You’re not going to make it.
He was fifty yards from the road now.
‘Stay out of the church,’ he shouted into the phone as he ran. There was still a deafening hiss of static.
‘Mel,’ he roared.
Thirty yards. ‘Mel, can you hear me?’
‘Breaking up … to go in now …’
Twenty yards. ‘Don’t go inside the church,’ Doyle bellowed frantically.
‘Off now … call you back … Leary was talking about …’
Ten yards. He crashed through the hedge, almost sprawled on to the road.
‘Mel, keep away from the church,’ he shouted.
There was no sound at the other end.
Doyle switched off. Dialled again. Waited.
‘Come on. Come on.’
No answer. He tried Hendry’s phone. It rang twice.
‘Answer it,’ Doyle snarled, his eyes bulging madly.
‘Yeah.’
‘Joe, get out of there now. It’s a set-up.’
‘What?’ Hendry said, his voice echoing.
They must be inside the church.
‘Leary’s fucked us over. The crypt is booby-trapped. Don’t open it,’ Doyle gasped.
He heard Mel’s voice in the background. Something unintelligible.
There was a creak. A sound that almost split his eardrum.
Then silence.
Doyle dropped the mobile back into his pocket and turned back towards the woods. He moved slowly, retracing his steps, his face set in hard lines.The knot of muscles at the side of his jaw was pulsing angrily.
It took him fifteen minutes to reach the place where he’d left Leary. The Irishman was still lying face down, both his legs shattered. It looked as if he’d been dipped in red paint from the knees down.
He walked up to Leary and kicked him hard in the ribs. Hard enough to roll him over on to his back.
Doyle took out his mobile again and dialled a number.
He recognised the voice on the other end. ‘Robinson. It’s Doyle,’ he said quietly.
‘Doyle … can hardly hear you … breaking up,’ the Cl told him.
‘Listen carefully.’
‘What … hell is going on?’ the RUC man wanted to know.‘Been an explosion … church in Whitecross. All hell’s… loose.’
‘I know about the explosion. You’ll find two bodies in the church. My back-up team. Leary double-crossed us.’
‘Where is he?1
‘Here, with me.’
Thank God for that.’
‘I need to ask you something. What was your daughter’s name?’
‘What?’
‘Your daughter? The one who was killed in that bomb blast. What was her name?’
‘Angela. Why?’
‘Next time you go to visit her grave tell her everything’s all right.’
‘Doyle, what … talking about? You’re not making any sense and I can hardly hear you …’
‘I shouldn’t have killed Kane.’
‘Doyle … say again …’
‘I’ll call you back in twenty minutes.’
The counter terrorist switched off the phone. He looked down at Leary impassively.
The Irishman tried to hold his gaze but was forced to close his eyes due to the unbearable pain.
Doyle shot him five times.
He stood there for a moment longer then turned and trudged back towards the road.
LONDON; TWO DAYS LATER:
Sean Doyle held the crystal tumbler in his hand and studied the amber liquid in it before taking a mouthful. The brandy burned its way to his stomach.
‘Perhaps we should have had a toast first,’ said Sir Anthony Pressman, raising his own glass.‘I’ll be the first to admit that your methods are somewhat irregular, Doyle, but they seem to get results.’
Jonathan Parker glanced at Pressman then at Doyle as he sipped his drink.
Sunshine was streaming through the windows of Parker’s office at the CTU’s Hill Street headquarters. Motes of dust turned lazily in the air.
‘Sinn Fein seemed fairly happy with the way you handled Leary,’ said Pressman.
‘I’m glad they approve,’ Doyle said disdainfully.‘l saved them the job of killing him. What did they have to say about the graves he showed us?’
That’s a matter that will have to be discussed in the future,’ Pressman said.
‘Yeah, I bet it fucking will,’ grunted Doyle getting to his feet.
‘Most of those responsible for the murders are no longer associated with that organisation or the Provisional IRA,’ Pressman continued. The recovery of the bodies was a cosmetic exercise anyway. Designed to help the families of the victims as much as anything else. It’s just rather unfortunate about your colleagues.’
‘Shit happens,’ Doyle said flatly, moving towards the door.
Pressman rose too.
‘There’s a message you can give to Sinn Fein when you see them,’ the counter terrorist said. The same one I want to give to you.’
Pressman smiled efficiently.
Doyle caught him with a perfect right hook. The powerful blow knocked the politician off his feet and sent him crashing backwards into the sofa, his nose broken, blood spilling down his perfectly laundered shirt and tie.
‘Get out,’ Parker said quietly.
‘I was on my way,’ Doyle told him.
And he was gone.
THE END
PARTING OF THE WAYS
The end. Ward looked at the two words. To him they may as well have been glowing in neon.
The end.
Who had decided this was the end? When had he completed this novel? This novel he could remember barely a third of.
He swallowed hard and laid the last of the pages on the pile.
It was over.
The book was finished.
As he sat at his desk, he found that his hands were shaking.
AN ALL-SEEING EYE
As before, Ward peered through the viewfinder of the camcorder and trained it on his desk.
The night was humid and more than once he had to wipe the lens with the corner of his handkerchief. Perspiration was running down his back. He could feel it like a clammy sheath on the nape of his neck.
He glanced at his watch. 11.36 p.m.
He took one more look, then satisfied he had done everything he could, he pressed the red record button.
The small cassette began to turn its spools. Ward watched it for a moment then made his way down the stairs. He locked the office door and wandered slowly back towards the house.
