Shaun Hutson: Knife Edge

He lit up another cigarette then leaned forward and turned up the volume of the car stereo.

'… all of the people who won't be missed, you've made my shitlist…'

A car drove past but Doyle hardly heard the engine above the thundering stereo.

There were fewer vehicles heading down the street now and he wondered if the road had finally been closed at either end but decided that wasn't the right tactic.

Things had to look relatively normal outside to anyone peering into the street.

A white van approaching from behind him, moving slowly. Doyle watched it in his rear-view mirror, counted two people in the front. A man was driving, a woman seated next to him was pointing.

The counter terrorist squinted in the gloom and noticed that she was gesturing in the direction of number ten.

He took a long drag on his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs.

'… all the ones who put me out…'

The van had stopped about twenty yards behind where Doyle was parked.

'… all the ones who fill my head with doubt…'

He saw the driver clamber out, wander around to the rear of the van where a second man climbed free into the street. The woman was walking ahead of them, glancing back and forth as if searching for something.

Doyle shook his head and swung himself out of the car.

He wondered what had taken them so long.

Portadown, Northern Ireland

Major John Wetherby dropped the files on to the top of the desk, the thump reverberating around the room.

Wetherby was a tall, powerfully built man with pale, pinched features, his hair greying slightly at the temples. He stood with his back to the other two men in the room, both of whom looked first at the officer then at the files.

The younger of them, Captain Edward Wilton, reached for the top file.

'Read it,' said Wetherby without turning round, and Wilton hesitated for a moment, as if fearing his superior possessed eyes in the back of his head, before he realised the Major must have seen his reflection in the glass of the window. 'Read them all,' Wetherby continued, his tone subdued.

Wilton began flicking through the file.

His colleague merely sat, hands clasped on the top of the table, gazing at his superior's back.

Captain James Armstrong didn't need to read these files. He knew what they contained. What those contents meant and how important they were.

'How many is it now?' Armstrong asked.

'Including Hatcher and the two Sinn Fein men, eleven,' Wetherby informed him, turning back to face his colleagues. 'And Christ knows how many more to come if something isn't done soon.' The Major exhaled wearily. 'Just when it seems there's finally going to be peace, just when it looks as if we're finally going to be able to get out of this bloody place, this happens.' He jabbed a finger towards the files.

'Are we sure who's behind it?' Wilton asked.

'I wish there was some room for doubt but I'm afraid there isn't,' the Major told him.

‘We're just lucky the media hasn't got hold of it,' Armstrong oered.

'As far as the media is concerned, it's a leftover from the conflict,' Wetherby said.

'Two dead Sinn Fein men, both shot,' Wilton began, as if he was reading some kind of bizarre shopping list. 'An Ulster Unionist MP blown to pieces by a car bomb, five known IRA prisoners released from Long Kesh all shot, and three UVF men assassinated, one stabbed, one blown up and the other one shot. No common MO?'

Wetherby shook his head.

'It's only going to be a matter of time before each side starts blaming the other,' Wetherby added. 'This bloody peace is fragile enough as it is; there are those on both sides who don't need much more pushing to start hostilities again.'

'It looks as if someone already started them,' Wilton said, closing the file.

Wetherby sat down, fingertips pressed together.

'These killings will go on unless we do something to stop them,' the Major said. 'As head of Military Intelligence here I feel we must act before it's too late. Before anyone else on either side is killed and, more importantly, before this peace settlement is jeopardised any further.'

'What options do we have?' Wilton asked.

'As far as I see it we don't have a choice,' Wetherby replied. 'There is only one course of action open to us.'

The other two men sat motionless, gazing at their superior.

'In three days' time seven more IRA men are due to be released,' Wetherby continued. 'It's my guess they'll be the next target. They're to be transported from Long Kesh to the border by minibus, escorted obviously. It's a tempting target.'

'Just like the other five were,' murmured Armstrong.

Wetherby nodded slowly. 'I don't see what else we can do,' he said wearily.

'You said there was only one course of action open to us?' Wilton echoed, vaguely.

'These killings must stop before the media make any connections. They'll have a field day with this and, if it gets out, God help us all,' the Major said, crossing to his desk. 'There is no choice.' He flicked a switch on the console. 'Cranley, send in Sean Doyle.'

Doyle saw the woman looking at him as she and her two companions approached.

Come on, you fucking vultures.

The first man, short, stocky and wearing a waxed jacket, was carrying a small case with him. The other man, bespectacled and crew-cut, was holding the camera.

As the woman drew nearer, Doyle could see she was already wearing a radio mike, the power pack tucked into the pocket of her jeans. She had a thick scarf wrapped around her neck as added protection against the chill wind. Doyle watched as her long dark hair flowed behind her, stirred by the wind.

The cameraman raised the machine and it was then that Doyle stepped forward.

'Will you turn that off, please?' he said as politely as he could.

'Who are you?' the woman asked, gazing at him intently.

The camera moved round to focus on him.

'Turn it off,' Doyle repeated, raising one hand.

The man with the spectacles complied.

'My name's Patricia Courtney,' the woman told him. 'We're with an outside broadcast unit from Thames Television and…'

Doyle nodded, ran appraising eyes over her.

About five four, auburn haired. Pretty.

'Are you involved in this?' she asked him, nodding towards number ten.

'You could say that. How the hell did you find out about it?' the counter terrorist enquired.

'We have our sources,' she smiled.

It was a warm smile.

Doyle didn't return the gesture.

'You can't film here.'

'Who says we can't?' the cameraman demanded.

'I just fucking told you, didn't I?' Doyle hissed.

'You still haven't told us who you are,' Patricia insisted.

'I'm the bloke who's stopping you filming.'

'Can you show us some ID?' she persisted. 'You could be anyone.'

Doyle slid the Beretta from its holster and aimed it at the reporter, who gasped and took a couple of steps back.

'That's my fucking ID,' Doyle rasped. 'Now piss off.'

'I want to speak to someone in charge of this operation, I have a right-' Patricia began.

Doyle cut her short. 'You've got no rights here, now fuck off before I get mad.'

'I could have you reported,' she said challeng-ingly.

'Try it.'

'Look, mate, we don't want any trouble, we're just trying to do our jobs,' said the man in the wax jacket, trying to inject a note of calm into the proceedings.

'Then do them somewhere else. And I'm not your fucking mate.'

'Just one quick shot of the house, that's all we want,' Patricia said, her eyes flicking nervously towards the automatic.

'Forget it,' Doyle instructed, holstering the pistol.

'Are you in charge here?' the cameraman said. 'Because if you're not, then I want to speak to your superiors, I-'