Knife Edge (27 page)

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 knew 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.

    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 trigger, 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.