Knife Edge (2004) (28 page)

It was in fact a young Royal Marine, smartly turned out and carrying some car keys.

“Major Blackwood, sir?” He almost saluted. “I’m the Commandant’s driver. I’m to take you to Stonehouse.” There were two more marines by the barrier, standing beside a baggage trolley. He sensed that it was not all straightforward, and added hesitantly, “The lady can ride with you, sir.”

Ross looked at her. “I wasn’t expecting this. Will you come?”

She glanced at the marines, but did not seem to see them.

“For old times’ sake, Ross?”

He took her arm and squeezed it. She was wearing the familiar diamond brooch, fashioned like the badge on his green beret.

“No, Joanna. For
me
, if you like.”

She touched the brooch, and the gesture seemed both unconscious and reminiscent.

“For him, too.” She seemed to come to a decision. “I don’t suppose the old place has changed much.” It said everything.

Then, with something very like relief, the young marine led the way to his car.

She climbed in, and was looking at the crest on the windscreen.

Ross said, “How’s John?”

She looked at him, and took his hand.

“You don’t mind too much, do you?”

He smiled. “I’m glad. For both of you.”

He touched his chest, and she said quietly, “Does it hurt?”

“Only when I laugh!”

“Very funny. You’ve had a long day, Ross. When we get to the hotel you can put your feet up and . . .” She leaned forward. “What’s the hold-up? We’re almost there, too.”

Ross felt her fingers tighten. She remembered. The wall, the tower . . .

He said, “Oh, shit. There’s some sort of ceremony going on. Can you get round it, driver?”

The marine said, “Won’t take long, sir.” He revved the engine slightly to show that he was unconcerned.

Ross saw another car, already parked, the driver standing beside it. Like Harwood, he thought. What would
he
do next?

He tensed, seeing a full guard of Royal Marines, white helmets, fixed bayonets, a lieutenant with sword drawn. The regular tramp of boots. Like other times, especially here.
What we are. What we do.

The other car mounted a senior officer’s plate. He tried to calm down, release the tension.
What a time to choose.

“Sorry about this, Joanna.”

The guard had halted, clicked round to face the road. Some spectators had gathered, although ceremony was common enough here, in Drake’s seaport.

But there were always cameras ready and waiting.

Joanna said quietly, “Here he is, Ross. The great man himself.”

It was Colonel Souter. Away from that bare office in Whitehall, with its paperweight on a polished desk. Straight-backed, the gaunt features he remembered so well. When he had met Tobin. He clenched his fist. And Sharon . . .

The driver was getting out, standing beside the door. At attention.

She said, “He’s coming over to
us
, Ross.”

Ross climbed out on to the road, and held her hand to assist her.

As if from another world, a voice was calling,
“Guard of honour! Pre-sent arms!”

Pale sunlight touched the bayonets, boots stamped down as one.

Colonel Souter saluted, with a faint smile, like something shared.

“It’s for
you
, Major Blackwood. Welcome back.”

“If you’ll take a seat, Major Blackwood, Sir Aubrey knows you’re here. He’s been expecting you.” He did not glance at the clock on the wall, but he might as well have done so. Even his voice implied,
what took you so long?

Ross looked around. There was no chair, except for one which was piled with large envelopes awaiting collection.

He walked to a window and stood staring down at the street. Number Thirty-One: the same entrance, identity check and telephone calls. All that time ago. Months . . . He ran his hand over his hair. It felt like yesterday.

He caught sight of his reflection in the glass. He had not even had time to change into a more presentable rig.
Scruffy.

Poole, in Dorset, was at a rough guess about a hundred and twenty miles from this building; and he had felt every yard of it.

It was almost noon. He saw a taxi waiting by the curb, perhaps hoping for a fare, then a policeman gliding out of a doorway and moving him on. Security . . . that word. At least nothing here had changed.

But I have.

He had made a couple of phone calls en route to London. It had been hard to get much sense out of anybody, but bad news always made a fast passage. They had driven through
some market town and he had seen it chalked on the blackboard beside a news-stand. TOP ROYAL MARINE MURDERED BY TERRORISTS. Not in one of the trouble spots in the Middle East, or even in Northern Ireland; it had happened here in London. The newspapers had been mistaken about one thing: the senior officer, Lieutenant-General Sir Steuart Pringle, had survived. But he had been seriously injured.

The Commandant-General of the Royal Marines, at his own home. How could it have been allowed to happen?

Many civilians believed the bombings and shootings were on the wane. Would they never get the true picture?

“If you will come this way, sir.” The young man in the crumpled suit was back. Ross followed him past yet more doors, flickering screens, telephones, and somebody dictating, or rehearsing what he was going to say. They were passing that same door now, and in his mind he saw Clive Tobin, pausing with the famous smile. It was sometimes difficult to believe that it had ever happened. Tobin had been back and forth to France, and apparently Germany as well, several times since their last meeting in Londonderry: Sharon had told him as much as she could during their conversations. Distance, always distance. Testing both of them. But if anything . . .

“Here, sir.”

The office was exactly as he remembered it. Bare, as if nobody ever stopped here for long.

Colonel Sir Aubrey Souter was on his feet behind the desk, erect, and facing the door. A button of his tunic was unfastened and his tie was loose, as if he had been pulling at it. He looked, uncharacteristically, worn out. Without effort, Ross could recall him at the entrance to Stonehouse Barracks, the genuine pleasure he had not tried to hide when he had been parading his guard of honour
to welcome him back. This was like seeing some one else.

“Sit you down, Ross. Sorry to drag you up here like this.” He gave a shrug; even that seemed an effort. “Place is a madhouse at the moment.”

The same U.S.M.C. paperweight, and one loose file of papers.

“I hear you’ve been doing well at Poole with the Special Boat Squadron. Knew you’d fit in after your stop-and-search experiences in Hong Kong.” He scowled. “To say nothing of Ulster!”

Ross sat upright in the hard chair. Even after all these months, it could still catch him unaware. The scars were always ready to remind him. Warn him.

“All been said before – don’t need to hash it all over again. But we’re being called on more and more to provide cover – protection, if you like – when we’re still being cut down at every opportunity. The boat sections you’ve been putting through their paces will most likely be used to watch over the new oil rigs, stuck out in the North Sea or some other godforsaken place.” He banged his fist on the table. “Instead of doing the job they joined for!”

A telephone rang noisily. Souter ignored it. Moments later it rang again in an adjoining office.

He said, “I’ll need you up here for a bit. There’s a new face joining the A.C.H.Q. team. Parsons, Roger Parsons. Know him?”

“I think so. Way back . . . he was a captain when I last bumped into him.”

“Well, don’t
bump
into him next time. He’s a half-colonel now.” He paused. “On the way up the ladder, right?”

Ross smiled. “Right.” No stronger warning was needed. And it mattered. Souter trusted him.

“Small, hard-hitting units, men well trained and capable
of working alongside bigger and more conventional forces.” He flicked the papers on his desk. “Or going it entirely alone, like the team sent over to Londonderry to stamp on that explosives run.” He looked up sharply. “The lieutenant, Peter Hamlyn. Good choice?” He did not wait for a reply. “Thought as much,” and he smiled unexpectedly, like some one else looking out of the gaunt features. “Wants to serve with you again, if he gets the offer!”

The smile vanished as abruptly as it had appeared: some one was rapping on the door. This time it was a uniform, a colour sergeant with a rugged face and brush-like moustache.

“I thought I told you . . .” Then he relaxed a little, and said, “This is Sergeant Pike. He really runs this place when I’m not around!”

The man grinned. “Good to see you again, Major Blackwood.”

Ross remembered the face. The one who had reminded him of the time he had ridden a horse into the mess for a bet, or as part of a celebration. How could he forget? Trafalgar Day, and also his birthday, something he had never been allowed to ignore since the day he had first donned a uniform.

The sergeant said cheerfully, “Thought you might ’ave forgotten, sir.” He thrust out his watch without looking at it. “Sun’s well over the yardarm, sir.”

Souter seemed to unwind, as if a burden had slipped from his shoulders.

“Right you are, Pike,” and to Ross, “Horse’s Neck suit you?” As usual, he did not expect an answer. Pike strode to a cupboard and was soon busy with some glasses.

Souter said suddenly, “I think I have to congratulate you, Ross. I’m told you might be getting married after all this
time. No escape, you see!” He watched the sergeant topping up the brandy with ginger ale. “Easy, man – don’t drown it.”

Then he said, “Good luck to you, anyway. Tobin let it out of the bag. I met the girl myself a couple of times . . . too good for you, if you ask me. Doesn’t know what she’s in for!”

Ross sipped the drink slowly. Souter was merely passing the time of day before telling him the real reason for this summons. He would never guess how near the truth he had come. Phone calls, often interrupted because Tobin needed her for something urgent. It was always that. Hanging on to each precious moment while the world passed them by, or so it seemed. One night together, and two brief meetings at airports. And always saying good-bye.
Doesn’t know what she’s in for.
Did any of them? He could still remember Houston, the broken-nosed major who had died on a beach in Malaysia he had known only as a map reference. And Blondie Piggott, Souter’s nephew, more afraid of showing fear than of fear itself, who had died at the hands of an enemy most people had long forgotten. And Fisher, who had been killed in error.
It should have been me.
He could feel the scars on his body, but knew if he touched them Souter would see, and perhaps have doubts about him.

The door closed and the faithful Pike had gone.

Outside, the sky was heavy, and it was raining; he could see drops falling from the eaves opposite. And in three days’ time it would be Trafalgar Day.

He thought of the scrawled announcement by the news-stand; he had not even noticed the name of the town through which they were driving. The Commandant-General had perhaps been considering that date, too; some ceremony or speech would have been scheduled. He was lucky to be alive. Luckier than many others.

Souter was saying, “Want you back here for a week or two, Ross. I’ve fixed it with Poole. That chap . . . forget his name . . . he can cope without you breathing down his neck for a bit.” He tapped his empty glass on the desk. “Forester, that’s it. Like that writer I used to read.”

Ross waited. Souter never forgot names; he never seemed to forget anything.

“I want you to put Parsons in the picture. He’s new to this side of things. Might get the wrong idea about Special Operations. You’re the one to lead him into it. You’ve done it – you know it, right? I don’t want some clever bastard giving him wrong ideas, some desk-warrior, if you get my drift.” He leaned right back in his chair and regarded him steadily. “Watch your step.” He laughed, but it did not reach his eyes. “For all our sakes, eh?”

He looked briefly at his watch. “Sorry I’ve gone on about it, but it’s important. And so is what I’m trying to do in this establishment.” Feet moved noisily beyond the door and Souter got to his feet.

“Be here Thursday. My staff will fix you up with a place to stay.” He grimaced. “Hide, rather!”

The door was open; somebody handed Souter his cap, another picked up the paperweight. The room would soon be bare again.

Souter paused and looked at the window. “What a day. I hope our Nel had better weather before Trafalgar!” Then he turned back. “Set the date yet, Ross?”

“We’re getting there, sir.”

“Do it. Don’t wait. Send me an invitation, if you can stand it!”

Doors slammed, and some one called, “Car’s here, Sir Aubrey!”

Pike, the colour sergeant, probably one of the few people who had Souter’s complete trust, was back.

Ross tugged at his tunic. There was a lot to do, his gear to be sent for . . . He could no more face another drive back to Dorset, with more explanations, than he could understand why Souter had insisted on his coming here for this conversation. It was as if he had needed to know something, be convinced of something.

“I’m just leaving.”

Pike touched the back of a chair. “Thought you might be wantin’ to call some one, sir.” It could almost be said that he winked. “Privately.”

“From here?”

Pike pulled a drawer open in the lower part of the desk. “’Ere, sir. Special line.” He pressed a button. “The Colonel likes to keep ’imself to ’imself sometimes.”

Ross sat down once more. He was wasting his time. Or hers.

Pike was closing the door.

“Call me when you leave, sir.”

Ross pulled out his pocket book. There was no sound, not even of voices. The traffic seemed to have stopped, too.

The same group of numbers. He knew them by heart; there was no need to go through them again. He confronted it, suddenly nervous, almost shy. Afraid he might tarnish something, or ruin it altogether.