‘Does it smell sweet?’ Doyle snapped. ‘Like marzipan?’
Like fucking Semtex.
Mel shook her head.
‘What’s in the fucking box?’ Doyle said, his gaze still fixed on the terrified delivery man.
‘I don’t know,’ he answered breathlessly. ‘I’m only supposed to deliver what—’
‘Did you bring that from the main sorting office?’
The postman nodded.
Doyle moved closer, the barrel of the Beretta still aimed at the man’s head.
‘What do you want to do?’ Mel said, kneeling beside the package.
‘Is there a sender’s address on it?’ Doyle wanted to know.
‘No.’
Doyle took a step nearer then glanced at the postman.
‘Go on, piss off, Postman Pat,’ he snapped.
The relieved man clambered behind the wheel of the van and drove off, the vehicle disappearing down
the drive considerably faster than it had approached.
Doyle holstered the automatic and looked first at the box then at Mel.
Her gaze was fixed on the package.
‘What do you want to do?’ she said again.
Doyle knelt beside the box too, scanning every inch of it for any tell-tale signs of something amiss.
Come on, you’re the fucking expert You’ve seen bombs close up before. Very close. Close enough to put you in hospital.
‘If it is a bomb and it’s on a timer then there’s no way of knowing when it might go off,’ he said. ‘If whoever sent it can detonate it by remote then they could be watching us now. They could set it off whenever they like.’ He looked at Mel who merely nodded.
‘We don’t know that it is a bomb,’ she said, as if trying to find reassurance in her own words.
‘No, you’re right. And there’s only one way to find out if it is or not. Open it’
Wait, let’s think about this logically.’ Mel stood up, her eyes never leaving the package.
‘When it comes to bombs, there isn’t much logic involved,’ Doyle told her standing up too. ‘They go off and people die. It’s pretty simple.’
‘And if we open that box and there are explosives inside then we die.’
‘I’ll do it, Mel. Just make sure that Mrs Duncan stays inside and you stay with her.’
‘Doyle, you can’t do that.’
He had already picked up the box and was walking across the drive towards the carefully manicured lawn.
‘Get inside the house,’ he shouted.
‘Just leave it.’
‘And what if it is a bomb and it is on a timer?’ He shook his head. ‘Get inside.’
She hesitated a moment longer then stepped back into the house and closed the front door.
Doyle continued across the lawn. A hundred yards from the house. He kept walking. Two hundred.
‘Can you hear me, Mel?’ he said, setting the box down.
Two hundred and fifty yards. That should do it Even if the fucking box is full of explosive then the house won’t suffer any damage.
They’ll only need a matchbox to bury you in too if it goes off.
‘Mel?’ he repeated.
‘I can hear you, Doyle,’ she said through his earpiece.
He looked back in the direction of the house.Then the former counter terrorist regarded the object intently.
Fairly light Nothing rattling about Whatever was inside was either packed in something or secured to one side of the box. A couple of ounces of Semtex would be enough to destroy a car.
The box was sealed with masking tape.
‘How are you going to open it?’ Mel’s voice sounded loud in his ear.
‘Very fucking carefully,’ he murmured, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small penknife.
Come on. Get it over with. If it’s going to blow, it’s going to blow.
Doyle rested the blade against the tape and swallowed hard. He drew the cutting edge along the masking tape as slowly as he could, the blade slicing the tape easily.
‘I’m opening it,’ he said into the pin-mike.
Just like old times.
He dropped the penknife back into his pocket and slid his thumbs beneath the flaps of the box. With infinite slowness he began to raise them.
If there’s a trigger attached you’ll know about it pretty soon.
The flaps opened a little more. Doyle continued to raise them.
There was a smell coming from inside the box. It was rancid. Not the marzipan scent of plastic explosive. This was more pungent.
He wrinkled his nose as he opened the box wider.
There was tissue paper inside.
Doyle frowned. As he removed some of it he saw that the sheets further down were spotted with blood.
There was something at the bottom of the box. Something wrapped in sodden, red tissue paper.
Doyle retrieved the penknife and used the tip of the blade to remove the last few sheets. He gazed down at the contents of the package.
‘It’s not a bomb,’ he said quietly.
Thank God,’ Mel murmured. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m bringing the box inside. I think Mrs Duncan should see this.’
CAUGHT ON CAMERA
Ward had bought the video camera in New York about eight or nine years ago. In the days when money was no object.
Now he set it up in one corner of the office, squinting through the viewfinder until he was satisfied that the cyclopean machine was trained on his desk. He readjusted the focus once again then pressed the red record button.
The tape inside the machine was a ninety-minute one. He’d return in an hour and a half and replace it. Check out what was on the first one.
He locked the office door behind him as he left.
It was 9.15 p.m.
PHOTOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE
10.50 p.m.
Ward got to his feet and made his way swiftly through the house to the back door. He paused for a moment, looking at the office.
In the darkness it seemed a hundred yards away. Almost invisible in the impenetrable gloom.
He made his way quickly along the path that connected the house to his place of work. His hand was shaking as he pushed the key into its lock and turned it.
Ward climbed the stairs and glanced at the monitor. It was blank. There were no pages overflowing from the printer.
He moved to the camcorder and checked the battery. There was still some power left in it. The tape had run out. He had a full ninety minutes to view.
But ninety minutes of what? Empty air?
As he took the camera from its tripod he wondered what he was really expecting to see on the tape.
He retreated back into the house and connected the necessary leads and wires from the camcorder to the television. Then he sat back on the sofa and pressed the play button.
