Saskia Brandt: Deja Vu Part 8

Not now. This is a different chase. Whom do you hunt? Proctor or Brandt?

The hawk that returned.

The Fates: Clotho, she spins the thread of life. Lachesis, she measures a length. Atropos, she cuts it.

Spin, measure, snip.

Saskia took a clamsh.e.l.l case from her handbag. Inside it was a pair of gla.s.ses. She put them on. She knew - though she could remember no training - that the gla.s.ses would capture video of everything she saw. The statue was a key, and she wanted an impression of its shape.

'Brandt, are you OK?'

Chapter Thirteen.

That morning David awoke in a field. He was wrapped in his parachute. His uncovered face had deadened to a mask. His hands were tense b.a.l.l.s of bone and sinew. In the left was Jennifer's crayon drawing. His back ached and he needed to urinate. He wriggled from the parachute.

Ahead, a dark shape in the dawn, was a wooden shed.

His fingers moved only at explicit, clumsy command. Finally, he opened the overalls' zip. p.i.s.s steamed onto the colourless gra.s.s.

Cold. Core temperature too low.

This had implications, he knew. He had to get warm. And eat. Something like a hot soup. He remembered a favourite from his youth, when he had hillwalked with his wife, Helen. Oxtail soup from a Thermos. Oxtail at the pinnacle; pus.h.i.+ng back the cold as it went down, stratum by stratum.

He looked at the shed.

Come into my parlour said the spider to the etc.

The shed was wooden, four metres by six, painted white. On top was a solar panel. The door was padlocked but the key had not been removed from its base. He detached the padlock, held it as a weapon, and went inside.

'h.e.l.lo?'

An old-style fluorescent tube lit up. There was a tool-laden workbench. To his right was a part.i.tion of old sacking. David approached the bench and saw a stack of folded, silver material. He took it. A s.p.a.ce blanket.

'Things are...'

A vacuum flask fell from the blanket and he caught it. He unscrewed the lid. With a twist of steam came the memory of peaks climbed and cold defeated: Oxtail soup, his favourite.

'...getting weird.'

'h.e.l.lo.'

David looked down.

There was a tablet computer on the workbench. As he tipped soup into the lid, an impressionistic sketch of a woman's face appeared on the screen. The soup hurt going down.

'Are you Professor Proctor? If so, you'll remember the code that needs to be written on the pink sheet.'

David poured himself another cup. He had burned his palate and was already tired of his rescuer. Tom Sawyer...

'TS4415. Happy?'

'Thank you. Immediately below this computer is a heated box containing clothes. Please do not touch any of the other clothing in this storage shed.'

'Why not?'

'It does not belong to you.'

David bolted the last of the soup and let the s.p.a.ce blanket fall. He opened the crate, took a warm T-s.h.i.+rt, pushed it into his face and sighed. He found hiking boots, thermal underwear, jeans, an over-s.h.i.+rt, gloves, a heavy-duty sports jacket, a scarf and a woollen hat.

'At the end of this bench you will see a lock pick for your handcuffs.'

He took the gun-shaped device. It had a tapered end that formed different shapes when the trigger was pulled. He set about freeing the cuffs. A dozen clicks later, they released. He let them fall and swung his arms experimentally.

'What's the plan, computer?'

'Beyond the part.i.tion you will find a motorbike.'

'Oh.' David's excitement was undercut by the thought of his Matchless G80, a custom-restored beauty that had been in his garage when his house burned.

'Watch this, please. The bike is an advanced model.' The computer screen changed to show a cartoon motorbike. 'It has a key ignition. The keys are in the bike. Turn the key to the second position and press the start b.u.t.ton. The right-hand grip is the accelerator and its lever is the front brake. The left-hand lever is the back brake. Always use both brakes simultaneously.'

David began to dress. He was careful to transfer Jennifer's drawing to his new clothes. 'Go on.'

'Remember, the left-hand lever is not the clutch. The bike has an automatic gear transmission. The on-board processor will select its own gears based on speed, predicted future traction, orientation and so on. In the event this processor malfunctions, the bike will revert to a mechanical automatic transmission.'

David pulled on the gloves. 'OK.'

'Your left foot will rest naturally with the metal tab under the heel and another tab over the toes. The same for your right foot. If you move your feet like so...' the stick figure on the computer screen squeezed its heels, '...then the engine will increase its power output by one quarter for five seconds.'

The stick figure raced away.

'Got it.'

He parted the sack-cloth divider and whistled. The bike had a low profile and wide, spiked tyres. Hydraulic pistons connected the cha.s.sis to the steering column. The colour scheme was chrome silver. On the tank, in the precision flourish of an artist's signature, was the word Moire.

'Professor Proctor,' said the computer agent. Its voice was louder. 'There are two, possibly three, motorbikes approaching from the south.'

Found.

David scooped the helmet from the seat and threw it on his head. He'd fasten the chin strap later. 'OK, computer, I'm gone.'

'Wait. Take the rucksack. It contains important travel doc.u.ments.'

'Right.' He flung it across his shoulders.

'One more thing.'

'What?'

'Please press the red switch on the computer. It is an explosive device with a ten-second delay.'

David pressed it and jumped on the bike. Outside, the other bikes had arrived. Their engine tones dropped. He could smell their exhausts. He turned the key, pressed the ignition switch and the bike awoke. He felt the suspension rise, then fall.

David was poised to walk the bike forward when a helmeted man entered the shed. To judge by his clothing, he was a farm hand. Their eyes met, David's widened, and the laptop exploded. The sound was loud and concussive. Both were struck by the debris. The man retreated from the shed in a crouch, one arm across his face.

David lowered his head, gunned the engine, and went absolutely nowhere. He looked over his shoulder. The tyre was spinning itself into a blur. He came off the power and it bit into the concrete floor. The bike reared like a startled horse. As the front wheel dropped, he swung the nose and charged through the door, knocking it open.

He burst into the field.

If his old Matchless was a broadsword, the Moire was a rapier. The greasy back wheel slithered left and right. From the corner of his eye, he saw another bike flash by at a right angle. It was difficult to guess what the rider was doing because he couldn't see behind him; the bike had no wing mirrors.

'I could really do with a backwards-facing camera,' he muttered.

There was a beep from the bike. David glanced down. The dashboard showed the view from a small camera mounted on the back of the bike. He counted three bikes, riding in an even, wide spread. They were gaining.

He turned downhill. The handling improved. He looked down, unsure of what had changed. The hydraulic rods that connected the cha.s.sis to the steering column were correcting his steering. He felt an odd mixture of relief and indignation. 'Have it your way. But where am I going?'

There was a hedge approaching. It was impossible to judge its height, but it would certainly hurt at a he checked the speedometer a thirty-five miles per hour.

Another bleep and the bike showed him a contour map of the area. A red dot flashed in the centre, which David took to represent his own position. A blue arrow trailed to the southwest. At the bottom of the map, a revolving logo read Easy Rider(TM) SatNav. The blue line pointed left so he pulled a wobbly left-hander and rode parallel with the hedge. The ground became muddier and he was forced to slow.

A biker slid into view on his right, between himself and the hedge. The profile of this man's machine was much higher than his own. His helmet was open-faced but he wore goggles and a blue bandana, highwayman-style. The man flapped his arm. Pull over.

On David's left, another bike appeared. It was the man who had been in the shed when the laptop exploded. David watched him with envy. He seemed to ride the bike with his fingers and toes. The bike undulated and swerved yet the rider's body kept a perfect, comfortable line. David, by contrast, was at risk of bouncing from his seat.

'Computer, rear view.'

Another bleep. The display showed that the third bike was still behind, but not far. They had him in a pincer.

Movement to his left. A boot connected with his bike. David swore. He wobbled and slid, but managed to stay upright. Moments later he felt his palms go slick with sweat. That had been close. Even a tumble on gra.s.s held the potential for a fracture. His stomach and fingertips tingled.

David searched the area for a way out. There was low ground on the other side of the hedge. To his left, the ground banked steeply upwards. That way led back to the equipment shed. He had to get over that hedge and into the next field. There was no way he could outrun his pursuers. On the flat, maybe. His bike was faster.

He dipped into a steep ditch and was forced to brake heavily. He slowed. The wheels slid, locked, and he walked the bike up the other side. He turned to see that the other bikers and gone high to ride around the top of the ditch. They were waiting for him. Abruptly, he heaved the front of the bike around, surprised at its sudden, dead weight, and headed back the way he had come.

He retraced his route along the hedge. He built up his straight-line speed. After a glance at the camera, he pulled on the back brake and spun the rear of the bike. He sat and panted. His breath clouded the visor so he flicked it up. There were lines of sweat on his temples.

He removed his gloves - they dangled by strips of Velcro - and looped the chin strap through its metal link and tugged. It held. He had maybe four seconds until the oncoming bikes reached him.

He slapped down his visor and raked the throttle. Once again he was riding, gathering speed.

Something in his expression, or his posture, gave pause to the incoming riders. They fell to the left and to the right and David shot through the middle with centimetres of clearance.

He rode on towards the large ditch. He did not bounce in the seat as he had done before. Now he rode with his fingers and toes. A glance at the rear-view camera confirmed that the other bikers were following. With some disappointment, he saw that they were moving as fast as he was.

The ditch approached.

Here it was.

Into the rapids.

He swerved left, hillward, then cut right, towards the ditch at a cruel diagonal. He spurred his heels and felt the answering sibilance of opening valves. Accelerant mixed with the fuel. The engine whistled and the bike found a new speed. He dropped low to its tank, willing himself to stay onboard.

He rode up the other side of the ditch, now pressed into the seat, and caught its lip as a ramp. He was airborne. The hedge was a brief glimmer of dark green below. He heard the wheels swipe its surface. He became weightless. Then the bike touched down. David watched as the steering column rose to meet his chin. His mouth slammed shut. The back wheel touched, bounced, and the front did the same. The bike became a bucking bronco. But the intervals shortened and, though the bike shook and swerved, the onboard computer was able to keep it upright. It came to a graceless halt some thirty metres from the hedge.

David tapped the petrol tank.

He opened his visor and risked a look over his shoulder. The other bikers had stopped to watch him. He wondered why they didn't race on to the nearest gate. One biker removed his helmet and stabbed angrily at a phone. David managed a little wave and began to ride away.

When he reached the road, he turned south. The tyre spikes rattled uncomfortably until the bike retracted them. According to Easy Rider(TM), the present road led, via a tortuous pre-programmed route involving minor roads and country lanes, to London Heathrow. If he rode without a break, it would take one day, nine hours, twenty-eight minutes and twenty-seven seconds.

It was 8:00 am. He rode on.

Chapter Fourteen.

The empty hotel lobby had twinned staircases that rose like the edges of a cobra's hood. Saskia pa.s.sed across dark and light tiles: milky veins in the brown, black cracks in the white. Her small heels made clacks. Deliberately, she lifted her gaze. The ceiling was shot through with lights.

A man hurried towards them.

'No, no, f.u.c.king no,' he said.

He had the countenance of a soldier who had learned to march in his youth and had never recovered his relaxation. He was beyond retirement age, but the tightness of the skin around his throat spoke to fitness. His eyes travelled up her legs, perched briefly on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and flitted to Jago. 'You're b.l.o.o.d.y persistent if nothing else.'

'Thank you, Colonel McWhirter,' replied Jago. He was motionless. They did not shake hands.

'You have not met me yet,' said Saskia. 'Frau Kommissarin Saskia Brandt, Foderatives Investigationsburo, or FIB.'

McWhirter stared at her hand as though she were a fool, and a branching diagram of violence sprouted in her mind's eye, discreet as a menu offered by a butler. It varied on dimensions of incapacity (light, moderate, severe), completion time, and weapon type (unarmed, pencil, McWhirter's sweater).

Saskia raised her fist to her mouth. She coughed lightly. The menu slid away.