'Checking.'
'Vic, if they spot Neville, they'll let us know quick enough.'
'I'll check anyway.'
Robert Neville could see the police car approaching in his wing mirror.
Just take it easy.
There were two people at the pedestrian crossing and the police car, like Neville, slowed down to let them pass.
The driver of the car glanced at Neville.
They're looking for a man in a black leather outfit.
The ex-para turned and looked directly at the uniformed man.
Not even the same number plates, are they, shithead?
Neville thought how easy it would be to lean back and flip up the top box lid. Snake a hand in and pull the Steyr free.
The driver was watching as a young woman in a particularly short skirt crossed in front of them.
Neville grinned inside the helmet, looking first at the girl then at the police car.
Do you know how close to death you are?
The police car pulled off.
Neville followed.
He was less than thirty seconds from Park Lane.
As he rode he slid his left hand into the pocket of his jacket and ran his finger over the small object there.
The detonator had a single red switch on it.
Neville slowed his speed slightly, checked behind him then swung the bike into Audley Street.
They would be waiting. He'd known that all along.
Another right and he was heading down Hill Street back in the direction of Berkeley Square.
There was another way.
3.21 P.M.
The sound reminded her of a dog in pain.
Julie Neville gritted her teeth as the escalator rose, the sound seemingly rising in volume with it.
A loud, grating wail reverberated around the vaulted ceiling and pounded her eardrums.
The inner workings of the moving stairs needed attention. She didn't have to be a mechanic to realise that.
Lisa had asked her what the noise was as soon as they'd stepped from the train at Tottenham Court Road.
'They should do something about it,' she'd added indignantly.
Julie had to agree. She glanced at the procession of faces being ferried downwards on the opposite escalator. Some smiling, some chatting to friends, most as blank and expressionless as her own.
She and Lisa stepped off the moving staircase and Julie pushed their tickets into the machine, ushering her daughter through as the automatic bars swung open, then hurrying through herself before they slammed shut.
They took the first exit ahead of them, climbing the steps, Julie gripping her daughter's hand tightly so they didn't become separated in the crowd of people both entering and leaving the Underground station.
When they finally emerged at street level, Julie wiped her face with the back of one hand.
The early morning chill had given way to sunshine and, as they walked, the small suitcase which she carried seemed to have mysteriously increased in weight. Julie could feel a single bead of perspiration trickling down the middle of her back. Above her, the sky was filled with bloated cloud which occasionally blotted out the sun, but the warmth was still there, wrapping itself around her like an unwelcome blanket.
Jesus. What a difference from the early morning.
The day had stretched into an eternity. Each hour elongated and protracted.
She was beginning to wonder if this particular day was ever going to end.
She noticed the policeman on the opposite side of the road.
Was he looking for her?
They would have discovered she'd fled by now, that much she was certain of.
They would be looking for her and Lisa.
The policeman crossed the street and headed off up New Oxford Street.
Julie breathed an audible sigh of relief as she watched him go.
'Mum, I'm hungry,' Lisa said, kicking at a crushed Pepsi can. It skidded across the pavement and struck the foot of a suited man who shot her an irritated glance.
Julie could feel her own stomach churning but she was unsure whether it was hunger or anxiety.
The police were looking for her. Her husband was still out there somewhere. He'd let off two bombs already, Christ alone knew what he had in mind next.
'Mum,' Lisa persisted.
Julie smiled down at her and they moved through the crowd into Oxford Street, to the McDonald's opposite the entrance to the tube station they'd just left.
As Julie pushed open the door the smell of frying food enveloped them and they joined one of the queues.
Lisa looked up excitedly, as Julie flipped open her purse and saw about twenty pounds in there.
Is that it? Your total possessions? The sum of your life?
Twenty quid. A small suitcase and a daughter.
In front of her, two youths were comparing purchases from the Virgin Mega-Store next door, pulling CDs from plastic bags and glancing at the covers.
Julie looked at them enviously. They have no worries, she thought.
She looked to her left, saw that one of the other queues had disappeared so she hurried across to the counter, Lisa scurrying beside her.
They ordered and Lisa carried the cardboard tray downstairs, where an employee was mopping the floor. Julie had to skirt around him as she followed Lisa to a table in the corner, finally dumping the suitcase on the bench beside her.
Lisa was already pulling fries and burgers from the brown bag, prising milkshakes from the cardboard tray.
Julie took a bite of her cheeseburger and glanced around.
She had to find a phone.
3.27 P.M.
'What the fuck is he playing at?'
Doyle held the two-way to one ear while he scanned Park Lane and Marble Arch with the binoculars.
'Doyle? Can you hear me?' Calloway said, more agitatedly. 'I said-'
'I heard you,' the counter terrorist interrupted. Still he swept the powerful glasses back and forth.
Searching.
'Where the hell is Neville?' Calloway's angry voice demanded.
'He could already be here,' Doyle said flatly. 'He's probably watching us.'
'How could he be?'
'Come on, Calloway, he'll be expecting a fucking trap, he's not stupid.'
'So why agree to the meeting?'
'He's testing us.'
The cunning bastard.
Doyle walked to the parapet and glanced first to his left and then to his right, peering through the magnifying lenses.
Come out, come out, wherever you are.
One of the armed policemen shifted position, still trying to keep his eye pressed to the telescopic sight of the HK81.
'I wouldn't worry about it,' Doyle said quietly as he passed the man. 'This bastard's not going to show,' he said into the two-way.
'How can you be sure?' Calloway asked urgently.
'Call it a gut feeling. Give it another ten minutes then pull your men out.'
'You're not going to listen to him, are you, Vic?' snapped Mason, glaring at his superior.
Inside the Peugeot, Calloway held the two-way tightly, his mind spinning.
Why hadn't Neville shown up?
Was Doyle right? Was the ex-para wise to their plan?
How could he be?
'Doyle,' the DI said. 'Why wouldn't Neville show up? If he wants his daughter that badly, surely-'
'Just trust me on this,' Doyle interrupted.
'Why the hell should we trust him?' Mason barked.
'He hasn't been wrong so far,' Calloway said.
'No, he hasn't, has he? Not once.'
'Meaning?'
'He says he knows how Neville thinks, how his mind works. Isn't that convenient?' the DS said angrily. 'What if they're in this together?'
Calloway shook his head.
'He was so anxious for us to pull in Kenneth Baxter for questioning,' Mason persisted. 'What if that was just a fucking smokescreen? To take the suspicion away from Doyle himself.'