. She saw him and approached.

“My name is David Proctor,” he said. “You are looking for me.”

The woman was pretty, though she looked tired and serious. She had long brown hair and emerald-green eyes. Her suit was creased. She nodded. “I have been following you. I am Detective Saskia Brandt.”

The boy, who David had forgotten, asked, “Are you a murderer on the run?”

David wanted to say that, certainly, he had eaten the liver of a little boy and washed it down with a nice Chianti, fuh-fuh-fuh. Instead he replied, “Yes, I am.”

“You are arrested by Detective Saskia Brandt of the Föderatives Investigationsbüro, badge number 077-439-001, on two counts of murder. These charges will be pursued under the British constitution. You have the right to remain silent,” she said. “Anything you say may be recorded at the discretion of your arresting officer and reproduced in a court of law as evidence against you. This data is the property of the FIB. Do you understand? Come with me.”

She made sure that David walked in front. They found the bar in the middle of the plane. He had a scotch on the rocks. She had a gin and tonic. She said, “Talk.” He told his story. The whole story.

The paramedics wheeled Hannah down to the ambulance. He was covered to the chin with a red blanket. His head and shoulders were raised. He breathed cold oxygen through a loose mask. His hands lay on his belly with the fingers knitted. One paramedic, called Gareth, chatted the entire way.

He did not see a woman detach herself from the crowd as he was led away. He did not see her follow the trolley. He did not see her reach the ambulance shortly after the paramedic had closed the door. She opened the door and stepped in as Gareth’s back was turned. He showed no surprise. “Can I help you?”

She sat down opposite and produced a badge. Gareth grunted and returned to his work. Hannah looked, but not quickly enough to read it. She slipped it in into a trouser pocket. He tried to focus on her face. She was in her late forties. She had long brown hair and emerald-green eyes. The paramedic turned away.

“How is he?” she asked.

“He’s stable at the moment.”

Hannah pulled weakly at the mask. His arms were too heavy. The paramedic forced his hand away. What was happening? Where was Saskia?

“I’m here, Scottie,” she said.