Knife Edge (29 page)

7.51 P.M.

    The Lynx had stayed roughly level with the tops of the buildings as it had skirted South Audley Street but now, as Neville emerged into Grosvenor Square, the helicopter swooped towards him, free to dive and turn in the open area.

    Doyle saw it dip towards Neville.

    Saw Neville slow up slightly.

    Saw him fumbling with the Steyr.

    A loud bang sounded as one of the police marksmen fired at Neville.

    The bullet struck the ground close to him.

    Another loud retort.

    Another miss.

    Doyle swung the Beretta up and fired off more shots until the slide flew back signalling that the pistol was empty.

    He pulled a spare magazine from his pocket and jammed it into the butt of the pistol, forced to slow down as he worked the slide, chambering a round.

    As the Nissan slowed, Doyle saw what was happening.

    'No!' he roared. 'Get away from him.'

    His shout was directed at the helicopter which was dropping still lower, the noise of its rotors now deafening.

***

    'I've got him,' said Clark, eye pressed tight to the telescopic sight.

    Neville swung the Steyr upwards and tightened his finger on the trigger.

    The fusillade raked the chopper, blasting in the windscreen, punching holes in the co-pilot's door. Bullets drilled the length of the helicopter.

    One struck Clark, stove in part of his ribcage then erupted from his back.

    He slumped forward in his seat as more bullets dotted the chopper, piercing the cabin door, drilling through the tail boom. One struck the tail skin and blasted it clean off.

    McBride struggled with the controls, tried to lift the Lynx free but Neville jammed in a fresh magazine and opened up again, once more raking the helicopter from end to end.

    Bullets screamed off the hull, punctured the cabin and tore through the vertical fin.

    The tail rotor gearbox was hit. Pulverised by a concentrated burst of fire.

    The chopper lurched violently in the air and McBride felt his stomach tighten as the instrument panel suddenly flashed with a dozen red warning lights.

    The chopper began to spin hopelessly out of control, the end swinging round madly.

    It was as if someone had nailed the main rotor to the sky and the chopper was turning around that central point.

    It dipped crazily, the pilot yanking so hard on the joystick that it seemed he would wrench it free.

    Then, with alarming speed, like a puppet with its strings cut, the chopper plummeted earthward.

    It struck the ground in the centre of Grosvenor Square.

    The explosion was massive. A conflagration so powerful it blew Neville over, spilling him from the bike.

    The concussion blast even moved Doyle's car and the counter terrorist covered his face with one arm as a wave of intense heat rolled across the square.

    An enormous cloud of black smoke and flame rose into the air as the chopper exploded with such ferocity that every window in the buildings around the square was blasted inwards.

    Huge, twisted pieces of metal were hurled in every direction by the cataclysmic blast, spewing through the air like lumps of flaming shrapnel.

    A piece of the main rotor, as if fired from a cannon, shot across the square and smashed through a parked car, impaling the vehicle which also exploded, adding its own chorus to the already ear-splitting hurricane of fire belching upwards into the darkening sky.

    Blazing petrol ejaculated into the air and spilled across the ground, igniting everything it touched.

    More cars began to burn. A whole series of secondary explosions were triggered, as if someone had let off a great chain of venomous and extremely powerful firecrackers.

    The sky turned orange, then red, then black.

    Noxious smoke rose and hung over the square like a reeking shroud.

***

    Doyle saw Neville roll over on the ground, struggle to his feet, hurrying to pull the Harley Davidson upright.

    The counter terrorist floored the accelerator and the Nissan hurtled towards Neville and the bike.

    Neville spun around, had time to fire one single burst from the Steyr.

    Doyle shouted in pain as a bullet tore through his left shoulder, cracked the collar bone and punched its way out of his back, ripping through the seat in the process, but he held on to the wheel, seeing Neville's face illuminated by the fire.

    He saw the look of horror on the ex-para's face.

    Then the car hit him.

    Neville was catapulted ten feet into the air, such was the impact. He crashed earthward, landed on the roof of the car and rolled off, the Steyr falling from his grip.

    Doyle slammed on the brakes and tumbled out of the car into the road, aware even more of the unbearable heat, which rolled across the square like a wave.

    Blood was running freely from his shoulder and he could feel it beginning to stiffen, his left hand already going numb. He clutched the Beretta in his right hand and advanced towards Neville, who was lying on his back a few yards away.

    Doyle stood over him and looked down at the ex-para.

    His eyes were open, blood was running from his mouth and nose and, when he tried to speak, all that escaped was a liquid gurgle.

    Doyle figured the impact of the car must have pulped his ribs, driven them into his lungs. His face was splashed with blood.

    The counter terrorist knelt beside Neville and lifted his head with one hand, groaning with his own pain.

    The visor of Neville's helmet had been broken. What remained of it was flipped open.

    Doyle pushed the Beretta against the ex-para's cheek.

    'Where's the bomb?' he grunted through clenched teeth.

    Neville's eyes rolled and Doyle thought he was going to pass out but, instead, he realised that the dying man was trying to direct his attention to something.

    'You're looking at it,' Neville managed to say before blood filled his mouth and he coughed, his face twisting into an agonised grimace. As he coughed, blood and sputum showered Doyle.

    'Where?' Doyle demanded. 'Don't fucking die yet, you bastard.'

    Neville coughed again, tried to turn his head then vomited a foul mixture of bile and blood, most of which spilled down his chest.

    'The bike,' he whispered, and Doyle was sure he saw a smile flicker across those bloodied lips. 'It's packed with Semtex. It's all there.' He was gripped by a great fit of racking coughs and Doyle stood back as more blood and vomit spilled from his mouth. Great crimson clots splattered on to the road beside him.

    Doyle could hear the wail of sirens more clearly now, even over the roar of flames from the wreck of the blazing helicopter.

    'I won,' Neville grunted.

    'Fuck you,' hissed Doyle.

    He shot Neville three times in the face, each impact causing his body to jerk wildly, every bullet staving in another portion of his features.

    'Cunt,' Doyle rasped at the corpse.

    He turned towards the bike, running across to it.

    Could Neville be bluffing?

    He doubted it.

    He pulled open the top box.

    The entire cavity was filled with long white packages. Doyle drew a finger over the nearest and sniffed. He recognised that marzipan smell of plastic explosive only too well.

    He tugged one of the panniers open.

    More Semtex inside.

    Doyle dragged the bike upright, shouting in pain as he was forced to put pressure on his left shoulder but he finally managed it, opening the other pannier.

    That too was filled with Semtex.

    He could only guess at where the rest of the explosive was.

    Packed inside the fuel tanks? Hidden in the frame itself?

    That didn't seem to matter.

    What did was that the whole fucking lot was going up in five minutes.

    
Come on think. What do you do?

    His head was spinning, he was having difficulty breathing, as if the raging fire was sucking all the oxygen from the air.

    
Think.

    There was only one chance and that was slim. But it was all he had.

    As the first police car pulled into Grosvenor Square, Doyle swung his leg over the Harley Davidson and started the engine.

7.56 P.M.

    Doyle saw a policeman gesturing wildly at him as he swept past on the Harley.

    Maybe the man thought he was Neville, he mused, twisting the throttle harder, trying to coax more speed from the bike.

    His shoulder hurt like hell.

    More pain.

    But he seemed able to grip the handlebars tightly enough and the sight of blood running on to his left hand didn't bother him.

    He had other things on his mind.

    Or, more to the point, under his arse.

    One hundred and thirty explosive fucking things to be exact.

    If he didn't make it he'd be vaporised. The equation was simple.

    They wouldn't need a coffin to bury him in next to Georgie, a fucking matchbox would probably do the trick.

    He sent the Harley Davidson screaming along

    Brook Street, the fire from the blazing remains of the helicopter still sending shrieking plumes of fire into the sky. He passed several fire engines travelling towards the carnage. Ambulances too. They'd find Neville. It might take a little while to identify him with most of his face blasted off, thought Doyle, but by the time they did identify him, it might not matter anyway.

    If he couldn't reach his desired destination in time then fuck all would matter any more.

    Across New Bond Street, through Hanover Square towards Regent Street he sent the bike.

    This had to be the quickest route.

    The needle on the speedo was nudging seventy and, when he couldn't get a clear run on the street, Doyle guided the bike up on to the pavements.

    Where he could he gestured wildly for those blocking his path to get away. If they didn't he'd ride the stupid fuckers down.

    
Time?

    He couldn't even look at his watch. He could only guess at how close to oblivion he was.

    Could only surmise how long he had before the one hundred and thirty pounds of explosives beneath him went up.

    He roared into Regent Street, saw the crush of traffic and, again, mounted the pavement.

    All along the route people screamed as they tried to get out of his way.

    Doyle looked down at the speedo as he sped through Piccadilly Circus, running a red light, almost going under a bus which was moving ponderously towards Shaftesbury Avenue. The driver hit his horn but Doyle barely heard it as he went roaring down the Haymarket.

    More blocked traffic.

    Again he took the bike up on to the pavement, each jolt causing fresh waves of pain to throb in his shoulder and arm.

    He noticed with concern that his left hand was now quite numb. It felt as if someone had dipped the entire appendage in iced water and the feeling was spreading inexorably up his forearm to his elbow. He realised that the bullet must have severed a nerve or tendon somewhere and there wasn't a fucking thing he could do about it except hang on. Grip tightly to this vast moving bomb which he straddled like some suicidal cowboy.

    His long hair flowed out behind him, the wind chilled his face and made his eyes water and, all the time, the numbness crept further up his arm.

    He shot across Cockspur Street, past Trafalgar Square, Admiralty Arch on his right.

    It should have finished there less than an hour ago. It should never have come to this. But it had, hadn't it?

    But very shortly it wouldn't matter.

    He chanced a look at his watch and wished he hadn't.

    He was about to swing into Whitehall when he

    realised that Northumberland Avenue would be quicker. It would take him straight to the Victoria Embankment.

    Straight to the Thames.

    Straight to his only chance of saving himself and Christ knows how many more around him.

    He worked the throttle, looking down to see the needle on the speedo touch ninety.

    It was as he did that he saw the needle on the other dial.

    The one on the fuel gauge.

    It was hovering over empty.

7.59 P.M.

    
Not now, you bastard.

    Doyle looked down at the fuel gauge again.

    'Not now,' he roared, still twisting the throttle as hard as he could.

    How far to the river?

    Half a mile?

    Less?

    The bike was running on fumes. The needle had dropped into the red by now.

    The speed was dropping.

    Eighty-five.

    Doyle was standing, the embankment coming into view. He gripped the handlebars and lifted himself up on the footrests, as if removing his weight from the bike slightly would cause it to gain speed again.

    Still the speedometer showed a slowing of speed.

    Eighty.

    But he was close now.

    
Don't look at your watch.

    Time was running out.

    It may even have run out.

    Any second now there would be one vast, apocalyptic blast and that would be it.

    Seven hundred yards to the Embankment.

    Doyle saw people in front of him.

    He bellowed at them to get out of his way.

    Six hundred yards.

    The bike juddered. The speed fell to seventy-five.

    Five hundred yards.

    He could see a train moving across Hungerford Bridge, could hear it rumbling away, even above the roar of the Harley's engine.

    Four hundred yards.

    Ahead of him he could see the Hispaniola. The old ship anchored there in the Thames for ever now. A tourist attraction.

    There was a ramp leading up to it, a sloping gangplank which allowed visitors access.

    Three hundred yards.

    'Come on,' Doyle roared to no one in particular.

    If he'd believed in God he might have said a prayer.

    The Harley was screaming along at seventy now.

    It was still fast enough. That fucking fuel gauge needle was still dropping but, Doyle thought, not fast enough to stop him.

    Was it?

    One hundred yards.

    He heard more screams. Somewhere in the distance he heard more sirens.

    He missed a man by inches as he wrenched the throttle one last time, rising again from the saddle of the bike like a cavalry officer leading his men into battle.

    Into hell?

    He hit the ramp doing sixty-five.

    The bike hurtled up the slope and went flying out over the Thames.

    Doyle let go, felt himself falling.

    The bike was still hurtling through the air, spinning over and over on its upward arc.

    Doyle was hurtling towards something.

    Water? Earth?

    Who cared?

    The bike was at the highest point of its arc when it exploded.

    Doyle struck something solid and lay still.

    The explosion was deafening. An eardrum-shredding eruption of noise which was joined, simultaneously, by a blinding flash of white light. It was as if a supernova had exploded over the Thames and the entire sky seemed to turn first white, then yellow, with the intensity of the blast.

    Those nearby dropped to the ground as the motorbike simply evaporated, a few tiny pieces of metal spinning off into the air, others dropping, hissing, into the water of the Thames.

    The concussion blast spread out and rattled windows in their frames.

    The train on the Hungerford Bridge rocked for a second.

    Even the waters of the Thames were forced into small waves for about a hundred yards around the epicentre of the fearsome explosion.

    Black and red smoke spread across the sky like blood across blotting paper and the air seemed to be filled with millions of tiny black cinders, which floated on the breeze and settled on the clothes of those nearby.

    Doyle included.

    He had no feeling at all in his left arm or shoulder now but he could feel the burning sensation in his right leg where he'd fallen heavily on it. It wasn't a break, that much he was sure of. There was a cut across his forehead just below his hairline which was weeping blood down his face.

    He could hear screams, shouts.

    And sirens.

    There were always bloody sirens.

    Sean Doyle passed out.