Ian Hocking - Flashback

He asked a question in a language she did not recognise. The translation came in her native German: Who is she?

‘Never mind,’ Jennifer replied in English. ‘You did the right thing.’

‘She damn near knocked my head off.’

‘You got old, Cory. Look at you.’ The words carried contempt. ‘She’s stolen my recall band. If you’re still my Huckleberry, take it.’

Saskia felt hands enter her pockets. She was sickened by her immobility. Where were the passengers? Why weren’t they helping? She wondered how she could recover from this. The aircraft was still due to crash. As she had feared, she had become part of events. She could face the likelihood that her actions would lead to the loss of the aircraft; indeed, she could embrace this and trade it for the chance that Jennifer was mistaken, or that lives could be saved. Saskia waited for another opportunity to take control. The man, Cory, had left the pocket of her shirt until last. The recall band was there. But before he could reach it, one of the passengers spoke.

‘Leave her alone,’ said the stranger. ‘Now move away from her. That’s right. Jennifer, you too.’

The code spell released its grip and Saskia stumbled against the fuselage. Immediately, she looked for the source of the voice. It came from a first-class passenger, standing in his seat three rows back. He seemed about the same age as Jennifer’s Huckleberry, but just as spritely. He wore a grey suit and held a

GLAS 1 ceramic subcompact pistol with electric ignition, fourteen rounds

gun in his right hand that would not be manufactured for a decade.

In his left was a tumbler of liquor. A ruby canine flashed in his smile. His eyes were steady. As he moved along the row of shifting, panicked passengers to the aisle, Jennifer and Cory looked at the newcomer with expressions that Saskia could not interpret. They were, however, tense and poised.

‘Kommissarin Brandt,’ said the man, ‘you’re wondering whether you should take the weapon from me. Don’t.’

American accent . Eastern New England . He knows my former job, my name, my face.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘I am Doctor Patrick Harkes and you are my enemy’s enemy. I am, therefore, entirely at your service.’

Harkes stepped between the galley cart and Saskia. It was an oddly chivalrous manoeuvre. They now stood, shoulder to shoulder, facing Jennifer and Cory. Like a duel, the air was charged with certain, oncoming violence, and Saskia felt its menace creep across the passengers. One lady sobbed. Another murmured. Heads met and whispers passed. The murmurs grew. Saskia saw movement in the lap of the woman nearest Cory. Her fingers were curling around a ballpoint pen. If that woman stood to attack him, the situation would escalate and the brief advantage lent by Harkes’s gun might be lost. Saskia looked at the intercom panel and pressed the button that activated seat belt warning lights throughout the cabin. She lifted the handset.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she said, in Italian, ‘this is not an exercise. My colleague and I are sky marshals. We have just made a precautionary arrest. There is no danger to yourselves or this aircraft. The captain has been informed. Please stay calm and do not attempt to leave your seats.’ In German, she added, ‘As you can see, the situation is under control. Do not obstruct us.’

Jennifer, Cory and Harkes remained still during Saskia’s speech. Then Harkes laughed. The sound was abrupt and forced. He tapped his forehead with his free hand. She wondered how the three had come to arrive at this extraordinary meeting. Was Harkes the spy that Jennifer had spoken about? If so, what had he spied upon? The time machine?

‘I carry no modifications that you can influence, Jennifer, so you needn’t bother. They are long gone.’

Jennifer continued to stare. There was no sign that she found this surprising or frustrating.

She said, ‘It doesn’t matter any more. I found you.’

Harkes rested the gun on the trolley. Saskia, concerned by this insouciance, inclined her head to check if his finger was still on the trigger. It was. Harkes smiled at Saskia, then at Jennifer.

‘I’m a little old to be tarred and feathered, don’t you think?’ he said.

‘It’s personal,’ replied Jennifer.

‘Listen to yourself,’ Harkes said. His voice had developed an edge. ‘You’re talking about something that happened fifty years ago.’

Saskia saw the muscles in Jennifer’s jaw flex.

‘Three days, you fuck. It’s been three days since I buried him.’

The silence played out. Saskia felt the heavy air of calculation, interpretation, prediction. She was not yet ready to intervene, but, when she did, it would mean disarming Harkes. It was not enough that he was her enemy’s enemy. She looked at Cory and found him looking at her.

The frisson of this exchange seemed to prompt him.

‘Harkes,’ he said, turning to the man, ‘where is it?’

Calculated or not, this question seemed to strike Harkes with an almost physical impact. He let his glass drop loudly on the galley cart.

‘It? How can you still believe that this is about an object ? It’s about an idea .’

‘Of course it’s about an idea,’ said Cory. ‘Where is the diamond?’

‘Somewhere at the back of Jennifer’s mind, dummy, where it’s always been.’ He swilled the ice in his tumbler but did not drink. ‘The Confederacy was over before it began. It’ll take a whole lot more than a precious stone to kick-start their revolution. Lookit, you’re a trigger-happy grunt. A psychopath. You think you’re married? You have no wife . Forget the diamond. Forget carbon focusing. It’s a story. A fucked-up lullaby for a halfwit.’

Saskia studied Cory for the physical correlates of his thoughts: a faster blink rate, a skin conductivity spike, micro-movements in his muscles. But Cory did nothing. He did not look at Jennifer to seek a denial. And, as far as Saskia could detect, no electromagnetic communication passed between them.

Harkes sighed. He looked disappointed with the effect of his speech.

‘I know you like a work of art,’ said Jennifer, ‘so I hope you appreciate our finishing touch. S, T, E, N, D, E, C.’

‘What have you done?’ Harkes looked towards the cockpit, then back at Jennifer, who was beginning to smile.

‘What is gravity, but action at a distance? Harkes, that spinner ripped him apart.’ She swallowed. ‘Ripped Dad apart .’ Her next words came cold and slow. ‘In eight minutes and fourteen seconds, this aircraft, and everyone on board, will crash. There will be no survivors. Only a mystery: seven letters that could mean anything.’

At this revelation, Saskia expected the passengers to surge up. She had braced herself to disarm Harkes and attempt to control the crowd. But the men and women within earshot did nothing. One woman lowered her head in despair. Another raised her hands to her ears. There was a sense of sadness, impotence, and of worst fears confirmed.

‘You made a mistake at last,’ said Cory, relishing his words. ‘You spent too long with the zombies. You became part of their danse macabre .’

‘Wait a damn–’

‘I’ll give you one chance. Tell me the location of the Cullinan Zero.’

Harkes was trembling and flushed. His lips pouted childishly. Though Saskia had guessed that, like the passengers, he would either explode or acquiesce, she was surprised by the further deflation of his posture: his chin sank to his chest and he gave up the impression of youthfulness. He grew into his age.

‘Even if I could tell you,’ he said. ‘I’m still dead. I’ve been dead the whole time, from a certain point of view. Isn’t that right, Jennifer?’