‘They both would have been if I’d had my way,’ hissed Doyle.
‘The peace process between Great Britain and Ireland is continuing as we would wish. Action such as yours will only jeopardise an already unstable situation.’
Doyle got to his feet. This is bullshit,’ he said dismissively. ‘What am I supposed to do? Slap them on the wrists and tell them not to be such naughty boys?’
‘Sit down, Doyle,’ Parker told him.
The counter terrorist hesitated a moment then slumped back into the chair.
‘It isn’t as if this is an isolated incident, is it, Mr Doyle?’ Pressman said.
‘Your record with this organisation is littered with insubordination, disobedience and a complete disregard for the nature of your position.’
The nature of my fucking position is that I get paid for tracking down and removing terrorists,’ Doyle rasped. ‘People who are a threat to this country.’
‘Do you see yourself as a patriot, Mr Doyle?’
‘I’ve never thought about it. I’m just doing a job.’
‘How many people have you killed during the course of your duties?’
‘What the fuck has that got to do with anything?’
‘Your record,’ Pressman held up the file. ‘Includes your psychiatric report.
I’m not an expert, Mr Doyle, but from what I’ve read, some of your behaviour has bordered on the psychotic’
‘You’re right. You’re not a fucking expert. You know nothing about me or the way I work.’
‘Sean Doyle,’ Pressman read. ‘Only son of Irish parents. Both dead. You live alone. Never married. Borderline alcoholic. Sociopathic tendencies. You have a problem with authority. You’ve been injured on numerous occasions, two of them almost fatal. After both you were offered retirement but refused. May I ask why?’
‘Is it important?’
‘I’m curious. I can’t understand why a man would want to continue in a line of work that guarantees his being put at risk on a regular basis. Is there so little in your life, Mr Doyle, that you’re prepared to jeopardise it so easily?’
‘Someone once said to me that a man with nothing to live for has no fear of death,’ Doyle observed.
‘Very profound. Where is that man now?’
‘I shot him.’
A silence descended, finally broken by Pressman. It says in your file that you were involved in the death of a fellow counter terrorist agent some years ago,’ the Home Secretary noted. ‘Georgina Willis.’
Doyle glared at the politician. ‘We were working together when she was killed,’ he said.
‘In the Republic of Ireland.’
‘Spot on.’
Another long silence.
‘You may or may not be aware, Mr Doyle, that my government is presently engaged in talks with Sinn Fein with a view to ending the violence in Northern Ireland once and for all,’ said Pressman.‘Incidents such as those precipitated by you in Belfast recently are hardly conducive to the fulfilment of such a peace.’
‘You’re not negotiating with the IRA,’ Doyle said disdainfully.‘You’re surrendering to them.What have they contributed to this so-called peace?
Nothing. What about decommissioning?’
That will come,’ Pressman interjected.
‘Bollocks,’ snapped Doyle. ‘How many of the fuckers have you released from prison?’
‘That is a necessary step agreed to by both sides.’
‘Five more of them are released at the end of the week, aren’t they?’
That is the plan.’
This fight isn’t with the guys you’re talking to. The men I was after in Belfast are a new breed. They couldn’t give a fuck about your talks and your promises. They couldn’t even give a fuck about Sinn Fein.’
‘I assume you mean the so-called Real IRA?’
That’s exactly who I mean.’
‘Real IRA. Continuity IRA.They’re a very small fringe operation.’
Doyle shook his head.‘In three years they’ve already been responsible for twenty-eight bombs in Ireland and five over here. If decommissioning does ever happen, there’ll be plenty more of the Provos wanting to join them. This problem isn’t going to go away.’
‘Well,’ said Pressman, closing the file. ‘Whatever happens, it won’t concern you any longer, Mr Doyle.’
The counter terrorist shot Parker a look.
‘If it’s any consolation, Doyle, I’m against this,’ said the older man.
‘Against what?’ Doyle snapped.
The Home Secretary pressed his fingertips together and regarded Doyle evenly.
‘You’re being removed from the Counter Terrorist Unit,’ he said.
Removed!’ Doyle rasped. ‘Your methods are unsuitable,’ Pressman continued.
‘And, quite frankly, so are you. Your behaviour in Belfast proved that beyond question.’
‘I was doing a fucking job. For this country.’
‘A job you are now considered unfit for,’ Pressman observed.
Doyle looked at Parker.
‘I had nothing to do with this, Doyle,’ said the older man.
‘Mr Parker fought for your position,’ said the Home Secretary. ‘He doesn’t want you removed. However, government policy dictates that we cannot tolerate a repetition of what happened in Belfast and your record seems to suggest that there’s a strong possibility of that.’
‘You gutless bastard,’ hissed Doyle, glaring at the politician.‘You’re giving in to them, aren’t you? The IRA. This is another concession you’re making.’
There are certain criteria—’
Doyle cut him short.‘Fuck your criteria,’ he snapped. ‘You’ve got your head so far up Sinn Fein’s arse you’ll be cleaning shit out of your ears for months.Why don’t
you just wave your white flag now and get it over with.’
‘The matter is closed,’ Pressman stated.‘Your career with the Counter Terrorist Unit is over, Doyle.’
‘And you’re going to sit still for this?’ Doyle asked Parker.
‘Mr Parker has little choice, I’m afraid,’ Pressman said, a slight smile on his face. The CTU receives more than ten million pounds a year in government subsidies. The organisation couldn’t operate without that money.’
‘You sold me out to a bunch of fucking politicians,’ Doyle said angrily.
‘I haven’t sold you out to anybody, Doyle,’ Parker replied.‘An example had to be made. Sinn Fein wanted proof of our good faith.’
‘More proof? What are you going to give them next? The names of every agent working undercover in Ireland? You fucking prick.’
‘People are tired of this conflict, Doyle,’ said Pressman. ‘They want an end to it, one way or the other.’
‘What the fuck do you know about people, you’re a politician,’ snapped the counter terrorist.
‘I need your ID and your guns, Doyle,’ Parker said quietly.
Doyle hesitated for a moment then got to his feet. He dug in his pocket for the small leather wallet that contained his ID. For long seconds he held it in
the air then threw it down on Parker’s desk.
‘And your guns,’ the commander said.
‘Forget it,’ Doyle told him. ‘Those are mine.’
‘In case you’d forgotten,’ Pressman cut in, ‘it is now a criminal offence to own a handgun of any calibre larger than .22.’
‘You want the guns then you come and take them,’ Doyle snarled.
He slid his hand inside his jacket and pulled the Beretta from its holster. He worked the slide, chambered a round, then levelled it at the Home Secretary.
‘Come on,’ he said quietly. Take it.’
Pressman paled, his eyes fixed on the barrel of the automatic. He looked as if all the blood had suddenly been drained from his body.