Déjà Vu: A Technothriller Hocking, Ian (online e book reader .TXT) 📖

the West Lothian Centre and this place too, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Seventh,” Hartfield corrected. “Rottstein died on Mars last Tuesday. More money than air.”

“Did you kill him?” Jennifer asked. She was distant, like Saskia. Watching.

“No, I did not.” He shifted his weight. Saskia noticed that his left leg was weak. “I am not normally a man who says ‘I told you so’, Miss Proctor, but you should have passed my warning to you father. You would have avoided this situation.”

“Exactly what situation are we in?” Jennifer asked.

She doesn’t know, Saskia thought. She doesn’t sense the danger.

Hartfield leaned forward to check on Frank, but not far enough for Saskia to disarm him safely. “I see that I have made two, not one, bad choices of agent. I wanted Frank to take care of you. I saw to it that things would be easy for him. He must be exceptionally incompetent.”

Saskia wanted to interrupt the smoothness of this man, wanted to say “We had help,” but Bruce was an ace in the hole. Instead she said, “I think you owe us an explanation. If not them, then me.”

Hartfield checked his watch. “Do you remember James Bond, Miss Brandt?”

“No.”

“Before your time, perhaps. James Bond was the secret agent star of rather formulaic but enjoyable action films. There was always a colourful villain –” he gestured towards himself – “a defeated sidekick” – he pointed to Frank – “a suave hero” – David

– “and, of course, the delightful Bond girls –” Saskia and Jennifer. “During the finale, certain in the knowledge of Bond’s imminent death, the villain would take time to explain, somewhat lengthily, the ins and outs of his plan. But in the real world, we villains have a schedule.”

He aimed the gun at Saskia’s chest. He pulled the trigger.

She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth and raised her hands.

Something wicked…

Stirred. She heard the grind of ancient machinery, as though the stage upon which the universe itself was built, firmament or dreams, rolled towards a new configuration.

She felt exposed.

The sound faded.

The sensation passed.

…this way comes.

Saskia opened her eyes.

She heard the diminuendo of Jennifer’s scream.

The smell of the gun.

It took her a moment for her mind to recover its balance. The bullet had come and gone. Nobody moved, but Hartfield’s eyes jumped. He looked at Saskia, though not at her eyes. Then he looked at the ceiling, for so long (though it was barely a tick of Saskia’s racing brain) that she followed his blank gaze. There was a small, black hole. Smoking.

He looked at her hand.

So did she.

She had been holding her shoulder bag. Now it was smoking too. Now.

Now grab him now, grab him.

She slipped forward. She watched her body perform. Her wrist struck Hartfield’s own. His hand drooped but retained the gun. Next she moved to his far right, beyond the angle of the weapon if it discharged, and barged him. He was forced onto his weak left leg. Saskia grabbed the gun barrel securely, twisted, and stepped behind him. She pushed him once more and he fell onto his belly, sliding over the tiles until he came to rest alongside David.

“Hello,” David said dryly.

Saskia pointed the gun at Hartfield’s centre mass. “Don’t move.”

His breathing was hard but his expression was sleepy, dead.

Jennifer, David and Saskia shared a moment of victory and fear. Saskia had reversed Hartfield’s threat. But she knew it would not be enough. They needed information. “It’s question time,” she announced.

“Agreed,” David said. “Who’s first?”

“Me,” Hartfield said. He exposed his canine teeth. “Will you let me go for free passage? I own this centre. I guarantee your safety.”

Saskia frowned. “You own it?”

“Yes, and four others. I used to own the West Lothian Centre. Until it was destroyed.”

“Hartfield was out for my blood back in 2003,” David said. “He’s quite the prosecutor when he gets going.”

“Fine,” Saskia said. “I have a deal for you. Answer our questions truthfully and I’ll let you go.”

“I don’t believe you,” he replied.

“Wait,” David said. He fished in his jacket pocket and retrieved his wallet. From that, he pulled out a bank card. Saskia craned closer. No, this was Ego, his personal computer. She had never seen a computer so small. It was as practical as a phone the size of a peanut. “Ego, switch to speaker mode. I want you to analyze my voice stress patterns to see if I am lying. Ready?”

“Ready,” came a tiny voice.

“Hartfield will be set free if he answers our questions truthfully.”

There was a pause. “You are lying.”

David coughed. Saskia said, “Ego, analyse me. I’m the person with the gun. Hartfield will be set free if he answers our concerns truthfully.”

Another pause. “Saskia, you are telling the truth.”

Hartfield began to ease himself upright. At the flick of Saskia’s wrist, he did so slowly. “I believe you,” he said. “And don’t worry, I have no concealed weapons.”

“Empty your pockets,” Jennifer said. She was too close to him and Saskia panicked silently, ready to strike his temple with the gun, but he merely emptied them. He had a set of keys, a wallet similar to David’s and a blue all-sites all-times pass card. Jennifer poked through the pile. “No weapons.”

“Answer my question first,” Saskia said. “You know what it is.”

Hartfield nodded. He paused. She hoped that he wasn’t preparing a story. “There are two sides to any successful business.

The legitimate, public façade, and the illegitimate underbelly. You are part of the latter. The FIB is a real institution, of course. I know because I own it. Your section is known by the codename Munin. In Norse mythology, Odin had two ravens, Munin and Hugin. They would fly out at the beginning of each day and return at dusk with news from the world of Man.” He checked her expression. “I recruited you specifically to deal with the Proctor problem.”

Ego said, “He is telling the truth.”

“Tell us only when he doesn’t,” snapped David. “What, pray, is the Proctor problem?”

“There were reports that the New World computer was back on-line. Further reports