Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

The Saudi tried to turn his head away but Broken Nose punched him and forced it back.

The man in the ski mask waved at someone out of view. Two more men in ski masks appeared, holding an Arab man in his early thirties. He was struggling but the men holding him were big and powerful and had already bound his wrists behind his back. He was wearing a blue sweatshirt, shorts and training shoes and looked as if he had been jogging when they had taken him. His struggles intensified when he saw the chain but there was nothing he could do.

The two men threw him to the ground and tied one end of the chain round his ankles. The masked man in the bomber jacket pulled at the other end, and all three hauled the Arab into the air feet first. He was screaming in Arabic – Button caught the gist: he was begging for his life.

Button was staring open-mouthed at the screen and moved to stand by the door so that she could see the Saudi. She caught sight of her reflection and was shocked by how pale she was.

The Saudi was muttering under his breath, praying. It wouldn’t help, Button thought. Begging and pleading wouldn’t help. The only way out for the Saudi was a full and immediate confession.

The three men moved out of vision. They must have been tying the free end of the chain to something because they reappeared a few seconds later.

‘Your brother,’ said Button. ‘Abdal-Rahmaan. Servant of the Merciful. Another illustrious name.’

‘I know who it is,’ said the Saudi. He started to cough.

A wet patch appeared at the bound man’s groin.

‘Tell us what you have planned and it ends now,’ said Button.

‘I have nothing to say. I have done nothing wrong.’

The masked man in the bomber jacket walked off screen.

The Arab was begging in English now, his words distorted by the satellite link. ‘I haven’t done anything,’ he sobbed. ‘Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?’

‘Please, Mr Ahmed. You saw what they did to your cousin.’

The Saudi shook his head.

‘They are serious,’ said Button.

‘You think I don’t know that?’

‘You will talk eventually so you might as well talk now and save your brother any further pain.’

‘You will kill him anyway.’

‘That’s not true, Mr Ahmed. You have my word.’

‘You are not in control,’ said the Saudi. ‘You are a pawn. A minion. A dog crawling at the feet of her master.’

On the screen, Bomber Jacket reappeared, holding a red metal can with a black plastic spout. He started to splash its contents over the Arab, who started screaming again.

Button swallowed. She couldn’t drag her eyes away from the screen. Petrol dripped down him, over his face, through his hair and on to the concrete floor.

The Saudi groaned. ‘You cannot do this,’ he said. ‘My brother has done nothing. He works for my father, nothing more.’

‘He has been involved in arms deals for the Saudis,’ said Yokely, in Button’s ear.

‘Abdal-Rahmaan is an arms-dealer,’ said Button, but even as she said it she knew it was no excuse for what they were doing to him. He wasn’t about to be burned alive because he dealt in weapons but because he was related to the Saudi.

‘He is a businessman,’ hissed the Saudi. ‘My brother has never hurt anybody.’

‘No, but you have,’ said Yokely, in Button’s ear.

Button didn’t like the American putting words into her mouth. ‘Tell us what you are planning, Mr Ahmed, and your brother goes free. You go free, too. You have my word.’

‘I am British. You are British. You cannot do this to me,’ said the Saudi. ‘You cannot do this to me in Britain. It’s not allowed.’

Button smiled sadly. ‘We’re not in Britain, Mr Ahmed.’

The Saudi frowned, not understanding.

‘We’re in the basement of the American embassy in Grosvenor Square. You are on American soil.’

The Saudi stared at her. Then he sneered. ‘You are a lapdog of the Americans. Same as your prime minister.’

The Arab had stopped pleading and was breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating.

‘Tell me what you have planned,’ said Button. ‘Tell me, and your brother will be released.’

The Saudi pulled back his face and spat across the room. Bloody phlegm splattered across Button’s face.

Broken Nose stepped forward and stamped on the Saudi’s bare foot, grinding his boot into the flesh. The Saudi shrieked. Button took a handkerchief from her top pocket and calmly wiped her face.

Yokely’s voice crackled in her earpiece. ‘Tell him we have his sister.’

Button’s stomach lurched. But before she could say anything, she saw the Saudi’s eyes dart to the clock. Yokely was right: time was running out. She hardened her heart. ‘Mr Ahmed,’ she said, ‘we have your sister.’

‘What do you mean you can’t find them?’ said Bingham. ‘They can’t have disappeared.’

‘They’re not in any of the carriages,’ said Shepherd. ‘The only place they can be is in the toilets. And if they’ve both gone to the toilets at the same time, there must be something up. I know their luggage has been scanned, but this is too much of a coincidence. And they had similar suitcases. That’s what worries me.’

‘I agree,’ said Bingham. ‘But why did one get on at Waterloo and the other at Ashford? Security is the same at both stations, so it can’t be that.’

Shepherd kept his voice to a low whisper. He didn’t want anyone else in the carriage to hear what he was saying. ‘We were thinking maybe chemical,’ he said.

‘It’s possible,’ said Bingham. ‘Confined space like the tunnel.’

‘Look, I’m going to be in the tunnel in seconds. What do you want me to do?’

‘It’s got to be your call, Dan.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Shepherd.

‘You’re going to have to do whatever you have to do,’ said Bingham. ‘I’ll back you up, I swear.’

‘I’m not armed, you know that?’ The train plunged into the tunnel and the phone buzzed in his ear. The line was dead.

Shepherd put the phone down and looked at Sharpe.

‘Now what?’ said Sharpe.

‘Now it gets interesting,’ said Shepherd.

Button paced up and down in front of the two-way mirror. The Saudi was sobbing quietly, his arms wrapped round his chest. Blood was dribbling from his nose, down his chin and on to the floor between his feet.

‘Mr Ahmed, please… min fadlik.’

The Saudi shuddered. ‘ Hill ’annii,’ he spat. The literal translation was ‘Get out of my sight’, but it was closer to ‘Fuck off’ in meaning.

Button pointed up at the plasma screens. The Saudi’s brother was on the top left screen, still hanging from the girder. On the bottom right screen, a woman in a black burkha sat on a wooden chair, back ramrod straight, hands on her knees. Behind her, a man in a ski mask held a baseball bat.

‘Mr Ahmed, they are your brother and sister,’ said Button. ‘You know what’s going to happen if you continue to refuse to co-operate. Please. It doesn’t have to be like this.’

‘Laa tastatii’ an taf’al dhaalika,’ he said quietly.

‘They can do what they want,’ she said. ‘You must have realised that by now.’

A second man appeared next to the woman. He was also wearing a ski mask. He grabbed the headpiece of the burkha and ripped it off. The woman shrieked and covered her face with her hands.

‘No!’ shouted the Saudi.

The earpiece crackled. ‘Tell him we have a list of all his family and friends. Tell him we’ll-’

Button pulled out the earpiece. She went over to the Saudi and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘You have to talk,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘They’re not going to stop until everyone you love is dead. Do you understand that?’