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 May of 2003, 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,
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 dispatched 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.’