‘Full reinstatement in the Counter Terrorist Unit,’ Parker told him.
Doyle shook his head. ‘Fuck you,’ he said. ‘Both of you.’
‘Full reinstatement,’ Parker pressed. ‘You’d be back on active service within twenty-four hours.’
‘Leary needs protection,’ Pressman told him. ‘We’re not sure that the RUC are equipped to offer it to the degree necessary. You are. Besides, I’m not prepared to risk the number of officers that could be involved in this operation.’
Doyle drew slowly on the cigarette then blew out a stream of smoke. ‘So what are you saying?’ he said finally. ‘I go back to work for the CTU just so I can hold the hand of some cunt who tried to kill me?’
‘You’re the best equipped operative for this job, Doyle,’ Pressman told him.
‘Bollocks. I’m expendable.That’s my best qualification.’
‘So, what’s your answer?’ Parker asked. As he spoke he slipped his hand into one of the drawers of his desk and pulled something out. He dropped it on to the polished wood in front of Doyle.
It was a slim leather wallet.
Doyle recognised it. He picked it up and flipped it open.
His ID.
‘In or out?’ Parker persisted.
Doyle slipped the wallet into his jacket pocket. There’s one condition. I pick my own back-up team.’
‘There are many capable agents in the organisation that you can work with and—’ Pressman began.
‘Fuck that,’ snapped Doyle, cutting him short. ‘My people or forget it. You can start digging the hole for Leary now.’
Pressman nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said stiffly. ‘But they’d better be reliable, Doyle.’
Doyle got to his feet. ‘Trust me,’ he smiled.
IMAGES AND IMAGININGS
Ward sat watching the tape, his hands clasped together as if in prayer.
Forty minutes of his empty desk then the picture began to break up. He guessed that was when the battery had begun to lose power.
He exhaled deeply, eyes still on the screen. There was something dark in one corner of the picture.
He moved nearer the television set, trying to get a better view. He still couldn’t see.
He hit the pause button and tried to study the still frame more closely.
What was the dark shape? He tried to run his index finger around it. To trace the outline.
He re-wound the tape slightly. Moved it on frame by frame. One second an empty office, the next, the dark shape looming over his chair. Unformed. Somehow intangible.
He saw an oval shape at the top of it. Then it broadened. There was another thinner strand to one side.
Ward re-wound again. Watched again. And again.
The shape … Jesus Christ. It was a shadow. The oval shape was a head. The broader part the torso. The thinner strand an arm.
A shadow. His own?
The tape had run out after forty-odd minutes. He had blacked out around 1.55.
And … and what?
He’d blacked out. On the sofa. Inside the house. If that was the case then the shadow could not be his.
So what did he have before him? A benevolent and very creative burglar? A figure who crept into his office every night and wrote thirty pages for him?
He turned over the possibilities in his mind.
If the blackout, and others like it that he’d been experiencing, were manifesting themselves as some form of short-term memory loss then that might be an explanation. He passed out. Lost consciousness, or at least his grip on the consciousness that he knew and then he worked. Simple.
Ward shook his head. The writing had taken place between 2.00 and 5.00. It was physically impossible to complete thirty pages in less time than that. Wasn’t it?
He studied the shadow once more. It was that of a man. Wasn’t it? If not a man then what?
Ward ran a hand through his hair. Perhaps he was closer to insanity than he thought.
It was his own shadow. There was no other logical explanation for it.
He would try the camcorder again that night. The answer was there somewhere.
And he had to find it.
It had taken Doyle less time than he’d thought to persuade Mel and Hendry to join him. He had also encountered less opposition from Brian Cartwright than he’d expected. The head of Cartwright Security had agreed to release two of his most valued employees with a minimum of fuss.
As for William Duncan and his wife, they were no longer Doyle’s concern. As he sat in the back of the car watching the all-too-familiar Belfast landmarks passing him, his mind was focused on just one thing. Declan Leary.
Almost unconsciously the counter terrorist touched his thigh, remembering where Leary’s knife had penetrated. He massaged it through his faded jeans.
The leather of his jacket creaked as he moved.
Beside him Mel was also dressed in jeans.They were tucked into black suede boots that reached to her knees. Her short, black jacket was undone to reveal a tight, white T-shirt, and the strap of her shoulder holster was visible as she moved.
Hendry brought the car to a halt and prepared to get out but Doyle put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Stay here, Joe,’ he said. This won’t take long.’
‘What about me?’ Me! wanted to know.
‘Come in with me.’
Mel nodded and clambered out of the car behind him.
The two of them walked unchallenged through the police station, Doyle merely flipping his ID at whoever moved to stop them.
As he drew nearer the room he sought, a large figure emerged from an office nearby.
Chief Inspector Peter Robinson looked quizzically at Doyle for a moment then at Mel.
‘You got my call,’ Doyle said. ‘I want to see Leary.’
There’s no one with him,’ Robinson answered.‘Help yourself. Just hit the four-digit code on the key pad beside the door.’
Doyle nodded.
‘Do you need me in there with you?’ Mel asked.
‘If you want to come in that’s fine. Otherwise you can watch through there.’
He nodded in the direction of the open doorway to the office next to the interview room. There was a two- way mirror stretching the length of the wall.
Through it he could see Declan Leary.
‘Time to renew old acquaintances,’ said Doyle and jabbed the four digits into the key pad.
The interview-room door opened with a hydraulic hiss and Doyle stepped inside.
The room smelt of stale cigarettes and coffee, and contained a wooden table and two chairs.
Leary looked up as Doyle entered, his eyes narrowing.
Yeah, recognise me, do you, you bastard? I’m the one who killed your fucking mate and almost got you too.
‘Declan Leary,’ Doyle said, a faint smile on his lips.
‘Do I know you?’ the Irishman said, uninterestedly.
‘We’ve met. Briefly. How’s your sister?’
Leary looked puzzled.
‘Good-looking girl as I remember,’ Doyle persisted.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I’m your babysitter. I work for the CounterTerrorist Unit.’
Leary grunted dismissively. ‘Am I supposed to be impressed?’ he muttered.
