Red Notice (20 page)

There was a commotion outside as Sarah Garvey arrived,
accompanied by her staff and Home Office advisers. The committee rose. She had been at home when she’d got the call and immediately changed into work clothes, a blue suit – skirt and jacket. Like Clements, she understood the meaning of right dress, right time.

Peter Brookdale, a member of the prime minister’s advisory team, was among her retinue. The former tabloid hack, now head of communications, held the home secretary back as she was about to enter the room and muttered urgently into her ear.

The committee remained in stand-up-and-wait-for-her-to-enter-or-sit-down-and-do-it-again mode. Clements watched Sarah and Brookdale. The spin doctor was in jeans and green sweatshirt, and anyone unaware of their respective roles would have had difficulty in deciding from their body language which was the minister and which the paid employee.

The home secretary read from a briefing sheet as she listened. Whatever was being said clearly didn’t sit well with her. She jabbed her index finger at him to underline her reply, then turned back towards the committee room and entered.

‘Gentlemen, please sit.’

Clements knew exactly what had been said. He’d seen and heard it all before. The PM was worried about how he would come out of this incident. If things went wrong, Brookdale would make sure the media knew it was all Sarah’s fault. If they didn’t, then his job was to make sure the PM got all the credit.

Clements greeted her with his best civil-service smile. ‘Good morning, Home Secretary.’

She gave him a nod as everyone took their seats, then looked around the table. ‘Good morning, everyone. Now, as I understand it, we’ve got an HGV Shuttle on fire in the UK-bound section and Antonov holding a trainload of passengers hostage in the French-bound tunnel. How many dead so far?’

‘One confirmed, Home Secretary,’ Alderson said. ‘But we
have no idea what casualties have resulted from the explosions. And now I’m afraid we’ve lost contact.’

‘It’s hard to see how things could be much worse.’

Clements cleared his throat vigorously enough for everyone to know that he was taking control of the conversation. ‘We believe the two incidents are connected, Home Secretary.’

Sarah Garvey turned a baleful eye on him, aware that Clements might be enjoying the moment. ‘I stand corrected. Things
are
worse.’

‘Yes, Home Secretary, much worse. If we had been successful in Hampstead we would not be sitting here this morning. And I’m sure that the electorate will bear that distinction in mind when they come to cast their votes in the by-election there next week.’ He exchanged a give-me-strength look with the dark side, as Clements liked to call passing shits like Brookdale. The communications chief looked as unimpressed as the minister by Clements’s opening statement.

Sarah Garvey was having none of his shenanigans today. There was work to be done. This was only her second chairing of COBRA and she needed help from people who could provide it. ‘Mr Clements, unless you can come up with something rather more intelligent or useful – and, honestly, either will do – I’d recommend a period of quiet reflection. As Abraham Lincoln used to say, “Better to keep silent and be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.”’

Clements glanced at the other politicians around the table, noting their hastily suppressed smiles at his humiliation. What a pack of rats, he thought, always jockeying for position and favour, all smiles to your face, but racing to be the first to trample you underfoot if you fall foul of the party or the press.

Clements knew that ultimately, should he need to play it, he held the trump card when it came to any situation involving Laszlo. But now was not the time. ‘We have had
some
good news, Home Secretary.’

‘At last.’ Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘And what would that be, pray?’

Clements held up a sheet of paper. ‘The bi-national status has been suspended. The UK now has control. It was Antonov who initiated the suspension, by making contact with us rather than the French.’

‘And that’s supposed to be good news, is it? I should imagine the French are pissing themselves with laughter right now . . .’ She was momentarily distracted as Brookdale stood up, BlackBerry in hand, and scuttled out of the room to give his master the news.

Clements shifted in his seat. ‘Under international law we are empowered to take unilateral action to resolve the matter and, forgive me for sounding like a scratched record, but given the unfortunate events in Hampstead yesterday . . .’ he paused to ensure he had her complete attention, and received a look of pure venom in return ‘. . . a firm and decisive intervention, ending the crisis and eliminating Antonov, would win the government a lot of kudos and some respite in the opinion polls.’

Brookdale returned to the room. He might not have caught everything that had been said, but the last part was all he was interested in. ‘That would certainly be true,’ he blurted, ‘if the intervention were successful. But if it failed . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished.

Clements didn’t acknowledge him. ‘Fortune favours the bold, Home Secretary. The SAS are already deploying, and they will not fail us. The chief constable here has the situation under control in the meantime.’

‘The SAS were deployed in Hampstead too.’ Sarah Garvey’s tone was even more waspish.

‘Yes,’ Clements replied smoothly. He had her where he wanted her. ‘And had it not been for the prevarication from this committee room, they would have apprehended Antonov before he could make his escape.’

Alderson looked at a sea of blank faces. He had never set eyes on most of the committee before now, and suspected that if he were to attend another incident in a few months’ time most of
this lot would have moved on. Yet again COBRA appeared to be little more than a photo-opportunity: its members seemed to believe that if they could be seen walking into the meeting, they’d appear to be achieving something.

He sparked up. Somebody had to. ‘Home Secretary, the SAS have a man on the train. He may be able to help us.’

This was news to her. She swivelled to confront the DSF, the director of UKSF. ‘Well?’

59

DELPHINE LED ROSE
and Daniel through the deserted carriages, their slow progress lit only by the glow of the emergency lights. The guard at her shoulder made his impatience clear, but she resolutely adjusted her pace to that of the children. Daniel was struggling to walk in his soiled trousers. She tried to give him a reassuring smile. ‘Not much further now,
mon chéri
. Just one more coach and we’re there.’

Both kids reached out, held the hand that was offered them, and followed her like zombies. Towards the end of the next aisle, Delphine brought them to a halt. Unless the corpse had been moved, Grace would still be lying directly in their path. Even in the low light, the children . . . She shuddered. It didn’t bear thinking about. They’d been through too much already.

‘Rose . . . Daniel . . . We’re going to play a little game . . .’

Tom had already reached Coach Eight. The sprinklers had stopped, and all he could hear was the sound of water dripping off the skin of the train and into the puddles that had gathered on the concrete below.

Heading for the frosted glass of the toilet window, he ducked down, crawled beneath the train and, rolling onto his back, worked his way across the track until he reached the
septic tank. The thick plastic containers were removed once a day and replaced with empty ones. Checking out the noise level and staying aware of the gun position further along the track, he unscrewed the butterfly nuts securing the steel clips that kept it in place, then slid it smoothly out from under the toilet seat on its runners, like a kitchen drawer.

Delphine staggered a little with the weight of a child on each hip.

To keep to the rules, they had their eyes closed, and each time she took a step they counted off a number. Rose said it into her left ear, Daniel into her right. Delphine then translated the number into French and they had to say it back to her.

‘And the next number is . . .’

‘Four!’

‘That’s
quatre
.’

‘
Quatre!
’

‘Very good!’

Delphine reached her seat. She nodded in the direction of the carrier bag. The guard shoved her forward, picked it up and examined the contents in the gloom. After a moment he gave a grudging nod.

‘And the next number is . . .’

‘Five!’

‘That’s
cinq
,’ Rose said proudly.

‘Well done, Rose. Daniel?’

‘
Cinq!
’

‘Fantastic! Let’s keep going!’

There was a dark shape on the floor immediately ahead of them. If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought a couple of rucksacks or a loosely rolled rug had fallen from the rack.

‘And the next number is . . .’ She edged around Grace’s body, grunting with the effort.

‘
Six
,’ Rose said. ‘That’s a really easy one.’

‘Daniel?’

‘
Six!
’

‘Brilliant.’

There was a sniffle in her right ear. She felt the little boy’s face wet against her cheek. ‘My mummy is dead, isn’t she?’

Delphine hesitated, uncertain how to reply. She didn’t want to lie to them. ‘We can’t think about that now,
chéri
. Now what’s the next number? It’s eight, isn’t it?’

Rose said, ‘No, it’s not, Delphine! It’s seven.’

‘Of course! And that is . . .?’

‘
Sept
,’ Rose said.

Daniel stifled a sob.

She speeded up her pace, bouncing the children on her hips as she went. ‘
Huit, neuf, dix, onze, douze, treize
. . .’

Rose giggled and clung to her more tightly.

They reached the end of the carriage.

Once through the door she slid them down to the floor and squatted at Daniel’s level, then took his and Rose’s hand in hers and gave them a reassuring squeeze. She hesitated for a moment longer, trying to think of what she would say to her niece and nephew if her sister were now lying in a pool of blood behind them. ‘I know it’s very, very hard for you both, but we all need to help each other. I want you to do exactly as I tell you, even if it sounds strange.’ She gave them her most radiant smile and hugged both children to her.

The guard jabbed her in the back with the barrel of his machine-gun. She stood up, gave him a withering glare, and snatched the bag from his hand. She tipped out the clothes and held up a dress for Rose and a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt for Daniel. ‘What do you think?’ She placed them against their trembling bodies. ‘Not too bad, are they? And I think the sizes will be close enough. Now come on,
mes petits
, let’s get you cleaned up.’

She opened the toilet door and ushered them inside. As she tried to close it behind them, the guard wedged his boot across the frame. He hadn’t said a single word since they’d been together, and he didn’t start now. But his bestial grunt and the look of primal aggression on his face made his message clear.

‘Oh, come on.’ She waved an arm around the cubicle. ‘We’re
not going anywhere, are we? They’re only little children, and you’re a very big, scary man. Please, just let them be for a moment.’

The man just stared at her, unblinking and unmoved. After a moment she turned away from him, ran some water into the basin and pulled a handful of paper towels from the dispenser. She dropped to her knees, undid Daniel’s new Buzz Lightyear belt and loosened his off-to-Disneyland jeans. Then she paused and looked up. ‘Are you really sure you want to be downwind of this?’

Delphine removed Daniel’s soiled trousers and pants and held out the stinking bundle. ‘Since you’re here,’ she said, ‘you might as well make yourself useful.’ The guard recoiled, gagging, and allowed the door to slide shut.

Almost immediately, Delphine felt her mobile phone vibrate in her jeans. She pulled it out and read the text message on the Bluetooth display:

Lock door. Lift toilet seat.

Delphine quietly turned the lock, then washed and dried Daniel and helped him into the clean clothes. The trousers were a little large, but she tightened the belt another notch and rolled up the legs a couple of times. Then she helped Rose into the new dress, making sure she had something to comfort her. For Delphine in her childhood it had been a toy rabbit; for Rose it was an iPod in a bright pink sock.

She tiptoed to the door, listened for a second, then stepped back and flipped the seat. Tom, framed by the toilet bowl, his face crusted with oil and dirt, lay on his back beneath them.

Rose leaned forward too, and peered into the bowl. She opened her mouth to scream, but Delphine clamped a hand over her lips and said in an urgent whisper, ‘It’s OK, don’t be frightened. He’s going to help us. He’s not a pretty sight, but he’s our friend.’

Tom reached up and started to remove the square of flooring that provided the base of the toilet bowl. There was a slight
scraping sound as he worked it free and lowered it to the ground. ‘Right,’ he murmured. ‘The girl first.’

‘Her name is Rose.’ Delphine slipped her hands under Rose’s armpits, lifted her up and lowered her through the hole in the floor. Tom grabbed her and helped her to the ground. He squeezed her hand, smiled encouragingly and held a finger to his lips. Then he reached up to take her brother.

‘And this is Daniel. He’s a very brave little boy.’ Daniel was a foot shorter than Rose, but a good few Happy Meals plumper. As Delphine lowered him into the hole, he felt the rough edges of the surround scraping at his puppy fat and began to panic.

Tom grabbed his legs and tried to pull him through. Frightened and more than a little ashamed, Daniel started to cry.

‘Sssh . . . sssh . . . it’s OK,
chéri
. Just suck in your tummy – it’ll be OK . . .’

Delphine cast an anxious glance at the door.

Tom looked along the track in both directions, then checked his watch. Laszlo wasn’t going to wait for ever to find out why the radio hadn’t been put back online, and what had happened to the man sent to repair it.