Knife Edge (2004) (23 page)

“Remember? ‘Walk with me. Just two people.’”

She faced him again, and pulled his hands to her waist, pressing them against her. “Hold me, Ross.” The handkerchief fell to the ground, unheeded. “Take care. For both of us.” The smile would not come. “Go now, Ross. Don’t look back.”

She kissed him quickly. A touch of skin, her hair, a last contact.

He saw Harwood climb down beside the Land Rover, one glove half pulled on to his hand, as if he were unwilling to move. To break into something. It seemed to take forever to reach him. The way back . . .

He was leaving her. It was all in his mind. It had never even begun.

Harwood said tentatively, “Back to H.Q., sir?”

“The adjutant’s office.”

He gripped the door and turned around to stare back at the jetty.

A few marines were still working in or near the boats, and the same sergeant was busy with a mobile telephone. The big boatshed could have been empty but for the two of them.

She had not moved, and was looking along the jetty directly at him. Waiting. Knowing.

Then, very slowly, she lifted one hand and, he thought, touched her heart, and held the hand to her mouth, as if
blowing him a kiss. Even when she was gone, and the jetty deserted again, she was still there.

He spoke her name aloud, or thought he did.

It was enough.

A sergeant opened the office door for him. “The adjutant knows you’re here, sir. He’ll be along directly.”

Ross thanked him, but did not know him by name, and the fact made him feel still more like an intruder.

He heard the door close behind him; he could guess what most of them were thinking. He walked across the polished floor; even that was different. How could a place have changed so much?

This office had been the head teacher’s room, or maybe the school secretary’s. Beyond the shuttered windows there should have been children’s voices, or the whistles of authority. Now all he could hear was an occasional shouted command, and the stamp of a squad drilling.

He paused by the desk, and, after a moment, touched it. It had been cleaned and dusted, the drawers emptied except for a message tray. Two framed photographs remained: a young woman in a flowered dress, smiling and waving on a beach somewhere. The other was of a small girl in some sort of uniform, a Brownie, he thought. A paper knife with an initialled handle, and a box of pills. The ordinary detritus of a man’s life: it was little enough to mark his death.

He sat in the desk chair and looked at the book shelves, empty but for a few military volumes. He had been in this situation before. It had never failed to move or unsettle him.

Fisher’s successor was already listed. He had been serving in Germany, and was probably on his way. But you were not supposed to notice, or to care. You were above those negative emotions.

He rubbed his eyes, and tried to put his mind in order.
Hard to believe that only an hour had passed since he had been driven from the boatshed, had seen her touch her heart and then blow him a kiss. A girl he scarcely knew, would never know, so where could it lead?

The door opened cautiously and the same sergeant came into the office, his boots loud on the bare boards.

“Brought you some char, sir. Pity it’s not something stronger.”

He saw the question in Ross’s eyes and said, “Salter, sir. I was with you a couple of years ago, in Norway.”

It was coming back to him. “You were a corporal then. Captain Marsh’s unit.”

“Right, sir.” He clattered a spoon on the saucer. “The adjutant is here, sir.”

He had only encountered him a few times since he had arrived in Ulster. Captain David Seabrook, as he knew from experience, would have been Fisher’s strong right hand, in regular consultation on all aspects of the company routine from training to discipline, with a ready eye for those due or suitable for promotion. Or a good kick up the backside, as one N.C.O. had remarked.

In his late twenties, with a keen, alert face which made him appear younger, Seabrook was the sort of Royal Marine who would always manage to look like a recruiting poster, smartly turned out even in combat rig and smeared with camouflage.

He stood directly opposite the desk, leaning slightly forward as if ready to hurry away on another pressing mission. He had a quizzical smile, which Ross had noticed before when he was listening to some subordinate, as if his mind was occupied elsewhere.

Ross stood up and they shook hands across the empty desk. Even the message tray with the framed photographs had vanished. The sergeant who had once served with him
in Norway, learning to ski with the professionals, had performed some sleight-of-hand in removing it.

Seabrook said, “Sorry to drag you back like this, sir. It was top secret. No ifs or buts.”

Ross sat down again and saw the keen eyes flick to the chair for a split second. Thinking, perhaps, that he would be sitting here, acting in command until Fisher’s replacement arrived. Or even promoted to acting-major ahead of his time. The next step; the sort of thing that happened to others.
It happened to me.

“You did the right thing. Clive Tobin and his team will be finished here soon. But security is paramount.”

Seabrook said, “It seems that another active group has been reported here in Derry, or moving this way. We’re doing all we can – even Brigade accepts that. I don’t see what else we can do without more information.”

Ross heard a gust of laughter from outside the building, quelled immediately by one of the N.C.O.s. Like the boatshed this morning, the marines with the launch. Joking with each other, not a care in the world.
Just roll on my time and let’s get back home.
Until the next crisis. He could hear her voice.
It could have been you.
She had pointed to those same marines.
Or any of them.

“Never ease up, David.” He saw him blink, perhaps at the use of his name. “We are dealing with a skilled and dedicated enemy. Many of them truly believe in their cause. To think otherwise is asking for disaster. It will fall to others to create a solution fair and acceptable to all sides.” He shrugged. “Until that blissful day, it is up to our people here. No compromise.” Like a warning.
Don’t look back.
But he could remember the other major, Houston. Any one on the other end of a gun was the enemy, pure and simple.

He saw Seabrook’s right hand curl into a fist, pressed against the seam of his trousers. Resentment?

“If any one has been criticizing me, sir, I think I have a right to know.” No anger, no change of expression.

Ross leaned back in the chair.

“I went to the boatshed this morning, as instructed.”

“I know, sir. I sent word ahead.”

“Neither I nor my driver was challenged or asked for any identification. Likewise, when we left.”

“I told the messenger . . .”

Ross shook his head. “He was not questioned, either.” He slapped his hand on the desk. “I
know
they all probably know each other. Familiarity, maybe? Like the car taken by Major Fisher the night he was killed. Somebody knew. And he paid for it.”

He was on his feet, although he did not recall standing up. “The lads can think what they like.
New broom throwing his weight around
. . . I know. I’ve been there. But too many have been killed or crippled because of apathy. So let’s do it.” He paused. “And let’s do it together, right?”

He thought of the car again. Harwood had told him he always took a different route whenever possible.

Seabrook said, “I’ll pass the word, sir. I have a few ideas of my own, too.”

“Good.” The first bridge. “I’ll be seeing the intelligence people this evening.”

Seabrook nodded. “Eight bells, sir.”

“I’d like you to come with me, all right?”

“Anything I can do, sir . . .” He looked away; his fist was still pressed against his leg.

A solitary telephone shattered the stillness.

Seabrook snatched it up without hesitation. The desk and the telephone which might have been his own immediate step to promotion.

“Yes?”

He turned on his heels, like a dancer. “Very well. Then do it.” He put down the phone and said, “Security have just reported an explosion. A small device, it seems. The Bomb Squad are dealing.” He faced him, very composed, Ross thought afterwards. “At the boatshed, sir.”

“Where, exactly?” Quietly said, but it was as if he had yelled it at the top of his voice.

This time Seabrook did reveal surprise.

“The second ramp, sir.”

Ross strode past him to force open the window. A group of marines were already gathered around the guardroom entrance. They had heard. It was always like that; security could do nothing about it. The ‘family’.

But all he could see was the jetty, and the long ramp where they had been working on the launch. Where Tobin and his crew had been shooting. And where she had been standing as she had waved to him.

“Any one injured?”

Seabrook was still gazing at him, as if he were a stranger.

“A workman, sir. Civilian. Still alive, I think.”

“Find out. Then get a car. We’re going down there.”

He half listened to Seabrook’s voice behind him, clipped, impersonal, and saw a van parked by the guardroom, the engine ticking over as armed marines climbed into it. Foot patrols on their way to some local checkpoint. He heard the security barrier being hauled aside. Routine. You could probably set your watch by it.

He felt the window; the glass was warm, although no sun was visible. He saw a couple of marines waving to the departing van.
See you later, chum.
No wonder young, untried recruits found it impossible to accept this kind of duty. Surrounded by ordinary, law-abiding people, trying to make their various ways in life. Who watched the same sporting events on television and avoided political
bombast. And then, without warning . . . He snapped the window shut and heard Seabrook say, “Transport ready, sir.”

Ross glanced around the office. They were trained and instructed in the recognition of an enemy. Usually in puffs of smoke as missiles found their mark, or dropped from hovering helicopters. The vague outline in a telescopic sight, or suddenly taking human form and flesh, when you could almost feel his breath. But always the enemy.

Outside the office he saw the tray lying on top of a packing case, the two framed photographs waiting to be sent back to England with the other remains of Fisher’s life. The smiling face. Her name was June, he remembered. The perfume on the road.

Perhaps Seabrook was right. War in any guise should never become personal.

At another window some two miles from the Royal Marines’ temporary headquarters, Sharon Warwick was watching two of the hotel staff loading waste into a truck. From the sound of it, it consisted mostly of empty bottles. It was a square, inner courtyard, and on the far side some of the rooms, the larger ones, were partly shielded by balconies. Plants at intervals broke up the severity of the building, ‘Fort Amazon’ as it was jokingly called by both staff and guests.

Security was everywhere and obvious, and she wondered what ordinary people travelling on business thought about it. Surely nobody in his right mind would book into the Hotel Amazon for pleasure.

She turned and looked around the room. Clean, functional, and dull. There was a telephone, but it took time and patience to call any one.

She walked across the room and pressed her forehead
against the other window. She could see part of the street, a man selling flowers at a tiny stall. He had doubtless been vetted, unless he was one of the protectors.

Don’t keep going over it.

Clive had called her, and told her about the explosion at the same gaunt boatshed where she had been with Ross. She formed his name with her lips, giving herself time, teasing herself for her foolishness. How could it happen? Where could she see any future? She was thirty-two years old, with a good job; you could hardly call it a profession. Why throw it all away?

She thought of Clive’s voice on the telephone. Level, concerned, but nothing over the top. A touch of mystery; that was Clive all over. She still did not know when to take him completely seriously, except when he was talking about his work. To Clive Tobin the celebrity, the work was everything.

She had no need to look at her watch. Six hours had passed since she had watched him drive away with the stocky marine, the corporal, whose eyes missed very little.

A ‘device’, was the euphemism for it. She sat on the big double bed. A bomb, large or small, casual or intentional.
And we were there.
How did Clive really feel about it, she wondered. He had seen danger at close hand a good many times, in France during some industrial upheaval, the Far East, and more recently in the U.S.A., when some madman had taken a shot at him during the course of a live interview. And later in the Middle East, Israel, then Palestine, where Larry’s helicopter had crashed. Brought down deliberately . . . She turned her wrist and looked at the watch, his last gift to her. She could remember her first assignments after his death. She had taken his photograph with her, everywhere she had gone. A comfort, but no protection against those with more intimate association in
mind. She thought of the flat in Chelsea, where she had gone deliberately to meet Ross before this tour had begun. Another coincidence. The flat was often used by Sue Blackwood, Ross’s sister. She twisted the watch around her wrist. And she worked for the infamous Howard Ford, of
Focus
and other interests. She pictured the flat again, the misty shapes of the power station chimneys across the Thames. One session there with Howard Ford had been sufficient. As Clive had later remarked, a man with more hands than scruples.

Sue Blackwood would get nothing but trouble if she was having an affair with him. She turned the watch to her inner wrist again. So brief a memory of marriage. A dream and a fantasy, but always a protection.
More hands than scruples.
What some people thought about her relationship with Clive. Gripping her arm, kissing her in public. But he respected her, just as she respected him, the other Clive Tobin who walked alone.