Red Notice

51

While their men secured the passengers and herded them through the train, Laszlo and Sambor stormed the driver’s compartment. Laszlo issued his commands in a brisk monotone. ‘Get on the floor. Put your hands behind your backs. And now stay absolutely still or we will kill you.’ He knew that people generally couldn’t control their fear: they needed his control because they had lost all sense of their own.

The driver proved not to be as stupid as Laszlo had assumed. He slid out of his driving seat like oil and lay flat on the floor, face down. He didn’t move a muscle. Sambor zip-tied his wrists and ankles while Laszlo picked up his radio mic. He knew that Folkestone control centre would be standing by, desperate to know what was happening in the tunnel.

To begin with, he just heard breathing.

When he spoke, it was slowly and deliberately, in perfect, slightly accented English. ‘My name is Laszlo Antonov. And I have complete control of this train and all its passengers. What happens to them next depends on the nature of your response. Now, put me in contact with whoever is in command of incident control.’

It was pointless dealing with anyone else. He knew how the system worked.

‘Sorry…’ The voice at the other end of the line was barely more than a squeak. ‘You said Laszlo Anton—’

‘Listen to me, young man. I want to talk to whoever will be liaising with COBRA. They know who I am. They know I am on this train. Just do what I say, and do it now. If you don’t know what COBRA is, go and find someone who does.’

He listened in silence to the panic-stricken rambling of the Eurostar employee.

COBRA?

He knew nothing about the police arriving to seal off the tunnel.

He knew nothing about the SAS taking over their holding area.

But why would he? Everything had happened in less than an hour.

The idiot knew nothing, apart from the fact that the fire alarms had been triggered and the French were dealing with it. And that they were holding all movement on the UK side. The tunnel’s entire CCTV system was down, and now the Eurostar crew were reporting explosions — explosions on the train. He’d thought he was dealing with a small fire, not a hijack and hostage emergency…

Out of his depth and thrust suddenly into a situation that was well beyond his pay grade, he began to stumble through a response, in a strange, robotic tone that suggested he was reading from a handbook or a What to do when the shit hits the fan instruction sheet. ‘I… er… I need to establish the… er… circumstances… of this incident… before I can make a judgement on the… correct response…’

Laszlo remained the personification of cool. He’d been expecting something like this. Most organizations carried out paper exercises to deal with a crisis. But, as the 7/7 bombings had demonstrated, when it came to the real thing, people reacted very differently. For Laszlo, this was a good thing. It provided an opportunity to take command of the situation, and to demonstrate that whatever threats he made, he would carry them out. ‘Then you, young man, have just killed the first hostage.’

He looked back along the carriage and pointed to a harassed blonde doing her best to comfort her two young children. The pretty French girl he’d seen at St Pancras reached out to protect the woman, but Sambor swept her aside. He grabbed the blonde’s arm and dragged her away. As he began to shove her up the aisle, the kids burst into tears.

‘Please,’ the woman begged. ‘My children…’

Laszlo inclined his head. ‘Sure, why not? Bring them too.’ There was no warmth in his smile.

Sambor gathered up the three of them. Laszlo held out the open radio mic with one hand, and rested the barrel of his sub-machine-gun across his forearm, pointing at the two children.

He turned his ice-cold stare back to the mother. ‘Choose,’ he said. His eyes darted between them. ‘Which one?’

She stared at him uncomprehendingly. It was a moment before she realized his meaning. Then her legs buckled beneath her and she sank to the floor. ‘Please, I beg you.’ She clasped her hands together, pleading. ‘They’re only… babies… Please, please… take me instead…’

Laszlo held the microphone by her face and looked down at her in silence.

She sobbed and implored as the seconds ticked by.

‘Very well.’ He swung his barrel towards her.

She turned to her children and her hair caught in the muzzle, as if trying to reach out and stop what was about to happen. ‘I love you both so very—’

Laszlo pulled the trigger. The bullet struck her in the top of the head. Her body slumped, leaving a few strands of hair wrapped around the weapon’s foresight. As he swung the sub-machine-gun away they fluttered gently to the floor.

The carriage was completely silent. The little boy’s eyes widened in disbelief. Then his sister gave a heartrending cry. She sank to her knees alongside their mother, trying to cradle her in her arms.

The boy remained as still as a statue, struck dumb with shock, staring at the muzzle of the gun that had killed his mother.

Laszlo brought the microphone back to his mouth. ‘If I do not hear from someone authorized by COBRA within fifteen minutes, her children will be the next to die.’

In his earpiece, he could just hear sobbing.

Laszlo had always found weakness revolting. His reaction to it was visceral. ‘Get a grip on yourself,’ he barked. ‘This woman at my feet showed great love, great strength and great dignity in death. But you? You disgust me. Now, do what I say.’