Knife Edge

5.46 P.M.

'This is crazy,' said DS Colin Mason, pacing the office. 'There must be something else we can do instead of just sitting here and waiting for that fucking headcase to ring.'

'Such as?' Calloway enquired.

'All this sitting around,' Mason continued irritably. 'The waiting. He's doing it on purpose. Neville's playing fucking games with us.'

The harsh metallic sound of an automatic being cocked caused him to spin round.

Doyle held the 92F burst-fire in his hands, examining the sleek lines of the pistol before pushing it back into its shoulder holster.

'If he frisks you, he'll find that,' Calloway pointed out.

'If he gets that close,' Mason added. 'He might just blow your head off from a distance and then take the kid.'

In answer, Doyle pushed down the top of his cowboy boot slightly to reveal the ankle holster.

He tapped the butt of the PD Star then pulled the boot back up.

'He won't find that,' Doyle said with an air of certainty.

'Proper Secret Agent, aren't you, Doyle?' Mason chided.

The counter terrorist fixed Mason in an unwavering stare until the policeman finally turned away and continued pacing.

'All this waiting about,' the DS said. 'It's like-'

'Waiting for a bomb to go off?' Doyle offered.

'That's not funny, Doyle,' Mason growled.

'Did he say what time he was ringing back – he didn't, did he?' Doyle mused.

Calloway shook his head.

'He could keep us sitting here for the next three or four hours if he wanted to,' the DI said.

Doyle glanced at his watch.

'I don't think so,' he murmured. 'He says he's going to let the big one off at eight and I reckon he will.'

'Even if he gets his daughter back?' Calloway said.

'He's stalling,' Doyle continued. 'He could set it off anyway, even if he does get her. We don't know how big the thing is. A hundred, a hundred and fifty pounds. It'd be one hell of a fucking diversion.'

Doyle had said nothing to the two policemen about his talk with Julie Neville. At least she'd agreed to allow her daughter to be taken along by Doyle, but that was all.

They also knew nothing of the counter terrorist's attempts to contact Major John Wetherby.

Twice Doyle had attempted to ring the Army Intelligence officer but, on both occasions, Wetherby had been unavailable, not at his desk or some other bullshit excuse.

Doyle had slammed down the phone the second time.

Wetherby needed to know what was happening. It was as simple as that.

Doyle had decided to check in.

Old habits died hard.

Besides, Doyle had wanted to tell Wetherby that he was closing in on Neville and also warn him that there might well be some more civilian casualties. In particular, an eight-year-old girl.

The phone rang and Calloway grabbed it.

'You took your time, Neville,' he said, switching the phone to speaker.

'Right, just listen,' Neville began. 'Doyle, can you hear me?'

'Get on with it,' the counter terrorist called back.

'I'll keep it simple,' Neville said. 'When I said I wanted Doyle to bring Lisa to me, I meant Doyle. ind Doyle alone. No back-up. No plain-clothes coppers following at a discreet distance. If I even smell a copper there'll be another explosion. Got it? Now this is how we play the game. Doyle, I'm going to give you locations. Each one is a phone box. I'm going to bounce you all over London to make sure you're not being followed. First one phone box, then another, then another, until I'm satisfied. When I am, I'll give you the location to bring Lisa to me. This is how it works. I tell you which phone box to get to, the phone rings five times. If it isn't answered after five rings I'll detonate a bomb. If anyone else other than you answers it I'll detonate a bomb. Got that?'

'Got it.'

'Right, here goes then and, Doyle, you take good care of my little girl,' Neville rasped. 'First phone box is an easy one. Get to the public phones at St James's tube station. Move it. You've got eight minutes.'

The line went dead.