Ian Hocking - Déjà Vu

The attendant looked over Saskia’s shoulder. The glance was deliberately indifferent. Saskia turned. A plain-clothes security guard was standing behind them. Jago turned too. The queue became still.

Jago said, ‘Who are you, the bloody prefect?’ He looked at the attendant and stabbed a thumb in the direction of the security officer. ‘Tell him to piss off.’

David Proctor, who was standing not far behind the two police officers, detached himself from the queue. His hands, which had been dry, began to drip sweat. His face, recently shaved, itched. He walked to the next desk and said, ‘Excuse me. My flight leaves in a couple of minutes. May I check in for Las Vegas from here?’

‘You got lucky, I was about to open up.’ She started her computer with a touch. ‘Are you feeling alright, sir?’

He turned to face away from the police. ‘I haven’t flown for a long time.’

‘Thought so. Luggage?’

He tried to swallow but his throat was too sticky. ‘Just the briefcase.’

To his left, close enough to touch, the middle-aged officer said, ‘Jesus, we’re only in pursuit of a criminal. Take your time.’

David released his air. His hand crept towards his jacket pocket. Then it dropped. The stun gun was gone. It was in the bike container, which was in the gent’s toilet, which was a lifetime away.

‘Sir?’ asked the attendant. Their eyes met.

‘Yes?’

‘I asked if you are carrying anything in your briefcase for somebody else.’

‘No.’

‘Your boarding pass.’

‘Thank you.’ He reached for it, but she pulled it back. He swung from victory to defeat. Had the police officer seen him? Made a signal? Pulled a gun? But the attendant smiled. David released another breath. The air was stale and hot.

‘Here is the gate,’ she said, pointing to the boarding pass with her pen, ‘and here is the seat.’

‘Look, I’ve just about had a tit-full of you,’ shouted the police officer. ‘Get a move on.’

‘I’ve put you near an emergency exit,’ David’s attendant continued. ‘So you’ll have more leg room.’

David reached for his documents. They stuck to his sweaty fingers. The attendant said, ‘Deep breaths,’ and he nearly laughed. He began to walk away. He inclined his head. With each step he felt the certainty build, the certainty that a voice would shout, ‘Stop! This is the police!’

It never came.

He watched his feet. It was the only way to be sure that he would not fall over. After twenty metres, he knew that he had escaped.

For now.

‘Come on,’ said Jago.

They headed towards passport control. Saskia checked her watch. Jago saw her. ‘How long have we got?’ he asked.

‘Five or six minutes.’

‘We can make it.’ He broke into a jog. Loose objects jangled in his pocket. Saskia joined him, but she was careful to remain behind. She did not want to make him run faster. The tails of his suit jacket whipped back and forth.

‘Scotty,’ she said, trying to sound breathless. ‘Let’s slow down.’

‘Just a bit of running. It’ll look great in the report.’

They reached passport control. It was congested. Jago stopped and removed his coat. He took great breaths and leaned forwards. ‘Let’s,’ he said, swallowing, ‘let’s jump the queue.’

‘Are you feeling all right, Scotty?’

‘Indigestion. Those bloody sandwiches,’ he said. ‘We should keep moving.’

‘No. Take a moment to recover. I can see the plane. The gate is very close and we have several minutes. We will have time to reach it.’

Jago nodded. ‘I’ll just catch my breath.’

Saskia loosened his tie.

‘Do that.’

David told himself to breathe as his retina was scanned. When the machine thanked him and asked for the next passenger, he watched the passport control officer frown at something on his terminal. The man’s eyes flicked from the passport to David, from David to the passport. The silence was building. Or was it?

‘You seem nervous, Mr…’ The officer cocked his head. It had to be a deliberate affectation. It suggested control. David saw himself reflected in the man’s designer glasses. He glanced at his name tag. Christopher Garner. Senior Passport Control Officer. Then David’s hand flexed around the briefcase handle.

What was his own name?

His fake surname?

‘Mr Greensburg?’ the officer prompted.

David tried to recall the back-story. There was a wife living in Leeds, a son at university, a DB7 Vantage (lovingly restored), a farmhouse kitchen…

‘Greenspoon,’ he blurted. ‘Mr Greenspoon.’

The officer seemed disappointed. ‘I’m sorry, of course. Mr Greenspoon.’

‘I am a little nervous,’ David offered. The regret followed immediately, accompanied by the memory of Ego’s last words to him: ‘Less is more.’

‘Really, sir?’

‘Of terrorism. Terrorphobia, you might call it.’

The man handed back his papers. ‘Naturally, we all are, sir.’

David moved towards the detector and felt physical relief when he heard the officer attend to the next person in the queue. His fingers trembled as he dumped his wallet into the pot on the conveyor belt. The briefcase followed. He stepped through the archway. A waiting police officer with a sub-machine gun cast an empty eye over him. Would he be recognised? Nothing happened. He collected his wallet.

Saskia was watching the man. She turned to Jago and touched his arm.

‘What?’

‘The man walking through the detector.’

Jago squinted. His breathing was still heavy. ‘Could be.’

‘The passport officer talked to him for a long time.’

‘Did he now?’

David took two strides before he remembered his briefcase on the conveyor. He laughed a little too loudly. The armed police officer turned towards him. His face was young and blank. David smiled. The man did not smile back. David reached for the briefcase. He looked directly into the eyes of Saskia Brandt.

She did not react immediately. His hair was longer than it had been in his police photograph. His eyes were hooded, shadowed. He had lost some youth. He was thinner. But he was her man.

‘Proctor!’

She barged into the passenger in front of her, who tripped, dropping his case. Jago cut in from the other direction. He trod on the case, twisted his ankle, and pitched forward. His shoulder caught Saskia behind the knee. They both fell.

Saskia tried to stand but the owner of the case was sitting on the small of her back. She jabbed her elbow at his thigh and he rolled off. She climbed unsteadily to her feet, drew her revolver and scanned for Proctor.

‘Police!’ shouted an armed officer. ‘Drop your weapon now!’

‘ Föderatives Investigationsbüro ,’ she said, turning to him.

‘Drop it now!’

‘ Föderatives Investigationsbüro ,’ she repeated. ‘Federal Office of Investigation. I am in pursuit of a suspect.’

The officer stepped forward. ‘ Now .’

Saskia hissed with frustration. She dropped the gun and looked at the area beyond passport control. Proctor had gone. A voice over the tannoy asked Mr Jago and Ms Brandt to please board flight IAL 778. Jago, who was being held down by a civilian security guard, swore loudly.

‘Let me show you some identification,’ she called to the armed officer.

‘Left hand. Slowly. Toss it over.’

Saskia skimmed her ID across the floor. She saw three more police officers running in lock-step down the terminal towards her. Each wore the same outfit: a black baseball cap, a bulletproof vest, combat trousers, and black trainers. Each had a sub-machine gun pointing at the floor. Meanwhile, the civilian security officers began to clear passengers away.