Flashback (The Saskia Brandt Series Book Two) Read online

  Please: To the Proctors – or the person reading in lieu of them – if the technology to travel in time has not been lost or suppressed, I request and require that you make all reasonable efforts to rescue me. I claim this as the right of the second person in history to travel in time. To convince a third party for whom my story is unfamiliar, I will outline my circumstances and how I came by them.

  Today, somewhere in Germany, is a little girl no more than five or six years old who will grow up to become the same person who writes this letter. This fact alone makes me sad in a way unique to me.

  There was a hope that the time traveller would arrive in some parallel version of their past.

  This has not happened. There is one world.

  I began this letter with the statement of my name. You should know that my mind is a fusion – I can find no other word – of two people. Some time in the spring of 2023, a woman was convicted of multiple murders. Her name was Ute Schlesinger. This woman was forced to undergo a surgery in which her brain was emptied of all but the deepest structures of her being. Then, a glass bead containing some form of nanoprocessor was implanted near her brain stem. My attempts to identify the source of this nanoprocessing wetware device have come to nothing. It is, I believe, an experimental technology whose existence may not be widely known beyond a few individuals.

  The device contains the identity of a second human being. Through some form of impregnating mesh, it imposes this donor mind on the victim’s brain. It is this donor mind that I, Saskia Brandt, am. It is this donor mind that writes these words. Other than my name, I know little about this mind – little, that is, about myself.

  I ask but my memories do not answer.

  Saskia Brandt was the name given to me by the Föderatives Investigationsbüro, or FIB, upon commencement of my employment (against my will) as a special agent. It was made clear to me that I could leave employment at the FIB only with my death. For this reason, I am wary of strangers here. I have become remote and paranoid. I can only clear my name in 2023.

  This is what I know: In June of 2002, an artificial wormhole opened in the sky above West Lothian, Scotland. That wormhole connected to the underground facility of a secret, US research programme codenamed Project Déjà Vu. I tumbled through that unnatural conduit in the brief time that it was open, though my mission – to stop the billionaire John Hartfield rewriting history to his advantage – was over before it began. He was already dead.

  I want rescue. Failing that, I want help, or some form of connection to 2023. I want to know that I am not forgotten.

  There are, of course, comforts in this period of our history. I am well; I have money. But I am adrift a greater distance than the furthest astronaut. Am I alone? Are there other time travellers?

  I want the Indian summer of 2023 again.

  If you are not the Proctors and have the power to help me, I hope that my statement has convinced you of my sincerity. I have little in the way of hard evidence. The surgical procedure that led to the imposition of the donor personality left me with intact implicit memory – I have a complete martial skill set – but I find it impossible to recall the name of the German Chancellor at the time of my departure, or the US President, or key figures in popular culture. I am aware, too, that any such information, including the list of sporting fixtures with which I intend to finance my exile, could be viewed as a simple forgery by the time you receive this letter.

  But why do I need to send this? David, you were certain that you had seen me, as a woman in her forties, in the year 2023. How certain were you? So certain that you have given me up to a future of waiting for the world to change, to become my future? Ask yourself if your judgement was mistaken and consider whether this is sufficient to abandon my rescue. This belittles me and I know it. Even writing this letter is a risk.

  David, you are the finest man I know. Why haven’t you come for me? Did something happen to you? I remain,

  Yours, in hope,

  Saskia Brandt

  Berlin, 2003

  ~

  Close up, Jem Shaw’s eyes were shadowed and full. She might have crossed a No Man’s Land to reach this door.

  I have crossed one, too, Jem. Twenty years wide.

  ‘Guten Tag,’ said the woman.

  ‘Guten Tag. It’s OK. I speak English.’

  ‘Please, I was told you can help me.’

  Jem’s brother was a lawyer called Danny, and his university roommate had once conducted a romance with a friend of Torsten Wechsler, the son of Rudolf (Rudi) Wechsler. Rudi had moved to West Berlin in the 1970s to avoid national service and now lived above Saskia, where his piano often carried the sombre notes of ‘I call to you, Jesus Christ’.

  Small world, Saskia thought.

  ‘I have time. What can I do to help?’

  Chapter Six

  Munich: the day of the crash

  Cory, known to some as the Ghost, arrived at Munich Airport on the S-Bahn. The carriage was crowded. Cory stood at the rear and listened to the passengers. They discussed nothing but the cause of the turning tower of smoke to the south-west. It was curious, he thought, how stranger now spoke to stranger, as though the crash was a connecting event. He sighed and leaned on his cane. At this, a young woman stood and offered him her seat. Her expression of concern reinforced a truth that Cory tried to avoid these days. He was old. Absurdly old by the standards of these people.

  Cory smiled and shook his head.

  Soon the doors slid wide and he followed the slow spill of passengers and gave himself up to the coloured routes, the cattle-run simplification of the walkways, slopes, and escalators. Dumb posters rolled in their illuminated frames. He kept to the wall. He was happy to stay in the slow lane.

  The Munich Airport Centre was enclosed by a transparent roof. Heavy clouds could be seen beyond. Snow clouds, he guessed. Cory stopped by a tree and considered the windows of a meeting room on the first floor. Through them, he saw a group of men who looked ready to be called to attention. No doubt this was the press conference he wished to attend.

  He recalled the southern gentleman he had once been. Then, keeping his youth in focus, he crossed the atrium.

  ~

  The carpet of the press room was hard and its chairs were modernist twists of plastic. There could be neither echo nor fuss. As the air conditioning whispered around them, fifty journalists took their seats. Conversation ebbed. Phones were muted and stowed. A suited man shared a last murmur with his secretary and assumed the lectern.

  It seemed to Cory, the Ghost, that nobody had noticed his arrival. He remained at the rear: standing, easy on his cane, quiet behind the cub reporters and the veterans. His frostbitten thumb and forefinger drummed the knuckles of his opposite hand. It was a habit that he could trace back years. It did not matter that Cory was sorry. It did not matter at all.

  ‘I am Manfred Straus,’ said the man at the lectern. He spoke in German touched by a Swabian accent, ‘It is with deepest regret Free Flight must confirm the loss of DFU323. The aircraft was travelling on a regularly-scheduled route between Berlin and Munich. All 132 passengers and crew are missing, presumed dead.’

  The metal tip of the Ghost’s cane put zeros in the carpet as he began to pace. His arthritic wrist ached and the frostbite stung. This news confirmed the obvious cause of the turning tower of smoke. Yet he felt no horror. Even now, the Ghost could see patterns in the victims’ statistics: coincidental shoe sizes, birthdays, those strangers who lived only streets apart in a life they would never regain.

  ‘Ground staff lost contact with the aircraft at 8:47 a.m. and communications were never re-established. The local authorities in Regensburg received word of an explosion at 9:21 a.m. Though emergency services arrived at the crash site within minutes, no passengers or crew could be saved.’ He paused. ‘On behalf of the airline, I extend my deepest sympathies and condolences to the families of those touched by this tragedy. Our thoughts and prayers are with you. The Bureau of Aircraft Accidents has di
spatched a team to the site. It is headed by Dr Hrafn Óskarson, who has more than twenty years of experience in accident investigation. He will be assisted by representatives of the American National Transportation Safety Board and Boeing.’

  ‘Can you give us some details on the aircraft?’ asked a British man. ‘Make, and so on?’

  ‘It was a Boeing 737-300,’ said the press officer. His extemporised English was slower than his German, but perfect. ‘The 737-300 uses two wing-mounted turbofan engines produced by CFM International, which is jointly owned by the American company General Electric and SNECMA of France. This type of aircraft has a span of twenty-seven metres, a length of thirty-three metres, and weighs 124,500 tonnes. It can carry 140 passengers. The lost aircraft had eleven years’ active service. It was certified airworthy as little as three months ago.’ He stopped, uncertain of his next words. ‘It was carrying 132 souls.’

  Souls.

  The Ghost let the word find a way through him. Abruptly, he felt those deaths. Perhaps his humanity was not as buried as he had feared – or hoped.

  ‘What about the pilots?’

  ‘The commander, Kurt Weber, had more than three thousand hours’ flight experience with this model of aircraft. He was certified as an instructor. His co-pilot, Rudi Stammler, was his former pupil and had more than five hundred hours’ flight experience. Both men were physically fit and considered exemplary aviators.’

  ‘Was there a distress call?’ asked a red-haired woman.

  The press officer adjusted his notes. The Ghost knew he was playing for time. There was no official line on the transmission. Despite himself, the Ghost felt his interest focus on this disciplined spokesman. How would the distress call be handled?

  ‘I see that none was received by ground staff.’

  ‘Are you certain? Amateur radio enthusiasts reported–’

  The press officer smiled briefly at the woman. In German, he said, ‘We cannot comment on what radio enthusiasts might, or might not, have received.’

  ‘They heard a male voice that they described as ‘agitated’,’ she persisted.

  The press officer laced his fingers. ‘At this stage, nobody can–’

  ‘He spoke a single word. ‘STENDEC’.’

  Heads turned towards her.

  ‘Spelled?’ asked a man.

  ‘We have no comment,’ the press officer said, leaning close to his microphone. ‘However, I would ask that you make your information, and your source, available to Dr Óskarson of the BFU. Next?’

  ‘Please,’ she continued, ‘can you comment on the fact that the last transmission of the pilot corresponds to that of the British South American Airways airliner Star Dust?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘You refuse to comment?’

  The press officer removed his glasses. ‘Frau...?’

  ‘Frau Doktor Birgit Weishaupt, Jump Seat.’

  ‘Frau Doktor, many of us with aviation experience will know the story of the Avro Lancastrian.’ He dropped into English as though it were a lower gear. ‘Now let me be brief. There can be no connection between this morning’s crash and that of an aircraft whose trace left radar screens fifty-five years ago. As a mark of respect for those who died today, I will not discuss such, shall we say, fantastic irrelevancies.’ He stared at the journalist for a moment longer, then replaced his glasses. ‘We have time for one or two further questions.’

  The Ghost felt the attention of the journalists loosen. If DFU323 were still in flight and set to crash, that would be news. But it had crashed already. The story was over, and they would see no fresh angles from this modernist room and its water-tight press officer, who again noticed Dr Weishaupt’s hand, and nodded reluctantly.

  ‘If the flight originated in Berlin and was going to land in Milan, what was it doing over the Bavarian national forest so far to the east?’

  ‘At this stage, we can only speculate. A navigation problem, for example, would be consistent with radio communications failure.’

  ‘Not hijacking?’

  The Ghost looked at his knuckles once more. He was surprised to find himself embarrassed. He could answer every question they had about DFU323, and more, but he was outside this discussion. He was hardly here.

  ‘We do not rule out anything at this stage. That is all.’ He nodded once, and, with that, the conference was complete. The journalists understood and immediately began to talk, to smooth the edges of the story between them. The Ghost lost no time in approaching the spokesman. The man was winding up the power cable for his laptop and had an impatient expression.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m sorry. My name is Hermann Glöder. My grandson was on the flight.’

  The press officer glanced at Cory’s lapel. Seeing no press badge, he frowned.

  ‘Mr Glöder, you should not be here. I am, of course, terribly sorry.’

  ‘I need to know what happened to the boy. I-’

  Cory seemed to choke. As the press officer clapped his shoulder and passed him a handkerchief, Cory leaned on the lectern. There was a white oblong in his hand no larger than a cigarette. It interfaced with a USB socket on the man’s computer.

  ‘I would be happy,’ the press officer continued, ‘to have you taken to the hotel where the relatives are staying. There you will be...’

  Cory pressed the handkerchief against his forehead. He saw computer files flashing by as though they were faces in a passing train.

  ‘... and Dr Óskarson will keep you fully informed of...’

  PassagierlisteDFU323.pdf

  ‘... there are practicalities involved, as I’m sure you understand. Mr Glöder? They have commandeered a local school for the... the remains. I could arrange a chaperone. Here, let me help you stand.’

  Cory interrogated the document for a name. He found it on the third page.

  Passenger 25F: Frau Doktor Saskia Dorfer.

  An address in Wedding, Berlin.

  ‘No, thank you. I will find him.’

  Cory, the Ghost, moved away. There was a quietness in his walk, and even the older journalists stopped talking as he passed through them.

  Chapter Seven

  Berlin, two hours after the crash

  Viewed from the S-Bahn carriage, the low, violet sky above Berlin took Jem back to mornings camping on Dartmoor when she was a teenager - when she was a good girl, outdoorsy and bookish rolled into one. She smelled grass instead of the snug carriage air. She felt the dull, scratched handle of a pot instead of the metal frame of the seat in front of her. I’m looking at your future, Good Girl, she thought, trying to project her thoughts backwards, and it features rain, umbrellas and a metric assload of rye bread.

  Jem took her prepaid mobile phone from her rucksack. She dialled Wolfgang’s number.

  ‘Pick up, you lazy git.’

  He did not answer.

  ‘This is what’s happened,’ she said to his answer machine. Her vernacular was back, and it was a dish she would serve cold for Wolfgang. ‘I’m still in Berlin. Yeah, deal with it. I got as far as the airport, but I had to cut and run. I couldn’t go through with it. I don’t want to play any more. I’ll explain. I’m on my way back to yours.’ She looked at the information board at the front of the carriage. Orange letters slid by, as if on their own business. ‘I’ll take my time. Sleep. I’ll bring croissants.’

  There was no need to think of Saskia. That story had ended. Curiosity: satisfied.

  She twisted her fist around the metal handle of the seat in front. Revved it. Instead of the carriage seat, Jem saw one in the double-decker bus that had taken her to St Maynard’s School. She had once put her teeth on the metal rail just to feel the bus through her skull. The metal had been cold and oddly electric. Jem: hanging onto the bus by her teeth. Her hands in their fingerless gloves. Neeeeow. Her friends laughing.

  And now this.

  ~

  At her changeovers, she loitered on the platforms. She crossed Berlin in long, thoughtful strokes. Zigg
ing one way, zagging the other. She was brittle but cheerful as she turned into Wolfgang’s road. It was raining and paper ribbons fluttered from the low branches of the tree near the launderette. Cars planed through the water. Jem was happy in the puddles. She could handle a doobie-doob-doob around a lamppost and a no-nonsense look from a German policeman. All the while, she worked on the speech she would give Wolfgang. It would make her intentions to leave him clear as crystal. She would fly east. She would watch the Urals pass beneath her aeroplane and move on to her Plan B.

  She stopped in the drizzle.

  There was a man outside the apartment building. He was leaning against the barrier that admitted cars to the rear of the block. His gloves were the colour of midnight arrest and his expensive suit did nothing for the dull impression he made: police from sensible shoes to flat-top military hairdo.

  ‘Well, doobie-doob-doob,’ she whispered.

  He turned to her.

  ‘Wer bist du? Was willst du hier?’

  Jem hesitated. There was a wide pavement between them. She felt the urge to run but knew it would be disastrous.

  ‘Nichts. Ich bin verloren.’

  The man withdrew a pair of glasses and put them on. They were NHS retro, black like his gloves. ‘Are you English?’

  Jem said nothing. She stared. It was natural, she told herself, to distrust him, no matter how guilty she felt.

  ‘Don’t be worried,’ he said, smiling. His age slipped from forty to thirty. ‘I apologise for my manner. It is cold and wet. I am a policeman. My name is Inspector Karel Duczyński. I am employed by the Bundeskriminalamt. I could show you some identification if you come closer.’