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.
‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m assuming he’s in the waiting area. Can you run through the different cameras?’
‘Do you need me for anything?’ asked the uniform.
‘No,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can handle it from here. Can you tell my colleague where I am? And thanks.’
The uniformed cop left the room as the various CCTV pictures flashed on to the screen. With so many people packed into the waiting area, Shepherd needed a minute or so to study the faces on the screen. Once he was satisfied that Hagerman wasn’t in view, he nodded at the operator to switch viewpoints. He spotted Hagerman on the fifth camera, at the end of a row of seats next to a bank of payphones. ‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘Where is it?’
‘At the far end of the waiting area,’ said the operator. ‘Close to the bottom of the escalators.’
‘When do they let the passengers up to the platform?’
‘Fifteen minutes before departure,’ said the operator.
‘I don’t suppose there’s any way of knowing which train the guy’s going to get on, is there?’ asked Shepherd.
‘If you know his name, sure.’
‘That’s the problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘I don’t. At least, I don’t know the name he’s travelling under.’
‘Then you’ll have to wait for him to move,’ said the operator.
Shepherd stood up and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
He phoned Sharpe and arranged to meet him at the security-check area.
‘Get a move on, Razor,’ he said. ‘They’ll be boarding the first train in the next ten minutes.’
The older uniformed cop appeared again – he’d walked Sharpe through Immigration and the security check. Sharpe was holding half a dozen tickets. ‘Where is he?’ he asked.
‘I’ll show you,’ said Shepherd. He thanked the uniformed cop again for his help then took Sharpe to the coffee shop that overlooked the area where Hagerman was sitting. It was called Bonaparte’s. Someone’s attempt at humour, no doubt, but Shepherd wondered how the French felt to be offered coffee in a bar called Bonaparte’s at a station named Waterloo. He ordered two cappuccinos and they sat down.
Sharpe turned casually. ‘I see him,’ he said.
‘Looks tense, doesn’t he?’ said Shepherd.
‘Probably because he’s travelling on a fake passport.’
‘The passport’s genuine, remember,’ said Shepherd, ‘and he’s already gone through Passport Control. He won’t be checked again.’
‘Drugs, maybe?’
‘No one smuggles drugs out of the UK,’ said Shepherd.
The departure of the Brussels train was announced in English and French, and passengers rushed for the escalators.
Hagerman sat where he was, hunched forward, fingers interlinked as he watched the passengers stream up to the platform.
The queue stretched back more than a hundred yards, and most of the passengers were pulling wheeled suitcases or carrying rucksacks. Shepherd and Sharpe were almost the only people without luggage.
The queue had shrunk to just a dozen or so when Hagerman got up. He stretched his arms above his head and rotated his neck. ‘Here we go,’ said Sharpe. ‘I wonder why he’s going to Brussels. Nobody hates the Belgians, not even al-Qaeda. The Belgians never did anything to anyone.’
‘They gave the world Tintin,’ said Shepherd.
‘Yeah, but that’s not worth killing people for, is it?’
‘And salad cream with chips.’
‘Again, a minor transgression,’ said Sharpe.
‘According to Button, he’s al-Qaeda. And al-Qaeda don’t fuck about.’
Hagerman sat down again, this time with his arms folded.
‘There you go,’ said Sharpe. ‘It’s not Brussels. Maybe he’s not a Tintin fan.’
‘It’s got to be Paris, then,’ said Shepherd.
‘Can I smoke in here?’
‘No. The train’s no-smoking, too.’
Eventually all the Brussels passengers had gone up the escalator. More people were coming into the waiting area all the time. Families, students, married couples, businessmen.
Shepherd took out his mobile phone and called Button. Again, he went through to voicemail and swore.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Sharpe.
‘Her phone’s still off.’