Déjà Vu: A Technothriller by Hocking, Ian (red scrolls of magic .TXT) 📕

She saw a hawk.

The hawk that returned.

Her eyes closed. The scissors and thread vanished.

She heard laughter. She smelled cigarette smoke. The flick of a card being laid on a table. More laughter. And then the laughter stopped. The smoke changed from the thin blue wisps (cigarettes) to thick black plumes (furniture, wood, the office, my gift, the mannequins).

“Saskia?”

She opened her eyes. Hannah was holding her shoulders. She heard the rain again. The cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. “What happened? Are you alright?”

“Yes. I felt...dizzy.”

“Migraine?”

“No. It is not that.”

“Do you want something to eat?”

The questions forced her to take a step back. “No, Scottie, I’m fine. Give me a cigarette.”

He did so and lit it. She glanced tentatively at the lighter but it was just a lighter. Its power was spent. The power to trigger hallucinations.

No. They were memories.

‘Your personality isn’t overwritten by the wetwire chip. It’s kind’ve knocked sideways,’ she heard Frank Stone (who had killed a Polish fisherman) say.

They watched people walk in and out of the building, watched them curse the rain, hunch themselves, and run. After a moment, Hannah said, “You muttered something.”

“What?” Her fingers were trembling. She took a drag and held the smoke.

“Sounded German: ootah.”

Ute.

“A girl’s name.”

“Mean anything to you?” he asked.

“No, Scottie.”

Hannah nodded. His eyes were narrow because of the smoke. “But you know she’s a girl.”

At 10 a.m., Saskia called a meeting. They sat in a circle. Hannah stood outside it, leaning against a desk. Saskia crossed her legs and nodded to Paul Besson who, like Charlotte and Henry, the man with the ponytail, seemed tired and distant.

“I’ve got nothing so far,” said Besson. “The computer could run for ten years and not crack the code.”

“Fine.” Saskia turned to Charlotte. “What about Proctor’s family?”

“His parents are dead. He has an uncle living in Australia that turned up after a fairly invasive search. I’d bet that they don’t know of each other’s existence. His daughter, Jennifer, left for America four years ago, aged sixteen. She attended a school for gifted children in New York and graduated aged eighteen with two undergraduate degrees: theology and physics. Her current whereabouts are unknown.”

Hannah stirred. “What do you mean, unknown?”

Charlotte folded her arms and said, testily, “Exactly that, sir. She has no bank account, passport, no American social security number, insurance of any kind, no bonds or shares, nothing. Her records would lead anyone to the conclusion that she died aged eighteen. Except that there is no death registration.”

“That’s unbelievable. I couldn’t wipe my arse without a computer somewhere going ‘beep’.”

“Indeed,” said Charlotte to Saskia.

Saskia nodded. It made perfect sense. “What about Proctor, Charlotte? From 2001 to 2003. Are there any similarities with his daughter’s situation?”

Charlotte did not need to examine her notes. “Yes. During that period every record of Proctor’s comings-and-goings are blank. Just like his daughter.”

“In that time,” said Saskia. “Proctor was the member of a high security establishment. The West Lothian Centre.”

Charlotte said, “Hmm,” and Hannah made a quiet wounded sound.

“So, you think we have a daughter who entered her father’s profession,” he said. “You think she came back to England?”

“Well, she could still be in America,” said Besson. “You know, they’ve got these secret research places everywhere. Area 51 is most likely. That’s in Nevada.”

“Thanks,” said Hannah, heavy on the sarcasm.

Saskia ignored him. “Good. I think we should concentrate on the daughter.”

“Are you sure?” Hannah asked. “We should cover all the evidence. Poor Henry here hasn’t even spoken yet.”

Henry opened his mouth, but did not utter a word. Instead he pointed to Hannah and nodded. Everyone but Saskia laughed.

“Yes,” she said loudly. “This is what I want to do. If we run down a ‘blind alley’, then we can retrace our footsteps. But I want to emphasise, that speed is primary. Proctor is moving. He is going somewhere, perhaps to a rendezvous. We need to go where he is going and I am certain that this transmission is critical.”

Hannah shrugged. “Fair enough.”

“Right. Who is the best media analyst?”

Nobody moved. Slowly, heads turned towards Besson. He raised his arm. “Me,” he said.

“Good. Everything is clear. Charlotte and Henry, I want you to locate Jennifer Proctor. You have one hour. Paul, Scottie – I have an idea.”

It was lunchtime. Paul and Saskia sat in front of large computer with two displays. The left-hand screen showed a complicated array of image processing tools. The other, nearest Saskia, displayed the image of Proctor’s car. After three phone calls to Colonel Garrel, who was now in London, Saskia had finally obtained permission to review the Park Hotel surveillance tapes. Hannah was impressed. He had already tried and failed.

“Army types. They must trust you more than me.”

She shook her head and thought of Jobanique. “I have powerful friends.” She sipped her coffee. It was her third. On the desk lay an uneaten sandwich. She had not known what the word ‘sandwich’ really meant until Hannah had dropped this specimen, triumphantly, in her lap. She had peered through the cellophane at the soggy white toast-bread and decided that she would remain ignorant.

“Not hungry?” asked Besson.

“No. Are we ready? Come sit, Scottie.”

Hannah sat down behind their and ate his sandwich. He sounded like a man struggling through mud. “What are we looking at?”

Besson said, “This is the tape of Proctor arriving at the West Lothian Centre, last Sunday, the 10th. I’ll start it from the beginning.”

Using the complicated software on the left-hand screen, he started the video. Saskia and Hannah watched intently. Hannah kept eating. She turned her ear towards the picture but could not hear the ambient noise. “Scottie, your food is already dead.”

Hannah stopped mid-chew. “Sorry.” He gulped the mouthful away.

“I’ll turn up the volume,” said Besson.

They viewed the video from beginning to end. It was unremarkable: a wide-angle shot that encompassed most of the car-park and a corner of the hotel’s west wing. It was a low-definition video, barely VHS. The audio was almost exclusively bird song and wind. The story was simple: a