Knife Edge Page 15

  O'Connor got to his feet. 'This press conference is now officially closed,' he said.

  Calloway and Mason also stood up.

  Another volley of flashes accompanied their movement towards the door.

  Doyle slipped out of another door, leaving the journalists to shout more questions at the retreating policemen.

  He found the trio of men in a corridor beyond.

  'Who the hell are you?' O'Connor demanded, casting a distasteful glance at Doyle.

  'Doyle. Counter Terrorist Unit. Army Intelligence sent me after Neville.'

  The big Scot eyed Doyle warily, taking in the long hair, unshaven face, the battered leather jacket, grubby jeans and polish-starved cowboy boots.

  'Why?' the Commissioner wanted to know.

  'He's an ex-para, isn't he?' Doyle said.

  'He's a civilian now, he's nothing to do with the bloody army,' O'Connor snapped.

  'He's been making big fucking bangs with army explosives, shooting your boys with army weapons and he's using his army training to make you look like cunts. I'd say the army had an interest, wouldn't you?' Doyle said quietly.

  O'Connor turned to his officers.

  'Listen, you get this bastard Neville,' he hissed. 'And you get him fast. If those bloody newspaper people start digging, Christ alone knows what they'll come up with. They could have the whole city in panic by four o'clock. Now you take care of this.'

  'We've had a bit of a set-back, sir,' Calloway said.

  O'Connor narrowed his eyes.

  'We were going to meet with Neville, bargain with him,' the DI said. 'He says all he wants is his daughter. The only problem is, we don't have his daughter any more.'

  'Where the hell is she?' O'Connor snarled.

  'We had her and her mother in a safe house in Lambeth,' Calloway explained. 'I was told, just before we went into the press conference, that his wife had fled from there and taken the girl with her.'

  'Jesus Christ, what the hell is going on around here? Why did she run?'

  'I told her we might use the kid as a bargaining tool to get Neville,' said Doyle. 'It must have frightened her.'

  'So it's your fault?' O'Connor snapped. 'Keep your bloody nose out, Doyle. This is police business.'

  'Fuck you,' the counter terrorist retorted. 'I was sent to get Neville and that's what I'm going to do. I don't care how.'

  'So now we've got to find his wife and kid as well as him,' Mason interjected.

  'How the hell are you going to do a deal with Neville when there's no kid to bargain with?' O'Connor demanded.

  'Neville doesn't know that,' Doyle explained. 'He has no idea he's been set up.'

  'And when he does?' O'Connor challenged. 'How many more bombs does he have?'

  Doyle took a drag on his cigarette.

  'When he finds out he's been fucked over,' he said quietly, 'I think we're going to find out exactly how many he's got left.'

  3.12 P.M.

  The cross-threads of the telescopic sight wavered for a second before settling on the woman's head.

  She was over five hundred yards away but the powerful scope made it seem as if she were no more than a foot or so ahead.

  The cross-threads matched perfectly on her forehead.

  'Bang,' murmured Doyle.

  He handed the Heckler and Koch HK81 rifle back to the uniformed man next to him, amused at the look of bewilderment on the policeman's face.

  The man was part of an armed unit perched atop the Cumberland Hotel like so many blue-clad crows. From their vantage point high above Marble Arch they could see virtually the full length of Oxford Street, Park Lane and the Bayswater Road.

  From whichever direction Neville decided to approach, they'd spot him with ease.

  If the bastard even showed up, Doyle mused, crossing to the parapet of the hotel and looking down.

  It was a straight drop.

  Over four hundred feet to the pavement below.

  Doyle peered down at the pedestrians beneath, jostling along the heaving thoroughfares.

  Two pigeons were sitting unconcernedly on the parapet, heads bobbing back and forth.

  'Wondering which one to shit on?' Doyle mused and turned again to look at the six armed men he shared the rooftop with.

  All were lying prone on the roof, four of them already with the stocks of their weapons pressed to their shoulders. Another was feeding rounds into the magazine of his rifle. The HK81s were designed to take either five-, twenty- or thirty-round mags, Doyle remembered.

  Nice guns.

  He slid the Beretta from its holster, worked the slide then flicked on the safety.

  Ready.

  The pistol would do sweet FA from this range but then Doyle didn't expect to have to use it from four hundred yards away. He planned on being much closer to Neville when he emptied it into him.

  The remaining officer was tightening the wing nut which held the bipod at the end of the barrel in place.

  Doyle knew that there were six more armed officers on the roof of the building opposite.

  Six more on the roof of the Odeon Marble Arch.

  Christ alone knew how many plain-clothed and uniformed coppers were down there amongst the tourists and shoppers, workers and sightseers.

  They were all armed.

  Neville would expect that.

  That was one of the reasons he was armed.

  If the shooting started, Doyle thought, how many body bags would they need?

  He carefully surveyed the faces of the policemen around him.

  Older men. Mostly in their forties.

  Experienced?

  How many of them had ever shot at anything other than a target?

  Doyle peered down at the throngs of shoppers and shook his head.

  All it would take would be one nervous finger. One shot.

  Shit.

  He didn't even want to think about it.

  ***

  Calloway glanced at the dashboard clock of the Peugeot 405 then at his own watch.

  He sucked in a worried breath, held it for a moment then let it out as a sigh.

  Even with the windows wound up, the noise of the traffic passing was loud. The sheer volume of traffic was quite awesome. He saw one of the London sightseeing buses pass, the guide standing at the front of the upper deck, gesturing towards Marble Arch as the heads of the three occupants of the bus turned in that general direction.

  The Peugeot was parked close to the mouth of the underground car park just off North Ride. The vehicle was hidden from the view of anyone approaching from either Oxford Street or Park Lane, stationed, as it was, on the exit ramp of the car park.

  Other police cars, marked and unmarked, were inside the underground area itself.

  Waiting.

  Calloway reached for the radio and thought about checking in with the groups of armed men stationed up on the buildings nearby but then he decided against it.

  He'd already checked five minutes earlier.

  Nervous?

  He pulled at the vanity mirror on the passenger side of the Peugeot and swiftly inspected his reflection.

  You look like shit.

  He slapped the sun visor back into place and sat back in his seat.

  'Where are you, Neville?' he whispered, glancing again at his watch. 'Daylight fucking robbery.'

  He looked to his right as Mason clambered back behind the wheel.

  The smell of fried onions filled the car.

  The DS took a bite of the huge hot-dog he was clutching, wiping away with a paper napkin the tomato sauce which dribbled down his chin.

  'There's some geezer selling these.' He brandished the hot-dog like a trophy. 'He's got one of those mobile stalls, probably bloody filthy anyway, just round the comer in the park. Two and a half quid for a fucking hot dog and a Coke. Fifty pence extra for the onions. Daylight fucking robbery.' He pushed more of the food into his mouth.

  'I thought most of those stalls had been closed down,' the DI said. 'An environmental
health officer found flies' eggs inside a hamburger from one of them last week. No maggots. Just the eggs.'

  'Ha, bloody, ha,' said Mason through a mouthful of food.

  Calloway's stomach rumbled.

  'Want some?' Mason asked, pushing the hot-dog towards him.

  Calloway raised one eyebrow and shook his head in horror.

  Instead he reached for the can of Coke which Mason had propped on the dashboard. The DI took a sip, belched loudly then reached for the two-way.

  'What are you doing?' Mason asked.

  'Checking.'

  'Vic, if they spot Neville, they'll let us know quick enough.'

  'I'll check anyway.'

  ***

  Robert Neville could see the police car approaching in his wing mirror.

  Just take it easy.

  There were two people at the pedestrian crossing and the police car, like Neville, slowed down to let them pass.

  The driver of the car glanced at Neville.

  They're looking for a man in a black leather outfit.

  The ex-para turned and looked directly at the uniformed man.

  Not even the same number plates, are they, shithead?

  Neville thought how easy it would be to lean back and flip up the top box lid. Snake a hand in and pull the Steyr free.

  The driver was watching as a young woman in a particularly short skirt crossed in front of them.

  Neville grinned inside the helmet, looking first at the girl then at the police car.

  Do you know how close to death you are?

  The police car pulled off.

  Neville followed.

  He was less than thirty seconds from Park Lane.

  As he rode he slid his left hand into the pocket of his jacket and ran his finger over the small object there.

  The detonator had a single red switch on it.

  Neville slowed his speed slightly, checked behind him then swung the bike into Audley Street.

  They would be waiting. He'd known that all along.

  Another right and he was heading down Hill Street back in the direction of Berkeley Square.

  There was another way.

  3.21 P.M.

  The sound reminded her of a dog in pain.

  Julie Neville gritted her teeth as the escalator rose, the sound seemingly rising in volume with it.

  A loud, grating wail reverberated around the vaulted ceiling and pounded her eardrums.

  The inner workings of the moving stairs needed attention. She didn't have to be a mechanic to realise that.

  Lisa had asked her what the noise was as soon as they'd stepped from the train at Tottenham Court Road.

  'They should do something about it,' she'd added indignantly.

  Julie had to agree. She glanced at the procession of faces being ferried downwards on the opposite escalator. Some smiling, some chatting to friends, most as blank and expressionless as her own.

  She and Lisa stepped off the moving staircase and Julie pushed their tickets into the machine, ushering her daughter through as the automatic bars swung open, then hurrying through herself before they slammed shut.

  They took the first exit ahead of them, climbing the steps, Julie gripping her daughter's hand tightly so they didn't become separated in the crowd of people both entering and leaving the Underground station.

  When they finally emerged at street level, Julie wiped her face with the back of one hand.

  The early morning chill had given way to sunshine and, as they walked, the small suitcase which she carried seemed to have mysteriously increased in weight. Julie could feel a single bead of perspiration trickling down the middle of her back. Above her, the sky was filled with bloated cloud which occasionally blotted out the sun, but the warmth was still there, wrapping itself around her like an unwelcome blanket.

  Jesus. What a difference from the early morning.

  The day had stretched into an eternity. Each hour elongated and protracted.

  She was beginning to wonder if this particular day was ever going to end.

  She noticed the policeman on the opposite side of the road.

  Was he looking for her?

  They would have discovered she'd fled by now, that much she was certain of.

  They would be looking for her and Lisa.

  The policeman crossed the street and headed off up New Oxford Street.

  Julie breathed an audible sigh of relief as she watched him go.

  'Mum, I'm hungry,' Lisa said, kicking at a crushed Pepsi can. It skidded across the pavement and struck the foot of a suited man who shot her an irritated glance.

  Julie could feel her own stomach churning but she was unsure whether it was hunger or anxiety.

  The police were looking for her. Her husband was still out there somewhere. He'd let off two bombs already, Christ alone knew what he had in mind next.

  'Mum,' Lisa persisted.

  Julie smiled down at her and they moved through the crowd into Oxford Street, to the McDonald's opposite the entrance to the tube station they'd just left.

  As Julie pushed open the door the smell of frying food enveloped them and they joined one of the queues.

  Lisa looked up excitedly, as Julie flipped open her purse and saw about twenty pounds in there.

  Is that it? Your total possessions? The sum of your life?

  Twenty quid. A small suitcase and a daughter.

  In front of her, two youths were comparing purchases from the Virgin Mega-Store next door, pulling CDs from plastic bags and glancing at the covers.

  Julie looked at them enviously. They have no worries, she thought.

  She looked to her left, saw that one of the other queues had disappeared so she hurried across to the counter, Lisa scurrying beside her.

  They ordered and Lisa carried the cardboard tray downstairs, where an employee was mopping the floor. Julie had to skirt around him as she followed Lisa to a table in the corner, finally dumping the suitcase on the bench beside her.

  Lisa was already pulling fries and burgers from the brown bag, prising milkshakes from the cardboard tray.

  Julie took a bite of her cheeseburger and glanced around.

  She had to find a phone.

  3.27 P.M.

  'What the fuck is he playing at?'

  Doyle held the two-way to one ear while he scanned Park Lane and Marble Arch with the binoculars.

  'Doyle? Can you hear me?' Calloway said, more agitatedly. 'I said-'

  'I heard you,' the counter terrorist interrupted. Still he swept the powerful glasses back and forth.

  Searching.

  'Where the hell is Neville?' Calloway's angry voice demanded.

  'He could already be here,' Doyle said flatly. 'He's probably watching us.'

  'How could he be?'

  'Come on, Calloway, he'll be expecting a fucking trap, he's not stupid.'

  'So why agree to the meeting?'

  'He's testing us.'

  The cunning bastard.

  Doyle walked to the parapet and glanced first to his left and then to his right, peering through the magnifying lenses.

  Come out, come out, wherever you are.

  One of the armed policemen shifted position, still trying to keep his eye pressed to the telescopic sight of the HK81.

  'I wouldn't worry about it,' Doyle said quietly as he passed the man. 'This bastard's not going to show,' he said into the two-way.

  'How can you be sure?' Calloway asked urgently.

  'Call it a gut feeling. Give it another ten minutes then pull your men out.'

  'You're not going to listen to him, are you, Vic?' snapped Mason, glaring at his superior.

  ***

  Inside the Peugeot, Calloway held the two-way tightly, his mind spinning.

  Why hadn't Neville shown up?

  Was Doyle right? Was the ex-para wise to their plan?

  How could he be?

  'Doyle,' the DI said. 'Why wouldn't Neville show up? If he wants his daughter that badly, surely-'

/>   'Just trust me on this,' Doyle interrupted.

  'Why the hell should we trust him?' Mason barked.

  'He hasn't been wrong so far,' Calloway said.

  'No, he hasn't, has he? Not once.'

  'Meaning?'

  'He says he knows how Neville thinks, how his mind works. Isn't that convenient?' the DS said angrily. 'What if they're in this together?'

  Calloway shook his head.

  'He was so anxious for us to pull in Kenneth Baxter for questioning,' Mason persisted. 'What if that was just a fucking smokescreen? To take the suspicion away from Doyle himself.'

  Calloway looked at his companion and held his gaze. 'You think Doyle is involved in these bombings?'

  Mason didn't answer.

  The two-way crackled again.

  'Calloway. What's your answer?' Doyle's voice was breaking up slightly.

  'I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him,' Mason said.

  'Ten minutes,' Calloway said into the two-way.

  Mason shook his head dismissively. 'You're crazier than he is, Vic.'

  'And what the hell would you do?'

  'Wait until the bastard shows up then let those fucking snipers loose on him.'

  'And if they kill him, what about the other bombs?'

  'If he's dead he can't detonate them, can he?'

  Calloway shook his head.

  'It's Doyle's call this time,' he said quietly. 'This time.'

  3.37 P.M.

  She had to get away.

  Julie knew that she had to get out of London. Away from her husband, away from the police. Away from the memories.

  Could you run from memories?

  She picked up a french fry and dipped it into a puddle of tomato sauce, nibbling on the end, watching as Lisa pushed another piece of hamburger into her mouth.

  She reached out a hand and smoothed down the little girl's hair.

  She had to get Lisa away.

  Julie sat back in her seat and took a sip of her milkshake.

  All the memories weren't bad, she thought. Not everything she was running from was so terrible.

  And what are you running to?

  A better life?