Read Flashback (The Saskia Brandt Series Book Two) for Free Online

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