Knife Edge (2004) Page 2

  He said casually, “There’s one of ’em in that second window. Not as smart as he thinks. Saw the sun flash on somethin’ – lookin’ at his watch, most likely.”

  He might have been watching me.

  Was that what Boyes was thinking? Wondering about his lieutenant, doubting him? He had been there too, that day in the street in Belfast, when the carefully set booby-trap had exploded. Where children would have come to play.

  There had been nothing left of the young marine to bury.

  He heard himself say, “Use the grenade. We’ll move in now!” Like some one else.

  He saw Boyes nod. Approval, relief, who could say?

  He loosened his holster and rose slowly on to his knees.

  “Now!”

  The stun grenade exploded, and some of his men were already converging on the row of ruined cottages. Whistles blew, and an officer had appeared waving a flag. The exercise was over. The pros and cons would be debated later.

  Ross realized that he had half drawn his pistol, although he did not remember doing so.

  Like that day when the bomb had exploded. The police had said that no one else had been killed or injured. Not like some they had faced.

  All Ross recalled was that they had caught the man responsible, and somebody had been gripping his own wrist, Boyes or one of the others, he was never certain. Like now, today, on a piece of Devon moorland, the gun in his hand.

  I would have killed him. I wanted to.

  He thought of his mother’s hand on his arm in that deserted study at Hawks Hill, sharing the moment. And the portrait of his father.

  Proud? I wonder.

  Lieutenant-Colonel Leslie De Lisle glanced at the cup of tea on the desk where a well-meaning orderly had placed it, and frowned. Something stronger would have been more welcome. He half listened to the regular tramp of boots, the occasional bark of commands, a tannoy speaker calling some one’s name. It was sometimes hard to remember what it had been like in those far-off days.

  He was suddenly on his feet at one of the big windows that overlooked the barracks square. A grey January forenoon, the square still shining from the last rainfall.

  He shivered despite his usual self-control. Winter in Plymouth: Stonehouse Barracks. Less than a week ago he had been sweltering in Singapore.

  He opened the window very slightly and braced himself against the keen air. As assistant to the Chief of Special Operations he was far removed from the mysteries facing those marching ranks of Royal Marines, raw recruits for the most part. As we all were.

  “At the halt . . . On th’ right . . . foooorm . . . squad!” It could have been the same sergeant.

  He saw some other marines marching easily past the square, their green berets marking them out as commandos. The recruits would be watching them with envy and perhaps awe, dreaming of the day when they, too, might number among the elite.

  De Lisle turned away as another bellow of commands snapped them back to reality.

  He caught sight of his reflection in the glass. Self-contained, austere, with the neat moustache favoured by many senior officers in the Corps. A splash of colour on his uniform; for gallantry, the citations had said. Not a cloth-carrier like some he had known. And still knew.

  It would be strange to be leaving his H.Q. and his personal staff. Away from the steady stream of signals from all over the world, wherever Royal Marines were keeping the peace and being first in the field in the bush wars, and against terrorism wherever it appeared.

  He smiled. And away from the General. Some one else had already been appointed to take the weight.

  His wife had been less understanding.

  “Why you, Leslie? You’d be retired in a few more years! Why throw it all away?”

  They had been married for twenty years. Was that all it meant?

  He glanced at the painting opposite the commandant’s desk. Royal Marines manning the International gun at Peking, during the Boxer Rebellion. It would never be like that again. He touched his moustache with his knuckle. There had been a De Lisle during the embassy seige. He looked at his watch. A Blackwood, too.

  There were voices outside the door. Right on time. But then, this was Stonehouse.

  De Lisle made a point of knowing as much as possible about every addition to the various sections of Special Operations.

  A name or some family connection, The Old Pals Act, as the General had been heard to call it, was never enough. Courage, leadership, self-dependence, were only a part of it.

  The Blackwood name was well known in the Corps, and De Lisle had been working with Ross Blackwood’s father just before he had been killed in Cyprus. A strong man, professionally and ethically, and a good friend. The combination was not always possible in their trade.

  The door opened and closed, and they faced each other. De Lisle held out his hand. He disliked formality; sanctimonious bullshit, his old colour sergeant called it.

  “Sit down – this won’t take long. Ross, isn’t it?”

  They studied each other across the borrowed desk, the marching feet and hoarse voices like a soundtrack in the background.

  De Lisle had always learned everything he could before this kind of interview, and had trained himself to distinguish fact from surmise, and truth from intuition. For once, he could admit surprise. Ross Blackwood was twenty-five years old, by only two months. His record was good, and his commanding officers well satisfied with his progress. He was patient but firm with his subordinates, and wary of some of the older N.C.O.s. And an excellent shot with a rifle on the range. Not that it counted for much in these days of rapid fire, when the gun could too easily take over from a nervous marksman.

  But it was not the youthful, eager face he had been expecting.

  The eyes were level, grey-blue, and almost cold, the colour of the sea. Outwardly he seemed very calm, almost relaxed. Detached, as if they were meeting by accident.

  De Lisle said abruptly, “I was very sorry to hear about your father, of course. We all were. A fine man. A first class Royal Marine.”

  Yes, the family likeness was there, in the eyes most of all, steady, giving nothing away. Yet.

  Strange that he had never got used to the new Lovat uniform, although some six years had passed since it had been adopted by the Corps, as something between the familiar battledress and the formal blues. De Lisle had been at the ceremonial parade at Buckingham Palace when Her Majesty the Queen had carried out the inspection held to mark the Tercentenary of the Corps, the first occasion on which the new uniform had been worn. Six years ago. It felt like yesterday.

  “This is short notice, but then, it usually is. Most of the details are still top secret. Have to be. If the press got wind of it . . .”

  He looked briefly at the window as a bugle cut through all the other sounds. Stand Easy. A break from the drills and the sarcastic comments of the N.C.O.s. A mug of pusser’s tea.

  “It’s a comparatively small operation, maybe a waste of time.” He made up his mind, could almost feel it click into place, like a rifle bolt ramming a round up the breech. “You were trained to work with the Special Boat Section, right? It’ll be a bit like that. Hong Kong. To begin with . . .” He swore under his breath as the telephone came to life. “Yes? This is De Lisle! I told you I was not to be disturbed!” A pause. “Oh, I see, sir. Well, in that case . . .”

  Ross Blackwood made himself relax, muscle by muscle. Hong Kong. He had been there briefly when completing his training in a frigate. What had he expected? Northern Ireland again, perhaps that same street. The barrel organ. A man he had scarcely got to know, blown apart. No warning. No reason.

  He looked directly at the officer across the desk. Who had known his father, and came of the same tradition. De Lisle’s father had gone through the war, had been in Penang when the Japanese had surrendered. Just as my father had marched into Germany at the end of it all. Wars with meaning and purpose. Something to show for all the pain and the sweat. To be proud of.

  Hong Kong,
then. And afterwards?

  He glanced at the medal ribbons on the lieutenant-colonel’s breast. The D.S.O., and the Croix de Guerre, probably from the ill-fated Suez campaign, when their so-called allies had turned their backs.

  De Lisle was saying nothing, and was listening intently. The ‘sir’ explained a lot. It was probably the general, his old boss.

  He was reminded suddenly of Hawks Hill, and his mother. Always so strong, stronger than any of them in her quiet way. She had never spoken to him about her own war service, or how she had been captured by the French police while on a mission during the German occupation. An old family friend had told him, but not until a few years back. Captured and tortured, he had said.

  What would she do now?

  De Lisle was saying, “Yes, I agree, sir. It will be my decision, I am aware of that.” He put down the telephone with great care, as if the general could still hear him.

  He said, “Tradition is something hard to explain, let alone describe. But it’s important, some would say vital. It’s what we are. What we do. Your father said that to me once in rather a tight corner, as I recall.” He turned up his lips in a humourless smile, and his eyes were hard. “What d’ you say? Can I put you down as a volunteer?”

  Ross Blackwood thought of the portrait in the old study, his mother’s hand on his arm. There was still time. There would be no shortage of volunteers, even for Northern Ireland.

  “How soon, sir?” Like hearing somebody else again. One of those portraits . . .

  De Lisle stood up and peered at his watch.

  “What I expected.” Then he did smile, and it was genuine. “Hoped.” He looked at the telephone. “Two weeks. Intelligence will give you your orders. Major Houston is running this show. He’ll liven things up.”

  The mood changed. “Remember. Top secret.” He added casually, “Your sister is a journalist, I understand?”

  He did not elaborate, but thrust out his hand and strode to the door.

  Ross Blackwood picked up his green beret from a chair and stared at it.

  It was decided. Choice had never really entered into it.

  De Lisle had mentioned a Major Houston, who would be in direct charge of things. The name rang no bells, but that would soon change.

  Ross Blackwood had been in the Corps long enough to know and appreciate the importance of security, and secrecy also.

  He pulled on his beret and smiled faintly at his reflection in the window, which was once more spotted with rain.

  Your sister is a journalist, I understand?

  A reporter, anyway. Susanna, Sue as she preferred, was probably already contemplating a change. Twenty years old, restless and headstrong, she was always full of surprises. He sometimes thought he hardly knew his sister at all. Maybe that was it. The Corps and its family traditions had fashioned their lives, and had somehow come between them.

  Like the time she had been seen and recognized on television, taking part in a students’ anti-nuclear march in London. She had made no apologies, even to their mother. “Some one’s got to do it,” had been her only comment.

  But she had been in tears at her father’s memorial service.

  He wondered what De Lisle would have said had he known that the young Lieutenant Blackwood he had selected for special service had been on the point of resigning?

  Somewhere a bugle sounded, and the marching feet resumed.

  He walked out into the grey light, facing it. Accepting it.

  Now back to Hawks Hill, perhaps for the last time.

  Two marines in green berets threw up smart salutes as they marched past him. Their eyes met, with that familarity they all took for granted.

  If you can’t take a joke . . .

  Sergeant Boyes was waiting for him outside the guard room, although he made every effort to make it appear coincidental.

  “All done, sir?”

  “I’m getting a bit of leave.”

  Boyes, despite his fifteen years in the Corps, ten as a commando, was unable to keep it up.

  “Got my orders too, sir! Hong Kong or bust!”

  So much for top secret. But it was like that in the Corps. ‘The family’. And De Lisle would know that better than most.

  He said, “I’m glad. I hope we don’t regret it.”

  They fell into step and headed for the transport section. He looked back only once.

  It was too late now.

  He stood in a pool of light beside the iron bed while he checked the neat piles of kit and personal belongings. Some he would keep with him, some would be flown on ahead. A proper flight this time, not some slow passage in a Royal Fleet Auxiliary ship or, worse, a commandeered merchantman. Fast: no time for doubts.

  It had been a short course, a ‘crash course’ as some joker had called it, to learn the workings of a small underwater limpet mine. The weapon had originated in Russia, and had made its appearance in several trouble spots in Borneo and Malaya. A toy compared with some he had seen, but deadly in the right hands.

  Now it was over, and the Royal Marines N.C.O.s and some petty officers who had taken part had gone on leave. He looked along the rank of beds and cupboards. Gone home.

  This was his home, or had been for the last few weeks. A makeshift extension to H.M.S. Vernon, the torpedo and mine establishment across Portsmouth Harbour. Here on the Gosport side, it seemed almost deserted by comparison.

  It would be dark by now, and tomorrow was Saturday. He ticked it off in his mind. A run ashore, maybe meet a familiar face in some pub or other. Drink too much. Or sit in the mess with the duty N.C.O.s and watch the TV, play snooker, or drink beer in the NAAFI, while the manager kept one eye on the clock.

  He should be used to the gaps. He was twenty-five years old and had served seven of them in the Corps. Should be used to it.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled his suitcase up beside him. He was still not sure why he had gone to the old house. It was only twenty miles from here, but he had been to Portsmouth several times, to Eastney Barracks at Southsea, or to attend one course or another. And he had never been to see Hawks Hill before.

  The high-ceilinged rooms, the gesticulating bidders and the regular click of the auctioneer’s gavel: he had walked through and past them. Like being invisible. One of the ghosts.

  The news of Lieutenant-Colonel Blackwood’s murder by EOKA terrorists in Cyprus had gone through the Corps like lightning. Even those who had never laid eyes on him, or served with him in any capacity, had felt it. Personal.

  He had often imagined the house, wondered about it, and the generations of people who had lived there. In reality, it had been hard to come to terms with the litter and the jostling strangers.

  He opened the case and held the photograph in his hands directly under the light.

  He recalled the auctioneer’s sudden kindness, his interest, maybe, in the revival of the story. The old scandal.

  He touched the photograph very gently. He could hear one of the messmen whistling tunelessly, and the muffled beat of music from his radio. What would he think if he looked in and saw him? And a lot of others along the way?

  And he had been in that room where the photo had been taken. When she had been a ‘Maren’, as they were nicknamed in the Corps. The same Globe and Laurel.

  And she had died in a car crash, just as her brother had been killed in Cyprus. Years apart, their lives divided.

  In the same room. Perhaps where she had made love to . . .

  He heard feet on the stairway, and slid the photograph into the case again, his face the professional mask.

  It was a corporal from the signals section, whom he knew vaguely by sight.

  “Glad I caught you, Sergeant.” He thrust out a piece of signal pad, his eyes moving quickly across the neat pile of kit and luggage. “Flight’s been brought forward one day.”

  “Thanks. I was half expecting something like that.” He waited. “Anything else?” Like a guard going up. A defence.

  “The colour se
rgeant wants to stand you a drink in his mess. Tell Sergeant Blackwood I won’t take no for an answer, he says!”

  “Tell him I’ll be there. And thanks.”

  He heard the door slam shut, the boots descending the stairs.

  He touched the suitcase again. He was ready.

  No longer alone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Major Keith Houston swivelled his buttocks around a corner of the desk and folded his arms as he looked at each face individually.

  “Essentially, gentlemen, this is to be a combined operation. The navy certainly, and to some extent local police forces when necessary.” He plucked his shirt away from his chest and added, “The army will have the lion’s share, but we can deal with that when we have to. You will be in command of some ninety Royal Marines, many of whom are specialists, and have seen a lot of service in the Far East. Not exactly a major force, but properly handled it should suffice.” He ticked off the points he had already mentioned on his strong fingers. “Stop-and-search, and a swift response in any trouble spot. Illegal immigrants are a real pain. They can also develop into something far worse, and dangerous.”

  Ross Blackwood eased his back away from the chair and felt his shirt sticking to his skin. A mere three days ago, he had been walking in the rain with his sister on a typical January day. It seemed like a dream now. Beyond the half-shuttered windows was the full expanse of Hong Kong harbour, the many anchored vessels and other, moving craft shimmering and distorted in haze, as he had seen this morning, with Kowloon on the other side of the water, the dockyard, and beyond them the New Territories. No hotter than an English summer, but the air was heavy and humid, clinging.

  He found Major Houston an interesting character. He recalled De Lisle’s curt comment. He’ll liven things up. Heavily built, but surprisingly quick on his feet. A face dominated by a broken nose, a memento from his time as a keen rugby player. Ross had already learned that he had played for his old school, the Combined Services team, and, of course, the Corps. A man who took a lot of exercise and expected his subordinates to follow his example. Squash, jogging: it was said that he would be back in the front line of a rugby scrum at the drop of a hat.