corridor he saw that the public phone was in use.
'Shit,' he muttered under his breath, sidling close to the user, a man in his mid-fifties who kept peering anxiously in Doyle's direction.
Come on, get a fucking move on.
Doyle drew on his cigarette and leaned against the wall, gazing at the man who was glancing all around him, anything to avoid making eye contact.
When he finally finished he gave Doyle an apologetic smile as he stepped away from the phone.
The younger man picked up the receiver and began feeding coins into the machine, aware that the other man was staring at him.
Only when Doyle turned and glared back at him did the man hasten his retreat along the corridor and out of sight.
Doyle jabbed the digits and waited.
An officious-sounding voice greeted him at the other end.
'I want to speak to Major John Wetherby,' Doyle said. 'Tell him it's Sean Doyle.'
The other voice said that Wetherby was busy.
'Then interrupt him. This is urgent.'
The officious voice insisted Doyle should hold.
'I'm using a public phone, you prick, now get Wetherby and stop fucking about. This is very urgent.'
There was a moment or two of silence on the other end, then Doyle heard a more familiar voice.
'Doyle, I-'
He didn't let the Intelligence officer finish. 'What have you got on Kenneth Baxter?'
'Well, he wasn't hard to trace. It makes for interesting reading, Doyle.'
'Cut the small talk. Where is he?'
'He's in London. He's lived there for the past twelve months. Kenneth Edward Baxter, age thirty-eight. Born May-'
'I don't need his fucking life history,' Doyle snapped.
'It's relevant,' Wetherby replied angrily.
'Is he still serving?'
'That's the interesting bit. Kenneth Baxter was court-martialled eighteen months ago, while he was a serving paratrooper. He was found guilty and sentenced to six months in a military prison in Aldershot. After his release he was dishonourably discharged from the army.'
'Jesus Christ, what did he do?'
'Well, like our friend Neville, Baxter was an explosives expert too. The only problem was, he was selling explosives, army explosives, to the IRA and the UVF.'
'For fuck's sake.'
'There was some talk of him selling weapons too but that charge was never proved.'
'So where is he now?'
'Like I said, he's living in London. He works for a private security firm called Nemesis.'
'They obviously didn't ask for references.'
'He's been there for about eight months.'
'Addresses?' Doyle fumbled in his pocket for a piece of paper. He found an old betting slip in one back pocket of his jeans and pulled a Bic from his jacket, scribbling away as Wetherby relayed the information. 'Anything else I should know?' he said finally, shoving the worn pink slip back into his pocket.
'Just find Neville,' Wetherby said.
'Doyle!'
The counter terrorist turned as he heard his name being called.
He looked around to see Calloway hurrying up the corridor towards him.
'Got to go,' Doyle said into the phone and hung up.
Calloway looked flushed around the cheeks.
'What's going on?' Doyle asked.
'I just spoke to Mason at New Scotland Yard,' the DI told him. 'He called me on my mobile. Neville rang there five minutes ago. He says he's ringing back in a couple of minutes. He wants to talk, but he'll only talk to you.'
'What the fuck does he want to talk to me for?'
'He said something about a bomb.'
11.41 A.M.
Doyle stood beside the black Granada, gently rocking from one foot to the other.
'This is bollocks,' he muttered, glancing around the hospital car park.
A red Metro had just pulled up close by and he watched as two elderly women
'Shit,' he muttered under his breath, sidling close to the user, a man in his mid-fifties who kept peering anxiously in Doyle's direction.
Come on, get a fucking move on.
Doyle drew on his cigarette and leaned against the wall, gazing at the man who was glancing all around him, anything to avoid making eye contact.
When he finally finished he gave Doyle an apologetic smile as he stepped away from the phone.
The younger man picked up the receiver and began feeding coins into the machine, aware that the other man was staring at him.
Only when Doyle turned and glared back at him did the man hasten his retreat along the corridor and out of sight.
Doyle jabbed the digits and waited.
An officious-sounding voice greeted him at the other end.
'I want to speak to Major John Wetherby,' Doyle said. 'Tell him it's Sean Doyle.'
The other voice said that Wetherby was busy.
'Then interrupt him. This is urgent.'
The officious voice insisted Doyle should hold.
'I'm using a public phone, you prick, now get Wetherby and stop fucking about. This is very urgent.'
There was a moment or two of silence on the other end, then Doyle heard a more familiar voice.
'Doyle, I-'
He didn't let the Intelligence officer finish. 'What have you got on Kenneth Baxter?'
'Well, he wasn't hard to trace. It makes for interesting reading, Doyle.'
'Cut the small talk. Where is he?'
'He's in London. He's lived there for the past twelve months. Kenneth Edward Baxter, age thirty-eight. Born May-'
'I don't need his fucking life history,' Doyle snapped.
'It's relevant,' Wetherby replied angrily.
'Is he still serving?'
'That's the interesting bit. Kenneth Baxter was court-martialled eighteen months ago, while he was a serving paratrooper. He was found guilty and sentenced to six months in a military prison in Aldershot. After his release he was dishonourably discharged from the army.'
'Jesus Christ, what did he do?'
'Well, like our friend Neville, Baxter was an explosives expert too. The only problem was, he was selling explosives, army explosives, to the IRA and the UVF.'
'For fuck's sake.'
'There was some talk of him selling weapons too but that charge was never proved.'
'So where is he now?'
'Like I said, he's living in London. He works for a private security firm called Nemesis.'
'They obviously didn't ask for references.'
'He's been there for about eight months.'
'Addresses?' Doyle fumbled in his pocket for a piece of paper. He found an old betting slip in one back pocket of his jeans and pulled a Bic from his jacket, scribbling away as Wetherby relayed the information. 'Anything else I should know?' he said finally, shoving the worn pink slip back into his pocket.
'Just find Neville,' Wetherby said.
'Doyle!'
The counter terrorist turned as he heard his name being called.
He looked around to see Calloway hurrying up the corridor towards him.
'Got to go,' Doyle said into the phone and hung up.
Calloway looked flushed around the cheeks.
'What's going on?' Doyle asked.
'I just spoke to Mason at New Scotland Yard,' the DI told him. 'He called me on my mobile. Neville rang there five minutes ago. He says he's ringing back in a couple of minutes. He wants to talk, but he'll only talk to you.'
'What the fuck does he want to talk to me for?'
'He said something about a bomb.'
11.41 A.M.
Doyle stood beside the black Granada, gently rocking from one foot to the other.
'This is bollocks,' he muttered, glancing around the hospital car park.
A red Metro had just pulled up close by and he watched as two elderly women
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