Hatcher hesitated a second, transfixed by those blue orbs which had been so hesitant to focus on him earlier but which now seemed to burn right through him.
'Yes,' he said finally, hoping that he'd injected the right amount of sincerity into his voice.
She smiled.
'Thank you for coming in, ' she said in a practised tone before she turned away and walked back towards the lift.
Hatcher nodded towards his driver who was already on his feet and heading for the exit doors which he pushed open for the MP.
The two men stepped out onto the pavement.
'How long before the next interview, Frank?'
The driver looked at his watch. 'An hour and a half,' he said, as he opened the back door of the Mercedes for Hatcher to slip inside.
'Stop off somewhere on the way,' the MP told him. 'We'll get a sandwich and a drink, shall we?'
The driver smiled, closed the door and hurried around to the other side, pausing a moment as a van passed by close to the Mercedes.
Hatcher reached into his inside pocket and glanced at his itinerary for the day, squinting at the small print, muttering to himself as he had to retrieve his glasses from the glove compartment.
Forty-six years old, eyesight going. What was next? The hair?
He smiled and flipped open the compartment.
It was then that the car exploded.
The blast was massive, violent enough to lift the Mercedes fully ten feet into the air, the rear of the vehicle flipping over slightly.
The driver was blasted off his feet by the detonation, hurled into the street by the concussion blast.
The Mercedes disappeared for a second, transformed into a blinding ball of yellow and white flame, pieces of the chassis hurtling in all directions before the remains of the vehicle thudded back to the ground, one wheel spinning off.
Cars screeched to a halt in the street, and one of the security guards from the BBC building ran to the door shielding his face from the flames, which were dancing madly around the obliterated remnants of the car.
He saw something glinting near his feet, something hurled fully twenty feet by the ferocity of the explosion.
It took him a second to realise that it was a wrist watch.
A moment longer to grasp the fact that it was still wrapped around what was left of William Hatcher's left arm.
7.26 A.M.
Doyle knew he may as well be dead.
Perhaps if he'd had the guts he'd pull one of the pistols he wore, stick the fucking barrel in his mouth and finish it here and now.
End of story.
He flicked through the paper again.
He'd read the print off the fucking thing once. He could remember every headline, every pointless story. It was the usual bullshit. Politics. Gossip. Exclusives.
The country was recovering from the recession.
Bollocks.
Some tart from a TV soap was marrying a talentless one-hit wonder who'd just had a number one record.
Bollocks.
A celebrity was confessing how drink and drugs had almost wrecked his career but now he was cleaning up his life.
Bollocks.
Doyle tossed the paper to one side.
It was all shit.
Life was shit.
There had been a story in there about the peace in Ireland, mention of a United Ireland. An end to the troubles.
Doyle took a drag on his cigarette.
After all these years it was actually over.
Wasn't it?
So where does that leave you?
Doyle had even heard rumours that the Counter Terrorist Unit was to be disbanded. It was superfluous to requirements now. Its members were to be pensioned off. Discarded.
He sighed.
What the fuck was he going to do?
It was all he knew. All he'd known for so many years. Where did he go from here? What did life have to offer him now that the fighting was finished?
It was something he'd considered briefly and, each time, the realisation had troubled him.
He was finished without it and that only angered him more.
Retire at thirty-seven. Sit on your arse and count your scars. Sit in your flat and go slowly insane until the day came when the only course of action was to suck on the barrel of a. 44.
Over the last twenty years he'd faced death so often, risked his life more than any man should have to, but the prospect of that final ending had never frightened him. For the last eight years, since Georgie had gone, it had seemed preferable to the emptiness, the loneliness.
Doyle had never been afraid of dying but the thought of being discarded, of having outlived his usefulness, was almost unbearable.
There was something inside him, a cancerous rage which gnawed at him and found appeasement in the violence of his work. With that work gone he could see little future. Could see no way of fighting off that anger which both fuelled him and fed off him.
Better off dead than discarded.
He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray then pulled it free and emptied the contents out of the side window, all over the road.
His back ached.
It felt as if he'd been sitting in the car for hours and, again, he checked his watch, as if by constantly gazing at the Sekonda he would accelerate time itself.
There were still no lights on in number ten London Road.
The only movement was outside.
The sky was still dark, still mottled with bloated rain clouds.
Every now and then droplets would hit the windscreen and Doyle watched them trickle down the glass.
He lit up another cigarette then leaned forward and turned up the volume of the car stereo.
'… all of the people who won't be missed, you've made my shitlist…'
A car drove past but Doyle hardly heard the engine above the thundering stereo.
There were fewer vehicles heading down the street now and he wondered if the road had finally been closed at either end but decided that wasn't the right tactic.
Things had to look relatively normal outside to anyone peering into the street.
A white van approaching from behind him, moving slowly. Doyle watched it in his rear-view mirror, counted two people in the front. A man was driving, a woman seated next to him was pointing.
The counter terrorist squinted in the gloom and noticed that she was gesturing in the direction of number
