Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

‘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.