Knife Edge

ERADICATION

Portadown, Northern Ireland

'Bullshit. '

Doyle looked directly at Wetherby as he spoke the word.

'His name is Robert Neville,' the Intelligence officer said, pushing a file towards the counter terrorist. 'Corporal Robert Neville, a para. Age thirty-eight, married with a daughter. Enlisted March fourteenth 1977. Joined the Paratroop Regiment and came through the training with the highest marks of anyone in the same batch of new recruits. He subsequently specialised in explosives.'

Doyle had begun to read the file, scanning the pieces of paper there.

'Wounded four times,' Wetherby continued. 'Recommended for promotion to Sergeant in January 1993.' There was a photo of Neville amongst the reports. Doyle studied it.

Neville had a square face, his jaw flat, his ears tight to his head. His hair was short as Doyle would have expected. Dark and lustrous. A faint smile was distinguishable on the paratrooper's lips. A small scar ran from the corner of his mouth to his chin.

'There's a psych report in there too,' Wetherby told Doyle. 'But as far as anyone can tell, he's no crazier than anyone else in the army. '

'How can you be so sure he's responsible for these killings?' Doyle asked, his tone subdued. 'How do you 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.