Ian Hocking - Déjà Vu

‘David, the PRT computer is asking for information about your destination. I’ve told it that you are bound for Terminal Five, but have withheld your destination.’

For that, he had to watch an infomercial about women whose lives had been transformed by a brand of moisturiser.

David stepped onto the third floor of Terminal Five. The rush of flight reminders and conversation reminded him of an orchestra tuning up. His eyes rose to the distant roof, then dropped, exhausted. Passengers stood in deep lines at the check-in desks. Beyond them, the shopfronts were brilliant.

‘You must proceed directly to the Gents,’ prompted Ego. ‘The computers linked to the security cameras are quite capable of recognizing you, but they sample randomly. The probability of your capture is increasing.’

The toilet was a two-minute walk away. He passed through its gleaming entrance and stepped over a robot loaded with cleaning tools. The stalls were either side of a wall of basins. There were no shower cubicles. On the far wall was a store cupboard. He nodded. He had a good chance of assuming his disguise without incident. As Ego might say.

He selected a basin in the middle of the row. He whistled to fill the air and smiled at a teenager two basins down. The teenager quickened his ablutions. David opened the container and retrieved his washing kit. He shaved. Nothing strange about that, he told himself. Just a chap having a shave.

When he had cleared the last of the foam, he leaned into the mirror. Not bad. He was beginning to assume his old, respectable—and, he realised, vain—self.

Next, he doused his hair with hot water, relishing the warmth as it drew the cold from his fingers. He found a sachet of shampoo in the remains of his shaving foam. He washed and rinsed the soap away. He was still just a chap washing his hair. He whistled some more.

With his hair clean but dripping, he gathered his things and retreated into a stall, locking the door. He slipped off his boots, his nylon coat and the paper overalls. He used the toilet and then set about his transformation. Soon he was wearing the suit. The tie would need straightening in front of a mirror. He splashed some aftershave around his neck. Then he opened the briefcase.

He checked the contents: his wallet, which contained Ego and some cards; the watch; the passport; cash. He had no physical business documents. That was normal. Everything would be stored on his computer. He dropped the wallet into his inside pocket and closed the briefcase.

He opened the door and walked to the store cupboard. It was locked but the mechanism was a simple magnetic strip reader. Ideal. There were only two people nearby. They were looking in the opposite direction. He took Ego from his wallet, whispered, ‘Ego, crack this magnetic strip lock, will you?’ and swiped it twice through the reader. On the third pass, the door clicked. In the cupboard were paper tissues, a replacement hand drier, an assortment of bottles, and some mops and brushes. He shoved the container inside. A glance around the room reassured him that he had not been seen. The two people had left. He opened the door again and threw a package of toilet rolls over the container. Only the cleaning robot would use the cupboard on a regular basis. It would simply work around the obstruction. He closed the door and heard it lock.

He took his briefcase from the cubicle and left the room, pausing to straighten his tie in the mirror. Then he flattened his hair with his palm and walked on his way. Just a chap walking out of a toilet. His hiking boots clumped on the tiled floor until he reached the carpet outside.

Saskia closed her eyes on the crowds and settled against a poster, though she still felt every centimetre of the cavernous and crowded terminal. Nearby, somebody dropped a guitar. Its empty chamber conked, and in the moment that followed the dampening of the sound, Saskia became aware of a similar vibration within herself. Had the sound reached the steppe-like expanse of her mind? She opened her eyes. The guitarist had vanished. In his place, a boy whispered into his mobile phone.

Saskia watched the glow on his cheek.

The sound in her head was electromagnetic interference. There were so many phones, music players, and computers on the concourse that her brain chip inducted their activity.

She remembered her conversation with Klutikov. ‘You need to protect that chip. If you switch off the chip, you switch off ‘you’.’ Did she need a foil hat like a man she had seen near the Brandenburg Gate, the happy man that drew ridicule? The man whom she had labelled insane?

‘Saskia.’

‘Finally, Deputy. How can it take you so long to find a toilet? There must be many on this stretch of the concourse.’

‘Actually, there’s one.’ His face was close and ashen. ‘And Proctor just used it.’

‘What?’

Jago showed her a crumpled plastic sachet. Saskia shook her head. She did not understand. Then she saw the text. It read: Rinse and Shine at The Poor Players!

‘Shampoo? The idiot. But when was he here?’

Jago wore the thin smile of certainty. ‘It’s still sticky. Not long.’

‘It can’t be a mistake.’

‘Think. He wants us to find him?’

‘I don’t know.’ In order to concentrate, Saskia looked away from Jago. She turned back. ‘The departures board.’

There were fewer than a dozen people in the basement locker area. An attendant slept on the counter of his kiosk with his cheek on a newspaper. As David walked by, monitoring the attendant, a regiment of lockers emerged on his right. He had substituted his boots for brogues, and they clicked like a pen nervously thumbed.

‘Ego, I’m at the locker.’

‘Good. On the keypad, type: upper-case M, four, nine, hash, lower-case D, lower-case X.’

Locker J371 sprang open. David touched all five sides. It was empty but for an envelope addressed to ‘You’. He checked up and down the row. Nobody. But he heard footsteps. It took him a moment to confirm they were receding. He tore the seal. Inside the envelope was a piece of paper and a single ticket to Las Vegas.

‘What is written on the paper?’ asked Ego. ‘Tell me immediately.’

‘It says, “Sounds like…” Christ, it’s fading.’

‘A security precaution. Keep reading.’

‘“Sounds like a car-parking attendant belongs to the finest.” That’s all.’

‘Information stored and encrypted.’

The fatigue of the bike journey seemed to overtake him, propelled by the knowledge that he was headed for America. He sagged against the locker. ‘“Sounds like a car-parking attendant belongs to the finest.” What is that? A crossword clue?’ The neat handwriting had faded to nothing.

‘Examine the ticket.’

David rubbed his eyes. ‘McCarran International, Las Vegas. Via Chicago. So what?’

‘The time?’

‘12:30 am.’

‘It is now 12:10. I suggest that you leave immediately. It is unlikely that you will still be at liberty for the next flight.’

As they ran, Jago shouted that the simplest approach would be to buy their tickets and arrest Proctor in the air. They found the check-in and jumped the queue. Saskia did not linger on the interested expressions of the waiting passengers. This close to departure, Proctor would be on the flight already. Jago slapped the counter and demanded two tickets. The attendant shook her head.

‘That flight leaves in ten minutes, sir.’

‘Yes, with us,’ Jago said. He produced his warrant card. The attendant studied the passport. In the pause, Saskia placed her FIB wallet alongside Jago’s. As her fingers left its surface, Saskia was a chess player committing to a move. If she left the EU without Beckmann’s permission, she would be executed. But if she allowed Proctor to escape, she would be executed for that. She prioritised the fugitive pursuit.