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regarded the officer coldly. 'Just like that?' he said softly.
        'You've done it before, Doyle. Don't tell me you're going soft,' Wetherby chided. 'How many men have you killed? Twenty? Thirty?'
        'This is different.'
        'Why?'
        'The others weren't British soldiers,' Doyle snarled.
        'What difference does that make?' Wetherby snorted. 'It's one man's life. We're talking about a country here, Doyle. Over three thousand people have died since 1969. Half of the people involved don't even know why. Now, after all those deaths, there's peace. That peace can't be destroyed. Not at any cost. Neville is threatening that peace. He has to be removed. If not, all the deaths, all the sacrifices, the talking, it'll have been for nothing. We can't let one man jeopardise that.'
        'Save the fucking sermons, Wetherby,' Doyle rasped.
        'You've suffered enough yourself,' the officer continued. 'Don't you want it finished?'
        Doyle didn't answer.
        He reached for a cigarette and lit it.
        'You said there was nothing left for you, Doyle,' the Major reminded him. 'Look on this job as a swan song. A last shot. You're right. There is nothing left.'
        'And what if I refuse?'
        'You won't,' said Wetherby, smugly. 'Two days, Doyle.'
        Doyle snatched up the file on Neville and headed for the door.
        'You're right, Wetherby,' he said, pausing as he turned the handle. 'I'm nothing without the fighting, maybe that's how Neville feels too; perhaps that's why I don't want to kill him, because I understand how he feels. The difference between you and me is that I might be nothing when all this is over but you, you'll be a nothing for the rest of your fucking life. You've always been nothing and that's the way it'll stay.'
        And he was gone, the door slamming behind him.
        

8.04 A.M.
        
        'Who's in there with him?'
        Doyle took a drag on his cigarette, his eyes fixed on number ten London Road.
        From the single window of the Portacabin it was clearly visible, as were the dozens of uniformed policemen who had taken up position around it, some as close as the pavement. They were using parked cars as cover.
        The Portacabin was about twelve feet long, half that in width and, despite the fact that it contained just three men other than Doyle, it seemed crowded inside. Somehow a small table had been brought in and upon that a map of the area and several files had been laid out.
        A uniformed man stood at the door, removing his cap to run a hand across his bald head.
        Doyle wasn't sure of his rank but guessed he must be fairly high up in the pecking order.
        The other two occupants of the Portacabin were plain-clothes. Both of them, the counter terrorist guessed, three or four years older than himself. The first of them was an overweight, dark-haired man who looked as if he hadn't shaved for a week. His companion, DI Vic Calloway, was taller, thicknecked and sporting a nose which looked as if it had been flattened with a frying pan.
        Calloway's more portly assistant, who was sipping tea from a Styrofoam cup, seemed more interested in Doyle than in number ten London Road. Detective Sergeant Colin Mason wondered who the hell this long-haired newcomer was and, more to the point, what business he had here. Mason stuck the tip of his tongue into the cavity which had formed in one of his back teeth and wondered how much longer he could avoid a trip to the dentist. The fucking thing was starting to ache.
        The uniformed man seemed to tire of standing at the door and wandered out into the road, closing the door behind him.
        'I said, who's in there with him?' Doyle repeated, looking at Calloway.
        'Just his wife and kid as far as we know,' the DI said, reaching for his own tea, sipping it, wincing when he found it was cold.
        'Julie and Lisa Neville,' Doyle