Déjà Vu

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Saskia Brandt emerged from the shadow of the Brandenburg Gate and narrowed her eyes at the evening. The mirrored arches of the Federal Office of Investigation gleamed in front of her. Minutes later, she strode inside. She crossed the inlaid insignia—Ex tabula rasa—and dumped her ceramic revolver in a tray. Huffed. Stepped through the detector and retrieved the gun while the guard folded his arms and made her feel exposed with her hair down, absurd in her casual skirt, short in her flip flops.

‘You should be on holiday,’ he said, smiling.

‘I should be on holiday.’

Ghost-touched by the air conditioning, her sweat dried cold. She entered the lift, which rose on a piston and opened high in the building. Her office was one among dozens. Its plaque read: Frau Kommissarin Brandt. She licked her thumb and squeaked away a plastic shaving from the B. There was a picture alongside the name. It showed a serious, beautiful woman in her late twenties. No make-up. No earring in the exposed, left ear. Many photographs had been taken and Saskia liked this one the least. As always, she scowled at herself before opening the door.

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