Knife Edge Page 6

'How do you know it's a bomb?' snarled Mason.

  'Trust me,' Doyle murmured.

  I've seen enough of the fucking things up close. Including the one that nearly killed me.

  'Neville's not playing games,' Doyle said.

  For long seconds the three men stood motionless, all staring at Julie.

  'Go on then, Neville!' shouted Doyle. 'Press the fucking button. Blow her up.'

  'What the hell are you doing?' Mason said angrily, grabbing at Doyle's jacket. 'He'll kill her.'

  'Get your fucking hands off me,' Doyle growled, pushing the DS away. He glared at him, those dark grey eyes boring into the smaller man like lasers. 'He's not going to kill her. Not yet.'

  'Why not?' Mason demanded.

  'Because she's his ticket out of here, nobhead,' Doyle hissed.

  'What do you want?' Calloway called.

  'How good's your memory?' Neville shouted back. 'I've got a list.'

  'Go on,' Calloway said, his gaze still fixed on Julie, who was trembling before them.

  'I want a car, safe passage out of here and no tails,' Neville said. 'If I see so much as a copper on a fucking pushbike I'll kill them both.'

  'Is the kid wired too?' Doyle shouted.

  'What difference does it make?' Neville replied.

  'How do we know you won't detonate the bomb anyway?' Mason chipped in.

  'You don't,' Neville told him.

  Doyle took a step to his right, trying to see inside the house, to see where Neville was standing.

  One clear shot was all he needed.

  And if you miss?

  Julie had pulled her coat back on by this time, in a vain attempt to keep out some of the chill. She was quivering madly, her face the colour of rancid butter.

  'A car, safe passage out of here and no tails,' Neville repeated.

  'We heard you,' Calloway called back. Then, to Doyle: 'We could put some kind of tracking device in the car.'

  'He'd be expecting that,' Doyle replied. 'Just give him what he wants.'

  'As easy as that?' Calloway protested.

  'If you don't, you're going to be sweeping her up with a fucking dustpan and brush,' Doyle said, nodding towards Julie.

  She looked helplessly at the three men.

  'Even if he kills her, he's still got the kid in there with him,' Doyle reminded them. 'Do you want that on your conscience, Calloway?'

  'Do you?' the DI countered.

  'All I want is Neville,' Doyle told him. 'Now give him a fucking car. Let's get this shit over with.'

  'You've got ten minutes to make up your minds, then I blow her to pieces,' Neville shouted.

  'You haven't got the balls,' Doyle shouted back.

  Julie looked frantically at the counter terrorist.

  'Go on, Neville, spread her all over the street,' Doyle persisted. 'And then what? Kill your kid? If you do, you've got nothing to bargain with. And, as soon as they're gone, I'm coming in after you.'

  'Who the fuck are you anyway?' Neville shouted angrily.

  'Doyle. Counter Terrorist Unit. I know you, Neville. I know how your mind works. I've been where you've been, for what it's worth.'

  'You don't know anything about me, Doyle,' Neville roared back.

  'I know more than your wife. I even know how many times you shake your dick when you've had a piss.'

  'You're full of shit. Now get me that fucking car or I'll kill her,' Neville bellowed. 'You've got nine minutes now.'

  'Even if you get away from here, I'll still find you,' Doyle assured him.

  'Try it.'

  'I'll guarantee it.'

  'Eight minutes,' Neville called.

  Doyle walked away from the gate and looked at Calloway.

  'Give him the car,' he said flatly.

  10.01 A.M.

  Doyle leaned against the door of the Portacabin and sucked hard on his cigarette, watching as Calloway finished his phone conversation.

  'Sorted?' Doyle asked disinterestedly.

  'The Commissioner isn't too happy about this,' Calloway told him. 'Letting Neville go.'

  'You're not letting him go, you're agreeing to his demands in order to protect the lives of hostages, aren't you?'

  'If he gets away…'

  'He won't get away,' Doyle asserted.

  'I wish I was as sure as you,' Calloway answered.

  'He won't get away because hotshot here is going to get him, aren't you?' Mason chided. 'Captain fucking Marvel is going to track him down, isn't that right, Doyle?'

  The counter terrorist looked at the DS contemptuously.

  'You're going to track him down, you're going to hunt him,' Mason continued. 'What do you think this is, a fucking Western?'

  'If it was, you'd be the fat, bungling sheriff, wouldn't you, porky?' Doyle quipped.

  'All right, girls, knock it off,' Calloway said irritably. 'Let's just get on with it. The car's here.'

  'Let me take it to Neville,' Doyle offered.

  'You'll try and kill him as soon as you get near him,' Calloway snapped. 'One of the uniformed boys can do it.'

  'Calloway,' Doyle said, taking a step towards the DI. 'Let me do it.'

  The two men's eyes locked.

  'You'll try to kill him,' the policeman said quietly.

  Doyle shook his head. 'Not until the hostages are safe. You've got my word on that.'

  Still Calloway hesitated. 'Earlier on, when we were outside the house,' the DI said, 'you told Neville you'd been where he'd been. What did you mean?'

  Doyle shrugged. 'He was in Ireland, I was in Ireland,' he explained. 'He'd been wounded there. So was I.'

  'Badly?'

  Doyle smiled.

  If you could see the fucking scars…

  There was a knock on the Portacabin door and a uniformed constable stood there, a set of car keys in his hand.

  Mason took them from him and handed them to Calloway.

  'Let me take the car to him,' Doyle persisted.

  Calloway waited a second, then tossed the keys to the counter terrorist who nodded and stepped outside.

  The policemen followed, watching as Doyle slid behind the wheel of a dark blue Montego.

  'No fucking heroics,' said Calloway. 'Our concern is the hostages.'

  Doyle nodded. 'He'll ditch it as soon as he can, you know.'

  'I know that,' Calloway told him.

  Doyle started the engine and revved it, exhaust fumes filling the cold air.

  'You tell those fucking snipers to keep their fingers off the triggers,' Doyle said. 'If one of them gets jumpy I don't want him shooting me by mistake.'

  'Yeah, that'd be a tragedy, wouldn't it?' Mason chided.

  Doyle eyed him coldly. 'You know what, fatso?' he said. 'When I finish with Neville, I might just come back for you.'

  He stuck the car in gear and pulled away.

  'Doyle,' Calloway shouted after him. 'Just take it easy. Remember the hostages.'

  Doyle slid a hand inside his jacket and touched the butt of the Beretta.

  Fuck the hostages.

  He drove the Montego up on to the pavement, bringing it close to the front gate of number ten.

  He left the engine running, eyes fixed on the front door.

  Waiting.

  'Come on, Neville,' he said under his breath. 'I've got something for you.'

  The front door remained closed.

  10.06 A.M.

  Doyle was leaning against the bonnet of the Montego when he saw the front door open.

  He had both hands dug deep into the pockets of his leather jacket but, as the door opened a little wider, he slid one hand inside the garment, almost unconsciously touching the butt of the automatic.

  'I hope they've been given their instructions,' Neville called from inside. 'No shooting or I press this fucking detonator.'

  'You're safe,' said Doyle.

  Come out, you fucker.

  'Step away from the car,' Neville ordered, finally stepping into view.

  Doyle saw him for the first
time.

  Perhaps if he pulled the Beretta now. He could get off a couple of shots before…

  Before Neville pressed the detonator?

  Before he opened up with the Steyr?

  'Where are the hostages?' Doyle demanded, watching as Neville edged cautiously from the front door, a hold-all gripped in his free hand.

  'They're safe. Inside,' Neville said, motioning with his head. 'Unless someone gets trigger-happy.' He held up the detonator control.

  Smaller than the palm of his hand. A tiny black box with a winking red light on it and a red button. Neville's thumb was poised over that button.

  Neville was walking slowly up the path now, his gaze never leaving Doyle.

  'Why did you do it, Neville?' Doyle asked. 'Why did you kill the IRA men, the Sinn Fein guys, the UVF blokes? Why?'

  'Is that why they sent you?'

  'They want you kept quiet,' Doyle told him.

  Neville chuckled. 'They're scared of me, aren't they? Terrified I'll fuck up their little peace plan.'

  Doyle nodded.

  'How long were you in Ireland?' Neville asked.

  'Five years, six, seven. Who cares?'

  'Undercover?'

  Doyle nodded again.

  Neville opened the passenger-side door of the Montego and tossed the hold-all on to the seat, never allowing the barrel of the Steyr to leave Doyle.

  'You saw what went on out there,' Neville continued. 'Don't you understand why I killed them? Why I don't want peace? I was shot at, screamed at, spat at and fuck knows what else while I was there but as soon as their little peace treaty is signed, they expect us all to forget about it. Bollocks to that.'

  'I understand what you're talking about,' Doyle said quietly.

  'Maybe you do but they don't,' Neville told him, sweeping one arm towards the watching horde of policemen.

  Doyle could see the detonator in his hand.

  'And the fucking army don't understand either, that's why they sent you to kill me, isn't it?' Neville hissed.

  'Yes,' Doyle answered bluntly.

  'What are you carrying?' Neville asked, nodding towards Doyle's jacket. 'Show me.'

  Doyle eased open the jacket and pulled it to one side, allowing Neville a sight of the Beretta.

  'Pull it,' Neville said, smiling.

  'So you can cut me in half with that, fuck you,'

  Doyle said, nodding towards the sub-gun.

  'I'm giving you a chance,' Neville told him. 'Come on, you want to kill me. Try it.'

  'Don't tempt me.'

  'You know you can't. If you shoot me I'll still press this detonator.'

  'Press it. I couldn't give a fuck if you blow up your wife, your kid and the whole fucking street,' Doyle rasped. 'I came for you.'

  'Then take your chance while you've got it.'

  'There'll be another time.'

  Neville regarded him coldly. 'Why are you doing this?' he said finally. 'Why do you want to kill me? We're on the same side. We always were. We still are. What are they going to do with you now all this shit in Ireland is over? How long before someone comes to kill you?'

  'They wanted peace and they've got it, Neville. You jeopardised that peace. That's why I'm here.'

  'I thought you understood me.'

  'I do but I've got a job to do and I'm going to do it.'

  Neville slid behind the wheel of the car, the detonator still in one hand.

  He's put the sub-gun down. Shoot him now.

  'How long before they want you dead too, Doyle,' Neville said. 'You're as useless now as I am. Whatever we were was back in Ireland, in the fighting.'

  Doyle gritted his teeth, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing.

  What's wrong? The truth hurt? 'I'm the only thing left for you, Doyle,' Neville said, a slight smile on his face. 'If you kill me what else is there for you?'

  'Fuck you, Neville,' Doyle snarled.

  'Too late. The politicians already did that.'

  The car pulled away, moving slowly down the road, past dozens of watching policemen.

  'Shit,' Doyle murmured under his breath.

  Policemen were hurrying towards the house now.

  The counter terrorist himself turned and walked up the short path towards the front door, pushing it, surprised when it swung open.

  He stepped into the hall.

  There was a faint, sickly sweet odour in the air which was familiar to him.

  Something…

  He pushed the living-room door open.

  Again that sickly sweet smell.

  Julie and Lisa Neville were sitting on the sofa, wrists and ankles tied, both of them gagged with pieces of cloth.

  The first of the policemen entered the house close behind Doyle.

  The counter terrorist was already untying Julie's hands.

  She ripped the gag free. 'Get us out of here,' she wailed, her eyes bulging.

  'It's all right,' Doyle said, frowning as he finally recognised the cloying smell.

  The marzipan odour.

  'He's rigged the house,' Julie shouted, snatching up her daughter and bolting for the front door.

  'Jesus Christ,' hissed Doyle.

  The odour was plastic explosive.

  The building must be packed with it.

  'Get out!' Doyle bellowed.

  ***

  Robert Neville looked at his watch.

  He'd driven about two miles.

  No sign of anyone following.

  The police would be inside the house by now.

  He pressed the detonator button.

  10.16 A.M.

  The explosion was deafening.

  The entire upper floor of number ten London Road seemed to rise into the air, propelled by a blast of such thunderous proportions it sounded as if the sky itself had been split apart.

  Roofing tiles, pieces of guttering, lumps of wood and stone all erupted upwards in a shrieking funnel of fire, the concussion blast rolling across the street, knocking those nearby off their feet, deafening them.

  Doyle lay face down, arms covering his head as he waited for the debris to begin raining down.

  What had gone up, after all, had to come down and, seconds after the massive detonation, pieces of brick, wood and all manner of materials began raining down from the heavens.

  A screaming plume of flame shot twenty feet skyward, mushrooming outwards into a thick cloud of black and reddened smoke, the pall spreading rapidly across the heavens like ink across blotting paper. A noxious man-made cloud from which the debris seemed to be pouring.

  Doyle glanced up and saw bricks landing on parked cars.

  A length of timber fully six feet from tip to tip crashed through the windscreen of a police car, the men nearby ducking even lower, one of them falling heavily as a lump of tiling struck his shoulder.

  Glass from the upper storey of the house also sprayed outwards and Doyle hissed in pain as a sliver laid open the back of his right hand. He kept the bleeding appendage clapped to his head until the last of the smoking debris had come to earth, though.

  Slowly, he picked himself up and turned to look at the house.

  Close by, Julie Neville was clutching her daughter to her, her eyes also fixed on what remained of her home.

  Three policemen were gathered around her, one of them holding a blanket which he was attempting to wrap around her shoulders.

  Calloway and Mason moved cautiously across towards Doyle, who was standing in the street slowly bandaging his hand with a handkerchief.

  Sirens were wailing in the distance.

  Lisa Neville was crying.

  Doyle looked across at the child impassively as she and her mother were helped away.

  'Are you OK?' asked Calloway, nodding towards Doyle's injured hand. Blood was soaking through the material.

  The counter terrorist nodded slowly, his eyes still riveted on the destruction the bomb had wrought.

  'Neville's fucking crazy,' Mason rasped. 'Christ knows how many people he c
ould have killed with that bloody bomb…'

  'I don't think he wanted to kill anyone,' Doyle said quietly.

  'Are you stupid?' the DS shouted. 'Look at that fucking house.'

  Doyle grabbed the smaller man by the lapels and dragged him close, pressing his forehead against the policeman's nose.

  'Yeah, look at it, fuckhead,' he rasped. 'Look at the way it's blown.' He pushed the DS away.

  'What the hell are you talking about?' Calloway asked.

  'The blast went upwards,' said Doyle, making an expansive gesture with his hands. 'Up and out. The houses on either side are barely damaged.'

  'I don't get it,' Calloway said, gazing at the wreckage.

  'The bottom floor is still intact. My guess is he only wired the attic, maybe only the roof,' Doyle said. 'That's a neat piece of work. Clever.'

  'I'm glad you approve,' Calloway said irritably, walking towards the house.

  He stepped over burning timber as he approached the front door.

  Beneath his feet, broken glass crunched loudly. It was like walking on a crystal carpet.

  The stench of burning was heavy in the air and millions of tiny cinders were spinning around like filthy snow.

  Calloway coughed as he inhaled the acrid smoke.

  Doyle moved inside the house, into the sitting room.

  'Watch it, Doyle,' Calloway said. 'The fucking ceiling might give way.' He glanced up nervously but the counter terrorist seemed unconcerned.

  There were several deep cracks in the plaster, a diaphanous white dust drifting down from these rents.

  Doyle moved back out of the sitting room and headed for the stairs, taking them carefully, feeling them give, hearing them groan protestingly beneath his weight.

  Halfway up he stopped, but from this vantage point he could see what was left of the upper storey, the light pouring in through the gaping hole made by the explosion.

  The walls were blackened and there were dozens of tiny fires on the landing carpet, even on the walls. Pictures which had hung there lay smashed on the floor, and there was more glass scattered around.

  And everywhere, the acrid stench of smoke clogged in Doyle's nostrils.

  'What did he use?' Calloway asked.

  'Semtex, I could smell it when I came in. He'd have needed three or four pounds to do this kind of damage.'