He gunned the engine, pulled away, and wrenched the hand bards. The vehicle skidded to face the receding aeroplane.
‘Vive la différence.’
Saskia attached her seat belt and remained alert for vehicles and aircraft as they accelerated. She overhead Trask’s conversation with the ILA captain. ‘Yes.’ He glanced at her. ‘In a heartbeat. What? German, I think.’ He turned to Saskia. ‘He’ll stop just before they get to the runway. He thinks you’re plucky. That’ll be our one chance.’
‘Please keep your eyes on the road.’
‘But there isn’t a road.’
He swerved left and right to demonstrate. Saskia groaned. At length, she said, ‘Trask, I appreciate this a great deal.’
‘Dinner.’
‘Not that much.’
Inside the aeroplane, where the seats were close and the ceiling low, David sipped his cup of whisky. Cabin crew answered questions and patrolled with ambassadorial ease. The passengers were relaxing and settling; opening bags of peanuts, securing their children, slipping off shoes. Not so David. He looked into his drink and wondered if one could read ice like tea leaves.
‘Sir?’ asked the stewardess. ‘Your cup.’
He gave it up and returned to his thoughts, which seemed to be about nothing at all. When his armrest beeped and its screen opened like a flower to show the flight deck, David looked down wearily.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We are pausing to take on an officer of the continental FIB. There is no cause for alarm, unless you haven’t filled in those tax returns.’
The adrenaline transpired through his tissues in a single, sparkling wave. His jaw locked tight.
‘So,’ continued the captain, ‘allow me to welcome you on board this ILA flight 778 to Chicago. In a few moments, we will leave Heathrow in an easterly direction before turning towards the northwest.’
David lost interest. Halfway down the walkway, three air stewards had gathered. David watched one of them open the door. There was a moment of quiet anticipation, then a woman was helped into the aeroplane. The nearby passengers applauded. The cabin crew slapped the back of their new arrival and straightened her clothes, but she pushed them away. She was already searching the faces of the passengers.
David looked down at the video of the captain.
‘Okay, ladies and gentleman, we now have our full complement. On behalf of ILA, the crew, and myself, I would like to wish you a pleasant trip. Cabin crew, final pre-flight check, please.’
David did not believe he would have a pleasant trip. He could only think of what might have been. Had his benefactor arranged a new life for him in America? It made no difference. He would be arrested and extradited.
He raised his arm and waved to the detective.
The woman had long brown hair and emerald-green eyes. She was tired and serious, and hopelessly beautiful.
‘Professor David Proctor, you are arrested by Frau Kommissarin Saskia Maria Brandt of the Föderatives Investigationsbüro, badge number 077-439-001, on two counts of murder. These charges will be pursued under British law. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be recorded at the discretion of your arresting officer and reproduced in a court of law as evidence against you. These data are the property of the FIB. Do you understand? Come with me. We must speak with the captain. I am armed.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
Hours later, as the aircraft skirted Greenland, Saskia stared at her blurred reflection in the cubicle mirror and considered Proctor’s story. The compass of her mind floated over an inscrutable lodestone—the instinct of a murderer, she guessed—and settled on a decision.
She reached into her jacket and withdrew her badge. She thumbed the golden letters of Föderatives Investigationsbüro. Underneath, ‘Brandt’ had been stamped on the metal. It was not her real name. The extent of her official biography ended with her nationality, her sex and her age: German, female, late twenties. Her skills were fake. Her knowledge of arrest procedure: inserted. Digital.
Her eyes closed. She saw three women on a dark plain. The Fates: Clotho, she spins the thread of life. Lachesis, she measures a length. Atropos, she cuts it.
Spin, measure, snip.
She folded her make-up kit and pulled expressions at the mirror. Her face was unfamiliar.
Proctor was sitting on a steward’s jump seat in the rearmost compartment of the top deck, flanked by stowed trolleys and two emergency exits. He was handcuffed. He looked up as Saskia emerged from the bathroom. She did not respond to his brief smile. She wanted to keep the worry bright in her mind.
‘I have thought about your proposal,’ she said, taking the spare jump seat next to him. She did not unbutton her jacket. She did not want to tempt Proctor with her gun, though it had been unloaded at the captain’s request.
‘Go on.’ His eyes moved around the small space. Occasionally they settled on her. Mostly they settled on his handcuffs.
‘It is unacceptable.’
Proctor tipped his head. ‘Ah.’
‘Professor Proctor—’
‘David.’
‘It is not within my power. You do not even know your ultimate destination.’
‘No. My memory is curiously silent on the matter.’
‘I have arrested you. It is my duty to return you to Britain. There you will face the authorities.’
‘But you believe me.’
‘I do not have the luxury of belief or disbelief, Professor. Tell the authorities what you have told me. If it is the truth, you will be acquitted.’
The lift opened and a steward emerged. He gave both Saskia and Proctor a professional smile before moving into the economy cabin.
‘A trial?’ Proctor said, turning to her. ‘Kommissarin Brandt, do you remember what I told you about your role?’
‘Yes. You said that I have a further part to play. But you cannot tell me how you came to this conclusion.’
‘You must come with me.’
Saskia listened to the seashell hiss of the engines. ‘Professor, it is within my power to have you chained to a bulkhead in the cargo bay. You can keep the poodles company.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t allow that.’
Saskia smiled. It was difficult to feel threatened by a likeable, middle-aged man who had protested his pacifism at such length. ‘Professor—’
‘Your full name is Saskia Maria Brandt. Your FIB badge number is 077-439-001. Your service records begin three days ago.’
Her hand flexed in anticipation of a swift draw, but her gun was empty. She swallowed. ‘So you’ve researched your pursuer, Professor Proctor. Full marks. How?’
‘It is being dictated to me by my personal computer, which is always on the look out for other friendly computers. Like the one in your brain.’ He looked at his handcuffs again. ‘It would be very easy to deactivate it, and will take only a keyword from me. That, I guess, would have very serious consequences for you.’
Saskia did not blink. She had no bullets. If he deactivated the chip, there would be no time to find some, load the gun, and blow her malfunctioning brains out.
‘Professor,’ she said, struggling to flatten her tone, ‘you have spent nearly two hours explaining your principles. Have they now deserted you?’
‘In the end, it comes back to protecting those principles.’
Saskia rose on her anger. ‘How pathetic. That is the age-old drivel spouted by every idiot with a cause, from the religious fanatic to the political terrorist.’
She waited for his retort. Instead, his head drooped.