Knife Edge (2004) (10 page)

“O.K., sir. Ice House Street!”

The taxi driver was in no hurry, taking his time, perhaps in case Ross changed his mind about his brother’s shop. Nevertheless, the journey only seemed to take a few minutes. There were plenty of people about, and Ross had seen stalls still open, and little barrows where food was being sold to passers-by, chopsticks busy like knitting needles.

By contrast, this street off the main road was stark and glaring. The whole place was a blaze of light, brighter than day, with huge, gas-fired arc lamps everywhere. Men were working above and below street level, and a new building was already taking shape above the debris of one or more just demolished.

Ross stood beside the taxi and saw a large mechanical digger rumbling into the glare through a cloud of dust, to tip another pile of bricks and rubble into a waiting truck. It sounded like an avalanche. For anybody who lived around here, sleep would be a rare commodity.

The driver watched as Ross tugged out his wallet. He said cheerfully, “Building! All time building!” and waved at the night sky. “Very soon you not see the harbour from here!”

He pointed across the street. “Java House, sir.”

A square, unpretentious apartment house, soon to be dwarfed or replaced by the other new buildings beside and beyond it. He took the notes and the tip and then produced an engraved business card, presenting it with both hands in true Chinese fashion.

“You need me, sir, you call any time!”

Ross crossed the road. At a guess he could have walked here easily; the blaze of arc lights would have led the way.

A workman was tending a brazier on a pathway. Two policemen were nearby, drinking tea. Ross could feel their
eyes as he pushed open the double doors and found himself in a spacious entrance hall.

A porter was sitting at a desk, wearing headphones, nodding in time to some unheard music.

He lifted one from his ear and listened, his eye on Ross’s lips, then he gestured to a lift and replaced the headphone.

There was a letter rack, and a list of names. A few ranks, naval and military, some officials, and the name ‘Diamond’. Second floor.

He stepped into the lift, suddenly unsure. He should have written the letter to the dead marine’s parents, or simply gone to bed. Was it that he was afraid of sleep? What it might bring?

The lift started with a violent jerk, and through a trap door in the ceiling he could see the cables beginning to move. He plucked at his shirt. Clammy. The taxi driver had said something about a storm coming.

He straightened the shirt. It was not the storm.

Four doors, two on either side, a plain carpet along the centre. An empty vase on a lacquered table. There was some old ribbon in the bottom of it, left over from Chinese New Year. How long ago was it?

Go now. Make your excuses. Blame it on fatigue.

He pressed the door bell.

Then she was there. Pleasure, surprise, anxiety.

“Ross, you
were
fast! You must have dropped everything you were doing . . .” She waited for him to enter, then held her head to one side. “Welcome, anyway! So good to see you!” He kissed her cheek, aware of her uncertainty. She was dressed all in white, like that other time, but completely different. Silk, he thought, so that her arms looked even darker. She grasped his hand and led him through to a large room, which he guessed opened on to one of the long balconies he had seen from the street.

She said, “I was expecting you to be in uniform. I don’t know why. It’s nice to see you like this. More human.”

She was on edge, nervous. Perhaps something had happened.

“Where is everybody?”

“Jock . . . my husband . . . had to fly out very suddenly.”

She moved to a Chinese table where some wine was standing in a misted ice bucket. There were only two glasses.

“Didn’t I tell you? It was something urgent.” She faced him again. “Still, I did say you’d be in good company.” She smiled and held out her arms. “I’m it!” She smiled and the arms slipped around his neck. “I was so worried about you, Ross. You’ve no idea.”

“Pour us a drink, will you?” The smile remained, but he could sense the difference. Regretting the impulse? Already seeking an escape.

She said, “Sorry it’s so stuffy. All those lights, and that bloody noise outside – you can hardly think straight.”

She gestured to the glasses and Ross poured. It was champagne. He saw that she was sitting on one of the big sofas, a cushion cuddled in her lap.

“Here’s to you, Ross. I worried a lot. The rumours, the ambulance on the dockside . . .” She moved her shoulders. “You know.”

He sat beside her, careful not to touch her.
You should not be here. You should not have come.

“I spoke to one of your sergeants, the one with your name, and his friend Boyes. Ted Boyes? He was visiting him in the sick quarters.” She nodded, a lock of dark hair falling across one cheek. “Steve is fine, by the way. They both said how good you were, ‘on the job’, as they put it.”

“They did all the work.”

She ran her finger around the top of her glass until it squeaked.

“A lot of people are going to thank God you came out of it all right.” Her eyes were very steady, like her voice. “Tell me about yourself, Ross. You must have some one special, waiting and fretting about you. What’s she like?”

“She’s a very lovely girl, who has no idea what she can do to a man with just a glance. I have no right even to think of her the way I do.”

She looked down at her glass. “Of course you do. She’s the one who’s lucky.”

He took her hand.

“Her name’s Glynis, by the way.”

The champagne glass rolled away, unheeded.

“Me? A girl? I can give you a few years, I bet!” She clung to his arm, half laughing, half sobbing. “You’ve ruined my make-up! I went to so much trouble—”

She watched him toss away the cushion and lay fully against him, her head on his shoulder.

“Your injury, how is it?”

He could not see the eyes, hidden by her hair.

“It’s fine.” He felt her tense as he touched the front of her blouse, and carefully unfastened the buttons until her breast lay in his hand. “
Now
, it is.”

Her body was stiff, unmoving, only her breathing fast across his face. Shock, fear, anger?

Her skin was like the silk which had slid from the sofa. She took his wrist with both hands and pinned it against her.

How long they lay like that he could not imagine. Minutes, seconds . . . Even the distant street sounds seemed to stop.

Then he felt her face turn against his, their lips almost brushing.

“Kiss me, Ross.”

A proper one.

He felt her fingers tighten as she forced his hand, deliberately, still further, into her body.

She might have cried out, but her words were muffled.

“
Now
, Ross. Do it now . . .”

At least two partitions had been removed to make this room large enough for the conference. Officers from Operations and Communications, uniforms from all three services including two R.A.F. ‘wingless wonders’ from the Met Office, mingled with others in civilian clothes, police or intelligence people it was impossible to know.

Major Houston stood by the table, his fingertips lightly pressing some files, his eyes on the seated figures, waiting for every one to settle down.

By his side, but obviously removed from him in spirit, was the visitor, Lieutenant-Colonel Leslie De Lisle, his neatly cut hair shining beneath the overhead lights. He seemed calm and relaxed, his trim Lovat uniform looking as if it had just been cleaned and pressed. Like its owner. There was no evidence from his appearance that he had been attending meetings at various high levels for several hours, and flying in directly from Singapore before that for good measure.

Ross, sitting by a partly opened window, recalled their last meeting on that bitter January day in Plymouth, the sound of marching feet a background to the conversation. De Lisle was exactly as he remembered him, even to the studied informality. The meeting had begun with brief but friendly introductions, De Lisle nodding or smiling in the direction of each face as Houston rattled off names. Some De Lisle addressed like old friends. If any were complete strangers, he gave no sign of it, a diplomatic skill many would envy. The general must have been sorry to lose him.

Houston had uncovered a powerful assault rifle, gleaming like new; a curved box-magazine was lying beside it.

“Familiar to some of you, no doubt, gentlemen, and frequently used with deadly effect by rebels and terrorists for some years. This one, with others, was salvaged from the launch which was destroyed in Operation Ratcatcher. Originally, the Russian Kalashnikov AK47, but there have been several versions since they appeared in Vietnam. Copies mostly, Chinese, Polish, you name it. More recently they’ve shown up in Malaysia and Borneo.” He glanced at Captain Irwin. “I can see
you
haven’t forgotten!”

Ross looked at De Lisle, whose fingers remained interlaced, unmoving.

Houston had picked up the weapon; it looked like a toy in his big hands.

“Now they’re reappearing in larger numbers, but this time we are not completely in the dark.”

There was a murmur, and Ross saw Piggott lean forward in his chair, with either approval or self-satisfaction.

When they had all gathered round to welcome De Lisle, Piggott had been one of the first to step forward and thrust out his hand.
My father asked me to give you his warmest greetings if we met, sir.

De Lisle had made some vague comment and moved along the line of waiting figures. Missing nothing. Giving nothing.

Houston looked fastidiously down at his tunic, where the gun had left a greasy stain. He said, “Your artificers are getting slack, Arthur!”

They all laughed, as he had intended.

Ross caught sight of Chief Inspector Diamond, who was seated with another man in civilian clothes; he was wearing a pale grey, lightweight suit, obviously hand-made, which
fitted him perfectly. He had come into the room with De Lisle, perhaps straight from the airport, perhaps after returning to Java House to change and clean up. He showed little sign of fatigue. Their eyes had met only once, and there had been a curt tilt of the head. Recognition, nothing more.

What did I expect?
He had left the apartment yesterday morning. Was that all it was? Like a wild dream, which ended only when he was standing in the street again, the noise and machinery just stirring into life.

He had slept some of the time since; he must have done. It was impossible to clarify it. Once they had gone to the windows and drawn the curtains. There had been silence outside, and only a couple of arc lights were still burning.

They had drunk more champagne, doubtless warm, although he had neither noticed nor remembered, and they had made love again. She had pretended to resist, had struggled, teased him with hands, lips, words. It had been almost dawn when they had finally broken apart.

She had helped him pull himself together, had even loaned him a razor.

“I use it for my legs, but it’s better than nothing.”

Laughing, anxious that he should not be late back to his quarters. And the last touch, the moment of parting. It was still a dream. She had been cleaning some lipstick off his shirt when he had noticed that her bedroom was separate from her husband’s.

She had seen his eyes, but had merely shrugged bare shoulders.

He gazed at Jock Diamond once more. What kind of man was he? Did he suspect anything? Did he care?

He had seen a bag of what looked like expensive golf clubs in the other bedroom. She had tossed her head.

“Don’t get him talking about golf, Ross. You’d be at it all day!”

Was that all it meant to her?

He realized that De Lisle was on his feet, and that there was complete silence.

“It has been a slow, painstaking operation. Illegal immigrants, piracy, and gun running have often been regarded, and dealt with, as matters quite independent of one another. Now we know that the central themes of rebellion, and the many uses of terrorism to support it, are, if you like, a plan of battle.

“With the gradual diminishing of Empire, and the establishment of individual states within the Commonwealth, we now see the next, if not the last, challenge.”

For a moment his eyes moved to Ross.

“Small pieces of a puzzle, and many have suffered because of it.” He looked at the weapon on the table. “A gun never wears out or becomes completely useless. In the First World War, many of our soldiers who survived the trenches said that eventually they came home with the same rifles they had first been issued. The lucky ones, that is.”

He paused to look around the faces. Like an actor, Ross thought, with a captive audience.

De Lisle said quietly, “One name, gentlemen. Remember it well. Richard Suan.” His eyes rested now on Captain Irwin. “I can see that you know it, John?”

Irwin was half on his feet. “But he’s
dead
, sir. It was confirmed. I remember . . .”

De Lisle said, “Older now, John, but very much alive!”

He pointed at the files beside the gun.

“Read and remember. Richard Suan. Once a lawyer, a promising politician, and a dedicated rebel and terrorist. You name it, Richard Suan was there. So this will be, must be, a combined operation. Trust and secrecy must go hand
in hand. It will be soon. Later may be
too
late. I can assure you, gentlemen, our part is vital.” He sat down and several officers began to applaud.

Ross felt Piggott slide into the chair beside him, still clapping his hands.

“That’s more like it, eh?” He was unusually flushed.

The files were being separated and distributed; they were to be collected before the meeting was dismissed.

Irwin stood behind them, a sheet of paper in his hands.

“I thought –
prayed –
we’d seen the last of him.” No emotion. No anger.

Ross said, “A combined operation?”

He did not see Irwin’s expression. “That means somebody’s really scared. At last!”