‘I don’t think Jesus is going to help us,’ said Yokely. ‘This is something that’s been left up to us.’
‘Frankly, I’m not sure I can take much more,’ she said.
‘Which is why you have to be in there.’
‘I want a cigarette.’
‘This is a non-smoking building,’ said Yokely. ‘Sorry.’
‘Damn you, I want a cigarette and I want one now!’ she shouted.
Yokely put up his hands to placate her. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll get a pack brought in. What brand?’
‘Any brand,’ hissed Button. She sat down and sipped some water.
Yokely took out his mobile phone and asked for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Whatever you can get.’ He put away the phone. ‘It’s on its way,’ he said. ‘Look, as I said before, we mustn’t get into a competition with this man. He’s as hard as they come, a committed terrorist who’s prepared to die for his cause. He’s not a suicide-bomber – I doubt he believes that seventy-two virgins are waiting for him in heaven and that Allah has a place reserved for him in temples of gold, but he’s prepared to die for what he believes in. If he’s put under pressure by someone who hates him, he’ll react by hardening himself. He’ll make it a point of principle not to give in. But he can see in your eyes the horror of what’s been done to him. He’ll see you empathising, and that will make it much worse for him.’
‘It’s sick,’ said Button.
‘It’s technique,’ said Yokely. ‘If we had more time there’d be other options, but, as I keep reminding you, time is the one thing we don’t have. So I need you in there, showing him that you’re upset by what’s happening, that you’d help if you could but you can’t.’
Button shuddered. ‘How far do we go?’
‘As far as we have to.’
‘You’d kill him?’ She corrected herself: ‘You’d have him killed?’
‘If he dies without telling us anything, we’ll have lost,’ said Yokely.
‘Now you’re the one making it sound like a competition,’ said Button. ‘A game, with winners and losers.’
‘There will be a winner,’ said Yokely. He gestured at the interrogation room. ‘And I’m damned if it’ll be him.’ He put his hand to his earpiece and listened intently. Then he looked at Button. ‘We have a brother,’ he said. ‘They’re setting up the sat link now.’
Button could feel a headache building and rubbed her temples with her fingertips. ‘Who the hell are we to be doing this?’ she whispered.
‘We’re the good guys,’ said Yokely. ‘And don’t you forget it.’
Joe Hagerman was sitting in a double seat, next to the aisle, facing the rear of the train. A middle-aged Frenchwoman was beside him, snoring softly and smelling of garlic. Hagerman was in a standard-class carriage where any passengers who wanted food or drink had to go to the buffet car in the sixth carriage. He stood up and headed for the rear of the train.
He bought a bottle of water and stood at a circular table, sipping it. He wore a cheap plastic digital watch on his left wrist. Another man was standing at another table, drinking coffee, wearing an identical watch. Two businessmen were at a table close by, drinking red wine and chattering in French, briefcases at their feet. A small queue was forming at the counter as more passengers arrived, eager for refreshments.
Hagerman carried his water across to the man with the coffee, who placed a black plastic-wrapped package on the table, and walked back in the direction of the first-class section. Hagerman slipped the package into the pocket of his duffel coat and went back to his carriage. It would soon be time.
Shepherd hurried back to his seat. Sharpe was starting on his steak. ‘You missed the main courses,’ he said.
‘Hagerman’s not there,’ said Shepherd.
Sharpe put down his knife and fork. ‘What do you mean?’
‘His seat’s empty. The woman’s there, snoring like a chainsaw, but he’s not.’
‘Buffet car?’
‘I had to go through it to get to his carriage. He’s not there and neither is the guy who got on.’
Sharpe frowned. ‘They’re both missing?’
‘They might have decided to go to the toilet at the same time, but it seems like one hell of a coincidence.’
‘What do you think’s going on, Spider?’
Shepherd sat down. ‘I don’t know, but I’ve got a bad feeling,’ he said.
‘They couldn’t be planning something on the train, could they?’
‘All the bags are X-rayed and everyone has to go through the metal detectors. And they can’t hijack the bloody thing, can they?’
‘Poison? Anthrax? Gas? Remember the attack in Tokyo by those religious nutters?’
Shepherd took out his phone. ‘I’ll call Bingham,’ he said.
Scarred Lip untied the webbing from round the Saudi’s neck and tossed it on to the table. Broken Nose helped him to his feet. Button stood by the door, arms folded across her chest, eyes on the plasma screens.
Scarred Lip used a piece of webbing to tie the Saudi’s hands behind his back. His legs buckled and Broken Nose hurried to support him. The two men carried him to the chair and dropped him on to it.
As Button sat down, one of the plasma screens flashed white, then black. A test card appeared. It stayed up for a few seconds and was replaced with a view of what appeared to be the inside of a warehouse or factory. There was a bare concrete floor, prefabricated steel walls and, overhead, a metal roof criss-crossed with girders. Fluorescent lights hung from the girders, and there was a skylight off to the left.
‘Please look at the screen, Mr Ahmed,’ said Button.
Broken Nose grabbed his hair, twisted it savagely and forced him to confront it. The Saudi gasped in pain.
A man appeared on the screen, short and squat in a leather bomber jacket that stretched tight across his shoulders. He was wearing a black ski mask and gloves, and holding a length of chain in his right hand. He threw one end over a girder above his head. Button realised she could hear the chain rattling. This time there was sound.
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?’