Knife Edge (2004) Page 3

  Their first meeting had been brief. Knew your father pretty well. It’s a different enemy we’re facing now, I’m afraid.

  Houston had turned to stare at the map that covered most of one wall.

  “Most of the boats used for illegal immigrants, smuggling and, yes, sabotage, are faster than our own. But that follows, doesn’t it?”

  Some one chuckled. The barriers were coming down.

  But Ross was looking at the major’s broad back. His shirt was dark with sweat, as if he had been lying on wet grass. Exercise and fitness were a necessity for this powerful, restless man.

  Houston was saying, “Big area to cover, but you are here to wait, then hit the buggers hard!” Just as swiftly, he relaxed again. “By the way, the captain of Tamar is giving a little reception tonight. To make you welcome, is the excuse.” He grinned. “So be there. That’s an order.”

  The meeting was over. There would be another tomorrow at Naval Operations.

  H.M.S. Tamar was the navy’s base here, named after an old trooper which had been the first depot ship in Hong Kong. She had been sunk to avoid capture when the Japanese had marched into the colony in ’41.

  Ross looked around at his companions, two lieutenants, and an acting-captain he had met once on a battle course in Scotland, whose name was Irwin. The others were on Houston’s staff, and obviously enjoying it.

  Through the nearest window he saw the bat-like sail of a junk, the low hull still invisible in heat haze. Timeless, and strangely moving.

  “Gets to you, doesn’t it?”

  Ross had not even heard him shift from his perch on the desk.

  Close to, it was like seeing another person entirely. Not the battered ‘old China hand’, the ex-rugby forward, but the true professional, a man probably still in his early thirties.

  Houston said, “Results, that’s what we want. There’ll be a general election at home this year, if I’m not mistaken.” He tapped the side of his broken nose. “Results, right?”

  He strode away, calling somebody’s name.

  Ross put on his beret, and looked again for the junk. But it had vanished.

  There was a hand on his shoulder. “Time for a gin and something, eh?”

  But all Ross heard was the voice in the commandant’s office over the sound of marching feet.

  He’ll liven things up!

  Ross Blackwood stepped into the outer office and waited as another lieutenant finished his telephone conversation, stabbing the air with a cigarette while he emphasized something about transport.

  All the other rooms he had passed had been empty and in darkness. But not this one. He could hear Major Houston’s voice in the adjoining office where they had been only this morning, and he had seen the junk standing above the haze. The captain of H.M.S. Tamar and his wardroom had laid on a typical naval welcome for the newcomers. It was hard to keep a tally of the drinks, which was not unusual; you turned your head and your glass had been refilled. There had been women there, too, some officers’ wives. Others . . . he tried to remember the introductions.

  The duty officer slammed down the telephone and stubbed out his cigarette.

  “Go right in, old boy. The Boss is expecting you.” He was already pulling out another cigarette.

  “Does he always work as late as this?”

  The lieutenant shrugged. “He never sleeps.”

  The office was in darkness but for one small lamp on the desk, a decanter and some glasses beside it. An old-fashioned bladed fan was revolving slowly, directly overhead, but the air was still and very warm.

  “Come over here. Look at that view.”

  The panorama across the harbour was indeed impressive, and bustling despite the lateness of the hour. Hundreds of lights were reflected or moving across the black water; it seemed impossible that some would not collide or become entangled with darker shapes at their moorings. Here and there he could see the sharper edge of a larger, swifter vessel, heading perhaps for the open waters of the South China Sea, or taking its chances amidst the traffic toward Kowloon. The haze had dissipated, and the night was clear.

  Turning back to the room, he saw that Houston’s shirt was hanging open, his scarlet mess jacket on the back of a chair.

  Houston asked, “Good party at Tamar?” He did not wait for an answer. “I’ve been wined an’ dined by the army.” He paused. “Do their best, I suppose. But we have to think of the future. Co-operation, and all that, eh?”

  He leaned on the sill. “Ferry’s running late. This’ll be the last one ’til morning.”

  Ross watched the red and green navigation lights, like bright eyes on the water, the sudden surge of froth and foam as the ferry’s skipper manoeuvred alongside the pier. The Star Ferry ran back and forth across Victoria Harbour all day, every day, as frequent and familiar as a bus.

  He felt Houston’s eyes on him and sensed, suddenly, that something was wrong. He had not been called here merely to admire the view.

  “Everybody judges us, Blackwood. Waiting to criticize. Looking out for a mistake, a blunder somewhere along the line. But I don’t tolerate mistakes, not if they can be slammed on the head before they get in the way. My way.”

  He turned abruptly and strode to the desk, his watch glinting in the lamplight as he tilted the decanter over two glasses.

  “Drink this.”

  Ross sipped it and nearly choked. It was neat; Scotch, brandy, it might have been anything.

  Houston seemed to have no problem with his. When he put the glass down, it was empty.

  “I want you to be quite open with me. No rank, no bullshit. And I’ll be straight with you. Good or bad, right?”

  “Right, sir.”

  “Heard about it as soon as I got back from the barracks. Another flight came into Kai Tak, the last of our contingent. N.C.O.s, specialists – they were delayed somewhere.” One hand fanned at the air as if he were impatient with himself. “Sergeant Steve Blackwood – ever heard of him?”

  “I knew of a corporal . . .” He got no further.

  “Well, he’s a sergeant now, and a bloody useful one to all accounts.” He tried to lighten it. “Have to be, lumbered with a name like that in this bloody regiment!” But it did not work. “This assignment could come to nothing. We’ve all seen that kind of cock-up before. But it may be the start of something big, too bloody big for old scores and recriminations. I wouldn’t stand for it.”

  Ross looked past him, at the lights, the darkened ferry, the garish signs across the water, a police boat slowing down beside another, anonymous craft.

  But all he could see was his father’s face.

  It would have been easier if he had told him about it. The rumour and the resentment had all been a part of growing up. Even his mother had avoided the subject; maybe she had been made to carry the brunt of it, so that he and his sister would be spared.

  It was common enough in wartime. Two people thrown together, and perhaps the love had been genuine. Who could judge them, or condemn?

  “I knew some of it, and guessed the rest. I never knew Diane, who was my aunt. She died in a car smash before I was born. I never got the whole story, nor wanted to, I suspect. But her child lived, and he was a Blackwood in every sense. I suppose this had to happen.”

  Houston nodded. “De Lisle should have known. Probably did, if I’ve got his measure. The Corps comes first. Now and always. Should be his family motto!” He swung round suddenly, a silhouette against the harbour and its constant movement and life.

  “Family and tradition have always been strong in the Corps, I don’t have to tell you that. But to me, trust and loyalty are paramount. You’ve not been in action yet, but the time will come, probably sooner than we think.”

  Ross said, “I was in Northern Ireland, sir.”

  The big hand sliced the air again. “Rules and attitudes, usually directed by those who’ve never heard a shot fired in anger. Call ’em what you will, patriots, freedom-fighters or religious fanatics, but when I’m on the wro
ng end of a gun, that man is an enemy!”

  “I know that, sir.”

  “Good.” He walked to the decanter again but apparently changed his mind. “You’ve heard it said often enough. An officer is only as good as his sergeants. True or not, I’ll not risk men’s lives because of some rift, family or otherwise. Do I make myself clear?”

  “I think I was expecting it, sir.”

  Houston grinned. “Three years ago, I think it was, when we were pulling out of Aden, my life was saved by a sergeant I had always hated. It was mutual. But I’m here because of him. So think about it, if and when the time comes.”

  “I won’t let you down, sir.”

  “I know that. Otherwise I’d have you on the next plane out of Kai Tak. Now be off with you. See you in Operations tomorrow.”

  Ross paused in the doorway and looked back. Houston was still framed against the harbour lights.

  “Well?” He did not turn.

  “The sergeant who saved your life, sir.”

  Houston gave a shrug. “Met him some months later. Offered to shake his hand. He refused, the bastard. Reassuring, I thought!”

  Ross walked through the outer office, where a different officer was on the telephone and did not look up.

  It had been a long day.

  Sergeant Ted Boyes reached out to grip a handrail as the deck lifted suddenly and plunged across another vessel’s wake. The harbour launch was one of many serving both the Royal Navy and the Hong Kong authorities, always busy regardless of time and weather and showing all the signs of it. The hull and the thick, protective rubbing strake around it were scarred and scraped from many clashes with jetty and quayside, and more especially going alongside other vessels in total darkness. There were clusters of motor tyres kept handy for the worst of such encounters. Boyes had heard one seaman describe Hong Kong as the world’s final resting place for old tyres. It was easy enough to see why. Harbour craft like this one, junks and sampans, and even the bigger coasters were similarly adorned.

  Boyes shaded his eyes from the reflected glare to watch a motorized junk passing slowly abeam. The deck was loaded with crates, and nets full of vegetables, and two small Chinese children were playing with a mangy-looking dog by the tiller. Like hundreds, even thousands of others, the junk’s skipper and his family no doubt lived aboard and would moor alongside other such craft. The boat people were taken for granted.

  He looked over at the chief petty officer in command of the launch. A face like tanned leather, against which his neatly trimmed beard looked almost white by comparison. They had not spoken much, except when they had passed a rakish destroyer which had entered harbour the previous day. Gleaming paintwork, and awnings spread so tautly you could have walked on them. The chief petty officer had given a casual salute as the destroyer’s shadow had passed across them, and the officer of the day had returned it while one of his gangway staff leaned over the guardrail as if making sure the launch did not steer too close to the paintwork.

  Boyes had remarked, “That’s the real Andrew, Chief.”

  “They can have it.”

  “My first ship was a cruiser, Chief. One of the last big eight-inch-gun jobs. Everything at the double, pipes for this and bugles for that. Our O.C. Royal Marines’ biggest worry was stopping his guard of honour poking their bayonets through the awnings when they presented arms for some V.I.P. or other!”

  The bearded C.P.O. had unwound a little after that.

  “What’s your officer like? Usual young tyrant, is he?”

  Boyes looked at the quivering deck grating and pictured Lieutenant Blackwood below in the cabin space, probably trying to get through to the formidable Major Houston on the R/T, if it was working. They had been here for a week, and nothing had happened. The commandos had been instructed to keep as low a profile as possible. One section had been posted to Government House on guard duty, as if it was all normal routine. As well it might be.

  “He’ll do me, Chief. Takes life a bit seriously, that’s all. Still feeling his way. But he’s straight, no flannel.”

  “I expect you’ll all be shovin’ off soon. Not enough action for your lot.”

  He broke off as one of his ratings clambered into the small, box-like bridge. Like all the others aboard, he was Chinese, and his black eyes watched the Chief’s mouth intently as he fired some questions at him.

  He said, “Got to pick up a marker buoy before we go back. The harbour master wants it for some reason. Be getting dark by then.” He did not even glance at his watch or the sky. Another old China hand; he was part of the place. He belonged, perhaps without knowing or remembering why or how, and would stay on when his time was up.

  Not enough action for your lot. Maybe that said it all. He thought of the streets he had walked, the colour and the sound. Chinese schoolgirls running barefoot through the rain, holding their shoes and socks under cover, laughing and chattering, not a care in the world. The young businessman and his girlfriend teasing a bony cat, which was being watched protectively from the back door of a restaurant by an old man in shorts and singlet. Another standing in a crowded, nearly perpendicular lane reading the financial pages while a curbside tailor measured his other arm. Boyes had heard you could get a suit made to measure, and have it delivered all within twenty-four hours. He thought of southwest London, Battersea, where he had first drawn breath. What would they say about that?

  He heard Blackwood’s voice and turned as he spoke to the Chief and one of his young sailors.

  It was not an act with him. Not like some he had known and served under.

  He was reminded of Blackwood’s father. You could see the likeness. The eyes, and the occasional smile. But beyond that . . .

  “Anything happening, Sergeant?”

  “Busy as usual, sir. A minor collision, two fishermen, but I think they settled it before the police came on the scene.”

  Ross Blackwood shaded his eyes as the launch altered course to starboard, where two derelict freighters were anchored, perhaps waiting for the breaker’s yard. Shipbuilding was a growing industry here, diesel-driven steel coasters side by side with junks which were still being constructed as they had for centuries, of Chinese fir and hardwood from ‘Big Brother’ over on the mainland.

  Boyes watched him. Without the familiar green beret, his shirt unfastened and the dark, unruly hair blowing in the offshore breeze, it was a surprise. Like stumbling on a secret, seeing some one he had not seen before.

  He gauged the moment, like a gunlayer observing the fall of shot.

  “Not like Ulster, is it, sir?”

  “Not here, it isn’t.” He swung round as the deck swayed over again. “But given a chance . . .”

  Boyes thought he might have gone too far. “I didn’t mean it like that, sir.”

  “I know you didn’t. You, of all people. It’s just me. Going over things again. Not knowing what we’re getting into . . .” He shrugged. “Forget it.”

  It was darker already, like a great shadow creeping out from the land, but the taller buildings on the high ground were still edged with gold. There were tiny lights, a car ashore, or another small boat moving in the shallows. But the diesels were still thumping away, and the bearded chief petty officer seemed unconcerned.

  So why had Houston sent small parties of his company on these local tours, with the police, the harbour patrols, or sightseeing like this? To prevent boredom, and its inevitable consequences, which ended at the defaulters’ table? Even with a well-trained and disciplined force, there were always the lurking dangers of unrest.

  He had felt it just now. His own unreasonable outburst at Boyes’ comment on Ulster. That day, that mean street. The pistol in his hand. I wanted to kill him. Boyes remembered it. Was he wondering what might happen the next time? Would his officer crack up?

  The Chief called something, and a handful of his men were laying out some kind of tackle for the marker buoy. Just another job for them.

  The Chief remarked, “’Nother fifteen minute
s, sir. Wait for this one to pass, then I’ll move in and pick up the buoy.” He paused, studying the young officer’s profile, and saw the sergeant give an almost imperceptible nod. “I’ve got some Tiger beer in the fridge, sir.”

  Ross did not hear him. “That junk, Chief. Do you know her?”

  “Very well, sir. A regular.” He cocked his head. The officer was making conversation. Maybe because he had dared to suggest cracking a beer or two with him.

  He relented slightly.

  “Johnny Cheung. Owns a couple of trading boats. Been around for years. Works amongst the islands mostly – never afraid of hard work, that one.”

  Boyes said, “Rather him than me, picking his way through all this lot in the dark.”

  The Chief beckoned to one of his seamen and smiled. “Johnny Cheung wants to be snug alongside in good time for Chinese New Year. High jinks all round, that’ll mean!”

  Ross felt the engines settle down into a steady growl, slowing down as the ghostly junk idled past. He had seen the New Year decorations being prepared when he had made his way to the harbour master’s jetty. Flowering plants and decorated branches, banners, and platforms where people could stand and watch the promised fireworks display over the harbour.

  The Chief was standing close beside the helmsman, gesturing, and pointing across the port bow. Boyes was looking astern toward Victoria, the panorama of lights and flickering advertisements which never seemed to be extinguished.

  He studied the junk again, hearing the measured beat of engines. Slow and careful. The Chief’s friend Johnny Cheung would have to be on full alert, no matter how long he had been trading here. Chinese New Year. It made De Lisle’s sense of urgency seem even more misplaced.

  He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed the corner of his eye. Smut from the engines, or something in the air. He dabbed his eye again and then froze. Like being numb, unable to focus his sight, or his mind.

  He held his breath and stared into the shadows, the vague hint of movement in the black water alongside.

  The junk’s high poop was almost directly abeam; he could just make out the pale shape of an upended boat, and a faint pinprick of light, probably the old-fashioned standard compass.