Knife Edge Read online

  He looked at his watch.

  They crossed the road beneath Admiralty Arch and Doyle glanced up the Mall towards Buckingham Palace.

  He had no idea from which direction Neville would arrive.

  All he knew for sure was that he would come.

  It was almost time.

  ***

  'You've done what?' roared Detective Inspector Vic Calloway, taking a step around the desk, his eyes aflame.

  'Neville would have set off those bombs anyway,' DS Mason said, taking a step backwards. 'Doyle won't catch him in time, and even if he does it won't matter. He'll set those fucking bombs off, Vic, I'm telling you.'

  'You went behind my back,' Calloway shouted. 'You gave an instruction which could cause dozens of deaths without consulting me. If Neville is killed before we find out the location of the bombs, Christ alone knows how many more people are going to die.'

  'I told you, he'll kill anyway. He'll detonate the bombs even if he gets his daughter.'

  'You don't know that.'

  'Well, I wasn't taking any chances. When he shows up, he's dead.'

  'Call the chopper now, cancel the order.'

  Calloway was standing only inches from his companion.

  'It's too late,' Mason said. 'The chopper was told to break all radio links once it moved in for the final kill. It's doing that now.'

  'Where?' Calloway demanded.

  'Admiralty Arch,' Mason informed him. 'It's over, Vic.'

  'Fucking right it's over.' Calloway snatched up the phone. 'If anyone other than Neville is hurt, I'll have your fucking badge for this.'

  7.34 P.M.

  The sky was mottled. A collection of bluish-purple clouds like bruises, which signalled not only the creeping onset of evening but also the inexorable approach of rain. Great swollen banks scudded across the heavens.

  For Doyle the day had begun in rain-flecked darkness and it was going to end that way.

  He glanced at his watch.

  It wasn't even a day, was it?

  Seven o'clock this morning it had all begun, hadn't it? The cramped waiting in his car.

  And now, a little over twelve hours later, that waiting was almost over.

  Lisa was standing close to Doyle, so close he could feel the heat from her body against his leg.

  He wondered if he should comfort her.

  And what will you say? That the man she thinks is her father will soon be dead? That'd be a big fucking comfort, wouldn't it?

  He didn't know what to say to her.

  If the truth be told he didn't really care.

  Georgie would know what to do if she was here. She'd know what to say to the girl to reassure her.

  But Georgie wasn't here, was she? And never fucking would be again.

  Doyle ran a hand through his hair and sucked in a deep breath. He fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes and lit one, cupping his hand around the lighter as the flame danced in a sudden breeze.

  Traffic was moving swiftly up and down the Mall, the noise of the engines filling the evening air. Already most of the street lamps along the thoroughfare were flickering into life.

  Doyle saw the Harley Davidson as clearly as if it had been equipped with a beacon.

  He saw Neville sitting astride it.

  Saw the ex-para swing the Tour Glide out of the traffic and head towards them, easing off the throttle as he drew nearer.

  'Dad!' Lisa shouted and moved towards him but Doyle shot out a hand and pulled her back.

  'Stand still,' he said, one firm hand gripping her shoulder.

  She squirmed in his grip for a moment, wanting to run to her father who was swinging himself off the bike now, pulling his helmet free.

  He stood no more than ten feet from Doyle.

  'Don't hurt her, Doyle,' Neville said. 'I kept my part of the bargain, didn't I? I'm here.'

  'You didn't have any choice,' Doyle reminded him. 'Why did you do it, Neville? Why the bombs here? Why the shootings and bombings over in I reland?'

  The ex-para shrugged.

  'I didn't know what else to do,' he said. 'It would Itave worked, you know. This peace in Ireland is bullshit anyway. They'll never stop fighting.'

  'And you wanted to make sure they didn't?' Doyle said, pulling the Beretta from its holster, levelling the weapon at his opponent.

  'Do you think they will then? Do you want them to? You didn't want an end to the fighting any more than I did because you know that, just like me, you're finished without it. What else have you got, Doyle? How long before you go off your head? This peace is no good to you either.'

  The counter terrorist held his gaze.

  'They might give you a desk job if you're lucky,' Neville continued. 'Is that what you want?'

  'You're right, it's finished for both of us,' Doyle said quietly. 'Now drop the guns. Take them out slowly with your left hand.'

  'And if I don't?' Neville said.

  Doyle pulled back the hammer on the automatic and pressed the barrel lightly against Lisa's right› temple.

  'Then I'll kill her.'

  Neville reached inside his jacket and first pulled out the. 459 then the. 357. He dropped both on the pavement at his feet.

  'Are you going to shoot an unarmed man?'

  'It wouldn't be the first time,' Doyle informed him.

  'Dad,' Lisa said tearfully and Neville smiled at her, took a step forward.

  Doyle held on to the little girl.

  'Don't move, Neville,' he said through clenched teeth. 'Now tell me, where's the bomb?'

  'It doesn't matter now. It's too late. Even if you kill me it'll still detonate. The others were activated by remote control. This one is on a timer. It goes up at eight o'clock no matter what.' He smiled. 'The big one.'

  'How big?' Doyle wanted to know.

  'One hundred and thirty pounds,' Neville said. 'Or think of it as fifty car bombs all going off at once. I know you're familiar with car bombs, Doyle.' Again a crooked smile.

  'Where is it, Neville?'

  'You'd never disarm it even if you found it in time. I've still beaten you.'

  'Well, you won't be around to enjoy it, will you?' said Doyle, raising the Beretta so that it was level with Neville's head.

  'No!' shrieked Lisa.

  'Not in front of my daughter, Doyle.'

  'Your daughter,' Doyle taunted, and it was his turn to smile. 'Wrong. She's not your kid, Neville. You should have asked your missus or that good, close, trusted friend of yours, Kenneth Baxter. She's his kid, Neville, not yours.'

  'You fucking liar,' Neville snarled, taking a step back towards the bike.

  Doyle shook his head. 'She's Baxter's kid. Trust me.'

  The gunshot was deafening.

  It was followed by another and another.

  Bullets struck the pavement and screamed away, ricocheting off the concrete.

  Doyle lurched backwards.

  Neville leaped towards the bike, both men looking up, towards the direction of the shots.

  Towards the roar of rotor blades.

  The police helicopter descended slowly, hovering barely fifty feet above the ground.

  The air was suddenly filled with the crackle of firearms.

  7.37 P.M.

  Doyle had dropped to his knees when the first shot struck the ground, pulling Lisa with him, but she shook loose and scrambled to her feet, running towards Neville who was already at the Harley Davidson.

  He dragged open the top box and pulled the Steyr MPi 69 free, his finger jerking on the trigger.

  The staccato rattle of automatic fire filled the air as he sprayed the ground close to Doyle, bullets singing up from the pavement.

  As Doyle ducked down, amazed that he hadn't been hit by the fusillade, he heard the roar of the Harley's engine, even over the droning rotors of the Lynx.

  There was a scream of spinning rubber and, for a long moment, the bike seemed to hover on its churning wheels, motionless.

  Doyle raised the Beretta and squeezed the trig
ger, three shots blasting off in quick succession, the automatic slamming back against the heel of his hand.

  Then, the Tour Glide's wheels gained purchase and it shot off as if fired from a cannon.

  Doyle scrambled to his feet and fired off two more shots at the speeding bike, ducking involuntarily as the helicopter suddenly roared over his head, also in pursuit of Neville.

  Lisa was lying on the pavement sobbing.

  Doyle pulled her to her feet, saw that there was blood on her cheek.

  A tiny sliver of concrete, blasted free by a bullet, had cut her skin.

  Otherwise there seemed to be no damage. She just stood there sobbing uncontrollably.

  Frank Mallory saw her as he ran towards the two figures, shouting something which Doyle couldn't make out.

  He saw the man in the flannel shirt gesturing towards him but he didn't hear what he shouted. He had other things on his mind.

  Neville was already halfway up the Mall by now, the helicopter still in pursuit, hurtling along so low it seemed to brush the tops of the trees which lined the thoroughfare.

  Traffic travelling in both directions slowed down, mesmerised or terrified by the spectacle.

  Doyle ran into the road, the Beretta still gripped in his fist.

  The driver of a Cortina slammed on his brakes in an effort to avoid this madman, the car skidding, missing Doyle by inches.

  Two more cars behind him also slowed up, one of them bumping the back of the Cortina.

  It was the vehicle behind that which Doyle wanted.

  The driver of the red Nissan 200 SX was in his late thirties, smartly dressed and, when he saw Doyle running towards his car, he immediately slapped on the central locking.

  His companion, a young woman in her late twenties with long hair and an impossibly tight black dress, screamed as she saw the leather-jacketed, long-haired man approaching the driver's side. She realised instantly he was carrying a gun. She'd seen enough Sylvester Stallone pictures to recognise one when it was waved at her.

  'Get out the fucking car,' shouted Doyle, levelling the Beretta at the driver.

  Neither occupant moved.

  Doyle fired once, the bullet shattering the side window.

  The glass fractured, splintered and sprayed inwards.

  The counter terrorist punched through what was left of it and yanked up the locking depressor, tugging at the handle, then grabbing the driver, hurling him into the street.

  'Get out!' Doyle shouted at the woman who was still screaming.

  She tumbled out of the passenger door, one of her high heels skittering across the pavement behind her.

  Doyle floored the accelerator, twisting the wheel, allowing the car to complete a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn.

  A van travelling in the other direction struck the rear of the Nissan, shattering a back light, but Doyle pressed down harder on the right-hand pedal and the SX roared off up the Mall.

  He could see Neville up ahead of him, weaving in and out of traffic, the helicopter skimming low as it followed him.

  Doyle jammed the Beretta into his belt, using both hands to grip the steering wheel.

  He slammed into the side of a blue car in the opposite lane, ripping off a wing mirror, the squeal of metal on metal almost deafening. Paint was stripped from the nearside of the Nissan as surely as if someone had attacked it with a blow torch.

  Ahead of him, Neville swung right into Marlborough Road, cutting across the path of a taxi, which was forced to mount the pavement to avoid him.

  The helicopter banked right too and Doyle heard another shot.

  What were those dozy fuckers playing at?

  As he himself sent the Nissan screaming around t he bend, the needle of the speedo touched fifty.

  The car barely held the road.

  Doyle fought and regained control of the wheel.

  Air from the shattered window gushed in, sending his hair flying behind him like incensed reptilian tails, but he cared about nothing except that motorbike rider ahead of him.

  Doyle pressed down even harder on the accelerator and eased the automatic free.

  He was ready.

  7.42 P.M.

  'This wasn't supposed to happen,' PC Duncan Clark panted, gripping the back of his seat as the helicopter swung low between two buildings before rising sharply again, always following the fleeing motorbike.

  'We were told to get Neville,' Butler reminded him. 'We've got to.'

  The pilot looked down at the small infra-red image showing on the console beside him, checking that Neville was still within their reach.

  The Lynx was flying at around a hundred feet, rising and dipping where necessary, McBride constantly aware of the proximity of so many buildings.

  Neville was roaring up St James's Street now, hunched low over his handlebars, the Harley Davidson swerving in and out of traffic as if it were on some kind of maniacal slalom.

  Butler pulled the HK81 up to his shoulder once more and squinted into the telescopic sight, trying to draw a bead on Neville.

  'Take her down a little.'

  'I can't take her any further, we'll hit something,' McBride told the marksman.

  Butler tried to hold the rifle steady. His finger pressed more firmly on the trigger as he waited until he had Neville squarely in the cross-threads of the sight.

  The bike veered left slightly and Butler lifted his finger from the trigger.

  'Jesus,' he snarled. 'I can't get a clear shot.'

  Clark was breathing hard, his heart pounding madly against his ribs.

  He raised his own rifle and drew a bead on Neville.

  He tried to swallow but it felt as if someone had filled his throat with chalk.

  There were so many other vehicles in the road. So many other targets he might hit by accident.

  Dare he shoot?

  He kept the rifle pressed to his shoulder.

  The chopper dipped low once more.

  ***

  As Doyle roared along in pursuit of Neville, he could see the Lynx above him, drifting up and down like some toy dangled on a string. Many of the pedestrians he sped past had stopped to look at the spectacle hurtling past them, marvelling at the wildly moving helicopter and the speeding motorcycle it pursued.

  Fucking police, Doyle thought angrily.

  They were told to keep out of it.

  Without their interference he'd have got Neville.

  Fuck it. He had him. Helpless before him until the bloody chopper arrived and fucked everything up.

  If Neville got away the police would be to blame.

  Let that bomb that was due to go off in just over fifteen minutes be on their conscience.

  But where?

  One hundred and thirty pounds of Semtex. Where the fuck had Neville hidden such a prodigious supply of the explosive?

  Doyle shook his head as if to clear away the thought, concentrating his mind on the fleeing motorcyclist, using all his skill to weave a path through increasingly heavy traffic.

  The counter terrorist knew that Neville had an advantage.

  His manoeuvrability.

  The Nissan Doyle was driving was fast but cumbersome compared to the swiftly moving Harley Davidson. If the ex-para should swing the bike off a main road then Doyle knew he was fucked.

  Ahead of him two cars were blocking the road.

  Doyle twisted the wheel and sent the Nissan hurtling up on to the pavement.

  He heard someone scream, saw a dark shape dive away from the onrushing car.

  Doyle stayed on the pavement, realising it would give him easier access along the thoroughfare.

  There was a loud clang as he struck a waste bin, ripping it from its position on the pavement.

  It flew into the air, spinning, sending its rotting contents scattering in all directions.

  He hit the next one too and heard one of the Nissan's headlights shatter.

  Still he drove along the pavement, finally guiding the vehicle back into the road as Neville reac
hed the junction of St James's Street and Piccadilly.

  The lights were red.

  7.46 P.M.

  Neville glanced up at the red light then sent the bike hurtling left into Piccadilly, oblivious to the frantic blasting of horns which greeted his arrival.

  The Harley swept across the path of two cars, both of which braked hard to avoid collision with the bike.

  They managed that but not with the vehicles following.

  A bus slammed into one, shunting it several yards further down the road.

  The other, a Fiesta, shuddered as another car struck it hard in the rear, the metal crumpling like paper, back lights shattering under the impact.

  ***

  Doyle sent the Nissan after the bike, slamming sideways into a Cortina in the process, the impact jarring both cars momentarily, but Doyle gripped the wheel, pressed down on the accelerator and roared off once more, noticing that the helicopter was now able to swoop even lower in such a wide thoroughfare as Piccadilly.

  It was no more than fifty feet above Neville, the skids moving downwards until it looked as though they could merely bump the fleeing ex-para off the Harley.

  ***

  Neville heard the deafening roar of the rotor blades and glanced up. The Lynx hovered over him like some massive metallic bird of prey.

  He worked the throttle of the Harley and coaxed yet more speed from the bike, whose speedo was already pushing seventy.

  There was an ear-splitting bang and a bullet sang off the road no more than ten feet from the Tour Glide.

  Then another.

  The second struck the front grille of a stationary Mercedes and punched a hole through the metal.

  ***

  In the chopper Clark cursed and took aim again.

  ***

  Ahead on the left Neville saw the brightly lit frontage of the Ritz Hotel.

  He swung left sharply, across the path of a taxi, whose driver blasted its horn angrily.