bags.
By the time the train reached Embankment the carriage was half empty and Shepherd was back in his seat. There was only the dip under the Thames and then they’d be at Waterloo.
The train left Embankment and snaked through the tunnel. There was no sense of what was above them, or even how far below the ground they were. Shepherd disliked all forms of public transport: trains, buses, planes, even taxis. It wasn’t because he was worried about safety – he knew that he was a thousand times safer in the Tube than he was at the wheel of his CRV – it was a matter of control. And he didn’t mind admitting, to Kathy Gift or anyone else, that he preferred to be in control.
As the train slowed on its approach to Waterloo, Shepherd pushed himself out of his seat and stood by the door. He looked to his left and saw Sharpe get up, which meant that Hagerman must be preparing to leave the train.
The train stopped, the doors opened, and Shepherd stepped out onto the platform. He strode confidently towards the exit, following the signs for Eurostar, his coat slung over his shoulder. Sharpe would follow Hagerman, while Shepherd got above ground fast to make contact with their back-up.
He hurried up the escalator, snatched a glance over his shoulder as he reached the top and saw Hagerman. He pushed his ticket into the slot in the barrier, retrieved it and walked through. He took out his phone. Still no signal.
He followed the Eurostar signs to a second escalator that opened out into a coffee shop full of suited businessmen drinking cappuccinos and barking into mobile phones. As he walked into the main Eurostar departure area, the signal returned to his mobile. He called Charlotte Button and went straight through to voicemail. He left a brief message, then phoned Bingham. He sighed with relief when the man answered. At least someone was taking calls. ‘David, it’s Shepherd.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Waterloo. Bear with me a few minutes.’
‘You’re following Hagerman?’
‘He’s right behind me, I hope. I’m at the Eurostar terminal.’
‘He’s on the train?’
‘I’m pretty sure that’s where he’s heading. Wait a minute and I’ll know for certain.’
Shepherd saw Hagerman emerge from the Underground, still carrying the suitcase.
‘Yeah, he’s going on the Eurostar. That’s definite. I have eyeball now.’
‘I’ll phone Europol. Do you know which train?’
Shepherd turned to the departure board. The next train was the 16.39 to Brussels, the one after it the 17.09 to Paris and the next the 17.42 also to Paris. Next to the departure board a huge clock with a yellow hand sweeping off the seconds. There was still thirty minutes before the Brussels train was due to leave. ‘It looks like Brussels, the sixteen thirty-nine, but we won’t know until he’s passed through check-in.’ Sharpe walked out on to the concourse. He’d picked up a newspaper from somewhere and was swishing it as he walked, a businessman in a hurry. ‘As soon as we know for sure we’ll call you.’
‘We? Is Sharpe with you?’
‘Yes. He’s got his warrant card so we’ll be able to get on to the train.’
‘There’s no doubt about this, Dan?’ Shepherd could hear the uncertainty in Bingham’s voice.
Hagerman walked towards the check-in desks.
‘He’s getting ready to board now,’ said Shepherd.
Sharpe went across the concourse, away from Check-in.
‘So this is a straightforward surveillance operation?’ said Bingham. ‘He’s not behaving suspiciously? There’s nothing we should be worried about?’
‘He seems tense, but that might be because of the passport. He doesn’t seem to be concerned about tails, other than the odd glance over his shoulder.’
‘Good work. You and Sharpe follow him over. Stay in touch. The mobiles are only inoperative for the twenty minutes or so that you’re under the Channel. The rest of the time you’ll be able to reach me.’
‘But not Button?’
‘She’s still uncontactable. Sorry.’
‘Yeah, well, “sorry” doesn’t cut it. But that’s for later.’
‘Agreed,’ said Bingham. ‘It’s between you and the boss.’
‘Your boss,’ said Shepherd. ‘Not mine. I’ve got to go.’
Shepherd put away his phone and hurried to the side entrance of the departure area, where Sharpe was talking to two uniformed British Transport Police officers.
‘Everything okay?’ asked Shepherd.
‘This is DC Shepherd,’ said Sharpe. ‘Don’t bother asking for his warrant card because he’s undercover.’
The two uniforms nodded at Shepherd, unsmiling. One was in his late thirties and might have been in the army. The younger man was scrawny with a rash of acne across his forehead.
‘The trains aren’t full so there’s no problem with us getting seats,’ said Sharpe. ‘But I don’t have a passport.’
‘I do,’ said Shepherd. ‘But that shouldn’t be a problem, right? You don’t have to get off the train at the other end. And you didn’t have a passport last time, did you?’
‘The guys I saw last time were more flexible,’ said Sharpe. ‘They let me and Hargrove on with our warrant cards. These jobsworths are insisting on passports.’
‘French territory starts at the mid-way point of the tunnel,’ said the younger of the two policemen, as if he was answering an exam question.
‘Okay, so he can get off when we’re halfway there. Guys, come on. This is important.’
‘There’s nothing we can do,’ said the other cop. ‘It’s not us, it’s Immigration.’
‘Either of you guys know Nick Wright? He’ll vouch for me. We worked together a while back.’
The two men shook their heads. Shepherd could see there was no point in arguing with them. He walked away, pulling his mobile out of his pocket and hitting ‘redial’. He told Bingham what had happened, and Bingham promised to sort it out.
Shepherd went back to the cops. ‘Assuming we can get his passport, we’ll need tickets.’
‘You can show your warrant card,’ said the younger cop.
‘First, I don’t have my card. He just told you that. Second, I don’t want to have to explain myself to ticket inspectors or Immigration officers or anyone else who decides he wants to stick his nose into my business. I want a ticket.’ He nodded at Sharpe. ‘And he wants a ticket. In fact, we want tickets for the next three trains because we still don’t know which one he’s on. And we want them now.’ He nodded at the departure board above the entrance to the boarding area. ‘We’ve got twenty minutes to get on to that train.’
The older cop’s radio crackled and he walked away to talk into his microphone. A few seconds later he was back and nodded at his colleague. ‘Get the tickets now,’ he said. He looked at Shepherd. ‘First or standard?’
‘Whatever,’ said Shepherd.
The younger cop hurried off.
‘Sorry,’ said the older cop. His cheeks were red and he was smiling nervously now.
Bingham must have swung some heavy artillery their way, Shepherd thought. ‘Can you walk me through?’ he asked. ‘We’re still not sure which train he’s on so I want to get eyeball on him before he boards.’ To Sharpe, he said, ‘You follow with the tickets, yeah? I’ll phone you when I know which train.’
The transport cop walked Shepherd through passport control and the security check. The waiting area was packed. Every seat was taken and passengers unable to get seats were standing in groups around their suitcases. Upwards of a thousand people were crammed into an area about a third the size of a football pitch. ‘Where’s the CCTV control room?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Through there,’ said the cop, indicating a grey door with ‘Staff Only’ on it.
‘Can you take me in?’ asked Shepherd.
The cop swiped a card and pushed open the door. Shepherd followed him through. The CCTV room was fully computerised with two men in shirtsleeves in front of large, flat-screen terminals.
‘Guys, sorry to burst in on you. I’m DC Shepherd. I need to find a passenger quickly.’
One of the men pulled over a chair and told him to sit down.
