up in smoke, maybe not just this country but the rest of Britain too.'
'You know who's been hitting these fuckers?' Doyle said incredulously. 'Then why don't you do something about it? Why not send in some fucking SAS to sort it out.'
'It's not as simple as that,' Wetherby told him. 'Speed is of the essence but so is secrecy. That's why I chose you for this job.'
'The SAS boys aren't exactly likely to let it slip down the pub, you know, Wetherby,' Doyle told him.
'You wanted some work, Doyle, I'm offering you some,' the Major said irritably. 'You were right, this peace has put you out of a job. With the fighting gone, you're nothing. You need this as much as we need you.'
The counter terrorist held the officer's gaze for long seconds.
'Go on,' he said quietly.
'You've got two days to complete the job.'
'You're fucking joking,' Doyle snorted. 'It could take more than two days to search Belfast, let alone the whole country, these bastards could be anywhere in Ireland, North or South. They could be Protestant or Catholic, IRA or UVF, and you expect me to find them in two days?' He got to his feet. 'Forget it, Wetherby.'
'Two days is plenty of time,' the Major told him. 'We'll tell you where to go, where to pick up the trail, we've got files and as much information as you need.'
'What the fuck is this?' Doyle said quietly, eyes narrowed.
'We know who's behind these killings, I've already told you that. What you have to do is make sure that no one else finds out. It isn't the IRA or the UVF who are responsible for these murders.'
'Then who is?'
'It's a British soldier.'
7.58 A.M.
The daylight was grey, like dirty sheets. Still full of lowering clouds, the sky was a clear warning of things to come.
Doyle watched the rain hitting the windscreen of the Datsun, the rivulets coursing down the glass.
He'd switched off the cassette for the time being and was listening to the news on Radio 5. The draw for the next round of the Coca-Cola Cup was coming up after it and the counter terrorist seemed more concerned with that than what was happening in the world around him.
It was the usual shit.
Just like the papers.
Same shit, different day.
Politics.
Showbiz.
Bullshit.
He looked across at the windows of number ten London Road.
The windows of one of the rooms upstairs were open. Every other set was firmly closed. In the darkness the windows had been uncovered, exposed to the gloom. Now that light was grudgingly filling the sky, it was being shut out. At least from that particular house.
There was a brief mention of number ten London Road on the news.
Doyle looked disdainfully at the radio as if hoping his mood would be transmitted to the newsreader.
It was a short piece.
They didn't have enough information as yet. There would be more bulletins as the day went on.
I bet there will.
With the coming of daylight he could see the entire road.
Both ends had been sealed off now, uniformed police moving around without any pretence of furtiveness. Doyle counted at least twelve men in clear view and he knew there must be more he hadn't yet seen.
Also parked further up the road were two ambulances, a couple of police cars and a large white Transit van with police markings.
Doyle puffed on his cigarette and turned up the volume on the radio as the news came to an end.
The weather forecast was for more rain.
Doyle shuffled uncomfortably in his seat and sat forward slightly as the announcer proclaimed that the draw for the next round was about to take place.
Doyle glanced out of the window and saw men moving about, taking up positions.
He was surprised at how silently it all took place. It was as if the car was hermetically sealed. No sound from outside could penetrate.
He pulled distractedly at the top of one boot as the draw began.
Arsenal would play Spurs.
Doyle continued to watch the policemen, some of them glancing towards the curtained windows of number ten as they moved, swiftly, nervously.
Newcastle would play West Ham.
Still Doyle had seen no movement at any of the windows. He wondered how well the rear of the house was covered. The back garden led down to train tracks; it would be difficult escaping that way.
Watford would play Liverpool.
'Come on, you reds,' he whispered under his breath.
And Manchester United…
Doyle switched off the radio.
Who gave a fuck about that shit?
He shoved a cassette back into the machine and turned up the volume further.
The tap on his side window startled him and he turned to see a uniformed policeman standing there.
The counter terrorist wound down his window.
'Mr Doyle,' said the policeman. 'Will you come with me, please?'
Doyle looked at his watch then at the constable.
'About fucking time,' he snapped and hauled himself out of the car.
Was the waiting over at last?
ERADICATION
Portadown, Northern Ireland
'Bullshit. '
Doyle looked directly at Wetherby as he spoke the word.
'His name is Robert Neville,' the Intelligence officer said, pushing a file towards the counter terrorist. 'Corporal Robert Neville, a para. Age thirty-eight, married with a daughter. Enlisted March fourteenth 1977. Joined the Paratroop Regiment and came through the training with the highest marks of anyone in the same batch of new recruits. He subsequently specialised in explosives.'
Doyle had begun to read the file, scanning the pieces of paper there.
'Wounded four times,' Wetherby continued. 'Recommended for promotion to Sergeant in January 1993.' There was a photo of Neville amongst the reports. Doyle studied it.
Neville had a square face, his jaw flat, his ears tight to his head. His hair was short as Doyle would have expected. Dark and lustrous. A faint smile was distinguishable on the paratrooper's lips. A small scar ran from the corner of his mouth to his chin.
'There's a psych report in there too,' Wetherby told Doyle. 'But as far as anyone can tell, he's no crazier than anyone else in the army. '
'How can you be so sure he's responsible for these killings?' Doyle asked, his tone subdued. 'How do you
