He gripped his rifle more tightly and swallowed hard, aware that his heart was beating that little bit faster now.
McBride spoke into his mouthpiece, replying to a question or query he'd received through his headphones. Clark saw him flick a switch to his right, saw a red light flicker on and wondered momentarily if something was wrong, but he noted with relief that the light quickly flickered off again.
'Yeah, I got it, Trafalgar Square,' Butler repeated. 'Out.'
Clark noticed that there were several beads of sweat on the other policeman's brow but he fancied they were there because of his companion's fear of flying.
Unlike the leaden feeling he felt in his own gut.
Fear?
The plain-clothes guy following Doyle says they're heading towards Trafalgar Square,' Butler repeated.
Clark nodded.
'And Neville?' McBride enquired.
Butler could only shrug. 'Wherever Doyle is, Neville will be close.'
'I hope you're right,' Clark murmured, his face pale.
'Are you OK?' Butler asked him.
Clark nodded.
'I hope I can do it when the time comes,' he said, swallowing.
'Do what?' Butler wanted to know.
'Shoot Neville,' Clark told him. 'I've never fired at a man before. Never killed anyone.'
'I felt cold afterwards,' Butler said, looking at his own rifle, memories dancing behind his eyes. 'Like I was sitting out in a snow storm.' He shrugged. 'I couldn't stop shaking for about an hour afterwards.'
'You've killed a man?'
'About eleven months ago, over in Bermondsey,' Butler elaborated, his voice soft. 'Some nutter went apeshit with a kitchen knife, stabbed his wife and a friend of hers and took them hostage. The friend bled to death before we could reach her. He'd cut her throat. He had a gun in the house too, just some fucking old Luger, Christ knows where he got it. He managed to get off a couple of rounds then he ran for it. He ran straight at me. I shot him.'
Clark looked intently at his colleague.
'Caught him in the chest,' Butler continued. 'There wasn't even much blood. He didn't make a sound. Didn't go flying backwards like they do in films; that's all bullshit. He just looked surprised. Then he fell on to his face. He was dead before they got him into the ambulance.' Butler exhaled deeply. 'Like I said, I just felt so bloody cold. I got a commendation for that.' He chuckled but there was no humour in the sound.
The helicopter banked sharp right then began to descend very slowly.
Clark glanced at his companion then at his watch.
Both men checked their rifles.
7.28 P.M.
'Where are we going?'
Doyle heard Lisa speak but the words didn't seem to register.
He glanced towards Nelson's Column, which was, as usual, surrounded by tourists. The pavement was thick with pigeons, the continual flapping of t heir wings sounding like some unearthly round of applause. One of the birds waddled across Doyle's path until a small child came bounding out of a huddle of tourists nearby and chased it away.
Doyle glanced at the child, who promptly ran back to the welcoming arms of its mother.
He could hear the sound of the fountains in Trafalgar Square and, as he looked again, he saw two people sitting on the low stone wall around one of them, feet dipped into the water.
Close by, another couple were tossing pieces of bread to an ever-increasing multitude of pigeons.
Cameras were clicking. He could hear laughter.
He felt Lisa's hand pulling at his.
'Where are we going? I'm tired.'
'We're nearly there,' he said, pulling her along with him when she slowed down.
Nearly there.
Was it nearly over? Really over?
Would Neville be waiting or would it be as Doyle planned? Would he be a moment or two ahead of the ex- para? Would he have time to pick his ground?
He almost smiled to himself.
How many times had he done this?
How many times had he walked or driven towards a place where he knew he might lose his life?
He didn't know. Didn't care.
If death awaited him then so be it. He had no fear of death.
A man he'd once met had told him that death held no fear for someone who had nothing to live for.
Doyle had killed that man but he'd agreed with the sentiment. And for him, personally, there was nothing left.
Neville could be waiting for him now at the appointed place, fixed by Doyle himself.
The ex-para would try anything to get his daughter back.
Doyle had to ensure it did not end that way.
He must get Neville.
He would.
He didn't give a fuck about the bombs and the lost lives, or how many more would die. This was personal. He'd been ordered to kill Neville and he would.
Are your orders so important?
Doyle looked down at Lisa as they crossed the road.
Will you shoot her father down before her eyes?
The counter terrorist told himself that Neville wasn't even her father.
Who fucking cared?
She wouldn't know that.
As they crossed the road, Doyle found himself slowing his pace slightly. It was as if he wanted to delay the final confrontation as long as possible. He felt no fear. He knew that Neville would not kill him. He'd try but Doyle knew that once he had the expara in his sights there would be only one outcome. And even if he did die, he'd still make fucking sure he took Neville with him.
So why delay?
Perhaps Neville was right. Perhaps they were alike. Mirror images of the same man with the same feelings, the same beliefs. The same needs.
Bollocks.
Doyle slipped a hand inside his jacket and felt the bulk of the Beretta there. As he walked he could feel the. 45 PD Star bumping against his boot, secure in the ankle holster.
'Remember what I told you,' he said, looking down at Lisa. 'Stay close to me. Don't try and run.'
'Am I going to see my dad now?'
Doyle nodded and kept walking, eyes now alert, scanning faces, darting back and forth for the first sight of Neville.
He looked at his watch.
They crossed the road beneath Admiralty Arch and Doyle glanced up the Mall towards Buckingham Palace.
He had no idea from which direction Neville would arrive.
All he knew for sure was that he would come.
