Déjà Vu: A Technothriller (8 page)

Saskia walked around her desk. She had walked further this weekend than she could ever remember. But what, actually, could she remember? “What did you do to me, Jobanique? Who are you?” She picked up Simon’s picture from the floor. “Who is this man?”

“He is nobody. You’ve never met him.”

A shadow fell across her. “But I remember him.”

“So what? I remember Elvis Presley. Down to business. You only have a minute left.”

Saskia sagged. Her world was vanishing, piece by piece, and her mind with it. So what. Why not dance off the edge of the stage? “So. The question must be why. Why did I do it? Perhaps I was hypnotized. Post-hypnotic suggestion would explain both the murder and the false memories. But a moral human being will not commit murder even under hypnosis.”

Jobanique shook his head. “Allow me. Until last week, you were in jail.”

Saskia blinked. She fought with her mind, tried to remember anything. She could not. She had no childhood, no teenage years, no friends...did she even have an apartment? She realised, then, that she did know where it was. Presumably it did not exist. That explained her urge to remain in the office all weekend.

“My brain has been wiped.”

“Yes,” said Jobanique. “On Friday morning I visited you in custody. You were being held in a woman’s prison in Bonn following a fast-track trial. Your murder was thorough and meticulous. It is one of the more unusual aspects of the female criminal. Your premeditation made it very hard for your lawyer. But it makes you very attractive to me. Have you ever heard the expression –” he switched to English – “‘set a thief to catch a thief’?”

She didn’t understand. “What’s that in German?”

“Einen Dieb aussenden, um einen Dieb zu fangen.”

“Explain what you mean.”

“Over the past few years I have recruited members into my organisation who were, shall we say, semi-retired versions of their prey. That is, detectives with a unique –”

“Criminal.”

“Perspective on crime. We have had some problems, of course. ‘Wet’ incidents. In the past six months, however, a particularly interesting liberalisation of the punishment of murder has emerged. It involves a systematic removal of the muderer’s memories and personality. A true ‘brain-wash’. The murderer is rehabilitated. Everybody is happy.”

“What about the families of the victims?”

Jobanique laughed. “For their own sakes, they are seldom informed. In fact there have only been six of these ‘brain wipes’. Two of them are in your office.”

“My secretary, Mary. And me. What did she do?”

“She played her part, nothing more. We can consider her rehabilitated.”

“So I was lucky.”

“Your crimes were more spectacular.” His smile broadened. “You were given the task to solve a murder and you have succeeded. Well done.”

Saskia frowned. She could no longer look into the face of this man. She was...had been...a murderer. Unbelievable. She did not feel like a murderer. But what did murderers feel like? Did they feel evil? Surely she was evil. What crimes had she committed? Why were they spectacular?

“What happens now?”

There was a knock at the door. “Your time is up, Saskia Brandt. It is 9:00 a.m.. With this day your new life begins or it ends. Open the door.”

She did so. Outside was a woman in a fashionable blue suit. She had both hands behind her back. She was wearing a purple fedora a la Saskia. Their eyes met like gladiators. The woman brought out her hands: in the left was a small green box; in the right, a small red one. Then she said, “Have we met somewhere before?”

Jobanique said hastily: “That, Saskia, is a code-phrase. If it is directed at you, then you have been recognised as one of my special detectives. You must be very careful with your answer. If you reply freely, then the person knows that you do not yet work for me. This has been perfectly acceptable until now. From this point on, it will lead to your death; immediate or otherwise. So you must give the correct response. That is: ‘In a previous life, perhaps’. The comma is crucial. The other agent will then laugh and you may conduct your business. Do it now.”

“In a previous life...perhaps.”

The woman nodded and laughed tonelessly. She still held the two boxes at arm’s length. “What do I do now?” asked Saskia.

“Now this depends. You may select the red box if you wish to decline my offer. This will probably lead to your survival, although the judge in charge of your case may press for the death penalty. To accept my offer, select the green box. This will bind you to me. You will be my property, though you will receive a generous income and the respect of your peers. You secret will be safe with me. You will be a full-rank detective in the FIB, which is to say that you will investigate serious crime on behalf of the EU government, who employ us. In the event that this contract is terminated, it is likely that a warrant for your death will be issued. I will execute you if you attempt to leave my employment. I will execute you if you tell anyone your real identity or the details of your recruitment. I will execute you if you fail to perform your duties to my satisfaction.” Jobanique waved as though swatting a fly. “Don’t worry too much about the formalities. I’m obliged to spell out the fine print. So which is it to be?”

Saskia could not think. Her right hand, seemingly guided by an invisible force, reached out and took the green box. Her left hand opened it. Her fingers ran over the polished gold metal of a badge and a short, stub-nosed gun. The badge was gold and blue. It held the emblem of FIB and some Latin: Ex tabula rasa . Embossed under her the motto was the name Saskia Brandt. Was that name an implant too? Now it was real.

She took both badge and gun.

“Welcome to the FIB,” said Jobanique. “Your new secretary can fill you in on related matters. Good day.” His image vanished from the view screen.

“My new secretary?” she asked.

The woman stepped across the threshold and put the red box on Saskia’s desk. She removed the fedora and grasped Saskia by the hand. “Nice to meet you,” she gushed. “I’m Alice, your new secretary. Let’s get this place cleaned up, shall we? And we’ll have to do something about this smell.” She disappeared into the adjoining kitchen.

Saskia’s arm remained in the hand-shaking position for a few more seconds. Then she walked, clumsily, to her desk. She squatted down and teased open the box’s lid with the edge of her new badge. It was dark inside. Before she could open it further, there was a loud bang and burning a smell. A hole appeared in the front of the box. Saskia examined the window and found a corresponding hole.

The new secretary came out. “What happened?”

“Never mind. Better have someone come up to fix this window. And what about the air conditioning?”

“Yes, Detective.”

Saskia walked back to the desk and grabbed the picture of Simon. It was, she realised, the only photograph she had. She threw it in the bin.

David felt sick. He saw himself crouching in the darkness as scientists ran past him. This was a dream or a memory. His wife, Helen, was with him. He tried to shield her from the falling masonry but he could not. Something hit her. Before his eyes, she died. He brushed the hair from her face and realised it was not his wife but Caroline, the beautiful soldier. Her dead mouth opened.

“Professor Proctor,” said a voice. Somebody was shaking him. His back hurt. He was lying on glass. He saw flashes of light.

A man in army uniform pressed a finger to David’s throat and counted aloud. There were other sounds too. Someone shouted “Clear,” another coughed, another kicked aside rubble. Dust drifted.

Helen was there.

It wasn’t Helen. It was her ghost. She had to stay in the underworld, while he had leave it. It was treachery. A blanket was thrown over him and, roughly, he was put into a stretcher and some kind of harness. They carried him away. As the procession passed the second immersion chamber, where Caroline had been, David craned to look. He saw something red.

There were more shouts. They carried him to the corridor outside. It now had a hole in the ceiling. The air was fresher. His stretcher was tied at both ends to a dangling rope. Hands checked his harness and someone whistled loudly. He ascended through the dark levels of the research centre into a large white tent. He could smell grass and wet earth. They had dug into the hotel lawn.

He wondered if it was night or day. A man in a green jumper patted his shoulder.

“I’ll talk to you later, mate.”

Helen was still down there. He needed to tell this man, but he could not.

He awoke, cold, in a tent. It was a different one. It had a high ceiling. People spoke in quiet voices and walked in white gowns. No, they were lab coats. He blinked. He smelled disinfectant and damp fabric. A man walked into the tent and David saw, briefly, that it was morning outside.

A nurse appeared. She asked him if wanted some breakfast.

“There’s a Japanese man down there. Has he been brought up yet?”

She shook her head.

Within half an hour, a doctor had checked his condition. “All clear,” she said. “I think Colonel Garrel would like to talk with you.”

He began to dress. He found his earpiece in his trouser pocket. A taciturn soldier joined him and they walked out. On the floor near the doorway was a black body bag. It was probably Caroline. Outside the tent an early-morning drizzle had set in. The sky was the colour of steel. David took a breath and realised that he loved Scotland. He should have come back sooner. The trees hissed. The wind blew rain from their leaves. The hotel, too, seemed to bend in the wind.

David and the guard walked around the northern side of the hotel towards the south lawn, where the rescue shaft had been sunk the day before. At the bottom lay the corridor outside his old laboratory. Bruce was still down there in body, though his spirit was elsewhere.

David turned to the guard and gestured towards the site. “Could I go to the demolition site? Where you dug down for me yesterday?”

The guard’s eyes narrowed. As with most of the on-site personnel, his uniform had a number of non-regulation additions. He wore a baseball cap. David wondered whether these people were real soldiers. The guard tugged on his cap and glanced back towards the tent. He wanted help, so David gave it to him. “To pay my last respects to my friend. I’m feeling a bit weak. You know, from the radiation?”

“Alright,” said the guard slowly. “But we’ll make it quick.”

“Too kind.”

They walked further down the hill. The trees closed in. The large white tent that covered the excavation shaft came into view. They entered and drew a few glances. The guard waved his hand to dismiss them. They returned to their work, which appeared to be data analysis.

David approached the hole in a weak shuffle, still helping the guard, and knelt before the yellow barrier tape. He made the sign of the cross and tapped his earpiece. It had been mistaken for a common hearing aid and placed in his locker. In prayer, he whispered: “Ego, are you there?” The earpiece picked up the vibrations in his jawbone and transmitted them dutifully. They were received in a discarded pair of trousers twenty metres below.

“Yes, David. I am here.”

David Proctor rose awkwardly and walked back to the medical tent. He expected to hear the siren within two minutes. In the event, it was nearly five. People began to overtake them while the guard spoke gruffly on his walkie-talkie. David glanced back. Black smoke billowed from the tent. He smiled. The fire would lead to an immediate evacuation before a fire crew could be sent down.

The guard told him to stay put and ran towards the hospital tent. David sat on the wet, morning grass and waited.

Twenty metres below him, black smoke had replaced the air. Ego lay on the floor near the ruined immersion chamber where David had entered New World. It interfaced once more with the military’s radio network. It cracked the encryption and checked the status of the situation. The research centre was fully evacuated. Soon the soldiers would return. Ego cut the connection to the radio network and turned its attention to the New World computer.

Five minutes before, it had connected to the same computer and given the instruction to deactivate its legion of cooling fans. The ensuing heat had started a small dust fire, which had spread, feeding on the flammable debris.

Now it was time for the second phase. Ego began to count backwards from ten.

On the surface, David gazed across the lawn, down the valley, where the morning mist had collected in the damp air near the valley floor. Sunlight reflected from its apparent surface. He checked his watch.

In New World, Bruce Shimoda reached the summit of a hill and stopped sprinting. He sagged, hands on knees, and let the thin air into his lungs. Fifty metres away, the pursuing metadillo stopped too. It turned its head towards the darkening sky. Bruce did the same. He wondered what this would feel like.

Ego said, “Three, two, one, zero,” and detonated.

Bruce saw the sky tear in two. He took a final look at the valley and vanished, deleted.

David was bounced by the concussive force. There were shouts of surprise. Smoke ran like black water from the cracks in the tent and personnel spilled out. They choked and shouted. The ground vibrated once more and then was still. Everything was still.

It was over.

Again.

His interrogator was Colonel Andrew Garrel. He had given David drugs. Personally. The drugs led to nightmares but the nightmares helped. He knew who the enemy was. It was Garrel. He smoked constantly.

They were alone together. There was a tape recorder. At least, David thought of it as a tape recorder. It was probably a digital recorder of some kind. He watched it. It did not move. It had no spools. There was no sense of time.

“How long have I been in here?” he asked.

Touch now meant pain. The drugs had somehow heightened his senses. Noises were too loud, the chair too hard, the smoke almost unbearably acrid.

Garrel leaned on the desk. He sucked on his cigarette and David saw the end glow for long time. Was time wrong, or was he? Then Garrel let out a breath that billowed blue-white and stank. David’s eyes watered.