Knife Edge (2004) (18 page)

“If you can’t take a joke!”

The man grinned. “Shouldn’t have joined, sir!”

The old lift was apparently out of order, or it had been delayed at another floor, so he made his way down by a chipped marble staircase. He neither met nor saw any one
else until he reached the entrance lobby, as if the entire building were unoccupied but for that one, bare office.

There was another security man at the counter, who acknowledged him but said nothing. Out on the street it was still raining, and there was not a taxi in sight.

He strode away from Number Thirty-One, his mind lingering on the brief meeting and the even briefer closing remarks.

He wondered if there was any mention in Souter’s intelligence pack that Major Ross Blackwood had once been intent on resigning from the Corps.

He felt the rain soaking through his suit and quickened his step. He no longer noticed that he was not even out of breath.

He knew what he had been dreading, and what it meant to him.

This was all he wanted. All he had.

“Taxi, guv?”

A new beginning.

Four days exactly after Ross’s meeting with Colonel Sir Aubrey Souter, a messenger delivered the official summons to the door of Sue’s flat. It was further confirmed by one of Souter’s aides on the telephone. So it was on. His sister had been astonished when Ross had borrowed her ironing board and said he intended to press the one uniform he had brought with him from Hawks Hill. ‘Official’ meant just that. It was rare these days, except in naval ports or establishments where eager recruits would dodge traffic or cross a road simply to confront an officer so they could exchange salutes. In Plymouth on certain days, you could walk the length of a main road with one hand almost fixed to your beret or the peak of your cap.

This morning the sky was clear, and Ross had opened some of the windows as soon as his sister had departed, to do an interview in Woolwich, she had remarked vaguely. In the few days he had stayed here, they had grown no closer. Her home was a large, four-bedroomed flat in Chelsea, shabby but obviously expensive, and part of a block not far from the river; you could see the tall chimneys of Battersea power station in the distance.

One of the bedrooms had been converted into an office, with books, files and bundles of papers on the floor and everywhere else. A tax dodge, Sue had said. Untidy it
certainly was, but he had the feeling that she knew exactly where to lay hands on the smallest scrap of information. While he had been staying here she had been away for most of each day, conducting interviews or at the magazine’s main office in Fleet Street.

Maybe it was all his fault. Their lives had run on separate courses for too long. But he was interested, and he cared. Once or twice some one had telephoned the flat, but each time when he had answered the caller had hung up.

She had brushed it off with, “Probably Howard. He likes to stay in touch with all his slaves!”

‘Howard’ was Howard Ford, her boss. His magazine
Focus
was growing in popularity and had moved into other areas, including commercial television.

Ross hung the Lovat jacket across a hanger to join the trousers he had already pressed.

What M.O.A. could do better?

He walked to a window and felt the air warm across his face. By leaning over the sill, he could see the cars parked in line along the street. This block of flats had an underground car park, rare in this area. That, too, would be costly. So why did it trouble him so much? Sue was a grown woman, sister or not. She had been engaged once, but had called it off, although she had never divulged the reasons either to him or to their mother.

The second night here he had heard her return, slamming the door, sobbing and then shutting herself in her own room. He touched the object in his pocket; it only made him feel more helpless. He had found it when he had been setting up the ironing board, something catching the sunlight near the window, where Sue had dropped or thrown an old dressing gown.

A cuff-link, and not the kind any man would toss away. It was gold, and engraved with a lamb and star. The crest
was common enough on pub signs, but the Lamb and Star was also the badge of a local regiment. It made no sense, or too much so.

He turned as the door bell cut through his thoughts.

Some one new in her life. A lover? Emotionally, she had both feet on the ground.

He opened the door, and said, “I’m so sorry. Did you ring before?”

There was a narrow window on the opposite side of the hallway, so that the sun was directly behind her, and her face was in shadow. She wore a pale, perhaps cream, safari suit open at the throat, and had one hand resting on a shoulder bag, relaxed, looking past him through the doorway.

She said, “I hope I’m not calling at an inconvenient time.”

He said, “Sue’s not here, I’m afraid. Can I do anything for you?”

He thought she would see the ironing board, the scattered items of clothing, the open suitcase. He added defensively, “I’m her brother.”

She held out her hand. “I know. Ross, isn’t it?”

He pulled the door wide. “That’s me.” A dry, firm hand, without pressure. A polite gesture.

She might have smiled. “Warwick. Sharon Warwick.” She walked into the flat, glancing around. “Rude of me to drop in like this, unannounced. But I was coming this way.” She half turned and looked at him directly. “I’m Clive Tobin’s P.A. Thought it might help to meet you before tomorrow. You know what I mean.”

“No secrets, then?”

She did not return his smile. “Waste too much time.”

She walked into the main room and looked briefly at a wad of papers held together by an elastic band. “Still a mess, I see.”

Ross looked around also, seeing it through her eyes.

“You know my sister well?”

“
Your sister
and I were once after the same job, I forget now which one!” She laughed, but it did not touch her eyes. There were blue, and in the stronger light Ross could see her hair, very short, and the colour of honey.

He said stupidly, “Have a chair . . . er, Miss Warwick.”

She walked instead to the far window. Very easily, confident.

Over her shoulder she said, “Sharon will do, if you like.”

She saw the uniform on its hanger and went straight to it.

“
Major
Blackwood.” She touched the crown on one shoulder. “Full of surprises, this job. Like my lord and master, Mr. Tobin.” She did not explain, but pointed at another door. “In that fridge she usually keeps some wine, chilled and ready for parched travellers.” She tossed her head and ran her fingers through her hair. “She won’t mind. You should know that.”

I don’t know her at all.

It seemed to take him an age to get the wine and find a corkscrew and some glasses. All the time he could feel the girl’s presence, the relaxed aloofness, like a barrier.

He put a glass on the table beside her.

“Chilean,” he said.

“It would be.” She sipped the wine appreciately. “Nice.”

He looked at her hands. Well-shaped, like Sue’s, the nails short and faintly coloured. She wore a jade ring on her right hand.

Then she said, “You’re younger than I expected.”

Ross covered his surprise, or hoped he did. He thought of Souter’s well-thumbed file, the silver paperweight.

“It’s all on the record.”

She half smiled. “That’s
not
what I said. No matter.” She shook her hair again, and remarked, “Just had it cut. Can’t
do a damn thing with it now.” She seemed almost relaxed.

“Have you worked with Clive Tobin long? What’s he like?”

She took another sip, as if considering the question.

“He’s a hard worker, makes high demands on every one, himself especially.” She crossed her legs casually. “Everything has to be perfect.”

“You have to travel a great deal?” There was a silence. “That was a stupid question!”

“It was.” She put down the glass. “I’ll be leading you into every session. But during each final take, you’ll be talking directly to him. You’ve got a nice, easy manner. Keep it, no matter what.”

She bobbed one foot up and down, frowning slightly, as if somewhere else.

She wore sandals, her feet and ankles bare. She would be quite tall in heels, he thought vaguely.

She said, “Ross . . . I can call you Ross?” She put the glass down gently. “Tell me, Ross. Have you ever killed any one?”

He gazed at her. She was unemotional. Cold. No, it went much deeper.

“Yes. Reaction, necessity, fear. It’s not easy to put it into perspective.” He thought of the bridge blowing up. One man falling but struggling on, the live grenade almost slipping from his bloodied fingers. “Sometimes it’s simply us or them.”

She stood up and reached for her bag. “I’ll just use the loo, then I’ll be off. Thanks for being so helpful. So frank. Something so often lacking in this sort of work.”

“I’ll call a taxi for you.”

She shook her head. “A car brought me. It’ll be waiting.”

She crossed the room, the same easy walk he had first noticed. Without effort, like a dancer.

She held out her hand. “Tomorrow, then.”

He wanted suddenly to grip the fingers, hold them against his mouth. She, and her ‘lord and master’, would have a good laugh at that.

He said, “I’ll look forward to it.” Like a green subaltern on heat.
What is the matter with me?

He recalled that she was still there by the table and the half-empty glasses. She was looking at him, her eyes steady, searching.

She said, “I’ll remember. Us or them.”

Somewhere a tug hooted mournfully on the river. Like the old
Vigilant
, coming to the rescue.

The room was empty, the uniform still on the hanger, where she had touched it.

He wanted to laugh at himself. But it would not go away.

Colonel Sir Aubrey Souter did not conceal his relief when he greeted Ross in the foyer of the ministry building. It was not their original meeting place, but one of the older and grander palaces of Whitehall, now used by the Combined Chiefs of Staff.

The car Souter had sent for him had been delayed in a traffic jam, an accident of some kind; the driver had not stopped to inquire.

Souter said, “You are here to mingle, get the feel of things.” He waved to somebody in the crowd of uniforms. “Officially, this is to greet one of the new senior officers.” He grimaced. “A soldier, this time.”

The room to which they had come would have been better described as a salon: gilt and pale blue, with vast paintings on the walls and busts by the ornamental fireplace, one of Admiral Jellicoe, the victor of Jutland, another of Field Marshal Montgomery of Alamein in the well-remembered beret with its two badges. On his
previous, and only other, visit to this magnificent place, Ross had seen a bust of Mountbatten. It had been removed after his murder in Ireland. He could see no other relics or reminders of the Second World War, and, glancing at the others around him, he knew why. There were several foreign uniforms, French, German, and others he did not immediately recognize. The omission was clearly political.

The last time he had been near this room, he had been in charge of a guard of honour for some diplomatic nonentity; he could scarcely remember. He had been the junior officer at the time. He saw somebody wave to him, and returned the greeting; it could have been anybody. Now he was a major, and he was still the most junior officer in the place. The guest of honour, a major-general, was on his feet, being introduced by Souter; it was all very informal. The general thanked Souter and referred to him as ‘my good friend’. That would not go unnoticed. Then he launched into his speech: peacekeeping, co-operation, mutual gain. Ross wondered if some of the foreign uniforms understood, especially when the general made a joke, and the others laughed. He saw Souter glance at the clock above the empty fireplace, although he was careful not to peer at his watch. On edge again about something. He looked toward the fine double doors, and saw two figures in white jackets waiting for the word to bring in the drinks.

But where was Clive Tobin? Maybe the weight of so much brass had scared him off. He thought of the girl’s comment,
everything’s got to be perfect.
The celebrity.

Souter had found time to point out a few faces in the crowd before the general had arrived. Civil servants, officials of the ministry, information and publicity. Ross had not realized there were so many. They, too, would be getting impatient.

In his mind he could see the girl in the safari suit, with
the honey-coloured hair and calm blue eyes. With Clive Tobin. Her lord and master . . . Even thinking about it made him feel foolish. Envious.

People were applauding, friends greeting friends, strangers feeling their way, doors opening, glasses clinking on trays.

Try as he might, he found it impossible to connect all this with the grim reality he had seen. Wading ashore on some unknown beach, hacking through a jungle, walking down some quiet street into a sniper’s sights. Trying to uphold the rule of law, to defeat terrorism. He was angry, and anger was something to which he should be immune; it was not professional.

Tell me, Ross, have you ever killed any one?

As if she had spoken right here, beside him.

He swung round and saw the tall doors open again. Like making an entrance, right on cue, a blue velvet jacket that caught the overhead lights, and a matching bow tie. One hand partly raised, returning a greeting or acknowledging some one he knew. The same practised smile, unruffled, at ease, a face known to thousands. Souter was ploughing through the sea of uniforms like an icebreaker. The major-general had had his moment.

But Ross was looking at the girl beside Clive Tobin, in a long, dark green skirt which made her appear taller, and a simple sleeveless white blouse, her tanned arms unadorned but for the watch he had seen at the flat. Her hair was shining, alive.

Can’t do a damn thing with it now.
Was that only yesterday?

Souter was saying something. Relaxed now.

Tobin shook hands. “Glad you’re joining the team.” The famous smile again. “Hope you don’t regret it!” He reached out and took her arm. “You’ve met the lovely Sharon, of
course? She keeps the whole show on the road.” He tightened his grip. “I couldn’t survive without her.”