‘Drop it or I’ll kill the girl,’ the man said as Doyle took a step towards him.
‘So kill her,’ Doyle said flatly, thumbing back the hammer.
‘I mean it,’ the man snarled, pressing the barrel of the Beretta against Georgie’s cheek, pulling her in front of him as a shield. ‘I’ll shoot her.’
‘Let go and drop your own gun,’ Doyle told him. ‘Or I’ll fire. You’ve got three seconds.’
‘You’ll hit her not me,’ the man said defiantly.
‘Do you know what I’ve got in here?’ Doyle said, indicating the .44. ‘Glaser safety slugs. They’ll put a hole in a brick wall at fifty feet. I’ll shoot straight through her. And you know I will.’
The man swallowed hard, lowered the Beretta a fraction.
‘Two seconds,’ Doyle reminded him. ‘Let her go.’
The man pushed Georgie away from him, dropped the Beretta and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. Doyle walked across to him and looked into his face. Then, with one swift movement, he struck him with the butt of the pistol. The blow split his bottom lip and loosened two of his front teeth. He dropped to his knees.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded, the .44 pressed against the man’s head.
The man raised one hand to his torn lip, seeing the blood on his fingers.
‘Fuck you,’ he hissed, the words emerging with a slight whistle through the gap in his teeth.
‘Suit yourself. You’re wasting my time.’
His finger tightened on the trigger.
Eighty-Two
‘Wait.’
Doyle heard the voice but didn’t turn. He kept the Bulldog pressed against the man’s skull.
Georgie rubbed her head and exhaled deeply, joining her companion, looking down at the helpless figure who knelt before them in what looked like an attitude of supplication.
‘I recognise him,’ she said.
Doyle frowned.
That night in Belfast, when we were followed? He’s the one who followed me. Remember, I said I went through his pockets but there was no I. D.’
Doyle eased the hammer forward on the .44, gripped the front of the man’s shirt and dragged him to his feet.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he said.
Georgie turned to see that the first man was rising painfully to his feet, one hand clutching his throbbing testicles, the other dabbing at his broken nose. She pulled the .357 from its holster, wiped blood from her eyes with the back of her hand and fixed the man in the sights.
‘Stay where you are,’ she told him.
‘I’m getting sick of this game,’ Doyle said through clenched teeth, lifting the man higher until it seemed he would propel him into the air. ‘I’m going to ask once more who you are, then I’m going to blow your fucking head off.’
‘Tell him,’ called the first man, forced to breathe through his mouth as blood clogged his nostrils.
‘We’re British agents,’ said the man Doyle held.
‘Bullshit,’ he snarled
‘It’s true,’ the other man said. ‘Donaldson and Westley sent us.’
Doyle released his grip on the man, pushing him back a few paces. If the news was a shock it didn’t register on the counter-terrorist’s face. His features still bore the stamp of rage.
‘And you’ve been following us since we arrived in Belfast?’ said Georgie, the revelation catching her somewhat by surprise too. ‘Why didn’t you contact us? Why the cloak and dagger stuff?’
‘We had orders not to,’ said the second man.
‘This doesn’t make sense,’ Georgie mused aloud.
‘What were your orders?’ Doyle wanted to know.
‘To tail you, keep a watch and observe until you tracked down Maguire,’ the first man told him.
‘And then what?’
‘We were to take over.’
Doyle nodded.
‘Let us do the dirty work, let us risk our fucking necks, then stroll in and take all the glory. Why?’
‘Westley and Donaldson didn’t trust you to bring Maguire in alive. They were frightened you’d kill him.’
‘We had to get to him first anyway,’ said the second man. ‘There are a unit of Provisional IRA men on his tail, too. They’ve got orders to kill him and his men. We have to reach him before they do.’
‘Popular bloke, isn’t he?’ said Doyle cryptically. He kept the gun aimed at the second man.
‘You said you were supposed to “take over” once Maguire had been found,’ Georgie interjected. ‘What were we supposed to do? Just stand aside and let you bring him in? What if we hadn’t co-operated?’
Neither of the men spoke.
‘You had orders to kill us,’ Doyle said, the words coming out as a statement rather than a question. ‘Didn’t you?’
Still no answer.
‘Didn’t you?’ he roared, raising the gun so that it was level with the second man’s head again.
He nodded.
‘Yes. Orders from Westley. He wanted you dead. Both of you.’
‘I can’t say I blame him,’ the first man said.
‘So who are you? Your names?’ Georgie wanted to know.
‘Rivers,’ said the first man.
‘Todd,’ the second added.
‘Why?’ Doyle asked. ‘Why did Westley, want us killed?’
Neither Rivers or Todd spoke.
Doyle raised the pistol and advanced a pace.
‘He wanted to protect ...’
‘Shut up,’ Rivers bellowed, noticing the fear on his companion’s face.
‘To protect who?’ Doyle insisted, his back still to Rivers, the Bulldog still aimed at Todd’s head. ‘Who, you bastard? Tell me or I swear to Christ I’ll kill you.’
‘Don’t tell him anything,’ shouted Rivers.
Doyle spun round and, in one fluid movement, raised the Charter Arms.44 and fired off one shot. It hit Rivers squarely in the chest, the thunderous retort of the pistol drowning out his shout of pained surprise as the slug exploded inside him, the impact throwing him several feet backwards. He hit the ground with a thud, blood spreading rapidly-around him. His body twitched once then was still.
‘Jesus,’ gasped Todd as Doyle rounded on him again.
‘Talk, you fucker,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you know. Everything. Who was Westley trying to protect?’
‘All right, I’ll tell you,’ Todd said, his face now sheathed in perspiration.
Doyle motioned him towards the Mazda and glanced at Georgie.
‘Are you ok to drive?’ he asked her.
She nodded.
‘Get in the back,’ he snapped at Todd, who obeyed. Doyle clambered in beside him, the Bulldog pressed into the other man’s groin. Georgie started the engine, flicking on the headlamps. They illuminated the body of Rivers.
‘Where to?’ she asked.
Doyle glanced at his watch.
11.22 p.m.
‘Get us to a phone,’ he said flatly.
Eighty-Three
Peter Todd shifted uncomfortably in the back seat of the Mazda. Every time he moved he felt the barrel of the .44 pressed harder against his groin. Doyle’s stare was unwavering.
Todd had read files on the man and had spoken to others who’d worked with him. It had frightened but not altogether surprised him when the younger man had shot Rivers. He was as unpredictable as he was dangerous. What was more he seemed to enjoy what he did. Todd had guessed early on that there was no room for heroics where Doyle was concerned; with the gun probing against his testicles, he certainly didn’t intend being obstructive. To hell with Donaldson and Westley. They weren’t the ones close to a .44 calibre vasectomy.
‘I told you earlier I’m sick of bloody games,’ said’ Doyle. ‘I’m going to ask you questions and I’m going to ask you once. Tell me what I want to know, got it? Otherwise you’ll wish it was you I’d shot, not Rivers.’
‘I told you I’d talk,’ Todd reminded the counter- terrorist.
Doyle re-adjusted his
position on the seat, wincing at the dull ache spreading from his shoulder wound.
‘Why did Donaldson and Westley send you to tail us?’ he began.
‘I told you, they didn’t want you to kill Maguire.’
‘So when did you intend “stepping in” to take over?’
‘After you’d tracked him down.’ Todd swallowed hard. ‘That was when we were supposed to kill you both.’
‘You said that Westley was trying to protect someone. Who?’
Todd licked his lips, aware that they were dry.
‘His name is David Callahan.’
Even Doyle looked surprised.
‘What the hell has he got to do with all this?’ he asked quietly.
‘You know him?’
Doyle nodded.
‘Callahan was, still is, a gun runner,’ said Todd. ‘Westley knew him, knew where he lived and that he was still trading. He sold guns to the IRA, among others. When the plans for the Stormont summit were first put forward he realized that he’d be losing a sizeable chunk of his income. With peace in Northern Ireland the IRA would have no need of weapons; he’d lose a lot of money.’
‘What has this got to do with Westley and Donaldson?’ Doyle wanted to know.
‘They were in partnership with Callahan.’
‘They knew he was selling arms to the IRA?’ Georgie interjected.
‘They supplied him with some of them to sell,’ Todd told her. ‘They’ve been in business with him for a very long time. They’ve been making money out of the troubles for years and they don’t want it to stop. Callahan paid Maguire a million pounds and supplied him with weapons. There was supposed to be a campaign in England, too, but you broke that up when you raided that house in Hammersmith.’
Doyle nodded at the recollection.
‘Maguire got out of hand,’ Todd continued. ‘He exceeded his orders. That’s when Westley and Donaldson called you in. They knew you’d be able to find him but they didn’t want you getting to him in case you found out about the conspiracy, found out that they were involved.’
‘Then why didn’t they just leave us alone? If they were so sure we were going to kill Maguire they shouldn’t have had anything to worry about.’
‘Westley wanted you dead, anyway.’
Doyle smiled.
‘Isn’t it great to be wanted?’ he said cryptically.
‘Westley and Donaldson were going to say that you two had been killed in a shoot-out with Maguire and his men, after Rivers and I had shot you.’ His voice dropped to a whisper.
Doyle glared at his captive.
‘What was Callahan getting out of this, apart from money?’ the counter-terrorist wanted to know.
‘Immunity from extradition. As long as the fighting went on in Northern Ireland, as long as there was no peace settlement, it meant that diplomatic relations between Britain and Ireland were still rocky. If there’d been a settlement then criminals from the Republic would lose their protection. Callahan thought the British police were after him.’
‘Why was Laura Callahan kidnapped?’ Doyle said. That couldn’t have been part of the plan.’ .
‘It wasn’t. When Westley and Donaldson saw how powerful Maguire was becoming they decided to slow him down. Callahan was supposed to sell them a batch of weapons, deliver them to a place near Bective Abbey in Meath.’
‘That’s where those two Garda officers were shot,’ said Georgie.
‘The weapons were faulty, but Maguire had already paid for them.’
‘That’s why Laura was taken, then?’ Georgie offered. ‘Revenge?’
‘If it’s a kidnapping, Maguire’s going to have to get in touch with Callahan,’ Doyle said. ‘Turn the car round, head back to Callahan’s place.’
‘It’ll be swarming with police after what happened,’ she protested.
‘Just do it,’ Doyle said. ‘Besides, I’d like a word with Mr Callahan when I see him.’
‘No one knew they were going to snatch his wife,’ Todd added.
Georgie turned the car and headed back the way they’d come.
‘You said there were a bunch of Provos after Maguire, too,’ Doyle remembered.
‘They want him dead.’
‘They’re not the only ones,’ the younger man said, running a hand through his hair. He spotted a phone box up ahead and told Georgie to pull in. Jabbing the gun into Todd’s stomach he forced him out of the car, pushing him towards the phone box. Once inside he fumbled for change, fed it into the phone and dialled. And waited.
It rang and rang.
‘Yes,’ a sleepy voice finally said.
Doyle held the receiver tightly in his fist.
‘Who’s there?’ the voice asked.
‘Westley, did I wake you?’ said the counter-terrorist, his face expressionless.
‘Who the hell is this?’
‘It’s Doyle.’
Silence.
‘I know everything. About you and Donaldson, about Callahan. About the conspiracy. One of your dogs told me.’ He shoved the receiver into Todd’s face, pressing the .44 against his head with the other hand. ‘Say hello.’
‘He does know,’ Todd blurted. ‘I ...’
Doyle pulled the receiver away from him.
‘I just thought you’d like to know that when I’ve finished with Maguire I’m coming for you, you cunt.’ Doyle slammed the receiver down. He shoved Todd out of the box. The agent began walking back towards the car. ‘Wait,’ Doyle told him. ‘Is there anything else I should know?’
‘I’ve told you everything, I swear,’ Todd insisted, a note of fear in his voice.
‘Everything?’ Doyle repeated.
I swear it.’
Doyle shot him twice, the massive impact of the bullets blasting holes in him large enough for a man to get two fists into. The counter-terrorist walked back to the car and slid into the passenger seat, holstering the Bulldog.
‘Why did you kill him?’ Georgie wanted to know. ‘He told you what you wanted to know.’
Doyle dabbed at his injured shoulder and winced slightly.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘He had nothing more to tell me. I didn’t need him any more. Come on, let’s go, I want to talk to Callahan.’
‘Are you going to kill him, too?’ she wanted to know.
Doyle continued looking straight ahead.
‘Eventually.’
Eighty-Four
‘Drive on.’
Doyle spotted the Garda car parked at the entrance to Callahan’s estate, and two uniformed men standing beside it. They glanced, impassively at the Mazda as it passed Georgie swinging it around a corner out of sight.
‘Keep going,’ Doyle told her.
‘I told you it’d be swarming with police,’ she said.
‘We’ve still got to get inside,’ he murmured, stroking his chin and glancing at the high stone wall which rimmed the estate grounds. About two hundred yards further on he told her to pull up. She stopped the car and switched off the engine.
‘And if we do get in? What then?’ Georgie wanted to know.
‘Come on,’ Doyle said, clambering out of the car. He crossed to the wall and stood beside it, locking his fingers together to form a stirrup into which Georgie put one foot. Doyle steadied himself then lifted, giving her the added momentum to reach the top of the wall. She got a grip and held on, looking down at him.
‘Are the grounds clear?’ he wanted to know.
Georgie looked around. It was difficult to see in the blackness. Trees grew thickly over most of the estate. They would mask their approach.
‘It looks safe,’ she told him. ‘How the hell are you going to climb this bloody wall with an injured shoulder?’
Doyle didn’t answer. He took a couple of paces back then ran at the wall, launching himself and hooking his fingers onto the stonework. He gritted his teeth and pulled himself up inch by inch until he reached the top. Georgie grabbed one of his legs to aid him in the final surge. He lay panting for a momen
t, massaging the wound. It had started bleeding again. Georgie pushed a handkerchief towards him and he stuffed it inside his sweatshirt, pressing it against the wound.
‘The bullet went straight through,’ he told her. ‘It would have been worse if it’d chipped the bone.’
They sat on the wall for a moment, contemplating the drop. Perhaps twelve feet, Doyle thought.
He went first, landing well, rolling over in the damp grass, cursing when he caught his shoulder on a fallen tree stump. He straightened up and urged Georgie to join him. She too jumped and Doyle helped her to her feet, brushing a dead leaf from her hair.
‘You ok?’ he asked quietly.
She smiled at him and nodded.
They set off towards the house.
The driver of the lorry saw the Garda car blocking the entrance to the estate and slowed down. Behind him, the driver of the Mercedes saw his brake lights flare and followed suit.
Callahan stuck his head out of the rear window to see what was happening. He saw the Garda officer approach the lorry and talk to the driver.
‘Officer,’ the Englishman called. The uniformed man made his way over to the Mercedes. What’s happening?’
‘Are you Mr David Callahan?’ the man asked.
The Englishman nodded.
The officer began explaining what had happened as best he could, using as much tact as he could muster. Well, he thought, how can you delicately tell a man that his house has been shot up and his wife kidnapped? Callahan demanded to be let through. The car blocking the way reversed and the Mercedes and truck passed onto the estate, the car speeding past the larger vehicle as Callahan urged the driver to hurry.
From the trees Georgie heard the sound of roaring engines and squinted through the gloom to see headlamps piercing the night. She nudged Doyle and pointed to the speeding car.
‘I think Mr Callahan is home,’ he said softly, a slight smile on his face. ‘I hope he’s still in the mood for entertaining.’ They pressed on, close to the house now but still hidden from its approaches by the trees.
They saw the Mercedes pull up outside the main door. Callahan leapt from the vehicle and ran inside.
He slowed his pace as he passed the bullet-riddled entryway, his heart thudding hard against his ribs. In the hall there were more bullet holes. There was blood on the carpet, pieces of shattered porcelain and blasted brick. Motes of dust still swirled in the air from portions of plaster blown away from the walls and ceiling. Callahan rushed upstairs, his passage halted halfway by the appearance of a Garda sergeant. The man was broad, his hands like ham-hocks. He carried a radio in one of them.
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