Red Notice (22 page)

Tom put his mouth right up against Rose’s ear and almost breathed his instruction. ‘Don’t move. Not a sound.’ He repeated the process with Daniel. They both nodded, wide-eyed.

He removed his hands from their mouths and felt around beneath him. His hand closed around a piece of rubble the size of a squash ball. He moved to the far side of the train, eased himself into a semi-crouch, and pulled up his sleeve so the material wouldn’t flap. He drew back his arm.

He unleashed the missile and it flew down towards the UK
end of the tunnel. He couldn’t see where it landed, but knew it was about thirty metres beyond the gunmen. The moment they heard the noise, they turned and broke into a run.

64

LIKE THE HOLDING
area, COBRA was in waiting mode. Someone had suggested that police officers could move into the tunnel and try to establish communications. Alderson had managed to shoot that one down in flames. He’d explained that without tactical support from Hereford to deal with the situation if it went wrong – which was massively likely – it could bring about more civilian deaths.

Sarah Garvey looked at the screen that monitored the progress of the teams to Folkestone, using the same feed as the holding area. ‘Mr Alderson, how long now?’

‘Ten minutes, Home Secretary.’

Her eyes were still fixed on the two fast-moving clusters of call-signs. ‘I want to know what’s happening in that bloody tunnel. I want to know if this lunatic has killed any more passengers, and precisely what those explosions were. Can we not get the CCTV back online? Surely there must be
something
we can do . . .’

‘If I may, Home Secretary . . .?’ Clements leaned forward and lowered his voice to a confidential murmur in a crude effort to conceal from Brookdale what he was about to say. ‘We could simply agree to Antonov’s financial demands, and his request for safe passage.’

‘You’re not serious?’ The home secretary’s confusion was clear for all to see. One minute he wanted Antonov dead, the next . . . ‘You’re suggesting we let him go free? Over my dead body. We’d be a global laughing stock. And so would our long-held policy of zero negotiation.’

Clements lifted a hand. ‘I don’t mean that we actually let him escape. I mean we placate him by apparently giving in to his demands, but only up to the point when the SAS can enter the tunnel or do whatever they need to do to kill him and put this matter to rest.’

Drawn to Clements’s lowered voice, like a vulture to road-kill, Brookdale intervened: ‘Surely it would be wiser to take our time and negotiate a surrender. Keep this the responsibility of the police and MI5. The military option bothers me, and particularly the possibility of it going wrong. What about casualties? I don’t care about the military, of course – that’s what they’re there for. It’s the collateral damage that will impact badly on the government.’

Both Sarah and Clements knew who he really meant.

Brookdale tried to manoeuvre between them. ‘Sarah, the net immigration figures should be published tomorrow. If you recall, we thought we’d smuggle them out on a Friday afternoon once everyone had returned to their constituencies, but I recommended we pull publication after yesterday’s cock-up.

‘I thought it would be best to wait and see where Antonov cropped up next before breaking the news. The numbers do show a most unwelcome increase, and if they were to be announced alongside the revelation that a dangerous foreign terrorist had both entered and left the United Kingdom without being intercepted by our security forces . . .’ he paused, enjoying the limelight ‘. . . well, the opposition wouldn’t be slow to link the two things in a way that would be politically very damaging. They’re already sniffing around, so we need to keep this situation under what control we can. No heroics, no Men in Black and things that go bang. That will do the government a great deal of harm. Negotiated settlement, lots of saved civilians, does us all a power of good.’

His eyes still fixed on Sarah Garvey, Clements shook his head. ‘With respect, Home Secretary, that is not a realistic option. Antonov will never surrender, and you’ll have a situation on your hands that is exactly the opposite of what government wants.’

He treated Brookdale to a full measure of his disdain. His message was simple: he should be leaving this to the grown-ups. ‘Young man, Antonov – and whoever he has down there with him – is a different breed, a world away from what you have ever dealt with. He doesn’t care who won
The X Factor
, or which celebrity is shagging her brother-in-law. He has never tasted sun-dried tomatoes on focaccia. In short, you know nothing, so I suggest you say nothing.’

He turned back to the person who mattered. ‘Home Secretary, no matter what we think of Antonov, we must understand him. He will not surrender so, as I keep suggesting, it would be cleaner if he were killed. If he’s cornered, he won’t hesitate to take as many people with him as he can. And he may well have enough explosives down there to take down the tunnel as well. Just think of the financial implications, quite aside from the PR own goal.

‘Let’s get him out of that tunnel and kill him at the first available opportunity, and live with whatever collateral damage we have to.’

‘That’s easy for you to suggest, Mr Clements. Any more collateral damage might include my political future.’

Back on familiar ground, Brookdale waited one beat too long before jumping in: ‘And that of this government.’

Clements ignored him – he was just background noise. ‘Then with respect, Home Secretary, that’s all the more reason to act decisively
now
. As soon as we have regained communications, let us bring him out into the open and settle this quickly.’

She gave him a baleful stare, then glanced at Brookdale. But the head of communications had suddenly developed shoulders like a Coca-Cola bottle. This would have nothing to do with him. Unless, of course, it was a success.

65

THE INSTANT THE
two gunmen had started running, Tom pulled the children out from under the train, dashed about twenty paces in the opposite direction, then dived back beneath the nearest carriage. Rose and Daniel followed him under. For a moment they clung to each other, like survivors of a shipwreck.

Tom waited for their laboured breathing to subside. He strained to hear any hint of their pursuers’ return. After two minutes, he motioned to the kids to get into crawling mode and continue up the track on their hands and knees.

As they moved closer to the engine, he turned and signalled for them to keep silent. He pointed into the darkness and mimed gunfire: the PKM (belt-fed Kalashnikov machine-gun) position was out there somewhere and he didn’t want to go any further forward. The kids had seen enough dead bodies for one day.

He knew the two guys manning the gun position would be wearing their NVGs to defeat the pitch-darkness of the tunnel ahead of them. He knew they’d be scanning in all directions. And he knew what it would be like behind those masks. All they’d be able to hear was their own breathing, and the gentle whine as the small lithium battery kept the NVGs active.

He guided Rose and Daniel out from under the train and through the mangled green metal door. There were shouts from the other end of the tunnel – no more than weak echoes when they reached them, but Tom still paused momentarily to comfort the kids and keep them as quiet as he could. Soon all other noises were drowned by the sound of something like rainfall, damping down everything but the sickly sweet smell of charred flesh. Tom soon discovered the reason why.

The first thing he saw through the gaping hole that Laszlo’s explosives had blown in the fire screen was an incinerated appliance. The back blast from the detonation must have ignited the wagons. The last of the flames had clearly died long since, but only now were the sprinklers beginning to shut down.

The second thing he saw was a steel ladder, bolted to the wall immediately to his right, leading up to an open hatch, through which he could see wavering torchlight. He ducked back out again. They had to keep moving.

‘Cover your mouths. The smoke will soon be gone, the further along this tunnel we go.’ He hoisted Daniel onto his shoulders and grabbed Rose’s hand. ‘Come on, kids. Time to go and find you some sunlight.’

66

THEY DRAGGED THE
French girl, bruised and bleeding from her scalp, mouth and wrists, along the carriages and threw her to the floor in front of Laszlo.

Sambor nudged her with the toe of his boot, like a curious child with a dead bird. ‘Seems their super-hero is still alive after all,’ he grunted.

‘Are you sure it’s the same man?’ Laszlo thought for a minute. ‘Brother, we have to solve this little problem very quickly indeed, because we’ll be facing another much bigger one before long.’

‘But the SAS shouldn’t even be in Folkestone yet . . .’

‘All the more reason to deal with this man while we still can.’ He knelt down beside the girl. ‘And she is the key that opens the door to him . . .’ He took hold of her hair and yanked her head back far enough to stare into her eyes. He switched from Russian to French. ‘I think it is now time for you to tell me the truth. I need to know exactly what happened back there.’

‘I told you, a man took the children.’ Delphine tried not to show her fear.

Laszlo nodded. ‘And what was he wearing?’

‘A wet suit,’ she said, with a spark of defiance. ‘He was coming out of the toilet.’

Laszlo’s expression didn’t change, but he drew back his fist and punched her hard in the face. She slumped to the floor, trying to clear her head. He dragged her up again.

Blood streamed from her nose and tears filled her eyes. ‘I don’t know . . .’ She was having trouble breathing. ‘It was too dark. I couldn’t see properly.’

Laszlo gave her a contemptuous look. ‘Well, let me make it easier for you then. Was he tall or short, fat or fit, dark or light hair?’

‘I – I don’t know. It all happened so fast. I didn’t see his face. I guess he just looked . . . normal . . .’

Laszlo stood up and seemed to translate to his brother. He turned his attention back to the girl. ‘Tell me about the man who helped you when you were running to the toilet this morning.’

‘What man?’

‘The one who was with you when you had to throw up.’

She shrugged. ‘I felt terrible. He was just some nice guy who offered to help me.’

Laszlo gave a thin smile. He spoke even more softly, but there was no mistaking the menace in his tone. ‘And yet I’m fairly sure I heard you call him Tom . . .’

‘Maybe that was his name. I really can’t remember.’ She gave a hacking cough and spattered blood across the carpet.

‘Why would a stranger help you?’

‘Normal people do things like that for each other.’ She was beginning to regain her composure. ‘Not everyone has to be an arsehole.’

Laszlo chose to ignore the comment. The girl had spirit, and he couldn’t help admiring that. He glanced at Sambor, who was still standing impassively behind her, and nodded.

Moments later, Sambor held up a battered French passport and a mobile phone. Laszlo took the passport and flicked through it. ‘Hmm . . . so, Delphine Prideux . . .’ He nodded at his brother and asked him a question.

Sambor reached into his jacket and brought out a sheaf of closely printed sheets. Studying them intently, he ran an index finger the size of a sausage down each page. As he read them out, Delphine recognized the words ‘Tom’, ‘Thomas’ and ‘Prideux’. Then he repeated the process. ‘Tomas Alvarez . . . Thomas George Buckingham . . . Tom Leary . . .’

The alarm began to sound on Laszlo’s mobile phone. ‘Thirty minutes already.’ He switched off the pealing church bells. ‘As the English say, doesn’t time fly when you’re enjoying yourself?’ A thought struck him as he put Delphine’s passport into his pocket. ‘I’m getting careless. I must be losing my edge.’ He held out his hand to Sambor. He gave Laszlo Delphine’s phone.

Laszlo watched what little colour was left drain from Delphine’s cheeks as he began checking through her call register and texts. He didn’t have to scroll far. A moment later he turned the phone towards her so that she could see the screen. It displayed the most recent message she had received. It read:

Lock door. Lift toilet seat.

The sender ID simply said ‘Tom’.

His hand shot out, grabbed her by the throat and dragged her to her feet. ‘Do you know what those church bells tell me? That the British have failed to meet the deadline for accepting my demands.’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘It’s time to kill another hostage.’

Knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip, he pushed her down the carriage in front of him, towards the driver’s cab.

He stopped at the door, among a crowd of terrified passengers still standing upright, hands on their heads, facing the windows. Some of the older and frailer of them were feeling the strain: their arms, legs and, in one case, whole body were shaking from a combination of fear and the sheer effort of holding the stress position.

Laszlo detected a voice cutting through the mush from the speaker beside the driver’s controls. ‘Ah, they have mastered the technology at last.’ He released his grip on Delphine’s throat and punched her to the floor. Leaving Sambor to stand watch over her, he walked into the driver’s cab, picked up the mic, and kept eye-to-eye with the girl as he spoke.

‘So, who am I talking to now?’

‘My name is James Woolf.’

‘Ah, Mr Woolf . . . We talk at last.’

He had heard about Woolf. Known in the intelligence community as a dogged pursuer, he was the only foreigner who’d actually gone to South Ossetia to find out more about his target. It hadn’t taken long for word to reach Laszlo.

‘Indeed.’

Laszlo was very happy with the shift up the hierarchy from chief constable. So the British had started to get their act together. Not bad for thirty minutes.

‘Well, Mr Woolf, I take it that we have the first element of any negotiation completed. We have a relationship. You know me, and I know you – that is to say, I know
about
you. Whoever else is listening, I don’t know you, and I don’t care to.’