Red Notice

30

A black and grey BMW motorbike swung off the Euston Road to the accompaniment of squealing tyres and irate car horns, and roared up to the entrance of the Renaissance Hotel. Tom screeched to a halt and jumped off. Propping the bike on its kick-stand, he threw the keys and his helmet to the valet parking attendant. ‘Tuck that away somewhere, would you, mate?’ he said, pulling a twenty-pound note from his pocket and slapping it into the young man’s palm.

‘You are staying at the hotel, sir?’

‘Sure,’ Tom said, over his shoulder as he made for the door. ‘I’m just checking in now. I’ll let you know the room number in a couple of minutes.’

‘But, sir, no one can ride a bike. Maybe you could…’

Tom wasn’t listening. He disappeared into the hotel lobby. Once inside, he turned immediately right, ran through the bar and out on to the station concourse. The giant clock on the end wall was showing 8:17. He took the steps to the lower level two at a time, picked up his ticket from the self-service machine with the reference number Gavin had texted, almost tearing his hair out at the time it took, then sprinted through the crowd and up to the security barriers.

The security officer gave Tom a suspicious look. ‘No luggage, sir?’ he said.

‘No, just me.’ Tom treated him to his most engaging smile. ‘And I’m running very late for my train, as usual…’

The security officer did not return it. He eyed Tom’s rumpled hair, the sweat on his brow and his bruised and battered face. ‘What happened?’ he said.

‘Training.’ Tom pulled out his MoD ID card. ‘Look, I’ve really got to catch the eight twenty-six.’

‘Sorry,’ the security officer said. ‘That ID won’t get you any favours today. We’ve got an alert on. So… shoes, belt and wallet in the tray… if you’d be so kind.’

Tom shot an agonized glance at the clock: 8:20. He whipped off his shoes and belt, threw them onto the conveyor-belt with his wallet, and walked through the security gate. He stuffed his wallet back into his pocket but kept his belt and shoes in his hand as he passed through French immigration, then sprinted to the escalator in his socks, and ran up it, elbowing a tourist aside.

‘Hey, buddy, what makes you so goddamn important that you can’t take your turn like the rest of us?’

Tom heard the dispatcher give a final blast on his whistle. Ignoring a warning shout, he lunged for the carriage as the door started to close, squeezed through the gap and stood in the lobby, chest heaving. The sweat dripped from his face onto the carpet as the door clunked shut behind him.

A few moments later, the Eurostar began to move. When he’d got his breath back and his kit on, Tom straightened up and scanned the length of the carriage. He spotted Delphine at once, sitting with her back to him and staring out of the window as they emerged from under the great glass roof into the morning sun. Her iPhone lay on the table in front of her. Tom pulled out his mobile and dialled her number as he walked quietly down the aisle.