Knife Edge

12.18 P.M.

It reminded Doyle of a mausoleum.

Empty of people, apart from those in uniform, Euston was like some vast, futuristic sepulchre.

The virtual silence only added to the illusion. Doyle could hear the sound of his own boot heels on the concourse as he walked.

Where to begin?

There were so many places Neville could have hidden the bomb. For a start they had no idea of its size or weight, no clue as to where the ex-para might have secreted it. What also worried Doyle was that they had no clue as to what kind of bomb it was.

Radio controlled. Mercury switch. Tremor activated.

Not a fucking clue.

The counter terrorist glanced at his watch.

All they did know was that it would be going off in under fifteen minutes.

The lower levels of the station had already been searched. The dogs had found nothing.

If the bomb was here, it was on the concourse somewhere.

There was a John Menzies shop to his left.

The counter terrorist stepped inside, glancing swiftly around at row after row of books and magazines. The bomb could be behind any of them.

Doyle stuck out a hand and swept the top shelf of books away, scattering them on the floor.

He did the same with the next. And the next.

Five rows of paperbacks ended up beneath his feet.

The shelves were empty. No bomb.

He repeated his actions with the other shelves.

Nothing.

As he turned to his right he saw two men hurrying up the ramp which led to the suburban platform. Both of them were leading sniffer dogs.

'Have you checked in here?' Doyle shouted, attracting their attention.

The two men let the dogs loose and they scuttled into the shop, snouts twitching.

Doyle moved on towards the cafe on the other side of the station.

There were uniformed men moving about inside it, some pausing every so often, kneeling to check under the tables.

Further along the concourse was a branch of Tie Rack. Doyle hurried towards it, past a coffee stall. The aroma of freshly roasted beans seemed pleasantly out of place amidst the confusion.

As he walked he glanced around him.

Neville could have planted this bomb weeks earlier. His actions weren't the hasty, desperate deeds of a madman. Everything he'd done so far had been planned. Methodical. There was a strategy at work here.

The other bombs had probably been planted around the same time.

Wherever the hell they might be?

Doyle reached Tie Rack and moved briskly through it, opening drawers, pulling out the contents, convinced, even as he searched, that he was looking in the wrong place.

But where to look?

Where could a bomb lie undiscovered for weeks, possibly even months, in a location so crammed with people every day?

He looked across at the toilets, vaulted the barrier and walked in.

There was water dripping somewhere, the steady plink, plink an accompaniment to the counter terrorist's footfalls.

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on Doyle and he almost managed a smile.

For years he'd cheated death at the hands of the IRA, terrorists, organised crime and Christ alone knew who else and yet now his life was threatened by one of his own.

By a British soldier.

What all his enemies had failed to do might be accomplished by a man he would have called an ally.

How side-splittingly, jaw-droppingly hilarious.

He pushed open the door of the first cubicle.

How ironic.

How fucking ironic.

Doyle took a step inside, ignoring the graffitti on the walls and door, the puddle of piss on the floor.

He flipped open the cistern and looked inside.

Empty.

He moved into the next cubicle.

The stench was appalling. So strong he almost retched.

'What's wrong with flushing it, you cunt,' he murmured, trying not to look into the clogged bowl.

He pushed off the lid of the second cistern.

Nothing.

He could still hear the sound of water dripping.

Doyle moved to the next cubicle.

Thirteen minutes until detonation.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

He pushed the lid of the third cistern away and looked in.

Fuck all.

You're clutching at straws but then what else is there to do?

One bomb an hour, Doyle mused.

When? Where?

He dug in his pocket for his cigarettes and lit one, sucking hard on it.

One an hour and you can't even find the first one.

He moved to the next cubicle.