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.
The man’s face was familiar, but this time Shepherd knew immediately where he’d seen him before. He picked up his mobile phone and scrolled through the pictures Bingham had sent him. He called up the second and held out the phone to Sharpe. ‘This guy’s just got on to the train.’
‘What?’
‘Another of the guys on Button’s hit list has just got on to the train.’
The fork stopped on the way to Sharpe’s mouth. ‘Shit. What are the odds?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Where?’
‘Up front. A few carriages ahead of us. And he was carrying a case just like Hagerman’s. Different colour but the same style.’
‘Shit,’ said Sharpe.
‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘Deep, deep, shit.’
Charlotte Button flinched as the two men stamped on the Saudi’s feet. The Saudi screamed and she winced as she heard a bone snap. The Saudi went quiet. The two men straightened, breathing heavily.
The Saudi lay perfectly still, curled in the foetal position. ‘Is he all right?’ Button asked.
Scarred Lip put his fingertips against the Saudi’s neck, felt for a pulse, then nodded. Broken Nose unzipped his fly and began to urinate over the bound man. Button gasped. Her nose wrinkled and she put a hand over her mouth.
‘We have the sat link,’ said Yokely, in her earpiece.
The men untied the Saudi and dumped him heavily on the chair.
He groaned and Scarred Lip slapped his face. The sound echoed in the room like a pistol shot. One of the plasma screens flickered into life. The picture was jerky, but clear. It looked like a hotel room – ornate furniture, gilded mirrors, chandeliers.
Two men in dark suits, black ski masks and black leather gloves came into view holding a young man who was wearing a pale blue polo shirt and khaki chinos. He was clearly scared and his mouth was moving, but there was no sound so Button couldn’t hear what he was saying.
The men thrust him into an armchair. One produced a roll of duct tape and wound it around the man and the chair.
Broken Nose grabbed the Saudi’s hair and yanked back his head. Scarred Lip pulled up the Saudi’s eyelids with his thumbs, examined his pupils, and nodded. He was conscious.
‘Please watch the screen, Mr Ahmed,’ said Button.
On the screen the man finished binding the captive to the chair. The Saudi blinked as he tried to focus. ‘Husayn,’ he whispered.
‘That’s right, Mr Ahmed. Your cousin, Husayn bin Musa al-Ghamdi. Currently in Nice. I’m sorry for the lack of sound, but you’ll get the drift of what’s happening.’
On screen, one of the men produced a large automatic and pressed the gun against Husayn’s head.
‘You can’t do this,’ said the Saudi.
‘We can,’ said Button.
‘He is just a boy,’ said the Saudi.
Yokely’s voice crackled in Button’s ear. ‘He’s twenty-two.’
‘He’s twenty-two, Mr Ahmed,’ said Button. ‘He’s a man.’
‘He’s not part of this,’ said the Saudi.
‘Part of what?’ said Yokely, in Button’s ear.
Button glared at the mirror and pulled out her earpiece. She didn’t need Yokely to tell her how to conduct an interrogation. ‘We need to know what you’re doing in London,’ she said. ‘Tell us, and Husayn will be released. You will get your money and your new identity, and we will all move on.’
The Saudi’s eyes were filled with tears. ‘He is just a boy,’ he repeated.
‘Mr Ahmed, I take no pleasure in putting you through this. Tell us what we need to know and it will all be over.’
‘I demand you stop this now,’ said the Saudi, his voice trembling. ‘This is against all international law. Against all human-rights laws. You cannot do this.’
‘We have moved beyond laws, Mr Ahmed,’ Button told him. ‘This is about the survival of our way of life. It’s about the safety of the seven million people living in this city. We put their rights above yours, Mr Ahmed. Now, stop being so silly. Co-operate with us, and we can put an end to it.’
‘You will go to hell for this,’ said the Saudi.
‘I dare say,’ said Button.
She looked at the plasma screen. The boy was shaking but the tape held him tightly to the chair. The gun was just inches from his head. It was a 9mm Beretta 92FS, used by the US Army, the Italian police and armed forces, and the French Gendarmerie Nationale. It was a good weapon: she had fired one herself many times in MI5’s underground range. The safety was off. Husayn’s mouth was moving and tears streamed down his face. As Button watched, the gun kicked in the gloved hand. The side of the young man’s head exploded in a shower of brain matter, blood and bone.
Button screamed. ‘No!’ she yelled. Husayn’s mouth locked wide open and blood trickled through his teeth as his head slumped forward. Button whirled round and stared at the mirror. ‘What have you done?’ she screamed. ‘What the fuck have you done?’
Shepherd cursed as once again his call went through to Button’s voicemail. ‘This is unreal,’ he said to Sharpe. ‘What the hell is she playing at?’