Knife Edge (2004) (9 page)

Then, to Ross, “Could be wrong. In which case . . .” He did not finish.

Ross fell into step beside him and knew that the others had fanned out across the treacherous, rubble-strewn slope, weapons at the ready, berets tugged over their eyes against any glare from the water.

He had seen some of the old and broken wrecks that littered the sheltered water beneath the ridge. It was hard to believe that they had once been seaworthy, for local trading and fishing. Left to rot, abandoned except by lawbreakers and faceless men in search of power.

He glanced at Irwin’s lean profile. He could see the stubble on his stained features, some holes ripped in his camouflage clothing, but no evidence of fatigue or disappointment. He almost fell as Irwin’s hand reached out and gripped him like a trap.

“
Listen.
They’re on the move, the bastards!”

Ross had heard nothing, and then it was above, below, all around them. The mounting roar of engines, swelling and shaking as if it was coming from the nearest channel. He tried to clear his mind of everything but the impending action, but all he could hear was the sound of the fast launch as it had cast off from the junk’s side and vanished into the night. Only the scream had remained.

“At the double, lads!
Move it!
” Irwin was already running toward the channel, his shouts now drowned by the sound of engines.

And all at once it was there, black and shapeless, and in the uncertain light it seemed to fill the channel, a great wash spilling and boiling over the stony banks, changing colour as the land fell aside like a huge gateway. Beyond it was the widening expanse of the sea, where only hours earlier they had waded ashore.

Whoever was on the helm had the skill, and the nerve to match it. One misjudgment, a wrong twist on the rudders, and it would be disaster. As it was, they were pounding into open water.

Ross exclaimed,
“Lost them!”
He felt himself trembling, with anger, defeat, disappointment. He knew he was shaking his fist, and barely recognized the sudden flash
of tracer, rising and then curving down toward the edge of the land.

Irwin was shouting at him, punching his arm, pointing.

“It’s them!”

Two figures, one kneeling by some rocks, his beret catching the strengthening sun, the automatic rifle bucking into his shoulder with each carefully aimed shot. The second figure was half submerged, wading into deeper water, into nowhere, staring at the fast-moving boat and the mounting bow wave which must certainly sweep him away, into oblivion.

The launch was turning slightly, leaning over, the hull gleaming, almost gold now, light glinting on a low cockpit.

The wading figure had stopped, the sea up to his chest, one hand raised as if he was waving. The second figure stood upright by the rocks, then very slowly pitched forward on to his face. He did not move even as the broken bow wave swept across him, and tossed him aside like a rag doll.

The man in the water had fallen, and was being swept into the shadows. Perhaps he was also dead.

Sergeant Boyes was here, his face almost touching, eyes and mouth wide, yelling, the words making no sense.

“He done it, sir!” He was shaking Ross’s arm. “Lobbed one of his toys right into them!”

It was not much of an explosion. More like a cough, a sensation. Like the barrel organ in Belfast . . . But there was a growing plume of black smoke, covering the little channel, rising and spreading so that even the sun was blotted out.

Ross imagined that he felt the launch hit the last spur of rock, the screws churning and thrashing impotently as the hull began to turn turtle, striking the bottom again. And again.

They were all running, wading into the shallows,
ducking as something exploded and hurled pieces of the hull above and among them.

“Easy now. Easy.” Ross dashed the spray and smoke from his eyes and shielded the sodden figure while they dragged and carried him to safety.

He was on his knees; held his hand and watched him fighting back. Some one said, “Nothing broken by the looks of it, sir.”

Another was saying, “The mad, brave bastard!”

He had known it was Steve Blackwood as soon as he had seen him wading toward the launch. Somebody had produced a clean handkerchief. Ross took it and dabbed away the stains and the vomit around his mouth.

He realized then that his eyes were open, staring up at him, grappling with shock, memory, recognition.

He whispered, “Where’s young Ellis?”

Irwin was here, and gave a quick shake of the head.

“He was covering me. Wouldn’t have made it otherwise.”

His head fell back again. Irwin said, “You did well.” He looked around and saw some marines coming down the opposite slope. One was carrying a child in his arms, another was leading a second child by the hand. It was unreal. “You all did.”

He looked toward the launch, lying half submerged, with only a few wisps of smoke still rising from the battered hull, the twin screws motionless.

He said, “A job for the divers. They should get the evidence everybody was so mad about.”

He glanced at the dead marine’s body, covered by a strip of canvas.

“At a price.”

He was able to say it without emotion or anger. That could wait.

Ross stared at the open sea. It had changed colour yet again. Some of the marines were moving along the water’s edge; most of them looked at Ellis’s body as they passed. One paused as if he was going to reach down and touch it, but another pulled him away.

Ross turned; some one had patted his shoulder as he went down the slope. It could have been any one of them.

He saw Piggott for the first time. Some of the marines parted to let him through. He could have been invisible.

Something made him shade his eyes and look toward the sea again. And there was
Taunton
, sharp and pale against the horizon, as if she had never moved, the tiny, diamond-bright wink of her signal lamp as close as the hand patting his shoulder.

She was probably calling up her sister ship, invisible around the next headland.

He made to get up, and felt a hand grasp his.

No words. There were none left to offer.

The door was labelled
Reading Room
, probably, Ross thought, because nobody had been able to think of another use for it. He opened the door and glanced quickly around. It was, as he had hoped, deserted. There was the usual clutter of magazines and newspapers, some well out of date, but
The South China Morning Post
was fresh, and apparently unread.

He sat down and put his drink beside him on a brass-topped oriental table. There were books on one side of the room, mostly official, and some on local navigation and pilotage, a photo of the Queen above an imitation fireplace, opposite one of the Duke of Edinburgh wearing the uniform of Captain-General, Royal Marines. There was also a television set, mercifully disconnected.

He leaned back in the deep armchair and tried to empty his mind. He should have been exhausted, but he was fully alert; even if he closed his eyes, the pictures remained.

Taunton
had entered harbour this morning, alongside for a change, her ship’s company fallen in fore and aft, with a minimum of piped and shouted commands. Two armed police launches kept close by in case of too many sightseers. Ross could not recall sleeping at all. Despite the hour, Houston had been on the jetty to meet them, while two ambulances hovered discreetly in the background.

The marines had assembled on the jetty in silence, weary, and visibly surprised when
Taunton
’s commanding officer had walked down the brow to shake hands with each one of them.

Then Captain Irwin had called his men to attention, and marched over to Houston to throw up a salute which would not have been out of place at Stonehouse Barracks or Whale Island.

Ross had felt it, the invisible thing which had taken over. Pride, habit, sheer bloody-mindedness. Torn and dishevelled, eyes red with strain, they had marched past the dock workers and gaping commuters heading for the Star Ferry, not a man out of step.

Sergeant Steve Blackwood and the marine who had been injured on the first night aboard
Taunton
had gone ahead in one ambulance. The other had waited before taking Marine Ellis’s body to the mortuary.

It was only a short march, but accompanied by contrasts so sharp that it would be hard to forget a single one of them. A blind beggar reaching out with his bowl as the marines tramped past. Some children, up early in readiness for school, marching beside them, beaming and waving, unaware of the silent tension in these men, the inability to accept what they had seen and done in a few days of peacetime.

Ross had chosen his moment well. The wardroom bar was almost empty. Officers who had not gone ‘ashore’ to enjoy Hong Kong’s sleepless night life were at dinner. One officer had been checking mess bills with the chief steward, but when he had seen Ross he had wanted to talk. And to listen.

He reached for his drink. The glass was empty. He could taste the brandy and ginger ale of the Horse’s Neck, but could not remember drinking it. He pulled the folded letter
from his pocket. It had been in the rack, waiting for his return. A far cry from Operation Ratcatcher.

It was from his mother. Reading it again now in this featureless room, he could feel her hand on his arm, hear her voice. She mentioned only briefly her new but temporary home, an apartment on the Thames at Richmond. If she was full of regrets at leaving Hawks Hill, she kept it to herself. She wrote of it only in passing.
The old house is being pulled down next month.
The rest of her letter had been about Susanna. She had begun a new job with some up-and-coming magazine called
Focus
. His sister had spoken of it on his last day in England; it was run and largely owned by a man often seen on television.

As usual, he had felt protective toward her, and asked about her views on her new employer.
I’ll have a go at it. And I’m not lying on my back in exchange, if that’s what you’re suggesting.

She was always trying to shock him, so that their roles sometimes seemed reversed. He touched his lip with the letter. And she did shock him, quite easily.

His mother touched on the Corps only once.
I am so proud of you, Ross. I know what it costs you.

He thought of the grubby hand on his while the pieces of burning launch had scattered around them. Steve Blackwood was in the sick quarters, where it was thought he had a couple of cracked ribs.
She might as well know. I’ll tell her in my next letter.

And there was the other letter. His conversation with Houston on their return to the base had been forthright. Like the man.

“The young fellow, Ellis. I think a letter from you to his people would be the right thing. The official version will come soon enough, but yours would mean something. In time, anyway.”

I lost my father. You lost your son.

Some one was coming. He shifted slightly in the chair, unconsciously, as if to hide.

But it was a steward.

“Phone call, sir.”

“I’m not expecting . . .” He quelled the irritation. “Sorry. Not your fault.”

The steward picked up the empty glass and smiled. “We were sayin’ in the galley, after what you lot did—” He stopped. “I’ll show you where the phone is, sir.”

He had seen the signs.

It would be just like Houston to call a meeting to clear up some point about the mission.
He never sleeps.

Another steward was arranging a tray for somebody, but did not look up. Not that it mattered. Even the best-kept secret was soon common knowledge in Hong Kong.

Another picture. The marines had been marching through the gates when a line of cooks had left the kitchens to greet them. All in white hats and aprons, one of them waving a saucepan over his head.

Ross heard later that the cooks had been waiting for them, even before
Taunton
had signalled her approach.

He pressed the telephone to his ear.

“Blackwood.”

“I was afraid you’d be fast asleep.”

Ross straightened. Even on the line he could hear the slight lilt in her voice.

“No. I’m awake.” He glanced at the steward bending over his tray. “Sorry. I suppose I’m being a bit stupid.” He hesitated. Her husband would take over. Another statement. But surely not today. Tonight . . .

She said, “I just wanted to know that you were O.K. I can’t spell it out over the line. Not in this place.”

“I’m fine. Really. Tidying things up. I don’t know why
I’m not out on my feet.” There was a pause, and he thought he heard her breathing. “What about you? Not working too hard, I hope?”

“I saw the ambulance. I found out about things. But I had to talk to
you
.” There was a slight sound. “I’m not making any sense either, am I?”

“I’m sorry you were worried. You of all people.”

For a moment he thought she had hung up, or that an operator really was tapping the line. Security . . .

But she said, “I’d like to have a drink with you. I think we both deserve it, don’t you?” Very calm. Like the time she had cursed the naval doctor for calling her on New Year’s night.

“Here? In the mess?” He was making a fool of himself. He noticed that the steward’s hands were motionless over the cutlery.

“No. Here. You’ll be in good company.” She added quickly, “Just a short way from you, Java House, off Ice House Street. Get a taxi.”

Then the line did go dead.

He put down the phone.
Leave it right there.
More faces. Questions. The chief inspector might be planning a private interrogation all of his own.

He heard voices, and some noisy laughter. Dinner was over, and the bar was open again.

A prowling taxi pulled up immediately.

“Ice House Street.”

The driver reached out and closed the door for him.

He beamed. “I got brother near here, sir. He sell fine leather goods. He will open shop for you right now. Any time!”

He saw the look on Ross’s face and shrugged.