Part 21 (2/2)

They got out of the car, Reed identifying them to the constable who came out to greet them. The policeman led the pair downstairs, past the echoing ticket hall.

'The male prisoner's in the manager's office, ma'am.

You'll want to see him first, I take it?' Roz found it gratifying that the constable accepted her authority without question, and confirmed that they were only interested in the man.

They walked over to the gla.s.s-panelled door, which opened as they arrived. A tall blond male stepped out, bursting into a run as he saw them approach. Reed moved to block him, but the larger man shouldered him out of the way and charged down the escalator, pus.h.i.+ng pa.s.sengers out of the way.

Reed recovered quickly, but seemed dazed.

'After him, George! I'll follow in a second,' Roz yelled.

Reed nodded, drawing his revolver. The constable who had brought them down followed the lieutenant. There was screaming from pa.s.sengers on the escalator. Roz was already checking her ammunition, confirming that her gun was fully loaded. When that was done, she poked her head around the office door. Three policemen were picking themselves off the floor. One of them had a broken nose.

'I'm Captain Forrester, from the War Office. Who's in command?'

'I am, I'm Sergeant Hood. I'm in charge.'

Roz flashed her ident.i.ty card. 'Wrong, Sergeant: I'm in charge. I want all the exits sealed off, I want the trains stopped. I'm right that none of you is armed?' They nodded, a little too bewildered for her liking. 'Okay. He's gone underground, not tried to get to the street. I want the police to evacuate the civilians from the station, and I want them to be d.a.m.n sure that they don't accidentally evacuate our target.

Check every single man, woman and child.' One of the constables left to coordinate the evacuation.

'Where's the female prisoner?'

'She's with a couple of men from Five, sir... I mean ma'am,' piped up the man with a broken nose.

'Are you in a fit state to take a message?'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'Good man. You get her out of here and into a locked cell.'

'Yes, ma'am.' He scurried off.

The remaining policeman, Sergeant Hood, looked pained. 'Ma'am, do we have to stop the trains?'

Roz glared at him. 'No, Sergeant, we could let the target commute all over London. Do me a favour and stop them.'

The sergeant was already on the phone.

'When you've finished, call up reinforcements from the MPs. I'm going after the target.' The gun was in her hand; she'd already released the safety catch. Forrester left the office. She had only glimpsed the target, but had a good picture of him. He'd stand out in a crowd: he was tall, broad, blond. He looked like a n.a.z.i. He had on a dark-blue blazer, with a badge on the pocket - a yachting club, or perhaps it was regimental. Beneath that he was wearing a pristine white s.h.i.+rt. He wore fawn slacks.

He'd gone down the escalator heading towards the Bakerloo Line. Forrester stepped on to the same escalator, standing still, letting it carry her down. There would be plenty of time later for running around. The target probably wasn't running, he'd only draw attention to himself doing that. Her adrenalin was there already. After twenty years as an Adjudicator, you might have thought that its effect would have lessened, but as always her senses had sharpened, and she was hyper-aware of her surroundings. The breeze that always ran through the Underground tunnels wafted up from below, tickling her face and stockinged legs. She could hear every sound, smell every scent. A steady stream of pa.s.sengers was being led up the escalators by the police.

Forrester scanned the crowd for her target but, as she suspected, he wasn't there.

She stepped from the escalator as it reached the bottom.

Two directions, two identical tiled corridors. If he was right-handed and combat-trained, the target would instinctively head right. If he was human, he'd fight against the instinct and go left. She headed left. Roz began jogging along the corridor, gun held high. As she ran, she was drawing a mental map of the station, filling in her danger zones. This was going to be tricky: no hand-held communications, no bio-sensors, no surveillance cameras. On the plus side, there weren't any holographic decoys or transmat points, and the target was as blind as she was. The corridors were brightly lit: there wasn't much cover. Was the target armed? She presumed not - however lax the police search, they'd have found a firearm, and he wouldn't have had an opportunity to grab a gun from anyone except her and George. He might have a hostage. She doubted it, though: he was quite capable of getting away without a bargaining chip. This was a man capable of overpowering three policeman with his bare hands.

There were no maintenance hatches on the ceiling.

There were a couple of access points on the floor, but they clearly hadn't been disturbed for a hundred years, let alone during the last five minutes. As you'd expect, the floor was covered in oily footprints of all shapes and sizes. Roz reached the end of the corridor. Pause. Check behind.

Nothing. Look left, cover left. Nothing. Look right, cover right.

Nothing. Choose. The sign says northbound or southbound.

Head south. Right.

Roz checked her watch. It wasn't even ten to eight, yet.

The target had been loose for three minutes, maximum. If he was making contact with a known London spy, it was probably because he wasn't familiar with the city, and needed help. If he wasn't used to London, he wouldn't know his way around Paddington station. He was running around looking for an exit, not heading for an exit he knew about. Her subconscious added a warning: that's a supposition, Forrester, not a fact. Care to stake your life on it?

To the left there was a door. Staff Only. She kicked it open, checking behind her. Stairs, spiralling up, the cras.h.i.+ng of the door reverberating upwards. Check this level first.

Nothing. Close the door behind her. Clear. Forrester mounted the first step, peering up. It was darker here and there wasn't a breeze. She clasped her revolver in both hands, held high, close to her head. Back against the wall. The staff used this to get around, so it must lead up to the surface, or perhaps the ticket hall. Maybe even to the main train station. If the target had found this door, he'd have found it ideal.

Footsteps above.

Tense, Roz listened. Footsteps coming down. Glimpse of fawn trouser leg. Roz swung her arms, clasped together around the b.u.t.t of the revolver like a club, hitting him hard where it hurt. Target down. Aim.

The train driver with the gun at his temple whimpered something. Roz relaxed, but not much. This man was not the target: he was ten years too old and a foot and a half too short. She was already heading up the stairs before he managed to shout a complaint. So the station hadn't been fully evacuated. Had the target come this way? d.a.m.n, there was an easy way to find out which she'd managed to overlook. She headed back downstairs. The driver had struggled to his feet.

'You,' she demanded, 'did anyone come up past you?'

The driver shook his head, clearly terrified.

'OK. Where does that lead?' She pointed upwards.

U-up to the ticket hall.'

'Not up to the main station?'

'No.'

'Good. Get up there, and tell Sergeant Hood that I want a policeman on the exit.'

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