Knife Edge (2004) Read online

  She said something and closed the door, and Ross could hear him calling out to the milkman. It would be all over Alresford within the hour. He could feel the excitement running through him. Second lieutenant to major. Nothing changed. One step at a time. He stared at the official envelope. But not the end of the line.

  He heard himself say, “I must acknowledge this. There’s a special phone number, too.”

  She watched him. Sharing it, as she had done many times, before Cyprus.

  “You old sod! I just heard!” Sue strode across the kitchen and shook a riding crop at him. “And I thought you were beginning to show some sense at long last!” She laughed aloud. “But give me a shout, and I’ll drive you up to London in style.”

  Joanna smiled at them.

  “In one piece too, I hope.” She turned her back, and added quietly, “Come back here, Ross, whenever you can.”

  “You see?” Susanna Blackwood eased the wheel and braked to allow some pedestrians to use a zebra crossing. “Said I’d get you to your appointment on time. Just over the river, and bingo!”

  It had certainly been a fast drive. Up early for a quick breakfast, Joanna already dressed and making sure he would forget nothing, the car out in the cobbled yard, the hood down, Sue making some notes in a pad which she was rarely without.

  The stables had been awake, too. A group of women were being instructed by one of the grooms, horses watching from their boxes, tossing heads and munching titbits for the benefit of the first clients.

  He had also met John, the manager of the stables, who had been working for Joanna for about a month. Not a young man; he was probably the same age as his employer. Straight-backed, an ex-soldier. Very formal when they had been introduced, his eyes partly hidden by a battered old trilby.

  A strong handshake. “Served in the Blues, Major. About a hundred years ago!”

  As he had climbed into the trembling Mercedes, Ross had seen his mother touch hands with the new manager. It was not by accident.

  He had mentioned it to his sister.

  She remarked crudely, “Wants to get his feet under the table, that’s all!”

  He watched her now. All that way, through the Hampshire countryside, by familiar routes and some unknown to him; they had stopped only once, somewhere outside Guildford. She had filled the tank at a garage, and made a phone call at the same time.

  She had seen him looking at his watch and had said almost sharply, “Heaps of time, Ross! They can wait, surely?”

  Was she always on guard against something? Getting too close, even with him? Her black jacket was in the tiny rear seat, her hair tied back severely with a piece of black ribbon. A red silk scarf was the only colour about her.

  He adjusted his own jacket, a lightweight grey suit he had brought from Hong Kong. Here it was summer, but with the car roof down he was almost shivering.

  He stared across the river at the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben: the tourists’ London. Red double-decker buses, the familiar taxis . . . He looked at the old clock. Sue was right. Heaps of time.

  She was saying, “Don’t forget the address I gave you. I wrote the phone numbers down, too, just in case . . .” She banged the wheel with her fist. “Come on, then!”

  Several Japanese tourists were being rounded up by their guide; one was taking a photograph of two children. She was on edge. Glad to be back, in her world.

  She increased speed again. “I may be out late tonight. Just go to the address – I’ve told the porter to expect you.” She took her eyes from the heavy traffic for a moment. “Take care of yourself, Ross. It’s too bad we don’t have more time.” She looked away, as if she thought she had gone too far. Strangers.

  A couple of minutes later she said, “That place over there is a studio. One of ours. I’ve done a few interviews there. A real hoot, some of them.”

  “You certainly know your way about.”

  She smiled. “Need to in this job. In more ways than one.”

  They pulled up beside a line of parking meters, all of which were labelled ‘out of order’.

  She sighed. “Security. Makes me sick!”

  He got out of the car and straightened his jacket. Security . . . Just a few hours ago, when he had been putting his suitcase in the boot, he had seen the small mirror fixed to the end of a piece of cane. He had asked her about it.

  “Leave a nice-looking car unattended for any length of time in London these days, it’s always a good idea to have a look underneath before you drive off. You never know what some maniac might have fixed there.” She had shaken her head, perhaps at his naiveté. “It’s another world, Ross.”

  “Sorry, miss. You can’t park here.” The figure in blue had appeared out of nowhere.

  “O.K., officer.” She turned her head so that Ross could kiss her cheek. “Good to have you around again.” For only a few seconds, he could feel her sudden uncertainty, as if she wanted to share something, reach out for the first time. Instead, she puckered her lips into a kiss and drove away. She did not look back.

  The policeman said, “Nice car, sir.”

  As if he had just heard her speak. You never know what some maniac might have fixed there.

  He looked up at the Victorian building and checked the number; he could almost feel the policeman turning to observe as he switched on his radio. A stranger, male, now entering Number Thirty-One. He could feel a grin spreading across his face. The policeman was probably calling the local nick to find out what kind of sandwiches they had in the canteen.

  The door opened before he could reach the bell, and he was confronted by a heavily built man dressed in a dark suit. Another figure, similar in build and dress, stood behind a counter. Provost, or security men, they might as well have been in uniform.

  Instead he said, “Last time we met you was still a captain, when I was on a refresher course at Lympstone. You was the adjutant in that place. You got into a spot of bother because you rode a damn great horse into the officers’ mess.”

  They shook hands, and Ross said, “The colonel gave me hell.” They both grinned. “It was my birthday, although he didn’t appreciate it!”

  “I’ll take you up, Major.” He nodded to his companion and Ross saw him pick up a telephone.

  Take it easy. One step at a time.

  It was a tall building for one so old, and once in the lift he lost count of the floors. Bigger than the other one, but when he looked up he saw the open hatch, the wire cables shaking in the reflected light as if they were in need of an overhaul.

  . . . Off Ice House Street, Hong Kong. Java House, gone now, all clean and shining, high and impersonal.

  There was an old and stained mirror on one side of the lift. He knew his big companion was watching him, but careful not to show it. He saw his own reflection, the lightweight suit, slightly crushed after Sue’s energetic driving. It seemed wrong to him that you rarely wore uniform these days unless you were on duty. By the book. As his sister had remarked, it was a different world. A girl so private, so self-contained. As if she was afraid of something.

  The lift gave a violent jerk and the doors opened.

  “Here we go, Major.” He almost winked. “See you when it’s over.”

  The doors slid shut and the lift began to descend.

  A young man, also in a dark suit, was waiting to meet him.

  “Major Blackwood? He’ll not be long.” He gestured to a solitary chair. “I’d fetch some tea, but . . .”

  He had not introduced himself, but wore a plastic ID card on his label which said A. Tucker, A.C.H.Q. To further confuse any one, he was wearing an R.A.F. tie.

  There was another door, and the occasional blare of a horn. London was never still . . . He walked to the window and looked down at the street, saw the pinprick of camera flashes and then the plumed helmets and horses of a troop of Household Cavalry.

  Horse Guards. He thought of the man at Hawks Hill introduced only as John. The Blues. And Sue’s curt dismissal, wants to get his feet u
nder the table.

  Was she never lonely?

  He heard somebody laugh, or perhaps it was a cough. He faced the other door, surprised that he was so relaxed. He remembered one of Irwin’s comments in a rare moment of confidence. Not what you know, Ross, but who you know. Always keep that in mind. Was that why he had pulled the trigger?

  “The Colonel will see you now, sir.”

  Some one else was about to leave, and gestured with one hand as if to apologize.

  “Sorry to keep you hanging about, old chap. It dragged on a bit.”

  It was like meeting somebody he knew, or had already met. He was probably used to it. Very tanned, those keen eyes with deep crows’ feet at the corners, so often seen staring into the sun, or describing the character of the land in some wilderness or disaster area. Clive Tobin was never absent from the television screen for very long, always bringing some new calamity into the living rooms of Britain. Older than Ross had imagined, casually but, he guessed, expensively dressed in a gilt-buttoned blazer and grey slacks, the familiar spotted handkerchief flowing from the breast pocket. Unmistakable.

  The door closed, but not before he had seen A. Tucker A.C.H.Q. rushing to open the other door for the departing celebrity. He was almost bowing.

  Colonel Sir Aubrey Souter, Distinguished Service Order, was waiting behind a broad, polished desk, very upright, as if he were standing to attention. Again, it was like meeting some one familiar. Souter was well known, almost famous, in the Corps, but as far as he could recall Ross had only laid eyes on him two or three times, usually at some special parade, or perhaps at an inspection. A brief pause in the routine: this stern, gaunt face directly opposite you, eyebrows raised with the question. “What’s your name, eh? Where’re you from?” Then the scrutiny, and, “Good show!” On to the next stop, two or three further along. No doubt the same questions.

  “Sit you down. Just a few points. Wanted to see you for myself.” Souter sat and waited for Ross to occupy the chair opposite.

  The room was nearly empty. There was only one other chair, with a minute table beside it, on which was an ashtray containing a cigarette, barely smoked and stubbed out. A window nearby had been partly opened. The sound of traffic again. The desk was bare but for a loose file of papers, pressed down by an ornate silver paperweight modelled on the badge of the United States Marine Corps, the Globe and Anchor with their motto scrawled around it. Semper Fidelis, always faithful. Sir Aubrey Souter was well-known for his interest in close co-operation between the two forces. Ross also noted that there was no ashtray on the desk, nor had Souter offered to shake his hand.

  Like checking your defences. He had learned the hard way.

  “I need experienced officers who can be relied upon under all conditions. Skill, initiative, just a bite of the apple.” He had thinning grey hair, neatly trimmed, and partly covering a star-shaped scar above his left eyebrow. Close, no matter what it had been.

  A little moustache, like De Lisle. But no other similarity.

  A man used to getting his own way. Winning. He was now, among other things, a senior aide to the Combined Defence Staff. Next only to God. Almost.

  He moved the paperweight to one side and opened the folder.

  “You reorganized the Special Raiding Squadron when you took it over in Hong Kong. New boats, damn sight faster than the ones used by the Commies.” He almost smiled. “Mustn’t call them that now, eh? Illegal immigrants. For the moment, anyway.” The smile had gone. “You saw action out there, and earlier when you were in Malaysia. What was that troublemaker called?”

  “Richard Suan, sir.” He watched the fingers lifting the next page. “He was never caught.”

  “Hmm.” The page turned. “Probably never existed, or already dead.” Then he said, “More and more work, fewer resources. Time moves on. New government. New prime minister. But who can say?”

  Ross waited. The gaunt features were studying him. An old-fashioned face, his mother might have called it. Like some of those faded photographs in the study at Hawks Hill. The Somme, the Dardanelles, Jutland.

  “You served with my nephew, right? Young Alan Piggott, same rank as you?” He made it sound like yesterday.

  Sometimes it is.

  “Yes, sir. I was there when . . .” But Souter held up his hand.

  “I know.” He stared at the window. “If it had been a war, a real war, I mean, that lad would have been awarded the Victoria Cross. Instead . . .”

  He did not go on.

  Ross recalled Steve Blackwood’s words. They never failed to bring the stark picture of Piggott’s death back to centre stage.

  “Piggott was terrified. Shit-scared, but he knew what had to be done. In my book, that’s real courage.”

  Steve was still in the Corps, despite the wound he had suffered when he had blown the bridge. An instructor at Portland, the last time Ross had heard. Promoted to warrant officer, a W.O.2. Teaching others demolition and bomb disposal. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. Houston had died, but he had not been forgotten; the ‘gong’ had been awarded. The Distinguished Conduct Medal. Very few had been handed out since World War Two, which was probably the reason Steve Blackwood was at Portland and not on the beach, like so many others.

  It was as if Souter had been reading his mind.

  “We are expected to achieve so much without the resources which are vital. I don’t have to tell you that.” He tapped the file. “I know your record, the family tradition. But with some of today’s political minds, it’s still not enough. I meet quite a few of them. They only see what they want to see. The Corps is expected to do everything, guard important sites, military or otherwise . . . We are now being told that the North Sea oil rigs will need our surveillance. I can see their point, of course. But if we get more reductions, who can say what might happen?” He looked at him directly. “You never married? Can’t say I blame you.”

  “Never had the luck.” Ross clenched his fist. It had come out too sharply. Angrily. Perhaps what Souter intended.

  “Thought as much.” Surprisingly, he smiled. It made him look like a different person. “Won’t mention any names, but a chap I know fairly well on the Commons Defence Committee told me they’re already planning more cuts for the next White Paper. That should go down well with some of the voters, the would-be tax savers.” He moved the silver paperweight slightly. The file was closed. What had happened, decided him about something?

  “They want to reduce the Royal Navy to little more than an anti-submarine force for the North Atlantic.” He lifted one finger. “Don’t get me wrong. I greatly admire our U.S. allies, but it doesn’t mean I want the Stars and Stripes flying above the White Ensign! And the Corps will be under pressure, too. Again.”

  There was a quiet, almost gentle, tap on the door.

  “Come!” Souter glanced at his watch. “God, as late as that!”

  The door opened slightly, but Ross kept his eyes on the colonel. All the way from Hawks Hill, just to sit in this office and be interrogated. For what? No longer required.

  Souter said, “I have another meeting to attend. In this job you sit on a very high ladder.” He touched the star-shaped scar above his eyebrow. “So there’s a long way to fall if you foul things up.”

  He thrust out his hand. “I was right. You’re the one for the job.”

  He glared at the door. “All right, I’m coming!”

  Ross was on his feet, the sensation of the handshake remaining like sandpaper on his palm.

  “People want to know what we’re doing, see it for themselves. It’s risky, some might say, but worth it. My ladder, remember? My neck.”

  He walked toward the door, the file and the paperweight still on the desk.

  He said, “I shall be in touch. Five days, probably. You know the drill by now.”

  Ross said, “May I ask what this is for, sir?”

  Souter grunted.

  “That chap you saw leaving the office. Tobin. Clive Tobin. He’s putting us in the spotlight
. Can’t say any more just now, eh?”

  He paused with one hand on the door. “He’s going across to Ulster. And you’re going with him.”

  The door was closed. Even the traffic outside was silent.

  Ulster. Like part of the dream, rolling back the years. The mean little street. The young marine and the barrel organ. One man’s death, and he had never forgotten it. The marine had not even found time to be afraid. Or brave.

  The door was open again, and a different man was putting the paperweight into a velvet bag.

  Ross recalled De Lisle’s concise summation of it all. What we are. What we do.

  He heard the man remark, “Have the skin off my back if anything happened to this thing.”

  He thought of the face he had met at the door, only half an hour ago. The searching eyes. It had already been decided.

  He said, “The Colonel’s gone to another meeting.”

  “To the Dorchester, if I know him well enough!”

  Ross glanced out of the window and saw several people with open umbrellas hurrying past the deserted parking meters. The pavements were shining with rain.

  The man with the paperweight said politely, “No raincoat, sir?”

  It was like a hand gripping his shoulder. He would get wet, and he had eaten nothing since he had left the stables. And yet he could smile.

  “If you can’t take a joke!”

  The man grinned. “Shouldn’t have joined, sir!”

  The old lift was apparently out of order, or it had been delayed at another floor, so he made his way down by a chipped marble staircase. He neither met nor saw any one else until he reached the entrance lobby, as if the entire building were unoccupied but for that one, bare office.

  There was another security man at the counter, who acknowledged him but said nothing. Out on the street it was still raining, and there was not a taxi in sight.

  He strode away from Number Thirty-One, his mind lingering on the brief meeting and the even briefer closing remarks.

  He wondered if there was any mention in Souter’s intelligence pack that Major Ross Blackwood had once been intent on resigning from the Corps.

  He felt the rain soaking through his suit and quickened his step. He no longer noticed that he was not even out of breath.