Knife Edge (2004)

by Reeman, Douglas

  “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 reali
zed 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!”

  Everybody was talking at once, and men were crossing and recrossing the room to ask questions or share an opinion.

  Ross tried to stay apart, clear his mind. This was no mere skirmish, no test of nerves.

  He heard Houston’s boisterous laugh, saw him put his hand on Diamond’s shoulder. Was that an act, too? Chalk and cheese.

  He had telephoned her this morning. There had been no reply. She was probably at the sick quarters, or avoiding him, perhaps only now fully aware of what they had done.

  He realized that Houston was beside him.

  “Did you do that letter to young Ellis’s people?”

  “This morning, sir.”

  “Good. Good show.” He had not even heard him.

  Acting a part? Or did he not really care?

  He thought of the small room where they had first met. Her warmth toward him after his anger at the drunken naval doctor. Like some one telling him, helping him come to terms . . .

  “See you in the mess, Ross?” It could have been anybody.

  Diamond was in deep conversation with another suited man.

  Don’t get him talking about golf.

  He thought of the faces in the dawn light, the sound of shots, the unknown hand patting his shoulder. Men who would be depending on him, because it was all they knew, and they had no choice anyway.

  And neither do you.

  Sergeant Steve Blackwood heard the persistent drumming of rain against the shutters, the sluice of overflowing gutters. The expected storm had arrived.

  It was mid-afternoon but the day looked dark outside, what he could see of it. Inside this new wing of the sick quarters all the lights were dazzling against the white paint and shining glass.

  He hated hospitals, large or small, the way every one else knew exactly where to go, which direction to take. You were always invisible.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.” A sick berth attendant in a white coat had appeared around a screen, with what looked like a chamber pot covered by a towel. “You can go right in. Number Twenty-two.” As an afterthought. “Not too long now.”

  That was also the same.

  The door was unmarked but for a number. There was no bell, either, so he pushed it open. At first he thought he had taken the wrong route. It was more like a cupboard, with racks of what appeared to be medical or surgical gowns, hanging like motionless ghosts.

  He saw another door and a bigger room, brightly lit, with a large mirror on the far wall.

  He heard a woman’s voice and saw her leg swinging up and down, the movement, like her tone, impatient, possibly even angry.

  The door opened wider and he saw her sitting on a bed, with a telephone to her ear.

  He said, “I’m sorry, Miss Diamond. I was told to come on through.”

  She put down the telephone and pushed some hair from her eyes.

  “Hello, Sergeant. Can’t you keep away from this place?” It was the smile he remembered, but it had not come easily to her. “Take a seat.” She uncrossed her legs and moved to another chair.

  She had on a pale blue dress, unlike the semi-uniform shirt and slacks she had been wearing when she had visited him after Taunton brought them back to Hong Kong. And the legs were very nice . . .

  She seemed more composed now. “It’s Mrs. Diamond, by the way.” She held up her hand so that he could see a ring. “But Glynis will do.”

  Funny he had not noticed the ring before. The ‘hands off’ signal.

  He said, “Just wanted to thank you for your kindness.” He moved his shoulder experimentally. “All O.K., nothing broken after all. I was lucky, I guess.”

  “You all were.” She smiled. “I heard your Major Houston was here as well. He’s a fierce character and no mistake.”

  “Oh, he’s not so bad. The bark and the bite. You know.” He saw her start as some one dropped some glasses in the corridor. She was very on edge.

  He thought of Houston’s visit. Always bustling on to somewhere else, but no flannel. Straight to the point. “You’re being put up for a medal, Sergeant Blackwood. Captain Irwin came to see me about it. Can’t say, of course, but you deserve a gong for what you did.”

  He already knew who had made the suggestion: the lieutenant who had helped pull him from the water after the world had exploded, and had held his hand while he was waiting for assistance. He had still been able to look out for the two little Chinese kids who had almost been cut down by gunfire.

  And the woman sitting opposite him cared about that same man. Ross Blackwood.

  “I’ll be shoving off then . . . er . . . Glynis. Nice knowing you.”

  She was on her feet, very calm again. Too calm.

  She said softly, “Something big is going to happen, isn’t it? You don’t have to spell it out. I can see it for myself.”

  In the hard light the ring gleamed like a challenge.

  He said, “It had to come. That’s all I can say. All I know.”

  The telephone rang and she snatched it up, and put one hand over the mouthpiece.

  “Come and see me again if you can.” She blew him a kiss. “I’ll be thinking of you.”

  He opened the door. She was already far away. It was hopeless, and maybe dangerous. A married woman with an influential husband . . . it had been doomed right from the start.

  No more leave. It’s on. Clear your mind. No mistakes.

  But as he closed the door he heard her voice.

  “It’s me, darling. I knew you’d call. I just want to be near . . .”

  He walked past the racks of gowns. Like ghosts.

  All he could feel was envy.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Two days after De Lisle’s conference, final ord
ers were received. Overnight, a ship had entered harbour and moored amongst the regular naval occupants. Avondale was a moderate-sized merchantman, or had been, but now she flew the blue ensign of the Royal Fleet Auxiliary. She was no stranger to Hong Kong, and like others of her breed was used to many roles, humping fuel and stores, naval or military equipment, and personnel.

  Two big landing craft carried sixty Royal Marines of the Special Operations Unit out to the Avondale without fuss or excitement. They were just another cargo.

  De Lisle was about to fly out again, but had decided to call the officers of Operation Ratcatcher together for a last, informal meeting. It was held in one of the sumptuous suites of the Mandarin Hotel, facing the harbour, and only a few minutes’ walk from naval headquarters. Ross Blackwood had seen the hotel several times from a distance; next to the Peninsula on the Kowloon side, it was said to be the best in the world. He had wondered idly about the people who stayed there, passing through Hong Kong, or perhaps just visiting for some special occasion. He had never imagined himself inside.

  He mingled with officers of De Lisle’s own staff, Houston and Irwin, some of Tamar’s wardroom, and others he recognized from other conferences. A table had been prepared and featured platters of exotic foods, several kinds of wine, and fresh flowers; it was more like a celebration than the eve of something which might backfire in all their faces.

  There were a few women, the wives of some senior officers. Doing the right thing. He saw Piggott buttonholing Irwin in a corner, making a point by pounding one fist into the other. Irwin appeared to be listening, but his eyes were on the suite’s balcony, from which he would have seen the one-funnelled Avondale, hemmed in by harbour craft and sampans.

  Ross had been expecting it, but he had tried to contain the feelings, wanting and dreading together.

  He heard Chief Inspector Diamond’s voice first, and somebody else greeting him. “How are you, Jock, you old rascal! Heard you showed ’em a thing or two at the club!”

  She was a pace behind him, smiling at some one, but her eyes were on Ross, across and past everybody else.

  A sleeveless dress, a flower, perhaps an orchid, pinned in her hair. She looked lovely. And unreachable.