'How long before we reach Liverpool Street?' Clark shouted.
'Three or four minutes,' McBride told him.
'And you're sure you heard the order clearly?' Clark persisted, touching Butler's shoulders.
'Yes. When Doyle gets to Liverpool Street he'll be tracked by plain-clothes men,' Butler began. 'They'll tail him to wherever Neville sends him. When he makes contact with Neville we'll be notified. We move in and shoot Neville. And we shoot to kill.'
They rode the escalator from the lower platform, standing side by side.
Doyle, his long brown hair swept back from the collar of his jacket, felt his face greasy with perspiration.
Lisa, still pulling at the loose thread on her sleeve, gazed around her, taking it all in. Then she looked up at Doyle and slipped her hand into his.
He glanced down at her, feeling her tiny hand inside his strong one.
She smiled up at him and he found himself pinned in the almost luminous brilliance of her eyes.
He managed a smile in return then he winked at her.
Do you reckon she'd still be smiling at you if she knew you were going to kill her father?
Doyle brushed a hair from his face.
It isn't her father. But she thinks it is. That's all that matters.
They stepped off the moving staircase, Doyle looking around the ticket hall. A flight of stone steps led up to the concourse itself.
They began to climb, Doyle deliberately slowing his pace so that Lisa could keep up with him.
She held his hand all the way up.
As they emerged on to the concourse, Doyle's eyes sought the public phones. There were four of them to the right and he headed towards them, Lisa keeping step with him.
Only when he actually reached the phones did Doyle release her hand.
All four were in use.
Doyle glanced at each user.
A youth in a blue Chelsea shirt and baggy jeans was talking animatedly into the mouthpiece of the first phone.
A young woman with a large suitcase beside her was at the second.
Then a middle-aged man who kept looking at his watch as he spoke.
At the fourth was a stunning Asian girl who was wearing a bright yellow jacket and the shortest skirt Doyle had ever seen. The garment, along with the black high heels she wore, drew even more attention to her shapely legs. He stood watching as she constantly lifted one foot from her left shoe, flexed her toes, then slid her foot back into the stiletto. She performed the movement with almost robotic precision and grace.
Aware of Doyle's prying glance, she turned so that her back was towards him.
He looked at his watch.
There was less than a minute before Neville was due to phone.
He'd get an engaged signal. As simple as that. He wouldn't detonate a bomb for that.
Would he?
Doyle licked his lips anxiously.
Time was almost up.
Pull them away from the phones. Do it now.
All of them?
The counter terrorist moved slowly from one foot to the other, the movement almost imperceptible.
Lisa watched him and giggled. To her it looked as if he was swaying gently back and forth like a tree in a breeze.
Doyle looked at his watch again.
Neville wouldn't detonate a bomb just because he got an engaged signal.
Can you be so sure? Do you want to risk it?
Doyle pulled the Beretta free (fuck it, this was becoming a habit) and held it in the direction of the four phone users.
'Get away from the phones, now,' he shouted.
The quartet seemed to turn simultaneously.
The youth in the Chelsea shirt dropped the receiver and ran.
The woman with the large suitcase screamed.
The man in the suit stood motionless, the receiver gripped so tightly in his hand that Doyle feared he would snap it in two.
The Asian girl's eyes bulged wildly in their sockets, her lips trying to form words but nothing would come out.
Other eyes turned towards the noise. Other eyes saw Doyle and the pointing gun.
'Get away from the phones,' he ordered.
'Please don't,' the woman with the suitcase blubbed. 'Take what you want.' She was pushing her handbag towards him.
'Just get away from the phone,' Doyle said, lowering his voice, glancing around, noticing that other people on the concourse were running towards exits in an effort to escape this long-haired madman.
Lisa looked on in bewilderment.
She could hear the screaming. She saw the looks of terror on people's faces.
And when she turned, she was the first to see two uniformed policemen running towards them.
6.59 P.M.
The phones were within reach.
Two dangling uselessly by their cords, the others replaced on the hook. Their users were long gone. Doyle stepped towards them, turning to look at Lisa.
He saw the policemen.
'Shit,' he hissed.
They were only yards from him now.
'It's all right,' he called, fumbling in his jacket for his ID.
'Put down the gun,' instructed the older of the two policemen, both palms extended to show he meant no harm.
Doyle pulled the ID free and tossed it at the older man, watching as he looked down at it.
'I'm with the Counter Terrorist Unit.'
'All right, son,' said the older man, taking a step towards him. 'Just take it easy.'
'Check the fucking ID, you halfwit,' Doyle rasped, the Beretta still gripped in his fist.
The phone began to ring.
The policeman kept coming.
'Put down the gun first,' said the older man. 'Then we'll talk.'
The phone rang again.
The policeman had actually stepped past the wallet now.
The phone rang for a third time.
Doyle swung the barrel until it was pointing at Lisa's head.
'Check the ID or I'll blow the kid's head off,' he hissed.
The second policeman dropped to his knees and flipped open the leather wallet, inspected the picture inside, saw the official stamp, the signatures.
Four rings.
'He's right,' the policemen kneeling nearby said, grabbing at his colleague's arm. 'Look.' He shoved the ID at the older man.
Doyle snatched up the phone.
He got the right one first time.
'Doyle,' he said, the automatic still aimed at Lisa's head.
The two policemen watched mesmerised.
Lisa's face creased slightly and they saw tears forming in her eyes as she looked at Doyle who, only now, lowered the weapon.
With the phone jammed between one shoulder and one ear, he snapped his fingers at the older policeman and pointed towards the ID wallet which the uniformed men tossed back to him.
'I want to speak to Lisa,' Neville said.
'No.'
'What the fuck are you talking about? Put her on, now.'
'Fuck you, Neville, I'm tired of this game. I'm not running around London for the rest of the night like a cunt waiting for you to do an impression of fucking Hiroshima when it gets to eight o'clock.'
'You know the rules, Doyle.'
'Fuck the rules, fuck the game and fuck you.'
'I'll let off another bomb in thirty seconds unless I speak to my daughter. The clock's running, hero.'
'Let it run, fuckhead.'
'You ought to know me well enough by now, Doyle. I'll do it.'
'I know you'll do it and I don't care. You can let off as many bombs as you like, you can kill however many people you want. I couldn't give a shit. You know why? Because I've got the only thing in this world that means anything to you. The only thing you value in your whole miserable fucking life is here with me now.'
'If you hurt her Doyle I'll-'
'You'll what?' Doyle hissed, scornfully. 'Bomb another part of London? Big deal. Be my guest. Now you listen to me, Neville, I'm changing the rules of this game. From now on we play my way. I don't know why it took me so long to suss this out. Are you listening to me?'