‘Just a look, madam. It will only take a minute.’
Shepherd put his head against the door. He heard rustling. He motioned for Sharpe to unlock the door.
Sharpe frowned. ‘Are you sure?’ he mouthed.
Shepherd glared at him and gestured for him to use the key.
Sharpe inserted the key, twisted it, and pulled open the door.
The woman was in her twenties, olive-skinned with dark curly hair tied back in a ponytail. ‘What do you think you are doing?’ she asked. She was wearing a pale blue padded body-warmer over a white polo-neck sweater and an ornate crucifix. She stood with her right hand behind the door, her ticket in the left.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Shepherd. He pushed himself away from the door.
‘Don’t you want to see my ticket?’ she said. She held it out.
Sharpe looked at it. ‘That’s fine, madam. Sorry to have bothered you.’
She started to close the door, but there was a mirror above the washbasin and in it Sharpe saw a hard-shell suitcase perched on the toilet. ‘Just a minute, madam,’ he said.
‘Come on, Razor.’ Shepherd was heading for the next carriage.
Sharpe pushed the door, harder. He could see the woman’s clothing on the floor under the washbasin. ‘Spider!’ he shouted.
She took her hand away from the door and it slid to the side. Sharpe lost his balance and cursed. The woman’s right hand appeared, clutching a red-handled screwdriver. She plunged it into Sharpe’s neck and he lurched backwards. She rushed out of the toilet and stabbed him again, this time in the shoulder.
Shepherd whirled round, pulled the gun from his coat and fired once, hitting her in the throat. She staggered back into the toilet, leaving the screwdriver stuck in Sharpe’s shoulder, then fell back against the washbasin, a gurgling sound bubbling from her windpipe. She slumped to the floor and lay still.
Shepherd knelt beside Sharpe.
‘Sorry,’ said Sharpe.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Shepherd. He took a quick look at the neck wound, which was only a small puncture, from which a little blood was seeping, and knew that it wasn’t serious. ‘You’ll be okay,’ he said, then went into the toilet, grabbed a shirt from the woman’s clothing, rolled it up and pressed it to his colleague’s neck. ‘Keep the pressure on,’ he said. Then he opened Sharpe’s coat. His shirt was soaked with blood from the shoulder wound but again there was only minor damage.
He picked up the key and put it into his coat pocket.
‘I’ve got to go, Razor,’ he said, and ran towards the next carriage.
Button closed the door behind her and leaned against the wall. Her heart was racing and she felt as if a steel band had been clamped round her chest. Sweat was trickling down her back. She took out a cigarette and lit it. The marine with the carbine looked at her and she glared at him as she drew the smoke deep into her lungs, then blew it up at the ceiling. She could barely believe what was going on in the room behind her. A man was being tortured and people were being murdered in the name of the war against terrorism. And Yokely had made her part of it. She knew that, no matter how the day ended, she would never be the same again.
She walked into the observation room. Yokely was standing at the two-way mirror, watching the Saudi. He turned to her but she held up a hand. ‘Don’t talk to me,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to hear anything you’ve got to say.’
‘He’ll talk,’ said Yokely. ‘We’re nearly there.’
‘You’ve murdered two people,’ she said. She went to the table and took out her mobile phone. ‘And now you’re threatening to kill a pregnant woman.’
‘He can end it at any time,’ said Yokely.
‘There are going to be repercussions, I promise you that,’ said Button, switching on her phone. She took another drag on her cigarette.
‘First things first,’ said Yokely. ‘I need you back in there.’
‘Screw you.’
‘Charlie, you’ve been seconded to me and you’re to follow my instructions. To the letter.’
Button nodded at the two-way mirror. ‘After what’s been going on in there? I don’t think so. We’re through. And if I get my way, you’re through too.’
Yokely smiled. ‘I think you’ll find that you’re the one who’s through if you walk away now. Why don’t you phone your bosses, see what they say?’ He turned away to stare at the Saudi again.
Button checked her voicemail. The first was from Shepherd, telling her he was at Waterloo. He sounded annoyed. The second was from Bingham, confirming that Hagerman was on the Eurostar and that Sharpe and Shepherd were also on board. The third message was Bingham: he had spoken to Europol and the French were arranging surveillance at the Gare du Nord. The fourth was from her husband. He’d got home to find that the dog had soiled the carpet in the sitting room. It was clear from his tone that he blamed her. The fifth was Bingham again: Shepherd had reported that a second face on her hit list had boarded the train at Ashford International. The man was an Armenian who had fought in Bosnia and had been spotted in Afghanistan fighting with the Mujahideen. The final message was from Bingham again, and this time he sounded worried. Shepherd and Sharpe had lost sight of Hagerman and the Armenian. They had to be on the train somewhere, but what were they doing? Bingham asked Button to phone him back as soon as she could. The train was in the tunnel, so Shepherd and Sharpe would be out of contact for twenty minutes.
Button watched the Saudi as she listened to the final words of Bingham’s message. He was staring up at the plasma screen.
‘The Eurostar,’ she said.
‘What?’ said Yokely.
‘The Eurostar,’ repeated Button, and rushed for the door.
Shepherd kept the gun inside his coat as he walked briskly down the centre aisle of carriage eleven. He went past his seat. Sharpe’s half-eaten steak was still on the table with his wine glass, which had been refilled. The toilets in that carriage were unoccupied.
Two stewardesses were wheeling a trolley down the aisle in carriage ten. Shepherd squeezed past. He pointed back towards the rear of the train.
‘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
