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  Doctor Simon Bellamy watched in exasperation as Doyle hauled himself out of the hospital bed and carefully put his weight on his bandaged leg. The counter terrorist winced at the first contact then seemed to become accustomed to the pain.

  The wounds are not sufficiently healed,' Bellamy stressed.

  'They're fine, doc,' Doyle told him, searching in the bedside table for his clothes. He was relieved to find they'd been washed.Although walking (or hobbling) out of the hospital with bloodstained gear wouldn't have bothered him.

  He began to dress.

  'You need at least three more days under observation,' Bellamy insisted.'What the hell are you trying to prove?'

  'I'm not trying to prove anything. Now, if there's some piece of paper you want me to sign, clearing you of responsibility, then great, give me the bloody thing.

  But I'm not staying in here a day longer.' He pulled on his T-shirt, feeling the tear where Leary's blade had sliced it.

  'What's your hurry?'

  I've got work to do.'

  'You're not going to be in a fit state to do anything if you leave here like this.'

  Doyle eased his jeans carefully up his bandaged leg and fastened them. Then he pulled on his socks and stepped into the worn cowboy boots he'd also pulled from the locker.

  He put more weight on his injured leg and gritted his teeth.

  More pain.

  'What's the worst that can happen, doc?' he asked, conversationally.

  'Your stitches could open.'

  Doyle shrugged, pulled on a denim shirt and tucked it into his jeans. 'I'll see my own quack when I get the chance,' he said, as if that was meant to make Bellamy feel better.

  'Mr Doyle—'

  'There are people who need these beds more than I do,' Doyle snapped, cutting him short. 'I'm doing you a favour and some other poor sod. Look at it that way if it makes you feel better.'

  'Right now, you need to be in that bed,' Bellamy answered.

  Doyle pulled on his leather jacket and dug in the pockets for his cigarettes. He was out.

  'No good asking you for a fag is it, doc?' he smiled.

  Bellamy shook his head resignedly.

  Doyle's phone rang. He looked at the doctor, the only sound in the room the shrill tone of the mobile.

  Bellamy held up his hands as if in surrender and stepped out of the room.

  Doyle answered the call.

  'How are you feeling?' said the voice.

  He recognised it immediately. Well spoken, calm, measured tones.

  'Not bad,' he said.

  'I had a full report on what happened.'

  'Yeah, I bet you did. Listen, I had Leary. He—'

  'Then why are you the one in hospital?'

  There was a moment's silence then the voice continued, 'I understand the injuries you received were severe.'

  'A knife's better than a car bomb,' Doyle replied.

  'I'm glad you're okay, Doyle.'

  'Am I supposed to say thanks for the call?'

  'You're not supposed to say anything, just listen to me. I want you to take the first flight out of Aldergrove back to London.'

  'What for? I got Finan but Leary's still on the fucking loose. What's the point in me flying back to London now? The business is here.'

  'It wasn't a request, Doyle. I'm giving you an order. I want you out of Belfast as quickly as possible. Do you understand? I want to see you in my office the day after tomorrow at ten o'clock.'

  'Are you sending someone else after Leary?' Doyle snapped.

  'Leary isn't your concern any longer. Just get on that bloody plane.'

  'You know I'm the only one who can find him.'

  'My office. Ten o'clock, the day after next.'

  Doyle was about to say something else but Jonathan Parker, Director of the Counter Terrorist Unit in London, ended the call.

  'Shit,' Doyle hissed.

  He gazed at his mobile for a few seconds more then switched it off.

  He looked into his locker again and saw a plastic bag, sealed at the top with Sellotape.

  The counter terrorist smiled as he lifted it.

  His guns felt comfortingly heavy.

  CALLING CARDS

  Ward sat back in his chair and stared at the screen. He re-read what was there, changed the odd word then rested his fingers on the keys once more.

  He waited.

  Nothing came. Nothing clicked into place. No further sparks of inspiration.

  He muttered to himself and got to his feet.

  He looked out of the window into the garden. The sun was shining and the sky was cloudless.

  Ward looked back to the screen then got up and made his way down the stairs to the office door. He stepped out into the garden, breathing deeply.

  Some ants were busying themselves around the cracks in the stonework beneath his feet. Ward watched them for a moment then walked slowly on to the lawn. It needed cutting and the grass almost reached his ankles. Daisies and buttercups sprouted abundantly and bees moved lazily from flower to flower.

  Everyone was busy except him it seemed.

  He could hear the sound of children's voices away to his left. He wondered why the little bastards weren't at school. A little further away, a dog barked.

  Ward crossed to the large, rambling hedge that formed

  one boundary of his garden and looked at the blackberries growing there.

  There was a sticky mound of glutinous matter close to his left foot. At first he thought it was half-eaten fruit, then he knelt to inspect it more closely. The stench made him recoil. It was excrement.

  Fucking cats must have been in the garden again. He made a mental note to put some pepper down or, better still, slide three or four razor blades into the dirt around the holes in the fence where he knew they entered. Perhaps they wouldn't feel so much like shitting in his garden with their paws cut to shreds.

  Ward smiled at his ingenious sadism, then the smile faded.

  He looked again at the lumps of excrement, covering his face with a handkerchief to protect his nostrils from the foul odour.

  This wasn't cat shit. It was too big. The stools too large.

  Something glistened in the second pile. Ward reached for a twig to disturb the faecal mess. He prodded it carefully and managed to dig out the gleaming object.

  He almost overbalanced when he saw it.

  Another hallucination?

  Were his eyes going?

  The gleaming object he had prised from the excrement looked like a human tooth. He flicked at it with the stick but caught it too hard and the fragment flew into the hedge.

  Ward cursed and tried to find it but it was useless. He got to his feet. Perhaps he'd look again later. Perhaps he'd forget about it.

  He headed back towards the office.

  UPHILL STRUGGLE

  The words came slowly. Almost painfully. Ward tried to force himself to concentrate but it was difficult.

  He got up and looked out of the window again, gazing in the direction of the mounds of excrement he'd found earlier. Dried by the sun they had turned to dust.

  Ward frowned. How was that possible? And what about the tooth?

  He shook his head. It made no sense. But, then again, not much m his life did any more.

  He sat down at his desk again.

  LONDON:

  The flat was cold. Doyle shivered as he walked in and closed the front door behind him.

  How long since he'd been home? Three weeks? A month? Longer?Time didn't seem to matter much these days.

  Come to that, what did?

  There were some envelopes scattered across the mat and Doyle bent stiffly and picked them up, scanning the postmarks. Most of it was junk. Loan offers. Reader's Digest bullshit. Credit card promises. Doyle dumped them in the nearest bin.

  He wandered through to the sitting room and switched on the TV and the stereo. Wondering why he was bothering, he looked at the answerphone. No messages.

  Doyle didn't like silence a
nd music soon filled the flat.

  There was some shit Aussie soap opera on the TV but thankfully the music drowned it out.

  'Lost in your dreams, nothing's what it seems ...'

  There would be no complaints from neighbours

  living in the flats above and below him.They were out at work from seven until five every day and Doyle hardly saw them. He'd lived in this part of Islington for over ten years now, shared this building with half a dozen other souls and yet he was no closer to them than he had been when he'd first moved in. A nod of acknowledgement was the extent of his community spirit.

  'Searching my head, for the words that you said ...'

  He made his way into the kitchen and switched on the central heating, hearing the radiators bump into life. Then he spun the cold tap and let it run for a while.

  His leg ached. More from hours of sitting than the wounds themselves, he told himself. First the plane then the taxi from Heathrow. He'd normally have taken the Tube but, much as he hated to admit it, his injured leg was giving him more pain than he'd anticipated. The doctor had given him some painkillers and he fumbled in his pocket for them, washing down two with a handful of cold water.

  Getting old?

  He drew a deep breath and filled the kettle, blowing the dust from a mug on the draining board.

  Of course there was no milk in the fridge.

  Shit

  He'd nip out later and get some.The counter terrorist had been relieved to see his car parked outside. Delighted, too, that it still had all its windows.The odd extra scratch here and there was hardly a problem. And the likelihood of theft was small.Who, he reasoned, would want to nick a seven-year-old Astra?

  As well as milk he needed food. His cupboards were never exactly well stocked but then, as Doyle reasoned, why bother when he was hardly ever at home.

  Fuck it. There was a K.FC round the corner.

  He left the kettle to boil and headed into the bedroom where he changed into a sweatshirt and a pair of jogging bottoms.

  The bandages around his leg and side would need changing. He made a mental note to pick up some fresh ones from the chemist's at the bottom of the street when he went out for the milk.

  He knew how to re-dress the wounds. He should do after all these years. He'd had enough of them.

  Doyle went back into the kitchen and poured boiling water on to the tea bag. As he stood stirring it he wondered why Jonathan Parker wanted to see him. What could be so fucking important that his boss had pulled him off a case like Leary's?

  Wait and see.

  He fished the tea bag from the mug with a spoon, dropped it in the sink then drank.

  The painkillers should start to take effect soon.

  The music was still thumping away in the living room.

  'My body aches from mistakes, betrayed by lust ...'

  He'd finish his tea and have a sit down before he went out.

  We fed to each other so much, now in nothing we trust'

  There was a more important job he had to do before it got dark.

  No matter what the season, Norwood cemetery always seemed cold to Doyle.

  Now, as he made the long walk from his car to the grave he sought, the wind whipped across the vast necropolis, blowing his long, brown hair around his face and making him pull up the collar of his jacket.

  The trek took longer than usual because he was unable to maintain his usual brisk stride. Despite the painkillers, he was slowed down by the stiffness. Muttering under his breath, he forged on.

  The drive had taken less than an hour. He'd been relieved that his car had eventually started, and that driving was less uncomfortable than he'd anticipated.

  There were other people visiting the cemetery. Doyle saw two older women wandering back along one of the many gravel paths that criss-crossed the huge resting place like arteries. One of them nodded at him as he passed.

  He returned the cursory greeting and gripped his bunch of carnations more tightly. As usual they were red.

  Like blood?

  It had been her favourite colour. He always brought red flowers.

  There was a slight rise ahead and Doyle gritted his teeth as he walked up the incline, the wind cutting into him as he reached the top.

  The grave lay to his right at the base of the reverse slope.

  He swallowed hard and dug in his jacket pocket as he approached the headstone.

  The plinth was dirty. There were dead leaves and withered petals lying on it. Some bird shit on the stone itself. Doyle pulled the cloth from his pocket to clean the headstone.

  Before he began he stood motionless by the grave and read the inscription:

  GEORGINA WILLIS AT PEACE

  She had been just twenty-eight when she died.

  He closed his eyes for fleeting seconds and her image danced before him.

  The blond hair. The finely chiselled features.

  Was it really more than ten years since her death?

  So much pain.

  Had time passed so quickly? So meaninglessly?

  What was it people said? That you should let go of the past? Fuck that. Why let go of the past when there was nothing in the future?

  He ran a hand through his hair and looked again at the stone.

  'Hello, babe,' he murmured.

  Doyle knelt and began cleaning, spitting on the cloth. He did the same with the metal vase that stood on the plinth, and then he placed the carnations carefully inside and set it back in position. He balled up the cellophane and stuffed it into his pocket.

  For what seemed an eternity, the counter terrorist stood beside the grave, the cold wind gusting around him. His eyes were fixed on the stone and its gold letters.

  You should be in there with her.

  'I've got to go,' he said finally.

  You should be the one who's dead. Not her.

  He kissed his index finger and touched it to the headstone.

  'I'll see you soon.'

  Doyle turned and headed back up the gently sloping path.

  He didn't look back.

  The building in Hill Street was a magnificent edifice. A three-storey monument with a walled garden to the rear. It had once been the town house of millionaire John Paul Getty.

  Doyle drove past the dark, brick structure once, searching for a parking space. There were half a dozen large, black cars already nestled around the building like huge, black beetles around carrion. He could see chauffeurs seated inside. Two of the uniformed men were outside their vehicles, chatting in the warm early morning sunlight.

  Doyle reversed then spotted an empty space right in front of the imposing oak doors of the building.

  Fuck the double yellow lines.

  He guided the Astra into the gap then fumbled in his glove compartment for the orange disabled sticker. He pressed it to the windscreen and swung himself out of the car, still clutching the remains of an Egg McMuffin in one hand. He quickly swallowed the last mouthful.

  Doyle walked up to the door and pressed the buzzer beside it. The intercom hissed.

  'Can I help you?' said a metallic-sounding female voice.

  'Doyle, 23958,' he said into the grille. 'I've got an appointment with Parker at ten.'

  There was a loud buzz and the door opened.

  Doyle stepped inside, his footsteps immediately muffled by the thick carpet that covered the reception area of the London headquarters of the Counter Terrorist Unit.

  The woman who'd buzzed him in was in her late twenties. Short, dark hair. Of slight build. She was wearing a dark-blue two-piece and a white blouse and looked the epitome of efficiency. Probably hand-picked by Parker, Doyle thought. He liked his staff to be immaculate at all times. The counter terrorist glanced down at his own battered leather jacket and worn jeans and smiled to himself.

  A large reproduction of Pietro Annigoni's portrait of the Queen hung on the wall behind the receptionist. It regarded Doyle balefully.

  'Can you tell Parker I'm here, please,' Doyle said, reach
ing for a cigarette and lighting it.

  'It's a no-smoking building,' the receptionist told him reproachfully.

  'I'll try to remember that,' Doyle smiled.

  He looked around the reception area and saw three men seated at various places around it.AH were dressed in dark suits and all three never allowed their gaze to leave him the entire time he remained at the reception desk.

  Doyle took a long drag on his cigarette.

  Security?

  The portrait of the Queen was giving nothing away.

  'Mr Doyle is here,' he heard the receptionist say.

  'Send him in,' Jonathan Parker instructed.

  Doyle hesitated a moment, still inspecting the three besuited individuals seated nearby.

  'If you go up the stairs, Mr Parker's office—'

  Doyle cut her short.'l know where it is,' he informed her, and she watched him as he headed for the staircase at the rear of the reception area. He occasionally winced as he felt the stiffness in his left leg.

  The counter terrorist reached the landing and headed for the second door on his right.

  Two more of the suited men were standing outside. They weren't CTU, he was sure of that. One took a step towards him as he approached the door. . 'I've got business in there,' Doyle said, fixing the man in an unblinking stare. 'If I was you I'd move.'

  The man hesitated a second then backed off.

  Doyle knocked on the door once then walked in. He recognised Jonathan Parker immediately.

  The Commander of the Counter Terrorist Unit was seated behind his antique desk sipping from a bone-china tea cup. Only his eyes moved in Doyle's direction as the younger man entered the room.

  'Have a seat, Doyle,' said Parker, setting down his cup.

  Doyle did as he was instructed, his attention now drawn to the other individual in the room who was sitting on a large, leather sofa to the right of Parker's desk. He was holding a manilla file on his knee.

  There was something familiar about him.

  Parker nodded in the other man's direction.

  'Doyle, I'd like you to meet Sir Anthony Pressman, the Home Secretary.'

  That's what the pricks in the suits were here for.

  Pressman ran appraising eyes over the counter terrorist but his expression remained indifferent.

  'Do you want to tell me what's going on?' Doyle said to his superior.