Knife Edge

3.12 P.M.

The cross-threads of the telescopic sight wavered for a second before settling on the woman's head.

She was over five hundred yards away but the powerful scope made it seem as if she were no more than a foot or so ahead.

The cross-threads matched perfectly on her forehead.

'Bang,' murmured Doyle.

He handed the Heckler and Koch HK81 rifle back to the uniformed man next to him, amused at the look of bewilderment on the policeman's face.

The man was part of an armed unit perched atop the Cumberland Hotel like so many blue-clad crows. From their vantage point high above Marble Arch they could see virtually the full length of Oxford Street, Park Lane and the Bayswater Road.

From whichever direction Neville decided to approach, they'd spot him with ease.

If the bastard even showed up, Doyle mused, crossing to the parapet of the hotel and looking down.

It was a straight drop.

Over four hundred feet to the pavement below.

Doyle peered down at the pedestrians beneath, jostling along the heaving thoroughfares.

Two pigeons were sitting unconcernedly on the parapet, heads bobbing back and forth.

'Wondering which one to shit on?' Doyle mused and turned again to look at the six armed men he shared the rooftop with.

All were lying prone on the roof, four of them already with the stocks of their weapons pressed to their shoulders. Another was feeding rounds into the magazine of his rifle. The HK81s were designed to take either five-, twenty- or thirty-round mags, Doyle remembered.

Nice guns.

He slid the Beretta from its holster, worked the slide then flicked on the safety.

Ready.

The pistol would do sweet FA from this range but then Doyle didn't expect to have to use it from four hundred yards away. He planned on being much closer to Neville when he emptied it into him.

The remaining officer was tightening the wing nut which held the bipod at the end of the barrel in place.

Doyle knew that there were six more armed officers on the roof of the building opposite.

Six more on the roof of the Odeon Marble Arch.

Christ alone knew how many plain-clothed and uniformed coppers were down there amongst the tourists and shoppers, workers and sightseers.

They were all armed.

Neville would expect that.

That was one of the reasons he was armed.

If the shooting started, Doyle thought, how many body bags would they need?

He carefully surveyed the faces of the policemen around him.

Older men. Mostly in their forties.

Experienced?

How many of them had ever shot at anything other than a target?

Doyle peered down at the throngs of shoppers and shook his head.

All it would take would be one nervous finger. One shot.

Shit.

He didn't even want to think about it.

Calloway glanced at the dashboard clock of the Peugeot 405 then at his own watch.

He sucked in a worried breath, held it for a moment then let it out as a sigh.

Even with the windows wound up, the noise of the traffic passing was loud. The sheer volume of traffic was quite awesome. He saw one of the London sightseeing buses pass, the guide standing at the front of the upper deck, gesturing towards Marble Arch as the heads of the three occupants of the bus turned in that general direction.

The Peugeot was parked close to the mouth of the underground car park just off North Ride. The vehicle was hidden from the view of anyone approaching from either Oxford Street or Park Lane, stationed, as it was, on the exit ramp of the car park.

Other police cars, marked and unmarked, were inside the underground area itself.

Waiting.

Calloway reached for the radio and thought about checking in with the groups of armed men stationed up on the buildings nearby but then he decided against it.

He'd already checked five minutes earlier.

Nervous?

He pulled at the vanity mirror on the passenger side of the Peugeot and swiftly inspected his reflection.

You look like shit.

He slapped the sun visor back into place and sat back in his seat.

'Where are you, Neville?' he whispered, glancing again at his watch. 'Daylight fucking robbery.'

He looked to his right as Mason clambered back behind the wheel.

The smell of fried onions filled the car.

The DS took a bite of the huge hot-dog he was clutching, wiping away with a paper napkin the tomato sauce which dribbled down his chin.

'There's some geezer selling these.' He brandished the hot-dog like a trophy. 'He's got one of those mobile stalls, probably bloody filthy anyway, just round the comer in the park. Two and a half quid for a fucking hot dog and a Coke. Fifty pence extra for the onions. Daylight fucking robbery.' He pushed more of the food into his mouth.

'I thought most of those stalls had been closed down,' the DI said. 'An environmental health officer found flies' eggs inside a hamburger from one of them last week. No maggots. Just the eggs.'

'Ha, bloody, ha,' said Mason through a mouthful of food.

Calloway's stomach rumbled.

'Want some?' Mason asked, pushing the hot-dog towards him.

Calloway raised one eyebrow and shook his head in horror.

Instead he reached for the can of Coke which Mason had propped on the dashboard. The DI took a sip, belched loudly then reached for the two-way.

'What are you doing?' Mason asked.

'Checking.'

'Vic, if they spot Neville, they'll let us know quick enough.'

'I'll check anyway.'

Robert Neville could see the police car approaching in his wing mirror.

Just take it easy.

There were two people at the pedestrian crossing and the police car, like Neville, slowed down to let them pass.

The driver of the car glanced at Neville.

They're looking for a man in a black leather outfit.

The ex-para turned and looked directly at the uniformed man.

Not even the same number plates, are they, shithead?

Neville thought how easy it would be to lean back and flip up the top box lid. Snake a hand in and pull the Steyr free.

The driver was watching as a young woman in a particularly short skirt crossed in front of them.

Neville grinned inside the helmet, looking first at the girl then at the police car.

Do you know how close to death you are?

The police car pulled off.

Neville followed.

He was less than thirty seconds from Park Lane.

As he rode he slid his left hand into the pocket of his jacket and ran his finger over the small object there.

The detonator had a single red switch on it.

Neville slowed his speed slightly, checked behind him then swung the bike into Audley Street.

They would be waiting. He'd known that all along.

Another right and he was heading down Hill Street back in the direction of Berkeley Square.

There was another way.