He guessed that the car must have run over the unfortunate cyclist's legs but, right now, all that concerned him was that the road was blocked.
The road was blocked. The pavement was clogged with morbid fuckers trying to get a look at the victim.
Doyle had to get around this diversion.
He hurried across the road, Lisa now gazing across at the crowd, who reminded Doyle of carrion birds, waiting around for anything interesting. Waiting to pick over the road-kill.
Maybe a bomb in amongst those rubber-necking bastards wouldn't be a bad idea.
He tried to suck in more stale air but couldn't. He put Lisa down and stood still for a second, head spinning, hair plastered to the back of his neck. He coughed, hawked and propelled a lump of mucus on to the pavement.
Lisa looked at him as if he'd just breathed fire.
'Come on,' Doyle said breathlessly, grabbing her hand. 'Show me how fast you can run.'
She managed a smile and they set off, her little legs keeping pace with his longer ones.
They were practically at Cambridge Circus. He could see the phone boxes across the road but the traffic coming from their right was swift and heavy.
Doyle stood with his hands on his hips, waiting for a gap in the endless stream of vehicles.
He managed a glance at his watch.
'Come on, for Christ's sake,' he whispered anxiously, the breath catching in his throat.
Time was almost up.
He coughed again.
The lights at the Circus were changing.
Amber.
He picked Lisa up once more.
Red.
Doyle ran across the road with as much speed as he could muster, put Lisa down and headed straight for the phones.
There were three of them.
One was already ringing.
Had it just started?
And ringing.
He reached the first one and picked it up.
Dead line.
The ringing continued.
How many fucking rings is that?
He snatched at the second.
'Doyle,' he gasped into it but then realised that there was only buzzing at the other end.
Then the ringing stopped.
'Oh Christ!' he gasped, slumping against the phone box.
The third phone rang.
Doyle grabbed the receiver and pressed it to his ear.
'Neville, listen to me,' he panted.
'Five rings, Doyle,' Neville said. 'I said five.'
'You were early,' Doyle rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
'No. You were late. Firework time.'
'No, Neville, you bastard, don't-' Doyle bellowed into the handset.
The line was dead.
6.29 P.M.
Doyle stood still, hands on thighs, bent forward at the waist, sucking in lungfuls of air.
Lisa watched him, her eyes drawn to the scar on his left cheek.
She took a step towards him, mesmerised by the old wound, wanting to touch it, to trace the outline of the mark which ran from his eye to his jaw.
'Does that hurt?'
'What?' Doyle managed, perspiration dripping from his chin, splashing on the pavement at his feet.
'That,' Lisa persisted and touched the scar.
Doyle gripped her wrist gently and held her, looking into her eyes.
Lisa looked fearful, then Doyle released her, even managed a small smile.
'It doesn't hurt,' he said softly.
It did when it first happened.
'It happened a long time ago,' he continued.
How long? Five years? Ten?
He straightened up.
Who fucking cared?
As Doyle pulled the mobile phone from the back pocket of his jeans it rang.
'Doyle, are you OK?' said the voice and he recognised it immediately as belonging to Calloway.
'I didn't make it in time.'
'We know that. Another bomb went off about thirty seconds ago.'
'Oh Christ. Where?'
'Baker Street, close to Madame Tussauds. We don't know the extent of the damage or the casualties yet.'
'Shit,' Doyle hissed.
'What happened?' Calloway asked. 'How come you didn't get to the phone in time?'
Doyle thought about hurling the phone away then decided against it.
'Do you want to come and do this? You're lucky it didn't happen earlier.'
'What about the next set of instructions?'
'I haven't had them. He hung up, then detonated the bomb.'
'Where are you now?'
'Cambridge Circus, outside the Palace Theatre.'
The third phone rang again.
Doyle snatched it up and pressed it to his ear.
'You're still there,' said Neville. 'I had a feeling you might be, waiting for your next set of orders.'
'You don't give me orders, Neville. Nobody does,' Doyle snarled.
'As long as I've got the Semtex, I give the orders, Mister Counter Terrorist.' Neville chuckled. 'It is ironic, isn't it? All those years chasing the IRA, while I was chasing them too. Now you're chasing me. Makes you laugh, doesn't it?'
'I'm pissing myself.'
Holding the mobile phone away from him, Doyle could still hear Calloway's voice but it sounded so distant now, swallowed up by the din of traffic. He switched off the mobile and returned his attention to Neville.
'Whatever the fuck you want, get on with it,' he said irritably.
'You know what I want.'
'Yeah, and I'm getting sick of hearing about it.'
'Tough. This game goes on for as long as I want it to.'
'Until eight o'clock, you mean. The big one,' said Doyle. 'Or are you full of shit?'
'What do you think, Doyle?'
'I think you're fucking dead when I find you.'
'Shut up and listen. Liverpool Street station, public phones on the concourse close to WH Smith. You've got
