Knife Edge (7 page)

9.47 A.M.

    Julie Neville stood motionless in the doorway of number ten London Road, her coat pulled around her shoulders, her gaze flicking back and forth.

    She could see a number of uniformed men ahead of her.

    She wondered how many were carrying guns. How many of those guns were trained on her.

    She stood motionless, silhouetted in the doorway.

    Waiting.

    'Walk to the front gate,' Neville said, ducked inside the house, the Steyr aimed at her.

    She did as she was told, slowly, falteringly. Her heart was hammering so hard against her ribs she feared it would burst.

***

    'What the fuck is he playing at?' DI Calloway murmured under his breath as he stepped from the Portacabin.

    DS Mason practically had to run to keep up with him as the taller man took long strides which ate up the ground.

    'Perhaps he's going to set demands,' Mason said breathlessly.

    'Or he's giving himself up,' Calloway said humourlessly.

    They were less than thirty yards from the front of number ten now. Both men could see Julie Neville standing about six feet from the front door, the wind whipping her long blonde hair around her face.

    Calloway reached for the two-way and flicked it on.

    'Doyle, he's sent out the woman.'

    No answer.

    'Doyle. Doyle, can you hear me?'

    Still nothing.

***

    From his vantage point in the front bedroom of number eight, Doyle could see Julie Neville standing on the path. Every now and then she would take a step forwards, getting closer to the gate.

    Was Neville setting them up?

    Doyle saw Calloway and Mason drawing nearer.

    What the fuck was Neville doing?

    Doyle heard the two-way hiss, heard Calloway talking to him.

    He finally reached for the radio and flicked it on.

    'Watch yourself, Calloway,' he said quietly. 'Neville could be pulling you in.'

    'What do you mean?'

    'You get close enough, he'll open fire. Watch it.'

    'Can you see him from where you are?' Calloway asked.

    'No. Only the woman.'

    Julie had reached the gate by now. She gripped it as if to steady herself then glanced back over her shoulder towards the house.

    Doyle frowned as he saw her beginning to unbutton her coat.

    Calloway and Mason were mere yards away from her now.

    Julie turned and looked behind her, then pulled her coat free.

    Doyle could see a small black oblong between her shoulder blades, held in place by what looked like masking tape. The object was roughly the same size as a TV remote.

    There was a tiny red light blinking on it.

    'Oh Jesus,' he murmured, snatching up the two-way.

    
You fucking sly bastard, Neville.

    'Calloway, stay away from her,' Doyle said urgently. 'She's wired.'

    'What are you talking about?' the DI demanded.

    'She's got a fucking bomb strapped to her back,' Doyle rasped.

9.52 A.M.

    DI Calloway held the two-way close to his ear, his gaze fixed on Julie Neville.

    She was only three feet from the policeman now and he could see how pale her features were, her eyes red-rimmed and slightly sunken. She was holding the gate as if for support, fearing that if she loosed her grip she would fall. He could see her trembling and he realised it was not because of the chill wind.

    'Are you sure?' Calloway said into the two-way.

    'Sure about what?' Mason wanted to know.

    The DS could hear only his superior's side of the conversation; Doyle's hissed words were little more than a static blur.

    'Are you all right, Mrs Neville?' Calloway asked, the two-way still pressed against his ear.

    Now he was reluctant to move, as if any sudden action might cause not only the death of this woman but also of himself and Mason.

    'Just stay where you are.'

    The shout came from inside number ten.

    From Neville.

    Calloway looked towards the house, trying to catch a glimpse of the man who had just bellowed out the order but he could see nothing.

    'Show them, Julie,' Neville called.

    Julie turned slowly until her back was to the watching policemen.

    They both saw the small black object taped to her back, the red light winking menacingly on it.

    'It's a bomb,' Neville called.

    'I know what it is,' Calloway called back.

    'He's bluffing,' Mason hissed under his breath.

    'He's not bluffing, you stupid cunt.'

    Mason turned to his left and saw Doyle standing there, his gaze also fixed on the hapless woman before him.

    'How do you know it's a bomb?' snarled Mason.

    'Trust me,' Doyle murmured.

    
I've seen enough of the fucking things up close. Including the one that nearly killed me.

    'Neville's not playing games,' Doyle said.

    For long seconds the three men stood motionless, all staring at Julie.

    'Go on then, Neville!' shouted Doyle. 'Press the fucking button. Blow her up.'

    'What the hell are you doing?' Mason said angrily, grabbing at Doyle's jacket. 'He'll kill her.'

    'Get your fucking hands off me,' Doyle growled, pushing the DS away. He glared at him, those dark grey eyes boring into the smaller man like lasers. 'He's not going to kill her. Not yet.'

    'Why not?' Mason demanded.

    'Because she's his ticket out of here, nobhead,' Doyle hissed.

    'What do you want?' Calloway called.

    'How good's your memory?' Neville shouted back. 'I've got a list.'

    'Go on,' Calloway said, his gaze still fixed on Julie, who was trembling before them.

    'I want a car, safe passage out of here and no tails,' Neville said. 'If I see so much as a copper on a fucking pushbike I'll kill them both.'

    'Is the kid wired too?' Doyle shouted.

    'What difference does it make?' Neville replied.

    'How do we know you won't detonate the bomb anyway?' Mason chipped in.

    'You don't,' Neville told him.

    Doyle took a step to his right, trying to see inside the house, to see where Neville was standing.

    One clear shot was all he needed.

    
And if you miss?

    Julie had pulled her coat back on by this time, in a vain attempt to keep out some of the chill. She was quivering madly, her face the colour of rancid butter.

    'A car, safe passage out of here and no tails,' Neville repeated.

    'We heard you,' Calloway called back. Then, to Doyle: 'We could put some kind of tracking device in the car.'

    'He'd be expecting that,' Doyle replied. 'Just give him what he wants.'

    'As easy as that?' Calloway protested.

    'If you don't, you're going to be sweeping her up with a fucking dustpan and brush,' Doyle said, nodding towards Julie.

    She looked helplessly at the three men.

    'Even if he kills her, he's still got the kid in there with him,' Doyle reminded them. 'Do you want that on your conscience, Calloway?'

    'Do you?' the DI countered.

    'All I want is Neville,' Doyle told him. 'Now give him a fucking car. Let's get this shit over with.'

    'You've got ten minutes to make up your minds, then I blow her to pieces,' Neville shouted.

    'You haven't got the balls,' Doyle shouted back.

    Julie looked frantically at the counter terrorist.

    'Go on, Neville, spread her all over the street,' Doyle persisted. 'And then what? Kill your kid? If you do, you've got nothing to bargain with. And, as soon as they're gone, I'm coming in after you.'

    'Who the fuck are you anyway?' Neville shouted angrily.

    'Doyle. Counter Terrorist Unit. I know you, Neville. I know how your mind works. I've been where you've been, for what it's worth.'

    'You don't know anything about me, Doyle,' Neville roared back.

    'I know more than your wife. I even know how many times you shake your dick when you've had a piss.'

    'You're full of shit. Now get me that fucking car or I'll kill her,' Neville bellowed. 'You've got nine minutes now.'

    'Even if you get away from here, I'll still find you,' Doyle assured him.

    'Try it.'

    'I'll guarantee it.'

    'Eight minutes,' Neville called.

    Doyle walked away from the gate and looked at Calloway.

    'Give him the car,' he said flatly.

10.01 A.M.

    Doyle leaned against the door of the Portacabin and sucked hard on his cigarette, watching as Calloway finished his phone conversation.

    'Sorted?' Doyle asked disinterestedly.

    'The Commissioner isn't too happy about this,' Calloway told him. 'Letting Neville go.'

    'You're not letting him go, you're agreeing to his demands in order to protect the lives of hostages, aren't you?'

    'If he gets away…'

    'He won't get away,' Doyle asserted.

    'I wish I was as sure as you,' Calloway answered.

    'He won't get away because hotshot here is going to get him, aren't you?' Mason chided. 'Captain fucking Marvel is going to track him down, isn't that right, Doyle?'

    The counter terrorist looked at the DS contemptuously.

    'You're going to track him down, you're going to hunt him,' Mason continued. 'What do you think this is, a fucking Western?'

    'If it was, you'd be the fat, bungling sheriff, wouldn't you, porky?' Doyle quipped.

    'All right, girls, knock it off,' Calloway said irritably. 'Let's just get on with it. The car's here.'

    'Let me take it to Neville,' Doyle offered.

    'You'll try and kill him as soon as you get near him,' Calloway snapped. 'One of the uniformed boys can do it.'

    'Calloway,' Doyle said, taking a step towards the DI. 'Let me do it.'

    The two men's eyes locked.

    'You'll try to kill him,' the policeman said quietly.

    Doyle shook his head. 'Not until the hostages are safe. You've got my word on that.'

    Still Calloway hesitated. 'Earlier on, when we were outside the house,' the DI said, 'you told Neville you'd been where he'd been. What did you mean?'

    Doyle shrugged. 'He was in Ireland, I was in Ireland,' he explained. 'He'd been wounded there. So was I.'

    'Badly?'

    Doyle smiled.

    
If you could see the fucking scars…

    There was a knock on the Portacabin door and a uniformed constable stood there, a set of car keys in his hand.

    Mason took them from him and handed them to Calloway.

    'Let me take the car to him,' Doyle persisted.

    Calloway waited a second, then tossed the keys to the counter terrorist who nodded and stepped outside.

    The policemen followed, watching as Doyle slid behind the wheel of a dark blue Montego.

    'No fucking heroics,' said Calloway. 'Our concern is the hostages.'

    Doyle nodded. 'He'll ditch it as soon as he can, you know.'

    'I know that,' Calloway told him.

    Doyle started the engine and revved it, exhaust fumes filling the cold air.

    'You tell those fucking snipers to keep their fingers off the triggers,' Doyle said. 'If one of them gets jumpy I don't want him shooting me by mistake.'

    'Yeah, that'd be a tragedy, wouldn't it?' Mason chided.

    Doyle eyed him coldly. 'You know what, fatso?' he said. 'When I finish with Neville, I might just come back for you.'

    He stuck the car in gear and pulled away.

    'Doyle,' Calloway shouted after him. 'Just take it easy. Remember the hostages.'

    Doyle slid a hand inside his jacket and touched the butt of the Beretta.

    
Fuck the hostages.

    He drove the Montego up on to the pavement, bringing it close to the front gate of number ten.

    He left the engine running, eyes fixed on the front door.

    Waiting.

    'Come on, Neville,' he said under his breath. 'I've got something for you.'

    The front door remained closed.

10.06 A.M.

    Doyle was leaning against the bonnet of the Montego when he saw the front door open.

    He had both hands dug deep into the pockets of his leather jacket but, as the door opened a little wider, he slid one hand inside the garment, almost unconsciously touching the butt of the automatic.

    'I hope they've been given their instructions,' Neville called from inside. 'No shooting or I press this fucking detonator.'

    'You're safe,' said Doyle.

    
Come out, you fucker.

    'Step away from the car,' Neville ordered, finally stepping into view.

    Doyle saw him for the first time.

    Perhaps if he pulled the Beretta now. He could get off a couple of shots before…

    Before Neville pressed the detonator?

    Before he opened up with the Steyr?

    'Where are the hostages?' Doyle demanded, watching as Neville edged cautiously from the front door, a hold-all gripped in his free hand.

    'They're safe. Inside,' Neville said, motioning with his head. 'Unless someone gets trigger-happy.' He held up the detonator control.

    Smaller than the palm of his hand. A tiny black box with a winking red light on it and a red button. Neville's thumb was poised over that button.

    Neville was walking slowly up the path now, his gaze never leaving Doyle.

    'Why did you do it, Neville?' Doyle asked. 'Why did you kill the IRA men, the Sinn Fein guys, the UVF blokes? Why?'

    'Is that why they sent you?'

    'They want you kept quiet,' Doyle told him.

    Neville chuckled. 'They're scared of me, aren't they? Terrified I'll fuck up their little peace plan.'

    Doyle nodded.

    'How long were you in Ireland?' Neville asked.

    'Five years, six, seven. Who cares?'

    'Undercover?'

    Doyle nodded again.

    Neville opened the passenger-side door of the Montego and tossed the hold-all on to the seat, never allowing the barrel of the Steyr to leave Doyle.

    'You saw what went on out there,' Neville continued. 'Don't you understand why I killed them? Why I don't want peace? I was shot at, screamed at, spat at and fuck knows what else while I was there but as soon as their little peace treaty is signed, they expect us all to forget about it. Bollocks to that.'

    'I understand what you're talking about,' Doyle said quietly.

    'Maybe you do but they don't,' Neville told him, sweeping one arm towards the watching horde of policemen.

    Doyle could see the detonator in his hand.

    'And the fucking army don't understand either, that's why they sent you to kill me, isn't it?' Neville hissed.

    'Yes,' Doyle answered bluntly.

    'What are you carrying?' Neville asked, nodding towards Doyle's jacket. 'Show me.'

    Doyle eased open the jacket and pulled it to one side, allowing Neville a sight of the Beretta.

    'Pull it,' Neville said, smiling.

    'So you can cut me in half with that, fuck you,'

    Doyle said, nodding towards the sub-gun.

    'I'm giving you a chance,' Neville told him. 'Come on, you want to kill me. Try it.'

    'Don't tempt me.'

    'You know you can't. If you shoot me I'll still press this detonator.'

    'Press it. I couldn't give a fuck if you blow up your wife, your kid and the whole fucking street,' Doyle rasped. 'I came for you.'

    'Then take your chance while you've got it.'

    'There'll be another time.'

    Neville regarded him coldly. 'Why are you doing this?' he said finally. 'Why do you want to kill me? We're on the same side. We always were. We still are. What are they going to do with you now all this shit in Ireland is over? How long before someone comes to kill you?'

    'They wanted peace and they've got it, Neville. You jeopardised that peace. That's why I'm here.'

    'I thought you understood me.'

    'I do but I've got a job to do and I'm going to do it.'

    Neville slid behind the wheel of the car, the detonator still in one hand.

    He's put the sub-gun down.
Shoot him now.

    'How long before they want you dead too, Doyle,' Neville said. 'You're as useless now as I am. Whatever we were was back in Ireland, in the fighting.'

    Doyle gritted his teeth, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing.

    
What's wrong? The truth hurt?
'I'm the only thing left for you, Doyle,' Neville said, a slight smile on his face. 'If you kill me what else is there for you?'

    'Fuck you, Neville,' Doyle snarled.

    'Too late. The politicians already did that.'

    The car pulled away, moving slowly down the road, past dozens of watching policemen.

    'Shit,' Doyle murmured under his breath.

    Policemen were hurrying towards the house now.

    The counter terrorist himself turned and walked up the short path towards the front door, pushing it, surprised when it swung open.

    He stepped into the hall.

    There was a faint, sickly sweet odour in the air which was familiar to him.

    Something…

    He pushed the living-room door open.

    Again that sickly sweet smell.

    Julie and Lisa Neville were sitting on the sofa, wrists and ankles tied, both of them gagged with pieces of cloth.

    The first of the policemen entered the house close behind Doyle.

    The counter terrorist was already untying Julie's hands.

    She ripped the gag free. 'Get us out of here,' she wailed, her eyes bulging.

    'It's all right,' Doyle said, frowning as he finally recognised the cloying smell.

    The marzipan odour.

    'He's rigged the house,' Julie shouted, snatching up her daughter and bolting for the front door.

    'Jesus Christ,' hissed Doyle.

    The odour was plastic explosive.

    The building must be packed with it.

    'Get out!' Doyle bellowed.

***

    Robert Neville looked at his watch.

    He'd driven about two miles.

    No sign of anyone following.

    The police would be inside the house by now.

    He pressed the detonator button.