Knife Edge (2004) (19 page)

A steward was offering a tray of glasses. Champagne.

Tobin laughed. “Not me – we’re working tonight, aren’t we?” But he took a glass and handed it to her.

A tall, grey-haired man in a crumpled suit stepped closer and said brightly, “Saw that programme you did on California – those awful fires. Brought it right home to me and my staff, I can tell you!”

Tobin nodded, a mask of gravity falling over his features. “Not something I shall easily forget, either.”

He released his grip on the girl’s arm and turned to speak with some one else.

Ross took a glass, but was looking at the fingerprints left on her skin.

She said, “What a gathering. If only the Devil could cast his net, what say you?”

Ross did not answer directly. Tobin’s back was turned, and he was shaking hands with the major-general as if they were old friends.

“He must keep you very busy, Sharon.”

“He does. It’s hard to keep up with him some of the time.”

Souter was looking at his watch, speaking to the major-general.

She said, “Just breaking the ice. It may not look like much to you, but Clive gets his lift-off from this kind of beginning.”

She would make an excuse and leave soon. Ross asked, “What were the fires they were talking about?”

She smiled, for the first time. “No idea. But Clive doesn’t like to admit a lapse in memory.” The cool, direct eyes. “Do you?”

She was so close that her elbow was brushing his sleeve.
He imagined he could smell her perfume. He said, “I’ll remember this, all right.”

She staggered slightly and slopped some of her champagne on to her arm and skirt.

“These bloody high heels! I should have known.”

Ross steadied her and pulled out his handkerchief to wipe it from her skin. The same place where Tobin had gripped her so possessively.

“This should do it. Sorry about the crush.”

She reached over to take a fresh glass from a hovering steward, perhaps to give herself time.

“Don’t even think about it.” She sipped the champagne, but her eyes were averted. “I like you, Ross. And that’s it. If you’ve got other ideas, we’ll stop it right now.”

Ross heard Tobin laugh at something, and said, “Because of him? Something between you? I just thought . . .”

“Then don’t. It’s not safe, for either of us.”

Tobin was back, his eyes moving briefly between them.

“Sorry we didn’t get much time to chat, Major . . . er, Ross. But we’re almost there. Two or three days, and then we’ll join you across the water, in ‘English-occupied Ireland’ as the boyos on the other side of the border call it.” The smile vanished, as if it had been switched off. “I can see their point in some ways, of course. We wouldn’t take too kindly to Irish soldiers with machine-guns patrolling Mayfair and Piccadilly, would we?”

She said, “We have to go now, Clive. Interview at the Ritz in half an hour.”

Tobin spread his hands. “See? A real taskmaster, or is it mistress?” He waved to the room at large.

But all Ross saw was her expression: defiance, impatience, despair.

Tell Souter you don’t want the job. To find somebody else.

It would not be difficult.

They were leaving now. She had her back turned, people were smiling, shaking hands, Tobin was writing something across a paper. His autograph, perhaps.

Then she did turn, and he saw that she was still holding his handkerchief against her bare arm.

Very deliberately, she tucked it inside her blouse.

He took another glass of champagne from a steward; he had forgotten how many he had had. That was not like him, either. The doors were closed; she had gone. He tried to contain his thoughts, make some sense out of them. He had only just met her; he knew absolutely nothing about her, her way of life, her background. To her, he was only part of the job. Soon forgotten.

So why should it matter, hurt so much?

He saw Souter beckoning to him.
But it does matter.

Souter said cheerfully, “Went well, I thought. You and I are dining with the general.” He almost nudged him. “
He’s
paying, would you believe?”

Ross said, “Will this do any good, sir?”

Souter put down an empty glass. “We can but hope. Don’t worry – just remember what I said. I’m the one on the ladder!” He became serious again. “Get on all right with Clive Tobin? Seemed pleased with things to me.”

The major-general and his aide were saying their last farewells. Now dinner. When all he wanted . . .
What do I want?

Souter said casually, “Saw you hitting it off with Tobin’s P.A. He certainly can pick ’em.”

“She been with him long?”

Souter was straightening his jacket, preparing himself.

“A year or so, I believe. They don’t stay too long in that kind of work . . . Who can say? She went through a bad time, I heard. Husband was killed in an air crash. Still, she’ll be safe enough with Clive.”

Ross drew himself to attention as he was introduced. Souter was used to it. He would need to be.

But all he could think about was Tobin’s grip on her arm, and her voice.
It’s not safe, for either of us.

There was a large car waiting at the main entrance, a uniformed driver with the doors already open. Military policemen, redcaps, were standing nearby.

The major-general was saying, “Knew your father, of course, fine man . . .”

Doors slammed and Ross did not hear the rest.

In a day or so he would be back where he belonged, and she would have forgotten their brief contact.

He thought of her hand, the plain jade ring. A reminder, so that she would never forget, no matter what.

The dinner, at the major-general’s club in Park Lane, seemed to last forever. Their host had no difficulty keeping the conversation going, as it was mainly about himself, and his younger days when he had been a keen polo player. Souter seemed more than content to leave the field open.

Ross lost count of the various courses, apparently chosen with care well before the event, and all accompanied by the appropriate wines.

By the time it was finally finished they had the club dining room to themselves, and the few remaining waiters could barely stop yawning. There had been some sort of hint that they should move on to another late-night rendezvous, but there was only the official car, so Ross volunteered to make his own way by taxi.

It was easier said than done. There had been a film première at the Odeon in Leicester Square, and taxis were at a premium. Eventually he managed to flag one down and, feeling completely drained, he settled down and tried to consider his return to active duty in the future.

The taxi driver made a point of mentioning that Chelsea
was “a bit off my beat, guv’nor” and was taking him away from the more lucrative punters. “But seein’ as you’re in uniform . . .”

The street seemed darker than usual, and the electrically operated garage door was shut, so he did not know if Sue was back or not.

He heard the driver say, “Cheers, guv, thanks a lot!” and wondered what he had given him.

He groped for the spare key she had lent him. The porter was home and in bed by now. He was lucky.

He heard the taxi increasing speed and looked back across the street. He could see the tiny red light on one of the chimneys of the power station, and remembered the tug hooting. When she had been about to leave the flat. Yesterday. The day before, as it was now.

He stifled a yawn and turned back toward the flats.

It was like being punched. He was suddenly wide awake, his spine ice cold. Not fatigue, not imagination. He gauged the position of the window, and the floor. No mistake.

The flash of light. Then nothing. He counted seconds, then saw the light again. Moving this time: a torch. Like that other occasion, a lifetime ago. The staring eyes in the beam, the blade across his back.

A thief? Somebody who knew the flat was unoccupied? The thoughts meant nothing. He was at the door, the key in the lock. There was a dim light in the entrance hall, another above the lift. He saw the porter’s telephone. Call the police? But he was already halfway up the narrow emergency staircase.
Suppose he’s armed, or there’s more than one of them?

He separated the keys and slid his fingers around them, feeling the shapes as he ran his free hand over the door.

No sound. Nothing. He waited for his breathing to
steady, but there was no need. Reaction, necessity, fear. What he had said to her when she had been in the flat.

He eased the key into the lock, his body poised, balanced, without feeling it. The handle was turning, a change of air as the door moved very slowly under the pressure.

For a split second he imagined he had mistaken the direction, or the floor. The room was in total darkness. And not a sound. He breathed out very slowly. Then he saw it, a faint light moving again along the bottom of a door, where he had seen Sue hang her dressing gown.

Whatever it was, the intruder was taking his time.

Now the door was opening, some of the torchlight spilling around the edge, and hesitating over a pile of magazines. And then on a hand.

Ross could feel the ice on his spine, hear the voice of the instructor.
When surprise is all you’ve got, use it!

He scarcely felt himself move. He sprawled across the man’s body, his hands finding and gripping without hesitation, his knee coming forward. Like hitting something solid.

He heard a gasp of pain, and felt the immediate struggle.

“Keep still, you bastard!” He twisted an arm and heard another sharp cry.

He said, “
Easy
, now. We are going to stand up!” They lurched to their feet like two drunks, the door swinging against them. Ross reached out and found the light switch.

“Nice and easy now.”

The light was almost blinding. He stared at the man whose arm was locked behind him. Grey hair, expensively cut, a tweed jacket, and the watch which was pinned under his grip was a gold Rolex Submariner. A strong body, but he had to be in his late fifties at least.

His reaction was equally surprising.

“Who the fucking hell are
you?
”

“I was going to ask you that.”

Have you ever killed any one?

“I
own
this place.” Then, accusingly, “You’ve got a key! She gave it to you!”

Ross released him.

“You must be Howard Ford.”

“Of course I am!” Anger was replacing shock or fear. He was gazing at the uniform, rubbing his wrist with his other hand. “She said you’d be staying here for a few days. But I thought . . .”

“I’m her brother. I saw the torch. Thought somebody was breaking into the place.”

Ford pushed some hair from his forehead and said abruptly, “I was looking for something. Not that I have to explain to
you
or any one else.”

Ross saw the confidence returning, and, with it, anger. Like a court-martial, when the evidence becomes confused, and the accused goes on the attack.

I own this place.
He remembered his sister’s despair, her sobbing in the night. A strong girl, too strong in many ways.

No wonder the garage was closed. Ford had been intending to stay here for the night. For as long as he chose. Not a lover, just a casual relationship.

I should understand better than any one.

Ford stood in front of a mirror, touching his face gingerly with his fingertips.

“I shall leave now. Tomorrow I will expect . . .”

Ross said to his reflection, “I’ll be gone. But don’t take it out of my sister.”

Ford had pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket.

“She is free to do as she wishes. If she is displeased with anything, she can tell
me
.” He turned toward the door. “She’s not a child. Can’t you see that?” His confidence was
growing, like something physical. “You, an officer, a major no less, should show some understanding, instead of jumping to conclusions!”

Ross made himself count the seconds. Like those other times.

He opened his palm and laid the cuff-link on the table.

“Not like the old regiment, Mr. Ford? Is this what you were looking for?”

The door was closed, but it seemed an age before he heard the lift begin to descend.

What would Sue say when she heard about it? She would know, whether Ford told her or not. She might lose her job because of it.

I wanted to hit him. Keep on hitting him.

He walked to a window and opened it, the night air cool on his face.
Then I would have lost mine.

He picked up his green beret from the floor and touched the badge.

By Sea and Land.

So be it.

The khaki-painted Land Rover, with its familiar wire mesh protection and strips of armour, braked yet again to surmount the crude ‘sleeping policemen’, barriers which had been built to slow traffic. Ross Blackwood eased forward on the seat and ducked his head to peer at the nearest buildings. Shops, some old apartments, and a pub. It had been raining and the pavement was still wet, although above the serried rooftops he could see another patch of blue coming. He tried to memorize every detail. There was a checkpoint at the crossroads ahead. Sometimes it was manned, others not. The Land Rover rolled over another line of bricks and jerked down on to the road once more.

The outskirts of Londonderry. Ross heard the man beside him swear softly and say, “Don’t make a meal of it! Take each one slowly.”

The driver, another Royal Marine, almost shrugged. “Sir?” And his eyes moved briefly to the mirror, the owner of the voice and then Ross, the passenger. And that was what he felt like, most, if not all, of the time.

Over two weeks now. Not the ‘two or three days’ Clive Tobin had foreseen after that meeting. He winced as the rear wheels bounced across another obstacle.

He looked over at the pub, where a few people were standing with glasses in their hands, one teasing a ragged
dog with a rolled newspaper. A couple of them might have glanced at the khaki vehicle and its four occupants, the green berets, and the Globe and Laurel insignia on either side, or perhaps at the sub-machine-gun lying across the knees of one of them.