Hybrid

The news camera was already panning over a scene of bloodshed in Northern Ireland. A bullet-riddled minibus, spattered with blood. Great puddles of crimson fluid congealing on the country road. He saw RUC men moving around among members of the emergency services.

Doyle pressed the volume button and the sound of the news reporter’s voice began to fill the room.

‘… all five men, granted early release as part of the Good Friday Agreement, had been serving sentences for terrorist-related crimes.

They are thought to have been ambushed on this quiet road and all were pronounced dead at the scene.’

Doyle sat mesmerised.

The men were being transported back to the Republic on what was thought to be a top-secret route. No statement has been made yet by either the RUC or any of the political or military organisations involved in what appears to be the most ruthless sectarian killing for some time.’

Doyle sat a moment longer then jumped to his feet. He crossed to his phone and punched out the numbers.

‘Come on.’

When the receiver was picked up, he barely gave the voice at the other end the chance to speak.

‘Good morning, this—’

‘Listen, I need to speak to Jonathan Parker,’ Doyle said.

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr Parker is—’

‘I’ve got clearance.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Doyle. Sean Doyle. 23958.’

There was a moment’s silence at the other end.

‘I have no record of clearance for that name or that code,’ the voice told him.

‘Let me speak to Parker now.’

‘I repeat, there is no clearance for—’

‘Just fucking tell him it’s Doyle,’ snapped the former counter terrorist.

‘He’ll speak to me.’

‘Mr Parker is in a meeting.’

‘Bollocks. Get him to call me back. He’s got the number.’

‘That won’t be possible.’

Doyle slammed the receiver down.

‘Cunt,’ he snarled and headed for the hall where he pulled on his leather jacket. He snatched his car keys

from the small table by the front door and strode out of his flat.

This couldn’t wait.

Doyle left the Astra outside the building in Hill Street. He fed a handful of coins to the meter then stalked across to the front door of the CTU

headquarters and pressed his thumb on the buzzer.

‘Identification, please,’ said the voice from inside.

‘Doyle,’ he said curtly, ‘23958.’

There was a moment’s silence.

‘Could you repeat that, please?’

He did.

‘Access denied,’ the voice said finally.

Doyle sucked in a furious breath and pressed the buzzer again.

‘Doyle, 23958. I need to speak to Jonathan Parker now. Open the fucking door’

Silence.

He struck the oak door with one fist.

‘Access has been denied,’ the voice on the intercom said. ‘Please step away from the door.’

Doyle hit the buzzer once more and kept his finger there.

Open the fucking door, you bastards. You can’t get rid of me that easily.

The sound of the buzzer reverberated around the quiet street. An elderly woman passed by on the other side of the thoroughfare and looked over at Doyle.

‘Move away from the door,’ said the voice from inside the building. ‘Access has been denied. If you do not move, I’ll call security.’

‘Do it,’ snarled Doyle.‘Call who you fucking like. I’m staying here until Parker speaks to me.’ He leant on the buzzer once more.

The door opened and two men stepped out on to the pavement. Both were dressed casually. Both were a good ten years younger than Doyle himself. He assumed they were counter terrorist agents.

As he had once been.

‘Just do one will you, Doyle?’ said the first.

‘Fuck you.’

‘We don’t want any trouble,’ the second assured him.

‘Then get out of the way and let me talk to Parker.’

No one moved. The men remained motionless, but their eyes travelled up and down him. Watching. Trying to detect the first hint of aggression. Doyle knew they had been trained as meticulously as he had been. He also had no doubt that they were armed.

‘Five minutes,’ Doyle said. That’s all I want.’

The first man shook his head. ‘We can’t let you in,’ he said. ‘You don’t belong here any more.’

Doyle’s expression did not change.

Never let your opponent see what you’re thinking. Never let your feelings show on your face. Retain eye contact If you look away, they’ll know you’re going to make a move on them.

‘Let him in.’

Doyle recognised the voice.

Jonathan Parker stood just inside the reception area.

For long moments the two agents blocking Doyle’s path remained where they were, then, as Doyle stepped forward, they moved aside and allowed him safe passage.

‘You asked for five minutes,’ said Parker.‘That’s what you’ve got.’

Make it quick, Doyle,’ Parker said, closing his office door behind him. ‘This could cost me my job, just having you on the premises.’

‘Worried in case your fucking politician friend finds out I was here?’ Doyle spat.

‘Sir Anthony Pressman is no friend of mine, I can assure you. As you know, if I’d have had a choice you’d still be a part of this organisation.’

‘You could have told him to fuck himself.’

‘No I couldn’t, Doyle.’

‘Couldn’t or wouldn’t?’

‘If you came here to discuss the merits or otherwise of your removal from this unit then you may as well leave now.’

‘I came here to discuss what happened in Northern Ireland this morning. Five newly released IRA men ambushed and slaughtered on their way home.’

‘I’m not at liberty to discuss that or any other matter with you, Doyle. Not any longer.’

‘Who do you think killed them?’

‘I can’t discuss it with you.’

‘One of the murdered men was Vincent Leary.’

Parker said nothing.

‘He was due for release from Maghaberry, I know that. Obviously so did someone else. Someone who wanted him and four of his friends dead. My money’s on the UVF.’

Parker crossed to the large window that looked out on to Hill Street, clasped his hands behind his back and stared off into the distance. He could see the green expanse of Berkeley Square from where he stood.

‘If it was the UVF then you’ve got a problem,’ Doyle continued.‘This so-called peace in Ireland is on a knife edge anyway. If both sides start hitting each other again, then you can kiss the whole fucking lot goodbye.’

‘I can’t discuss this with you, Doyle,’ Parker repeated again.

‘I didn’t come here for a fucking discussion. I came here to teil you what’s going to happen. Declan Leary’s brother was one of those IRA men killed. Now if I know Leary he’s not going to sit still for that. He’s going to go after whoever did it. He’s been in hiding ever since that business in Belfast.

This’ll bring him out, for sure. And when he sticks his head up over the parapet, someone should be there to put a fucking bullet in it.’

‘Like you?’ Parker said, finally turning to face his former colleague. ‘You’re not a part of this organisation any more, Doyle.’

‘Reinstate me. You know I’m the only one who can get Leary.’

‘I can’t do that. I wish I could but I can’t. I know what you’re saying is right. I know that if anyone can find him it’s you.’ The older man sighed. ‘My hands are tied.’

‘I’ll work without official clearance.’

Parker shook his head. ‘You’d be arrested as soon as you set foot in Ireland,’

he said.

They’ve got to find me first,’ Doyle assured him.

‘I can’t allow that, Doyle.’

‘I’ll find Leary.That’s what you want, isn’t it? Besides, I owe that bastard.

He tried to kill me, remember?’

‘He wouldn’t be the first.’

That’s right. But I want to put him where I’ve put the others who’ve tried to kill me. Six feet under.’

A heavy silence descended, finally broken by Doyle.

‘He’ll go looking for the men who killed his brother. When he does, I’ll find him.’

Parker shook his head again. ‘I can’t give you your job back, Doyle. That’s the end of it.’

The former agent regarded the older man evenly. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, heading towards the door. ‘But perhaps there’s something else you should consider. That minibus was on a route known only to the driver and certain members of the RUC and security forces. Yet the guys who hit it knew exactly where and when to find it. They couldn’t have known that without the right information.’

‘You think someone tipped them off?’

‘What the fuck do you think?’ Doyle said quietly. ‘You’ve got an informant somewhere, Parker. You’d better find him too.’

Doyle opened the door.

‘Doyle. Wait a minute,’ Parker called, stepping from behind his desk. ‘What will you do now?’

‘Now you’ve shit on me, you mean? Put me out of fucking work. What does it matter to you?’

Parker reached into his jacket pocket and handed Doyle a plain, white business card. ‘Go and see this man,’ he said, holding out the card. ‘He might be able to help you.’

‘I don’t need your pity, Parker,’ Doyle said dismissively.

‘I’m not giving it. Stop being so pig-headed for once and take some help when

it’s offered.’

‘I don’t need any help.’

‘No, Doyle, that’s exactly what you need. Without this job you’ll be sucking the barrel of a .357 within a month. Take the card.’

Doyle hesitated a moment then snatched it from his former colleague’s hand and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans.

‘By the way, Parker,’ he said standing in the doorway, ‘if I do end up with a gun in my mouth, just remember, you were the one who put it there.’

He slammed the door behind him.

AN OVERACTIVE IMAGINATION

Thirty pages. Ward counted them again. Thirty pages. No mistake. More than he’d written in the last five days.

He numbered the pages and placed them with the rest of his manuscript, wondering why his hands were shaking.

He re-read the words on the screen. He remembered none of them.

Had he been that drunk that he’d managed to write thirty pages without even remembering?

Ward rubbed his chin thoughtfully. His head was spinning. A combination of tiredness and the effect of so much alcohol was beginning to close in on him.

He tried to rise but couldn’t. He sat down again and breathed deeply.

Finally he shut off the computer. As the screen went black the office was plunged into darkness.

Ward tried again to get to his feet and this time he managed it. He negotiated the stairs with great care. He had little worth living for but he still didn’t fancy slipping and breaking his neck.

He locked the office and stumbled towards the house. As he went he heard sounds of movement in the bushes.

He wondered if it was the same cat that he’d frightened off the other night.

He grabbed a stone and hurled it in the direction of the sound. He heard the missile strike the wooden fence beyond but nothing else.

Then it came again. Closer this time. Near to the office door.

In the blackness of night it was impossible to see anything.

Ward took a step forward.

A shape passed close to the door of the office. Low to the ground. On all fours. Sleek, with a very large head.

Ward reached for another stone and prepared to throw it.

Was it a dog he’d glimpsed?

He shook his head.

It was … too big?

No. It was the wrong shape.

It moved too awkwardly, as if all its weight was on its front legs. It moved more like an ape.

Ward kept his eyes fixed on the door of the office and stepped backwards towards his house.

Drink. Tiredness. Depression. A powerful combination and one likely to stimulate an overactive imagination. Or hallucinations?

He smiled to himself.

The shape by the office had gone. At least, he couldn’t see it any more.

Ward went inside the house, locked and bolted the back door and peered out through the glass.

He could see nothing. No shapes. No imaginary figures. No hallucinations.

He turned away from the window and made his way up the stairs. Had he looked back he might have noticed that there was a silver-grey light coming from inside his office.

As if the monitor were once again switched on.

IDLE HANDS

Ward slept without interruption that night. A sleep aided by half a bottle of Glenfiddich.

He didn’t dream. Or if he did he didn’t remember them.

He woke at ten the following morning, showered, dressed and, for the first

time in several days, shaved. Then he wandered out to the office.

The printer was whirring away as he opened the door. He recognised the sound immediately and hurried up the stairs.

He stood motionless and watched as the machine printed off thirty more pages.

BALLYKNOCKAN, COUNTY WICKLOW, THE REPUBLIC OF IRELAND: Declan Leary was surprised at how many people turned out for the funeral of his brother. Sure enough.Vincent had been a popular man but Leary was pleasantly surprised at the amount of souls prepared to pay their respects to his dead sibling.

He stood on the hillside overlooking the cemetery, sheltering beneath some trees from the rain that had been falling steadily for the last two hours.

He’d stood like some silent sentinel, watching while the priest intoned words he knew only too well. Aware that his mother was shaking as she fought in vain to hold back her tears as she watched her eldest child being lowered into the grave.

Leary could see one of his aunts with her arm around the frail old woman. On her other side stood Leary’s younger sisters. Patricia was twenty. Angela eighteen months older. They were also crying.

How he longed to stand beside them. To comfort his family. To toss a handful of wet earth on to the

coffin.To say a final farewell to the brother he had loved so much.

To swear that he would find and kill those who had taken his life.

The village, like so many in rural Ireland, was a close-knit place. Almost an anachronism in an age of self-betterment and disregard for others. Within it, stili flowed the kind of community spirit that saw neighbours genuinely caring for one another. Hence the large number of people prepared to brave the elements to bid a last farewell to Vincent Leary.

There were two guarda cars parked beside the cemetery gates, their occupants sheltering from the weather but also anxious not to intrude upon the scene before them.

Leary knew why they were there. He had been expecting them. That was why he had chosen his position high up on the hillside in the shadow of the Wicklow mountains.

Clouds were gathering ever more menacingly over those distant peaks, threatening to bring more of the rain that was still falling. Like tears from the heavens for his departed brother.

‘We’re very sorry for your trouble, Decian.’

The words made Leary spin round, his hand sliding inside his overcoat, fingers closing over the butt of the Giock 17.

‘No need for that,’ said Seamus Mulvey, patting the younger man on the shoulder.

Leary relaxed slightly and looked at the other man who accompanied Mulvey.

Raymond Tracey nodded almost imperceptibly. A gesture designed both as a greeting and a condolence.

‘We thought we should pay our respects to your brother,’ Mulvey continued. ‘On behalf of the organisation.’

‘And for your mother’s sake,’ Tracey added.

Thank you,’ said Leary quietly.

‘It seems that over the years I’ve worn this suit to more funerals than I care to remember,’ Mulvey mused. ‘I was hoping I wouldn’t have need of it again.’

Leary turned and gazed back down at the grave surrounded by mourners.

‘I hope I don’t need it for yours, Declan,’ the older man continued.

‘Why should you?’ Leary wanted to know. ‘I’m not planning on getting killed.’

‘What are you planning?’ Mulvey enquired.

‘My brother was murdered. I want to know who by.’

‘And if you find out?’

Leary looked at the oider man but initially didn’t answer. ‘That’s my business,’ he said finally.

‘No it’s not, Declan. It’s everyone’s business. Myself, Raymond. Everyone in the organisation. Political and military.’

‘Did you come here today to warn me off?’ Leary demanded.

‘We came to give you some advice,’ Tracey offered. ‘I don’t blame you for feeling the way you do about what happened to your brother. I’d be the same if it was kin of mine. I know how you feel.’

‘You’ve got no fucking idea how I feel, Raymond,’ snapped Leary. ‘I can only stand here and watch while

my own mother and sisters cry their hearts out over the body of my brother. I can’t even go down there and comfort them. The one thing I can give them is justice.’

‘Killing the men who murdered Vincent wouldn’t be justice,’ said Mulvey. ‘It’d be suicide. For all of us.’

‘I’ll take that chance,’ Leary told him flatly.

‘I’m advising you not to, Declan.’

‘In Donegal, you asked me, now you’re advising me. What’s the difference? Does advice come from the barrel of a gun?’

Mulvey looked up at the rain-sodden sky. ‘If it had been the other way round, what do you think Vincent would have done?’ he asked. ‘Run off to find the men who killed youV

I’d like to think so.’

‘No he wouldn’t have,’ Tracey said.

‘How the hell do you know what he would have done? He was my fucking brother.’

‘He wouldn’t have done it because he put the organisation first,’ Tracey continued. ‘He understood that what he’d fought for was more important than persona! matters. He’d have realised that the kind of action you’re proposing is useless.’

‘Bollocks,’ spat Leary.

There was a moment’s silence, finally broken by Tracey. Think about what you’re doing, Declan,’ he said. Think about what Vincent would have wanted.’

‘I am thinking about Vincent,’ Leary hissed. That’s why I’m going to find the bastards who killed him.’

‘You’re making a mistake,’ Tracey told him.

‘Am i? We’ll see.’

The RUC will be looking for you after what happened in Belfast,’ Mulvey said.‘So will every fucking SAS and anti-terrorist operative working in the six counties. Look what happened to Finan.That could be you this time round.

Whoever killed Vincent will be expecting you to come after them too. They’ll be ready for you. Just let it go, Declan.’

‘Thanks for coming today,’ said Leary quietly.‘l appreciate your concern. For me and my family. We’ve got nothing more to say to each other.’

He turned his back on the two men and gazed down at the last resting place of his dead brother.

LONDON:

Doyle walked briskly up the steps from Notting Hill Gate Tube station. He paused at the top and dug in his pocket for what he sought. The business card bore an address and he regarded it indifferently for a second.

He’d spent most of the day and night thinking about whether or not it was even worth visiting the place. Finally he’d rung and made an appointment for ten o’clock the following morning. The remainder of the evening had been spent slumped in front of his television set.

His brain had felt like a washing machine (it still did). Thoughts spinning round.Visions forcing themselves into his consciousness like some kaleidoscopic acid trip.

Dead bodies. Blood. Pain.

Georgie.

Guns. Knives. Explosions.

He’d seen the faces of Parker. Of Sir Anthony Pressman. Finan. Leary.

Georgie.

She was always there, somewhere.

He’d succumbed to a headache and fallen asleep in the chair after downing half a bottle of Smirnoff and three Nurofen.

When he’d woken, the business card Parker had given him was still on the table beside his chair.

Doyle had spent a long time staring at it.

Now he looked at it again:

CARTWRIGHT SECURITY

36 CLANRICARDE GARDENS

NOTTING HILL

There was a phone number beneath.

Doyle wandered along the road, checking street names until he found the right one.

It was a narrow cul-de-sac of two-storey mews houses, mostly converted into flats or offices.The number of nameplates outside each electronically operated front door testified to that.

Number 36 bore the name of Cartwright Security. Doyle pressed the buzzer and waited.

Just like old times.

‘Cartwright Security,’ said a woman’s voice.

‘My name’s Doyle,’ he said into the grille. ‘I’ve got an appointment with Mr Cartwright.’

‘We’re on the third floor, please come up.’

There was a loud buzz and the door opened. Doyle stepped inside and made his way up the plush stairs until he found it. He knocked and walked in.There was a door to his right which was closed and another to his left which was open.

Through the open one he could see a desk and a young woman seated behind it. Early thirties. Shoulder-length auburn hair. Attractive. She was dressed in a dark two-piece suit and highly polished court shoes.

There was another door behind her. Also closed.

The office was airy and brightly decorated. There were leather chairs along two walls and a low table in the centre covered with orderly lines of magazines. Doyle noticed copies of GQ, The Face, Maxim, Vogue and Cosmopoliton.There were even editions of the NME and a number of film magazines.

The secretary smiled at him and motioned towards one of the leather seats.

‘Would you like a drink, Mr Doyle?’ she asked. ‘Tea, coffee?’

Tea, thanks. White. One sugar.’

‘I’ll bring it through,’ she told him. ‘Mr Cartwright is ready to see you.’

No hanging about

Doyle stood back up and followed her through to the door on the other side of the narrow corridor. She knocked once then entered.

As she did, Brian Cartwright got to his feet. He extended a hand, which Doyle shook, surprised at the power in the other man’s grip. He ran appraising eyes over Cartwright who was immaculately dressed in a dark-blue suit and black roll-neck sweater.

Thank you, Julie,’ said Cartwright.

‘I’ll bring you a coffee through,’ the secretary said as she stepped out of the office.

‘She looks after me,’ Cartwright said smiling.

He was an amiable man. Late forties.Wide-shouldered and thick-necked.

Doyle took a quick look around the office. It was high-ceilinged. Recently decorated. A small flight of steps led up to another smaller area where Doyle could see a sofa, a television and a video recorder.

There were several framed photos on the walls. He recognised one or two of them. Film stars. There was one of Robert de Niro.

‘Some of our clients,’ Cartwright said, noticing his interest. ‘We look after all sorts of people. Pop stars, actors, politicians, businessmen. You name it.’

Julie returned with their drinks, set them down and left, closing the door behind her.

‘I understand you’re looking for a job, Mr Doyle,’ Cartwright said, sipping his coffee.

‘Who told you that?’

‘Jonathan Parker. Your old boss. He had your file biked over to me. He didn’t think you’d have much in the way of a written CV.’

‘He was right. How do you know him?’

‘I used to be a Special Branch officer. We’ve known each other for years.’

‘Why did you leave?’

‘I retired. I was hurt in a car accident. The money I got went into this business.’

‘You’re obviously doing all right,’ Doyle observed, looking around the office.

‘I employ the right people. And I’ve got a very good accountant.’ Cartwright smiled.

Doyle managed a grin.

‘Jonathan seems to think you’d be suited to this line of work,’ said Cartwright. ‘Do you?’

‘Look, I appreciate you seeing me but don’t give me a fucking job out of sympathy. Just because Parker

binned me off doesn’t mean I need help from his friends.’

‘You arrogant bastard,’ said Cartwright.

Doyle shot him an angry glance, surprised when the older man held his venomous gaze.

‘It’s you who needs this job,’ Cartwright reminded him. ‘You’re the one on the scrapheap.’

‘I’ll find work somewhere.’

‘Doing what? What kind of work can you do, Doyle? Remember, I’ve read your file. Who’s going to employ a man as potentially unstable as you?’

Doyle got to his feet.

‘Sit down,’ Cartwright snapped.

‘Fuck you,’ Doyle rasped.

‘Face it, you’re low on options. You’re not in a position to dictate what you want. Not any more. If I can help you I will but it’s got nothing to do with favours or sympathy. My motives are purely selfish. If I didn’t think it was worth seeing you, you wouldn’t be here now.’

Doyle sucked in a deep breath and slowly sat down again.

Cartwright reached into his desk and pulled out a file. ‘I won’t bother reading this back to you,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you know what it says anyway.’

‘I’m not very good at this interview shit,’ Doyle told him. ‘I suppose I’m out of practice. I didn’t think the day would ever come when I’d have to do one. I thought I’d be dead long before that.’

‘Well, you’re not dead, you’re here. So let’s get down to business.’

They offered you retirement twice,’ said Cartwright, flicking through the file on his desk.‘Why didn’t you take it?’

‘Why didn’t you?’ Doyle asked him. ‘You could have been living off your invalidity pension from Special Branch now.’

Cartwright smiled. ‘You’re right,’ he acknowledged. ‘I chose to use the money to put into this business. I built it up from nothing to what it is now.’

‘Why?’

‘I saw a gap in the market and, if I’m truthful, I couldn’t stand the thought of sitting around twiddling my thumbs for the rest of my life, getting under my wife’s feet.’

‘Join the club.’

‘You’re not married, are you?’

Doyle shook his head.

That’s probably just as well,’ Cartwright told him. ‘Security work is no job for a married man.’

‘What about you? You’re married.’

‘I own the business. I can go home every night if ! have to. The people who work for me can’t.’

‘Where do you get your people? Are they all cast-offs like me?’

‘I’ve got ex-coppers. Ex-army. Even a couple of guys who worked as mercenaries in Kosovo for a time.They all know how to handle themselves should the

situation arise.’

Doyle eyed him indifferently.

‘I know you can look after yourself, Doyle,’ Cartwright said. ‘But the question with this job is can you look after someone else? Would you risk your life for a total stranger, one you might not even think very much of, just for the money?’

‘I haven’t really got much of a choice, have I?’

‘You can walk away now if you want to. No one’s forcing you to take a job here. No one knows if you’ll even be capable of doing it. What do you think this job entails?’

‘Making sure the wrong people don’t get hurt. The ones who pay for that privilege.’

‘I know that if you’re looking after one of my clients and someone has a go at them then you’ll be able to do the job. I know they’ll be safe under your protection. What I don’t know is whether or not you’ll be able to cope with the other side of the business.’

‘Like what?’

‘You have to be a diplomat in the security business, Doyle. Melt into the background. Be courteous at all times.’

Doyle raised an eyebrow.

‘Do as you’re told,’ Cartwright continued. ‘It must be a while since you did that.’ He smiled.

‘I could try.’

‘If I employ you, the way you act and behave reflects upon my business and reputation. One mistake and you’re out. Got it?’

Doyle eyed the older man impassively for a moment. ‘Does this mean you’re offering me a job?’ he wanted to know.

‘Look on it as a trial. If you do well on the first one, there’ll be others. I know it’s not what you want but what choice do you have?’

‘Not much by the look of it.’

Cartwright looked at him. ‘Have you got a suit?’ he asked.

‘I did have. I don’t know whether it still fits.’

Then get a new one. I want you at number twenty-six Upper Brook Street at twelve tomorrow.’

‘So I’ve got the job.’

‘Yes you have. Don’t mess it up. For your sake.’

‘Am I supposed to say thanks?’

‘You’re not supposed to say anything, Doyle.’

There was a heavy silence, finally broken by the former counter terrorist.

‘What about weapons?’ he asked. ‘Do I carry them?’

‘It depends on the job. You’ll be informed by me or by other operatives working with you.’

‘Who’s working with me tomorrow?’

Two of my best people. They’ve been on this job for the last month. One’s a driver.The other’s a personal bodyguard.’

‘Who’s the client?’

‘Sheikh Karim El Roustam and his family. You might have heard of him. He’s a Saudi prince. One of the richest men in the world and paranoid about assassination. He’s over here for talks with the owners of Aspreys, the jewellers. He wants to buy the company for his wife.’

Doyle smiled. ‘Who’s guarding him?’

‘Melissa Blake and Joe Hendry. They’ve both been with me for over six years.

They’re two of my best. You’ll take your instructions from them. You’ve got no problem working with a woman have you?’

Doyle shook his head.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

‘Stay in the background,’ continued Cartwright.‘Do as you’re told. And, Doyle, try not to shoot anybody. Especially the Sheikh.’

Doyle nodded.‘I’ve never done security work in my life and you’re ready to let me walk into a situation like this?’ he asked.

‘You’ve got to learn somehow.AII my operatives had to. Now go and get yourself a suit, some decent shirts and shoes and a bloody tie. Try Burberry’s.’

Doyle got to his feet.

‘You might want to get your hair cut too,’ Cartwright added.

‘I’ll think about it,’ Doyle told him.

Cartwright stood too and extended his right hand. Doyle shook it.

‘Don’t disappoint me, Doyle,’ said Cartwright.‘You’ve been given another chance. Not many people get that. Take it.’

Doyle turned and walked out.

‘Remember,’ Cartwright called after him. Twenty-six Upper Brook Street. Twelve o’clock. Don’t be late.’

He heard Doyle’s footsteps receding down the stairs.

Cartwright crossed to the window, wincing slightly from a recurring stiffness in his back and leg. He looked out into the street where he could see the former counter terrorist heading away from the building.

After a moment or two he turned back to his desk and reached for the phone.

DUNDALK.THE REPUBLIC OF IRELAND:

The woman who ran the guest house was a cheerful individual in her mid-forties. She had offered to help Declan Leary carry his two holdalls up to his room, shrugging her shoulders when he declined.

As he followed her up the stairs he supposed he could have allowed her to carry the sports bag with his clothes in.The plain black one he preferred to carry himself. He didn’t want her asking what was in it even though he had the lie ready on his tongue. Just as he’d been ready to give her a false name and tell her what he supposedly did for a living.

She’d told him that there were two other permanent guests in the house. The other two rooms she kept for those passers-by who found themselves in need of rest and shelter for the night.

Leary listened dutifully as she led him on to the landing and pointed out the two toilets, the other guest rooms and her own room.

Her husband, she informed him, had died of a heart attack two years ago. She had one son who visited her with his wife and small baby every Sunday.

Leary smiled and nodded efficiently in all the right places.

She pushed open the door to his room and stepped aside to allow him in.

It was a reasonable size with a double bed (although she told him that she would prefer it if he didn’t bring young women back with him), a dressing table, a wardrobe and a wash basin close to the large window that looked out on to a small garden. Beyond it was a field.

Beyond that lay the main road leading from the Republic into the Six Counties.

Leary could make the drive to Belfast in under two hours if the conditions were right.

In and out quickly.

The guest house would be an ideal operations base for him. If the main road was closed or too congested then there were innumerable other routes by which he could find his way into the North.

He thanked the woman and reached for his wallet.

She told him she would take a deposit, if that was all right, and the week’s rent would be payable in full every Friday night. No notice was needed should he want to move out but, she told him with a smile, she hoped that he would treat the place as a home and not want to move out too quickly. Dinner would be served at seven-thirty. She hoped he would enjoy meeting the other residents of the house.

Leary thanked her and held the door open for her as she finally left him alone.

He waited a moment then quietly turned the lock and began unpacking his clothes, sliding Tshirts and

underwear into drawers, hanging shirts and jackets in the wardrobe.

Leary left the black holdall on the bed until he was ready then he unzipped it and reached inside. He laid each of the weapons on the bed and regarded them

impassively.

The Glock 17 automatic. The Smith and Wesson M459 9mm automatic. The Scorpion CZ65 9mm machine pistol.

And the knives. One an 8-inch-long double-edged blade sharpened to lethal degrees on both sides. The other his ever-reliable flick knife.

He replaced all but the flick knife and the Glock in the holdall then stashed it carefully at the back of the wardrobe and laid a dark-blue fleece over it, happy that it was concealed.

As he left the room, he locked the door behind him.

Outside it had begun to rain.

Leary climbed into the Ford and started the engine, glancing at the dashboard clock. He switched on the radio, found some traffic news. No major delays anywhere. He should be in Belfast before dark.

LONDON:

Doyle felt as if he was being strangled. He pulled at the tie as he clambered out of the taxi, attempting to loosen it slightly. He tried to remember the last time he’d worn one.

Georgie’s funeral? How long ago had that been? Ten, twelve years?

He looked around at the houses in Upper Brook Street You could almost smell the money.

He glanced at his watch then at the door of number 26.

Plenty of time to spare.

There was a Daimler parked immediately before the building. In front of it a Rolls Royce and behind it a black Ferrari F40. Doyle was fairly sure that these cars belonged to Sheikh Karim El Roustam.

He climbed the three steps that led to the front door and rang the buzzer.

There was a small video screen above the panel and Doyle turned towards it.

‘Yes,’ said a metallic-sounding woman’s voice.

‘My name’s Doyle. I was sent here by Cartwright Security.’

‘Who’s your contact?’

‘Melissa Blake.’

There was a loud buzz and the door opened. Doyle stepped into the hallway of the house and waited.

He knew a little about art (he’d had a book when he was a kid called World Famous Paintings, or something like that, and certain images had stuck in his mind) and he was sure that one of the paintings hanging opposite him was a Gainsborough. Next to it was a Constable. He was pretty sure they weren’t copies.

There was other stuff he didn’t recognise. More modern. He didn’t doubt for one second, however, that it was just as expensive.The marble floor he was standing on, he reasoned, probably cost more than he’d earned in his life.

It was across this marble floor that Melissa Blake approached him. He could hear her heels clicking on the polished surface as she descended from the staircase ahead of him.

Doyle watched her approvingly. She had blond hair, just past her shoulders.

Deep-brown eyes. Finely chiselled features and cheek bones you could have cut cheese with. Doyle suppressed a smile. She was wearing a dark-grey jacket and trousers, and a crisply iaun-dered and almost dazzlingly white blouse, fastened to the neck. Early thirties, he guessed. She shook his hand.

‘I’m Melissa Blake,’ she said smiling. ‘My friends call me Mel.’

‘I’m Sean Doyle. I haven’t got any friends.’

She smiled even more broadly, revealing several hundred pounds’ worth of dental work and a previously unseen dimple.

She held his hand a moment longer then gently slid free of his grip.‘Mr Cartwright told me to expect you.’

‘What else did he tell you?’

‘What he felt was relevant. You used to be in the Counter Terrorist Unit, didn’t you?’

Doyle nodded. ‘What about you?’ he wanted to know. ‘How did you end up in this line of work? It’s not the kind of thing you usually find women doing, is it?’

‘You’d be surprised. The demand for women bodyguards has grown over the last four or five years. Some women clients feel more comfortable with another woman. I can earn more than most men.’

‘So what did you do before this?’

‘I was a policewoman. Undercover’

‘Why’d you leave?’

‘I got involved in a sexual harassment case. My boss tried it on once too often. I went to his superior and reported him but nothing happened. Next time he tried it, I broke his nose. He had me transferred, i resigned.’

Doyle shrugged. ‘Shit happens,’ he murmured.

She smiled again. It was a warm, infectious gesture.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll show you around.’ She led him towards the wide staircase at the end of the hallway.

Doyle felt his shoes sinking into the carpet as he climbed. ‘Where’s the Sheikh?’ he asked.

‘He’s out with my colleague, Joe Hendry. He should be back soon.’

‘What about his wife?’

‘She’s in her room. First thing to remember is that when you’re around them, you don’t speak unless

you’re spoken to. Most of the servants speak some English but they tend to keep themselves to themselves.’

‘How many are there?’

‘Twelve.’

‘Jesus, where do they all sleep?’

‘On the upper floors.The Sheikh and his family have the entire lower and first floor’

‘What about you and Hendry?’

‘We’ve got rooms on the second floor.’

She led him towards another flight of stairs, past more expensive paintings and sculptures.

‘Cartwright said he was paranoid about assassination,’ Doyle said. ‘Does he have reason to be?’

‘He’s worth over fifty million. They say his oil wells pump out the stuff at about sixty-four grand a second. I’d say that was reason enough, wouldn’t you?’

Doyle nodded.

‘He’s more worried about his son though,’ Mel continued. ‘Kidnapping.’

‘I didn’t know he had any kids.’

‘One boy. He’s eleven. Son and heir, that kind of thing. The Sheikh’s very big on that. That’s where you come in.’

Doyle looked surprised.

‘You travel with him to school every day,’ Mel said. ‘Make sure he gets there okay. Then you go and pick him up. Two of the Sheikh’s attendants will go with you.’

‘I didn’t know I was being hired as a fucking babysitter.’

She turned and looked at him.‘Watch your language, Doyle.You never know who’s listening.‘Again that infectious smile.

He nodded and exhaled wearily.‘Shit,’ he murmured, but under his breath.

BELFAST:

Declan Leary couldn’t remember how many pubs he’d been in since arriving in Belfast two hours earlier. Five. Six. More?

He’d drunk pints in the first two then switched to still mineral water with ice. To anyone who cared to look, he might just as easily have been drinking vodka.

He knew that what he was doing wasn’t exactly an ideal method of finding the killers of his brother but, at the moment, it was all he had.

He sat at bars and listened to conversations while he gazed blankly at his paper. He sat in booths and tried to pick up names, sometimes whispered.

Anything that might point him in the right direction.

He moved around the Woodvale and Shankill areas without detection. A Catholic

looked no different to a Protestant, he reasoned. They were all supposed to be human beings, divided merely by religion and beliefs.

That was the way it should have been. But it was not the case. It hadn’t been for over four hundred years and, as far as men like Declan Leary were concerned, it would continue like this for another four hundred.

Despite the promises of the Good Friday Agreement, Catholics and Protestants, for the most part, still kept themselves to themselves. Proddies stayed away from the Ardoyne and Turf Lodge, just as his kind kept out of Woodvale and the Shankill.

Except tonight.

Leary wondered what the mathematical probability was of bumping into one of his brother’s killers in these circumstances. He found it was best not to even consider the astronomical odds.

So, what are you going to do?

He sipped his mineral water and watched a group of men gathered around a pool table.

At the bar there was a television set perched high above the optics. Those seated opposite were watching, barely able to hear because of the noise coming from the jukebox and the incessant chatter inside.

Any one of you bastards could have shot my brother.

He saw two young women enter.The first was wearing a white mini-dress and attracted many admiring glances. She tottered uncertainly on precipitous high heels. Her friend, dressed in imitation-leather trousers and a top barely capable of containing her large breasts, crossed to the bar and ordered some drinks.

Normally Leary might have paid them more attention but tonight his mind was elsewhere.

He got up and moved towards the dartboard, sitting down at an empty seat, watching the two men engrossed in their game. When one scored a bullseye, Leary clapped and raised his glass in salute.

The man looked at him and managed a smile. ‘Do I know you?’ he said.

Leary shook his head. I was just admiring a good shot,’ he commented, his voice slightly slurred.

Part of the deception.

‘Here’s to a good shot,’ he said and raised his glass. ‘As good as the ones that killed those five Fenian bastards the other day.’

The two players looked at each other then continued their game.

Leary watched the darts thudding into the board.

‘Bang, bang, bang,’ he chuckled. ‘As easy as shooting Catholics, eh?’

‘What the hell are you going on about?’ said the first man, retrieving his darts.

‘It’s a pity there isn’t a fucking Catholic standing in front of that board.

That’d be one more out of the way.’ He raised his glass again.

The two men carried on playing.

‘Can I buy you a drink?’ Leary persisted. To celebrate what happened to those fuckers the other day.’

‘Just leave it, will you?’ the second man said, taking a sip of his beer.

‘What’s the matter?’ Leary wanted to know. ‘Five IRA men were shot. If that isn’t cause for celebration, I don’t know what is.’

‘You’re drunk,’ said the first man, throwing his darts once more.

That I am. But then do you blame me? Five more of those bastards wiped out is worth getting drunk for, don’t you think?’

‘I think you’ve had one too many,’ said the second man.

‘Fuck it,’ Leary burbled. He got to his feet and raised his glass.

‘God save the Queen and God save the UVF,’ he called loudly.

The two players looked at each other. A number of other heads turned in Leary’s direction.

‘Will anyone else join me in a toast?’ Leary shouted. ‘I’ll buy anyone in here a drink if they’ll celebrate the shooting of those fucking Fenian bastards with me.’

There were murmurs from all corners of the bar.

Leary lurched towards the two women who both giggled as he approached.

‘What about you two young ladies,’ he slurred.‘You’ll have a drink with me to toast the UVF, won’t you?’ He thrust himself close to the one in the white dress.

‘Lay off, will you?’ said the barman, his face set in hard lines.

Leary raised his glass but stumbled against a nearby bar stool and spilled some of the contents on the girl with the large breasts.

‘Fuck off,’ she spat.

‘Sorry,’ said Leary, trying to wipe the water off, squeezing the girl’s breast as he did so.

‘I said fuck off,’ snarled the girl, stepping backwards.

‘Right, get out now,’ said the barman.

Leary looked at him.

Do it

‘Ah,fuck you then,’ he grunted and stumbled towards the door. When he reached it he paused and looked at the sea of faces gazing at him. ‘God bless the UVF,’ he shouted.

He crashed out into the street, sucking in a deep breath.

Shit No takers.

He set off down the street, glancing behind him.

No one emerged from the pub.

Leary walked on. Past boarded-up shops. Past a cat that was clawing at a bulging, black rubbish bag, pulling the rubbish out and scattering it across the pavement.

Past a giant mural on the side of a house with the caption beneath that read: William III crossing the

BOYNE.

Orange bastard.

There was more graffiti: no surrender. It was faded. As though someone had tried to wash it off.

Leary wondered how far it was to the next pub. He was still wondering when the car pulled up beside him. He slid one hand into his jacket pocket, his fingers closing around the flick knife.

There was one man in the car. He leaned over and pushed the passenger door open, gesturing to Leary. ‘Get in,’ he said.

“Why?” Leary wanted to know.

‘I heard what you were saying back there. I hear you’ve been saying the same thing all over Belfast. Word gets around. I want to talk to you.’

‘About what?’

‘Just get in,’ the driver insisted.

‘Fuck off.’

Leary saw the gun pointing at him.

‘I won’t say it again,’ rasped Ivor Best.

Leary looked at the gaping barrel of the .38 for a second longer then took a step towards the car. Thoughts tumbled through his mind.

Who was this bastard?

Had his rant inside the last pub brought this newcomer to him?

‘Listen,’ Leary said, his voice more even.‘What I said back there—’

‘Get in the fucking car,’ Ivor Best snapped, waving the revolver towards the passenger seat.

What if he’s one of your own? There’d be an irony, wouldn’t there? Looking for Proddies to kill and ending up shot by one of your own.

Leary moved closer to the car.

He’s not going to shoot you in the street is he?

Leary touched the flick knife once more then slid into the passenger seat and shut the door behind him.

Best slid the gun into his pocket and guided the car away from the kerb.

Leary relaxed slightly and looked at the older man.

‘Keep your eyes ahead,’ Best told him as he drove. ‘Just listen to me.’

The car smelt of fast food. Leary saw a McDonald’s wrapper on the floor.

‘What you were saying back there in the pub about those IRA men being killed, did you mean it?’ Best asked.

Careful.

‘A man’s entitled to an opinion, isn’t he?’ Leary said.

‘He is that. But some opinions are best kept to yourself.’

They drove in silence for a moment.

Leary had no idea where he was or where he was being taken.

Just be ready when he stops the car. You can use the knife before he reaches the gun if you have to.

‘What’s your name?’ Best asked.

The lie was ready. ‘Keith Levine,’ Leary told him. ‘What about you?’

‘My name’s not important now. I want to know if you meant what you said back there in the pub. About the UVF. Being happy that they killed five of the IRA.’

‘I meant it. As far as I’m concerned there’s still a war going on.’

Best smiled. ‘A man after me own heart,’ he said, glancing at Leary.

The younger man studied his companion’s features.

You’re a fucking Proddie all right.

‘People are scared to say what they think any more,’ Best continued.‘Even more afraid to do anything about it.’ Again he looked at Leary. ‘Are you prepared to do something, Keith? To back up your opinions?’

Leary regarded him warily. ‘What kind of thing?’ he asked.

‘You tell me. How far would you go to support your opinions? Or are you just all mouth like so many of the others? They say what they’d do but when the time comes, they haven’t got the balls.’

Leary shrugged. ‘What kind of thing are you talking about?’ he persisted. Best stopped the car. ‘Get out,’ he said.

Leary looked puzzled.

‘Get out,’ Best snapped, more forcefully. He watched as the younger man pushed open the door and clambered out on to the pavement.

‘If you want to find out more then be here tomorrow night at eight,’ said Best. ‘If you’re not here then I’ll know you’re all talk.’

He reached across, slammed the passenger door shut and drove off.

Leary squinted in the gloom and picked out the registration number of the car.

‘Oh, I’ll see you again,’ he whispered as he watched the car disappear around a corner. ‘Count on that.’

SEEING IS BELIEVING

Ward wondered, briefly, if he might still be drunk Perhaps in some alcohol-induced haze he had imagined watching the finished pages fall from the printer. Maybe he had dreamt the entire bizarre episode.

Failing that, there had to be an electrical fault of some description with the machine. But, if that were the case, why were the pages pouring from the printer filled with words? Lucid, perfectly formed prose the like of which he would have typed himself.

What the hell was happening?

He stood frozen until the printer had finished, then advanced slowly towards the desk, scanning the pages that had been vomited forth with such frenzy.

Ward sat down and picked them up carefully, scanning each one.

No spelling errors. Everything in context. These, surely, were not the fumblings of some alcohol-fuelled episode.

So, what were they? Where had they come from?

He had no answers to his perplexing questions.

Ward numbered the pages and added them to the rest of the manuscript. He was breathing heavily as he did so, squinting myopically at the numbers. On more than one occasion, his vision blurred and he was forced to stop. The beginning of a headache was gnawing at the base of his skull.

He looked at the blank screen almost fearfully. Very slowly, he rested his fingers on the keyboard. And began to type.

LONDON:

Doyle watched the knife as it whipped back and forth with dizzying speed.The cuts were uniform.

One of the three chefs who cooked for Sheikh Karim El Roustam was aware of his gaze but acknowledged it with only an indifferent glance.

‘Mind your fingers,’ said Doyle quietly.

The man looked at him again and returned to chopping shallots.

Doyle wandered out of the kitchen and ‘towards one of the sumptuous reception rooms on the first floor. It smelt of air freshener and polish. The whole house smelt the same. As if the moment anyone touched anything, one of the hordes of cleaners descended to remove any trace of human contact.

He stood looking at one of the paintings that hung above the ornate marble fireplace then crossed to the window that looked out over Upper Brook Street.

Down below Joe Hendry was running a doth over the windscreen of the Daimler, wiping away some of the rain that had fallen during the night, ensuring that he didn’t get his navy suit wet.

Hendry was thirty-seven. A tall, broad-shouldered man with close-cropped dark hair and bags beneath his eyes.

Over the years Doyle had convinced himself that he could perceive a person’s character within thirty seconds of meeting them. Instinct, he maintained, was as important as his ability with weapons.Those instincts had rarely been wrong.

With men he looked for the strength of their handshakes. Whether they held his gaze when they spoke to him.

Hendry had met both these criteria. He also had a good sense of humour and, another plus in Doyle’s book, he didn’t talk too much.

‘Nothing better to do?’

The voice caused him to turn.

Melissa Blake was standing in the doorway of the reception room dressed in another of the dark suits she seemed to favour.

‘Sorry, was I neglecting my newly found duties?’ Doyle asked.

‘Prince Hassim is ready for school,’ Mel smiled.

Doyle nodded and followed her down the stairs to the hall where the boy stood obediently, flanked by two servants. Both were big men with swarthy features.

One, Doyle noticed, had a deep scar on his left cheek.

The boy was dressed in his dark-blue school uniform, a brown leather satchel slung over one shoulder. He eyed Doyle as he descended the stairs then made his way outside.

‘Set?’ said Doyle, glancing up and down the street.

Hendry nodded and slid behind the steering wheel of the Daimler.

Doyle motioned towards the two servants and they walked out on either side of the boy who walked towards the rear door of the vehicle then stood still.

‘Open the door,’ he said, looking up at Doyle.

His accent was faultless. It should be, Doyle reasoned, it was an eight grand a term accent.

The former counter terrorist looked down at the boy.

I said, open the door,’ Hassim repeated. ‘Now, you fool.’

Doyle clenched his teeth and did as he was instructed.

The boy smiled and climbed in.

Little shit Eleven years old. Want to see twelve, you little bastard?

Doyle clambered into the passenger seat while the two servants arranged themselves in the back of the Daimler, one on either side of Hassim.

‘Let’s go,’ said Doyle.

The Daimler moved out into the traffic.

The trip to Beauchamp Place took less than twenty minutes.

Hendry brought the Daimler to a halt ten or twelve yards from the main gate of the school and looked in the rear-view mirror at Hassim and the two servants.

One of them, the man with the scar, made to scramble out of the vehicle but Hassim held up a hand.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Let him do it.’ He jabbed a finger into Doyle’s back.‘Open the

door for me,’ the boy insisted.

The knot of muscles at the side of Doyle’s jaw throbbed furiously but he swung himself out of the car and opened the rear door.

The boy slid out and, once more, looked up at Doyle with that supercilious grin on his face. He waited a moment longer then walked towards the gate of the school where several other children of all races and nationalities were gathered in front of a matronly looking teacher. , Doyle could see other cars parked around the entrance. Rollers. Jags. Land Rovers.

None of these little fuckers had to worry about waiting for buses, he mused.

He climbed back into the car and exhaled deeply. ‘Fucking kid,’ he murmured under his breath.

‘Fancy a coffee?’ said Hendry, barely able to suppress a smile.

I was hoping for something stronger,’ Doyle said, through clenched teeth.

‘We go back now,’ said one of the servants from the back seat.

‘No,’ said Doyle. ‘Old English tradition. Bodyguards drink coffee. You sit in the car.’

Doyle shook his head almost imperceptibly.

Hendry chuckled.

BLOCK

Four lousy pages. Ward looked at his watch. It had taken him three hours to write four pages.

Why not the outpouring of the previous night? Why not thirty pages?

He sat back and gazed at what he’d written.

A thought came unwanted into his mind. He was working on a book that no one wanted. Slaving over words that nobody would read. What was the point?

He placed both elbows on the desk and sat staring at the paper before him.

A book no one wanted to publish. The words hit him like fists. The realisation was as painful as a kick in the ribs.

He stood up and stepped away from the desk, leaving the keyboard and monitor switched on. It was 4.17 p.m.

A GATHERING STORM

The first rumble of thunder was so loud it woke Ward. He rolled over in bed and opened his eyes, looking towards the window in time to see the sky illuminated by the cold, white glow of a lightning flash.

It was followed immediately by another. A great fork that rent the clouds and stabbed towards the earth like a highly charged spear.

The thunder came again. A volley of cannon fire across the landscape.

He sat up, watching the celestial fireworks with the fascination of a child.

It had been a humid, unsettled day but there had been no hint of the ferocity of the storm that was now raging. Rain hammered against the window so hard it threatened to crack the glass.

For long moments Ward lay on his back staring at the ceiling, then he finally swung himself out of bed and crossed to the window.

He looked out at the storm, stunned by its power. The lightning was tearing across the sky with ferocious regularity, illuminating everything by cold, white light.

Ward saw something moving at the bottom of his garden. A dark shape. A large, four-legged shape that

carried all its weight on its front two limbs. He blinked. The shape was still there. Then he saw another close by. A third near the door of the office.

Cats? Dogs? Too big for either. Just like the other night.

Was this a dream? Some bizarre hallucination?

The .shapes were moving. They darted about the garden with almost obscene grace, moving effortlessly.

Ward swallowed hard.

The lightning stopped. The garden was plunged into darkness once more. He cursed under his breath, wanting the light. Wanting to see those three shapes once more.

There was another flash of lightning. In the momentary glare, Ward saw them

again. They had gathered together close to the door of the office.

He cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed his face close to the glass.

Through the blackness he could see six yellowish points of light. Their eyes?

They were motionless now. Ward felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as he realised they were looking at him.

The lightning flashed again quickly, like a manic strobe, then faded. The darkness returned.

He continued peering in the direction of the office.

More lightning. No shapes. No strange visions. Only darkness and driving rain.

Thunder rumbled menacingly.

Ward moved back from the window and sat on the edge of the bed. He glanced down at his clothes, wondering whether he should pull on the jogging bottoms and sweatshirt and venture out to the garden. See if he was indeed losing his mind.

There could be little other explanation for what he had seen. He was going mad. End of story.

He smiled to himself, shook his head and climbed back between the sheets.

The storm continued to rage. It was still roaring an-hour later when he drifted off to sleep.

WARNINGS

It was still dark when he woke. He felt something wet running down his face and sat up, wiping it away. His hair was drenched. So were his sheets. The dream must have been bad. The bed was sodden.

He held out one hand and saw that it too was sheathed with moisture. It was also shaking.

As he swung himself out of bed he stepped on his clothes. Both his jogging bottoms and his sweatshirt were soaking wet. As if he’d been standing, uncovered, in pouring rain.

The cafe in Sloane Street had only been open half an hour. Doyle went inside and ordered two coffees while Hendry parked the Daimler then followed him in.

The driver was constantly looking out at the vehicle. Doyle sat across from him, facing the door. He sipped his coffee and took a bite from his croissant.

‘Haven’t they got any sandwiches?’ he said, looking disapprovingly at the pastry.

They’re not cut yet,’ Hendry said.

‘Waiting for the fucking organic baker to arrive, are they?’

Hendry smiled then looked, once again, at the Daimler.

‘Nobody’s going to nick it, Joe,’ Doyle said smiling. ‘Not with those two twats in it.’ He nodded in the direction of the servants who gazed out agitatedly from the back seat.

Hendry nodded and smiled. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said.

‘Anyway, even if they did, the Sheikh could run to a new one, couldn’t he?’ He lifted his coffee cup in salute. ‘Cheers.’

Hendry chuckled and imitated the gesture.

They sat in silence for a moment then the driver spoke. ‘Force of habit, is it?’

Doyle looked puzzled.

‘Sitting facing the door?’ Hendry elaborated.

‘You could say that. Old habits die hard.’

‘Why did you leave the CTU?’

‘I didn’t volunteer, I was invited. Didn’t you know?’

‘No one said anything to me but then, why should they? It’s none of my business.’

‘Does Mel know I was thrown out?’

‘if she does she hasn’t said.’

‘What’s the SP with her? Married? Boyfriend? You and her?’

Hendry grinned. ‘Not a chance,’ he said. ‘We’ve worked together before but that’s it. I don’t know much about her background, except what she’s told me, but I do know she’s not attached. Why? You interested?’

‘just asking. I’m curious by nature.’

‘Another old habit?’

Doyle sipped his coffee and nodded.‘So what about you?’ he asked.‘How did you get into this line of work?’

‘I’ve always been in the security game. Music business mostly. I used to look after AC/DC, Judas Priest, Iron Maiden.’

‘My kind of music’

‘And George Michael.’

‘Not much fucking difference,’ Doyle snorted.‘What made you give it up?’

‘I got sick of the travelling. Three hundred days a year on the road, it wears you down after a bit. It’s great when you’re a kid starting out but after a while

it gets on your tits. It got me used to dealing with egos though. I had a spell as a chauffeur too.’

‘Married?’

‘No. What about you?’

Doyle shook his head. ‘It’s not for me,’ he said.

‘I’d like to get married and have kids one day. Run my own business, like Cartwright does.’

‘He seems a decent enough guy.’

‘He is. It’s a good firm to work for. You were lucky he took you on.’

‘I didn’t feel very lucky this morning. That fucking kid …’ He allowed the sentence to trail off.

‘He’s testing you. He did it to me when we first started working for the Sheikh. Little bastard took off a five-grand Rolex, dropped it in a dustbin and said I could have it if I fished it out of the rubbish.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I told him I already had a watch.’

Doyle smiled.

‘He knows he’s got the power and he likes to use it,’ Hendry continued. He looked at his watch. ‘We’d better make a move,’ he said.

‘Fuck it, let’s have another coffee.’

‘Didn’t Mel tell you? We’ve got another job this morning. The Sheikh’s wife wants to go shopping at Harrods. If we’re lucky we get to carry her bags.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Doyle sighed.

‘Come on, it could be worse,’ said Hendry getting to his feet.

‘How could it be worse?’ Doyle called after him.

The driver was already outside.

BELFAST:

Declan Leary took a final drag on his cigarette and looked again at the building before him.

Number 134 Tennent Street was one of the three RUC stations in the city that housed members of the law enforcement agency’s ‘D’ Division. The divisional headquarters was in the Antrim Road. Another sub-divisional station, like this one in Tennent Street, was located in Antrim itself, close to the banks of Lough Neagh.

A, B and E Divisions were served by divisional headquarters in Musgrave Street, Grosvenor Road and Strandtown. Each of those also had at least two sub-divisional headquarters buildings.

Like anyone fucking cares.

Leary ground out the cigarette beneath his foot and walked up the ramp that led into the main reception area of the building.

He had mixed feelings. Part of him felt uneasy. He knew he was taking a risk (albeit a necessary one) but he also felt a pleasurable frisson from the knowledge that he was in the very jaws of his enemies and, as far as he knew, none of the uniformed men moving officiously around the building were aware of who he was.

Were they?

He moved towards the counter and nodded affably at the duty sergeant busily scribbling on a sheet of paper.

‘Morning,’ said Leary.

‘Good morning, sir,’ replied the sergeant. ‘If you can just give me a minute, I’ll be with you.’

Leary nodded and continued glancing around him.

‘Right,’ said the sergeant finally. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

‘I want to report a stolen car,’ Leary lied.

The sergeant sighed and rummaged around for the necessary forms. One of which he handed to Leary.

‘If you could fill that out please, sir.’

‘Is that it? Fill a form in and hope for the best?’

‘Sir, there were over three hundred instances of car theft reported at this police station alone last year. If you multiply that by the number of other stations in the city, you’re looking at over five thousand vehicles a year.’

‘So you’re telling me I’m not going to get my car back?’

‘I’d be lying if I said it was likely, sir.’

‘Could you not run it through your computer or something? It was only taken last night.’

‘Sir—’

‘If I give you the details, can’t you just have a look? There were needles and insulin and Christ knows what else in there. You know, for medical use.’

He looked hopefully at the sergeant.

‘Well, that does make it a slightly different matter, sir. Could I have the make and registration number of the car, please.’

Leary gave them to him. Even down to the colour.

The sergeant’s fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard. He hit the return key and glanced at the screen.

‘And your name, sir?’

‘Dermot Mallen,’ Leary lied.

The sergeant frowned. ‘The car you’ve described is registered to a Mr Ivor Best. Not Dermot Mallen.‘The uniformed man regarded him with narrowed eyes.

‘I know,’ Leary said unfazed.‘He’s my brother-in-law. That’s why I need to get the car back as quickly as possible. He leant me the bloody thing. He’ll be after going crazy when he finds out it’s been stolen.’

‘Who’s the diabetic? Yourself or your brother-in-law?’

‘What difference does it make?’

‘You said the car was full of syringes. They could be taken and used for drugs and—’

Leary cut him short.‘Oh, right, sure. It’s my brother-in-law. He keeps them in the glove compartment. In case of emergency.’

‘You’ll have to fill out the form, sir,’ the sergeant said, preparing to press the delete key.

‘Have you got a pen there?’ Leary asked.

The sergeant nodded and ducked down.

As he did, Leary looked at the screen. There was no address listed beneath the name.

Shit.

The sergeant re-emerged from beneath the counter and handed Leary a Bic.

‘Actually, I’ll take this form home and fill it in,’ Leary said as the details disappeared from the screen. Thanks all the same.’

The sergeant nodded.

Leary turned and headed towards the exit. When he got out on to the street he balled up the form and threw it to the ground. He reached for his cigarettes and lit one.

‘Ivor Best,’ he said under his breath. ‘Time you and I had a chat.’

He turned and headed off down the street.

Declan Leary looked at his watch and ducked back into the phone box.

Five minutes to eight.

The light inside the box was broken, making it difficult to see the features of anyone inside. That suited Leary.

He’d been there for the last ten minutes, the phone pressed between his ear and shoulder so as not to look suspicious to anyone walking past.

Leary watched the corner of the street, waiting for the arrival of the car he was sure would come.

After leaving the police station earlier that day, he’d spent some time in the library scouring the Belfast phone book for Ivor Best. He hadn’t been surprised to find that there were over three hundred entries under that name.

Leary had eventually given it up as a bad job. If Best wanted to talk to him then he’d turn up on the street corner as promised.

Why hunt your prey when it was willing to come to you?

If, indeed, Best was one of the men he sought. Whatever happened, he intended to find out.

He slid his hand into his jacket pocket, his fingers brushing against the flick knife. Beneath his left arm,

tucked snugly into a shoulder holster, was the Clock 17 automatic. The pliers were in his other pocket.

Leary chewed on a matchstick, his eyes ever alert for signs of movement.

When he finally saw the car he remained motionless.

Bang on eight

Ivor Best cruised slowly down the road, turned the vehicle at the far end then guided it back up towards the corner of the street opposite where Leary hid.

There was someone else in the car with him.

If you’re going to do this, you’re going to have to do it quickly.

The car was slowing down. Leary could see Best and his companion peering to the left and right, the second man gesticulating.

Leary leaned on the phone-box door and it opened slightly. The car was less than ten yards from him. He eased the Glock from the shoulder holster and took a step out on to the pavement.

Best brought the car to a stop and revved the engine once.

Leary ran across to the vehicle and tapped on the passenger-side window.

Jeffrey Kelly looked around at him.

Ivor Best smiled and nodded. ‘Get in the back,’ he called, motioning to the rear door.

Leary did as he was instructed.

‘Nice to see you again, Mr Best,’ said Leary smiling.

‘How the fuck do you know my name?’ Best began. Then he saw the gun.

Leary pressed it to the back of Kelly’s skull. ‘Just drive or I’ll blow his fucking head off,’ he hissed.

‘He’s bluffing,’ Best said, seeing the look of horror on his companion’s face.

‘Am I?’ Leary challenged, thumbing back the hammer of the 9mm.

‘Who are you?’ Best wanted to know.

‘Drive. I’ll introduce myself,’ Leary snapped.

So, who the fuck are you?’ Ivor Best glanced into the rear-view mirror and caught sight of Leary again. The young Irishman was still sitting with the Glock pressed to the base of Jeffrey Kelly’s skull.

‘RUC?’ Best murmured. ‘SAS?’

‘What the fuck would the SAS want with you, you Proddie bastard?’

‘What do you want?’ Kelly asked, trying to keep his voice even.

‘Information,’ Leary said.

‘About what?’

‘Why did you pick me up last night after I left that pub?’ Leary wanted to know.

Best regarded him in the mirror again but said nothing.

‘Why were you there again tonight? You knew I’d show up, didn’t you?’ Leary continued.

‘I was interested in what you had to say,’ Best replied.

‘About the UVF? Why?’

Another heavy silence filled the car.

‘Why were you so fucking interested in what I had to say about the UVF?’ Leary repeated.

Best watched the road ahead. There was a junction coming up. Perhaps if he turned the car sharply enough he could cause his new passenger to

overbalance.Then he could reach over and grab the gun.

Maybe.

‘How did you know my name?’ Best wanted to know.

‘Research,’ Leary grinned.

‘You’re not RUC, are you?’ Best said. ‘You wouldn’t have to use plain clothes.’

‘So if I’m not RUC and I’m not with the fucking SAS, you work it out.’

‘Fenian,’ said Best and it was more a statement than a question.

‘Maybe. Now I want to know what you know about the UVF.’

Another silence.

‘I’m going to count to five,’ Leary said, ‘then, I’m going to spread your friend’s brains all over that fucking windscreen. Understand? One …’

Kelly tried to turn his head slightly.

Two,’ Leary continued.

Best saw a set of traffic lights up ahead. They were on amber.

Three.’

Hit the brakes hard.

‘Four.’

‘All right,’ said Best irritably.

‘What do you know about the UVF?’ Leary said. ‘And I mean you.’

‘We know as much about them as the next man,’ said Kelly, swallowing hard. He could feel the barrel of the automatic against his flesh.

‘You know who they are, don’t you?’ snapped Leary. ‘Every Proddie in this city knows who belongs with them.’

‘Like every Catholic knows who’s in the fucking IRA,’ grunted Best.

‘You know them, don’t you?’ Leary insisted. ‘You know the men I’m looking for.’

‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,’ Best sneered dismissiveiy.

Leary fired once.The noise inside the car was incredible. For fleeting seconds, Best and Leary both felt as if someone had ignited a charge inside their ears. The sound filled the space.

The bullet exploded from the barrel of the Glock, tore its way through the base of Kelly’s skull then travelled upwards. It ripped through the soft tissue of his brain and erupted from his forehead just above his left eye, carrying a reeking flux of pulverised bone, blood and macerated tissue with it. Most of it spattered the windscreen, some splashed Best. The bullet left an exit wound large enough for a man to push his fist through.

What was left of Kelly’s head slumped back against the seat.

The air was filled with the stench of cordite, blood and excrement as his body voided itself.

Best almost lost control of the car but he gripped the wheel and guided the vehicle on, his hands now shaking. His ears were throbbing from the massive roar. His retinas seared by the muzzle flash that had filled the car like the flame from a welder’s torch.

‘Has that helped your memory?’ Leary rasped. ‘I want to know what you know about the UVF. Now.’

Best was breathing heavily. Sucking in the stench. It was like a mobile charnel house.

‘Have you ever been approached by the UVF?’ Leary continued.‘Do you know anyone in the UVF?’

Best nodded.

Then fucking tell me,’ Leary snarled, pressing the barrel of the Glock to the driver’s head. ‘And do it before you end up like your friend.’

You hear things,’ said Best, his voice cracking slightly. ‘You know how it is.’

Tell me.’

‘People mouthing off. Rumours. You never know if they’re true or not. Someone says they know someone who knows someone who’s in the movement.That kind of thing.’

‘Was he in the UVF?’ Leary asked, nodding towards the corpse.

The coppery odour of Kelly’s blood was growing stronger.

Best nodded.

‘What about you?’ Leary continued. ‘You are too, aren’t you?’

No answer.

‘You wouldn’t have followed me last night otherwise. You thought you had a new recruit on your hands, didn’t you? That was why you wanted to meet me again tonight. To see if what I said yesterday was bullshit.’ He smiled. ‘Well, now you know it is.’

Best continued driving, occasionally glancing at the glove compartment.

Wondering if there was any way he would be able to reach the .38 Smith and Wesson

revolver that was hidden in there.

‘So, what are you?’ he said finally. ‘Fucking IRA or what?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Not really. You’re all the same. Murdering Fenian bastards.’

‘Murderers is it? What was done to those five IRA men last week, doesn’t that count as murder? You know the ones I mean?’

Best nodded almost imperceptibly.

‘Did you know anything about that?’ Leary wanted to know.

Best shook his head.

‘Lying bastard,’ snapped Leary. ‘Who killed them?’

‘Do you know what every member of your organisation is up to twenty-four hours a fucking day?’

‘I just want to know if it was the UVF that killed them.’

‘And what? If I tell you, you’ll let me go?’

‘Was it the UVF?’

‘Yes it was, and I’m glad it was.’

‘How did they know where that minibus was going to be? There were a dozen different routes it could have taken from Maghaberry to the border. Who had access to that kind of information?’

‘It’s fuck-all to do with me.’

‘Just a soldier then, are you? Just do what you’re told?’

No answer.

‘Who told you to ambush that fucking minibus and kill all the men on it?’

Leary snapped.

Best gritted his teeth.

‘Who’s your section commander?’ Leary persisted, pressing the gun harder against Best’s cheek.

‘If you kill me, the car’ll crash. We’ll both die,’ Best said.

‘Stop the car. Now.’

Best continued driving.

‘You heard me,’ hissed Leary. ‘Stop the fucking car’ He smacked the barrel of the Glock into Best’s temple. Powerfully enough to hurt him but not so violently as to make him lose control.

He stepped on the brake and looked round at Leary.

‘How many men took part in the ambush?’ the younger man demanded.

‘Four.’

‘Including you and him?’ said Leary, nodding in the direction of the bullet-blasted body of Kelly.

Best nodded.

‘Give me the names of the other two.’

‘Fuck you,’ Best snarled.

Leary struck him hard across the face with the Glock. The impact loosened two of his front teeth and burst his bottom lip. Blood ran down his chin.

Leary reached across the front seat and grabbed Best by the hair, hauiing him upright. He pulled the flick knife from his pocket and freed the blade.

With surprising gentleness, he pressed the needle-sharp point against Best’s left lower eyelid.

The names of the other two men,’ he hissed. ‘Or I’ll take your fucking eyes out, one by one.’

Best was breathing heavily now, his tongue occasionally flicking across his split lip to lick at the red stream flowing from the cut.

Their names,’ Leary snarled, pressing harder with the knife point. ‘You think either of them would give a fuck about saving you if they were in this position?’

‘I can’t tell you. They—’

Leary pushed the knife forward. The point sliced through the soft flesh of Best’s eyelid with ease then parted muscle and punctured the base of the eyeball itself. Blood and vitreous fluid spurted from the socket.

Best shrieked in agony and tried to escape the probing steel.

Leary held the weapon with remarkable dexterity and expertise.

As yet less than an inch of the blade had penetrated the lower part of the socket.

Tell me,’ Leary said more loudly.‘Another two inches and your fucking eye is out.’

‘No,’ screamed Best.

‘Their names.’

‘George Mcswain and Daniel Kane,’ Best shouted frantically. ‘For God’s sake—’

Leary struck swiftly.

He drove the knife deep into the left eye, putting all his force behind it.

Tore it free and did the same with the right orb.

Both blows penetrated to the brain.

Best’s head slammed back against the side window with each impact, the shrieks of agony dying in his throat.

Leary pressed the Glock to the man’s temple and fired once.

He waited a moment then clambered out of the car, checking that none of the blood and pieces of brain matter had sprayed his clothes.

They hadn’t.

He slid the Glock back into its shoulder holster then wiped the blade of the flick knife on his handkerchief, closed it and dropped it back into his jacket pocket. He turned and headed back down the street.

It was beginning to rain.

LONDON:

This is bullshit.’ Doyle stared angrily at Melissa Blake.

‘It’s the job,’ she told him sternly.

He sucked in a deep breath.

‘Prince Hassim has requested that you guard his room tonight,’ Mel continued.

‘He’s doing this on purpose, the little bastard.’

‘It doesn’t matter why he’s doing it, Doyle. If that’s what he wants, that’s what he gets. Like I said, it’s the job. If you don’t like it you know what you can do.’

Thanks.’

She could only shrug.

‘Where’s the little prick now?’ Doyle wanted to know.

‘He’s upstairs in his room.’

‘Hendry said the little shit was testing me,’ Doyle mused. ‘It looks like he was right.’

‘Perhaps he just likes having you around,’ Mel smiled.

‘Yeah, Mr Popularity, that’s me. Is there anybody with him?’

‘One of the servants.’

Doyle glanced at his watch. 8.30 p.m.

He made his way towards the flight of stairs that led to the first floor.

‘I’ll bring you some food and drink about ten,’ Mel told him.

‘I’ll look forward to it,’ Doyle called without turning round.

He turned left at the top of the stairs and made his way past several oak-panelled doors until he reached the one he sought. A single wooden chair had already been placed outside it. One of the Sheikh’s servants was standing opposite the door. He regarded Doyle warily as he approached.

‘You stay here tonight,’ said the Arab.‘Guard Prince.’

Doyle nodded. ‘Why can’t you do it?’ the former agent wanted to know.

‘Prince ask for you.’

The door opened and Doyle saw the boy standing there. He looked Doyle up and down. ‘You will bow in my presence,’ he said quietly.

Doyle glared at the boy.

Don’t push it, you little bastard. I might need a job but not that fucking bad.

‘Bow,’ Hassim repeated.

Doyle nodded his head swiftly.

‘Come inside,’ the boy said in his perfect English accent.

Doyle hesitated for a second then stepped into the boy’s bedroom. It was vast and high ceilinged.The floor was covered in plush carpet. Doyle saw a stack system and a DVD player. Every electrical appliance imaginable. The television was on in the corner of the room,

so too was the computer, its screen flickering. There was a large bed, several upholstered chairs and a chaise longue.

‘These are only some of the things I have,’ Hassim told him.

‘Great,’ said Doyle uninterestedly.

‘My father is a very rich man.’

‘I gathered that.’

‘He is very powerful. I will be even more powerful when I am older. I have power already. The servants in this house must do whatever I wish.’

Doyle merely held the boy’s gaze.

‘You must do whatever I wish,’ Hassim continued.

‘That’s not strictly true. Your father owns the servants. He doesn’t own me.

He just employs me. If I want to walk away I can.’

‘You would not dare.’

‘Wouldn’t I?’

There was a moment’s silence, broken by Hassim. ‘I will show you how much power I have,’ said the boy. He called something in Arabic. The words sounded harsh.

The servant who had been outside stepped into the room and bowed in the direction of the Prince. The boy snapped something else and the man stood in the middle of the room, arms at his sides.

Doyle looked on silently as Hassim crossed to his bedside table and slid open one of the drawers.

‘Do you know what real power is?’ Hassim said, his back to Doyle.

The former counter terrorist said nothing.

‘I will show you,’ said the boy.

Doyle could see that he had something gripped in one hand.

Only as he drew closer could he see that it was a Stanley knife.

PROGRESS

Twenty-two pages. Ward counted them, numbered them and placed them with the rest of the manuscript. He moved like a man in a trance, touching the pages almost warily, carefully scanning the words on each one.

Then he sat and gazed at the blank screen. And the keyboard. And the box of white Conqueror paper that fed the printer.

The top sheet was slightly discoloured. Crinkled at the bottom, like parchment. Ward picked it up and rubbed it gently between his thumb and forefinger. He gently folded it then dropped it into the waste bin beside his desk.

The bin needed emptying.There were pieces of paper, sweet wrappers and other discarded items spilling over the sides. Some of the rubbish even lay on the carpet around the bin. He looked down at the mess, realising that he should clear it up.

The waste bin near the sink was in the same state. Tidiness was not one of Ward’s strong points.

Neither, it seemed, was memory. He could not recall having come to the office the previous night. Could not remember sitting and writing another twenty-two pages of his book. In fact, he had little recollection of much of what he’d produced during the past month.

Drink destroyed memory cells. Depression also interfered with the brain’s recollective processes.

He looked at the manuscript, now swollen to almost three hundred pages. Was it possible he could have forgotten so much? If not, what was happening?

He ran a hand over cheeks that needed the attentions of a razor blade and gazed once again at the screen and the keyboard.

As he looked down at the squares and their letters and symbols he shook his head gently. He touched one of the keys and held it down.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Ward ran his fingertips over several others, feeling the outline of the symbols as if he were working on some kind of braille machine.

He sat back in his chair and exhaled deeply. He closed his eyes.

The phone rang.

Ward jumped in his seat and looked at the device as if it were some kind of venomous reptile, then he shot out a hand and picked it up.

‘Hello,’ he said.

Silence at the other end.

‘Hello,’ Ward repeated.

Still nothing.

‘You must have got the wrong number,’ he said and hung up.

He sat at the desk a moment longer then got to his feet, switched off the monitor and made his way out of

the office. As he paused to lock the door he looked down.

There were several deep furrows in the wood both at the bottom and around the handle.

They looked like scratch marks.

SEEKING OBLIVION

Ward slumped in the armchair with the bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one hand and a crystal tumbler in the other. He poured himself a large measure and drank it in one fierce swallow.

Another followed. Then a third.

He switched on the television and gazed blankly at the screen.

It was another hour before he dragged himself to his feet and wandered out to the hall. He picked up the phone and jabbed out a number. It rang and rang until an answerphone clicked on.

Ward pressed down on the cradle and searched the small notepad beside the phone for another number. He dialled that and waited.

When the robotic voice at the other end informed him he had reached the voicemail of that particular mobile phone he almost hung up again but, despite himself, he hung on. ‘Martin, it’s Chris Ward. Call me when you get the chance. It doesn’t matter what time it is.’

He hung up and returned to the sitting room. There was no telling what time his agent would ring back. If he did.

Ward poured himself another drink.

And waited.

WAITING GAME

It stayed light until well past nine o’clock. Ward finally got to his feet and drew his curtains at about 9.40.

A moment later the phone rang. Ward caught it on the fifth ring.

‘Hello, Martin?’ he said, expectantly.

‘Yes,’ Martin Connelly said. ‘Are you okay, Chris? I just got your message. I would have rung earlier but I’ve been out for a drink with—’

‘Just listen to me,’ Ward interrupted. ‘When was the last time we spoke on the phone?’

‘What?’

‘When was the last time we spoke on the phone? It’s a simple enough question, Martin.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘Today? Yesterday?’

‘I called you two days ago. We were talking about work and—’

‘But I haven’t called you? We haven’t spoken since then?’

‘What’s this about, Chris?’

‘I need to know.’

‘Are you pissed?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Listen, is everything all right?’

‘My career’s crumbling around my ears, my life’s being destroyed. Why shouldn’t everything be all right?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘No, Martin. I’m not sure I know anything any more.’

‘Listen, come down to London, we’ll have lunch. I’ll pay. I can’t say fairer than that, can I?’

‘Thanks for calling back,’ said Ward.

A STRANGE CALL

Ward sat in his large kitchen and ate the sandwich he’d made from three-day-old bread and ham that was perilously close to its sell-by date.

Music drifted from the compact sound system that stood on one worktop. Ward hardly heard it. He finished his sandwich and put the plate in the sink.

The phone rang. As he crossed the room to it he looked at his watch. 6.15 p.m.

Who the hell would be calling him at this time?

He picked up the receiver. ‘Hello,’ he said wearily.

‘Hi, Chris, it’s Jenny,’ said the voice at the other end of the line.

‘Jenny?’

For a moment he could not recall.

‘What time do you want me to come round tonight?’ she asked him.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You phoned and asked me to come to your house.’

‘What the fuck are you going on about?’

‘You rang …’

‘When?’

‘Earlier today.’

‘What time?’

‘I can’t remember exactly. Does it matter? You just didn’t say what time you wanted me—’

‘What time did I ring?’ he demanded.

‘I said, I don’t know.’

‘Morning, afternoon? When?’

‘It was this afternoon. Look, everything’s all right. I spoke to one ot the other girls and she said she’d come along. It’s going to cost you though. A hundred for me and the same for her. Her name’s Claire. She’s gorgeous. Long, dark hair, slim. She’s done this kind of thing before so—’

Again he cut her short. ‘What the fuck are you talking about? I didn’t ring you.’

He heard a deep sigh from Jenny.

‘All right, just tell me what time, will you?’ she said.

‘I don’t want you here tonight,’ he said.

‘But I’ve arranged it with Claire. I told her—’

He slammed the phone down. As he backed away, his heart was thudding hard against his ribs.

Ward turned and headed for the sitting room. He needed a drink.

NOWHERE TO RUN

Ward sat looking at the phone for what seemed an eternity.

Had he really called Jenny? Asked her to come to the house. And with another girl?

Making phone calls without being able to remember them. Writing lucidly and productively, then failing to recall doing so. What was this? Drunkenness?

Had he begun suffering from some kind of blackouts? But what manner of breakdown caused memory loss yet inspired creativity?

Ward shook his head as if to answer his own unspoken question. It was

impossible.

And yet it was happening.

He drained what was left in his glass and decided to go to bed. No matter how long he sat up pondering on his current dilemma, it wasn’t going to help.

He trudged through to the kitchen and took a couple of paracetamol. For fleeting seconds, he wondered about taking the whole bottle.

He drew the kitchen blinds slowly, peering out into the blackness of the garden. He looked towards the office. No silvery-grey light shining inside.

Nothing.

He pulled down the blind and turned to leave the room. As he did, he heard the scratching. Loud at first but then dying away rapidly.

It was coming from the back door.

Ward stood where he was as the sound came again. Then silence.

He took a step closer to the door. The handle moved slowly. Ward swallowed hard.

Someone was trying to break in.

He crossed to the kitchen drawer and slid out a large kitchen knife. It was serrated with a wickedly sharp point and fully twelve inches long.

The door handle moved slowly up and down as whoever was outside stealthily attempted to gain access. Ward wondered how long it would be before they tried a more forceful method. He crept closer to the door, his eyes riveted on the handle. It had stopped moving.

The scratching sound, however, had begun again. More insistent this time. It continued for a full five minutes.

In the silence that followed he stood motionless. Waiting. Wondering what he was going to do if someone did get inside.

Ten minutes later he was still standing there.

The scratching had not recommenced and the door handle had remained still.

He shook his head. Another hallucination?

Ward clutched the knife as he made his way out into the hall. He set the alarm and climbed the stairs, hurrying to his bedroom, anxious to see if he could detect any signs of movement from a higher vantage point.

The garden was deserted. He looked in the direction of the office and saw nothing.

For a full fifteen minutes, Ward stood at the window, the kitchen knife gripped in his fist.

Finally he laid the weapon on the other side of the bed, undressed and slipped between the sheets. He fell asleep with his fingers still touching the handle of the knife.

SWEET DREAMS

3.11 a.m. Ward woke with a start. He reached for the knife, his breath coming in gasps, the last vestiges of the nightmare fading. The images were gone as soon as he opened his eyes. He tried to remember the dream but couldn’t.

He put down the knife and tried to swallow but his throat was dry. He swung himself out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom where he spun the tap and scooped several gulps of water into his mouth.

Ward ran both hands through his hair and made his way back into the bedroom.

He stood beside the window for a moment, gazing out into the night. The silence was overwhelming. He leant forward, pressing his forehead against the cold glass.

Something smacked into the window with such force he thought it was going to shatter.

Ward stumbled backwards, his heart thundering in his chest. He looked up.

Pushing against the window was a.bird, its wings fluttering madly, its head flattened against the glass.

No, it wasn’t a bird. The wings were leathery. The face was flat and rodent-like.

A bat? It was too large. Jesus, it was much too large.

The fucking thing was the size of a hawk.

It hovered there for interminable seconds, its claws scratching at the pane.

Ward looked into its blood-red eyes and felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

There was crimson around its mouth. On its small, sharp teeth.

It finally wheeled away, disappearing into the blackness.

Ward sat down on the edge of the bed, his heart still pounding. He reached for the knife and found his hand was shaking. He got up again and drew the bedroom curtains shut.

Dawn seemed to be a long way off.

LIFE GOES ON

No marks on the back door. None on the office door.

Ward sat down at the keyboard, pressed the power button and watched the screen light up. He began to type.

Sit down.’ The boy spoke with an authority beyond his tender years.

‘No thanks, I’d rather stand,’ Doyle told him, his gaze moving alternately between the boy’s face and the glinting blade of the Stanley knife.

Hassim smiled and held the blade before him.

‘You will never understand true power because you will never have it,’ he said, looking at Doyle.‘I will show you what it is.’

He struck at the servant. The razor-sharp blade carved effortlessly through the material of the man’s jacket, exposing the material of his shirt beneath.

Hassim continued to smile.

The servant remained motionless, his eyes looking over Hassim’s head, as if he were studying the wall opposite.

‘Whatever I want, this man must do,’ said the boy. ‘I tell him to obey me and he does.’

He used the knife again. This time he cut through the servant’s shirt and into his flesh, just below the elbow. Blood burst from the deep cut and stained the material.

‘I tell him he must not move and he obeys,’ said Hassim.

He cut again. This time the blade hacked into the flesh and muscle just above the servant’s wrist. More blood began to flow, some of it running down his arm and dripping from his outstretched fingers.

Doyle took a step forward. ‘All right,’ he snapped. ‘That’s enough.’

Hassim rounded on him, his face suddenly contorted with rage.‘No,’ he hissed.‘l am the one with the power. I will decide when it is over.’

He cut the servant a third time. The wound was deep. It ran from just below the inside of the elbow to an inch or two above the wrist.

Doyle saw the servant sway slightly, his eyelids flickering. Blood was now pouring freely from the wounds. It splashed the expensive carpet beneath.

Hassim took a step back. ‘He will not move until I say,’ the Prince announced.

‘He belongs to me. He serves me.’

‘Because he has to,’ snarled Doyle.

‘Because he loves me and my family.’

Doyle took another look at the servant. His face was pale and there was a thin film of sweat on his skin. Another minute or two and he’d pass out.

‘You’ve made your point,’ Doyle said. ‘Now let me get him a doctor.’

‘I will decide when the time is right. You are only a servant like him. You do not tell me what to do.’

Little bastard. Sadistic, malevolent little bastard.

The servant wavered. Hassim barked something at him in Arabic and the man fought to regain his balance.

Struggled to remain upright before the boy.

Blood continued to stain the carpet.

Hassim held up the crimson-smeared blade and smiled. ‘My word is power,’ he said. ‘This knife is nothing compared to the one who uses it.’

Doyle glared at the boy.

The servant finally dropped to his knees. Hassim turned on him furiously. He swung the blade around and caught the man across the cheek, laying the flesh open to the bone. The boy snarled something else in Arabic and spat at the

hapless servant.

Doyle turned and headed for the door.

‘I did not give you permission to leave,’ Hassim called. ‘Stay where you are.’

‘Or what?’ Doyle said challengingly. ‘Do you think I’m going to stand still while you do to me what you just did to that poor sod?’

‘I will tell my father you disobeyed me.’

‘Tell him. What’s the worst he can do? Throw me out? Because if he does I’ll tell you something Your Highness.’ The last two words were spoken with distaste. ‘I’ll make sure that his worries about you are well-founded because ‘/ come after you. You want to see real power?’ He slid his hand inside his jacket and pulled out the Beretta 92F. He aimed it at the boy.

‘Now, you make one sound and I’ll stick this fucking thing down your throat and pull the trigger. I couldn’t give a flying fuck if your dad’s the richest man in the world or Sinbad the fucking Sailor. Do you understand?’

‘You dare to threaten me?’ Hassim said, his voice cracking.

Doyle nodded. ‘Fucking right,’ he hissed. ‘And you’d better get used to it. Do we understand each other?’

Hassim hesitated.

Doyle took a step closer, the barrel of the gun inches from the boy’s head.

‘Someone tried to break in,’ Doyle said quietly.‘l tried to protect you.

That’s what I’m here for. Shots were fired. You got in the way. What a tragedy. That’s what the police would hear and that’s what they’d believe.

Now, you wanted to test me. You’ve done that. Let’s call it quits and let me get that poor fucker a doctor.’

The servant was lying prone on the bloodied carpet, his life fluid still pumping into the thick, expensive pile.

Hassim swallowed hard.‘You would kill a child?’ he said softly.

Try me,’ Doyle told him.

‘What kind of man are you?’

Doyle laughed humourlessly.

Hassim put down the Stanley knife.

Doyle holstered the automatic. ‘What happened in here tonight,’ he said, ‘is between you and me.’

‘If my father found out about this he would have you killed,’ said the boy.

‘And that’s supposed to scare me, is it?’ Doyle snapped. ‘He’d be doing me a fucking favour. Now, are you going to keep your mouth shut or not?’

Hassim nodded.

Doyle turned towards the door.

‘Excuse me, Your Highness,’ he said quietly and stepped out into the corridor.

Hassim stood staring at the closed door. When he tried to move he found that his legs were shaking.

What the hell happened in there tonight?’ Doyle took a bite of his sandwich and raised his eyebrows.

Melissa Blake nodded in the direction of Prince Hassim’s room.

‘The kid showed me something,’ Doyle said. ‘I showed him something.’

‘What happened, Doyle? If you touched that boy …’

‘I never put a fucking hand on him. Ask him. You know if I had he’d have come screaming to his old man.’ He wiped some crumbs from his mouth. ‘How’s the servant?’

‘He needed twenty-six stitches and a couple of pints of blood,’ Mel said.‘He won’t say what happened either.’

‘Has the Sheikh asked?’

Mel shook her head.

‘He probably knows what that little bastard did anyway,’ Doyle mused.

Mel glanced at her watch. 2.11 a.m.The house was silent. The Sheikh and his family were sleeping, as were those servants not needed for night duty.

‘Do you want some company?’ Mel asked.

Doyle stood up and offered her the chair.

She smiled and shook her head.

He watched as she sat down on the floor next to him, slipped off her shoes and

drew her legs up beneath her.

‘How are you coping?’ she wanted to know.

‘With sitting on my arse outside the bedroom of some psychotic Arab kid?’

Doyle said. ‘I can think of better ways to spend my time.’

‘I meant with the job.’

‘Like the man said, it ain’t what it used to be, but it’ll do,’ he murmured.

‘We move tomorrow. All three of us. A new job. Cartwright phoned me earlier.’

‘What about the Sheikh?’

‘He’s going back to Saudi. His business here is finished.’

‘And us?’

‘Another client. You must have done okay, Doyle. I mean, Cartwright hasn’t sacked you.’

Doyle took another bite of his sandwich. ‘Who made this?’ he asked.

‘I did.’

‘You’re quite domesticated when you have to be, aren’t you?’

Mel smiled and shook her head. ‘Domesticity isn’t for me, Doyle,’ she told him.

‘Career woman?’

‘You could say that.’

‘What about boyfriends? There must have been one or two.’

‘I didn’t come up here to talk about my private life,’ she said a little warily.

‘Fair enough. I was just making conversation.’

‘Polite conversation?’

‘About as polite as I get.’

There was a moment’s silence between them finally broken by Mel.

‘Yes, there were boyfriends,’ she confessed.‘A couple long term but I’ve always been wary of getting too close to people. My parents were both killed in a plane crash when I was twelve. They were everything to me. I’ve always been frightened of getting close to anyone in case I lose them too. Does that sound crazy?’

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ he told her.

‘Blokes are always saying that women want commitment. I must be one on my own.

I’m as happy with a one-night stand as any bloke would be.’

He grinned.

‘Does that make me sound like a tart?’ Mel wanted to know.

‘It makes you sound honest. Just give me a shout next time you fancy some uncomplicated sex.’

They both laughed.

Doyle watched as she stretched first one leg then the other out in front of her. She flexed her toes then returned to her sitting position.

‘Please, Mel, sit on the bloody chair, will you?’ he said, again getting to his feet.

‘I’m fine, really. I shouldn’t be here anyway. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.’ She smiled that infectious smile at him.

‘Didn’t the Sheikh want to know how one of his servants got cut up?’ Doyle asked.

She shook her head.‘It’s not his concern,’ Mel said.

‘His kid is waving a fucking Stanley knife around and it’s not his concern?’

That’s the way things are. It’s a different culture. A way of life we’ll never understand.’

‘Good. I don’t want to understand it’

‘But you wanted to understand the IRA.’

He looked at her, puzzled for a moment.

‘You were undercover in the CTU. You infiltrated the IRA on a number of occasions. You must have had to understand them to do that.’

That was different,’ he said quietly.

‘Who was Georgina Willis?’

The question took him by surprise. He looked angrily at Mel.

‘What the fuck’s that got to do with anything?’ he snapped.

‘Cartwright said she was your girlfriend. He said she was killed when—’

‘Cartwright should keep his fucking information to himself.’

‘I’m not prying, Doyle. I’m just making conversation. I’m interested.’

‘In what?’

‘In you. If we’ve got to work together then it’s in my interests to know about you.’

That depends what you want to know. Georgie’s not relevant to this. Or what went on between me and her.’

They regarded each other silently for a moment, then Doyle took a sip of his tea. It was cold but he swallowed it anyway.

‘Look, I said I wasn’t prying,’ Mel told him.

‘Just forget it, Mel. I have.’ He reached for his cigarettes but Mel shook her head. Doyle muttered something under his breath and shoved them back into his pocket. ‘Right, no smoking, I remember.’ He exhaled wearily. ‘So, tell me about the next client.’

‘His name’s William Duncan. He runs a pharmaceutical company. He’s rich.’

‘Aren’t they all? Who’s after him?’

‘Muslim extremists. A fatwa’s been declared against him. His company was building a new factory in the Middle East, apparently they bulldozed some holy ground.’

‘So we have to protect him from a bunch of religious nutters? Great.’

This one will be different, Doyle.We’ll all be armed twenty-four hours a day.

It’ll be dangerous.’

He looked down at her and shrugged. ‘Life’s looking up,’ he said flatly.

BELFAST:

Are you sure the fingerprints match?’ Chief Inspector Peter Robinson ran a hand over his bald head and sat back in his chair.

‘No doubt about it,‘John Morris told him.The prints on the shell cases we found in Best’s car match those taken from the flat in Dalton Road.There is no mistake. Declan Leary killed Ivor Best and Jeffrey Kelly.’

Robinson got to his feet and looked first at the coroner’s report then at the man himself.

Morris was a stocky man in his late forties, a year or two younger than Robinson. He wore round glasses that were constantly sliding down his small nose. Each time they did, he pushed them back into position with his thumb.

‘The question is, was the hit approved?’ Robinson mused.

‘Best and Kelly were known members of the UVF. It’s possible. I would have thought the main question was who sanctioned it.’

‘Provos or Real IRA,’ said Robinson, not expecting an answer. ‘It’s unlikely to have been the Provisionals.’

‘Have you any idea if Leary is part of a cell or working alone?’

‘Up until the business in Dalton Road he was working with Matthew Finan. Just the two of them as far as we know. Until Finan was killed. It’s my guess that now he’s working without official clearance from the Northern Command. Also the nature of the injuries he inflicted on Best seem to indicate more than just a straightforward hit.’ The policeman leant forward and flipped through the file on his desk. He paused at two photos of Ivor Best. ‘I mean, why stab him in the eyes before shooting him? It’s not very professional apart from anything else.’

Morris could only shrug. ‘Best was still alive when Leary shot him,’ said the coroner. The damage to the eyes looks as though it was intended as some kind of torture.’

‘Why not just shoot him, like he did Kelly?’

Again Morris shrugged.

‘Is Leary trying to start a war with the UVF?’ Robinson wondered aloud. ‘And if he is, why?’

‘You’re the policeman, Peter, not me. It’s down to you and your boys to find out. I just get the feeling I’m going to be busy too.’

‘If Leary’s running wild, you can guarantee it’

‘So we should expect reprisals.’

The UVF won’t sit still for this. They’ll want to hit back. I just hope to God they don’t go after the Provisionals.’ He sighed wearily.‘All these years of fighting. I really thought it was going to end.’

‘It’ll take time, Peter.You can’t wipe out five hundred years of history with one agreement.’

‘Do you agree with it, John?’

‘With the Good Friday Agreement? In principle. But I think the IRA have come out of it better than most. There’s a lot of people who aren’t happy about that. I think we’ve given them too much.’

Robinson regarded his colleague silently.

Morris got to his feet.

‘If that’s all, Peter,’ he said, ‘I’ll get back to work.’

Robinson nodded, his eyes still fixed on the photos of Ivor Best. Thanks, John.’

He heard his office door close as Morris left.

Ivor Best. Jeffrey Kelly.

Robinson shook his head. Was Leary still in Belfast? The policeman doubted it.

He would know he was being hunted. He’d be aware that his identity was no longer secret.

Why didn’t that bother him? Why leave prints on the shell cases and inside the car?

He looked at Declan Leary’s name, scribbled on a sheet of paper. He found himself drawing lines beneath it, pressing ever harder on the paper.

‘Where are you, you bastard?’ he whispered to himself.

LOOKING FOR INSPIRATION

It was important to Ward to always end his work at a point where he could easily begin again the following day. If he had a starting point, it didn’t make for such racked brains and sweat. Ha ha ha. 2.20 p.m. He continued working.

DUNKALK.THE REPUBLIC OF IRELAND:

The 9mm rounds lay on the bedspread gleaming like metallic confetti. Declan Leary regarded the ammunition for a moment longer then crossed to the bed and sat down on the edge of it.

He picked up a handful of the shells and began feeding them into the first of the twenty-round magazines he had for the Scorpion machine pistol.

His room smelt of gun oil and metal. Leary was dressed in just jeans and a T-shirt, and was still too warm. The central heating was playing up, the landlady had explained. The thermostat was stuck on high and it would be a couple of days before an engineer could fix it. She had apologised to all her guests for the inconvenience. They had all accepted with good grace.

Leary continued pushing the bullets into the second of the Scorpion’s magazines then, that done, he placed both of them to one side and turned his attention to the Smith and Wesson .459.

It held fifteen shots in its magazine and Leary filled two of those as well, slamming one into the butt of

the pistol before working the slide to chamber a round and slipping on the safety catch.

He repeated the procedure with the Glock.

Once the guns were ready he crossed to the small wash basin and poured some oil on to the small stone block that lay on the porcelain. He picked it up and took the 8-inch double-edged knife from the side of the sink.

With careful, measured strokes, he drew each cutting edge back and forth across the oiled stone, honing each to a razor finish.

He did the same with the flick knife.

Having done that he placed the Scorpion, the .459 and the hunting knife in his black holdall and zipped it shut. Then he spun both taps and filled the sink, washing oil from his hands.

Leary looked at his watch when he heard footsteps outside on the landing. 8.30

a.m. One of the other residents was making his way downstairs for breakfast.

Leary dried his hands, pulled on a sweatshirt and decided to join his fellow

guest.

His stomach rumbled audibly and, as he emerged from his room, he smelt bacon and heard the chink of tea cups.

Leary smiled. A good breakfast was just what he needed before the drive to Belfast.

Daniel Kane felt something vibrating against the small of his back. He couldn’t hope to hear the ringing of his mobile phone but the Nokia buzzed insistently in its clip on his belt.

Kane waited a moment, swinging the fork-lift around and guiding the two prongs beneath one of the huge crates stacked before him.

Elsewhere inside the warehouse, men moved back and forth, each concerned with his own task. Beneath the safety helmet Kane wore, the sounds were muffled.

The phone was still ringing.

He switched off the engine and reached for the mobile, pulling his safety helmet off as he pressed the Nokia to his ear.The noise inside the warehouse made it difficult to hear the voice on the other end.

‘Who is it?’ he said, straining his ears to catch the words.

The voice identified itself.

‘What the hell are you doing calling me now?’ Kane wanted to know.

The voice explained that there was a problem.

‘What kind of problem?’

It was difficult to speak. They would have to meet.

‘That’s not convenient,’ said Kane dismissively.

The voice insisted that it was a very important matter.

‘Ah, come on, whatever it is it can wait a couple of days,’ Kane snapped.

The person at the other end said something else.

‘What?’ Kane said, his expression darkening.‘Say that again? Declan Leary?’

Again the other voice proposed a meeting.

‘Where?’ Kane wanted to know.

A hiss of static.

‘I didn’t hear you,’ Kane said. The usual place? All right. What’s the hurry?’

The voice told him that Declan Leary was looking for him.

‘What does he want with me?’

More static.

‘Does he know I killed his brother?’ Kane said.

The line went dead.

CHESHAM, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, ENGLAND:

Doyle guessed that the driveway must be a good five hundred yards long. From the entrance, through the wrought-iron gates flanked by a ten-foot-high stone wall, it led past perfectly manicured lawns and landscaped gardens. He spotted what looked like an orchard off to the right, enclosed by a high privet hedge.

To the left were some red-brick buildings that he guessed were stables. Beyond them were low hills and enough space to exercise the runners in the last three Grand Nationals.

As the car drew nearer the house, topiary animals (also immaculately trimmed and maintained) began to form a kind of honour guard on either side of the drive, which slowly widened into an arc before the house.

The building itself was grey. Whether it was brick or, as it appeared to be, simply hewn from one vast lump of stone, Doyle had no idea. The walls were seething with ivy and the weak sunlight sparkled on the dozens of windows at the front.

But, for all its splendour, there was little ostentation about the home of William Duncan. Multi-millionaire

industrialist the man might be, thought Doyle, but the place had none of the outward vulgarity sometimes associated with those lucky enough to have more money than sense. The place looked, first and foremost, a functional home, rather than a status symbol.

The stables, the orchard and whatever other adornments were contained within the grounds had, by the look of them, been there upon purchase rather than added in some self-conscious flourish. The fact that there was a heated

outdoor pool, two tennis courts and a maze to the rear of the building came as no surprise to the former counter terrorist.

He perused the plans of the property that Mel had given him and shook his head.

‘Plenty of places to hide,’ he murmured as Hendry guided the Jag up the driveway.

Mel turned in the passenger seat and looked at him. ‘What did you say, Doyle?’

she wanted to know.

‘I said there are plenty of places to hide,’ he repeated. ‘If a bunch of nutters want to kill Duncan then this fucking place is heaven. They could hang around the grounds for days without getting caught.’ He shook his head. ‘A fucking maze in the back garden. Jesus. How the other half lives.’

He looked at the building and, once more, shook his head.

‘It’s closer to London than I thought,’ Hendry offered.

‘Right at the end of the Metropolitan Line,’ Doyle said.‘You won’t have to drive him into his office in the mornings, Joe. You can just stick him on the fucking Tube.’

Hendry chuckled.

‘We’d better walk the grounds once we’ve met the Duncans,’ Mel said.‘Check them out more thoroughly.’

Doyle nodded. ‘Any kids?’ he asked.

‘No. Just Duncan and his wife.’

‘How much do we know about them?’ Hendry asked.

‘What do we need to know?’ Doyle asked. ‘We’re here to protect them, not make friends with them.’

Mel looked at him for a moment then back at Hendry.

‘Duncan’s in his fifties. His wife’s twenty-six. I don’t know if that tells you anything,’ Mel smiled.‘He’s a keen golfer and archer.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Mrs Duncan likes to ride.’

‘I bet she does,’ Doyle chuckled.

Hendry aiso smiled.

Mel shook her head. ‘You’re like a couple of kids,’ she said, her attempts at chastisement failing as she also laughed.

Doyle reached for his cigarettes and lit one, taking a couple of hasty drags before the car stopped.‘Who’s guarding them at the moment?’ he wanted to know.

‘Special Branch. They have been for the last two months, ever since the fatwa was first passed.’

‘Why the change?’

The taxpayers are footing the bill,’ Mel smiled. ‘I think Duncan’s starting to feel guilty about it. That’s why he called in a private firm.’

Too right. I mean, how much did it cost to guard bloody Rushdie? Two million?’

Doyle said irritably. ‘It would have been cheaper to let the fucker take his chances.’

‘I agree,’ Hendry said. ‘I reckon he knew what he was doing when he wrote that book. He knew he’d offend the Muslims and how they’d react.’

Mel looked at each of the men in turn.‘Nice to see you two share the same kind of compassion,’ she said, shaking her head.

‘Fuck him; Doyle insisted.

Hendry brought the Jag to a halt and all three of them clambered out.

As they did, Doyle crushed the cigarette beneath his foot and drew a deep breath. He ran appraising eyes over the house then followed Mel towards the large oak front door.

There were CCTV cameras mounted on either side of the porch. Doyle had seen more of them on the main gates and also at strategic points along the driveway.

Mel rang the doorbell and waited.

After a moment or two they heard several bolts and locks being unfastened, then a tall man in a dark-brown suit opened the door and looked out at them.

‘We’re with Cartwright Security,’ Mel told him. ‘I’m—’

He cut her short. ‘You’re late,’ he said tersely.

B

MISTAKEN IDENTITY

ack again?’ The girl behind the glass of the cash desk was in her early twenties. She wore a gold name-badge on her right breast that proclaimed: Teresa.

‘Sorry?’ said Ward. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said, “back again?’” she repeated. ‘You were only here this afternoon. You should get a job here considering how much time you spend here.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Ward wanted to know.

The smile on the girl’s face faded slightly. ‘You came in this afternoon to see a film and now you’re back again. Twice in one day. Most people don’t come twice in a month.’

Ward swallowed hard. He looked at his watch. 7.46 p.m.

‘Which film did I see this afternoon?’ he wanted to know.

She looked bewildered.

‘Which film did I see when I was here earlier?’ he insisted.

‘Enemy at the Gates? she told him.

‘What time was that?’

‘I’m not sure exactly’ The smile had faded completely by now.

‘What time was the performance?’ he demanded. ‘Check it on your sheet.’

She hesitated.

‘Please,’ he said.

‘Two o’clock,’ she announced finally.

Ward nodded. He stepped away from the box office and moved past the other waiting people. Some glanced at him in amusement.

He walked back to his car. Ten minutes later he was home. He headed straight for the office.

There was a small pile of paper near the printer. Ward picked up the sheets and put them in the right order.

Thirty of them.

If the outside of the house was impressive, the inside was nothing short of breathtaking.

Doyle looked at the plethora of objets d’art, the expensive fixtures and fittings, the furniture. Everything in the house smacked of impeccable taste.

He wondered who had decided upon the interior decor. He also wondered how much it had cost.

As he stood in the hallway with its two suits of genuine medieval armour guarding the doorway leading to the main sitting room, he was aware of eyes upon him. Those of the man in the brown suit.

Detective Sergeant Mark Boffey was a powerfully built man in his thirties. He regarded the newcomers from Cartwright with a combination of suspicion and contempt. Something Doyle wasn’t slow to pick up.

‘How many men are with you?’ Mel asked the Special Branch officer.

Three,’ Boffey told her.‘We set up a command post in one of the smaller rooms at the back of the house. All the closed-circuit stuff’s in there.There are cameras inside and outside the house. The only place that isn’t covered is the maze. Someone will have to watch twenty-four hours a day’

‘Just because you sat around getting piles doesn’t mean we have to,’ Doyle told him.

‘This man’s life is in danger. There are certain measures that must be taken to—’

Doyle cut him short. ‘Yeah, we’re aware of that,’ he said dismissively.

‘Has there been any activity while you’ve been here?’ Mel wanted to know.

‘If you mean has anyone had a crack at him yet, then no,’ Boffey told her.

‘But it’s coming.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ Mel asked.

There’ve been some threatening phone calls, hate mail. The usual thing.’

Boffey looked at all three of the bodyguards. ‘Are you armed?’

Doyle and his companions nodded.

‘How are they coping?’ Mel enquired.

‘Pretty well. Business as usual, all that crap.’

‘It might be an idea if we met them,’ said Mel.

Boffey nodded, glanced once more at Doyle then led the trio towards a door on the right.

It was a smaller sitting room, furnished with leather sofas and chairs. Beyond it,through an open door, Doyle caught sight of a kitchen. Through the window to his left he could see out over the garden that seemed to stretch away as far as the horizon. The maze lay at the bottom of it. The glass-enclosed pool, about two hundred yards from the house, was reached via a narrow gravel path.

Doyle saw a man in a pair of black trousers and a roll-neck sweater walking along the path towards the house. He had a shoulder holster.

‘One of my colleagues,’ Boffey said, aware that Doyle had spotted the other Special Branch man.

‘I didn’t think it was one of the assassins,’ Doyle told him.

‘We do a two-hourly search of the grounds,’ Boffey said, acidly. ‘It’s best to stay vigilant.’

‘We’ll bear that in mind,’ said the former counter terrorist.

Mel shot him a questioning look but Doyle was still looking at Boffey.

There was another door adjacent to the one leading into the kitchen and it was towards this one that the Special Branch man ushered them. He knocked once and walked in.

As Doyle followed his companions inside, he wasn’t sure where to look first.

‘Jesus,’ he murmured, under his breath.

It was like walking into an armoury.

Doyle allowed his gaze to move swiftly around the room, taking in as many details as he could.

The walls on every side were festooned with a dizzying display of ancient weapons: pikes, lances, spears, halberds.

He saw maces and battleaxes of various sizes.These were arranged amongst swords, sabres, scimitars and cutting weapons of such divergence Doyle wondered which historical wars they had come from.

And then there were the bows. Longbows and crossbows. Each one with at least six of its arrows or bolts.

The former counter terrorist could only begin to imagine how many lives had been taken by this massive array of antique killing instruments.The blades of some were polished, others rusted but still intact and wickedly sharp.

The room was a testament to the savagery of days gone by.A reminder that man’s mind is never so fertile as when devising methods of butchering his own kind.

‘Call it a passion.’ The words came from William Duncan. ‘I’m a collector.’

He noticed Doyle’s inquisitive gaze and smiled as he stepped forward to shake hands.

Duncan was a tall man. Broad-shouldered and possessed of an easy smile that seemed to contradict the deep frown lines across his forehead. Doyle felt the strength in his handshake as the introductions were made.

Helen Duncan also extended her hand and Doyle shook it more gently. He could smell her expensive perfume as she leant closer to him.

She was wearing tight black trousers and a dark-blue jumper that showed off her shapely figure to perfection. Her light-brown hair cascaded as far as her shoulder blades and, when she sat down again and crossed her legs, Doyle could see that the soles of her gleaming leather boots were barely marked. He could even see the size stamped there. The number thirty-seven was clearly visible.

These were either new or she didn’t do much walking in them, he decided.

Duncan gestured for the newcomers to sit down and all three did as they were instructed.

‘I assume you know all the details,’ he said.‘And you know what you have to do.’

‘Stop you getting killed,’ Doyle offered.

Duncan grinned. That would be most appreciated, Mr Doyle,’ he said.

‘If anyone comes at you, you should try using some of those against them,’

Doyle said, nodding in the direction of the weapons on the walls.

Again Duncan smiled.

‘The people before you stayed inside the house,’ Helen Duncan said. ‘You’ll do the same. There are rooms for each of you.’

‘Feel free to help yourself to food and drink,’ Duncan told them. The kitchen isn’t off limits.’ He gestured over his shoulder. There’s a games room along the hall. Should you need to pass the time then feel free to use that as well.

I realise this job can become somewhat tedious.’

‘Is there anyone else in the house other than yourself and your wife, Mr Duncan?’ Mel asked.‘Staff of any kind?’

‘We have a cleaner three times a week,’ said Helen Duncan. Two gardeners once a week.’

‘Would it be possible for me to have a list of all deliveries or visits you’re expecting from day to day?’ Mel continued.

Helen nodded.‘I’ll see to that now,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘In the meantime, I’ll show you to your rooms.’

Doyle and his companions stood up and followed the shapely young woman towards the door.

As they reached it, Duncan also rose. ‘I’ll ask now,’ he said evenly. ‘And I’d appreciate an honest answer.’

The three security personnel turned to look at him.

‘What are our chances of getting through this?’ Duncan wanted to know.

Mel opened her mouth to say something but no words came.

Duncan held up his hand.‘It was an unfair question,’ he conceded.

‘Let’s put it this way,’ Doyle interjected.‘If they come after you, they’ll have to be prepared to put their own lives on the line. If they get to you, that means they’ve got past us. It’s not going to happen.’

Duncan attempted a smile.

That’s the most reassurance I can give you, Mr Duncan. If I said anything else I’d be lying.’

‘I appreciate your candour.’

‘Are either of you religious?’ Doyle wanted to know. ‘Because if you’re not, now might be a good time to start.’

The faulty fluorescent in the kitchen buzzed like an irritated bluebottle.

Doyle glanced up at it as he stood waiting for the kettle to boil. He made his coffee then sat down at the breakfast bar, pulling the newspaper towards him.

The clock on the far wall ticked loudly in the large room and the former counter terrorist checked his watch against the other timepiece. 2.03 a.m.

He’d walked slowly around the house, even venturing into the gardens after checking the banks of CCTV cameras set up at the rear of the building.

Nothing moving.

He slipped off his jacket and hung it on the back of the stool. The 9mm automatic was secure in his shoulder holster.

Mel would relieve him in two hours. Hendry had already done his shift and, besides, he had to be up early in the morning to drive Duncan into London. Mel had suggested that either she or Doyle should accompany them but they had yet to decide who.

Doyle sipped his coffee and scanned the paper. There was a small column on page five about two killings in Belfast. The police believed them to be sectarian. A suspect was being sought.

Just like old times.

‘Anything interesting in there?’

If the voice startled him the surprise didn’t register on his face. He looked up to see Helen Duncan enter the room.

She padded across the tiled floor wearing only a knee-length silk dressing-gown.

‘Sorry if I woke you up,’ Doyle said.

‘You didn’t. I can’t sleep. I think it’s a common symptom when your life’s in danger’ She attempted a smile but it never touched her eyes. ‘Would you object to some company?’

‘Help yourself. It’s your house.’

She made herself a cup of tea and perched on the stool next to him, her perfectly pedicured toes curled around one of the struts.

Doyle met her gaze. Her eyes were a piercing blue but at present the whites were somewhat bloodshot. However, even the dark rings beneath them and the fact that she wore no make-up did not detract from her exquisite features. She was indeed an immensely attractive young woman.

‘I think my husband is adjusting to this better than me,’ she said, almost apologetically.

‘It’s not an easy situation to be in, is it? But rich and powerful men tend to make enemies more easily than most.’

‘William’s made enemies before but never anything like this.’

‘I should think the advantages outweigh the disadvantages, don’t they?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, the money, the lifestyle. You wouldn’t change it, would you?’

‘I suppose not. We have a good life together’

‘I bet you do.’

‘I know what you’re thinking.You and everyone who meets me. “She’s half his age.” “She only married him for his money.” That kind of thing.’

That’s none of my business. I don’t get paid to think. I get paid for doing a job. And, at the moment, that job’s protecting you and your husband.’

There was a silence between them. She crossed her legs, the dressing-gown sliding up further to reveal a slim thigh.

Doyle looked and she was aware of his gaze but she didn’t move.

‘Are you married?’ she wanted to know.

He shook his head.

‘What about that woman you work with? Mel. Is there anything between you?’

Doyle regarded Helen silently for a moment then shook his head once more.

‘She’s a very attractive woman,’ Helen noted.

‘She’s good at her job too.’

‘My husband’s very good at his job. Sometimes I think he’s too good.’ She sipped her tea. ‘I hate it when he’s away from home.’

‘Is he away a lot?’

‘At least four months of the year if you add it up.’

‘And you obviously do.’

Helen smiled. A little more warmly this time.‘I have friends, of course, but it’s not the same when he’s not

here. This lifestyle is wonderful, Mr Doyle, but it would be even more wonderful if I could share it all year round with my husband.’

‘Swings and roundabouts. If he doesn’t work, you don’t have all this.’ He gestured around him. ‘You can’t have it both ways, Mrs Duncan.’

‘Call me Helen, please. I don’t know how long you’re going to be around. It doesn’t sound so formal. It makes you sound less like some kind of hired hand.’

‘Even though that’s what I am.’

‘You know what I mean.’

Doyle drained his drink and placed the mug on the worktop. ‘Do you get lonely when he’s not here?’ he wanted to know.

‘I miss him but, as I said, I have friends. All my needs are catered for.’ She smiled and looked into his eyes. ‘He knows what I do when he’s not here,’

Helen told him. ‘How I entertain myself. He accepts it.’

I’ve got to check the grounds again,’ Doyle told her, preparing to get to his feet.

‘Not interested in what I have to tell you, Mr Doyle?’

‘It’s none of my business.’

‘Would it bother you if you were in my husband’s position?’

‘I’m not’

‘Hypothetically?’

‘Would what bother me?’

That I sleep with other women when he’s away.’

Doyle regarded her silently.

‘It isn’t as if I’m cheating on him. He knows the truth. He even knows the women.’

‘Like I said, Mrs Duncan, it’s nothing to do with me.

Don’t feel you have to confess to me.’

She shot him an angry glance.

Doyle held her gaze. ‘It’s your life,’ he said finally.

‘Sometimes, when he’s here, he watches.’

Doyle said nothing.

‘Wouldn’t you like that, Mr Doyle? To watch me making love to another woman. A beautiful young woman? Wouldn’t you like to watch me make love to Mel?’

I’m not a very good spectator, Mrs Duncan.’

‘Would you like to join us? I expect you would. What man wouldn’t?’

He shook his head again and got to his feet. ‘Duty calls,’ he said.

She stretched one leg out in front of him, as if to prevent him leaving.

Doyle looked down at the shapely limb, waiting until she lowered it.

What kind of fucking game was this?

‘What do you expect me to say?’ he murmured.That I envy your husband. He’s got a ton of money and a beautiful wife who’ll put on a show for him with another woman any time he likes. Am I supposed to be jealous?’

‘Are you telling me you wouldn’t want what he’s got?’

Doyle shook his head.

Helen slowly withdrew her leg, allowing him to pass.

‘Do you think the men who are trying to kill us are out there now?’

‘I doubt it but I’m not going to take that chance.’

‘What if they’re watching or listening to us. The house could be bugged.’

Doyle shook his head.‘As far as we can tell there’s no electronic surveillance,’ he said reassuringly. The phone company have already done line sweeps. We’ve used RF detectors inside the house. No spycams either. Special Branch already had spectrum analysers in place so the men who are trying to kill you can’t use laser bounce either. The place is clean.’

As Doyle reached the kitchen door he paused and looked back. These guys aren’t interested in your conversations, Mrs Duncan, they just want you dead.’

BELFAST:

R

tion.

ain hammered against the windows of the Fiat making it virtually impossible to see in any direc-Daniel Kane checked his watch and tried to squint through the glass into the rain-drenched night beyond. Nothing but darkness.

From where he’d parked, he could see the lights of Belfast below him, twinkling in the foul night. He saw the landing lights of an aircraft as it swung low on its last descent into Aldergrove.

He’d parked just off the road on a narrow dirt track that led to open fields, waterlogged by the last two days’ persistent rain. The dirt track was rutted from the passage of farm vehicles and the ruts had filled with muddy water.The Fiat was approachable by that route but Kane knew from which direction the other car would come.

He checked his watch and murmured something irritably under his breath.

Another two hours and it would be light.The dawn would haul itself reluctantly across a sky swollen with dark clouds.

Still the rain fell.

Kane switched on the engine for a moment and allowed warm air to blow on to his windscreen. The inside of the car was misting up, thick with condensation.

He wiped some away with his hand, the high-pitched squeaking filling the car.

Headlights cut through the darkness.

Kane sank further down in his seat, one hand sliding inside his jacket to brush the butt of the Smith and Wesson 9mm, model 9 auto.

The headlights continued towards him.

Then passed by.

Just a small white van. He watched as its tail lights disappeared into the

gloom then sucked in a deep, stale breath.

The tapping on the side window almost made him shout aloud in surprise. He tugged the 9mm free and pressed his face to the glass.

The figure standing outside the car was soaked. Clothes sodden by the pouring rain.

Kane hesitated a moment then reached back and opened the rear door. The figure clambered in and sat in silence for a moment.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Kane snarled. ‘Why the hell didn’t you park where you normally park?’

The figure in the back seat said nothing.

Kane could smell the dull stench of wet earth and something more pungent.

‘Have you been walking through cow shit?’ he demanded.

Still the figure said nothing.

‘Come on then, get it over with,’ Kane insisted. ‘You were the one who wanted this fucking meeting.

You told me that it was definitely Declan Leary who killed Ivor Best and Jeff Kelly. Where’s the bastard now? If he’s coming after me I want to know.’

He turned to face the figure. As the dark shape began to speak, a flash of lightning tore across the sky. The rain continued to hammer down.

In the back of the Fiat, the figure continued his speech.

CHESHAM, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, ENGLAND:

There’s a van coming up the drive.’ Doyle touched the earpiece he was wearing as if unsure of the words he’d just heard.

When Mel repeated herself he peered through the privet hedge surrounding the orchard and saw the red vehicle making its way towards the Duncans’ house.

Post van.

‘I can see it, Mel,’ he murmured into the pin-microphone attached to his lapel. ‘Are they expecting any deliveries?’

‘No.’

Doyle slid one hand inside his jacket, his fingers touching the butt of the Beretta.

Just in case.

‘I’l follow it in,’ he said. ‘You watch yourself.’

He made his way quickly back along the narrow path that wound between the trees and opened on to a large expanse of lawn. He was two hundred yards from the house. If he moved now the occupants of the van would see him.

How many were there?

It was difficult to tell from his vantage point. He squinted and caught sight of one man.

There could be others in the back.

Doyle eased the automatic from its holster, gripping it in his fist.

The van came to a halt and the driver’s side door swung open. The man who got out was dressed in the usual dark uniform of a postman. He stood looking up at the house for a moment then strode towards the front door.

Doyle slipped the safety catch off.

The newcomer rang the doorbell and waited.

‘He’s on his own as far as I can see,’ Doyle said into his microphone. ‘I’m on him. Just watch it when you open the door.’

‘Got it.’ Mel’s voice filled his earpiece.

He saw her open the front door.

Doyle could hear snatches of their conversation through his earpiece but it was only the odd word here and there. He lowered the 9mm and began walking across the lawn towards the house.

He was halfway there when he saw the man return to the van and retrieve something. It appeared to be a box about 12 inches square.

Doyle moved more quickly now, watching as the man handed the package to Mel.

The former counter terrorist was less than a hundred yards from the van now.

His eyes never left the uniformed man.

Seventy yards. Doyle was practically sprinting.

Fifty yards.The postman turned away from the door and headed back towards the

van. He saw Doyle

as he was preparing to climb back in.

‘Hold it there,’ Doyle said, raising the Beretta. He was advancing slowly now.

The man turned pale and his lower jaw dropped.

‘What’s in the box?’ Doyle wanted to know.

The man tried to answer but ail he succeeded in doing was shaking his head.

‘It feels quite light,’ Mel called.

‘Any smell?’ Doyle wanted to know.

Mel looked puzzled.

‘Does it smell sweet?’ Doyle snapped. ‘Like marzipan?’

Like fucking Semtex.

Mel shook her head.

‘What’s in the fucking box?’ Doyle said, his gaze still fixed on the terrified delivery man.

‘I don’t know,’ he answered breathlessly. ‘I’m only supposed to deliver what—’

‘Did you bring that from the main sorting office?’

The postman nodded.

Doyle moved closer, the barrel of the Beretta still aimed at the man’s head.

‘What do you want to do?’ Mel said, kneeling beside the package.

‘Is there a sender’s address on it?’ Doyle wanted to know.

‘No.’

Doyle took a step nearer then glanced at the postman.

‘Go on, piss off, Postman Pat,’ he snapped.

The relieved man clambered behind the wheel of the van and drove off, the vehicle disappearing down

the drive considerably faster than it had approached.

Doyle holstered the automatic and looked first at the box then at Mel.

Her gaze was fixed on the package.

‘What do you want to do?’ she said again.

Doyle knelt beside the box too, scanning every inch of it for any tell-tale signs of something amiss.

Come on, you’re the fucking expert You’ve seen bombs close up before. Very close. Close enough to put you in hospital.

‘If it is a bomb and it’s on a timer then there’s no way of knowing when it might go off,’ he said. ‘If whoever sent it can detonate it by remote then they could be watching us now. They could set it off whenever they like.’ He looked at Mel who merely nodded.

‘We don’t know that it is a bomb,’ she said, as if trying to find reassurance in her own words.

‘No, you’re right. And there’s only one way to find out if it is or not. Open it’

Wait, let’s think about this logically.’ Mel stood up, her eyes never leaving the package.

‘When it comes to bombs, there isn’t much logic involved,’ Doyle told her standing up too. ‘They go off and people die. It’s pretty simple.’

‘And if we open that box and there are explosives inside then we die.’

‘I’ll do it, Mel. Just make sure that Mrs Duncan stays inside and you stay with her.’

‘Doyle, you can’t do that.’

He had already picked up the box and was walking across the drive towards the carefully manicured lawn.

‘Get inside the house,’ he shouted.

‘Just leave it.’

‘And what if it is a bomb and it is on a timer?’ He shook his head. ‘Get inside.’

She hesitated a moment longer then stepped back into the house and closed the front door.

Doyle continued across the lawn. A hundred yards from the house. He kept walking. Two hundred.

‘Can you hear me, Mel?’ he said, setting the box down.

Two hundred and fifty yards. That should do it Even if the fucking box is full of explosive then the house won’t suffer any damage.

They’ll only need a matchbox to bury you in too if it goes off.

‘Mel?’ he repeated.

‘I can hear you, Doyle,’ she said through his earpiece.

He looked back in the direction of the house.Then the former counter terrorist regarded the object intently.

Fairly light Nothing rattling about Whatever was inside was either packed in something or secured to one side of the box. A couple of ounces of Semtex would be enough to destroy a car.

The box was sealed with masking tape.

‘How are you going to open it?’ Mel’s voice sounded loud in his ear.

‘Very fucking carefully,’ he murmured, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small penknife.

Come on. Get it over with. If it’s going to blow, it’s going to blow.

Doyle rested the blade against the tape and swallowed hard. He drew the cutting edge along the masking tape as slowly as he could, the blade slicing the tape easily.

‘I’m opening it,’ he said into the pin-mike.

Just like old times.

He dropped the penknife back into his pocket and slid his thumbs beneath the flaps of the box. With infinite slowness he began to raise them.

If there’s a trigger attached you’ll know about it pretty soon.

The flaps opened a little more. Doyle continued to raise them.

There was a smell coming from inside the box. It was rancid. Not the marzipan scent of plastic explosive. This was more pungent.

He wrinkled his nose as he opened the box wider.

There was tissue paper inside.

Doyle frowned. As he removed some of it he saw that the sheets further down were spotted with blood.

There was something at the bottom of the box. Something wrapped in sodden, red tissue paper.

Doyle retrieved the penknife and used the tip of the blade to remove the last few sheets. He gazed down at the contents of the package.

‘It’s not a bomb,’ he said quietly.

Thank God,’ Mel murmured. ‘What is it?’

‘I’m bringing the box inside. I think Mrs Duncan should see this.’

CAUGHT ON CAMERA

Ward had bought the video camera in New York about eight or nine years ago. In the days when money was no object.

Now he set it up in one corner of the office, squinting through the viewfinder until he was satisfied that the cyclopean machine was trained on his desk. He readjusted the focus once again then pressed the red record button.

The tape inside the machine was a ninety-minute one. He’d return in an hour and a half and replace it. Check out what was on the first one.

He locked the office door behind him as he left.

It was 9.15 p.m.

PHOTOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE

10.50 p.m.

Ward got to his feet and made his way swiftly through the house to the back door. He paused for a moment, looking at the office.

In the darkness it seemed a hundred yards away. Almost invisible in the impenetrable gloom.

He made his way quickly along the path that connected the house to his place of work. His hand was shaking as he pushed the key into its lock and turned it.

Ward climbed the stairs and glanced at the monitor. It was blank. There were no pages overflowing from the printer.

He moved to the camcorder and checked the battery. There was still some power left in it. The tape had run out. He had a full ninety minutes to view.

But ninety minutes of what? Empty air?

As he took the camera from its tripod he wondered what he was really expecting to see on the tape.

He retreated back into the house and connected the necessary leads and wires from the camcorder to the television. Then he sat back on the sofa and pressed the play button.

For forty minutes he gazed at the screen, waiting for something to happen. He was still waiting twenty minutes later.

He fast-forwarded the remainder of the tape then slumped back wearily.

Nothing. Just an endless shot of his desk and computer. No words appearing mysteriously on the screen. No paper pumping from the printer with newly created chapters on.

Nothing.

He sucked in a deep breath.

The phenomenon, for want of a better word, seemed to happen more often at night. In the dead of night when he was sleeping.

He decided to set up the camcorder again. It was already after midnight.

Whatever he imagined he might record on film, he might have a better chance of getting in the small hours.

He checked another battery for power then attached it to the camcorder and headed back out to the office where he went through the same procedure as before. He trained the lens on his desk, peering through the viewfinder like a scientist squinting through a microscope at some newly discovered organism.

Then he pressed the record button and slipped quietly down the stairs.

It was 1.17 a.m.

MOVING PICTURES

Ward woke at 8.45 the next morning. He was lying on the sofa, still fully clothed, the television burbling in the background.

He could remember little of the previous night. Checking the camcorder the first time. Coming back inside the house. That was about it.

He had no idea what time he’d fallen asleep. Or blacked out. Whatever the hell he had done.

He got to his feet and wandered through to the downstairs bathroom where he splashed his face with cold water. It did little to clear his head but he could at least see a little better by the time he emerged.

With a mixture of trepidation and anticipation, Ward made his way to the back door, let himself out and made for the office. He ran up the stairs.

Sheets of paper had spilled from the printer. The screen still had words on it.

He swallowed hard and crossed to the camcorder.

The tape was still. There was nothing but blackness when he looked through the viewfmder.

He clenched his teeth, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing.

What time had the camcorder battery run out? How much did he have on tape?

Thirty

minutes? An hour? Had the unblinking eye of the camera caught what he wanted?

There was only one way to find out.

However, before he made his way back inside the house, he crossed to the desk, sat down and carefully numbered each newly printed page. There were over two hundred and fifty. The manuscript must be close to completion.

Ward wished he knew how close.

Helen Duncan sniffed back more tears and shook her head uncomprehending!/.

Doyle and Mel hung back, wondering whether or not to approach the woman who stood motionless inside the stable. She was gazing at a bay that was tossing its head agitatediy. Occasionally kicking out with one powerful hind leg.

‘What kind of people are they?’ Helen Duncan said finally.

‘What I want to know is how the hell did they get inside the stables to do this?’ Mel murmured quietly.

Doyle merely shook his head, his eyes fixed on the bay.

Both of its ears had been hacked off. The mane and coat around them were

matted with dried blood. Flies buzzed around the horse, attracted both by the excrement in the stall but also by the open wounds.

‘An animal that size isn’t just going to stand there while its fucking ears are cut off, is it?’ Doyle mused. They must have sedated it.’

Helen Duncan clapped ironically. ‘You should have been a detective, Mr Doyle,’

she said.

‘When was the last time you were in here, Mrs Duncan?’ Mel asked.

Two days ago,’ Helen Duncan said, her voice catching. ‘Christ, you’re meant to know where I’ve been, I can’t move a fucking muscle without one of you following me.’ She rounded angrily on the two bodyguards. ‘Why did you let this happen?’

‘We had no way of stopping it,’ Mel answered.

‘Someone breaks into my stables and cuts the ears off one of my horses and you can’t stop them. What makes you so sure you’ll be able to stop them when they come after myself and my husband?’

The horse whinneyed as if in agreement.

‘You’d better check the others,’ Doyle said. There were two more horses in the stable. A grey and a chestnut.

Helen wiped her face hurriedly then moved to each stall in turn. The other two animals seemed unharmed although both were understandably skittish. The grey in particular tossed its head wildly as Helen reached out to touch its muzzle.

‘I’ll call the vet,’ she said.‘He’ll have to look at them. Just to be sure.

They could have been given poison or anything.’

‘You’re lucky they didn’t kill them,’ Mel offered.

They did it to show how close they can get if they want to,’ Doyle said. ‘How far’s the stable from the house? Two hundred yards? Less? This was a warning.’

Helen Duncan glared at Doyle then stalked out of the stable and headed back towards the house.

Mel hesitated a moment then hurried after her.

Doyle remained in the stable, walking slowly back and forth between the stalls, peering intermittently at the bay. Or, more specifically at the bloodied stumps of torn flesh where its ears used to be.

He waited a moment longer then left the stable and walked slowly around the red-brick house. Beyond, the fields and hills stretched away into the distance. He could also see the maze towards the bottom of the long garden. As he looked, his eyes narrowed.

‘Mel,’ he said into his microphone.

There was a crackle of static. ‘What is it?’ she asked, her voice clear in his earpiece.

‘I’m going to walk around the grounds again.There’s something I want to check out.’

He lit up a cigarette and began to stroll towards the maze.

BELFAST:

Declan Leary slid down in the driver’s seat and turned up the heater, blowing more warm air into the car. The clock on the dashboard showed 5.09 a.m.

The sky was grey and smeared with banks of grubby clouds that promised more of the drizzle that had been falling since dawn first hauled itself reluctantly into the sky.

Leary watched as George Mcswain stopped the milk float, got out and took two bottles from the back of the vehicle. Mcswain hurried up the short path to the front step of the house and left the bottles then returned. He wrote something on a notepad then clambered back into the float and drove on, the engine making its familiar droning sound.

Glass clinked against glass as the float moved over several speed bumps.

Mcswain stopped the vehicle again and placed the required number of pints at the doors of each house.

Leary reached towards the passenger seat and picked up a bottle of his own. It was Lucozade. He

swigged and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

One or two people were on the streets. On their way to work at this ungodly

hour of the morning, Leary imagined. But, for the most part, Mcswain was alone as he manoeuvred along the narrow streets of the Woodvale area of the city.

Leary had been tracking him for the last two days. It had been easier than he’d thought. Once he’d found his man (courtesy of www.peoplesearch.com) it had been a small matter to keep a watch on him.

Planning. Waiting for the moment.

Leary was helped in this by the fact that Mcswain was so regimented in his movements. Driven, it seemed, by routine.

He began his milk round every morning at 4.15. It took him approximately three hours. When it was finished he would return to the depot, complete his paperwork and return home to the house he shared with his wife and two children. A boy of twelve and a girl of thirteen. He usually stayed in until six in the evening when he would go out for a drink. He returned around ten.

Like fucking clockwork.

If Mcswain knew he was being watched then he’d certainly given no indication of it.

Leary finished off his Lucozade and flipped open the glove compartment of his car. The Scorpion CZ65, a twenty-round clip already jammed into it, lay there until he needed it.

He had decided that it would be best to take the Proddie bastard out during his milk round. Early in the

morning when the streets were at their most desolate.

On more than one occasion he had thought about completing the job this very morning but had finally decided against it. He could wait one more day.

Leary slipped the car into gear and, after allowing the milk float a minute’s start, he followed, overtook it, then parked up once more. Just watching.

And waiting.

CHESHAM, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, ENGLAND:

The sunset stained the sky crimson. It looked as if the clouds had been soaked in blood.

Doyle glanced across at the large garage as he made his way back to the house.

Joe Hendry was reversing the Mercedes 300SL through the doorway. Inside, Doyle could also see two other vehicles belonging to the Duncans. All would be checked before they were used the following day. Brake cables would be inspected, tyres would be looked at for faults and, as ever, the entire chassis and interior would be scrutinised for anything even vaguely resembling an explosive device. That was Hendry’s job. The cars and everything to do with them were his province.

He had brought William Duncan home safely some two hours ago and listened whiJe Helen Duncan related the news about the mutilated horse. Duncan himself had nodded as his wife had spoken then hugged her tightly.

Doyle had looked on impassively then decided on one more tour of the grounds before darkness threw its impenetrable blanket over the land.

As he had done earlier in the day, he had wandered as far as the maze. Except this time he had not ventured inside the privet-lined walkways. The hedges were fully eight feet high, immaculately trimmed and decorated with topiary animals that seemed to look down mockingly upon those who were foolish enough to enter their domain.The paths that turned left and right were gravel and Doyle had managed to find his way into the centre of the puzzle earlier that day, dropping pieces of cigarette packet to guide him out.

At its heart the maze boasted a delightful ornate centrepiece comprising two stone benches and sculptures of lions and swans. Like their topiary counterparts, these sentinels seemed to gaze upon newcomers with disdainful eyes. Doyle had sat and smoked a cigarette before making his way out again.

Hendry closed and locked the garage and wandered over to join Doyle. ‘Maybe whoever’s doing this will leave it at the horses,’ the driver offered.

‘Yeah, right,’ Doyle said dismissively. ‘No, they’re not going to be happy until Duncan’s six foot under. And his missis too.’

The two men made their way inside.

Doyle secured the front door.

Mel emerged from the sitting room and smiled at her colleagues.

‘Are they okay?’ Hendry wanted to know.

They’re just talking,’ Mel explained. ‘I left them to it.’

The grounds are clear, as far as I can tell,’ Doyle told her.

Mel looked at her watch. ‘One of us ought to keep an eye on the monitors,’ she said. ‘Just in case.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Hendry offered.

‘No, you get something to eat, Joe. I’ll watch,’ said Doyle.

‘Want some company?’ Mel asked.

Doyle nodded.

The bank of monitors flickered and Doyle rubbed his eyes, his gaze moving slowly from one screen to the next. Every now and then he would press a button and alter the angle of a specific camera.

Mel reached over and turned on some of the security lights around the house.

Others were triggered by motion sensors and would be activated if anything passed before them.

Doyle yawned and sipped his coffee, wincing when he realised it was cold.

‘Boring, isn’t it?’ Mel said. ‘All this sitting around.’

‘It beats the shit out of sitting in a car,’ he replied, patting the chair he sat on.

‘Did you do a lot of that when you were in the CTU?’

‘My share.’

‘Do you still miss it?’

He nodded. ‘It was all I knew,’ he told her. ‘It was what I was best at.’

‘You seem to have taken to this kind of work very well.’

‘Needs must and all that crap.’

There was a long silence between them, finally broken by Mel. ‘What do you think of Mrs Duncan?’ she asked smiling.

‘I think you’ve got more chance with her than I have.’

Mel raised her eyebrows quizzically.

‘She likes sleeping with women,’ Doyle continued. ‘She told me. Fuck knows why. Perhaps she was trying to shock me.’

‘And did she?’

‘I couldn’t give a shit if she sleeps with donkeys, Mel. That’s the first rule of this game, isn’t it? The only thing that matters is the safety of the clients. What they get up to in their own time is their fucking business.

Right?’

Mel regarded him silently. ‘It’s ironic, isn’t it?’ she finally murmured.

‘We’re expected to protect people we probably won’t like. Expected to risk our lives for someone we might despise.’

‘Does that bother you?’

‘It’s the job, isn’t it?’

‘And the job’s all that matters?’ It was Doyle’s turn to look at her. ‘Is this how you see yourself in ten years’ time, Mel? Carrying a gun. Waiting for some mad bastard to try and kill the person you’re guarding. Wondering if you’re going to have to put your own life on the line to save them?’

‘I haven’t thought about it. What are the options? Get married? Settle down?’

‘It probably wouldn’t be so bad.’

‘Then why haven’t you done it?’

‘I told you, this kind of thing’s all I know.’

‘Even if the right woman comes along?’

Doyle swallowed hard and returned his attention to the bank of monitors. ‘I think she did, once,’ he said softly.

‘Georgie?’

Doyle nodded.

‘How did she die?’ Mel wanted to know.

‘We were working together,’ he said slowly. ‘I can’t remember all the details.

It seems like a fucking eternity since it happened. She got shot. Simple as that. Occupational hazard.’

‘Did you love her?’

Doyle smiled humourlessly.‘What difference does it make?’ he said scornfully.‘We were … alike.There was something between us. I don’t know what the fuck you’d call it. But it doesn’t matter any more, does it?’ He looked at Mel. ‘You remind me of her in some ways.’

‘Is that a compliment?’

He nodded.

She reached out and gently touched his hand.

He looked down and she slowly withdrew it.

‘I’m sorry,’ Mel told him. ‘I didn’t mean to pry. I just—’

‘Forget it,’ he said, cutting her short’No harm done.’ He adjusted two of the cameras scanning the grounds then looked back at Mel.‘What about you? How come the right bloke hasn’t turned up yet?’

‘Married to the job, I suppose.’

‘And if he did? Would you give it all up to play the little woman?’

‘Maybe. I’m not even sure what I want out of life any more.’

‘Looks like we’re both fucked.’

Mel grinned. ‘Kindred spirits,’ she chuckled.

Doyle focused on one of the monitors. His eyes narrowed.

‘Perhaps you and I should—’

Doyle interrupted. ‘Look at that,’ he said, pointing a finger at the screen that held his attention. ‘Is it a shadow?’

‘Which camera is it?’ she wanted to know.

The one near the swimming pool.’

A dark shape was clearly visible now, scuttling quickly along the side of the pool then back into the welcoming darkness.

‘Zoom in,’ Mel said. That’s no shadow.’

Doyle hit the necessary button. The image became larger rather than sharper.

‘The sensor lights around there are motion activated,’ Mel said.‘How come they haven’t been tripped?’

Doyle squinted at the shape. ‘It’s definitely a man,’ he said. He reached forward and drew his index finger around the outline of the shape. ‘And he’s carrying something.’

They both recognised it immediately. The outline of the AK47 assault rifle was unmistakable.

The shape moved, its motion fluid.

‘Stay with him,’ Mel murmured.

There was movement on another monitor. Two more shapes.

‘By the stables,’ Doyle said.

‘And on the drive,’ Mel added.‘Four of them, at least.’

Doyle pulled the Beretta from its holster and worked the slide, chambering a round. ‘You’d better get Hendry,’ he said.‘It looks like we’ve got some work to do.’

On the bank of monitors Doyle counted six figures moving quickly and furtively around the grounds, all heading towards the house.

‘I’ll call the police, get some help,’ Mel said, snatching up the phone.

The line was dead. ‘No calls tonight,’ she said. They’ve cut the wires.’

Try your mobile.’

She dialled but a shriek of static forced her to move the Nokia away from her ear. They’ve jammed the frequency,’ she told him.

‘Party time,’ Doyle murmured under his breath.

The dark figures continued towards the house.

Get upstairs now,’ Mel said, gesturing towards the Duncans who looked on helplessly.

‘We could help you,’ William Duncan offered.

Mel shook her head.‘Please do as I say,’ she insisted. ‘Lock yourselves in your room and stay down. Don’t go near the windows.’

Duncan slid an arm around his wife’s shoulder and the two of them made their way hurriedly through the hall and up the broad staircase to the first storey of the house.

Mel was holding the small automatic that she’d taken from her shoulder

holster. Doyle glanced at it and saw how comfortably it fitted into her slender hand. It was a Heckler and Koch VP70. He knew it held eighteen 9mm rounds in its magazine.

‘Still coming,’ shouted Hendry who was posted before the screens. ‘I can see eight of them now. All armed as far as I can tell.’

‘How do you want to play this?’ Doyle said.‘Go out to meet them or let them come to us?’

‘Let them come,’ Mel said. ‘It’ll be more difficult for them to get inside. We can cover the entrances.’

‘Not all of them,’ Doyle said warily.

Mel looked at him for a moment then headed off towards the sitting room.

The first burst of automatic fire raked the building.

Doyle spun round in the direction of the shots.

Two windows shattered and part of one frame was blasted to matchwood by the impact of the heavy-grain bullets.

‘Put the interior lights out and all the exterior ones on,’ he called to Hendry, moving towards one of the broken windows. ‘We’ll be able to see them but they won’t be able to see us.’

Hendry nodded and hit a number of switches. Immediately the area within a hundred yards of the house was illuminated by the cold, white glare of more than a dozen security floodlights.

Doyle saw several of the oncoming figures freeze, caught like moths in a torch beam. He took his chance.

The former counter terrorist swung the Beretta into position and pumped the trigger. The sound was deafening as the 9mm spewed its deadly load towards the attackers.

Two went down. There were shouts of anger and surprise from the others. Doyle fired again. Another of the men was hit, his body spinning round violently as the slug caught him in the shoulder, pulverised his collar bone and dropped him like a stone. He tried to crawl away, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

Another burst of automatic fire tore into the house. Doyle ducked as several bullets ripped over his head and drilled into the wall of the room, blasting chunks of plaster free and sending more broken glass showering on to the expensive carpet.

He could smell cordite and gunpowder. Just like old times.

There was more firing from another part of the house. He recognised the sound of the VP70. Mel chose her targets as carefully as she could and shot down another of the furious attackers.

More automatic fire. Doyle heard fresh glass shattering.

This was fucking crazy.There was no way three of them could cover every part of a house this size.

He glanced out of the window and fired again, the muzzle flash from the 9mm momentarily searing his retina. Spent shell cases spun into the air and landed on the carpet beside him.

‘There’s more of them over by the stables,’ Hendry shouted, gazing at a monitor. ‘Another two at least.’

Doyle himself had shot three. Mel another two.

‘How many of these bastards are there?’ Doyle hissed under his breath.

Doyle was about to snatch another look at the garden when a concentrated burst of fire sent him diving for the floor. Bullets blasted holes in the walls and obliterated ornaments. Several hit a sofa and stuffing exploded from it like innards from a gut-shot body.

More firing. Part of the garden was plunged into darkness. ‘They’re shooting out the lights,’ Hendry yelled.

‘This is bullshit,’ snarled Doyle. Then, into his microphone, ‘Mel, they’re going to pin us down in here.’

No answer.

‘Mel,’ he shouted.

He heard a thunderous blast in his earpiece and winced.

‘I can hear you, Doyle,’ she said breathlessly.

‘I’m going outside,’ he said.

‘No, stay in here.’

‘You want to die like a rat in a fucking trap?’ he snarled.

Silence.

Doyle scrambled to his feet and, ducking low, he scuttled through the house towards the front door.

He could see nothing moving in the darkness outside.

Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there.

More gunfire, from the rear of the house.

Doyle could feel his heart thudding that little bit faster against his ribs.

‘What are you doing?’

The voice made him look round. William Duncan was standing at the top of the stairs.

‘You were told to stay up there and keep your fucking head down,’ Doyle called back.

‘I can help you,’ Duncan insisted. He was already advancing down the stairs.

‘Doyle.’ He heard his name in his earpiece.

‘I’m going out there, Mel,’ he told her, his hand already on the lock of the front door. They’ll box us in and blow the fucking place to pieces. It’s only a matter of time before they get in.’

‘You watch yourself,’ Mel told him.

Duncan was at the bottom of the stairs by now. He saw Doyle lift his trouser leg and check the .38 tucked in the ankle holster there.

There was another thunderous roar in Doyle’s earpiece. More gunfire.

‘Let me help you,’ said Duncan forcefully.

‘All right,’ Doyle snapped. ‘Lock this behind me.’

The night air felt cool against Doyle’s skin. He glanced quickly left and right to check it was clear. As he stepped away from the door he heard the bolts being slid into place behind him.

At least Duncan was doing as he was told.

There was little cover between the house and the trees that lined the driveway but Doyle sprinted towards them with a speed he’d forgotten he had.

He reached the first and pressed himself up against the damp bark, looking back at the house.

Apart from the odd bursts of fire from the attackers (who he guessed now numbered about six) and the occasional return shots from Mel or Hendry, the night seemed relatively still.

Doyle pressed the magazine-release button on the 9mm and saw that he was down to three slugs. He slammed a fresh, fifteen-shot clip into the butt and worked the slide, chambering a round.

Now. Think this through. Don’t fuck it up.

He peered through the gloom towards the house and beyond it in the direction of the swimming pool. Nothing moving.

There were trees planted thickly around the path that led to the pool.

A hundred, two hundred yards away?

He could make it if he ran fast enough. And what bigger incentive was there than getting caught in the sweep of an AK47?

Doyle drew a deep breath and sped off across the grass. He heard voices shouting in a language he didn’t recognise. At first he couldn’t work out which direction they were coming from.

Straight ahead. Behind the trees and the low wall that ran alongside the path.

Doyle reached the trees and dropped down, the Beretta gripped firmly in his fist. From his vantage point he could see four of the attackers gathered around the rear of the house. Three were attempting to clamber through a broken window into the building itself. There was another close to the swimming pool, apparently reloading.

Where the hell were the other two?

Doyle could feel his heart hammering against his ribs.

Come on. Come on.

He looked towards the house. One of the men was now inside. His two companions

were attempting to follow him.

Doyle held the pin microphone between his thumb and forefinger and pulled it close to his mouth. ‘Mel,’ he whispered, looking round.

Silence.

‘Mel, can you hear me?’

Still nothing.

He watched as the second attacker slipped inside.

‘Mel, they’re inside the house,’ he said, raising his voice a little more.

‘Check the fucking monitors.’

Close to him he heard words barked in a guttural voice. When he turned he saw one of the remaining men.

Two were inside. Another was about to join them. One more moving up from the direction of the swimming pool. A fifth just beyond the wall behind which he now crouched.

Where the fuck is the other one?

He wondered if the other attacker might be at the front of the building.

Perhaps he was trying to break in there. Force the defenders to split up.

The metallic rattle of a cocking lever cut through the night.

Doyle turned to see the sixth man leering at him.

The AK47 he held was levelled and ready to fire.

Doyle knew he was going to die. From six feet away, even if he was a complete fucking idiot, there was no way his opponent could miss. Not with a submachine gun on auto. The weapon fired over seven hundred rounds a minute and the slightest pressure on the trigger could empty the thirty-round magazine in seconds.

The barrel yawned before him, ready to spew out its deadly load.

As if he were moving in slow motion, Doyle swung the Beretta up, preparing to fire.

You’ll go with me, you fucker.

There was a high-pitched whoosh just above Doyle’s head. It reminded him of the sound a bullet makes when it parts air. But there was no accompanying bang.

He heard a dull thud and the man facing him dropped the Kalashnikov. For interminable seconds he remained on his feet, his bulging eyes still locked on Doyle.

Blood ran in thin ribbons from both his nostrils. Only then did the former counter terrorist realise why.

The arrow had pierced the man’s throat just below the chin and erupted another foot from the back of his neck. Its 30-inch, fibre-glass shaft had penetrated to the flight. The pointed end dripped blood.

There was another similar sound and Doyle saw a second arrow thud into the man’s chest. He fell backwards and lay still.

‘What the fuck … ?’ Doyle gazed at the corpse then heard the sound of movement close to him. He turned, the automatic pointed at the noise.

William Duncan scrambled across the damp grass towards him, the longbow gripped in his fist, another arrow already held in position. ‘I thought you needed some help,’ the industrialist said, glancing at the dead man.

‘I told you to stay in the house,’ said Doyle.

‘If I had you’d be dead now.’

Doyle looked at Duncan but said nothing.

There was an eruption of fire close to them. Bullets drilled into the wall behind which they sheltered and Doyle instinctively put out a hand to push Duncan closer to the earth.

The smell of cordite filled the night air.

Doyle motioned for Duncan to remain still as another burst of fire raked the wail. Splinters of stone flew up and showered the two men.

Doyle heard a shout, then a metallic click as the hammer of the AK47 slammed down on an empty chamber. He swiftly rose to his feet and caught the fifth man in his sights.

Doyle pumped the trigger five times. Bullets hit the man in the face, chest

and shoulder, drilled through and erupted in several places leaving exit wounds the size of a man’s fist. Blood sprayed into the air and the man toppled backwards, arms flailing.

Doyle swung himself over the wall, scuttled across to the body and put one more shot squarely between the eyes of his opponent. The blast took off most of the back of his head.

The former counter terrorist snatched up the Kalashnikov and motioned to Duncan to join him.‘Hey, Robin Hood,’ he murmured, beckoning to the industrialist.‘Follow me. And keep your fucking head down.’

They scurried back towards the house.

They’re inside.’ Joe Hendry spoke quietly and without panic.

‘How many?’ Mel wanted to know.

Three of them.’

‘Where’s Duncan?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Jesus Christ, Joe. He could be dead by now. Contact Doyle. Find out if he’s got him.’

‘Doyle went outside, remember? If Duncan’s out there with him chances are we’re all out of work by now.’

Mel didn’t answer. She hurried along the gallery landing that overlooked the main hallway of the house, glancing over the balustrade occasionally, the 9mm gripped tightly in her fist.

Two of the intruders walked into the hall and Mel caught sight of the AK47s they were carrying. She swung the VP70 up and sighted it, pumping the trigger.

The first two shots caught the leading man in the shoulder and cheek. He dropped like a stone, his companion spinning round, finger tightening on the trigger.

A blast from the Kalashnikov deafened Mel and she dropped to her knees as bullets tore into the wall,

pieces of plaster flying into the air all around her.

She fired again. Three shots. All well placed. One in the stomach doubled the attacker up. The second slammed into the top of his skull and the third clipped his elbow, shattering bone and causing him to drop the assault rifle.

He toppled backwards on to the polished wood of the hall floor, already awash with the blood of his companion. Both men lay still.

Mel advanced slowly down the stairs.

Where was the other one? Hendry had said three were inside.

Her earpiece crackled and she put a hand to it as if to silence it.The door to her left was open. The third attacker could be there. Waiting.

Mel moved a little further down the stairs, her heart thudding against her ribs.

There were two thunderous blasts from her left. A muffled groan.

She swung her automatic up and sighted it.

The body of the third intruder fell face down at her feet, two bullets in the back of his head.

Doyle stepped over the body, glanced at the other dead men then up the stairs in Mel’s direction.

She had him in her sights. He nodded and she lowered the weapon.

‘Is that all of them?’ Doyle said, indicating the bodies in the hall.

‘Joe said three got inside,’ she told him.‘l don’t know about the rest.’

Two more dead outside,’ Doyle informed her. He tapped his microphone. ‘Joe.

Anything moving?’

There was a hiss of static.

‘Nothing that I can see,’ said Hendry finally.

There were six,’ Doyle murmured. The other one’s either fucked off or he’s waiting in the grounds.’

There’s nothing showing on any of the monitors,’ Hendry offered.

‘We’ll give it an hour,’ Doyle said quietly. Then we’ll check the grounds again. Every inch of them.’

Morning had dawned grey and with the threat of rain but, Doyle was relieved to

see, without the presence of any more men intent on killing William Duncan and his wife.

For the time being anyway.

The drive into central London had taken the former counter terrorist just over an hour.

The phone call that had made the journey necessary in the first place had been both unexpected and puzzling.

As Doyle brought the car to a halt outside the building in Hill Street he sat behind the wheel for a moment, looking up at the former town house of John Paul Getty, wondering why he was here. Wondering why he was back at the headquarters of the Counter Terrorist Unit.

He shut off the engine and walked to the door, pressing the buzzer.

‘Doyle, 239 …’ He corrected himself.

Old habits died hard, didn’t they? Forget your code number. You don’t work here any more. Remember? They binned you off.

‘Sean Doyle,’ he said into the grille. ‘I’ve got an appointment with Jonathan Parker.’ There was a loud buzz and the door opened.

Doyle stepped inside and the door closed behind him.

There was a new receptionist on duty. Mid-thirties. Shoulder-length blond hair. Pretty. Easy smile.

Old habits.

‘I’ve got an appointment with Parker,’ Doyle said.

The receptionist smiled again.‘I’ll take you through,’ she said, getting to her feet.

‘I know the way,’ Doyle told her, heading for the all-too-familiar door. He knocked. Thought about walking straight in but hesitated.

‘Come in,’ called Parker.

Doyle walked in and looked blankly at his old superior.

On the sofa to his right sat another familiar figure. Sir Anthony Pressman ran appraising eyes over the former counter terrorist then returned to the file he had balanced on his lap.

Doyle looked at the Home Secretary then back at Parker.

Take a seat, Doyle,’ Parker said.

Doyle hesitated a moment then accepted. ‘Why the welcoming committee?’ he wanted to know, glancing at Pressman.

‘There have been certain developments,’ the Home Secretary said without looking up.‘We felt they should be discussed.’

‘Declan Leary’s been arrested,’ Parker interjected. ‘He’s in police custody in Belfast right now. They got him two days ago.’

‘He wants to deal,’ Pressman added. ‘Presently he’s looking at life for his part in recent Real IRA activities. He says he has information that would be valuable to the security forces. He’s willing to trade that information for a lighter sentence. The Prime Minister is prepared to listen to a plea for clemency in view of the way the peace talks in Northern Ireland are progressing.’

Doyle considered each man carefully and silently.

‘As you know there are many IRA victims hidden in secret graves in both the Six Counties and the Republic,’ Parker continued. ‘Some dating back over fifteen years. Leary’s prepared to reveal the whereabouts of ten of these graves in exchange for leniency. That’s the deal he’s proposing.’

‘Naturally the Provisionals are anxious to prevent him revealing information of this kind,’ Pressman said. ‘Our latest intelligence reports indicate that they have sanctioned one, possibly two, of their own men to eliminate Leary before any of this information can be disclosed.’

Doyle looked at each of the men then snorted. ‘So fucking what?’ he said.

‘What’s any of that got to do with me? I don’t work for this organisation any more, remember? You threw me out.’ He began to get to his feet.

‘Doyle, wait,’ Parker said, raising a hand.

‘We have a proposition to put to you,’ Pressman added.

Doyle reached for a cigarette and lit it.‘I’m all fucking ears,’ he spat.

‘Full reinstatement in the Counter Terrorist Unit,’ Parker told him.

Doyle shook his head. ‘Fuck you,’ he said. ‘Both of you.’

‘Full reinstatement,’ Parker pressed. ‘You’d be back on active service within twenty-four hours.’

‘Leary needs protection,’ Pressman told him. ‘We’re not sure that the RUC are equipped to offer it to the degree necessary. You are. Besides, I’m not prepared to risk the number of officers that could be involved in this operation.’

Doyle drew slowly on the cigarette then blew out a stream of smoke. ‘So what are you saying?’ he said finally. ‘I go back to work for the CTU just so I can hold the hand of some cunt who tried to kill me?’

‘You’re the best equipped operative for this job, Doyle,’ Pressman told him.

‘Bollocks. I’m expendable.That’s my best qualification.’

‘So, what’s your answer?’ Parker asked. As he spoke he slipped his hand into one of the drawers of his desk and pulled something out. He dropped it on to the polished wood in front of Doyle.

It was a slim leather wallet.

Doyle recognised it. He picked it up and flipped it open.

His ID.

‘In or out?’ Parker persisted.

Doyle slipped the wallet into his jacket pocket. There’s one condition. I pick my own back-up team.’

‘There are many capable agents in the organisation that you can work with and—’ Pressman began.

‘Fuck that,’ snapped Doyle, cutting him short. ‘My people or forget it. You can start digging the hole for Leary now.’

Pressman nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said stiffly. ‘But they’d better be reliable, Doyle.’

Doyle got to his feet. ‘Trust me,’ he smiled.

IMAGES AND IMAGININGS

Ward sat watching the tape, his hands clasped together as if in prayer.

Forty minutes of his empty desk then the picture began to break up. He guessed that was when the battery had begun to lose power.