by Shaun Hutson
'Is that all of them?' Doyle said, indicating the bodies in the hall.
'Joe said three got inside,' she told him.'l don't know about the rest.'
Two more dead outside,' Doyle informed her. He tapped his microphone. 'Joe. Anything moving?'
There was a hiss of static.
'Nothing that I can see,' said Hendry finally.
There were six,' Doyle murmured. The other one's either fucked off or he's waiting in the grounds.'
There's nothing showing on any of the monitors,' Hendry offered.
'We'll give it an hour,' Doyle said quietly. Then we'll check the grounds again. Every inch of them.'
Morning had dawned grey and with the threat of rain but, Doyle was relieved to see, without the presence of any more men intent on killing William Duncan and his wife.
For the time being anyway.
The drive into central London had taken the former counter terrorist just over an hour.
The phone call that had made the journey necessary in the first place had been both unexpected and puzzling.
As Doyle brought the car to a halt outside the building in Hill Street he sat behind the wheel for a moment, looking up at the former town house of John Paul Getty, wondering why he was here. Wondering why he was back at the headquarters of the Counter Terrorist Unit.
He shut off the engine and walked to the door, pressing the buzzer.
'Doyle, 239 . . .' He corrected himself.
Old habits died hard, didn't they? Forget your code number. You don't work here any more. Remember? They binned you off.
'Sean Doyle,' he said into the grille. 'I've got an
appointment with Jonathan Parker.' There was a loud buzz and the door opened. Doyle stepped inside and the door closed behind him.
There was a new receptionist on duty. Mid-thirties. Shoulder-length blond hair. Pretty. Easy smile.
Old habits.
'I've got an appointment with Parker,' Doyle said.
The receptionist smiled again.'I'll take you through,' she said, getting to her feet.
'I know the way,' Doyle told her, heading for the all-too-familiar door. He knocked. Thought about walking straight in but hesitated.
'Come in,' called Parker.
Doyle walked in and looked blankly at his old superior.
On the sofa to his right sat another familiar figure. Sir Anthony Pressman ran appraising eyes over the former counter terrorist then returned to the file he had balanced on his lap.
Doyle looked at the Home Secretary then back at Parker.
Take a seat, Doyle,' Parker said.
Doyle hesitated a moment then accepted. 'Why the welcoming committee?' he wanted to know, glancing at Pressman.
'There have been certain developments,' the Home Secretary said without looking up.'We felt they should be discussed.'
'Declan Leary's been arrested,' Parker interjected. 'He's in police custody in Belfast right now. They got him two days ago.'
'He wants to deal,' Pressman added. 'Presently he's
looking at life for his part in recent Real IRA activities. He says he has information that would be valuable to the security forces. He's willing to trade that information for a lighter sentence. The Prime Minister is prepared to listen to a plea for clemency in view of the way the peace talks in Northern Ireland are progressing.'
Doyle considered each man carefully and silently.
'As you know there are many IRA victims hidden in secret graves in both the Six Counties and the Republic,' Parker continued. 'Some dating back over fifteen years. Leary's prepared to reveal the whereabouts of ten of these graves in exchange for leniency. That's the deal he's proposing.'
'Naturally the Provisionals are anxious to prevent him revealing information of this kind,' Pressman said. 'Our latest intelligence reports indicate that they have sanctioned one, possibly two, of their own men to eliminate Leary before any of this information can be disclosed.'
Doyle looked at each of the men then snorted. 'So fucking what?' he said. 'What's any of that got to do with me? I don't work for this organisation any more, remember? You threw me out.' He began to get to his feet.
'Doyle, wait,' Parker said, raising a hand.
'We have a proposition to put to you,' Pressman added.
Doyle reached for a cigarette and lit it.'I'm all fucking ears,' he spat.
'Full reinstatement in the Counter Terrorist Unit,' Parker told him.
Doyle shook his head. 'Fuck you,' he said. 'Both of you.'
'Full reinstatement,' Parker pressed. 'You'd be back on active service within twenty-four hours.'
'Leary needs protection,' Pressman told him. 'We're not sure that the RUC are equipped to offer it to the degree necessary. You are. Besides, I'm not prepared to risk the number of officers that could be involved in this operation.'
Doyle drew slowly on the cigarette then blew out a stream of smoke. 'So what are you saying?' he said finally. 'I go back to work for the CTU just so I can hold the hand of some cunt who tried to kill me?'
'You're the best equipped operative for this job, Doyle,' Pressman told him.
'Bollocks. I'm expendable.That's my best qualification.'
'So, what's your answer?' Parker asked. As he spoke he slipped his hand into one of the drawers of his desk and pulled something out. He dropped it on to the polished wood in front of Doyle.
It was a slim leather wallet.
Doyle recognised it. He picked it up and flipped it open.
His ID.
'In or out?' Parker persisted.
Doyle slipped the wallet into his jacket pocket. There's one condition. I pick my own back-up team.'
'There are many capable agents in the organisation that you can work with and—' Pressman began.
'Fuck that,' snapped Doyle, cutting him short. 'My people or forget it. You can start digging the hole for Leary now.'
Pressman nodded. 'Very well,' he said stiffly. 'But they'd better be reliable, Doyle.'
Doyle got to his feet. 'Trust me,' he smiled.
IMAGES AND IMAGININGS
Ward sat watching the tape, his hands clasped together as if in prayer.
Forty minutes of his empty desk then the picture began to break up. He guessed that was when the battery had begun to lose power.
He exhaled deeply, eyes still on the screen. There was something dark in one corner of the picture.
He moved nearer the television set, trying to get a better view. He still couldn't see.
He hit the pause button and tried to study the still frame more closely.
What was the dark shape? He tried to run his index finger around it. To trace the outline.
He re-wound the tape slightly. Moved it on frame by frame. One second an empty office, the next, the dark shape looming over his chair. Unformed. Somehow intangible.
He saw an oval shape at the top of it. Then it broadened. There was another thinner strand to one side.
Ward re-wound again. Watched again. And again.
The shape . . . Jesus Christ. It was a shadow. The oval shape was a head. The broader part the torso. The thinner strand an arm.
A shadow. His own?
The tape had run out after forty-odd minutes. He had blacked out around 1.55. And . . . and what?
He'd blacked out. On the sofa. Inside the house. If that was the case then the shadow could not be his.
So what did he have before him? A benevolent and very creative burglar? A figure who crept into his office every night and wrote thirty pages for him?
He turned over the possibilities in his mind.
If the blackout, and others like it that he'd been experiencing, were manifesting themselves as some form of short-term memory loss then that might be an explanation. He passed out. Lost consciousness, or at least his grip on the consciousness that he knew and then he worked. Simple.
Ward shook his head. The writing had taken place between 2.00 and 5.00. It was physically impossible to complete thirty pages in less time t
han that. Wasn't it?
He studied the shadow once more. It was that of a man. Wasn't it? If not a man then what?
Ward ran a hand through his hair. Perhaps he was closer to insanity than he thought.
It was his own shadow. There was no other logical explanation for it.
He would try the camcorder again that night. The answer was there somewhere.
And he had to find it.
It had taken Doyle less time than he'd thought to
persuade Mel and Hendry to join him. He had also encountered less opposition from Brian Cartwright than he'd expected. The head of Cartwright Security had agreed to release two of his most valued employees with a minimum of fuss.
As for William Duncan and his wife, they were no longer Doyle's concern. As he sat in the back of the car watching the all-too-familiar Belfast landmarks passing him, his mind was focused on just one thing. Declan Leary.
Almost unconsciously the counter terrorist touched his thigh, remembering where Leary's knife had penetrated. He massaged it through his faded jeans. The leather of his jacket creaked as he moved.
Beside him Mel was also dressed in jeans.They were tucked into black suede boots that reached to her knees. Her short, black jacket was undone to reveal a tight, white T-shirt, and the strap of her shoulder holster was visible as she moved.
Hendry brought the car to a halt and prepared to get out but Doyle put a hand on his shoulder. 'Stay here, Joe,' he said. This won't take long.'
'What about me?' Me! wanted to know.
'Come in with me.'
Mel nodded and clambered out of the car behind him.
The two of them walked unchallenged through the police station, Doyle merely flipping his ID at whoever moved to stop them.
As he drew nearer the room he sought, a large figure emerged from an office nearby.
Chief Inspector Peter Robinson looked quizzically at Doyle for a moment then at Mel.
'You got my call,' Doyle said. 'I want to see Leary.'
There's no one with him,' Robinson answered.'Help yourself. Just hit the four-digit code on the key pad beside the door.'
Doyle nodded.
'Do you need me in there with you?' Mel asked.
'If you want to come in that's fine. Otherwise you can watch through there.' He nodded in the direction of the open doorway to the office next to the interview room. There was a two-way mirror stretching the length of the wall. Through it he could see Declan Leary.
'Time to renew old acquaintances,' said Doyle and jabbed the four digits into the key pad.
The interview-room door opened with a hydraulic hiss and Doyle stepped inside.
The room smelt of stale cigarettes and coffee, and contained a wooden table and two chairs.
Leary looked up as Doyle entered, his eyes narrowing.
Yeah, recognise me, do you, you bastard? I'm the one who killed your fucking mate and almost got you too.
'Declan Leary,' Doyle said, a faint smile on his lips.
'Do I know you?' the Irishman said, uninterestedly.
'We've met. Briefly. How's your sister?'
Leary looked puzzled.
'Good-looking girl as I remember,' Doyle persisted.
'Who the fuck are you?'
'I'm your babysitter. I work for the CounterTerrorist Unit.'
Leary grunted dismissively. 'Am I supposed to be impressed?' he muttered.
'No. Just grateful. I'm supposed to keep you alive, you piece of shit. Save you from your own people.'
'Which people would they be?'
The Provos.You know what I'm talking about. What's the matter, lose your fucking bottle when they caught you? Couldn't face the thought of doing a twenty stretch? Is that why you're prepared to grass up your mates?'
'I don't know what you're talking about'
The graves, Leary. You're going to tell us where they are and who's in them.What'll you get in return? New identity? A five stretch maybe? At least your brother had the balls to do his time. Before someone blew his fucking head off.'
'Who are you?' Leary snarled, getting to his feet.
'Sit down,' Doyle sneered.
Leary did as he was told.
'Understand one thing,' Doyle said slowly.'I couldn't give a flying fuck if the IRA kill you, if you end up getting arse-fucked in prison for the rest of your life or if you walk under a bus. But, for the time being, it's my job to keep you alive and I intend to do that. When I say
I'm going to do something I do it.'
'You're going to protect me, are you? How touching.'
'Only until you're not needed any more. Until you become irrelevant again.' Doyle drew the Beretta 9mm from his shoulder holster and aimed it at Leary's head. 'And when that happens, we'll talk. Just you and me.'
'I remember you,' Leary breathed, his gaze moving from the barrel of the automatic to Doyle and back again.
'You should.'
'How's the leg?' sneered the Irishman.
Doyle lashed out with the pistol and caught Leary across the face with it. The impact sent him toppling from his chair. He hit the ground hard, blood running from his split bottom lip.
'You bastard,' he spat, wiping the crimson fluid away with the back of his hand.
Doyle nodded. 'Spot on. But you can call me Doyle.'
Mel guessed that the dirt track leading to the house was close to a hundred yards long. On either side of it towered high hedges. Beyond those lay fields. The road at the bottom of the muddy thoroughfare was barely wide enough to allow the passage of two vehicles moving in opposite directions.
Positioned more than twenty-five miles from Belfast, the safe house was perfect. It was a white painted building with a slate roof, although many of the slates were missing. There was a small garden to the rear, again protected from the fields by tall hedges. To the front of the building was a rutted, mud-slicked area.
It was here that Joe Hendry had parked the car. He'd thought about leaving it in the garage but hadn't been 100 per cent sure that the rickety construction wouldn't come crashing down on the car. In the end he'd decided to leave the vehicle out in the open.
Mel could see it now, the rain bouncing on its chassis. She was standing in the sitting room of the sparsely furnished house looking out at the countryside.
Doyle was in the kitchen finishing his breakfast. Hendry was upstairs sleeping.
'You never told me your name.'
The words came from behind her and she turned slowly to look at Declan Leary. He was tied to a chair in one corner of the room.
'Is it important?' she wanted to know.
'It might be. You never know how long we might be together here. I know his name.' Leary jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen. 'But not yours.'
'My name's Blake.'
'You got a first name or couldn't your parents afford one?'
'Mel.'
'What's that short for?"
'Melissa.'
'Very nice. What is it between you and Doyle? Is he fucking you?' Leary grinned.
Mel took a step towards the Irishman. 'What do you think?' she said quietly.
'I think if he is then he's a lucky man. You're a grand-looking woman.'
'I'll take that as a compliment.'
That's how it was meant.' Again he smiled.
'Why don't you shut the fuck up.'
Mel turned as she heard Doyle's voice from the kitchen.The counter terrorist wandered into the room and glanced contemptuously at Leary.
'He has a way about him, doesn't he?' said the Irishman, looking at Mel.'You're a real charmer, Doyle.'
'And you talk too much.'
'l was just making conversation with the lady. Sorry if you object to me talking to your girlfriend.'
Doyle smiled humourlessly. 'You make the most of it,' he murmured. 'It might not be so easy to talk with
a gun barrel stuck down your throat.'
'Is that what you've got planned for me?'
'I didn't mean me. I meant whoev
er the Provos send after you.Your little revelations aren't going to go down too well with them.'
'It must be a pain for you, Doyle. Having to protect a man who nearly killed you.'
Mel looked quizzically at Doyle.
'It's part of the job,' the counter terrorist told his captive. That's all you are, Leary. A job. Nothing more.'
He hooked a thumb in the direction of the kitchen. There's some breakfast if you want it, Mel,' Doyle said. 'I'll watch this prick for a while.'
Mel nodded and wandered into the other room.
Doyle crossed to the window and looked out at the muddy yard and the track that stretched away from the house. In the sky, rain clouds were gathering menacingly. Doyie lit up a cigarette and sucked hard on it.
'Have you got one of those to spare?' Leary asked.
Doyle looked at him for a moment. 'No,' he said. 'I wouldn't give you the steam off my shit.' He took another drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke in Leary's direction. 'So, what made you bottle it, Leary? Why the deal? Was it just for a lighter sentence?'
'What the fuck do you care?'
'I don't, I'm just curious.'
'I haven't got anything to be ashamed of.'
'You're selling out your own people.'
'And they're selling out their own country. Sinn Fein couldn't give a fuck about what's happening here. This is my country. I don't want it run by Proddies and Brits.'
Things change.'
'Not if I can help it. At least I can say I tried. I didn't surrender my principles.'
'Very philosophical. Is that what you're going to say to the Provo hitmen who bag you?'
'It's your job to make sure they don't'
Doyle nodded and blew out more smoke. Then you'd better hope I'm good at my job,' he said.'Or you're going to end up in the same kind of grave as you're supposed to show us.'
DEADLOCK
W:
ard couldn't work. He had sat at his desk for over three hours staring at the screen, the keyboard and the plastic carriage clock.
Nothing came. No words flowed.
At 1.16 p.m. he gave up and retreated inside the house. There were two messages on the answerphone but he didn't bother to listen to them. Instead he made his way into the sitting room and poured himself a large measure of Glenfiddich. Then another.
He wanted to get drunk. Wanted to fall asleep but it seemed no matter how hard he tried, he could not drink himself into the oblivion he sought so badly.