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  'We'll bear that in mind,' said the former counter terrorist.

  Mel shot him a questioning look but Doyle was still looking at Boffey.

  There was another door adjacent to the one leading into the kitchen and it was towards this one that the Special Branch man ushered them. He knocked once and walked in.

  As Doyle followed his companions inside, he wasn't sure where to look first.

  'Jesus,' he murmured, under his breath.

  It was like walking into an armoury.

  Doyle allowed his gaze to move swiftly around the room, taking in as many details as he could.

  The walls on every side were festooned with a dizzying display of ancient weapons: pikes, lances, spears, halberds.

  He saw maces and battleaxes of various sizes.These were arranged amongst swords, sabres, scimitars and cutting weapons of such divergence Doyle wondered which historical wars they had come from.

  And then there were the bows. Longbows and crossbows. Each one with at least six of its arrows or bolts.

  The former counter terrorist could only begin to imagine how many lives had been taken by this massive array of antique killing instruments.The blades of some were polished, others rusted but still intact and wickedly sharp.

  The room was a testament to the savagery of days gone by.A reminder that man's mind is never so fertile as when devising methods of butchering his own kind.

  'Call it a passion.' The words came from William Duncan. 'I'm a collector.'

  He noticed Doyle's inquisitive gaze and smiled as

  he stepped forward to shake hands.

  Duncan was a tall man. Broad-shouldered and possessed of an easy smile that seemed to contradict the deep frown lines across his forehead. Doyle felt the strength in his handshake as the introductions were made.

  Helen Duncan also extended her hand and Doyle shook it more gently. He could smell her expensive perfume as she leant closer to him.

  She was wearing tight black trousers and a dark-blue jumper that showed off her shapely figure to perfection. Her light-brown hair cascaded as far as her shoulder blades and, when she sat down again and crossed her legs, Doyle could see that the soles of her gleaming leather boots were barely marked. He could even see the size stamped there. The number thirty-seven was clearly visible. These were either new or she didn't do much walking in them, he decided.

  Duncan gestured for the newcomers to sit down and all three did as they were instructed.

  'I assume you know all the details,' he said.'And you know what you have to do.'

  'Stop you getting killed,' Doyle offered.

  Duncan grinned. That would be most appreciated, Mr Doyle,' he said.

  'If anyone comes at you, you should try using some of those against them,' Doyle said, nodding in the direction of the weapons on the walls.

  Again Duncan smiled.

  'The people before you stayed inside the house,' Helen Duncan said. 'You'll do the same. There are rooms for each of you.'

  'Feel free to help yourself to food and drink,' Duncan told them. The kitchen isn't off limits.' He gestured over his shoulder. There's a games room along the hall. Should you need to pass the time then feel free to use that as well. I realise this job can become somewhat tedious.'

  'Is there anyone else in the house other than yourself and your wife, Mr Duncan?' Mel asked.'Staff of any kind?'

  'We have a cleaner three times a week,' said Helen Duncan. Two gardeners once a week.'

  'Would it be possible for me to have a list of all deliveries or visits you're expecting from day to day?' Mel continued.

  Helen nodded.'I'll see to that now,' she said, getting to her feet. 'In the meantime, I'll show you to your rooms.'

  Doyle and his companions stood up and followed the shapely young woman towards the door.

  As they reached it, Duncan also rose. 'I'll ask now,' he said evenly. 'And I'd appreciate an honest answer.'

  The three security personnel turned to look at him.

  'What are our chances of getting through this?' Duncan wanted to know.

  Mel opened her mouth to say something but no words came.

  Duncan held up his hand.'It was an unfair question,' he conceded.

  'Let's put it this way,' Doyle interjected.'If they come after you, they'll have to be prepared to put their own lives on the line. If they get to you, that means they've got past us. It's not going to happen.'

  Duncan attempted a smile.

  That's the most reassurance I can give you, Mr Duncan. If I said anything else I'd be lying.'

  'I appreciate your candour.'

  'Are either of you religious?' Doyle wanted to know. 'Because if you're not, now might be a good time to start.'

  The faulty fluorescent in the kitchen buzzed like an irritated bluebottle. Doyle glanced up at it as he stood waiting for the kettle to boil. He made his coffee then sat down at the breakfast bar, pulling the newspaper towards him.

  The clock on the far wall ticked loudly in the large room and the former counter terrorist checked his watch against the other timepiece. 2.03 a.m.

  He'd walked slowly around the house, even venturing into the gardens after checking the banks of CCTV cameras set up at the rear of the building.

  Nothing moving.

  He slipped off his jacket and hung it on the back of the stool. The 9mm automatic was secure in his shoulder holster.

  Mel would relieve him in two hours. Hendry had already done his shift and, besides, he had to be up early in the morning to drive Duncan into London. Mel had suggested that either she or Doyle should accompany them but they had yet to decide who.

  Doyle sipped his coffee and scanned the paper. There was a small column on page five about two killings in Belfast. The police believed them to be

  sectarian. A suspect was being sought.

  Just like old times.

  'Anything interesting in there?'

  If the voice startled him the surprise didn't register on his face. He looked up to see Helen Duncan enter the room.

  She padded across the tiled floor wearing only a knee-length silk dressing-gown.

  'Sorry if I woke you up,' Doyle said.

  'You didn't. I can't sleep. I think it's a common symptom when your life's in danger' She attempted a smile but it never touched her eyes. 'Would you object to some company?'

  'Help yourself. It's your house.'

  She made herself a cup of tea and perched on the stool next to him, her perfectly pedicured toes curled around one of the struts.

  Doyle met her gaze. Her eyes were a piercing blue but at present the whites were somewhat bloodshot. However, even the dark rings beneath them and the fact that she wore no make-up did not detract from her exquisite features. She was indeed an immensely attractive young woman.

  'I think my husband is adjusting to this better than me,' she said, almost apologetically.

  'It's not an easy situation to be in, is it? But rich and powerful men tend to make enemies more easily than most.'

  'William's made enemies before but never anything like this.'

  'I should think the advantages outweigh the disadvantages, don't they?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Well, the money, the lifestyle. You wouldn't change it, would you?'

  'I suppose not. We have a good life together'

  'I bet you do.'

  'I know what you're thinking.You and everyone who meets me. "She's half his age." "She only married him for his money." That kind of thing.'

  That's none of my business. I don't get paid to think. I get paid for doing a job. And, at the moment, that job's protecting you and your husband.'

  There was a silence between them. She crossed her legs, the dressing-gown sliding up further to reveal a slim thigh.

  Doyle looked and she was aware of his gaze but she didn't move.

  'Are you married?' she wanted to know.

  He shook his head.

  'What about that woman you work with? Mel. Is there anything between you
?'

  Doyle regarded Helen silently for a moment then shook his head once more.

  'She's a very attractive woman,' Helen noted.

  'She's good at her job too.'

  'My husband's very good at his job. Sometimes I think he's too good.' She sipped her tea. 'I hate it when he's away from home.'

  'Is he away a lot?'

  'At least four months of the year if you add it up.'

  'And you obviously do.'

  Helen smiled. A little more warmly this time.'I have friends, of course, but it's not the same when he's not

  here. This lifestyle is wonderful, Mr Doyle, but it would be even more wonderful if I could share it all year round with my husband.'

  'Swings and roundabouts. If he doesn't work, you don't have all this.' He gestured around him. 'You can't have it both ways, Mrs Duncan.'

  'Call me Helen, please. I don't know how long you're going to be around. It doesn't sound so formal. It makes you sound less like some kind of hired hand.'

  'Even though that's what I am.'

  'You know what I mean.'

  Doyle drained his drink and placed the mug on the worktop. 'Do you get lonely when he's not here?' he wanted to know.

  'I miss him but, as I said, I have friends. All my needs are catered for.' She smiled and looked into his eyes. 'He knows what I do when he's not here,' Helen told him. 'How I entertain myself. He accepts it.'

  I've got to check the grounds again,' Doyle told her, preparing to get to his feet.

  'Not interested in what I have to tell you, Mr Doyle?'

  'It's none of my business.'

  'Would it bother you if you were in my husband's position?'

  'I'm not'

  'Hypothetically?'

  'Would what bother me?'

  That I sleep with other women when he's away.'

  Doyle regarded her silently.

  'It isn't as if I'm cheating on him. He knows the truth. He even knows the women.'

  'Like I said, Mrs Duncan, it's nothing to do with me.

  Don't feel you have to confess to me.'

  She shot him an angry glance.

  Doyle held her gaze. 'It's your life,' he said finally.

  'Sometimes, when he's here, he watches.'

  Doyle said nothing.

  'Wouldn't you like that, Mr Doyle? To watch me making love to another woman. A beautiful young woman? Wouldn't you like to watch me make love to Mel?'

  I'm not a very good spectator, Mrs Duncan.'

  'Would you like to join us? I expect you would. What man wouldn't?'

  He shook his head again and got to his feet. 'Duty calls,' he said.

  She stretched one leg out in front of him, as if to prevent him leaving.

  Doyle looked down at the shapely limb, waiting until she lowered it.

  What kind of fucking game was this?

  'What do you expect me to say?' he murmured.That I envy your husband. He's got a ton of money and a beautiful wife who'll put on a show for him with another woman any time he likes. Am I supposed to be jealous?'

  'Are you telling me you wouldn't want what he's got?'

  Doyle shook his head.

  Helen slowly withdrew her leg, allowing him to pass.

  'Do you think the men who are trying to kill us are out there now?'

  'I doubt it but I'm not going to take that chance.'

  'What if they're watching or listening to us. The house could be bugged.'

  Doyle shook his head.'As far as we can tell there's no electronic surveillance,' he said reassuringly. The phone company have already done line sweeps. We've used RF detectors inside the house. No spycams either. Special Branch already had spectrum analysers in place so the men who are trying to kill you can't use laser bounce either. The place is clean.'

  As Doyle reached the kitchen door he paused and looked back. These guys aren't interested in your conversations, Mrs Duncan, they just want you dead.'

  BELFAST:

  R

  tion.

  ain hammered against the windows of the Fiat making it virtually impossible to see in any direc-

  Daniel Kane checked his watch and tried to squint through the glass into the rain-drenched night beyond. Nothing but darkness.

  From where he'd parked, he could see the lights of Belfast below him, twinkling in the foul night. He saw the landing lights of an aircraft as it swung low on its last descent into Aldergrove.

  He'd parked just off the road on a narrow dirt track that led to open fields, waterlogged by the last two days' persistent rain. The dirt track was rutted from the passage of farm vehicles and the ruts had filled with muddy water.The Fiat was approachable by that route but Kane knew from which direction the other car would come.

  He checked his watch and murmured something irritably under his breath.

  Another two hours and it would be light.The dawn would haul itself reluctantly across a sky swollen with dark clouds.

  Still the rain fell.

  Kane switched on the engine for a moment and allowed warm air to blow on to his windscreen. The inside of the car was misting up, thick with condensation. He wiped some away with his hand, the high-pitched squeaking filling the car.

  Headlights cut through the darkness.

  Kane sank further down in his seat, one hand sliding inside his jacket to brush the butt of the Smith and Wesson 9mm, model 9 auto.

  The headlights continued towards him.

  Then passed by.

  Just a small white van. He watched as its tail lights disappeared into the gloom then sucked in a deep, stale breath.

  The tapping on the side window almost made him shout aloud in surprise. He tugged the 9mm free and pressed his face to the glass.

  The figure standing outside the car was soaked. Clothes sodden by the pouring rain.

  Kane hesitated a moment then reached back and opened the rear door. The figure clambered in and sat in silence for a moment.

  'What the fuck are you doing?' Kane snarled. 'Why the hell didn't you park where you normally park?'

  The figure in the back seat said nothing.

  Kane could smell the dull stench of wet earth and something more pungent. 'Have you been walking through cow shit?' he demanded.

  Still the figure said nothing.

  'Come on then, get it over with,' Kane insisted. 'You were the one who wanted this fucking meeting.

  You told me that it was definitely Declan Leary who killed Ivor Best and Jeff Kelly. Where's the bastard now? If he's coming after me I want to know.'

  He turned to face the figure. As the dark shape began to speak, a flash of lightning tore across the sky. The rain continued to hammer down.

  In the back of the Fiat, the figure continued his speech.

  CHESHAM, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, ENGLAND:

  There's a van coming up the drive.' Doyle touched the earpiece he was wearing as if unsure of the words he'd just heard.

  When Mel repeated herself he peered through the privet hedge surrounding the orchard and saw the red vehicle making its way towards the Duncans' house.

  Post van.

  'I can see it, Mel,' he murmured into the pin-microphone attached to his lapel. 'Are they expecting any deliveries?'

  'No.'

  Doyle slid one hand inside his jacket, his fingers touching the butt of the Beretta.

  Just in case.

  'I'l follow it in,' he said. 'You watch yourself.'

  He made his way quickly back along the narrow path that wound between the trees and opened on to a large expanse of lawn. He was two hundred yards from the house. If he moved now the occupants of the van would see him.

  How many were there?

  It was difficult to tell from his vantage point. He squinted and caught sight of one man.

  There could be others in the back.

  Doyle eased the automatic from its holster, gripping it in his fist.

  The van came to a halt and the driver's side door swung open. The man who got out was dressed in the usual dark u
niform of a postman. He stood looking up at the house for a moment then strode towards the front door.

  Doyle slipped the safety catch off.

  The newcomer rang the doorbell and waited.

  'He's on his own as far as I can see,' Doyle said into his microphone. 'I'm on him. Just watch it when you open the door.'

  'Got it.' Mel's voice filled his earpiece.

  He saw her open the front door.

  Doyle could hear snatches of their conversation through his earpiece but it was only the odd word here and there. He lowered the 9mm and began walking across the lawn towards the house.

  He was halfway there when he saw the man return to the van and retrieve something. It appeared to be a box about 12 inches square.

  Doyle moved more quickly now, watching as the man handed the package to Mel.

  The former counter terrorist was less than a hundred yards from the van now. His eyes never left the uniformed man.

  Seventy yards. Doyle was practically sprinting.

  Fifty yards.The postman turned away from the door and headed back towards the van. He saw Doyle

  as he was preparing to climb back in.

  'Hold it there,' Doyle said, raising the Beretta. He was advancing slowly now.

  The man turned pale and his lower jaw dropped.

  'What's in the box?' Doyle wanted to know.

  The man tried to answer but ail he succeeded in doing was shaking his head.

  'It feels quite light,' Mel called.

  'Any smell?' Doyle wanted to know.

  Mel looked puzzled.

  'Does it smell sweet?' Doyle snapped. 'Like marzipan?'

  Like fucking Semtex.

  Mel shook her head.

  'What's in the fucking box?' Doyle said, his gaze still fixed on the terrified delivery man.

  'I don't know,' he answered breathlessly. 'I'm only supposed to deliver what—'

  'Did you bring that from the main sorting office?'

  The postman nodded.

  Doyle moved closer, the barrel of the Beretta still aimed at the man's head.

  'What do you want to do?' Mel said, kneeling beside the package.

  'Is there a sender's address on it?' Doyle wanted to know.

  'No.'

  Doyle took a step nearer then glanced at the postman.

  'Go on, piss off, Postman Pat,' he snapped.

  The relieved man clambered behind the wheel of the van and drove off, the vehicle disappearing down