‘I had nothing to do with this, Doyle,’ said the older man.
‘Mr Parker fought for your position,’ said the Home Secretary. ‘He doesn’t want you removed. However, government policy dictates that we cannot tolerate a repetition of what happened in Belfast and your record seems to suggest that there’s a strong possibility of that.’
‘You gutless bastard,’ hissed Doyle, glaring at the politician.‘You’re giving in to them, aren’t you? The IRA. This is another concession you’re making.’
There are certain criteria—’
Doyle cut him short.‘Fuck your criteria,’ he snapped. ‘You’ve got your head so far up Sinn Fein’s arse you’ll be cleaning shit out of your ears for months.Why don’t
you just wave your white flag now and get it over with.’
‘The matter is closed,’ Pressman stated.‘Your career with the Counter Terrorist Unit is over, Doyle.’
‘And you’re going to sit still for this?’ Doyle asked Parker.
‘Mr Parker has little choice, I’m afraid,’ Pressman said, a slight smile on his face. The CTU receives more than ten million pounds a year in government subsidies. The organisation couldn’t operate without that money.’
‘You sold me out to a bunch of fucking politicians,’ Doyle said angrily.
‘I haven’t sold you out to anybody, Doyle,’ Parker replied.‘An example had to be made. Sinn Fein wanted proof of our good faith.’
‘More proof? What are you going to give them next? The names of every agent working undercover in Ireland? You fucking prick.’
‘People are tired of this conflict, Doyle,’ said Pressman. ‘They want an end to it, one way or the other.’
‘What the fuck do you know about people, you’re a politician,’ snapped the counter terrorist.
‘I need your ID and your guns, Doyle,’ Parker said quietly.
Doyle hesitated for a moment then got to his feet. He dug in his pocket for the small leather wallet that contained his ID. For long seconds he held it in
the air then threw it down on Parker’s desk.
‘And your guns,’ the commander said.
‘Forget it,’ Doyle told him. ‘Those are mine.’
‘In case you’d forgotten,’ Pressman cut in, ‘it is now a criminal offence to own a handgun of any calibre larger than .22.’
‘You want the guns then you come and take them,’ Doyle snarled.
He slid his hand inside his jacket and pulled the Beretta from its holster. He worked the slide, chambered a round, then levelled it at the Home Secretary.
‘Come on,’ he said quietly. Take it.’
Pressman paled, his eyes fixed on the barrel of the automatic. He looked as if all the blood had suddenly been drained from his body.
‘I have bodyguards outside,’ he said breathlessly, his eyes widening.
‘Big deal. I’ll empty this magazine into you before they can get that fucking door open.’
‘Doyle, put it down,’ Parker said wearily.
Pressman sat motionless. ‘It’s all you know, isn’t it? Violence.Threats,’ he said, his voice cracking.The country will be better off without men like you, Doyle.’
Doyle took a step towards the politician.
‘You make men like me,’ he growled.
Pressman dropped the file he’d been holding and tried to push himself further back into the chair.
Doyle finally eased the hammer of the automatic down and holstered the weapon.
‘As of now you are officially dismissed from the Counter Terrorist Unit,’
Parker told him.
Doyle looked at him briefly.
‘Stick it,’ he snarled. ‘Stick the whole fucking lot up your arse.’
He moved towards the door then turned and looked at Pressman.
Tell your friends in Sinn Fein you did what they wanted,’ he said. ‘I hope they appreciate it.’
Doyle slammed the door behind him.
‘The man’s psychotic,’ said Pressman, his hands shaking as he reached for his glass of water. ‘I’d go as far as to say he’s insane.’
‘Well, that doesn’t matter any more does it?’ Parker said, looking at Doyle’s discarded ID wallet.
Pressman thought about getting to his feet but his legs were still shaking too much.
‘Fighting the Provos, the Real IRA, Continuity IRA, whatever they call themselves,’ Parker continued. ‘We needed men like Doyle. He was dangerous.
That’s what made him the best.’
That time has passed. His time has passed.’
Parker looked down at the ID once again.
‘I hope to Christ you’re right,’ he said quietly.
THE PHONE CALL
Ward usually unplugged the phone while he was working so that it wouldn’t disturb him. Wouldn’t break his train of thought. It took very little to break his concentration and this meant one less distraction.
However, as very few people rang him these days, he had taken to leaving the contraption alone. So it was a shock when the strident ringing cut through the stillness of the office.
He finished the sentence he was typing then reached for the receiver.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘Chris, it’s me.’
He recognised the voice immediately. Martin Connelly had been his agent for the past five years. A born- and-bred Londoner, Martin was sometimes abrupt, sometimes brusque. There were those who called him rude but he had always done his best for Ward and the two men had a good working relationship.
‘How are you?’ asked Connelly.
T feel like shit. What the hell do you expect?’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘Look, Chris, I won’t beat about the bush. It’s not good news.’
Ward kept his eyes on the screen. On the words he’d just written.
‘They don’t want to know,’ Connelly continued. ‘I’ve tried five publishers and none of them are interested. But that’s not to say that someone—’
‘Fuck them,’ Ward interrupted. ‘Fuck them all.’
‘I can speak to a couple of other people and—’
‘Forget it, Martin,’ Ward said, cutting him short again. ‘It’s over. I know that. I’m going to put the house on the market.’
‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘Don’t I? Then tell me what the fuck I am supposed to do? I’m a writer who no one wants to publish. I write books that no one wants to read. This is all I know. It’s all I’ve ever done. I can’t just say, “Oh, okay then, I’ll pack up writing full time and go back to the day job.” There isn’t a fucking day job.
This is it. This is all there is. And now you’re telling me it’s gone.’
‘There are other things …’
‘No there aren’t. There’s nothing else you can do. Just admit it, Martin.
We’re both fucked. The only difference is you’ve got other clients. You can still collect your twenty per cent from half a dozen other people. I’ve got nothing else.’
Again there was a silence.
‘What did they say?’ Ward finally wanted to know.
‘That sales on the last few books haven’t been good,’ Connelly told him. ‘That their production costs are too high. That they can’t afford to pay you what you want.’
‘Bastards. If they’d given me some fucking support they might have got their money back. Where was the advertising? Where was the fucking publicity?’
