Knife Edge (3 page)

UNIFICATION

Portadown, Northern Ireland

    Major John Wetherby dropped the files on to the top of the desk, the thump reverberating around the room.

    Wetherby was a tall, powerfully built man with pale, pinched features, his hair greying slightly at the temples. He stood with his back to the other two men in the room, both of whom looked first at the officer then at the files.

    The younger of them, Captain Edward Wilton, reached for the top file.

    'Read it,' said Wetherby without turning round, and Wilton hesitated for a moment, as if fearing his superior possessed eyes in the back of his head, before he realised the Major must have seen his reflection in the glass of the window. 'Read them all,' Wetherby continued, his tone subdued.

    Wilton began flicking through the file.

    His colleague merely sat, hands clasped on the top of the table, gazing at his superior's back.

    Captain James Armstrong didn't need to read these files. He knew what they contained. What those contents meant and how important they were.

    'How many is it now?' Armstrong asked.

    'Including Hatcher and the two Sinn Fein men, eleven,' Wetherby informed him, turning back to face his colleagues. 'And Christ knows how many more to come if something isn't done soon.' The Major exhaled wearily. 'Just when it seems there's finally going to be peace, just when it looks as if we're finally going to be able to get out of this bloody place, this happens.' He jabbed a finger towards the files.

    'Are we sure who's behind it?' Wilton asked.

    'I wish there was some room for doubt but I'm afraid there isn't,' the Major told him.

    ‘We're just lucky the media hasn't got hold of it,' Armstrong oered.

    'As far as the media is concerned, it's a leftover from the conflict,' Wetherby said.

    'Two dead Sinn Fein men, both shot,' Wilton began, as if he was reading some kind of bizarre shopping list. 'An Ulster Unionist MP blown to pieces by a car bomb, five known IRA prisoners released from Long Kesh all shot, and three UVF men assassinated, one stabbed, one blown up and the other one shot. No common MO?'

    Wetherby shook his head.

    'It's only going to be a matter of time before each side starts blaming the other,' Wetherby added. 'This bloody peace is fragile enough as it is; there are those on both sides who don't need much more pushing to start hostilities again.'

    'It looks as if someone already started them,' Wilton said, closing the file.

    Wetherby sat down, fingertips pressed together.

    'These killings will go on unless we do something to stop them,' the Major said. 'As head of Military Intelligence here I feel we must act before it's too late. Before anyone else on either side is killed and, more importantly, before this peace settlement is jeopardised any further.'

    'What options do we have?' Wilton asked.

    'As far as I see it we don't have a choice,' Wetherby replied. 'There is only one course of action open to us.'

    The other two men sat motionless, gazing at their superior.

    'In three days' time seven more IRA men are due to be released,' Wetherby continued. 'It's my guess they'll be the next target. They're to be transported from Long Kesh to the border by minibus, escorted obviously. It's a tempting target.'

    'Just like the other five were,' murmured Armstrong.

    Wetherby nodded slowly. 'I don't see what else we can do,' he said wearily.

    'You said there was only one course of action open to us?' Wilton echoed, vaguely.

    'These killings must stop before the media make any connections. They'll have a field day with this and, if it gets out, God help us all,' the Major said, crossing to his desk. 'There is no choice.' He flicked a switch on the console. 'Cranley, send in Sean Doyle.'

7.41 A.M.

    Doyle saw the woman looking at him as she and her two companions approached.

    
Come on, you fucking vultures.

    The first man, short, stocky and wearing a waxed jacket, was carrying a small case with him. The other man, bespectacled and crew-cut, was holding the camera.

    As the woman drew nearer, Doyle could see she was already wearing a radio mike, the power pack tucked into the pocket of her jeans. She had a thick scarf wrapped around her neck as added protection against the chill wind. Doyle watched as her long dark hair flowed behind her, stirred by the wind.

    The cameraman raised the machine and it was then that Doyle stepped forward.

    'Will you turn that off, please?' he said as politely as he could.

    'Who are you?' the woman asked, gazing at him intently.

    The camera moved round to focus on him.

    'Turn it off,' Doyle repeated, raising one hand.

    The man with the spectacles complied.

    'My name's Patricia Courtney,' the woman told him. 'We're with an outside broadcast unit from Thames Television and…'

    Doyle nodded, ran appraising eyes over her.

    About five four, auburn haired. Pretty.

    'Are you involved in this?' she asked him, nodding towards number ten.

    'You could say that. How the hell did you find out about it?' the counter terrorist enquired.

    'We have our sources,' she smiled.

    It was a warm smile.

    Doyle didn't return the gesture.

    'You can't film here.'

    'Who says we can't?' the cameraman demanded.

    'I just fucking told you, didn't I?' Doyle hissed.

    'You still haven't told us who you are,' Patricia insisted.

    'I'm the bloke who's stopping you filming.'

    'Can you show us some ID?' she persisted. 'You could be anyone.'

    Doyle slid the Beretta from its holster and aimed it at the reporter, who gasped and took a couple of steps back.

    'That's my fucking ID,' Doyle rasped. 'Now piss off.'

    'I want to speak to someone in charge of this operation, I have a right-' Patricia began.

    Doyle cut her short. 'You've got no rights here, now fuck off before I get mad.'

    'I could have you reported,' she said challeng-ingly.

    'Try it.'

    'Look, mate, we don't want any trouble, we're just trying to do our jobs,' said the man in the wax jacket, trying to inject a note of calm into the proceedings.

    'Then do them somewhere else. And I'm not your fucking mate.'

    'Just one quick shot of the house, that's all we want,' Patricia said, her eyes flicking nervously towards the automatic.

    'Forget it,' Doyle instructed, holstering the pistol.

    'Are you in charge here?' the cameraman said. 'Because if you're not, then I want to speak to your superiors, I-'

    Doyle grabbed the man with one hand, gripping his jacket, pulling him close. Their foreheads were almost touching.

    'Have you ever tried to eat one of these fucking cameras?' he asked, his eyes narrowed.

    The cameraman tried to pull away but Doyle kept a firm grip on him.

    'If you don't get out of here,' he continued, 'I'm going to stick this camera so far down your throat you'll be able to photograph your fucking breakfast. Got it?'

    He pushed the man away, watching as he sprawled against one of the other parked cars.

    'You're a real hard nut, aren't you?' wax jacket said, helping up his colleague.

    'Do you want some too?' Doyle snarled, glaring at him.

    The man didn't answer.

    'We're just trying to do our jobs,' the reporter told him.

    'You've told me that once. Just piss off. Go and make something up, that's what you bastards usually do, isn't it, if you can't get the story you want? Go on. Crawl back under your stone.' Doyle stood staring at the woman for interminable seconds.

    'You haven't heard the last of this,' the cameraman said defiantly, making sure he was several steps away from the counter terrorist.

    'I'm shitting myself,' Doyle said sardonically. He dug in his pocket for the Marlboros and stuck one between his lips.

    'We won't be the only ones, you know,' Patricia told him. 'This place will be swarming with media inside an hour. You won't be able to keep all of them away.'

    'In an hour it won't matter,' Doyle said cryptically.

    'This is a big story,' she told him. 'You can't hide it. The public have a right to know what's going on here…'

    'If you've finished your speeches why don't you get back in your van and fuck off,' said Doyle, tugging open the door of his car. 'And I'll tell you something else, if you come back here, you'd better hope I don't see you.'

    They turned and headed back towards the van, the reporter shooting him one last venomous glance.

    'Nice talking to you,' Doyle said smiling. Then, under his breath, 'Bastards.'

    He slid behind the wheel of the Datsun once more.

    Waiting.

INTERVENTION

Portadown, Northern Ireland

    As Doyle entered the office he was aware of three pairs of eyes upon him. He even saw a look approaching bewilderment on the face of Wilton, who then glanced across at Wetherby.

    The Major nodded a greeting to Doyle, no less taken aback by the counter terrorist's appearance but having had the benefit of knowing what to expect.

    They'd met before.

    It had been in a Mayfair office that time, at the main Headquarters of the CTU, he guessed three or four years ago. The officer was surprised at how little Doyle had changed. He still wore a leather jacket, jeans and cowboy boots, his hair was a little longer if anything and there were the odd flecks of grey in his stubble. Otherwise, no change.

    The scars were still there.

    Not that Wetherby had expected them to have magically vanished during the intervening years, he just didn't remember quite how savage one or two of them were. At least those that he could see.

    'Gentlemen, this is Sean Doyle, a member of the Counter Terrorist Unit,' the Major said and indicated a chair nearby, where Doyle sat down. The officer then introduced his two colleagues.

    Doyle looked impassively at Wilton and Armstrong then reached inside his jacket for his cigarettes.

    'It's still Major Wetherby then, I see,' said Doyle, lighting his cigarette. 'No promotion yet? Perhaps you're not brown-nosing enough.' He smiled.

    'Still as insolent as ever, Doyle,' Wetherby said flatly. 'Some things never change.'

    'All right, let's cut the bullshit, what do you want?' Doyle demanded. 'You didn't get me in here to talk about old times, did you?'

    'These killings,' Wetherby said. 'The Sinn Fein men, the UVF and IRA members, you're aware of them?'

    'I'd have to be pretty fucking stupid not to be.'

    'Who do you think's behind them?' Wetherby asked.

    Doyle looked directly at the officer.

    'You're Army Intelligence, aren't you? I thought you were going to tell me.'

    Wetherby didn't rise to the bait. 'I'm asking for your opinion.'

    Doyle shrugged. 'Extremists on both sides,' he said, finally. 'Not everyone wanted peace out here.'

    'Do you think the fighting's still going on then?' Armstrong wanted to know.

    'Not like it was, of course not,' Doyle said dismissively. 'But that's not to say a few of the boyos don't still fancy a bit of a ruck between themselves. Some of the Unionists think this peace deal sold them down the river.'

    'What do you think?' Wetherby insisted.

    'About the peace settlement? I couldn't give a fuck one way or the other. Do you know what it's done for me? Put me out of a fucking job.' He smiled thinly and took a puff on his cigarette.

    'You don't suspect the IRA or the UVF?' Wetherby enquired.

    'I said extremists,' Doyle told him. 'It was never just those two, there were more splinter groups on both sides than you could count. Who knows, it could be some nutters on either side.'

    Wetherby looked across at his colleagues.

    'Look, what the fuck is this all about?' Doyle demanded. 'I want to know what it's got to do with me.'

    'You worked for Army Intelligence before,' Wetherby said. 'You were very successful.'

    'Don't tell me,' said Doyle laconically. 'You're going to give me a medal.'

    Wetherby glared at him then continued. 'We need your help again, Doyle.'

    'Why me?'

    'As I said, you were successful before, you know your way around the whole country, not just this province.'

    'Your parents were Irish, weren't they?' Wilton said.

    'Yeah. So what?' Doyle rounded on him.

    'You understand the mentality of these people, the ordinary people and the terrorists,' Wetherby continued.

    'Get to the point for fuck's sake,' Doyle snapped. 'You want me to find out who's behind these killings, right?'

    'Not who's behind them, we already know that,' the Major told him and, for once, noticed a flicker of surprise on the counter terrorist's face. 'Just find them and find them fast. If news of this gets out, this whole country will go up in smoke, maybe not just this country but the rest of Britain too.'

    'You know who's been hitting these fuckers?' Doyle said incredulously. 'Then why don't you do something about it? Why not send in some fucking SAS to sort it out.'

    'It's not as simple as that,' Wetherby told him. 'Speed is of the essence but so is secrecy. That's why I chose you for this job.'

    'The SAS boys aren't exactly likely to let it slip down the pub, you know, Wetherby,' Doyle told him.

    'You wanted some work, Doyle, I'm offering you some,' the Major said irritably. 'You were right, this peace has put you out of a job. With the fighting gone, you're nothing. You need this as much as we need you.'

    The counter terrorist held the officer's gaze for long seconds.

    'Go on,' he said quietly.

    'You've got two days to complete the job.'

    'You're fucking joking,' Doyle snorted. 'It could take more than two days to search Belfast, let alone the whole country, these bastards could be anywhere in Ireland, North or South. They could be Protestant or Catholic, IRA or UVF, and you expect me to find them in two days?' He got to his feet. 'Forget it, Wetherby.'

    'Two days is plenty of time,' the Major told him. 'We'll tell you where to go, where to pick up the trail, we've got files and as much information as you need.'

    'What the fuck is this?' Doyle said quietly, eyes narrowed.

    'We know who's behind these killings, I've already told you that. What you have to do is make sure that no one else finds out. It isn't the IRA or the UVF who are responsible for these murders.'

    'Then who is?'

    'It's a British soldier.'