Knife Edge (4 page)

7.58 A.M.

    The daylight was grey, like dirty sheets. Still full of lowering clouds, the sky was a clear warning of things to come.

    Doyle watched the rain hitting the windscreen of the Datsun, the rivulets coursing down the glass.

    He'd switched off the cassette for the time being and was listening to the news on Radio 5. The draw for the next round of the Coca-Cola Cup was coming up after it and the counter terrorist seemed more concerned with that than what was happening in the world around him.

    It was the usual shit.

    Just like the papers.

    Same shit, different day.

    Politics.

    Showbiz.

    Bullshit.

    He looked across at the windows of number ten London Road.

    The windows of one of the rooms upstairs were open. Every other set was firmly closed. In the darkness the windows had been uncovered, exposed to the gloom. Now that light was grudgingly filling the sky, it was being shut out. At least from that particular house.

    There was a brief mention of number ten London Road on the news.

    Doyle looked disdainfully at the radio as if hoping his mood would be transmitted to the newsreader.

    It was a short piece.

    They didn't have enough information as yet. There would be more bulletins as the day went on.

    
I bet there will.

    With the coming of daylight he could see the entire road.

    Both ends had been sealed off now, uniformed police moving around without any pretence of furtiveness. Doyle counted at least twelve men in clear view and he knew there must be more he hadn't yet seen.

    Also parked further up the road were two ambulances, a couple of police cars and a large white Transit van with police markings.

    Doyle puffed on his cigarette and turned up the volume on the radio as the news came to an end.

    The weather forecast was for more rain.

    Doyle shuffled uncomfortably in his seat and sat forward slightly as the announcer proclaimed that the draw for the next round was about to take place.

    Doyle glanced out of the window and saw men moving about, taking up positions.

    He was surprised at how silently it all took place. It was as if the car was hermetically sealed. No sound from outside could penetrate.

    He pulled distractedly at the top of one boot as the draw began.

    Arsenal would play Spurs.

    Doyle continued to watch the policemen, some of them glancing towards the curtained windows of number ten as they moved, swiftly, nervously.

    Newcastle would play West Ham.

    Still Doyle had seen no movement at any of the windows. He wondered how well the rear of the house was covered. The back garden led down to train tracks; it would be difficult escaping that way.

    Watford would play Liverpool.

    'Come on, you reds,' he whispered under his breath.

    And Manchester United…

    Doyle switched off the radio.

    Who gave a fuck about that shit?

    He shoved a cassette back into the machine and turned up the volume further.

    The tap on his side window startled him and he turned to see a uniformed policeman standing there.

    The counter terrorist wound down his window.

    'Mr Doyle,' said the policeman. 'Will you come with me, please?'

    Doyle looked at his watch then at the constable.

    'About fucking time,' he snapped and hauled himself out of the car.

    Was the waiting over at last?

ERADICATION

Portadown, Northern Ireland

    'Bullshit. '

    Doyle looked directly at Wetherby as he spoke the word.

    'His name is Robert Neville,' the Intelligence officer said, pushing a file towards the counter terrorist. 'Corporal Robert Neville, a para. Age thirty-eight, married with a daughter. Enlisted March fourteenth 1977. Joined the Paratroop Regiment and came through the training with the highest marks of anyone in the same batch of new recruits. He subsequently specialised in explosives.'

    Doyle had begun to read the file, scanning the pieces of paper there.

    'Wounded four times,' Wetherby continued. 'Recommended for promotion to Sergeant in January 1993.' There was a photo of Neville amongst the reports. Doyle studied it.

    Neville had a square face, his jaw flat, his ears tight to his head. His hair was short as Doyle would have expected. Dark and lustrous. A faint smile was distinguishable on the paratrooper's lips. A small scar ran from the corner of his mouth to his chin.

    'There's a psych report in there too,' Wetherby told Doyle. 'But as far as anyone can tell, he's no crazier than anyone else in the army. '

    'How can you be so sure he's responsible for these killings?' Doyle asked, his tone subdued. 'How do you know it isn't some extremist faction on either side?'

    'The bullets they dug out of the men that were shot had Neville's fingerprints on them,' Wetherby explained. 'Some cartridge cases were found by the Gardai at the scene of a shooting in the Republic. They had his prints on too.'

    'And the bombings? How can you be sure he was responsible for those? He's not the only geezer out there who knows how to use Semtex.'

    'Forensic reports by the RUC and Army Intelligence found evidence that Neville-'

    'What kind of evidence?'

    'You sound as if you're trying to defend him,' Wetherby said.

    'You could be wrong,' Doyle snapped.

    'We're not,' Wetherby assured him.

    Doyle tossed the file back in the officer's direction.

    'So what the fuck do you want me to do?'

    'Find Neville, before the IRA, the UVF, the media or all three find out the truth.'

    'And if I do find him?'

    'Kill him.'

    Doyle regarded the officer coldly. 'Just like that?' he said softly.

    'You've done it before, Doyle. Don't tell me you're going soft,' Wetherby chided. 'How many men have you killed? Twenty? Thirty?'

    'This is different.'

    'Why?'

    'The others weren't British soldiers,' Doyle snarled.

    'What difference does that make?' Wetherby snorted. 'It's one man's life. We're talking about a country here, Doyle. Over three thousand people have died since 1969. Half of the people involved don't even know why. Now, after all those deaths, there's peace. That peace can't be destroyed. Not at any cost. Neville is threatening that peace. He has to be removed. If not, all the deaths, all the sacrifices, the talking, it'll have been for nothing. We can't let one man jeopardise that.'

    'Save the fucking sermons, Wetherby,' Doyle rasped.

    'You've suffered enough yourself,' the officer continued. 'Don't you want it finished?'

    Doyle didn't answer.

    He reached for a cigarette and lit it.

    'You said there was nothing left for you, Doyle,' the Major reminded him. 'Look on this job as a swan song. A last shot. You're right. There is nothing left.'

    'And what if I refuse?'

    'You won't,' said Wetherby, smugly. 'Two days, Doyle.'

    Doyle snatched up the file on Neville and headed for the door.

    'You're right, Wetherby,' he said, pausing as he turned the handle. 'I'm nothing without the fighting, maybe that's how Neville feels too; perhaps that's why I don't want to kill him, because I understand how he feels. The difference between you and me is that I might be nothing when all this is over but you, you'll be a nothing for the rest of your fucking life. You've always been nothing and that's the way it'll stay.'

    And he was gone, the door slamming behind him.

8.04 A.M.

    'Who's in there with him?'

    Doyle took a drag on his cigarette, his eyes fixed on number ten London Road.

    From the single window of the Portacabin it was clearly visible, as were the dozens of uniformed policemen who had taken up position around it, some as close as the pavement. They were using parked cars as cover.

    The Portacabin was about twelve feet long, half that in width and, despite the fact that it contained just three men other than Doyle, it seemed crowded inside. Somehow a small table had been brought in and upon that a map of the area and several files had been laid out.

    A uniformed man stood at the door, removing his cap to run a hand across his bald head.

    Doyle wasn't sure of his rank but guessed he must be fairly high up in the pecking order.

    The other two occupants of the Portacabin were plain-clothes. Both of them, the counter terrorist guessed, three or four years older than himself. The first of them was an overweight, dark-haired man who looked as if he hadn't shaved for a week. His companion, DI Vic Calloway, was taller, thicknecked and sporting a nose which looked as if it had been flattened with a frying pan.

    Calloway's more portly assistant, who was sipping tea from a Styrofoam cup, seemed more interested in Doyle than in number ten London Road. Detective Sergeant Colin Mason wondered who the hell this long-haired newcomer was and, more to the point, what business he had here. Mason stuck the tip of his tongue into the cavity which had formed in one of his back teeth and wondered how much longer he could avoid a trip to the dentist. The fucking thing was starting to ache.

    The uniformed man seemed to tire of standing at the door and wandered out into the road, closing the door behind him.

    'I said, who's in there with him?' Doyle repeated, looking at Calloway.

    'Just his wife and kid as far as we know,' the DI said, reaching for his own tea, sipping it, wincing when he found it was cold.

    'Julie and Lisa Neville,' Doyle murmured.

    Calloway nodded.

    'Has he made any contact with you?' Doyle enquired. 'Any demands?'

    'Not yet,' Mason replied. 'What makes you think he will?'

    'He's taken his wife and kid hostage, I think it's safe to assume he wants something,' Doyle said sardonically.

    'Like what?' Calloway snapped. 'You're the expert, aren't you? You're supposed to know all about him.'

    'How come the Counter Terrorist Unit is involved anyway?' Mason echoed. 'What makes Robert Neville so interesting to your lot?'

    'I've followed him halfway across fucking Ireland during the last thirty-six hours,' Doyle snapped. 'I was the one who tracked him here.'

    'Then why didn't you call us?' Calloway said angrily.

    'Because Neville's my business.'

    'Not now he's not,' the DI insisted.

    'Why were you chasing him anyway?' Mason wanted to know.

    'That's classified,' Doyle said dismissively.

    'Fuck off, Doyle,' Mason snorted. 'Who do you think you are, James Bond?'

    'I know who I am,' Doyle rasped. 'And I've got a pretty good idea what you are too, you fat cunt.'

    'I don't have to take that shit off him,' Mason shouted at his superior. 'Long-haired, scruffy fucker.'

    Doyle smiled, watching as Mason's face turned a deep shade of crimson.

    'Both of you, just knock it on the head, will you?' Calloway snapped.

    'Tell fucking Pavarotti to calm down then,' Doyle said, still smiling.

    He and Mason locked stares.

    Calloway looked at each of them in turn.

    'Finished, children?' he said irritably.

    The other two remained silent.

    'Right, now let's get down to work, shall we?' the DI continued. 'How much do you know about Neville, Doyle?'

    'What do you want to know?'

    'Why you were chasing him would be a help.'

    'I told you, that's classified information,' Doyle insisted. 'Let's just say I need to talk to him about something important.'

    
Like the future of Ireland?

    'Can you give us any details about him?' Calloway persisted.

    'Tell me what you know, I'll fill in the holes if I can.'

    'That's nice of you,' Mason chided.

    Calloway shot him an angry stare then picked up one of the files from the small table.

    He began reading.

    Details about Robert Neville, background, upbringing, training.

    It was the usual shit.

    Doyle listened, his attention still fixed on the house.

    Calloway dropped the file back on to the table when he'd finished.

    'Well?' he said.

    Doyle shrugged.

    'Anything to add? Any holes to fill in?'

    Doyle wasn't slow to catch the note of scorn in the policeman's tone. He smiled.

    'He's armed,' Doyle said.

    'How do you know?' Calloway asked.

    'I know him.'

    'How well do you know him, Doyle, how do we know you're not involved with this somehow?' Mason said. 'I mean, you knew he was here, you knew he was armed and yet you still didn't contact us. Why?'

    'You know, you're a rare kind of man, Mason,' Doyle said. 'You actually are as fucking stupid as you look, aren't you? Jesus Christ, the last fucking thing I wanted was coppers swarming all over the place. I didn't want Neville panicked, I didn't want him to know anybody had found him. The last thing I wanted was for him to look out of his window and see uniforms. Who called you lot in anyway?'

    'A neighbour reported seeing someone trying to break into the house,' Calloway said. 'A patrol car investigated. When they tried to get inside they were shot at. They called for back-up.' The DI shrugged. 'It just escalated from there.'

    'If Neville shot at them he obviously wasn't trying to hit them,' Doyle said quietly. 'Because if he had been, you'd be scraping their brains off the road now.'

    'We surrounded the house, closed off the road at both ends,' said Calloway, then his tone changed. 'Anyway, if you were sitting out here all the time, you must have seen what was going on, you must have heard the shots.'

    Doyle didn't answer.

    'What would you have done on your own, Doyle?' Mason said challengingly. 'Stormed the place?'

    The counter terrorist reached for his cigarettes and lit one, blowing smoke in Mason's direction.

    'So, what do we do now?' Calloway said.

    Doyle perched on one corner of the table, eyes still locked on number ten London Road.

    'We wait,' he murmured.