Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

‘Yeah, but you’re English, aren’t you? Us English have to stick together.’

‘I’m Scottish,’ said Sharpe. ‘So that pretty much fucks up your theory.’

‘Are you going to keep quiet?’ Shepherd asked the prisoner.

‘Just hit him,’ said Sharpe.

‘Hey, I’m cool as a cucumber in December,’ said the man. ‘I’ll just sit here.’ He held up his shackled wrists. ‘It’s not like I’m going anywhere, is it?’

‘I hear one peep from you and I’ll come back and knock you out,’ said Shepherd.

Shepherd and Sharpe held the guns inside their coats as they left the room. Shepherd pulled the door shut. There was a toilet a couple of paces away. It was unoccupied, and had steel buttons to open and close it.

Near the roof a socket was set into the door. Sharpe pointed at it. ‘The crew will have a key for that,’ he said.

‘Let’s get one, then,’ said Shepherd.

Joe Hagerman put down the lid of the toilet and sat on it. His duffel coat was hanging on the back of the door. He opened the suitcase and piled the contents under the washbasin. A few shirts, a pair of jeans, basic toiletries. An empty case would have aroused suspicion. It had been X-rayed but no one had asked him to open it. The Semtex was spread evenly around the shell and was protected by the plastic lining. It could not be detected by the security scanners.

The door was locked. Hagerman picked up his sponge bag, took out a small can of shaving foam and shoved it between the lock and the door. Now the lock couldn’t be moved.

He ripped open the black plastic-wrapped package to reveal two detonators, a battery, a trigger, a wiring circuit and a screw-driver. He used the screwdriver to prise off the lining of the case.

Shepherd and Sharpe walked into the buffet car. A young man with gelled hair was serving drinks. ‘We need to speak to the chief steward or whoever runs the show,’ said Sharpe, discreetly flashing his warrant card.

The young man picked up a phone on the wall behind him and spoke in rapid French. A couple of minutes later a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a sweeping moustache walked up. Sharpe showed him the warrant card and explained what they wanted.

‘There is a problem?’ asked the man, in heavily accented English.

‘We are looking for someone, and we believe he is hiding in one of the toilets.’

‘Is he dangerous?’

‘We don’t think so,’ lied Shepherd, ‘but we would like to have him in custody before we arrive at the Gare du Nord.’

The man pursed his lips, then shrugged and pulled a small T-shaped key from his jacket pocket. ‘I want it back.’

‘Of course,’ said Shepherd.

‘Do you need any assistance?’

Shepherd smiled confidently. He could feel the Beretta sticking into the small of his back under the pea coat. ‘No, we’ll be fine.’

Shepherd and Sharpe headed to the rear of the train. Now that it was in the tunnel, yellow fire doors had sprung closed between the carriages in addition to the normal doors. They were an extra safety measure but could be opened manually. Shepherd’s ears were popping from the change in pressure as the train hurtled beneath the English Channel.

The toilet in carriage number fourteen was unoccupied, as was the one in fifteen. The doors were different from the first type they’d seen – they had a lever, which had to be pushed to the left to open them while the key was inserted close to it to open the door from outside.

The toilet in carriage sixteen was occupied. Shepherd knocked on the door. ‘Billets, s’il vous plait,’ he shouted. ‘Tickets, please.’

There was no reaction from whoever was inside. Shepherd nodded at Sharpe, who took the key and slotted it into the hole. Sharpe held up three fingers. Then two. Then one. He twisted the key and shoved the door to the left, moving out of the way to give Shepherd a clear view.

Shepherd stepped forward. A man was sitting on the toilet. At first he thought he’d made a mistake but then he saw that the man’s trousers weren’t down and that he was holding something metalic. Shepherd’s finger tightened on the trigger but then he saw that it wasn’t a weapon but a slim metal cylinder. A detonator. The man gaped at him. A hard-shell suitcase lay open at his feet, another detonator inside it. Clothes were piled on the floor under the washbasin.

Shepherd stepped forward and slammed the butt of his pistol hard against the man’s temple. He collapsed without a sound. The detonator clattered to the floor.

‘Get in here and shut the door.’

Sharpe did as he was told. They stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at the unconscious man sprawled on the toilet. Blood trickled down his cheek from the head wound.

‘He’s not Hagerman,’ said Sharpe.

‘I can see that,’ said Shepherd. He bent down and picked up the detonator.

‘What’s that?’ asked Sharpe.

‘The thing that makes bombs go bang,’ said Shepherd. He put it into his pocket, then knelt down to examine the suitcase. The lining had been pulled away. He swore softly.

‘What?’

‘Semtex,’ he said. There was a mess of wires in the case and a nine-volt battery. He studied the circuit. ‘There’s no timer,’ he said. ‘Just a trigger.’

‘Which means?’

‘He was going to detonate himself by pressing it. He was going to go up with it.’ Shepherd picked up the second detonator and straightened up.

‘A suicide-bomber?’

‘We’re in deep shit, Razor. Hagerman is somewhere on the train, and his case is pretty much a match for this one. And there’s the guy who got on at Ashford. If there are no timers, they must be preparing to detonate at the same time. And if there are three bombers, there might be four. Or more.’

‘How did they get the detonators on board? They should have shown up at the security check.’

‘They must have found a way through. The explosives in the suitcases wouldn’t have shown up, but they’ve got the circuit in separately. That’s what he was doing – putting the final touches to it.’ Shepherd looked at his watch. ‘We’re going to have to move, Razor. Tie him up, then we’ll check every toilet on the train. Fast. We’ll do the last two at this end of the train, then we head forward.’

Button stared at the plasma screens. Three were blank. The fourth still showed the woman on the wooden chair. The man behind her was slapping his baseball bat into the palm of his left hand.

The Saudi was still sitting with his back against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. ‘She’s pregnant,’ he whispered.

‘What?’ said Button.

‘My sister. She’s pregnant. Her first child.’

Button’s earpiece crackled. ‘We know,’ said Yokely. ‘Five months.’

‘We know,’ repeated Button. ‘Five months.’

The Saudi sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘You know, and still you let this happen? You’re a woman, how can you do this?’

Button said nothing.

‘Do you have children?’

‘I’m not here to answer your questions.’

The Saudi put his head into his hands and began to cry.

Button sat and watched him. ‘You can end this at any time,’ she said. ‘Just tell us what you were doing in London.’

The door opened and Broken Nose reappeared with a red and white pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a cheap disposable lighter. He put them in front of her, then went to stand with his back to the door. Button yelled at him to get out. He put a hand to his headset, nodded, and left the room.

‘Tell him to look at the screen,’ said Yokely, in her ear.

‘Abdal-Jabbaar, you must look at the screen,’ said Button.

The Saudi kept his head down.

‘Tell him he has to watch,’ said Yokely. ‘If he wants his sister to be raped, the least he can do is watch.’