The Saudi said nothing.
‘We know about Joe Hagerman. We know about the Eurostar. All this is for nothing.’
The Saudi’s eyes flicked to the clock on the wall.
‘It’s over,’ said Button. ‘We caught them before they got on to the train.’
The Saudi sagged in his chair. ‘Then let my sister go,’ he said.
‘That’s not my call, Abdal-Jabbaar. It’s out of my hands. They want details. They want names. They want a confession. And this will continue until they get that confession.’
The Arab eyed her suspiciously. ‘How did you find out?’
Button looked at him with a slight smile on her face. ‘We were on to Joe Hagerman,’ she said. ‘The Uddin brothers work for us.’ The lie came easily and she forced herself to smile confidently.
The Arab cursed.
‘You can’t trust anybody,’ said Button. ‘You know that. Hagerman is talking and talking fast. He doesn’t want to be sent to Guantanamo Bay and he knows his only chance is to be prosecuted here.’
The Arab looked up at the plasma screen. ‘Let my sister go,’ he said.
‘Confess,’ said Button.
‘You already know everything,’ said the Arab.
Button looked at the two-way mirror. She could only see her reflection, but she knew that Yokely would be on the phone. She glanced at the clock and prayed they would be in time.
Shepherd ran down the aisle, holding his gun under his pea coat. His ears popped again and he swallowed to equalise the pressure. Frowning faces turned to him, but he ignored them. He had no idea how many more bombers there were or when the deadline was, but he was sure that the explosions would take place in the tunnel because that was where the bombs would do the maximum damage. He looked at his watch as he ran. They had been in the tunnel for eight minutes.
Carriage six was the buffet car. Half a dozen French students were drinking bottled beer. He pushed past and one swore as Shepherd jogged his drinking arm.
Carriage five was the first of the standard-class accommodation. There were two seats on each side of the aisle, while in first class the configuration had been two on one side and single seats on the other. The toilet in carriage five was empty. An overweight man with a walking-stick was blocking the aisle and Shepherd shoved him out of the way. The man waved the stick at him, lost his balance and fell against an American tourist. Shepherd reached the fire door and hit the handle to open it. He pushed through the gap and opened the next. The toilet in carriage four was occupied, but as Shepherd was about to knock on the door an elderly woman came out, apologising in French. Shepherd hurried into the next carriage.
The toilet in the third from the front was empty and Shepherd went through to the second. He stared at the small red oblong in the door. Occupied.
He pressed his ear to it. He couldn’t hear anything. Then a click. Metal against plastic, maybe.
He knocked. ‘Billets, s’il vous plait,’ he said. ‘Tickets, please.’
There was no reaction. He knocked again. ‘Billets, s’il vous plait.’ He pressed his ear to the door. This time there was silence.
Shepherd inserted the key and twisted. It met resistance. Shepherd frowned. Whoever was inside had interfered with the lock.
He took a step back from the door and held the gun with both hands. Time was running out. If the person in there was an ordinary passenger, they would have reacted to his knock. It must be Hagerman. It couldn’t be anyone else. And if it was the American, he’d be in there with his suitcase full of Semtex and the trigger circuit.
Shepherd aimed at the lock. He wasn’t sure how many shots it would take to destroy it. He had slotted in a fresh magazine so he had more than enough rounds – but how far had Hagerman gone in arming his bomb?
He tightened his finger on the trigger. Then he hesitated. If Hagerman had armed the bomb, he would detonate it as soon as Shepherd started shooting. There was no time to shoot out the lock. No time to slide the door open. His only option was to kill Hagerman before he had chance to press the trigger. Shepherd slowly raised the gun. The toilet was a confined space: there were only a few places where Hagerman could be and, more than likely, he was sitting on the toilet. Shepherd had twelve rounds in the magazine. More than enough.
Joe Hagerman was sitting on the toilet, suitcase open on the floor in front of him. He’d inserted the detonator into the Semtex and was attaching the battery when the ticket collector had knocked at the door. He looked at his watch. It was less than a minute before he was due to detonate. He didn’t have time for any interruptions.
He picked up the trigger, took a deep breath and cleared his mind. He had no doubts, no reservations and no regrets. He closed his eyes. There would be no pain. He wouldn’t be aware of the explosion. It would all be over for him the instant he pressed the trigger.
He jumped as a shot rang out. A piece of plastic had been ripped out of the wall in front of his face. There was a small hole in the door. Someone was shooting at him. Something had gone wrong. Something had gone very wrong.
He heard another loud bang, felt a thump in his right shoulder and saw a black hole in his duffel coat. The trigger dropped from his fingers. He felt blood soaking into his chest, then a dull ache.
His peripheral vision started to go and he seemed to be looking down a long tunnel. He bent to grab for the trigger and found himself smiling, even though he knew he was about to die.
Then his head exploded.
Button walked into the observation room, her mascara streaked. Yokely was on his mobile phone. He flashed her a thumbs-up. ‘Absolutely,’ he said, into the phone. ‘As soon as it’s done I’ll get back to you.’
He cut the connection and beamed at Button. ‘Charlie, you were brilliant,’ he said. ‘Absolutely first class. You’re a natural.’
‘The train?’
‘Your man Shepherd came through. It’s safe. What you did in there was superb. You played him like a one-string fiddle. I couldn’t have done it better myself.’
Button wiped her face, then ran damp hands through her hair. She took two steps towards Yokely. The American reached out to her, anticipating a hug, but Button punched him in the face. She felt a surge of satisfaction as the cartilage shattered in his nose and blood spurted over his lips. He staggered back against the table. Without thinking what she was doing, Button kicked him between the legs, hard. Yokely bent over, gasping for breath, blood-flecked hands clasping his groin.
‘You bastard,’ she said. She raised her hand to hit him again, but managed to hold herself in check. ‘You’re not worth it,’ she said, and stalked out of the room.
The female doctor smiled reassuringly at Shepherd. ‘Your colleague will be fine,’ she said. She was French but spoke English with an American accent. ‘He lost a lot of blood and we’ll keep him here for a day or two but there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘Thanks, Doc,’ said Shepherd. Sharpe was lying in bed, bandages round his neck and shoulder. He was pale and weak but he smiled.
Shepherd looked round to see Charlotte Button standing in the doorway. She smiled at him and gave him a small wave.
Shepherd walked over to her. He didn’t want to shake hands with her. He didn’t even want to talk to her. She was wearing a fawn raincoat and carrying a Louis Vuitton shoulder-bag.
‘Is he going to be okay?’ she asked.
‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd.
‘You did good work today, Dan.’
‘Where the hell were you?’ he snarled.
‘It’s complicated,’ she said.
‘No. Quadratic equations are complicated. A boss being there when her team needs her, that’s basic police procedure. Hell, it’s common fucking sense.’
Button’s face hardened. ‘I know you’ve been through a lot today, but I won’t allow you to verbally abuse me, DC Shepherd.’
‘We don’t use ranks,’ said Shepherd coldly. ‘Ever.’
‘You work for me, Dan. I don’t work for you. Remember that.’