Knife Edge (11 page)

12.06 A.M.

    Doyle brought the Datsun to a halt and jumped out, heading towards the side entrance of Euston. Towards the two burly uniformed men who blocked the way.

    'I've got to get inside,' Doyle said, reaching inside his jacket.

    'No chance,' said the taller of the two constables. Doyle produced a small leather wallet and flipped it open.

    'Counter Terrorist Unit,' he said sharply, pushing past the policeman, sprinting up the short ramp towards the side door.

    There was only one word to describe what he saw inside the station itself.

    Pandemonium.

    'Jesus Christ,' Doyle murmured under his breath, walking slowly past the left luggage area.

    There were still a couple of hundred people on the concourse, all hurrying towards the exits. Mingled with them were uniformed staff from the station itself, workers from the shops and cafes. A seething mass of humanity all attempting to get out of the building as quickly as possible.

    Doyle saw men and women running from the platforms to join the throng.

    The announcement to evacuate the station was still booming from the loudspeakers.

    Doyle saw policemen moving about amidst the confusion. The bright yellow helmet of a fireman bobbed into view. Then another.

    He heard dogs barking.

    Sniffer dogs, he assumed.

    The announcement from the Tannoy blurted on, voices were raised, there were shouts, the sound of thousands of feet on the concourse. The dogs.

    Bedlam.

    More people were pouring up from the subway, scrambling awkwardly up escalators which hadn't been switched off and were still programmed to move downwards.

    It looked like some bizarre fairground ride, but the faces on it showed anything but joy.

    Doyle walked briskly across the concourse, glancing around.

    Hoping Neville's left the bomb in plain sight?

    A uniformed BR man ran past him.

    Where the fuck is it?

    There were so many places to hide a device.

    Doyle heard footsteps close behind him and turned to see two uniformed men running in his direction.

    He flipped open his wallet and showed his ID to the policemen, who nodded briskly and moved off in another direction.

    As Doyle passed the counter of the Casey Jones stall he saw a cup of hot liquid standing on the counter, abandoned. Still steaming.

    Lying close by the counter was a discarded rucksack.

    Suitcases had been left on the concourse.

    He even noticed a small plastic football, possibly dropped by a child. It was rolling across the concourse slowly, undisturbed by the many feet scuttling past it.

    Doyle stood still, the noise echoing in his ears. The shouts, the Tannoy announcement, the dogs.

    He looked down at his watch.

    Twenty-five minutes to detonation.

    'Shit,' he murmured under his breath.

    'Doyle!'

    The sound of his own name made him turn and he saw Calloway heading towards him, accompanied by two men dressed in black uniforms.

    
Bomb squad
, Doyle thought.

    'It's Neville,' the DI said. 'One of our mobile units has him in sight now. We've got a description of what he's wearing, we've even got the bike's reg number.'

    'Bike?' Doyle said, looking puzzled.

    'He's riding a motorbike. He shot a policeman here, two cars chased him, they're still on his tail now.'

    'Where is he?' Doyle demanded.

    'Christ knows but they've got him in sight,' Calloway said.

    'You'd better make sure you take him alive or we'll never find those fucking bombs.'

    'The station's nearly clear,' Calloway said, looking at the crowds still pouring through Euston's exits.

    'Great,' Doyle murmured. 'That gives us less than half an hour before everything goes sky-high.' He looked at the men of the bomb squad. 'You'll never find it in time.'

    'Let us worry about that,' the older of the two men said.

    'If you don't we'll all be worrying about it,' Doyle snapped. Then he turned to Calloway again. 'The man Neville shot, is he dead?'

    The DI shook his head. 'No,' he muttered. 'Not yet. The doctors don't hold out much hope though.'

    Again Doyle looked at his watch.

    Time was running out fast.

12.16 P.M.

    There were three people on the pedestrian crossing ahead but Neville didn't slow down.

    The pedestrians seemed oblivious to the approaching motorbike, even as its loud roar grew in their ears.

    They heard sirens too.

    A van sitting close to the crossing, engine idling, also presented an obstacle in the narrow road.

    Neville twisted the throttle and the bike swung sharply to the right, hit the kerb, rose a foot or so into the air, then slammed down onto the pavement.

***

    'Be careful,' screamed PC Garside as the Astra swept towards the crossing.

    An elderly woman was on it, carrying what looked like a tatty shawl in her arms.

    He realised as the car bore down on her that the object was a small dog.

    The woman tried to scream as the police car roared past her on the crossing but she couldn't suck in enough air to produce the required sound.

    The car missed her by inches.

    'Christ,' roared Garside, peering out of the back window.

    The old woman had collapsed in a heap, passers-by scurrying across towards her.

    'I thought we'd hit her,' Garside said breathlessly.

    His companion seemed more intent on keeping the fleeing Harley in sight, as Neville swung the bike back into the road.

    The Astra scraped the side of a Peugeot as it turned a corner, the harsh shriek of metal on metal filling the air.

    'Where the hell's the back-up?' Brenner rasped, struggling with the steering wheel. 'We're going to lose him.'

    As if in answer to his entreaty, another police car pulled out from Harrison Street.

    Ahead, a police bike nosed its way into traffic from Sidmouth Street.

    'Block him off,' Brenner snarled, seeing the police bike heading towards the Harley.

    'Puma three, come in, over,' a voice on the radio said, barely audible through the hiss of static.

    'Puma three, go ahead, over,' Garside answered.

    'This is Lima one. We have you and the suspect in sight. Over.'

***

    Neville saw the newest of the pursuers join the chase.

    The more the merrier.

    The police bike was level with him, riding on the pavement, the occupant glancing across at him periodically.

    The street had become a blur of moving vehicles, the smell of exhaust fumes and rubber hanging thickly in the air, the roar of powerful motors drowning out every other sound.

    Traffic moving in the other direction swerved to avoid the oncoming procession.

    Pedestrians tried to find cover, realising they weren't safe on either the road or the pavement.

    There was a junction ahead.

    More traffic lights.

    Neville saw the glow of the red light.

    A lorry was moving ponderously across the junction.

    Neville even had time to read what was written on its large blue container.

    He saw the words river island as he sped across the front of the eighteen-wheeler, cutting yards ahead of the pursuing police bike.

    As he cut across the path of the bike, Neville slid one hand inside his jacket and hauled out the.357.

    He fired three shots, the weapon bucking fiercely in his hand.

    The first shot missed.

    The second struck the windscreen of the bike, shattered it and hit the left hand of the rider, blasting off two fingers.

    The third struck the top box and tore a portion of it away.

    Blood streaming from what was left of his fingers, the rider struggled to keep control of the bike, finally losing the battle.

    The police bike went over, throwing the rider clear, the machine spinning across the Tarmac, slamming into the huge wheel of the lorry, which barely shuddered from the impact.

    The bike exploded.

    There was a sudden eruption of yellow and orange flame as the bike disappeared beneath a shrieking orb of fire.

***

    'Jesus,' hissed Garside as the Astra sped through the aftermath of the explosion.

    He could feel the heat through his open window, smell the stink of petrol which was spilling out across the road like fiery tentacles.

    The motorcycle officer was lying flat on the road, blood spurting from his hand.

    Thick black smoke was billowing upwards in a miniature mushroom cloud, hovering over the burning bike like a man-made storm cloud.

    The second police car swept past in the Astra's wake.

    'Officer down,' shouted Garside into the radio. 'Suspect turning into Guildford Street. He's heading for Russell Square.'

12.18 P.M.

    It reminded Doyle of a mausoleum.

    Empty of people, apart from those in uniform, Euston was like some vast, futuristic sepulchre.

    The virtual silence only added to the illusion. Doyle could hear the sound of his own boot heels on the concourse as he walked.

    Where to begin?

    There were so many places Neville could have

    hidden the bomb. For a start they had no idea of its size or weight, no clue as to where the ex-para might have secreted it. What also worried Doyle was that they had no clue as to what kind of bomb it was.

    Radio controlled. Mercury switch. Tremor activated.

    Not a fucking clue.

    The counter terrorist glanced at his watch.

    All they did know was that it would be going off in under fifteen minutes.

    The lower levels of the station had already been searched. The dogs had found nothing.

    If the bomb was here, it was on the concourse somewhere.

    There was a John Menzies shop to his left.

    The counter terrorist stepped inside, glancing swiftly around at row after row of books and magazines. The bomb could be behind any of them.

    Doyle stuck out a hand and swept the top shelf of books away, scattering them on the floor.

    He did the same with the next. And the next.

    Five rows of paperbacks ended up beneath his feet.

    The shelves were empty. No bomb.

    He repeated his actions with the other shelves.

    Nothing.

    As he turned to his right he saw two men hurrying up the ramp which led to the suburban platform. Both of them were leading sniffer dogs.

    'Have you checked in here?' Doyle shouted, attracting their attention.

    The two men let the dogs loose and they scuttled into the shop, snouts twitching.

    Doyle moved on towards the cafe on the other side of the station.

    There were uniformed men moving about inside it, some pausing every so often, kneeling to check under the tables.

    Further along the concourse was a branch of Tie Rack. Doyle hurried towards it, past a coffee stall. The aroma of freshly roasted beans seemed pleasantly out of place amidst the confusion.

    As he walked he glanced around him.

    Neville could have planted this bomb weeks earlier. His actions weren't the hasty, desperate deeds of a madman. Everything he'd done so far had been planned. Methodical. There was a strategy at work here.

    The other bombs had probably been planted around the same time.

    Wherever the hell they might be?

    Doyle reached Tie Rack and moved briskly through it, opening drawers, pulling out the contents, convinced, even as he searched, that he was looking in the wrong place.

    But where to look?

    Where could a bomb lie undiscovered for weeks, possibly even months, in a location so crammed with people every day?

    He looked across at the toilets, vaulted the barrier and walked in.

    There was water dripping somewhere, the steady plink, plink an accompaniment to the counter terrorist's footfalls.

    The irony of the situation wasn't lost on Doyle and he almost managed a smile.

    For years he'd cheated death at the hands of the IRA, terrorists, organised crime and Christ alone knew who else and yet now his life was threatened by one of his own.

    By a British soldier.

    What all his enemies had failed to do might be accomplished by a man he would have called an ally.

    How side-splittingly, jaw-droppingly hilarious.

    He pushed open the door of the first cubicle.

    How ironic.

    How fucking ironic.

    Doyle took a step inside, ignoring the graffitti on the walls and door, the puddle of piss on the floor.

    He flipped open the cistern and looked inside.

    
Empty.

    He moved into the next cubicle.

    The stench was appalling. So strong he almost retched.

    'What's wrong with flushing it, you cunt,' he murmured, trying not to look into the clogged bowl.

    He pushed off the lid of the second cistern.

    Nothing.

    He could still hear the sound of water dripping.

    Doyle moved to the next cubicle.

    Thirteen minutes until detonation.

    
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

    He pushed the lid of the third cistern away and looked in.

    
Fuck all.

    
You're clutching at straws but then what else is there to do?

    
One bomb an hour
, Doyle mused.

    
When? Where?

    He dug in his pocket for his cigarettes and lit one, sucking hard on it.

    One an hour and you can't even find the first one.

    He moved to the next cubicle.