Knife Edge Read Online Free PDF Page B

end.
        The weather forecast was for more rain.
        Doyle shuffled uncomfortably in his seat and sat forward slightly as the announcer proclaimed that the draw for the next round was about to take place.
        Doyle glanced out of the window and saw men moving about, taking up positions.
        He was surprised at how silently it all took place. It was as if the car was hermetically sealed. No sound from outside could penetrate.
        He pulled distractedly at the top of one boot as the draw began.
        Arsenal would play Spurs.
        Doyle continued to watch the policemen, some of them glancing towards the curtained windows of number ten as they moved, swiftly, nervously.
        Newcastle would play West Ham.
        Still Doyle had seen no movement at any of the windows. He wondered how well the rear of the house was covered. The back garden led down to train tracks; it would be difficult escaping that way.
        Watford would play Liverpool.
        'Come on, you reds,' he whispered under his breath.
        And Manchester United…
        Doyle switched off the radio.
        Who gave a fuck about that shit?
        He shoved a cassette back into the machine and turned up the volume further.
        The tap on his side window startled him and he turned to see a uniformed policeman standing there.
        The counter terrorist wound down his window.
        'Mr Doyle,' said the policeman. 'Will you come with me, please?'
        Doyle looked at his watch then at the constable.
        'About fucking time,' he snapped and hauled himself out of the car.
        Was the waiting over at last?
        

ERADICATION
        
    Portadown, Northern Ireland
        
        'Bullshit. '
        Doyle looked directly at Wetherby as he spoke the word.
        'His name is Robert Neville,' the Intelligence officer said, pushing a file towards the counter terrorist. 'Corporal Robert Neville, a para. Age thirty-eight, married with a daughter. Enlisted March fourteenth 1977. Joined the Paratroop Regiment and came through the training with the highest marks of anyone in the same batch of new recruits. He subsequently specialised in explosives.'
        Doyle had begun to read the file, scanning the pieces of paper there.
        'Wounded four times,' Wetherby continued. 'Recommended for promotion to Sergeant in January 1993.' There was a photo of Neville amongst the reports. Doyle studied it.
        Neville had a square face, his jaw flat, his ears tight to his head. His hair was short as Doyle would have expected. Dark and lustrous. A faint smile was distinguishable on the paratrooper's lips. A small scar ran from the corner of his mouth to his chin.
        'There's a psych report in there too,' Wetherby told Doyle. 'But as far as anyone can tell, he's no crazier than anyone else in the army. '
        'How can you be so sure he's responsible for these killings?' Doyle asked, his tone subdued. 'How do you know it isn't some extremist faction on either side?'
        'The bullets they dug out of the men that were shot had Neville's fingerprints on them,' Wetherby explained. 'Some cartridge cases were found by the Gardai at the scene of a shooting in the Republic. They had his prints on too.'
        'And the bombings? How can you be sure he was responsible for those? He's not the only geezer out there who knows how to use Semtex.'
        'Forensic reports by the RUC and Army Intelligence found evidence that Neville-'
        'What kind of evidence?'
        'You sound as if you're trying to defend him,' Wetherby said.
        'You could be wrong,' Doyle snapped.
        'We're not,' Wetherby assured him.
        Doyle tossed the file back in the officer's direction.
        'So what the fuck do you want me to do?'
        'Find Neville, before the IRA, the UVF, the media or all three find out the truth.'
        'And if I do find him?'
        'Kill him.'
        Doyle