know it isn't some extremist faction on either side?'
'The bullets they dug out of the men that were shot had Neville's fingerprints on them,' Wetherby explained. 'Some cartridge cases were found by the Gardai at the scene of a shooting in the Republic. They had his prints on too.'
'And the bombings? How can you be sure he was responsible for those? He's not the only geezer out there who knows how to use Semtex.'
'Forensic reports by the RUC and Army Intelligence found evidence that Neville-'
'What kind of evidence?'
'You sound as if you're trying to defend him,' Wetherby said.
'You could be wrong,' Doyle snapped.
'We're not,' Wetherby assured him.
Doyle tossed the file back in the officer's direction.
'So what the fuck do you want me to do?'
'Find Neville, before the IRA, the UVF, the media or all three find out the truth.'
'And if I do find him?'
'Kill him.'
Doyle regarded the officer coldly. 'Just like that?' he said softly.
'You've done it before, Doyle. Don't tell me you're going soft,' Wetherby chided. 'How many men have you killed? Twenty? Thirty?'
'This is different.'
'Why?'
'The others weren't British soldiers,' Doyle snarled.
'What difference does that make?' Wetherby snorted. 'It's one man's life. We're talking about a country here, Doyle. Over three thousand people have died since 1969. Half of the people involved don't even know why. Now, after all those deaths, there's peace. That peace can't be destroyed. Not at any cost. Neville is threatening that peace. He has to be removed. If not, all the deaths, all the sacrifices, the talking, it'll have been for nothing. We can't let one man jeopardise that.'
'Save the fucking sermons, Wetherby,' Doyle rasped.
'You've suffered enough yourself,' the officer continued. 'Don't you want it finished?'
Doyle didn't answer.
He reached for a cigarette and lit it.
'You said there was nothing left for you, Doyle,' the Major reminded him. 'Look on this job as a swan song. A last shot. You're right. There is nothing left.'
'And what if I refuse?'
'You won't,' said Wetherby, smugly. 'Two days, Doyle.'
Doyle snatched up the file on Neville and headed for the door.
'You're right, Wetherby,' he said, pausing as he turned the handle. 'I'm nothing without the fighting, maybe that's how Neville feels too; perhaps that's why I don't want to kill him, because I understand how he feels. The difference between you and me is that I might be nothing when all this is over but you, you'll be a nothing for the rest of your fucking life. You've always been nothing and that's the way it'll stay.'
And he was gone, the door slamming behind him.
8.04 A.M.
'Who's in there with him?'
Doyle took a drag on his cigarette, his eyes fixed on number ten London Road.
From the single window of the Portacabin it was clearly visible, as were the dozens of uniformed policemen who had taken up position around it, some as close as the pavement. They were using parked cars as cover.
The Portacabin was about twelve feet long, half that in width and, despite the fact that it contained just three men other than Doyle, it seemed crowded inside. Somehow a small table had been brought in and upon that a map of the area and several files had been laid out.
A uniformed man stood at the door, removing his cap to run a hand across his bald head.
Doyle wasn't sure of his rank but guessed he must be fairly high up in the pecking order.
The other two occupants of the Portacabin were plain-clothes. Both of them, the counter terrorist guessed, three or four years older than himself. The first of them was an overweight, dark-haired man who looked as if he hadn't shaved for a week. His companion, DI Vic Calloway, was taller, thicknecked and sporting a nose which looked as if it had been flattened with a frying pan.
Calloway's more portly assistant, who was sipping tea from a Styrofoam cup, seemed more interested in Doyle than in number ten London Road. Detective Sergeant Colin Mason wondered who the hell this long-haired newcomer was and, more to the point, what business he had here. Mason stuck the tip of his tongue into the cavity which had formed in one of his back teeth and wondered how much longer he could avoid a trip to the dentist. The fucking thing was starting to ache.
The uniformed man seemed to tire of standing at the door and wandered out into the road, closing the door behind him.
'I said, who's in there with him?' Doyle repeated, looking at Calloway.
'Just his wife and kid as far as we know,' the DI said, reaching for his own tea, sipping it, wincing when he found it was cold.
'Julie and Lisa Neville,' Doyle murmured.
Calloway nodded.
'Has he made any contact with you?' Doyle enquired. 'Any demands?'
'Not yet,' Mason replied. 'What makes you think he will?'
'He's taken his wife and kid hostage, I think it's safe to assume he wants something,' Doyle said sardonically.
'Like what?' Calloway snapped. 'You're the expert, aren't you? You're supposed to know all about him.'
'How come the Counter Terrorist Unit is involved anyway?' Mason echoed. 'What makes Robert Neville so interesting to your lot?'
'I've followed him halfway across fucking Ireland during the last thirty-six hours,' Doyle snapped. 'I was the one who tracked him here.'
'Then why didn't you call us?' Calloway said angrily.
'Because Neville's my business.'
'Not now he's not,' the DI insisted.
'Why were you chasing him anyway?' Mason wanted to know.
'That's classified,' Doyle said dismissively.
'Fuck off, Doyle,' Mason snorted. 'Who do you think you are, James Bond?'
'I know who I am,' Doyle rasped. 'And I've got a pretty good idea what you are too, you fat cunt.'
'I don't have to take that shit off him,' Mason shouted at his superior. 'Long-haired, scruffy fucker.'
Doyle smiled, watching as Mason's face turned a deep shade of crimson.
'Both of you, just knock it on the head, will you?' Calloway snapped.
'Tell fucking Pavarotti to calm down then,' Doyle said, still smiling.
He and Mason locked stares.
Calloway looked at each of them in turn.
'Finished, children?' he said irritably.
The other two remained silent.
'Right, now let's get down to work, shall we?' the DI continued. 'How much do you know about Neville, Doyle?'
'What do you want to know?'
'Why you were chasing him would be a help.'
