Ilyas parked the hire-car and climbed out. To his left he heard the shouts and screams of children at play. He opened the boot, took out the metal toolbox and placed it on the ground. He pulled out his fluorescent orange jacket and put it on over his overalls, then a woollen hat. He looked around, but no one was paying him any attention.
He closed the boot and walked towards the wire fence that separated the road from the railway lines. A section of fence had fallen down and he stepped over it. It had been in this damaged state for months, but even if it had been repaired he had a pair of wire-cutters in his toolbox. He walked over the strip of wasteland towards the railway lines, then beside the tracks towards Ashford International station. He glanced at the live rail: one touch would kill him instantly.
Ahead, about a hundred yards away, he could see the station platforms. Three and four were for Eurostar trains. Ilyas walked confidently. No CCTV cameras covered the track, but even if he had been observed, Network Rail maintenance workers were always walking up and down it.
He checked his watch. The Eurostar would arrive in two minutes. The timing was perfect, but that was as it should be. The operation had been planned to the smallest detail.
He reached the end of the platform and walked up the ramp. There was a security man at the top, white shirt, black trousers, black tie and black epaulettes on his shoulders, a transceiver in his hand. There was another official at the far end of the platform. They were there to watch over the passengers, so they wouldn’t give a second look to a maintenance worker.
The passengers were allowed down from the holding area eight minutes before the train was due to arrive. They were already lined up along platform three, all watching for the approaching train. Ilyas walked behind them, along platform four; signs marked where the various carriages would be when the train had stopped. The passengers whom Ilyas was there to meet would be waiting for carriages seven and twelve. He didn’t know their names but he had been told the style of their suitcases.
He walked along platform four, out of sight of the two security officials. He saw the passenger with the dark blue hard-shell suitcase and slid his hand into his pocket. He took out the two packages. Each was about eight inches long and two inches wide, wrapped in black plastic. As he passed the passenger he handed them over.
He slipped his hand back into his overalls as he walked. There were two more packages in his pocket.
The train arrived at platform three, its long, low nose coasting by the waiting passengers.
The man waiting opposite carriage seven also had a hard-shell suitcase, but his was dark green. He was looking at Ilyas and nodded almost imperceptibly. As Ilyas passed him, he slipped him the remaining two packages, then walked on, whistling softly. His job was done.
Shepherd frowned as the train came to a halt. ‘I thought it was non-stop,’ he said.
‘Nah – calls at Ashford before it goes into the tunnel,’ said Sharpe, picking at his prawn-couscous starter. ‘It’s only here for a few minutes.’ He gestured at the food. ‘This is horrible.’ He picked up his glass of white wine and drank half of it.
Shepherd gazed out of the window at the passengers lining up to get on to the train. ‘Don’t eat it, then.’
‘Why aren’t you eating?’
‘Because I’m not hungry.’
‘Well, when they bring the steaks round, get one and give it to me.’
Shepherd frowned. A man had just walked from the next platform holding a dark green hard-shell suitcase.
‘Now what?’ said Sharpe, stabbing at a prawn.
The man’s face was familiar, but this time Shepherd knew immediately where he’d seen him before. He picked up his mobile phone and scrolled through the pictures Bingham had sent him. He called up the second and held out the phone to Sharpe. ‘This guy’s just got on to the train.’
‘What?’
‘Another of the guys on Button’s hit list has just got on to the train.’
The fork stopped on the way to Sharpe’s mouth. ‘Shit. What are the odds?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Where?’
‘Up front. A few carriages ahead of us. And he was carrying a case just like Hagerman’s. Different colour but the same style.’
‘Shit,’ said Sharpe.
‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘Deep, deep, shit.’
Charlotte Button flinched as the two men stamped on the Saudi’s feet. The Saudi screamed and she winced as she heard a bone snap. The Saudi went quiet. The two men straightened, breathing heavily.
The Saudi lay perfectly still, curled in the foetal position. ‘Is he all right?’ Button asked.
Scarred Lip put his fingertips against the Saudi’s neck, felt for a pulse, then nodded. Broken Nose unzipped his fly and began to urinate over the bound man. Button gasped. Her nose wrinkled and she put a hand over her mouth.
‘We have the sat link,’ said Yokely, in her earpiece.
The men untied the Saudi and dumped him heavily on the chair.
He groaned and Scarred Lip slapped his face. The sound echoed in the room like a pistol shot. One of the plasma screens flickered into life. The picture was jerky, but clear. It looked like a hotel room – ornate furniture, gilded mirrors, chandeliers.
Two men in dark suits, black ski masks and black leather gloves came into view holding a young man who was wearing a pale blue polo shirt and khaki chinos. He was clearly scared and his mouth was moving, but there was no sound so Button couldn’t hear what he was saying.
The men thrust him into an armchair. One produced a roll of duct tape and wound it around the man and the chair.
Broken Nose grabbed the Saudi’s hair and yanked back his head. Scarred Lip pulled up the Saudi’s eyelids with his thumbs, examined his pupils, and nodded. He was conscious.
‘Please watch the screen, Mr Ahmed,’ said Button.
On the screen the man finished binding the captive to the chair. The Saudi blinked as he tried to focus. ‘Husayn,’ he whispered.
‘That’s right, Mr Ahmed. Your cousin, Husayn bin Musa al-Ghamdi. Currently in Nice. I’m sorry for the lack of sound, but you’ll get the drift of what’s happening.’
On screen, one of the men produced a large automatic and pressed the gun against Husayn’s head.
‘You can’t do this,’ said the Saudi.
‘We can,’ said Button.
‘He is just a boy,’ said the Saudi.
Yokely’s voice crackled in Button’s ear. ‘He’s twenty-two.’
‘He’s twenty-two, Mr Ahmed,’ said Button. ‘He’s a man.’
‘He’s not part of this,’ said the Saudi.
‘Part of what?’ said Yokely, in Button’s ear.
Button glared at the mirror and pulled out her earpiece. She didn’t need Yokely to tell her how to conduct an interrogation. ‘We need to know what you’re doing in London,’ she said. ‘Tell us, and Husayn will be released. You will get your money and your new identity, and we will all move on.’
The Saudi’s eyes were filled with tears. ‘He is just a boy,’ he repeated.
‘Mr Ahmed, I take no pleasure in putting you through this. Tell us what we need to know and it will all be over.’
‘I demand you stop this now,’ said the Saudi, his voice trembling. ‘This is against all international law. Against all human-rights laws. You cannot do this.’
‘We have moved beyond laws, Mr Ahmed,’ Button told him. ‘This is about the survival of our way of life. It’s about the safety of the seven million people living in this city. We put their rights above yours, Mr Ahmed. Now, stop being so silly. Co-operate with us, and we can put an end to it.’
‘You will go to hell for this,’ said the Saudi.
‘I dare say,’ said Button.
She looked at the plasma screen. The boy was shaking but the tape held him tightly to the chair. The gun was just inches from his head. It was a 9mm Beretta 92FS, used by the US Army, the Italian police and armed forces, and the French Gendarmerie Natio
nale. It was a good weapon: she had fired one herself many times in MI5’s underground range. The safety was off. Husayn’s mouth was moving and tears streamed down his face. As Button watched, the gun kicked in the gloved hand. The side of the young man’s head exploded in a shower of brain matter, blood and bone.
Button screamed. ‘No!’ she yelled. Husayn’s mouth locked wide open and blood trickled through his teeth as his head slumped forward. Button whirled round and stared at the mirror. ‘What have you done?’ she screamed. ‘What the fuck have you done?’
Shepherd cursed as once again his call went through to Button’s voicemail. ‘This is unreal,’ he said to Sharpe. ‘What the hell is she playing at?’
‘Phone still off?’
Shepherd scrolled through his call list and phoned Bingham, who answered almost immediately. ‘Dan, everything okay?’ he asked.
‘No, everything is not okay,’ said Shepherd, acidly. ‘Everything is as far from okay as it could get without falling off the edge of the world. Button is still incommunicado.’
‘What do you need?’ asked Bingham.
Shepherd took a deep breath. There was no point in antagonising her number two. ‘We’re pulling out of Ashford station,’ he said. ‘I’ve just recognised another face on the platform from Button’s hit list.’
‘He got on the train?’
‘Yes. And he was carrying a suitcase similar to the one Hagerman had.’
‘I don’t think there’s any need to panic,’ said Bingham. ‘All the luggage—’
‘I’m not panicking,’ interrupted Shepherd. ‘I’m calling in with a sitrep. And the reason I’m doing that is because in ten minutes we’re going to be in the tunnel and I’ll be out of contact so I want to know now what I’m supposed to be doing.’
‘My apologies, Dan. I didn’t mean it to come out that way. I meant to say that we don’t have to worry overmuch, do we? All luggage is scanned before it’s allowed on to the Eurostar, and all the passengers go through metal detectors. There’s no way guns or bombs or even knives can get on the train, is there?’
‘True.’
‘So the most likely scenario is that they’re just travelling together. Which guy is it?’
‘The second one you sent me. I don’t know his name.’
‘Okay. I’ll inform the French. We’ll have them both tailed when they reach Paris. In the meantime carry out a quick recce. Find out if they’re sitting next to each other.’
‘Negative on that. There’s already a woman sitting next to Hagerman.’
‘Okay. But sweep through anyway. See if there’s anyone else you recognise. Whatever happens, call me back before you enter the tunnel. I’ll try to track down Button.’
‘Do you know where she is?’
‘The American embassy.’
‘A bloody cocktail party?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Bingham.
Button’s hands were shaking and she could barely breathe. Her discomfort was intensified by the smug smile on Yokely’s face. ‘You killed him,’ she said.
Yokely shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t. The man who pulled the trigger did.’
‘You ordered it.’
‘Someone had to.’
‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me what you were going to do?’
‘Because I needed your reaction,’ said Yokely.
Button sat down and put her head into her hands. ‘What do you mean?’
Yokely sat opposite her. In the interrogation room, Broken Nose and Scarred Lip had the Saudi on the floor again. Broken nose was squatting on his back, pushing his face to the floor, while Scarred Lip bound his neck to his calves. They were putting him back in the stress position.
‘You were horrified, right? Disgusted?’
Button’s face was screwed up in disbelief. ‘Of course I was horrified!’ she shouted. ‘You had an innocent man killed.’
Yokely put up a hand. ‘Steady, Charlie. We’ve an assignment here, and that assignment is to make the bastard in there tell us everything he knows. Let’s not forget who the enemy is here.’
‘That boy wasn’t the enemy,’ said Button.
‘It was his call, not mine. All he had to do was to talk and that boy would have been released, unharmed. We gave him the choice.’
‘Richard, we can’t go about executing people!’
Yokely smiled amiably. ‘Actually, we do it quite a lot in America.’
‘The boy you had shot wasn’t guilty of anything. You had him killed …’ She was lost for words.
‘Listen to me, Charlie, and listen to me carefully. We are running out of time.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You didn’t see it, did you?’
‘See what?’
Yokely shook his head in mock-reproach. ‘You were too busy looking at the screen, weren’t you?’
Button wanted to swear at the American and tell him not to be so bloody condescending, but she bit her lip.
‘He was looking at the clock,’ said Yokely. ‘His own cousin was about to be killed, but he kept looking at the clock.’
‘There’s a deadline.’
‘Yes. Minutes or hours. Because if it was days he wouldn’t care what time it was.’
‘Oh, Jesus,’ whispered Button. He was right. She’d broken one of the prime rules of an interrogation: always watch the subject’s reactions. Often it wasn’t what they said that gave them away but their body language.
‘I don’t think Jesus is going to help us,’ said Yokely. ‘This is something that’s been left up to us.’
‘Frankly, I’m not sure I can take much more,’ she said.
‘Which is why you have to be in there.’
‘I want a cigarette.’
‘This is a non-smoking building,’ said Yokely. ‘Sorry.’
‘Damn you, I want a cigarette and I want one now!’ she shouted.
Yokely put up his hands to placate her. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll get a pack brought in. What brand?’
‘Any brand,’ hissed Button. She sat down and sipped some water.
Yokely took out his mobile phone and asked for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Whatever you can get.’ He put away the phone. ‘It’s on its way,’ he said. ‘Look, as I said before, we mustn’t get into a competition with this man. He’s as hard as they come, a committed terrorist who’s prepared to die for his cause. He’s not a suicide-bomber – I doubt he believes that seventy-two virgins are waiting for him in heaven and that Allah has a place reserved for him in temples of gold, but he’s prepared to die for what he believes in. If he’s put under pressure by someone who hates him, he’ll react by hardening himself. He’ll make it a point of principle not to give in. But he can see in your eyes the horror of what’s been done to him. He’ll see you empathising, and that will make it much worse for him.’
‘It’s sick,’ said Button.
‘It’s technique,’ said Yokely. ‘If we had more time there’d be other options, but, as I keep reminding you, time is the one thing we don’t have. So I need you in there, showing him that you’re upset by what’s happening, that you’d help if you could but you can’t.’
Button shuddered. ‘How far do we go?’
‘As far as we have to.’
‘You’d kill him?’ She corrected herself: ‘You’d have him killed?’
‘If he dies without telling us anything, we’ll have lost,’ said Yokely.
‘Now you’re the one making it sound like a competition,’ said Button. ‘A game, with winners and losers.’
‘There will be a winner,’ said Yokely. He gestured at the interrogation room. ‘And I’m damned if it’ll be him.’ He put his hand to his earpiece and listened intently. Then he looked at Button. ‘We have a brother,’ he said. ‘They’re setting up the sat link now.’
Button could feel a headache building and rubbed her temples with her fingertips. ‘Who the hell are we to be doing this?’ she whispered.
‘We’re the good guys,�
� said Yokely. ‘And don’t you forget it.’
Joe Hagerman was sitting in a double seat, next to the aisle, facing the rear of the train. A middle-aged Frenchwoman was beside him, snoring softly and smelling of garlic. Hagerman was in a standard-class carriage where any passengers who wanted food or drink had to go to the buffet car in the sixth carriage. He stood up and headed for the rear of the train.
He bought a bottle of water and stood at a circular table, sipping it. He wore a cheap plastic digital watch on his left wrist. Another man was standing at another table, drinking coffee, wearing an identical watch. Two businessmen were at a table close by, drinking red wine and chattering in French, briefcases at their feet. A small queue was forming at the counter as more passengers arrived, eager for refreshments.
Hagerman carried his water across to the man with the coffee, who placed a black plastic-wrapped package on the table, and walked back in the direction of the first-class section. Hagerman slipped the package into the pocket of his duffel coat and went back to his carriage. It would soon be time.
Shepherd hurried back to his seat. Sharpe was starting on his steak. ‘You missed the main courses,’ he said.
‘Hagerman’s not there,’ said Shepherd.
Sharpe put down his knife and fork. ‘What do you mean?’
‘His seat’s empty. The woman’s there, snoring like a chainsaw, but he’s not.’
‘Buffet car?’
‘I had to go through it to get to his carriage. He’s not there and neither is the guy who got on.’
Sharpe frowned. ‘They’re both missing?’
‘They might have decided to go to the toilet at the same time, but it seems like one hell of a coincidence.’
‘What do you think’s going on, Spider?’
Shepherd sat down. ‘I don’t know, but I’ve got a bad feeling,’ he said.
‘They couldn’t be planning something on the train, could they?’
‘All the bags are X-rayed and everyone has to go through the metal detectors. And they can’t hijack the bloody thing, can they?’
‘Poison? Anthrax? Gas? Remember the attack in Tokyo by those religious nutters?’
Cold Kill Page 36