Cold Kill (48 page)

The man with the Zippo walked away from the camera. As Button watched though her fingers, he seemed to be moving in slow motion: each step took an eternity.

‘Don’t let this happen,’ she whispered.

Part of her wanted to believe that everything on the screens had been faked, that Yokely was using special effects to make it look as if the Saudi’s loved ones were being killed. But the shooting of the cousin had been real, she was certain: the look on the boy’s face, the shower of brain matter and blood, the way the body had slumped forward. None of that had been faked. So what was about to happen to the Saudi’s brother was real, too. And Yokely had made her a part of it.

The man in the ski mask reached Abdal-Rahmaan and turned for what Button knew was the Saudi’s last chance.

‘Please tell them,’ she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. She could barely speak. She pressed her hands hard against her face, but was still watching through her fingers: she had to see for herself what happened next, even though she knew the image would stay with her for the rest of her life.

The man in the ski mask grinned and ran the flame round the Arab’s waist. There was a whoosh of blue and the man’s legs were engulfed in flames. He screamed and writhed as the fire spread upwards. He bucked and jerked, and his shrieks got louder and more frantic. Now Button put her hands over her ears. The smoke turned black as the clothing burned, and the screams continued. Even through her hands the sound chilled her blood.

When the body was engulfed in flames from chest to feet, the fire spread further down, inch by inch. The Arab’s screams echoed from the speakers. Button wanted to shout at Yokely to turn off the sound but she knew that even if she did he wouldn’t. This wasn’t about the effect the killing was having on her: what mattered was how the Saudi reacted.

Button knew there was nothing the Saudi could do or say to save his brother now – he had third-degree burns over most of his body. Within seconds his face would be on fire, then his mouth and lungs, and it would all be over. Button was sure she could smell burned flesh and singed hair. She turned to the Saudi. His face was a blank mask, but his cheeks were wet with tears.

The screams stopped and Button looked at the screen. The Arab’s face had bubbled and turned black, the eyeballs had popped, the flesh along his legs had split into red fissures, and thin smoke plumed from the open mouth. Abdal-Rahmaan was dead.

The three men stood behind the body, their arms folded across their chests, feet shoulder width apart, masked heads jutting arrogantly. There was no shame in their stance. Button felt a wave of revulsion wash over her. What Yokely’s men had done was every bit as evil as what the Muslim terrorists did to their hostages in Iraq. There was no difference. No difference at all.

Sharpe followed Shepherd down the swaying train. ‘What exactly are we looking for?’ asked Sharpe.

‘A secure room,’ said Shepherd. ‘If we’re lucky, there’ll be cops on board. We’re going to need all the help we can get.’ The first they tried was in carriage ten. There was no one inside. The Eurostar staff were using it for storage and it was full of bottled water, boxes of fruit and old newspapers.

‘What’s the plan?’ asked Sharpe. ‘Pelt them with oranges?’

Shepherd pulled the door shut and headed on down the corridor. The second secure room was in carriage eight. Shepherd turned the handle and pushed open the door. Two French policemen were sitting in the room, wearing blue shirts with police insignia badges and black trousers, handcuffs and empty holsters on their belts. A teenager with a shaved head and a swastika tattoo on his neck was on the bench seat, handcuffed to metal securing hoops on the wall.

One of the men stood up as Shepherd opened the door. There was just enough room for him to step into the room. Sharpe had to stay in the doorway.

‘Hiya, guys. Do you speak English?’ asked Shepherd. The two policemen looked at him blankly. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘How about this? Nous sommes des police Britanniques. Il y a des terroristes dans le train. On a besoin de vos armes.’

The other cop stood up and scowled at Shepherd. ‘Vous n’avez pas la dégaine de poulets,’ he said.

‘Show him your warrant card, Razor,’ said Shepherd.

Sharpe did so. The cop barely glanced at it. He thrust up his chin and waited for Shepherd to speak.

‘On est bien des flics,’ said Shepherd.

The cop shrugged. ‘Vous pouvez être ce que vous voulez, mais sans nos flingues.’

‘On a juste quelques minutes pour arrêter ces mecs, on a pas le temps pour faire des discours,’ said Shepherd, trying to keep his cool.

‘Y’a pas à discuter,’ said the cop. ‘Nous sommes seuls autorisés à se servir de ces armes, c’est nous. Et on n’a pas l’intention d’y toucher.’

‘Vous ne pouvez pas vous en servir,’ said Shepherd. ‘On est du côté anglais du tunnel, de plus moi je connais ces types mais vous et vous non.’

The cop shook his head. ‘Vous n’utiliserez pas nos flingues.’

‘Je réquisitionne ces armes immédiatement,’ said Shepherd.

‘Allez vous faire foutre!’

‘What’s he saying?’ asked Sharpe.

‘He’s just told us to fuck off.’

‘Maybe he doesn’t understand what we want.’

‘I’m pretty sure he understands perfectly,’ said Shepherd. He shook his head. ‘We don’t have time for this,’ he said. He stepped forward and punched the cop in the solar plexus. The air exploded from the man’s lungs and he doubled over. Shepherd punched him in the side of the head and he slumped back in his seat.

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 plaît,’ 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.