Déjà Vu: A Technothriller (24 page)

Saskia turned to Hannah. He nodded. She remembered her conversation with Garrel. The West Lothian Centre had been bombed twice. Proctor had been strongly suspected of the first. Unofficially, he was guilty. In 2003 all governments had been more sensitive to terrorism following the World Trade Center bombing. He was certain to be flagged.

“Call ’em up,” said Hannah. He began to walk towards to door. “I’m going to talk to the Super about the new lead. We can check her emails, but I’d rather interview her.”

Charlotte, Henry and Besson set about their computers. Saskia grabbed a phone and called Jobanique. She said, in clumsy German, “I need to access GCHQ electronic surveillance on Proctor.” The line went dead. Five minutes later, Jobanique called and said, “You have it. There’s a website. I’ve sent the address via email. Log on with your badge number.” He hung up.

The day had begun so slowly, and now the speed of events began to accelerate. Saskia logged onto the GCHQ computer and deferred to Charlotte. Charlotte trawled the emails for over two hours: text communications first because they were quicker to process. She made better progress than her colleagues, who were confined to more conventional snooping techniques. They could not help because the GCHQ computer would not allow Saskia to log on from more than one computer. It was frustrating, but they were rewarded with good indications early on: an email from Jennifer Proctor, aged sixteen, enthusing about her mathematics class, writing that it would ‘b2kool’ to use an encrypted transmission.

Hannah became excited. He smelled the scent.

Saskia, for her part, was saddened by their story. The emails were long from the daughter and short from the father. In the most recent transmissions, Proctor wrote only one or two lines. They were invariably apologetic: “Sorry I can’t write any more right now,” “CU Gotta go,” “Write more soon, I prooomise!”, and so on, but the promised emails were not sent. Jennifer’s became short, mostly comprising jokes about her father’s paucity, jokes that became sardonic and accusatory, while Proctor’s emails became defensive, hurt and confused. Saskia could hardly bear to read them. They were a perfect record of the downward slope of a dying relationship. For the others in the room, it was routine. They were case-hardened and she was not. She thought of that poor girl in America, sent to a boarding school by her father and, seemingly, abandoned by him; and a father who had not realised that his daughter was slipping away until it was too late, and who lacked the emotional eloquence to repair the damage, preferring hurt silence.

The emails dried up. There was no code.

“OK,” Saskia said. She pulled at her bottom lip and watched the expectant faces. “The email about the cipher. When was that?”

“Back in ’21,” Charlotte replied.

“The cipher would have been complicated,” said Besson. He was staring at Saskia but his eyes were blank. “Maybe she completed it as part of a school project.”

Saskia asked, “What was the name of her school? The one in New York?”

“Wayne’s College,” said Charlotte.

“Go to the website. Find their electronic documents archive. Search for projects by Jennifer Proctor. If there is nothing on the web, phone them.”

They waited anxiously as Charlotte navigated to the webpage and typed in the search terms. Each of them craned towards the monitor screen. None of them dared speak. Charlotte mistyped a word and the irritation was palpable. A list of projects appeared. At the bottom of the screen, an entry read: “An algorithm for one-time PAD encryption and decryption, by Jennifer

B. Proctor”.

Somebody squeezed Saskia’s shoulder. It was Hannah. He was nodding.

At 3:45 p.m., Saskia watched as a plain-clothes detective walked into the room. Everybody stopped working. This was the Detective Superintendent, or DSI – a high rank in the British police force. He entered the room as though he owned it, winked at Hannah and said, “Might have known you’d be in the middle of it all, George.” He walked and talked like Garrel, which made Saskia suspicious, but he shook her hand warmly enough. “I’m glad you’re here, Detective Brandt.”

She shrugged. “Team effort,” she said, and gestured to the Charlotte, Besson, Henry and Hannah. They smiled.

“Do you have a transcript?”

“Here.”

Evidence: Audio-Visual Transmission, Date: 10.09.23, Time:

11:16 a.m.

Participants: David Proctor (DP) and Jennifer Proctor (JP)

DP: Hello, Jennifer.

JP: Hello.

DP: I’m glad you called.

JP: Are you?

DP: Yes. I wanted to talk to you.

JP: Talk, then.

DP: I’m sorry. After you went to New York [unintelligible 1.5 seconds]

JP: You sent me away. You sent the freak [unintelligible 0.5 seconds] then skipped the country.

DP: Look, you couldn’t stay in Oxford any more. You would have been shunned because of your, because of the way you were. You wouldn’t have realised your full potential. We’ve been through this.

JP: I was the one who had to go through it, not you. Do you know what it was like in that school?

DP: I got your emails.

JP: I didn’t get yours.

DP: Jennifer, why did you call?

JP: Not to sing happy birthday. I have a message for you.

DP: What is it?

JP: Where are you?

DP: Actually I’m at the old research centre in West Lothian.

JP: What are you doing there?

DP: I can’t tell you that on the phone.

JP: This isn’t a phone, Dad.

DP: I know. It’s a secure server. You’ve encrypted the transmission.

JP: You remembered it.

DP: What’s wrong, Jenny?

JP: Just…can you go back? I need you to go back.

DP: I haven’t passed the point of no-return, I suppose. But why should I go back? Has someone been talking to you?

JP: I don’t know. But be careful. Watch your back. Something may happen.

DP: Something already has happened. And I’m late. Can I call you later?

JP: Sure.

Transcribed by Constable Paul Besson 38501-42654, B Division St Leo SIU 16.09.23

The DSI folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “Well done, everybody.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Charlotte.

He turned to Saskia and Hannah. “What do you make of it?”

Saskia smiled. “I have a...gut feeling...you call it a ‘hunch’?”

“Go on, Detective.”

“I think that Proctor has left the country, perhaps via a major airport.”

“Why?”

“He has received a threat to his life. His daughter says, ‘Watch your back. Something may happen.’ This warning comes true, does it not?”

The DSI raised an eyebrow. “I thought that the ‘something’ was a result of Proctor himself.”

Hannah cleared his throat. “Put yourself in his shoes, sir. You get a warning from your daughter. Let’s say, for the moment, that what happened down in the research centre did not go according to Proctor’s plan. The cave-in where McWhirter was killed, for example. Or the death of Caroline Benson. Christ, Proctor might have been the intended victim in both cases. You never know.”

“The cave-in?” asked the DSI. “Hardly, George.” He was sceptical, but he checked the transcript again.

Saskia said, “I realise, sir, that we are not in a position to verify or falsify Proctor’s charges. But we are also not required to accept them. I mean, we must not accept conclusions unless we generate them ourselves from available evidence. Nobody, so far, has been able to produce evidence to show that Proctor is responsible for anything. It is all...conjecture and circumstantial evidence. A jury would not convict him.”

The DSI was grim. “You should attend more trials.” Saskia looked uncertain. He pulled a face, as if to dismiss his own comment, and motioned that she should continue.

“If Proctor is an innocent party, then I believe he will attempt to gather more information about the attempt on his life. At the least, more information would provide him with a defence against the charges.”

The DSI chuckled. “You are aware, Detective Brandt, that you are talking about a mass-murderer who is on the run?”

Saskia blinked. “I believe that he is a suspected mass murderer, Detective Superintendent. His flight is no proof of guilt. Under the EU constitution, it is not illegal for an innocent person to attempt an escape.”

Hannah gave her warning look but the DSI folded his arms and nodded. “Well, I can’t argue with your principles, Detective Brandt.”

“Proctor is a university professor,” she continued. Her voice was clearer. “It is a comfortable existence. We know from the emails that his relationship with his daughter is poor. The last few days will have proved to be very stressful, even life-altering. Proctor will undoubtedly feel the need to leave the country. Here he is hunted. In America he is not. His daughter is in America. In addition, she gave him the warning. If he is indeed innocent, the his search for answers must begin with her. Flying out would ‘kill two birds with one stone’. Judging by the escape from the church, it is within his capability.”

The DSI said, “There’s something else. Jennifer is his daughter. The person who helped organise his escape is someone who would risk everything for him. Jennifer fits the bill. Was she the ‘fake’ minister? Who knows, maybe her ‘employers’ – if they are the US government, like you say – helped to falsify her passport and formulate Proctor’s escape plan. If we get her, we get Proctor. But is she still in the country?”

“I think it is unlikely,” Saskia replied. “If you are correct and she has the backing of the American government, they would advocate a plan with minimum risk. Perhaps she has already risked a great deal by personally overseeing her father’s escape. If they were to attempt an escape together, the probability of their apprehension would increase. In that case, I would suggest that she left immediately via the local airport at Edinburgh.”

Hannah shook his head. His expression was pained. “I don’t know. If the Americans really wanted Proctor – perhaps to work with Jennifer in a thinktank somewhere – why not smuggle him out by submarine?”

“Cost,” the DSI said. “How much do they want him? What can he be worth?”

Saskia said, “Perhaps everything, perhaps nothing. However, with the correct advice and documentation, there is no reason why Proctor should not be able to leave the country ‘legally’ through an airport.”

“Edinburgh?” Hannah asked. “You think the glider took him down to Belford to throw us off the scent?”

Saskia’s reply was interrupted by the DSI. “No. We had Edinburgh locked down tight. To get lost in the crowd he would need somewhere bigger.”

“Like where?” Saskia asked.

“Heathrow, Gatwick, Luton, Stanstead,” Hannah said. “Take your pick.”

“Which is the largest?” she pressed.

“Heathrow,” said the DSI. “Its surveillance is poorest because of sheer volume of traffic. Now, we looked at this scenario yesterday. If he took a car or a train, he would have left the country by now. If he’s still on the bike, and using minor roads, he could catch a flight at midnight tonight – if he rides hard. Personally, I think he’ll lie low for a week.”

“Those flights need to be checked, sir,” said Saskia.

“I agree with you, Brandt. Check each person who flies to America between midnight and 6 a.m. Check them personally. If you don’t find Proctor, we can assume he’s already gone or he’s lying low. We have other people working those leads.”

Saskia nodded. Hannah swore and slapped his forehead. “There are about five thousand people who can do that for us, sir. They’re called the Metropolitan Police.”

The DSI shook his head indulgently. “Think it through,” he said. “If Proctor takes his holiday tonight, I want Brandt to nab him, not our Cockney friends. No sense having the Met solve our cases.”

“But Saskia is a neutral party.”

The DSI pointed at Hannah with the transcript. “It’s that kind of clear thinking that stops you advancing through the ranks. She is a neutral party accompanied by a West Lothian and Borders liaison.”

“Yes, sir,” Hannah said quietly.

“You two can hitch down to Heathrow with a friend of mine, Sam Langdon. He flies up most weekends for the golf. My secretary will give you his number. Have a nice trip.” He strode from the room.

Hannah said, “I was his mentor when he joined the force. Right, we’d better get organised.” He checked his watch. “Are you alright?”

Saskia watched the team – Paul Besson, Henry and Charlotte – as they walked over to the coffee machine. She wanted to stay with them. She was one week old. Even the loneliest person has the memory of company, but she did not even have that. Where were her old friends?

“I’m fine, Scottie.”

David glanced at the computer screen. It was 4 p.m. He had ridden into a town called Kilby or Kilsby. He could not remember. He only knew that he had been riding for nearly nine hours. It was time to buy his disguise. He took his instructions from Ego, who had been reading internet guides by ex-SAS personnel and presenting them to him in a digestible, if sensational, form. Now he knew all about dead-letter boxes, anti-surveillance riding and how best to snare and cook rabbit. Ego had counselled that he should change his vehicle and clothing at regular intervals. David disagreed. Clothing, yes; vehicle, no. The bike was painful but it was fast, it could ride across most terrains and it could change colour.

He stood next to the bike. A tall building provided shade. The town was nondescript, another English architectural mistake on a grand scale. There was nobody around. He leaned towards the microphone in the helmet, which was attached to the petrol tank. “Bike, change to green,” he said. “Do it gradually, over the next hour.”

He found the high street. It was pedestrianized. Buses charged and the pavements were thick with shoppers. After only two days on the bike, David had forgotten how to walk in a crowd. He located his first shop quickly.

“Be sure to buy each item in a different shop,” said Ego’s voice in his ear.

“Yes, yes,” David replied. The shopkeeper overheard and his smile froze but he made no comment. To be sure, David was a sight. He had a thickening beard, a down-turned head to avoid the security cameras and he paid with cash. Using paper money was risk, but he had to assume that the credit card, in the name of David Harrison, was blown. Thankfully, the passport was in a different name.