Doyle could see the motorbike, no more than ten yards ahead of him, twisting and turning effortlessly through the narrow streets while he fought with the Nissan, trying to coax it, at speed, through the same thoroughfares, striking the kerbs frequently, forcing pedestrians into doorways for safety.
But the counter terrorist wouldn't give up. Perspiration was beading on his forehead, some of it running down the side of his face as he used all his concentration to keep on Neville's tail, all his driving skill just to stop himself ploughing into a building.
There was an empty stretch of road ahead, narrow, cobbled but free of people.
Doyle stuck the Beretta out and gripped firmly, firing off three rounds.
The pistol slammed against the heel of his hand with each recoil, empty shell cases spinning into the air.
One shot screamed off the concrete, another parted air and the third punched in the window of a shop, glass shattering noisily.
Neville turned a comer into Derby Street and again Doyle wondered what the hell he was playing at.
If he'd shot right into Shepherd Market it would have been impossible for a car to follow him but he didn't, he chose to ride on into Curzon Street.
Back into traffic.
What the fuck was he playing at?
Twice now he'd refused the opportunity to shake off or at least delay his pursuers, first at Hyde Park Corner and now here.
Doyle could hear sirens through the roar of engines.
He knew there must be police cars on the way by now, joining the chase.
Neville sped across the road, looking back quickly, almost as if to ensure that Doyle was still following.
The counter terrorist saw him reach back with one hand, flip open the top box and reach in.
He pulled the Steyr free and fired one short burst in Doyle's direction.
Bullets peppered the front of the Nissan, drilling holes in the bodywork, punching in a portion of the radiator grille, another shattering the windscreen.
Another spiderwebbed it and, for precious seconds, Doyle could see nothing except cracked glass.
He was about to punch a hole in the opaque mess when another bullet sent the whole lot spraying inwards.
Doyle hissed as a thin sliver sliced open the flesh on his jaw and he shielded his eyes from the pulverised crystal flying at him like transparent needles.
Cold air rushed through the gaping hole but at least he could see again.
See Neville speeding up South Audley Street.
See the Lynx dip low once more to join in the chase.
And now, what had begun to scratch away in the back of Doyle's mind became not a scratch but a great churning.
There was something wrong here.
Very wrong.
Twice Neville had been in a position to avoid pursuit.
Twice he'd chosen to continue the chase.
Doyle glanced down at the dashboard clock.
Jesus Christ. Less than twelve minutes to detonation.
There was a method in this apparent madness from Neville, Doyle was sure of it.
But why?
Had he one last trick left?
As Doyle drove on he was gripped by an almost unbearable conviction that Neville was leading them right to the bomb.
When it went up, they'd all go with it.
And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake that belief.
7.51 P.M.
The Lynx had stayed roughly level with the tops of the buildings as it had skirted South Audley Street but now, as Neville emerged into Grosvenor Square, the helicopter swooped towards him, free to dive and turn in the open area.
Doyle saw it dip towards Neville.
Saw Neville slow up slightly.
Saw him fumbling with the Steyr.
A loud bang sounded as one of the police marksmen fired at Neville.
The bullet struck the ground close to him.
Another loud retort.
Another miss.
Doyle swung the Beretta up and fired off more shots until the slide flew back signalling that the pistol was empty.
He pulled a spare magazine from his pocket and jammed it into the butt of the pistol, forced to slow down as he worked the slide, chambering a round.
As the Nissan slowed, Doyle saw what was happening.
'No!' he roared. 'Get away from him.'
His shout was directed at the helicopter which was dropping still lower, the noise of its rotors now deafening.
'I've got him,' said Clark, eye pressed tight to the telescopic sight.
Neville swung the Steyr upwards and tightened his finger on the trigger.
The fusillade raked the chopper, blasting in the windscreen, punching holes in the co-pilot's door. Bullets drilled the length of the helicopter.
One struck Clark, stove in part of his ribcage then erupted from his back.
He slumped forward in his seat as more bullets dotted the chopper, piercing the cabin door, drilling through the tail boom. One struck the tail skin and blasted it clean off.
McBride struggled with the controls, tried to lift the Lynx free but Neville jammed in a fresh magazine and opened up again, once more raking the helicopter from end to end.
Bullets screamed off the hull, punctured the cabin and tore through the vertical fin.
The tail rotor gearbox was hit. Pulverised by a concentrated burst of fire.
The chopper lurched violently in the air and McBride felt his stomach tighten as the instrument panel suddenly flashed with a dozen red warning lights.
The chopper began to spin hopelessly out of control, the end swinging round madly.
It was as if someone had nailed the main rotor to the sky and the chopper was turning around that central point.
It dipped crazily, the pilot yanking so hard on the joystick that it seemed he would wrench it free.
Then, with alarming speed, like a puppet with its strings cut, the chopper plummeted earthward.
It struck the ground in the centre of Grosvenor Square.
The explosion was massive. A conflagration so powerful it blew Neville over, spilling him from the bike.
The concussion blast even moved Doyle's car and the counter terrorist covered his face with one arm as a wave of intense heat rolled across the square.
An enormous cloud of black smoke and flame rose into the air as the chopper exploded with such ferocity that every window in the buildings around the square was blasted inwards.
Huge, twisted pieces of metal were hurled in every direction by the cataclysmic blast, spewing through the air like lumps of flaming shrapnel.
A piece of the main rotor, as if fired from a cannon, shot across the square and smashed through a parked car, impaling the vehicle which also exploded, adding its own chorus to the already ear-splitting hurricane of fire belching upwards into the darkening sky.
Blazing petrol ejaculated into the air and spilled across the ground, igniting everything it touched.
More cars began to burn. A whole series of secondary explosions were triggered, as if someone had let off a great chain of venomous and extremely powerful firecrackers.
The sky turned orange, then red, then black.
Noxious smoke rose and hung over the square like a reeking shroud.
Doyle saw Neville roll over on the ground, struggle to his feet, hurrying to pull the Harley Davidson upright.
The counter terrorist floored the accelerator and the Nissan hurtled towards Neville and the bike.
Neville spun around, had time to fire one single burst from the Steyr.
Doyle shouted in pain as a bullet tore through his left shoulder, cracked the collar bone and punched its way out of his back, ripping through the seat in the process, but he held on to the wheel, seeing Neville's face illuminated by the fire.