Ian Hocking - Déjà Vu

Something in his expression, or his posture, gave pause to the incoming riders. They fell to the left and to the right and David shot through the middle with centimetres of clearance.

He rode on towards the large ditch. He did not bounce in the seat as he had done before. Now he rode with his fingers and toes. A glance at the rear-view camera confirmed that the other bikers were following. With some disappointment, he saw that they were moving as fast as he was.

The ditch approached.

Here it was.

Into the rapids.

He swerved left, hillward, then cut right, towards the ditch at a cruel diagonal. He spurred his heels and felt the answering sibilance of opening valves. Accelerant mixed with the fuel. The engine whistled and the bike found a new speed. He dropped low to its tank, willing himself to stay onboard.

He rode up the other side of the ditch, now pressed into the seat, and caught its lip as a ramp. He was airborne. The hedge was a brief glimmer of dark green below. He heard the wheels swipe its surface. He became weightless. Then the bike touched down. David watched as the steering column rose to meet his chin. His mouth slammed shut. The back wheel touched, bounced, and the front did the same. The bike became a bucking bronco. But the intervals shortened and, though the bike shook and swerved, the onboard computer was able to keep it upright. It came to a graceless halt some thirty metres from the hedge.

David tapped the petrol tank.

He opened his visor and risked a look over his shoulder. The other bikers had stopped to watch him. He wondered why they didn’t race on to the nearest gate. One biker removed his helmet and stabbed angrily at a phone. David managed a little wave and began to ride away.

When he reached the road, he turned south. The tyre spikes rattled uncomfortably until the bike retracted them. According to Easy Rider(TM), the present road led, via a tortuous pre-programmed route involving minor roads and country lanes, to London Heathrow. If he rode without a break, it would take one day, nine hours, twenty-eight minutes and twenty-seven seconds.

It was 8:00 am. He rode on.

The empty hotel lobby had twinned staircases that rose like the edges of a cobra’s hood. Saskia passed across dark and light tiles: milky veins in the brown, black cracks in the white. Her small heels made clacks. Deliberately, she lifted her gaze. The ceiling was shot through with lights.

A man hurried towards them.

‘No, no, fucking no,’ he said.

He had the countenance of a soldier who had learned to march in his youth and had never recovered his relaxation. He was beyond retirement age, but the tightness of the skin around his throat spoke to fitness. His eyes travelled up her legs, perched briefly on her breasts, and flitted to Jago. ‘You’re bloody persistent if nothing else.’

‘Thank you, Colonel McWhirter,’ replied Jago. He was motionless. They did not shake hands.

‘You have not met me yet,’ said Saskia. ‘Frau Kommissarin Saskia Brandt, Föderatives Investigationsbüro , or FIB.’

McWhirter stared at her hand as though he wished to break it, and a branching diagram of self-defence sprouted in her mind’s eye, discreet as a menu offered by a butler. It varied on dimensions of incapacity (light, moderate, severe), completion time (7 seconds, 30 seconds, a minute), and weapon type (unarmed, pencil, McWhirter’s sweater).

Saskia raised her fist to her mouth. She coughed lightly. The menu slid away.

‘The continental FIB hereby requests your full cooperation in the capture of Professor David Proctor, Colonel.’ Her face closed on his. She saw the blackheads and the bloodshot sleepiness of his eyes. She looked at his lips and tilted her head. ‘I will give you five minutes. Call the person who pays you. Ask them to confirm my identity with the Berlin section chief, Beckmann. Then return and, first of all, explain to me and my deputy your rationale for this…filibustering. Second, try to talk me out of arresting you for obstruction of a terrorist investigation.’

McWhirter frowned. His anger was imperfectly contained. Saskia imagined him as an actor who was dumbstruck by the improvisation of a fellow performer. He spun on his heel, crossed the foyer, and was gone.

Jago turned to her.

‘Deputy now, is it?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise. I’ve never been a sidekick. It’ll be a new experience.’

‘A sidekick?’

‘You know, a sidekick. He asks the hero dumb questions so the audience knows what’s going on.’

‘Ah, I understand.’ A memory—a precious jewel—glinted. ‘That happens on Enterprise , the 60s TV show. You beam down with the captain. If you are wearing a red shirt you will be subject to a fatal special effect.’

‘You’d better call me Scotty, then. He never gets killed.’

‘Do you think my speech worked?’

Jago found his smile, then lost it. ‘We’ll get the gen, or a bullet in the head. Either way, it’s progress.’

The rear lawn was pressed and smooth, sloped like a fairway, and tree islands put winter half-shadow across Saskia, Jago and McWhirter as they walked.

‘What about the woman on the motorbike?’ Saskia asked.

‘She’s aged between thirty-five and forty-five,’ said McWhirter. ‘We would have her in custody if it wasn’t for the local police.’

To Saskia, Jago said, ‘We like to be useful.’

At the peak of the garden, where one could look back across the shoulder of the hotel to the widening valley, a large, camouflaged tent flexed in the wind. A man in civilian clothing stood next to its porch. His hands rested on an assault rifle. He saluted McWhirter as the party entered. Inside, a dozen men and women were packing computer and office equipment into crates. Unlike the guard, they did not acknowledge the visitors.

‘It’s lucky you came today,’ said McWhirter. ‘We would have been gone by tomorrow.’

Saskia moved to the centre of the tent, where a huge shaft had been opened. Its mouth was large enough to admit a car. Four coloured ropes dangled into the hole from a pyramid scaffold.

‘Is this the only way?’ she asked. The inspiration from her body, filtering through her chip, was clear: she must go down. But it looked dangerous.

‘I’m sure the detective inspector and I wouldn’t feel any less of you if you satisfied yourself with the crime scene photos rather than a trip down there. Am I wrong, Jago?’

The DI peered into the hole. Then he looked at the rig. He seemed unimpressed. ‘Saskia, you should think twice about this.’

She removed her coat, handed it to Jago, and shrugged off her suit jacket. Both men stared at her. ‘I came to see the crime scene,’ she said.

‘There are airborne contaminants,’ said McWhirter. ‘I really -’

‘You let Proctor down.’ Saskia removed her earrings and put them in a trouser pocket.

‘Listen to me, Kommissarin .’ He moved close to her. ‘I need this hole capped by seven.’

‘Then we should proceed.’

McWhirter held her stare, then turned to open an equipment crate. ‘Splendid. Why not? We’ll call it “The Magical Mystery Tour” and invite coach parties.’

Jago draped Saskia’s jacket solemnly across one arm. As she reached to remove her holster, he gripped her knuckles. She read his expression and nodded. The gun stayed.

‘Take this,’ McWhirter said. He tossed her a helmet. Inside was a tangled bundle. Saskia shook it out to reveal a harness. She was relieved to see that it looked familiar. Rappeling, then, counted among her implanted skills. Her hands began to manipulate its straps with expertise. She fed her legs through and ensured the double-sprocket mechanism was attached to the karabiner.