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.
Chapter Twenty-Four
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.
Her ID landed on her foot. ‘That’s yours, Kommissarin. Good to meet you. I’m Sergeant Trask.’ He waved to the new arrivals. ‘Stand down.’
But Saskia was not listening. Jago, her deputy, was struggling to breathe. He held his chest as though his heart was trying to break out. His skin was grey.
‘Scotty?’
A shadow fell across Jago’s face. It was Trask. ‘Paramedic to my position, over.’
Saskia took Jago’s hand. The palm was slick. She turned his chin, hoping to make eye contact, but his eyes were trapped under tight lids.
‘Brandt, is it?’ Trask said. ‘We were told you were coming down. Didn’t expect this drama, though.’
She nodded. She kept her eyes on Jago. ‘Neither did I.’
‘Paramedics are on the way.’
As she pressed Jago’s wrist for his pulse, she noticed his watch. It was 12:29 am. Proctor’s flight would leave in one minute. She turned to Trask and studied him for the first time. He had a hard, dependable face. ‘I am in pursuit of a fugitive. I need to ground his plane.’
‘Flight number?’
She threw her boarding pass at him and wiped the sweat from Scottie’s forehead. His rictus had sagged to a gape.
‘You have a problem,’ said Trask. Saskia followed his finger. She saw, through the transparent wall of the terminal, the huge A380 reversing.
‘Stop the plane.’
‘We could call ahead. Chicago is tight on this kind of thing.’
‘But I do not know his name and there are over six hundred people on that flight.’
The man looked at her. ‘Control from Bravo Two at Tango Five, I have a priority request to talk to the captain of the A380 now taxiing towards runway four. Flight ILA 778, runway four. Repeat, this is a priority request, over.’ He tapped the device on his lapel and the controller’s voice became audible.
‘Bravo Two, stand by, over.’
Saskia looked around for the paramedics. Jago had lost control of his bladder. His breath had dwindled to tiny sobs. Trask crouched and turned Jago’s head. He was encumbered by his sub-machine gun. ‘Keep his airway open.’
From his radio, an American voice said, ‘Good morning, Bravo Two. This is Captain Jameson on ILA 778. We’re moderately busy. Make this quick.’
‘Captain,’ said Trask, ‘I have a request from an FIB agent that you return to the terminal. You have a fugitive on board your aircraft.’ He waited. ‘Captain?’
‘Do you have any reason to believe that he threatens the integrity of my aircraft?’
Reluctantly, Saskia shook her head. Trask said, ‘No.’
‘Bravo Two, let me put this simply. If we lose our slot, we’ll be bumped, and given the capacity restrictions at this terminal, that’s at least four hours. My first officer and I will reach our duty hours time limit before then, which I will only permit in exceptional circumstances. Pass his details to my sky marshals. We’ll contain it. ILA 778 out.’
For the first time that she could remember, Saskia said, ‘Fuck.’ She looked at the oncoming paramedics. There was no doubting the push of her instinct: she must board the plane. She kissed Jago and whispered, ‘I promise to come back.’ To Trask, she said, ‘Delay the captain for just a couple of minutes. I intend to catch his flight. It is a matter of British national security.’
She snatched her gun and ran through the passport control gate. Trask shouted at the staff to let her pass.
She vaulted a barrier that read ‘Heathrow Personnel Only’, skipped down the maintenance stairs to ground level and burst into the night. This was the eastern flank of the terminal. To her left and right were docked aeroplanes. Only dashes of light spoke to their shape and size. The air was thick with fuel vapour and the wail of jet engines.
Nearby was an orange vehicle with a flight of steps rising from its back. She eased herself into the driving seat, looked over the dashboard, and swore. The steering controls were horizontal hand bars. They had triggers and stalk buttons. Besides that, the fascia was dark. She slammed her palms on her thighs.
‘Move over,’ said Trask.
She slid into the passenger seat as Trask climbed in. ‘At the FIB, our cars are computer controlled,’ she said.