Red Notice

49

Tom heard a muffled shout. Pressing his ear to the metal, he could make out Sambor’s yell in Russian: ‘Who the fuck was that?’

And Laszlo’s growled response: ‘What does it matter? We continue.’

The sound of heavy magnets being clamped onto the barrier a few seconds later echoed down the tunnel. Tom turned and hobbled towards the safety door, keeping close to the wall, away from the centre of the pressure wave and high-velocity secondary missiles that the imminent detonation would catapult his way.

Moments later, the area behind him erupted. The copper liner charge cut a rectangular hole through the steel as easily as if it were wet paper. The pressure wave jolted Tom’s body and hurled him — his internal organs shuddering, the fillings in his teeth vibrating — through the doorway into the Paris-bound tunnel. Debris rained down, burying him beneath a pile of dust and rubble.

As the ringing in his ears subsided, he began to hear the screams and shouts of the Eurostar passengers. He could also hear Laszlo, Sambor and their men advancing towards the breach in the fire screen, picking their way through the cloud of noxious smoke billowing from the site of the explosion.

Tom was lying in their path. He had to move, and now. One round would be all it took to put an end to his chances of sorting out this nightmare.

He wrenched himself onto his hands and knees and tried to crawl. His legs wouldn’t function. He dug his elbows into the rubble and hauled himself forward. The cover of the nearest carriage seemed to be a lifetime away. But he managed to slide beneath it as a dozen sets of boots pounded past him.

Cutting charges were set on the carriage doors at intervals along the train. Sixty seconds later they, too, detonated. The succession of pressure waves rippled along the tunnels to England and France. They didn’t have anywhere else to go. As Tom struggled to recover, he knew that no one on either side would be in any doubt now that there was more than a fire going on down here.

He watched the insurgents swarm onto the train. The operation was as slick as anything the Blue team could have achieved. The charges guaranteed entry; they also subdued the occupants.

Tom thought only of Delphine. If one of the smouldering doors was hers, she’d be OK. Toilets and luggage racks separated the access points from the passenger seating. She’d be scared, but alive.

Laszlo’s men burst into the carriages, brandishing their suppressed weapons. Panic spread like wildfire.

‘Shut up!’ Laszlo’s voice cut through the bedlam in the forward section. ‘Everyone! Hands on your heads, then heads down. Do it now!’

A man in his thirties, alone in a corner seat, suddenly leaped to his feet and started running down the aisle, away from the guns. The first shots went wide, but well-aimed rounds from Laszlo and Sambor cut him down.

Sambor moved quickly after him and finished him with a single shot to the head. Laszlo paused alongside him as the other passengers tried to process what had just happened. He knew it would be hard for them: no gunfire; no pre-game warm-up; just instant death. It wasn’t the way they’d seen it in the movies.

‘Could he be the one?’

Sambor kicked over the body so that they could have a closer look at his face.

Laszlo looked down. ‘No. No dust residue on him from the detonation. Just another nonentity with no self-control.’

He showed no reaction to the howls around him, but he was pleased. They were getting the message. Fear really did bring compliance.

‘So, you think our hero is still out there?’

‘Perhaps.’

The only thing that mattered to Laszlo was the mission. Once a clear set of objectives had been decided upon, he knew he must never deviate from them, no matter what was thrown at him. Fighting and killing were easy; his mind had processed the why, the when and the how. Laszlo was an intellectual; a professor of the art of conflict. His heart provided the fire; his body was the finely honed instrument with which he forged his vision.

He scanned the carriage. Some of the passengers had obeyed his orders: they kept their heads low. Others, trembling with fright, were still too stunned to react. Speed and aggression were the key. They needed to be gripped instantly. He nodded to his men, and out came the Mace cans. Ten seconds later, the offenders were doubled up, coughing and retching, tears and green mucus decorating their faces.

He was glad they’d dropped the runner. These people needed to know what would happen if they didn’t do exactly what they were told.

The next phase could now begin: herding the passengers towards the front half of the train. They had about four hundred people to control, and they needed to confine them.