By a British soldier.
What all his enemies had failed to do might be accomplished by a man he would have called an ally.
How side-splittingly, jaw-droppingly hilarious.
He pushed open the door of the first cubicle.
How ironic.
How fucking ironic.
Doyle took a step inside, ignoring the graffitti on the walls and door, the puddle of piss on the floor.
He flipped open the cistern and looked inside.
Empty.
He moved into the next cubicle.
The stench was appalling. So strong he almost retched.
'What's wrong with flushing it, you cunt,' he murmured, trying not to look into the clogged bowl.
He pushed off the lid of the second cistern.
Nothing.
He could still hear the sound of water dripping.
Doyle moved to the next cubicle.
Thirteen minutes until detonation.
Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
He pushed the lid of the third cistern away and looked in.
Fuck all.
You're clutching at straws but then what else is there to do?
One bomb an hour, Doyle mused.
When? Where?
He dug in his pocket for his cigarettes and lit one, sucking hard on it.
One an hour and you can't even find the first one.
He moved to the next cubicle.
12.21 P.M.
'Where the hell does he think he's going?' PC Garside mused aloud as the police car sped along in pursuit of the fleeing motorbike.
Brenner, still hunched over the wheel, didn't answer, his only concern being keeping Neville in sight.
The ex-para glanced over his shoulder and saw the pursuing vehicles, sirens blaring, lights flashing brightly.
Russell Square was just up ahead.
Neville smiled.
He eased up on the throttle slightly, the needle of the bike's speedo slipping towards forty.
Thirty-five.
'He's slowing down,' Brenner said triumphantly.
Thirty.
'We've got the fucker,' the driver snarled.
Twenty-five.
He saw Neville reach behind him, flip open one of the top boxes.
Brenner pressed down harder on the accelerator.
Behind him, the other police car was also drawing nearer.
Neville was coming up to a comer, guiding the bike almost gracefully around it into Southampton Row.
As he straightened up he pulled something from the top box.
'Oh Jesus,' gasped Garside.
He saw the Steyr gripped firmly in the ex-para's fist.
Brenner saw it too and all he could think to do was accelerate.
Ram the bastard.
Knock him off before he opens fire.
Before he…
The first fusillade drilled holes right across the front of the Astra, blasting out both headlights, puncturing the radiator grille in several places and smashing in the windscreen.
Glass flew back into the car and both men tried to shield their faces from the projectile shards.
Garside shouted in pain as one slit his left cheek to the bone.
Other fragments of the shattered crystal peppered his hands like translucent grapeshot, pieces sticking in the flesh.
Brenner struggled to control the car which skidded madly across the street.
The shriek of burning tyres was instantly eclipsed by the staccato rattle of a second burst from the subgun.
Bullets struck the car once more.
Brenner was slammed back in his chair as one of the 9mm slugs powered into his chest.
It felt as if he'd been struck by a hot hammer.
The bullet tore through him, burst from his back and lodged in the driver's seat.
He slumped forward over the wheel, still conscious, bleeding badly.
Garside grabbed for the wheel, trying to keep the spinning vehicle under control.
There was a terrifying impact from behind as the second police car rammed the first, the metal of its chassis simply buckling. The front bumper tore away in the impact.
Neville glanced once again over his shoulder and saw the two stricken emergency vehicles, the second ploughing into a parked car as the driver wrestled with the wheel.
In the Astra, Garside shouted in horror as he felt the car flip.
It struck the right-hand kerb doing thirty, its momentum causing the two offside wheels to rise off the ground.
In one manic second, the Astra was on its side.
Garside fell against his companion, looking down at Brenner who was bleeding badly from the bullet wound in his chest. Blood bubbled on his lips every time he tried to breathe through his mouth.
The driver of the second car, his head split from hairline to eyebrow, staggered from the vehicle clutching the wound, blood pouring through his fingers.
He stood in the centre of the road glancing around him.
Shocked. Dazed.
Garside pushed his way through the shattered windscreen of the Astra and fell forward onto the pavement.
His head was spinning. He knew he was going to pass out.
People were walking towards him, as if in slow motion.
He could see the other wrecked police car, the driver now on his knees in the road, his head bloodied, his companion still slumped in the passenger seat, motionless.
Garside wondered if the man was dead.
He glanced back into the car and saw Brenner, head lolling uselessly on one side, blood dripping from his mouth.
And somewhere, it sounded like a million miles away, he heard the crackle of the radio.
'Puma three, come in, over.'
The world was spinning before him. His cheek hurt where the glass had cut it and, when he looked at his hands, he saw that they were like red gloves, pieces of glass sticking out of the flesh in many places.
'Puma three, come in, over.'
The voice on the radio was insistent.
Garside didn't care.
There was nothing he could do about it.
The people around him were still moving in slow motion but they seemed to be running now.
Some of them.
'Puma three.'
Fuck off, Garside thought.
He fell forward onto his face, the stink of burned rubber and petrol still strong in his nostrils.
We lost him, he thought, but the words wouldn't form on his lips.
We fucking lost him.
Garside blacked out.
Of Neville there was no sign.
12.26 P.M.
As Doyle emerged from the men's toilet on Euston station he caught sight of DI Calloway.
The policeman was standing talking to three uniformed men, one of whom was a fireman. As Doyle approached the little gathering the uniformed men scurried away towards the front of the building.
'We're not going to find it in time,' Calloway said flatly. 'I've given the order to get everyone off the station.'
Doyle nodded.
'Even if we did find it now there wouldn't be time to defuse it,' the DI continued. 'The fucker's won, hasn't he?'
'It's only the first round,' Doyle said quietly. 'There's a long way to go.'
Calloway allowed himself a sigh.
'No luck with the dogs?' Doyle asked, glancing first at his watch then at the clock high above them on the Arrivals/Departures board.
Calloway shook his head. 'We didn't have long enough.'
'I think we did,' Doyle said. 'Neville knew we'd come here. He knew we'd trace that call. It's all part of the game.'
'Some fucking game. What makes you so sure?'
'I told you before, I know how he thinks.'
'Well, it's a pity you can't read his fucking mind. Maybe we'd have found that bomb.'