The Edge of Madness (14 page)

‘This is not a time for faint hearts.’

‘Nor for mistakes,’ the director insisted stubbornly.

Fu’s lips wobbled in indecision. He had not a glimmer of understanding of what these people did, only that he needed them, and he could see how whipped they all were. One had collapsed over her desk. ‘So when?’ he demanded.

‘In a few hours. After we have slept.’

‘And then?’

‘We finish the task. Go on to the next.’ The director thought he had the measure of this most unwelcome visitor. ‘You, of course, will have the honour of pressing the final button, Minister.’

They were about to destroy a nation, one that had been unconquered for a thousand years and had ruled the greatest empire the world had ever known. Fu Zhang was not a patient man but it was said that the journey of a thousand miles is taken one step at a time, and this was to be the first and most glorious step of them all. A few hours more could make no difference. The rest might even make the experience more memorable. The wretched Li was right, there was nothing to be gained by hurrying and tripping. With a lingering sense of reluctance, Fu rose from his chair.

Bedtime, Friday. Castle Lorne.

Blythe Edwards lay in her bath, an old-fashioned roll top, surrounded by sweet-scented candles with a tumbler of whisky at her side, hoping the hot water would seep away the many miseries that had wormed their way inside. First it had been Arnie, now Mao, men who seemed determined to bring low all the things she stood for. Bastards.

She loved her country and had promised to serve it, no matter what the personal cost, and she’d always accepted that would require sacrifice, but until this evening she’d had no idea how difficult it would be, trying to run the world while at the same time dragging a ruined marriage behind her. That hadn’t been in the game plan. It undermined her sense of self-worth, knocked away the foundations. She was beginning to fear she couldn’t do it all on her own. She felt so lonely.

No, she felt far worse than that. She felt humiliated. It was absurd, she was the most powerful woman on
the planet, yet she couldn’t even keep hold of one miserable excuse for a man. When the rest of the world found that out, the jackals would have a field day, and no matter how she tried to tell herself otherwise, it mattered what they thought. She was a politician, after all. And a woman.

She had screwed up big time. Her life stank, this whole Mao thing stank. And it was all going to get worse. She took a gulp of whisky, chewing it before swallowing, trying to find comfort, but it didn’t work. She wasn’t right for the job, as a president, or as a wife. A trickle of perspiration made an unsteady path down her temple. Her face was flushed. She was on the point of tears.

She wasn’t up for this, but was anyone? Yes, she thought, some were up for it, seemed almost enthusiastic. Wanted to go to war. Yet what had Sun Tzu written?
Know your enemy
. Sound advice. But she didn’t know this enemy, it was all confusion. Truth was, right now she didn’t even know herself.

She lay back in her bath, miserable, as the steam mingled with her tears and trickled them away.

Late Friday night. Castle Lorne.

Nearly eleven. Harry lay awake in bed. Despite the rigours of the last couple of days, he couldn’t sleep, Michael Burnside wouldn’t let him. The clerk sat in the chair on the opposite side of the room, staring. As always, he said nothing, it was Harry who did all the
talking, contriving a one-handed debate about the rights and wrongs of what he had done. It was simple; he had murdered an unarmed man. Except Burnside hadn’t been unarmed, he’d had information, and information could be the most devastating of weapons in the wrong hands. And it hadn’t been murder, either; it had been–what was the phrase Washington had used? A judicial assassination.
Except
it hadn’t been judicial, merely necessary. Harry wouldn’t even offer the excuse that he’d been obeying orders, because his CO had taken care to ensure that not even a whisper of an order was given. He didn’t need to. Unwritten codes, unspoken appeals, that was how soldiers fought the dirty war. OK, so Harry had done no wrong, his action had saved dozens of lives, and the entire army command structure would back him to the hilt, in private. Except–
why were there always so many exceptions, Michael?
–if the matter ever became public, his commanders would say not a word, and the only word that others would use then would be murder.
But you won’t say anything, will you, Michael? You can’t. Because I killed you.
And so it went on, with Harry’s conscience scurrying around in the darker recesses of his soul, looking for a place to hide.

The house was silent. Everyone had long since retreated to their rooms and Harry’s head was buried in his pillow when he thought he heard the creak of a footstep on the stair. A couple of seconds later he was sure of it. Someone was out there, and not in search of
a glass of water, for then they would have switched on the light, but there was none showing beneath his door.

Harry went to his window, which gave him a view across the forecourt to the causeway beyond. The moon was new and the cloud cover thick, but in the fragments of light Harry saw a figure gliding past, heading for the causeway. A man, by the size, he thought, but couldn’t be sure. And not on a night-time stroll, judging by the cautious yet determined step.

Harry hesitated. What to do–to follow? Or to ignore and forget? Yet from the far side of the room the eyes of Michael Burnside reminded Harry that he wasn’t a man of hesitations, he was a maverick, one who got on with things in his own style. So he dressed quickly and crept down the stairs.

There was a side door leading from the kitchen; Harry found it left on the latch. The night walker was clearly intending to return, and wanting to do so as surreptitiously as he had left–yes,
he
, Harry was sure of that now, from the manner of his walk. Harry set off in pursuit, his shoes crunching on the gravel, feeling for every step on ground he could not see.

When he reached the causeway he sensed, as much as saw, that it was under water. High tide. He swore, took off his shoes and socks, and stuck a tentative foot into the sea. It was surprisingly warm, always was up here. Gulf Stream. And only a few inches deep. He hitched up his trouser legs and plunged on. He’d have to hurry, the man had a ten-minute start. And the
bloody midges were at him. He’d never understand those mad Gaelic buggers who wore kilts.

At the point where the road forked, several hundred yards beyond the causeway, Harry stood still and listened, sharpening his ears to the sounds of the night; sheep, faint rodent rustles, a distant fox, the call of an owl, the complaint of a disturbed grouse, the high-pitched scream of a dying rabbit, the hush of breeze brushing across dry heather and the rumble of waves from the nearby shore. But no footsteps. Yet Harry knew one branch of the road staggered along the coastline to Sullapool while the other, so far as he could remember, led nowhere for a considerable distance through the hills. He chose the little fishing port.

He climbed through the darkness, maintaining a steady pace. He’d gone a good couple of miles before, up ahead, he made out the silhouette of the brow of the hills set against the palest of moon-milk skies, and the notch that showed where the road cut through and dipped down towards Sullapool. He remembered the half-ruined shelter they had passed earlier in the day, and that was where he saw a momentary flicker of light. A match, followed by the glow of one–no, two–cigarettes. So a rendezvous. He was still several hundred yards away but the cigarettes stood out with the intensity of stars; they drew him on, and soon he began to detect the low rumble of voices that carried on the gentle night breeze. He was still too far away to make out what was being said when whatever business was
being transacted came to its end; one cigarette was cast down to the roadway and ground out–thank heavens not tossed into the summer heather–while the remaining cigarette, still glowing, began dancing in his direction.

In his bowels Harry knew that someone from the castle was ploughing a very untidy furrow and he was anxious to discover who, but equally he had no desire to be discovered himself, not until he had collected a few answers. So he retreated, intent on getting back to the castle before the other man, and before the midges sucked him dry.

He was moving faster than the smoking stranger and reached the causeway well ahead. The tide had turned, no need to remove his shoes this time. The side door from the kitchen was still on the latch, just as he had left it. He stepped inside, knowing that this would be the way the other man must come, and concealed himself behind the large pantry.

He didn’t have long to wait. A couple of minutes later he heard the scrunch of gravel on the pathway outside the door; the man must have got a move on these last few hundred yards, for Harry could have sworn he’d had a good five minutes on him. Now, in the darkness of the kitchen, Harry’s breathing came like the roar of bellows. He straightened his leg; the knee cracked with the sound of a rifle shot. Surely he would be discovered?

Once again, as he had done repeatedly since he had
started tailing the man, Harry debated with himself who it might be. D’Arby, perhaps, the man who had set up this unwholesome enterprise and was playing so many games? Or was it Washington, the arrogant oddball who played no one’s game but his own? Or Konev? No, it had to be D’Arby, he decided, for he was the only man on home turf, but in heaven’s name why?

His mind still bubbled in confusion as the door opened on its well-oiled hinges. A figure stepped in, yet in the darkness Harry could see nothing but a vague shape. And it had stopped in the centre of the kitchen, casting around, searching for something. Harry, fearing he had been undone, was preparing to throw himself at the figure and at least gain the advantage of surprise when the man made a step forward. Harry felt him reach out. A second later the door of the refrigerator was tugged open, filling the kitchen with a pale glow.

Harry struggled to restrain the gasp of surprise forcing its way past his lips. What he saw was the worst, most dangerous of all the outcomes he had envisaged. Standing exposed in the thin light cast by the refrigerator, searching for a beer, was the unmistakable form of Sergei Illich Shunin.

Dawn, Saturday. Castle Lorne.

Harry tried to get back to sleep after his excursion through the night, but his mind wouldn’t let him rest.
So, as he so often did, he decided to block out the mental agitation with a little physical exercise. He was in the habit of taking his running shoes with him when he travelled, and not long after first light he laced them up and slipped out of the castle. He was surprised to discover, at the end of the causeway, undertaking some serious stretching exercises and swatting at the early midges, the gangling form of Marcus Washington.

‘You couldn’t sleep either?’ Harry said in greeting.

‘On the contrary, I slept excellently. Five and a half hours. Never more.’

‘You care for a little company on your run?’ Harry offered, struggling against his instincts to be cordial.

Washington’s face carried an expression that suggested Harry had just asked for a substantial loan, but in the circumstances even the haughty American would find it churlish to refuse. ‘Mrs MacDougall tells me there’s a circuit along the cliffs. Does that suit you?’

‘I’ll try to keep up.’

And so they set off. The American was clearly a practised runner, his muscles were already warm, and his lanky gait coped comfortably with the succession of steep rises and gullies they encountered. And, as always, the American had a point to make: he was better than Harry.

‘You like Scotland?’ Harry ventured, as they settled into their strides beneath the early morning sun.

‘I’ve always avoided it, until now.’

‘Avoided?’

‘Plantation people. Slave traders. I can’t help wondering if it was from here, along these stretches of water, that they set sail.’

It was a comment deliberately designed to make Harry feel unsettled. ‘That’s entirely possible,’ he acknowledged, ‘although the Scots have never had it easy themselves. During the clearances the crofters in these parts starved in their thousands, and that was long after the slave trade had been abolished.’

‘It’s not the same,’ Washington replied, keeping his breathing regular, his sentences short, and his strides long. Harry was attempting to stay abreast of him, to share the trail along with the argument, but the black American seemed intent on pushing ahead with both, stretching to get to any corner or crest first, instinctively wanting to leave Harry in his wake. It was developing into a race.

‘So, you really think hitting the Chinese is necessary?’ Harry asked, deciding they should change the subject. He was puffing a little, yawning, still only half awake.

‘You doubt it?’

‘I’m
questioning
it.’

‘The Chinese are the imperialists of this century, just as the Europeans were of the last. They are racist, exploitative and exclusionary, most of all towards the black man.’

‘You feel that personally?’

‘How could I not? The colour of my skin is part of
who I am. It’s the same with the Chinese, of course, except their skin and my skin speak different languages.’ Just like you and me, he seemed to be saying. ‘You find me arrogant?’

‘Since you ask, I understand why people might come to that conclusion.’

‘For a black American it’s a defence mechanism, the result of generations of abuse. But for the Chinese, their arrogance is a religion. They regard themselves not just as equal but as fundamentally superior. It’s the same sense of racial superiority that crammed millions into slave ships and sent millions more to the gas chambers–apart from the fact that their arrogance is here, it’s now. That’s why we have to deal with it.’

If arrogance is a defence mechanism, Harry thought, this guy’s an entire factory. A startled rabbit charged across their path, scuttling for cover in the gorse.

‘The Chinese constitute the greatest threat of our age, Mr Jones. And right now, we have an opportunity to change the way our world is spinning. We’ve got to grab it. Grab it–or go down. That’s the choice.’

A man in a hurry, was Mr Washington, Harry told himself. One hell of a hurry. They were approaching a gulley that crossed their path. The American, who was a good few inches taller than Harry, simply stretched his legs and crossed it with ease, but Harry found it more of a challenge. He was on less favourable ground and was forced to check his stride. He fell behind, and had to put on a spurt in order to catch up with the other
man, who showed no inclination to slow down and wait.

‘As you say, Mr Washington, it’s the way the whole world spins, and the whole world will be sticking their fingers into this one,’ he puffed when at last he had caught up to the American’s shoulder. ‘And if we lift a finger against the Chinese, let alone a huge fist, they’re going to say it’s a throwback to the old days. All that Anglo imperial stuff.’

‘White man’s mischief? But that’s why I’m here, can’t you see?’

The man’s self-belief came through in every panted breath. He was pushing hard, trying to leave Harry and his antiquated world far behind. Harry dug in to stay in touch. It had become a contest not just of physical ability but of race, of skin, of outlook, two men who were dragging their birthrights behind them as they raced across the cliff top. They were neck and neck when they passed the ruins of the old chapel on the cliff top and Castle Lorne came back into sight. Their pace quickened. Ahead lay a narrow cutting through which the track passed, only wide enough for one man at a time; whoever reached it first would have a decisive advantage on the run down to the causeway. Harry edged ahead. He could sense, could smell the American’s alarm, the horse eyes, the tightening of the stride. Harry was stretching out, barely a few feet from the narrowest point, when he felt his heel being clipped. He stumbled and was sent
flying into the heather. He thought he heard a cry of delight as Washington passed him. Furious, Harry picked himself up and threw himself in pursuit, but the American’s long legs had the advantage on the slope down to the causeway. He reached it a step ahead.