by Ian Hocking
Dan paused. ‘Armed?’
Saskia sighed. The preferred weapon of the British police was a stern finger.
‘Wait here,’ she said.
She slipped from the car and moved forward until she was standing between the headlights and the motorcyclist, who still sat astride his machine. She touched her gun.
‘I am armed. Switch off your engine.’
The man did not turn. The engine revved. Saskia heard Scotty and the two uniformed officers get out of the car.
Stay back, she thought. I’m in control.
She exhaled and took a pace closer. ‘Armed police. Turn off your engine and show me the key.’
This time a gloved hand disappeared in front of the rider’s torso. Was he reaching for a weapon? The engine cut. She relaxed. She had to think slow. She was in control. She was prepared to draw and fire. Ignoring the Brits behind her, the occasional car roaring by, and the on-off wash of blue light, she drew her gun. The rider’s hand appeared again. It held the keys. The keys dropped to the ground.
Saskia gave further commands and, as she spoke each one, the rider obeyed. ‘Deploy the kick stand. Get off the bike. Move to the right. Face away from me. Remove your helmet. Slowly. Place it on the ground that it cannot roll away. Lie down on your face. Put your hands behind your head. Cross your legs.’
Only at this point did she look behind her. The two uniformed officers had their shotguns trained on the suspect.
‘Finished, dear?’ Jago asked. He walked past her and sat on the rider.
Saskia waited for him to apply the cuffs, then holstered her gun. ‘Well?’
‘See for yourself.’
Her breathing stopped as the man’s head came into view. For a moment, their eyes locked. She smiled apologetically. He looked away.
Jago stood. ‘Satisfied?’
‘Okay.’ Saskia turned to the uniformed officers. ‘It’s not him.’
‘Smashing,’ said Dan. He and Teri gave their shotguns to Jago and hoisted the man to his feet. Saskia followed Jago to the car. She was sleepy and embarrassed. She overheard Dan’s raised voice. They were haranguing the rider over a technicality.
‘I did not think British police were armed,’ she said.
‘Welcome to the twenty-first century.’
They leaned against the bonnet and watched the traffic. The air was crisp and smelled of exhaust gases.
‘Sorry, Scotty.’
He snorted. ‘We had to take the chance. What if it had been Proctor?’
Saskia watched the traffic some more. A police car fired past and its blue lights were a racing heartbeat. Seconds later, she saw another motorcyclist.
No. She would not cry wolf again.
~
David noticed the parked police car and motorbike. A man and a woman were watching the traffic. He checked his speedometer. It read 65 mph. He slowed and drove past, looking straight ahead.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Hard upon midnight, David entered Heathrow’s Terminal Five. He tooled around the multi-storey car park until he found a secluded bay for the Moiré. The engine sighed away and he slid off. He tugged the bike onto its lay stand. He removed his helmet and slapped his face, firmly. He shook his head like a dog throwing off water. He needed to be awake. He needed to be careful.
‘Ego, I’m at the airport.’
‘Excellent.’
David had long abandoned reading human emotions into Ego’s voice, but it was hard to ignore its surprise. ‘Change your clothes. Then find locker J371 in Terminal Five.’
‘Am I going to fly?’
‘I am not in a position to tell you that. If you are captured, it is better you know little in case you jeopardise a future escape attempt.’
David watched his condensing breath. His eyes followed the vapour and continued to stare long after it vanished. Then, after another slap, he crouched in the shadow of a van and removed his jacket. He took off his waterproof trousers, his riding trousers and his hiking boots. He placed them in a heap. He opened the universal storage crate on the back of the bike and retrieved the briefcase. He placed his essential items inside it. There were some non-essential items too. In the escape, he had transported most of the bathroom from The Poor Players.
He grabbed a fistful of underwear from the container and stuffed it into the briefcase. In another bag, he found a pair of tinted glasses, a shaving kit, a wedding ring and a belt. He packed those too. He found a travel iron and wondered why he had bought it. He left it in the container.
There were paper overalls at the bottom. He put them on carefully, though the material was durable. And he put his boots back on, but not his bike jacket. Instead, he took a light coat and threw it across his shoulders. He had become an invisible everyman, albeit a cold, tired one. Along one side of the container was a dry-cleaning bag with a complete suit inside. He rummaged some more and found a bottle of aftershave. He tossed it into the briefcase, closed it, and set about stuffing his old clothes into the bike container with one hand. In the other, he held the suit.
Finally, he closed the container and detached it. He thought of his escape from the farm hands. He had roared from that ditch and jumped the hedge like a champion show jumper. He smiled and patted the headlamp.
‘Ego, can you hear me?’
The computer was inside his briefcase. ‘Perfectly.’
‘Is it all right to leave the bike?’
‘Where better to hide a tree than a forest? There are more than four thousand spaces in this car park. And, because payment is requested on exit, it will be days before suspicions are raised.’
‘Did you read that in a spy novel?’
‘Yes.’
David carried the container and the briefcase towards the terminal building. The pain of the past few days seemed to trot one pace behind. He was nearing the next stage. After miles on the bike, things were moving again. He hailed a Personal Rapid Transport pod and, when it arrived, settled into the driverless four-seater alone.
‘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.
Chapter Twenty-Three
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.
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.
