Shepherd pointed at the other policeman. ‘Sit down unless you want the same,’ he said, speaking English this time. The man clearly understood because he obeyed. ‘Where’s the key?’ he asked.
The cop pointed at his unconscious colleague.
‘Your English is getting better by the minute, isn’t it?’ said Shepherd. He leaned over and went through the pockets of the unconscious policeman, found a key and slotted it into the locker. Inside were two 9mm Beretta automatics and four loaded magazines. Shepherd took one of the Berettas and handed it to Sharpe. ‘Don’t shoot yourself in the foot,’ he said. ‘Where are the rifles?’ he asked the Frenchman.
‘We don’t have rifles,’ he said. ‘Just the Berettas.’
Shepherd slotted a magazine into the pistol. ‘Are you ready, Razor?’
‘What’s the plan?’
‘We start at the rear of the train and we go through every carriage. I’m pretty sure they’re in the toilets.’
‘Which means they’ll be locked from the inside.’
Shepherd cursed. Sharpe was right. They could hardly start blasting away at the locks. ‘There must be some way of opening them from the outside?’ he said.
‘Let’s check,’ said Sharpe.
‘We can’t leave him like this,’ said Shepherd, nodding at the seated cop. ‘He’ll scream blue murder as soon as we go.’ He pulled the handcuffs off the belt of the unconscious cop. He handed them to the seated cop and told him to handcuff himself.
‘We could gag him,’ said Sharpe.
‘We could,’ said Shepherd. He punched the cop on the side of the chin and the man slumped in his seat. He grinned at Sharpe. ‘But that’s so much quicker.’ He looked at the prisoner, who had stared open-mouthed from the moment they had opened the door. ‘Am I going to have to hit you too?’ he asked.
The man shook his head. ‘I’m cool, mate,’ he said, in a nasal Liverpudlian accent.
‘You’re British?’
‘Yeah, mate. The fucking Frogs are taking me in on some trumped-up assault charge. Can you let me go, yeah?’
Shepherd stared at him in disbelief. ‘You know we’re cops, right?’
‘Yeah, but you’re English, aren’t you? Us English have to stick together.’
‘I’m Scottish,’ said Sharpe. ‘So that pretty much fucks up your theory.’
‘Are you going to keep quiet?’ Shepherd asked the prisoner.
‘Just hit him,’ said Sharpe.
‘Hey, I’m cool as a cucumber in December,’ said the man. ‘I’ll just sit here.’ He held up his shackled wrists. ‘It’s not like I’m going anywhere, is it?’
‘I hear one peep from you and I’ll come back and knock you out,’ said Shepherd.
Shepherd and Sharpe held the guns inside their coats as they left the room. Shepherd pulled the door shut. There was a toilet a couple of paces away. It was unoccupied, and had steel buttons to open and close it.
Near the roof a socket was set into the door. Sharpe pointed at it. ‘The crew will have a key for that,’ he said.
‘Let’s get one, then,’ said Shepherd.
Joe Hagerman put down the lid of the toilet and sat on it. His duffel coat was hanging on the back of the door. He opened the suitcase and piled the contents under the washbasin. A few shirts, a pair of jeans, basic toiletries. An empty case would have aroused suspicion. It had been X-rayed but no one had asked him to open it. The Semtex was spread evenly around the shell and was protected by the plastic lining. It could not be detected by the security scanners.
The door was locked. Hagerman picked up his sponge bag, took out a small can of shaving foam and shoved it between the lock and the door. Now the lock couldn’t be moved.
He ripped open the black plastic-wrapped package to reveal two detonators, a battery, a trigger, a wiring circuit and a screw-driver. He used the screwdriver to prise off the lining of the case.
Shepherd and Sharpe walked into the buffet car. A young man with gelled hair was serving drinks. ‘We need to speak to the chief steward or whoever runs the show,’ said Sharpe, discreetly flashing his warrant card.
The young man picked up a phone on the wall behind him and spoke in rapid French. A couple of minutes later a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a sweeping moustache walked up. Sharpe showed him the warrant card and explained what they wanted.
‘There is a problem?’ asked the man, in heavily accented English.
‘We are looking for someone, and we believe he is hiding in one of the toilets.’
‘Is he dangerous?’
‘We don’t think so,’ lied Shepherd, ‘but we would like to have him in custody before we arrive at the Gare du Nord.’
The man pursed his lips, then shrugged and pulled a small T-shaped key from his jacket pocket. ‘I want it back.’
‘Of course,’ said Shepherd.
‘Do you need any assistance?’
Shepherd smiled confidently. He could feel the Beretta sticking into the small of his back under the pea coat. ‘No, we’ll be fine.’
Shepherd and Sharpe headed to the rear of the train. Now that it was in the tunnel, yellow fire doors had sprung closed between the carriages in addition to the normal doors. They were an extra safety measure but could be opened manually. Shepherd’s ears were popping from the change in pressure as the train hurtled beneath the English Channel.
The toilet in carriage number fourteen was unoccupied, as was the one in fifteen. The doors were different from the first type they’d seen – they had a lever, which had to be pushed to the left to open them while the key was inserted close to it to open the door from outside.
The toilet in carriage sixteen was occupied. Shepherd knocked on the door. ‘Billets, s’il vous plait,’ he shouted. ‘Tickets, please.’
There was no reaction from whoever was inside. Shepherd nodded at Sharpe, who took the key and slotted it into the hole. Sharpe held up three fingers. Then two. Then one. He twisted the key and shoved the door to the left, moving out of the way to give Shepherd a clear view.
Shepherd stepped forward. A man was sitting on the toilet. At first he thought he’d made a mistake but then he saw that the man’s trousers weren’t down and that he was holding something metalic. Shepherd’s finger tightened on the trigger but then he saw that it wasn’t a weapon but a slim metal cylinder. A detonator. The man gaped at him. A hard-shell suitcase lay open at his feet, another detonator inside it. Clothes were piled on the floor under the washbasin.
Shepherd stepped forward and slammed the butt of his pistol hard against the man’s temple. He collapsed without a sound. The detonator clattered to the floor.
‘Get in here and shut the door.’
Sharpe did as he was told. They stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at the unconscious man sprawled on the toilet. Blood trickled down his cheek from the head wound.
‘He’s not Hagerman,’ said Sharpe.
‘I can see that,’ said Shepherd. He bent down and picked up the detonator.
‘What’s that?’ asked Sharpe.
‘The thing that makes bombs go bang,’ said Shepherd. He put it into his pocket, then knelt down to examine the suitcase. The lining had been pulled away. He swore softly.
‘What?’
‘Semtex,’ he said. There was a mess of wires in the case and a nine-volt battery. He studied the circuit. ‘There’s no timer,’ he said. ‘Just a trigger.’
‘Which means?’
‘He was going to detonate himself by pressing it. He was going to go up with it.’ Shepherd picked up the second detonator and straightened up.
‘A suicide-bomber?’
‘We’re in deep shit, Razor. Hagerman is somewhere on the train, and his case is pretty much a match for this one. And there’s the guy who got on at Ashford. If there are no timers, they must be preparing to detonate at the same time. And if there are three bombers, there might be four. Or more.’
‘How did they get the detonators on board? They should have shown
up at the security check.’
‘They must have found a way through. The explosives in the suitcases wouldn’t have shown up, but they’ve got the circuit in separately. That’s what he was doing – putting the final touches to it.’ Shepherd looked at his watch. ‘We’re going to have to move, Razor. Tie him up, then we’ll check every toilet on the train. Fast. We’ll do the last two at this end of the train, then we head forward.’
Button stared at the plasma screens. Three were blank. The fourth still showed the woman on the wooden chair. The man behind her was slapping his baseball bat into the palm of his left hand.
The Saudi was still sitting with his back against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. ‘She’s pregnant,’ he whispered.
‘What?’ said Button.
‘My sister. She’s pregnant. Her first child.’
Button’s earpiece crackled. ‘We know,’ said Yokely. ‘Five months.’
‘We know,’ repeated Button. ‘Five months.’
The Saudi sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘You know, and still you let this happen? You’re a woman, how can you do this?’
Button said nothing.
‘Do you have children?’
‘I’m not here to answer your questions.’
The Saudi put his head into his hands and began to cry.
Button sat and watched him. ‘You can end this at any time,’ she said. ‘Just tell us what you were doing in London.’
The door opened and Broken Nose reappeared with a red and white pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a cheap disposable lighter. He put them in front of her, then went to stand with his back to the door. Button yelled at him to get out. He put a hand to his headset, nodded, and left the room.
‘Tell him to look at the screen,’ said Yokely, in her ear.
‘Abdal-Jabbaar, you must look at the screen,’ said Button.
The Saudi kept his head down.
‘Tell him he has to watch,’ said Yokely. ‘If he wants his sister to be raped, the least he can do is watch.’
‘No,’ whispered Button.
‘Tell him, Charlie.’
Button swallowed. Her mouth had gone dry. ‘Abdal-Jabbaar, listen to me. You know what they’re going to do. You must co-operate.’
The Saudi glared at her. ‘Do what you have to do,’ he said.
On the screen, two men in ski masks had pulled the Saudi’s sister off the chair and were ripping off the burkha. She was wearing a grey blouse underneath and a long brown skirt. The men ripped those off too until she was standing in her underwear, the swell of her pregnancy pushing over the top of her briefs.
‘Abdal-Jabbaar, you can’t let this happen.’
‘Do what you have to do,’ he repeated.
One of the men had a knife and he used it to cut off the woman’s bra. Her breasts swung free. The men in ski masks were laughing now, taunting her.
Button stood up. ‘I need a break,’ she said.
‘Charlie, we’re on a schedule here,’ said Yokely in her ear.
‘I need a break. It’s either that or I piss myself. Your call.’
Button heard Yokely take a deep breath, then mutter something.
‘I didn’t hear that,’ she said.
‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘Then we continue.’
Button picked up the cigarettes and lighter and walked out of the room.
The toilet in carriage fifteen was still empty as Shepherd and Sharpe made their way from the rear of the train. When they got to number fourteen, a young father was taking his toddler son into the toilet. The one in thirteen was empty, in twelve it was occupied. Shepherd knocked on the door. ‘Billets, s’il vous plait,’ he said. ‘Tickets, please.’
‘Can’t you wait?’ said a woman. She had a central European accent that Shepherd couldn’t place.
‘I’m sorry, madam, can we see your ticket, please?’ said Shepherd.
‘I’m on the toilet,’ said the woman.
‘Just a look, madam. It will only take a minute.’
Shepherd put his head against the door. He heard rustling. He motioned for Sharpe to unlock the door.
Sharpe frowned. ‘Are you sure?’ he mouthed.
Shepherd glared at him and gestured for him to use the key.
Sharpe inserted the key, twisted it, and pulled open the door.
The woman was in her twenties, olive-skinned with dark curly hair tied back in a ponytail. ‘What do you think you are doing?’ she asked. She was wearing a pale blue padded body-warmer over a white polo-neck sweater and an ornate crucifix. She stood with her right hand behind the door, her ticket in the left.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Shepherd. He pushed himself away from the door.
‘Don’t you want to see my ticket?’ she said. She held it out.
Sharpe looked at it. ‘That’s fine, madam. Sorry to have bothered you.’
She started to close the door, but there was a mirror above the washbasin and in it Sharpe saw a hard-shell suitcase perched on the toilet. ‘Just a minute, madam,’ he said.
‘Come on, Razor.’ Shepherd was heading for the next carriage.
Sharpe pushed the door, harder. He could see the woman’s clothing on the floor under the washbasin. ‘Spider!’ he shouted.
She took her hand away from the door and it slid to the side. Sharpe lost his balance and cursed. The woman’s right hand appeared, clutching a red-handled screwdriver. She plunged it into Sharpe’s neck and he lurched backwards. She rushed out of the toilet and stabbed him again, this time in the shoulder.
Shepherd whirled round, pulled the gun from his coat and fired once, hitting her in the throat. She staggered back into the toilet, leaving the screwdriver stuck in Sharpe’s shoulder, then fell back against the washbasin, a gurgling sound bubbling from her windpipe. She slumped to the floor and lay still.
Shepherd knelt beside Sharpe.
‘Sorry,’ said Sharpe.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Shepherd. He took a quick look at the neck wound, which was only a small puncture, from which a little blood was seeping, and knew that it wasn’t serious. ‘You’ll be okay,’ he said, then went into the toilet, grabbed a shirt from the woman’s clothing, rolled it up and pressed it to his colleague’s neck. ‘Keep the pressure on,’ he said. Then he opened Sharpe’s coat. His shirt was soaked with blood from the shoulder wound but again there was only minor damage.
He picked up the key and put it into his coat pocket.
‘I’ve got to go, Razor,’ he said, and ran towards the next carriage.
Button closed the door behind her and leaned against the wall. Her heart was racing and she felt as if a steel band had been clamped round her chest. Sweat was trickling down her back. She took out a cigarette and lit it. The marine with the carbine looked at her and she glared at him as she drew the smoke deep into her lungs, then blew it up at the ceiling. She could barely believe what was going on in the room behind her. A man was being tortured and people were being murdered in the name of the war against terrorism. And Yokely had made her part of it. She knew that, no matter how the day ended, she would never be the same again.
She walked into the observation room. Yokely was standing at the two-way mirror, watching the Saudi. He turned to her but she held up a hand. ‘Don’t talk to me,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to hear anything you’ve got to say.’
‘He’ll talk,’ said Yokely. ‘We’re nearly there.’
‘You’ve murdered two people,’ she said. She went to the table and took out her mobile phone. ‘And now you’re threatening to kill a pregnant woman.’
‘He can end it at any time,’ said Yokely.
‘There are going to be repercussions, I promise you that,’ said Button, switching on her phone. She took another drag on her cigarette.
‘First things first,’ said Yokely. ‘I need you back in there.’
‘Screw you.’
‘Charlie, you’ve been seconded to me and you’re to follow my instructions. To
the letter.’
Button nodded at the two-way mirror. ‘After what’s been going on in there? I don’t think so. We’re through. And if I get my way, you’re through too.’
Yokely smiled. ‘I think you’ll find that you’re the one who’s through if you walk away now. Why don’t you phone your bosses, see what they say?’ He turned away to stare at the Saudi again.
Button checked her voicemail. The first was from Shepherd, telling her he was at Waterloo. He sounded annoyed. The second was from Bingham, confirming that Hagerman was on the Eurostar and that Sharpe and Shepherd were also on board. The third message was Bingham: he had spoken to Europol and the French were arranging surveillance at the Gare du Nord. The fourth was from her husband. He’d got home to find that the dog had soiled the carpet in the sitting room. It was clear from his tone that he blamed her. The fifth was Bingham again: Shepherd had reported that a second face on her hit list had boarded the train at Ashford International. The man was an Armenian who had fought in Bosnia and had been spotted in Afghanistan fighting with the Mujahideen. The final message was from Bingham again, and this time he sounded worried. Shepherd and Sharpe had lost sight of Hagerman and the Armenian. They had to be on the train somewhere, but what were they doing? Bingham asked Button to phone him back as soon as she could. The train was in the tunnel, so Shepherd and Sharpe would be out of contact for twenty minutes.
Button watched the Saudi as she listened to the final words of Bingham’s message. He was staring up at the plasma screen.
‘The Eurostar,’ she said.
‘What?’ said Yokely.
‘The Eurostar,’ repeated Button, and rushed for the door.
Shepherd kept the gun inside his coat as he walked briskly down the centre aisle of carriage eleven. He went past his seat. Sharpe’s half-eaten steak was still on the table with his wine glass, which had been refilled. The toilets in that carriage were unoccupied.
Two stewardesses were wheeling a trolley down the aisle in carriage ten. Shepherd squeezed past. He pointed back towards the rear of the train.
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