Cold Kill (45 page)

‘Probably because he’s travelling on a fake passport.’

‘The passport’s genuine, remember,’ said Shepherd, ‘and he’s already gone through Passport Control. He won’t be checked again.’

‘Drugs, maybe?’

‘No one smuggles drugs out of the UK,’ said Shepherd.

The departure of the Brussels train was announced in English and French, and passengers rushed for the escalators.

Hagerman sat where he was, hunched forward, fingers interlinked as he watched the passengers stream up to the platform.

The queue stretched back more than a hundred yards, and most of the passengers were pulling wheeled suitcases or carrying rucksacks. Shepherd and Sharpe were almost the only people without luggage.

The queue had shrunk to just a dozen or so when Hagerman got up. He stretched his arms above his head and rotated his neck. ‘Here we go,’ said Sharpe. ‘I wonder why he’s going to Brussels. Nobody hates the Belgians, not even al-Qaeda. The Belgians never did anything to anyone.’

‘They gave the world Tintin,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah, but that’s not worth killing people for, is it?’

‘And salad cream with chips.’

‘Again, a minor transgression,’ said Sharpe.

‘According to Button, he’s al-Qaeda. And al-Qaeda don’t fuck about.’

Hagerman sat down again, this time with his arms folded.

‘There you go,’ said Sharpe. ‘It’s not Brussels. Maybe he’s not a Tintin fan.’

‘It’s got to be Paris, then,’ said Shepherd.

‘Can I smoke in here?’

‘No. The train’s no-smoking, too.’

Eventually all the Brussels passengers had gone up the escalator. More people were coming into the waiting area all the time. Families, students, married couples, businessmen.

Shepherd took out his mobile phone and called Button. Again, he went through to voicemail and swore.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Sharpe.

‘Her phone’s still off.’

‘Maybe she’s having her hair done.’

‘She’s supposed to be running the unit and every time I call her the bloody phone’s off. Hargrove was always available. Twenty-four–seven. You needed him, he was there. I’ve met Button twice, and both times she was playing cloak-and-dagger. Tea at the Ritz. Some fake office in the middle of nowhere. It’s a game to her, Razor.’ He phoned Bingham. ‘It’s definitely Paris,’ he said. ‘They’ve finished boarding the Brussels train and the next two are both to Paris. One goes at seventeen oh-nine and I’m betting he’ll be on it. The one after is at seventeen forty-two.’

‘I’ll tell the French,’ said Bingham. ‘Call me as soon as you know for sure which one he’s on. I’ve already sent his details to Europol so they’re ready and waiting.’

Shepherd cut the connection.

‘Fancy a sandwich?’ asked Sharpe.

‘We can get something on the train.’

‘I want something now.’

‘So get something.’

Shepherd toyed with his coffee as Sharpe went off to buy a sandwich. He didn’t bother keeping a close eye on Hagerman. There was only one way to get to the platform and that was up the escalator.

Sharpe came back with his sandwich and a newspaper. Eventually the Tannoy announced the departure of the Paris train. Two Eurostar staff removed the barrier to the escalator and passengers started to head up to the platform.

Hagerman didn’t move.

‘Maybe he’s planning to sleep here,’ said Sharpe.

Shepherd sipped his coffee, which had gone cold. As he put down the cup, Hagerman stood, picked up his suitcase and made for the queue.

‘We’re off,’ said Shepherd. ‘He never wheels it,’ he remarked, almost to himself. ‘What is it with him?’

‘Maybe the wheels are broken,’ said Sharpe.

‘So get a new case,’ said Shepherd. ‘What’s the point of wheels on a suitcase if you don’t use them?’

‘My phone does a hundred things I never use,’ said Sharpe. ‘Technological overkill.’

‘We’re talking wheels on a suitcase, Razor,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s hardly hi-tech.’

Hagerman walked to the end of the queue. ‘So, Paris it is,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll call Bingham. Do you want to find out what carriage he’s in?’

Sharpe stood up and waved the tickets in Shepherd’s face. ‘We’re in first class,’ he said. ‘Whoever Bingham called really put a rocket under those guys.’ He gave one to Shepherd. ‘See you on board.’

Shepherd phoned Bingham. ‘He’s on the seventeen oh-nine.’ He watched as Sharpe joined the end of the queue, a group of American teenagers between him and Hagerman. Sharpe had taken off his coat and slung it over his shoulder.

‘Great,’ said Bingham. ‘I’ve already warned the French but I’ll call them to confirm. You and Sharpe are on the train?’

‘We will be soon,’ said Shepherd. ‘Thanks for clearing the way. The transport cops were being decidedly unhelpful.’

‘No problem,’ said Bingham. ‘I enjoy throwing my weight about occasionally. And SOCA carries a fair bit. Make sure he gets on the train and stays there until Paris. Keep your phone on and I’ll call you to confirm that Europol’s done its bit.’

Shepherd finished his coffee, then joined the queue. He was one of the last passengers to board the train. Sharpe was already in his seat. They were in carriage number eleven. There were eighteen carriages in all, with five standard-class carriages at either end, the first-class section in the middle. Their seats faced each other across a small table. Sharpe was studying a menu. He looked up as Shepherd sat down. ‘They’ve got steak,’ he said.

‘Great,’ said Shepherd.

‘Bingham on the case?’

‘He is, Button isn’t.’

‘Let it go, Spider,’ said Sharpe.

‘Where’s Hagerman?’

‘Second carriage from the front. The cheap seats.’

‘On his own?’

‘There’s a woman next to him but they don’t appear to be together. Relax. He’s not going anywhere for the next three hours and we’re going to be waited on hand and foot.’

‘You don’t get out much, do you?’ said Shepherd.

The Saudi’s eyes were tight shut and his mouth was a straight line. His chest was pulsing as he fought the urge to breathe. Button realised she was holding her own breath as she watched him struggle against the bonds holding him to the plank. She forced herself to relax. How long had his head been under water? A minute? Ninety seconds?

She knew the routine now. She’d watched Scarred Lip and Broken Nose run through the procedure half a dozen times. They submerged his head and waited until he couldn’t hold his breath any longer. The Saudi would open his mouth and suck in water. They’d let him breathe it for two seconds, maybe three, then push down on the plank and lift him out. They’d give him a minute or two to recover, then drop him in again. It didn’t matter how long the Saudi held his breath. They wouldn’t let him up until he’d started drowning.

‘We have the cousin,’ prompted Yokely, in Button’s ear.

The two men torturing the Saudi must have heard the same transmission because they pressed down on the end of the plank. The Saudi’s head came out of the water. He gasped for breath, eyes wide, watery green snot trickling from his nose.

Scarred Lip bent down and untied the webbing straps.

The Saudi choked. His chest heaved in and out and his arms went into spasm. Scarred Lip put his hands under the man’s armpits and yanked him to his feet. Broken Nose slapped him on the back, hard. The Saudi retched and watery vomit sprayed across the floor.

‘Better out than in.’ Broken Nose laughed. It was the first time that Button had heard him speak, and she was surprised by his West Country accent. Bristol, maybe.

The two men seized the Saudi’s arms and dragged him out of the room. Button ran a hand through her hair. She felt emotionally drained by what she’d seen and heard.

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. It had been three weeks since she’d stopped smoking, but she would have given anything for a cigarette.

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.