Knife Edge Page 22

  'You know the rules, Doyle.'

  'Fuck the rules, fuck the game and fuck you.'

  'I'll let off another bomb in thirty seconds unless I speak to my daughter. The clock's running, hero.'

  'Let it run, fuckhead.'

  'You ought to know me well enough by now, Doyle. I'll do it.'

  'I know you'll do it and I don't care. You can let off as many bombs as you like, you can kill however many people you want. I couldn't give a shit. You know why? Because I've got the only thing in this world that means anything to you. The only thing you value in your whole miserable fucking life is here with me now.'

  'If you hurt her Doyle I'll-'

  'You'll what?' Doyle hissed, scornfully. 'Bomb another part of London? Big deal. Be my guest. Now you listen to me, Neville, I'm changing the rules of this game. From now on we play my way. I don't know why it took me so long to suss this out. Are you listening to me?'

  Silence at the other end.

  'Neville, I hope you are listening. For your daughter's sake I hope you're listening. You and I are going to meet. But it'll be where I say and when I say. Got that?'

  'And what if I don't agree?'

  'I'll kill your daughter.'

  'You're bluffing.'

  'Do I sound like I'm bluffing? Are you willing to take that chance? Like I said, you can let off all the bombs you want but the only way you're ever going to see your daughter again is if you do what I tell you.'

  'The only difference between us, Doyle, is that you've got the law to hide behind.'

  'I don't need the law, Neville. Now you started this fucking game, I'm going to finish it. Any bullshit and I'll kill the girl. You let off any more bombs and I'll kill her. New rules. New game, Neville. Now listen.'

  7.01 P.M.

  Frank Mallory had been convinced that Doyle was going to shoot the child.

  He'd seen the barrel of the Beretta aimed at her head, seen the expression on the counter terrorist's face. There had seemed only one possible outcome.

  The thirty-two-year-old plain-clothes policeman had watched the entire tableau in muted shock, tempted fleetingly to draw the Smith and Wesson. 38 from the holster beneath his flannel shirt, but he had watched and waited.

  Watched as Doyle had spoken into the phone.

  Watched as he and the little girl had headed off towards the steps which would take them back down to the station's ticket office.

  Now he watched from one end of the carriage as the tube train approached Chancery Lane station, glancing up from his copy of the Standard every now and then, ensuring that Doyle and the girl didn't slip off the train unnoticed.

  Mallory had no idea where the counter terrorist was taking his small charge.

  No idea what he was going to do to her.

  How could he point a gun at her?

  Mallory thought of his own child and, as he glanced at Doyle, felt a swift but overwhelming surge of hatred for the man.

  The poor little sod must have been terrified.

  And yet, as the plain-clothes man watched, Lisa was sitting close to Doyle.

  Probably scared to move.

  The carriage was relatively full so Mallory's job was made that little bit easier. When more passengers boarded at the station, most of the seats were taken.

  People were moving about in the aisle, trying to find a seat or at least a hand-hold before the train lurched out of the station.

  Mallory glanced across towards where Doyle had been sitting.

  He couldn't see him.

  The plain-clothes man tried to control the panic which struck him like a slap in the face.

  What if Doyle and the girl had slipped off unnoticed?

  How the hell was he going to find them now?

  Mallory leaned forward slightly in his seat.

  Still no sign of Doyle, but he could see the girl.

  There was a young woman sitting next to her now, occasionally smiling up at Doyle, sometimes at Lisa.

  Doyle stood in the aisle gripping the handrail, his other hand dug in his pocket.

  Mallory breathed an almost audible sigh of relief and settled back to his newspaper, scanning the same words he'd already looked at a dozen times and still unable to remember one of them.

  As the train passed through Holborn he saw that the counter terrorist and the little girl were still on board.

  So too was the young woman Doyle had given up his seat for.

  She had pulled a paperback from her handbag and was scanning it, pausing every now and then to point something out to Doyle who leaned close to her as she spoke.

  From his position at the other end of the carriage, Mallory couldn't hear what they were saying. All he was aware of was the warmth of the young woman's smile.

  Even Doyle managed a grin a couple of times.

  Lisa's face never changed expression.

  That look of bewilderment and concern remained etched upon her features.

  Mallory glanced at Doyle once more.

  What are you up to?

  It was as the train approached Tottenham Court Road station that Mallory saw the counter terrorist extend a hand towards Lisa, both helping and beckoning.

  She took the hand almost fearfully.

  Doyle bent his head quickly and leaned close to the young woman with the dog-eared paperback.

  She laughed out loud.

  Doyle and Lisa moved towards the sliding doors of the carriage as the train pulled into the station. Mallory felt his heart beating a little faster.

  Take it easy.

  As the train stopped, the doors slid open and Doyle stepped out, Lisa's small hand held firmly in his.

  Mallory waited a second or two then followed.

  7.18 P.M.

  'I'm not going to hurt you,' Doyle said quietly, as they stood on the platform waiting for the train to pull in.

  He looked down at Lisa who glanced up at him with watery eyes.

  A man passing by heard the words and looked at Doyle warily, only continuing up the platform when he saw the steel in his warning glare.

  'You told my dad you'd kill me.'

  Well, would you?

  Doyle looked into her eyes.

  What about it, hardman? Would you shoot a kid?

  He squeezed her hand a little harder but his expression didn't alter.

  So? Would you? Or are you going soft? If the time came, could you put the barrel to her head and blow her fucking brains out?

  'I need to see your dad,' he told Lisa. 'It was the only thing I could say to make him speak to me.'

  Ah, very touching. Bottled it, have you?

  Lisa didn't look too impressed.

  There was a blast of warm air from the tunnel mouth signalling the arrival of the train.

  Doyle took a step towards the edge of the platform, pulling Lisa gently with him.

  'It's going to be OK,' he said, without looking at her.

  She didn't hear him. The rumble of the tube train drowned out his words.

  They stepped on as the doors slid open, Doyle ushering her towards the nearest seat.

  If he noticed the thin-faced man in the flannel shirt step aboard at the far end of the carriage, a copy of the Standard stuck in the back pocket of his jeans, he gave no indication.

  ***

  Northern line, southbound, mused Frank Mallory.

  Where the fuck was Doyle going?

  He stood at the far end of the carriage, not bothering with the paper this time, simply leaning against the partition, eyes scanning the other occupants of the carriage but coming to rest time and again on Doyle and Lisa.

  The counter terrorist also glanced around the carriage.

  Has he spotted you?

  Mallory thought not. However, he had no way of being sure.

  Not yet.

  The train pulled into Leicester Square station, disgorged some passengers, welcomed aboard others, then pulled off once more.

  Doyle and Lisa hadn't moved.

  Mallory took a seat
which had been vacated at Leicester Square, feeling that it was still warm when he sat on it.

  This time he did pull the newspaper from his pocket but he only rested it across his lap, tapping slowly on the paper with his fingers.

  He saw Doyle lean across and say something to Lisa, saw her glance at the counter terrorist briefly.

  He wished he could hear what Doyle was saying. There was no way he could get closer now without alerting his quarry. The only thing to do was wait.

  ***

  'So, when we see your dad, you stay close to me, right?' said Doyle, leaning close to Lisa.

  'You're going to hurt us both, aren't you?' she whispered.

  'Just do what I tell you and you'll be fine,' Doyle said, as reassuringly as he could.

  Just don't get in the way if me or your father starts blasting.

  'I need to go to the toilet,' she told him, looking almost apologetic.

  'You'll have to wait,' he said, trying to soften the edge to his voice.

  'But I can't.'

  Doyle looked at her, pinning her in the full glare of his steel grey eyes.

  'You'll have to. It won't be long now. We're nearly there.'

  7.24 P.M.

  Arrogant, stupid, shitheaded, fucking piece of crap.

  Robert Neville gripped the handlebars of the Harley Davidson so tightly it seemed his fingers would cut through the thick leather of the gloves he wore.

  Doyle.

  Smartarse fucking bastard.

  Who the hell did he think he was? Threatening Lisa.

  Neville eased the Tour Glide around a van which had stopped close to the pavement outside a restaurant in Monmouth Street.

  The traffic was heavy, as streets in the centre of the capital had been closed after the bombs. Diversions were in force. The traffic was jam-packed, bumper to bumper.

  Neville guided the motorbike expertly through the traffic where he could, cursing the other vehicles, cursing the police.

  Cursing Doyle.

  How dare he?

  Arrogant fucker.

  Trying to play Neville at his own game. Trying to bargain.

  The ex-para felt the bulk of the. 357 beneath one armpit, the. 459 beneath the other.

  When he finally got his hands on the counter terrorist he'd empty both fucking guns into him.

  Then he'd take Lisa.

  Doyle wouldn't shoot her, he was sure of that.

  Relatively sure.

  Fairly sure?

  Fuck it. He had no way of fathoming how the counter terrorist's mind worked. How far he was willing to push this game.

  You said you were alike. How far would he go? Would you kill a child if you had to?

  Some had died already in the bomb blasts earlier. They must have.

  How many young lives do you want on your conscience?

  How many had Doyle already got on his?

  Would one more matter to him?

  Neville thought it wouldn't.

  As he headed into St Martin's Lane he felt, he knew, that the man he would shortly be meeting was every bit as ruthless as himself.

  For some reason, the thought made Neville smile.

  ***

  'Say that again, you're breaking up, over,' said PC Nigel Butler, the two-way held close to his ear.

  He listened more carefully as Mallory repeated his message.

  Through the static and beneath the steady hum of the helicopter's rotor blades, the policeman nodded, picking out the words as if he were sifting through some kind of verbal jigsaw, searching for the right pieces.

  'Doyle and the kid are at Charing Cross, heading down the Strand towards Trafalgar Square,' Butler repeated.

  The pilot glanced across at him then moved the joystick of the Lynx a few degrees to the left, the vehicle banking.

  PC Duncan Clark looked down at the maze of streets and tangle of buildings that was central London, a thousand feet below.

  He gripped his rifle more tightly and swallowed hard, aware that his heart was beating that little bit faster now.

  McBride spoke into his mouthpiece, replying to a question or query he'd received through his headphones. Clark saw him flick a switch to his right, saw a red light flicker on and wondered momentarily if something was wrong, but he noted with relief that the light quickly flickered off again.

  'Yeah, I got it, Trafalgar Square,' Butler repeated. 'Out.'

  Clark noticed that there were several beads of sweat on the other policeman's brow but he fancied they were there because of his companion's fear of flying.

  Unlike the leaden feeling he felt in his own gut.

  Fear?

  The plain-clothes guy following Doyle says they're heading towards Trafalgar Square,' Butler repeated.

  Clark nodded.

  'And Neville?' McBride enquired.

  Butler could only shrug. 'Wherever Doyle is, Neville will be close.'

  'I hope you're right,' Clark murmured, his face pale.

  'Are you OK?' Butler asked him.

  Clark nodded.

  'I hope I can do it when the time comes,' he said, swallowing.

  'Do what?' Butler wanted to know.

  'Shoot Neville,' Clark told him. 'I've never fired at a man before. Never killed anyone.'

  'I felt cold afterwards,' Butler said, looking at his own rifle, memories dancing behind his eyes. 'Like I was sitting out in a snow storm.' He shrugged. 'I couldn't stop shaking for about an hour afterwards.'

  'You've killed a man?'

  'About eleven months ago, over in Bermondsey,' Butler elaborated, his voice soft. 'Some nutter went apeshit with a kitchen knife, stabbed his wife and a friend of hers and took them hostage. The friend bled to death before we could reach her. He'd cut her throat. He had a gun in the house too, just some fucking old Luger, Christ knows where he got it. He managed to get off a couple of rounds then he ran for it. He ran straight at me. I shot him.'

  Clark looked intently at his colleague.

  'Caught him in the chest,' Butler continued. 'There wasn't even much blood. He didn't make a sound. Didn't go flying backwards like they do in films; that's all bullshit. He just looked surprised. Then he fell on to his face. He was dead before they got him into the ambulance.' Butler exhaled deeply. 'Like I said, I just felt so bloody cold. I got a commendation for that.' He chuckled but there was no humour in the sound.

  The helicopter banked sharp right then began to descend very slowly.

  Clark glanced at his companion then at his watch.

  Both men checked their rifles.

  7.28 P.M.

  'Where are we going?'

  Doyle heard Lisa speak but the words didn't seem to register.

  He glanced towards Nelson's Column, which was, as usual, surrounded by tourists. The pavement was thick with pigeons, the continual flapping of t heir wings sounding like some unearthly round of applause. One of the birds waddled across Doyle's path until a small child came bounding out of a huddle of tourists nearby and chased it away.

  Doyle glanced at the child, who promptly ran back to the welcoming arms of its mother.

  He could hear the sound of the fountains in Trafalgar Square and, as he looked again, he saw two people sitting on the low stone wall around one of them, feet dipped into the water.

  Close by, another couple were tossing pieces of bread to an ever-increasing multitude of pigeons.

  Cameras were clicking. He could hear laughter.

  He felt Lisa's hand pulling at his.

  'Where are we going? I'm tired.'

  'We're nearly there,' he said, pulling her along with him when she slowed down.

  Nearly there.

  Was it nearly over? Really over?

  Would Neville be waiting or would it be as Doyle planned? Would he be a moment or two ahead of the ex-para? Would he have time to pick his ground?

  He almost smiled to himself.

  How many times had he done this?

  How many times had he walked or driven towards a place where he kn
ew he might lose his life?

  He didn't know. Didn't care.

  If death awaited him then so be it. He had no fear of death.

  A man he'd once met had told him that death held no fear for someone who had nothing to live for.

  Doyle had killed that man but he'd agreed with the sentiment. And for him, personally, there was nothing left.

  Neville could be waiting for him now at the appointed place, fixed by Doyle himself.

  The ex-para would try anything to get his daughter back.

  Doyle had to ensure it did not end that way.

  He must get Neville.

  He would.

  He didn't give a fuck about the bombs and the lost lives, or how many more would die. This was personal. He'd been ordered to kill Neville and he would.

  Are your orders so important?

  Doyle looked down at Lisa as they crossed the road.

  Will you shoot her father down before her eyes?

  The counter terrorist told himself that Neville wasn't even her father.

  Who fucking cared?

  She wouldn't know that.

  As they crossed the road, Doyle found himself slowing his pace slightly. It was as if he wanted to delay the final confrontation as long as possible. He felt no fear. He knew that Neville would not kill him. He'd try but Doyle knew that once he had the expara in his sights there would be only one outcome. And even if he did die, he'd still make fucking sure he took Neville with him.

  So why delay?

  Perhaps Neville was right. Perhaps they were alike. Mirror images of the same man with the same feelings, the same beliefs. The same needs.

  Bollocks.

  Doyle slipped a hand inside his jacket and felt the bulk of the Beretta there. As he walked he could feel the. 45 PD Star bumping against his boot, secure in the ankle holster.

  'Remember what I told you,' he said, looking down at Lisa. 'Stay close to me. Don't try and run.'

  'Am I going to see my dad now?'

  Doyle nodded and kept walking, eyes now alert, scanning faces, darting back and forth for the first sight of Neville.