‘A man down there’s been hurt,’ he said. ‘Can you get a first-aid kit, then go and deal with him?’
The women seemed paralysed.
‘Now!’ hissed Shepherd. He hurried along the aisle, pushed open the yellow fire doors and went through to carriage ten, where the toilets were empty. Carriage nine: occupied. Shepherd tapped on the door. ‘Billets, s’il vous plait. Tickets, please.’
The toilet flushed and an elderly man opened the door. Shepherd excused himself and hurried on to the next carriage.
The door to the secure room in carriage eight was still closed. Shepherd didn’t have time to check on the two French cops and their Liverpudlian prisoner. The toilet next to it was unoccupied.
Shepherd went into carriage seven. The train was swaying and he had to steady himself on the headrests as he hurried down the aisle. A group of Indian women were playing cards. Businessmen were tapping away on laptop computers or fiddling with their Palm Pilots. Others were holding mobile phones, waiting impatiently for the signal to return, annoyed that their lifeline to the outside world had been cut.
Shepherd pushed through the doors at the end of the carriage and checked the toilet. Occupied. He knocked on the door. ‘Billets, s’il vous plait. Tickets, please.’
There was no answer. Shepherd pressed his ear to the door. He could hear someone moving inside and knocked again. That the woman had attacked Sharpe with a screwdriver suggested the terrorists had no firearms. ‘Billets, s’il vous plait,’ he repeated. He inserted the key into the lock, took a deep breath, twisted it and pushed open the door. The man was sitting on the toilet, with an open hard-shell suitcase, gaping at Shepherd and showing several gold teeth. It was the man he’d seen at Ashford.
‘Don’t move!’ snapped Shepherd. His eyes flicked to the suitcase: two detonators had been inserted in the body of the case. The wires had been connected to a nine-volt battery and a trigger. There was a screwdriver on the floor.
The man lunged forward. Shepherd realised he was going for the trigger, and fired his weapon twice. A double tap. Two shots to the head. The first entered the man’s left eye and tore off the top of his skull. The second ripped through his mouth, splintering teeth and severing his spine. He pitched forward and fell across the suitcase. The body twitched and was still. Shepherd shut the door and ran towards the next carriage.
Button helped the Saudi to his feet. He could barely walk so she supported him as he staggered to the chair. He slumped down on it, blood trickling from his nose. She gave him a plastic tumbler of water but he threw it away.
Button walked round the table and sat down. She interlinked her fingers and leaned forward. ‘Look at me, Abdal-Jabbaar.’
The Saudi wiped his nose with the back of his hand again. His entire body was shaking.
‘Abdal-Jabbaar, look at me.’
Slowly the Saudi lifted his head.
‘We know everything,’ she said quietly.
The Saudi said nothing.
‘We know about Joe Hagerman. We know about the Eurostar. All this is for nothing.’
The Saudi’s eyes flicked to the clock on the wall.
‘It’s over,’ said Button. ‘We caught them before they got on to the train.’
The Saudi sagged in his chair. ‘Then let my sister go,’ he said.
‘That’s not my call, Abdal-Jabbaar. It’s out of my hands. They want details. They want names. They want a confession. And this will continue until they get that confession.’
The Arab eyed her suspiciously. ‘How did you find out?’
Button looked at him with a slight smile on her face. ‘We were on to Joe Hagerman,’ she said. ‘The Uddin brothers work for us.’ The lie came easily and she forced herself to smile confidently.
The Arab cursed.
‘You can’t trust anybody,’ said Button. ‘You know that. Hagerman is talking and talking fast. He doesn’t want to be sent to Guantanamo Bay and he knows his only chance is to be prosecuted here.’
The Arab looked up at the plasma screen. ‘Let my sister go,’ he said.
‘Confess,’ said Button.
‘You already know everything,’ said the Arab.
Button looked at the two-way mirror. She could only see her reflection, but she knew that Yokely would be on the phone. She glanced at the clock and prayed they would be in time.
Shepherd ran down the aisle, holding his gun under his pea coat. His ears popped again and he swallowed to equalise the pressure. Frowning faces turned to him, but he ignored them. He had no idea how many more bombers there were or when the deadline was, but he was sure that the explosions would take place in the tunnel because that was where the bombs would do the maximum damage. He looked at his watch as he ran. They had been in the tunnel for eight minutes.
Carriage six was the buffet car. Half a dozen French students were drinking bottled beer. He pushed past and one swore as Shepherd jogged his drinking arm.
Carriage five was the first of the standard-class accommodation. There were two seats on each side of the aisle, while in first class the configuration had been two on one side and single seats on the other. The toilet in carriage five was empty. An overweight man with a walking-stick was blocking the aisle and Shepherd shoved him out of the way. The man waved the stick at him, lost his balance and fell against an American tourist. Shepherd reached the fire door and hit the handle to open it. He pushed through the gap and opened the next. The toilet in carriage four was occupied, but as Shepherd was about to knock on the door an elderly woman came out, apologising in French. Shepherd hurried into the next carriage.
The toilet in the third from the front was empty and Shepherd went through to the second. He stared at the small red oblong in the door. Occupied.
He pressed his ear to it. He couldn’t hear anything. Then a click. Metal against plastic, maybe.
He knocked. ‘Billets, s’il vous plait,’ he said. ‘Tickets, please.’
There was no reaction. He knocked again. ‘Billets, s’il vous plait.’ He pressed his ear to the door. This time there was silence.
Shepherd inserted the key and twisted. It met resistance. Shepherd frowned. Whoever was inside had interfered with the lock.
He took a step back from the door and held the gun with both hands. Time was running out. If the person in there was an ordinary passenger, they would have reacted to his knock. It must be Hagerman. It couldn’t be anyone else. And if it was the American, he’d be in there with his suitcase full of Semtex and the trigger circuit.
Shepherd aimed at the lock. He wasn’t sure how many shots it would take to destroy it. He had slotted in a fresh magazine so he had more than enough rounds – but how far had Hagerman gone in arming his bomb?
He tightened his finger on the trigger. Then he hesitated. If Hagerman had armed the bomb, he would detonate it as soon as Shepherd started shooting. There was no time to shoot out the lock. No time to slide the door open. His only option was to kill Hagerman before he had chance to press the trigger. Shepherd slowly raised the gun. The toilet was a confined space: there were only a few places where Hagerman could be and, more than likely, he was sitting on the toilet. Shepherd had twelve rounds in the magazine. More than enough.
Joe Hagerman was sitting on the toilet, suitcase open on the floor in front of him. He’d inserted the detonator into the Semtex and was attaching the battery when the ticket collector had knocked at the door. He looked at his watch. It was less than a minute before he was due to detonate. He didn’t have time for any interruptions.
He picked up the trigger, took a deep breath and cleared his mind. He had no doubts, no reservations and no regrets. He closed his eyes. There would be no pain. He wouldn’t be aware of the explosion. It would all be over for him the instant he pressed the trigger.
He jumped as a shot rang out. A piece of plastic had been ripped out of the wall in front of his face. There was a small hole in the door. Someone was shooting at him. Something had gone wrong. Something had gone very wrong
.
He heard another loud bang, felt a thump in his right shoulder and saw a black hole in his duffel coat. The trigger dropped from his fingers. He felt blood soaking into his chest, then a dull ache.
His peripheral vision started to go and he seemed to be looking down a long tunnel. He bent to grab for the trigger and found himself smiling, even though he knew he was about to die.
Then his head exploded.
Button walked into the observation room, her mascara streaked. Yokely was on his mobile phone. He flashed her a thumbs-up. ‘Absolutely,’ he said, into the phone. ‘As soon as it’s done I’ll get back to you.’
He cut the connection and beamed at Button. ‘Charlie, you were brilliant,’ he said. ‘Absolutely first class. You’re a natural.’
‘The train?’
‘Your man Shepherd came through. It’s safe. What you did in there was superb. You played him like a one-string fiddle. I couldn’t have done it better myself.’
Button wiped her face, then ran damp hands through her hair. She took two steps towards Yokely. The American reached out to her, anticipating a hug, but Button punched him in the face. She felt a surge of satisfaction as the cartilage shattered in his nose and blood spurted over his lips. He staggered back against the table. Without thinking what she was doing, Button kicked him between the legs, hard. Yokely bent over, gasping for breath, blood-flecked hands clasping his groin.
‘You bastard,’ she said. She raised her hand to hit him again, but managed to hold herself in check. ‘You’re not worth it,’ she said, and stalked out of the room.
The female doctor smiled reassuringly at Shepherd. ‘Your colleague will be fine,’ she said. She was French but spoke English with an American accent. ‘He lost a lot of blood and we’ll keep him here for a day or two but there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘Thanks, Doc,’ said Shepherd. Sharpe was lying in bed, bandages round his neck and shoulder. He was pale and weak but he smiled.
Shepherd looked round to see Charlotte Button standing in the doorway. She smiled at him and gave him a small wave.
Shepherd walked over to her. He didn’t want to shake hands with her. He didn’t even want to talk to her. She was wearing a fawn raincoat and carrying a Louis Vuitton shoulder-bag.
‘Is he going to be okay?’ she asked.
‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd.
‘You did good work today, Dan.’
‘Where the hell were you?’ he snarled.
‘It’s complicated,’ she said.
‘No. Quadratic equations are complicated. A boss being there when her team needs her, that’s basic police procedure. Hell, it’s common fucking sense.’
Button’s face hardened. ‘I know you’ve been through a lot today, but I won’t allow you to verbally abuse me, DC Shepherd.’
‘We don’t use ranks,’ said Shepherd coldly. ‘Ever.’
‘You work for me, Dan. I don’t work for you. Remember that.’
‘Yeah, well, that could change,’ said Shepherd. ‘I needed you today.’ He jerked a thumb at Sharpe. ‘He needed you.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting that I’m responsible for what happened to Jimmy.’
‘There were two of us, unarmed, on a train with four suicide-bombers. We should have had back-up. There should have been armed cops with us.’
‘Dan, let’s not start off on the wrong foot.’
He flashed her a tight smile. ‘We’re not dancing here. It’s not a question of right foot or wrong foot. Four terrorists with bombs could have killed a hell of a lot of people on that train, and you had your phone switched off.’
‘I don’t have to justify myself to you,’ said Button. ‘But I can tell you that I was at the American embassy for most of today, interrogating the man who planned the bombs on the Eurostar. And a lot more.’
‘Who is he?’
‘A Saudi. I was involved in his interrogation and I have to say it was pretty fucking unpleasant.’ She smiled thinly. ‘I’ve had a pretty shitty day myself, Dan. But, unlike you, I don’t come out of it covered with glory.’
Shepherd nodded slowly. ‘Okay. You’re right. I wasn’t aware of the big picture.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I need to get home.’
‘I’ve arranged a plane,’ said Button. ‘There’s a car outside that’ll take you to the airport. I’ll stay here and arrange Jimmy’s transport back to the UK.’
‘What’s happened to the Uddin brothers?’
Button looked uncomfortable. ‘They’re out of the picture.’
‘They were arrested?’
‘We took them in, along with their contact in the Passport Agency.’
‘Will I be giving evidence?’
‘There isn’t going to be a trial. Not in the near future, anyway.’
Shepherd frowned. ‘Why not?’
‘They’re being taken to Guantanamo Bay.’
‘What?’
‘They provided passports to Hagerman. The Americans want to know who else they supplied. They’re putting them on a military flight tonight.’
‘They could be questioned here. Why the hell take them to Cuba?’
‘The Americans wanted them, and the way the world is just now, the Americans get what they want.’
‘The brothers probably don’t even know who Hagerman is,’ said Shepherd.
‘I agree,’ said Button.
‘They’re not terrorists.’
‘In which case they’ll be released.’
‘When? After three years? Five? Ten?’
‘When they’ve proved they’re not terrorists.’
‘How do you prove a negative?’ asked Shepherd. ‘They’re just guys who broke the law. Okay, prison here, that’s fair enough, even though we both know of men who’ve done things a thousand times worse and never been behind bars. But they don’t deserve to be clapped in irons and kept in cages.’
‘I’m not the enemy here, Dan.’
‘Then who is? The Yanks?’
‘It’s the way of the world. The Uddins provided terrorists with passports. That puts them in the terrorist camp. It’s like Bush said, you’re either with them or against them. There’s no middle ground any more.’
‘They probably thought they were helping asylum-seekers,’ said Shepherd.
‘So they can explain that.’
‘They shouldn’t have to explain it to military interrogators in Cuba,’ said Shepherd. ‘We made the case. They should be put on trial here and, if they’re found guilty, a judge decides on a fair sentence. That’s their right, laid down by the bloody Magna Carta. The right to a fair trial. And not to be punished until they’ve had one. It’s bugger all to do with the Police and Criminal Evidence Act or the European Court of Human Rights. It’s what our ancestors fought and died for hundreds of years ago.’
‘The world has changed, Dan,’ said Button, quietly.
‘Too bloody right it has.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and patted his shoulder as if she was comforting a bereaved relative.
Shepherd twisted out of her grasp and she flinched as if she’d been struck. ‘It’s okay, I’m not-’ he started to say, but saw from the look of sympathy on her face that explanations weren’t necessary. She understood. But there was nothing she could do. Shepherd walked away without looking back.
When Shepherd got home the house was dark. He went upstairs and opened the door to Liam’s bedroom. His son was fast asleep so he went back downstairs, threw his pea coat on to the sofa and went over to the bookcase. A bottle of Jameson’s stood there and he picked it up. He rarely drank whiskey at home, and never when he was alone. He’d drunk wine with Sue, usually chardonnay or pinot grigio, and usually as a prelude to an early night. The Jameson’s was for visitors, especially Sue’s father, Tom, who was a great fan of Irish whiskey.
Shepherd unscrewed the top and raised the bottle to his lips. He held it there, knowing that what he was doing was out of character. He never used alcohol as a crutch. He’d known
lots of men, in the SAS and the police, who turned to the bottle in times of stress, but he had always found relief in other ways. He put it down. It was time for a run. A long, punishing run. A run that would leave him bone-weary and aching.
He was about to head upstairs when he heard a mobile phone ring – the Tony Corke phone in the pea coat. He bent down and fished it out. The call was coming from a blocked number. Shepherd accepted it and put it to his ear.
‘It’s Richard,’ said an American voice. Shepherd knew only one American called Richard. And only one American who would have the technical expertise to get hold of the number of the pay-as-you-go mobile.
‘Yes,’ said Shepherd. Yokely was the last person he wanted to talk to.
‘I just called to say congratulations,’ said Yokely.
‘Congratulations?’ Shepherd knew what he was alluding to, but he could feel resentment and hostility building in him with each second that the man was on the line.
‘The Eurostar,’ said Yokely. ‘You saved the day, I’m told.’
‘I had help,’ said Shepherd. ‘A colleague was with me. He was stabbed.’
‘But you took care of all four of the bastards, didn’t you? Even left us with one to question.’
‘Jimmy’s fine, thanks for asking,’ said Shepherd, frostily. ‘Nearly bled to death, but, hey, plenty more cops where he came from, right?’
‘Dan, you did what needed doing. You neutralised a threat. God damn it, you saved more than seven hundred lives today. I assumed you’d be pleased, basking in the glory and all that.’
‘I killed three people,’ said Shepherd. ‘Two men and a woman who were prepared to die for their beliefs.’
‘Exactly,’ said the American.
‘You don’t get it, do you?’ asked Shepherd.
‘I get it, Dan. You went up against four hardened terrorists and you won. And you even managed to do it all on the British side of the tunnel so that the French can’t try to fuck things up for us.’
‘Why do you people always talk as if it were a game?’ said Shepherd. ‘It wasn’t a bloody game and I didn’t win anything.’
‘Yes, you did. If they’d succeeded, seven hundred innocent men, women and children would have died today. Civilians who were just going about their daily lives. Innocents, Dan. And they’re alive because of you. Because of what you did. You should be proud.’
Cold Kill dss-3 Page 39
