Knife Edge Read online

  'What's your name?'

  'Michelle.' Her cheeks coloured once more.

  'Well, Michelle, I'm sure you'll do a fine job,' Hatcher told her, handing her his clip-on Visitor Pass as he reached reception.

  Two uniformed security men were standing on either side of the exit, both of whom nodded affably in Hatcher's direction as he passed.

  'Mr Hatcher,' said Michelle quietly, lowering her voice almost conspiratorially. 'Can I ask you something?'

  For the first time she looked directly into his eyes and he noticed how clear and blue her eyes were.

  Hatcher was a tall man and she was forced to look up at him.

  He nodded, waiting for the question.

  'Is there really going to be peace?'

  Hatcher hesitated a second, transfixed by those blue orbs which had been so hesitant to focus on him earlier but which now seemed to burn right through him.

  'Yes,' he said finally, hoping that he'd injected the right amount of sincerity into his voice.

  She smiled.

  'Thank you for coming in, ' she said in a practised tone before she turned away and walked back towards the lift.

  Hatcher nodded towards his driver who was already on his feet and heading for the exit doors which he pushed open for the MP.

  The two men stepped out onto the pavement.

  'How long before the next interview, Frank?'

  The driver looked at his watch. 'An hour and a half,' he said, as he opened the back door of the Mercedes for Hatcher to slip inside.

  'Stop off somewhere on the way,' the MP told him. 'We'll get a sandwich and a drink, shall we?'

  The driver smiled, closed the door and hurried around to the other side, pausing a moment as a van passed by close to the Mercedes.

  Hatcher reached into his inside pocket and glanced at his itinerary for the day, squinting at the small print, muttering to himself as he had to retrieve his glasses from the glove compartment.

  Forty-six years old, eyesight going. What was next? The hair?

  He smiled and flipped open the compartment.

  It was then that the car exploded.

  The blast was massive, violent enough to lift the Mercedes fully ten feet into the air, the rear of the vehicle flipping over slightly.

  The driver was blasted off his feet by the detonation, hurled into the street by the concussion blast.

  The Mercedes disappeared for a second, transformed into a blinding ball of yellow and white flame, pieces of the chassis hurtling in all directions before the remains of the vehicle thudded back to the ground, one wheel spinning off.

  Cars screeched to a halt in the street, and one of the security guards from the BBC building ran to the door shielding his face from the flames, which were dancing madly around the obliterated remnants of the car.

  He saw something glinting near his feet, something hurled fully twenty feet by the ferocity of the explosion.

  It took him a second to realise that it was a wrist watch.

  A moment longer to grasp the fact that it was still wrapped around what was left of William Hatcher's left arm.

  7.26 A.M.

  Doyle knew he may as well be dead.

  Perhaps if he'd had the guts he'd pull one of the pistols he wore, stick the fucking barrel in his mouth and finish it here and now.

  End of story.

  He flicked through the paper again.

  He'd read the print off the fucking thing once. He could remember every headline, every pointless story. It was the usual bullshit. Politics. Gossip. Exclusives.

  The country was recovering from the recession.

  Bollocks.

  Some tart from a TV soap was marrying a talentless one-hit wonder who'd just had a number one record.

  Bollocks.

  A celebrity was confessing how drink and drugs had almost wrecked his career but now he was cleaning up his life.

  Bollocks.

  Doyle tossed the paper to one side.

  It was all shit.

  Life was shit.

  There had been a story in there about the peace in Ireland, mention of a United Ireland. An end to the troubles.

  Doyle took a drag on his cigarette.

  After all these years it was actually over.

  Wasn't it?

  So where does that leave you?

  Doyle had even heard rumours that the Counter Terrorist Unit was to be disbanded. It was superfluous to requirements now. Its members were to be pensioned off. Discarded.

  He sighed.

  What the fuck was he going to do?

  It was all he knew. All he'd known for so many years. Where did he go from here? What did life have to offer him now that the fighting was finished?

  It was something he'd considered briefly and, each time, the realisation had troubled him.

  He was finished without it and that only angered him more.

  Retire at thirty-seven. Sit on your arse and count your scars. Sit in your flat and go slowly insane until the day came when the only course of action was to suck on the barrel of a. 44.

  Over the last twenty years he'd faced death so often, risked his life more than any man should have to, but the prospect of that final ending had never frightened him. For the last eight years, since Georgie had gone, it had seemed preferable to the emptiness, the loneliness.

  Doyle had never been afraid of dying but the thought of being discarded, of having outlived his usefulness, was almost unbearable.

  There was something inside him, a cancerous rage which gnawed at him and found appeasement in the violence of his work. With that work gone he could see little future. Could see no way of fighting off that anger which both fuelled him and fed off him.

  Better off dead than discarded.

  He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray then pulled it free and emptied the contents out of the side window, all over the road.

  His back ached.

  It felt as if he'd been sitting in the car for hours and, again, he checked his watch, as if by constantly gazing at the Sekonda he would accelerate time itself.

  There were still no lights on in number ten London Road.

  The only movement was outside.

  The sky was still dark, still mottled with bloated rain clouds.

  Every now and then droplets would hit the windscreen and Doyle watched them trickle down the glass.

  He lit up another cigarette then leaned forward and turned up the volume of the car stereo.

  '… all of the people who won't be missed, you've made my shitlist…'

  A car drove past but Doyle hardly heard the engine above the thundering stereo.

  There were fewer vehicles heading down the street now and he wondered if the road had finally been closed at either end but decided that wasn't the right tactic.

  Things had to look relatively normal outside to anyone peering into the street.

  A white van approaching from behind him, moving slowly. Doyle watched it in his rear-view mirror, counted two people in the front. A man was driving, a woman seated next to him was pointing.

  The counter terrorist squinted in the gloom and noticed that she was gesturing in the direction of number ten.

  He took a long drag on his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs.

  '… all the ones who put me out…'

  The van had stopped about twenty yards behind where Doyle was parked.

  '… all the ones who fill my head with doubt…'

  He saw the driver clamber out, wander around to the rear of the van where a second man climbed free into the street. The woman was walking ahead of them, glancing back and forth as if searching for something.

  Doyle shook his head and swung himself out of the car.

  He wondered what had taken them so long.

  UNIFICATION

  Portadown, Northern Ireland

  Major John Wetherby dropped the files on to the top of the desk, the thump reverberating around the room.

  Wetherby was a tall, powerful
ly built man with pale, pinched features, his hair greying slightly at the temples. He stood with his back to the other two men in the room, both of whom looked first at the officer then at the files.

  The younger of them, Captain Edward Wilton, reached for the top file.

  'Read it,' said Wetherby without turning round, and Wilton hesitated for a moment, as if fearing his superior possessed eyes in the back of his head, before he realised the Major must have seen his reflection in the glass of the window. 'Read them all,' Wetherby continued, his tone subdued.

  Wilton began flicking through the file.

  His colleague merely sat, hands clasped on the top of the table, gazing at his superior's back.

  Captain James Armstrong didn't need to read these files. He knew what they contained. What those contents meant and how important they were.

  'How many is it now?' Armstrong asked.

  'Including Hatcher and the two Sinn Fein men, eleven,' Wetherby informed him, turning back to face his colleagues. 'And Christ knows how many more to come if something isn't done soon.' The Major exhaled wearily. 'Just when it seems there's finally going to be peace, just when it looks as if we're finally going to be able to get out of this bloody place, this happens.' He jabbed a finger towards the files.

  'Are we sure who's behind it?' Wilton asked.

  'I wish there was some room for doubt but I'm afraid there isn't,' the Major told him.

  ‘We're just lucky the media hasn't got hold of it,' Armstrong oered.

  'As far as the media is concerned, it's a leftover from the conflict,' Wetherby said.

  'Two dead Sinn Fein men, both shot,' Wilton began, as if he was reading some kind of bizarre shopping list. 'An Ulster Unionist MP blown to pieces by a car bomb, five known IRA prisoners released from Long Kesh all shot, and three UVF men assassinated, one stabbed, one blown up and the other one shot. No common MO?'

  Wetherby shook his head.

  'It's only going to be a matter of time before each side starts blaming the other,' Wetherby added. 'This bloody peace is fragile enough as it is; there are those on both sides who don't need much more pushing to start hostilities again.'

  'It looks as if someone already started them,' Wilton said, closing the file.

  Wetherby sat down, fingertips pressed together.

  'These killings will go on unless we do something to stop them,' the Major said. 'As head of Military Intelligence here I feel we must act before it's too late. Before anyone else on either side is killed and, more importantly, before this peace settlement is jeopardised any further.'

  'What options do we have?' Wilton asked.

  'As far as I see it we don't have a choice,' Wetherby replied. 'There is only one course of action open to us.'

  The other two men sat motionless, gazing at their superior.

  'In three days' time seven more IRA men are due to be released,' Wetherby continued. 'It's my guess they'll be the next target. They're to be transported from Long Kesh to the border by minibus, escorted obviously. It's a tempting target.'

  'Just like the other five were,' murmured Armstrong.

  Wetherby nodded slowly. 'I don't see what else we can do,' he said wearily.

  'You said there was only one course of action open to us?' Wilton echoed, vaguely.

  'These killings must stop before the media make any connections. They'll have a field day with this and, if it gets out, God help us all,' the Major said, crossing to his desk. 'There is no choice.' He flicked a switch on the console. 'Cranley, send in Sean Doyle.'

  7.41 A.M.

  Doyle saw the woman looking at him as she and her two companions approached.

  Come on, you fucking vultures.

  The first man, short, stocky and wearing a waxed jacket, was carrying a small case with him. The other man, bespectacled and crew-cut, was holding the camera.

  As the woman drew nearer, Doyle could see she was already wearing a radio mike, the power pack tucked into the pocket of her jeans. She had a thick scarf wrapped around her neck as added protection against the chill wind. Doyle watched as her long dark hair flowed behind her, stirred by the wind.

  The cameraman raised the machine and it was then that Doyle stepped forward.

  'Will you turn that off, please?' he said as politely as he could.

  'Who are you?' the woman asked, gazing at him intently.

  The camera moved round to focus on him.

  'Turn it off,' Doyle repeated, raising one hand.

  The man with the spectacles complied.

  'My name's Patricia Courtney,' the woman told him. 'We're with an outside broadcast unit from Thames Television and…'

  Doyle nodded, ran appraising eyes over her.

  About five four, auburn haired. Pretty.

  'Are you involved in this?' she asked him, nodding towards number ten.

  'You could say that. How the hell did you find out about it?' the counter terrorist enquired.

  'We have our sources,' she smiled.

  It was a warm smile.

  Doyle didn't return the gesture.

  'You can't film here.'

  'Who says we can't?' the cameraman demanded.

  'I just fucking told you, didn't I?' Doyle hissed.

  'You still haven't told us who you are,' Patricia insisted.

  'I'm the bloke who's stopping you filming.'

  'Can you show us some ID?' she persisted. 'You could be anyone.'

  Doyle slid the Beretta from its holster and aimed it at the reporter, who gasped and took a couple of steps back.

  'That's my fucking ID,' Doyle rasped. 'Now piss off.'

  'I want to speak to someone in charge of this operation, I have a right-' Patricia began.

  Doyle cut her short. 'You've got no rights here, now fuck off before I get mad.'

  'I could have you reported,' she said challeng-ingly.

  'Try it.'

  'Look, mate, we don't want any trouble, we're just trying to do our jobs,' said the man in the wax jacket, trying to inject a note of calm into the proceedings.

  'Then do them somewhere else. And I'm not your fucking mate.'

  'Just one quick shot of the house, that's all we want,' Patricia said, her eyes flicking nervously towards the automatic.

  'Forget it,' Doyle instructed, holstering the pistol.

  'Are you in charge here?' the cameraman said. 'Because if you're not, then I want to speak to your superiors, I-'

  Doyle grabbed the man with one hand, gripping his jacket, pulling him close. Their foreheads were almost touching.

  'Have you ever tried to eat one of these fucking cameras?' he asked, his eyes narrowed.

  The cameraman tried to pull away but Doyle kept a firm grip on him.

  'If you don't get out of here,' he continued, 'I'm going to stick this camera so far down your throat you'll be able to photograph your fucking breakfast. Got it?'

  He pushed the man away, watching as he sprawled against one of the other parked cars.

  'You're a real hard nut, aren't you?' wax jacket said, helping up his colleague.

  'Do you want some too?' Doyle snarled, glaring at him.

  The man didn't answer.

  'We're just trying to do our jobs,' the reporter told him.

  'You've told me that once. Just piss off. Go and make something up, that's what you bastards usually do, isn't it, if you can't get the story you want? Go on. Crawl back under your stone.' Doyle stood staring at the woman for interminable seconds.

  'You haven't heard the last of this,' the cameraman said defiantly, making sure he was several steps away from the counter terrorist.

  'I'm shitting myself,' Doyle said sardonically. He dug in his pocket for the Marlboros and stuck one between his lips.

  'We won't be the only ones, you know,' Patricia told him. 'This place will be swarming with media inside an hour. You won't be able to keep all of them away.'

  'In an hour it won't matter,' Doyle said cryptically.

  'This is a big story,' she told him.
'You can't hide it. The public have a right to know what's going on here…'

  'If you've finished your speeches why don't you get back in your van and fuck off,' said Doyle, tugging open the door of his car. 'And I'll tell you something else, if you come back here, you'd better hope I don't see you.'

  They turned and headed back towards the van, the reporter shooting him one last venomous glance.

  'Nice talking to you,' Doyle said smiling. Then, under his breath, 'Bastards.'

  He slid behind the wheel of the Datsun once more.

  Waiting.

  INTERVENTION

  Portadown, Northern Ireland

  As Doyle entered the office he was aware of three pairs of eyes upon him. He even saw a look approaching bewilderment on the face of Wilton, who then glanced across at Wetherby.

  The Major nodded a greeting to Doyle, no less taken aback by the counter terrorist's appearance but having had the benefit of knowing what to expect.

  They'd met before.

  It had been in a Mayfair office that time, at the main Headquarters of the CTU, he guessed three or four years ago. The officer was surprised at how little Doyle had changed. He still wore a leather jacket, jeans and cowboy boots, his hair was a little longer if anything and there were the odd flecks of grey in his stubble. Otherwise, no change.

  The scars were still there.

  Not that Wetherby had expected them to have magically vanished during the intervening years, he just didn't remember quite how savage one or two of them were. At least those that he could see.

  'Gentlemen, this is Sean Doyle, a member of the Counter Terrorist Unit,' the Major said and indicated a chair nearby, where Doyle sat down. The officer then introduced his two colleagues.

  Doyle looked impassively at Wilton and Armstrong then reached inside his jacket for his cigarettes.

  'It's still Major Wetherby then, I see,' said Doyle, lighting his cigarette. 'No promotion yet? Perhaps you're not brown-nosing enough.' He smiled.

  'Still as insolent as ever, Doyle,' Wetherby said flatly. 'Some things never change.'

  'All right, let's cut the bullshit, what do you want?' Doyle demanded. 'You didn't get me in here to talk about old times, did you?'