Knife Edge (10 page)

11.41 A.M.

    Doyle stood beside the black Granada, gently rocking from one foot to the other.

    'This is bollocks,' he muttered, glancing around the hospital car park.

    A red Metro had just pulled up close by and he watched as two elderly women clambered out, one of them carrying a Cellophane-wrapped bunch of flowers.

    'He's not going to call back,' Doyle insisted, watching as the women linked arms and headed off towards the hospital's main entrance.

    Calloway was seated behind the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the mobile phone which lay on the parcel shelf, as if by mere power of thought he could make it ring.

    'Come on, come on,' Doyle muttered.

    The phone rang.

    Calloway snatched it up.

    'It's him,' DS Mason said on the other end of the line. 'He wants to speak to Doyle.'

    'Patch this through the radio too,' Calloway instructed. 'And get a fucking trace going on the call.'

    'He won't be on long enough for that,' Doyle said.

    'He will if you keep him talking,' Calloway snapped, handing the mobile to the counter terrorist.

    The DI himself grabbed the radio and pressed 'Receive'.

    Doyle looked at the phone for fleeting seconds then pressed it to his ear.

    'Neville,' he said.

    'Is that you, Doyle?' the voice at the other end said.

    'You asked for me, didn't you? Why bother me with your bullshit?'

    'Because I know you'll listen.'

    'What makes you think that? What if I switched you off right now, shithead?'

    Calloway waved his hand frenziedly, fearing that Doyle would carry out his threat, but the counter terrorist held the phone firmly to his ear.

    'Why did you try to kill your wife and kid, Neville?' Doyle enquired.

    'I didn't, you ought to know that.'

    'Yeah, I know that. What do you want, a fucking medal for your handiwork? So, you can blow the roof off a house without damaging anything nearby. What do you do for an encore?'

    'You'll see,' Neville said softly. 'I used ten pounds of Semtex to lift that roof, I've got plenty more.'

    'How much more?'

    'Enough to put a fucking crater where the centre of London used to be.'

    'How much?' Doyle persisted.

    'A hundred and fifty pounds of it.'

    Doyle and Calloway looked at each other but if Doyle was surprised it didn't register in his expression.

    'Jesus fucking Christ,' whispered the policeman, swallowing hard.

    'So, what are you going to do with this explosive then, Neville?'

    'I know you're tracing this call.'

    'Good for you. Then you'll know that I'm going to find you.'

    'You're not going to find me. Not you or any of the fucking coppers listening to this conversation.'

    'Look, just tell me what the fuck you want, will you? You're starting to bore me,' Doyle said.

    'I want my daughter back.'

    'No chance,' Doyle said flatly.

    'In fifty minutes a bomb will explode somewhere in the centre of London,' Neville informed him. 'If you don't give me my daughter back then another one will explode every hour after that. Different locations. Different lives, Doyle. You know what it's like. You've seen what bombs can do. A lot of people are going to die if I don't get my daughter back.'

    'Fuck you, Neville.'

    'One bomb every hour,' Neville continued. 'You'll never know where. And if you haven't seen sense by eight o'clock tonight, if I haven't got my daughter by then, if you're not sick of filling fucking body bags, then that's when the big one goes up. Eight tonight, Doyle. One hundred pounds of C4. Now get my daughter.'

    The radio crackled.

    'We've got the trace,' DS Mason said triumphantly.

    'Where's he calling from?' Calloway asked anxiously.

    'Euston station,' Mason almost shouted. 'The bastard's on Euston station.'

    Doyle looked at the humming mobile phone. 'He hung up.'

    Calloway glanced at his watch. 'We've got fifty minutes to find that bomb,' he said frantically. 'What the fuck do we do?'

    'My guess is it's near him,' Doyle said. 'I reckon the bomb's at Euston.'

11.43 A.M.

    Doyle tossed the mobile towards Calloway then turned and sprinted towards his own car.

    'Listen,' said Calloway into the radio. 'I want every available mobile unit in the vicinity to close in on Euston station. Also, contact BR, tell them what's going on. Get that fucking place evacuated. If the bomb goes off there…' He allowed the sentence to trail off.

    The DI watched as Doyle leaped behind the wheel of the Datsun, revving the engine, reversing wildly.

    He sped off, almost colliding with an ambulance.

    'I want the emergency services on alert too,' Calloway continued. 'And the bomb squad. And you get to Euston as fast as you can, I'll meet you there. Doyle's already on his way.'

    The DI twisted the key in the ignition and the Granada's engine roared into life.

    As he guided the vehicle out of the car park he glanced at his watch. Could Neville be bluffing about the bomb?

    He hoped so but he doubted it.

    'Shit,' he hissed.

    There wouldn't be enough time.

***

    The bomb must be close to Neville, Doyle thought as he drove.

    Chances are it was to be detonated by remote control and most electronically triggered devices only had a range of about a hundred yards. Two hundred absolute tops.

    It was on that bloody station somewhere.

    Doyle looked at his watch.

    Forty-eight minutes.

    He banged his horn, trying to force the van ahead of him to pull over.

    The traffic was heavy.

    Too fucking heavy.

    Even if he reached Euston quickly the chances of finding Neville there were slim, the chances of finding the bomb in time even slimmer. There were a hundred different places he could have planted it.

    The lights ahead of Doyle were on amber, the rest of the traffic was slowing down.

    
Fuck it.

    He pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator and the Datsun shot through on red.

    The counter terrorist heard horns behind and to one side of him sounding like some organised chorus of dissent.

    Forty-five minutes before detonation.

    The first of many.

    Neville had said one every hour until eight o'clock.

    Doyle did some quick arithmetic in his head as he screamed past a cyclist.

    One
every
hour.

    Seven bombs and then the
big
one.

    
'That's a lot of lives, Doyle.'

    Neville's words came floating back to him.

    
'You know what it's like.'

    The counter terrorist's grip on the wheel tightened.

    
'You've seen what bombs can do.'

    Seen, smelled, felt.

    He had the scars to prove what it was like to be on the receiving end.

    If he didn't find Neville quickly, there were going to be many people with more than scars to show.

11.51 A.M.

    Neville saw the policeman as he reached the bottom of the steps.

    The motorcycle officer was about the same height as Neville, his white helmet gleaming beneath the fluorescents in the underground car park.

    Neville slowed his pace, watching as the policeman walked slowly around the Harley Davidson, his own bike parked close by.

    The air reeked of diesel fumes and oil. Black cabs were dropping off passengers then heading down the ramp to collect more in this underground area of Euston.

    Neville had left the bike there, not expecting any trouble, not expecting anyone to find it until he was ready to leave.

    He took another step towards the Harley, watching as the cycle cop continued walking around, inspecting.

    When he turned to face Neville, the ex-para could see that the uniformed man was in his early twenties.

    He flipped up his visor as Neville approached.

    'Is this your bike, sir?' the policeman asked, running appraising eyes over the leather-clad newcomer. 'You realise it's parked illegally?'

    Did he know? Was this a ruse?

    'Have you any identification on you?' the uniformed man wanted to know.

    Neville reached for the zip of his jacket, aware of the bulky weight of the.459 and the.357 beneath each arm.

    He was looking fixedly at the young policeman.

    Two businessmen who had just alighted from one of the taxis passed by, glancing disinterestedly at the tableau.

    'Why did you park here?' the officer continued.

    Neville eased the jacket open slightly.

    The policeman's radio crackled and he pulled it from his belt, flicked it to 'Receive'.

    Neville stood gazing at him.

    The policeman nodded as he heard what was being said to him by the voice at the other end.

    Nodded.

    Neville kept his gaze fixed on the uniformed man.

    He knows.

    The policeman looked straight at him.

    For interminable seconds it was as if both men had frozen.

    He
fucking
knows.

    A woman struggled from a cab, the driver helping her with her massive suitcase. Both glanced at the motorcyclists nearby.

    From above, Neville heard some words being called urgently over the station Tannoy but his eyes were still riveted on the policeman.

    'Your ID, sir,' the policeman said, the radio still pressed to his ear.

    Neville slid his right hand inside his jacket and pulled the automatic free.

    He saw the look of surprise on the young policeman's face as the pistol was hefted before him, the barrel yawning wide.

    Neville fired.

    The sound was amplified by the enclosed concrete space and the gunshots exploded like a sonic blast, deafening everyone in the confined area.

    The woman with the suitcase screamed, her cries drowned out by the blasts.

    The first bullet hit the policeman in the left shoulder, tore through and erupted from his back, cracking a portion of his scapula, taking gobbets of flesh, bone and material with it.

    It was quickly followed by a second, which thudded into his stomach, doubling him over; fingers clutching at the wound, one slipping inside the hole as blood poured freely down his body.

    He dropped to his knees, his visor falling forward and Neville could see the uniformed man staring at him almost in bewilderment through the Perspex.

    He fired one shot through it.

    The clear material shattered, the bullet powering into the policeman's cheek, punching his lower jaw, blasting several teeth free.

    Blood seemed to fill the helmet and he fell on to what was left of his face.

    The woman was still screaming.

    The taxi driver had run back and leaped behind the wheel.

    Other cabs in the drop-off area were accelerating towards the ramp, anxious to escape, one even tried reversing up it.

    Neville swung his leg over the Harley's seat, started the engine and twisted the throttle.

    The bike screamed on to the road, skidding slightly, back wheel spinning.

    The woman had stopped screaming now, and was standing motionless, gazing down at the body of the policeman, her eyes bulging wide in their sockets as his spreading blood reached her shoes.

    A taxi driver jumped from his cab and ran up the ramp into the street, the breath rasping in his lungs, eyes searching the clogged traffic.

    He was the first to spot the approaching police car.

    By now others had heard the sirens.

11.54 A.M.

    The speeding police car mounted the pavement to avoid the traffic in Hampstead Road, the driver twisting the wheel, guiding the vehicle down the sharp incline towards Euston's underground car park.

    The sound of screeching tyres joined the strident scream of the sirens as the Astra sped down the ramp.

    PC Stephen Garside glanced to his left as they swept through the subterranean area.

    He saw the prone figure of the motorbike cop lying in a pool of blood.

    'Shit,' he grunted and reached for the radio.

    The car roared down another ramp, the vehicle skidding slightly on some spilled oil at the bottom.

    'There's an officer down,' said Garside, gripping the door as the car turned the corner, throwing him sideways. 'Underground car park at Euston, it looks bad. Over.'

    'Puma three, message received. Where are you now? Over,' the voice at the other end said.

    'In pursuit of a motorbike. We have reason to believe the rider is responsible for the injuries to the officer. We're heading out of the underground car park at Euston and-'

    He grunted as the car cannoned off a wall before spinning back on to the road.

    'Fuck's sake, Phil,' Garside grunted, glaring at the driver.

    'Do you want to drive?' PC Phillip Brenner said, eyes fixed on the speeding bike ahead of him.

    'Heading up into Hampstead Road again,' said Garside into the radio. 'Request assistance. Over.'

    The Astra reached the top of the ramp and sped between two cars, clipping the front of a Nissan, shattering one headlamp.

***

    Neville looked over his shoulder and saw the pursuing police car, its lights spinning wildly on its roof, the siren wailing.

    The ex-para gunned the throttle and took the bike into a tight left turn into Euston Road.

    The Harley narrowly avoided a Rover heading in the opposite direction, the tip of one handlebar scraping the paintwork of the vehicle and almost causing Neville to overbalance but he kept control of the bike and roared on.

    The police car followed.

    More traffic lights ahead.

    The lights were flickering from amber to red.

    Neville shot through, the needle on the speedo nudging sixty.

    The Astra followed.

    Another police car turned out of Eversholt Road, its sirens also blaring and, for fleeting seconds, Neville could see the nervous faces of the two men inside.

    The ex-para smiled inside his helmet and sent the bike roaring almost diagonally across the road.

    It struck the kerb, skidded, then the wheels gripped and he was riding hell for leather along the pavement, pedestrians scattering before him, some shouting, some screaming, some gesturing angrily.

    He turned the bike back on to the road and swept past St Pancras.

    The two police cars followed, the first of them closing the distance between car and bike. Neville saw this in his wing mirror and slid one hand inside his jacket, pulling the.459 free.

    He looked quickly behind him then fired off four rounds, the pistol bucking uncontrollably in his hand.

    Two shots ricocheted off the road, the third took off the police car's left wing mirror and the fourth struck the radiator grille.

    Neville continued to pump the trigger.

    His next two shots both struck the windscreen, which promptly spider-webbed.

    The leading police car went out of control, skidded across the road and slammed head-on into a Range Rover, the sickening crash audible even over the sound of the Harley's engine.

    Neville smiled, aware that the Astra was still in pursuit.

    
Come on, you fuckers. Your turn.

    He guided the bike into Gray's Inn Road.

    The police car followed.