The Edge of Madness (16 page)

It was a powerful performance. Shunin was nodding, Blythe Edwards shifting in discomfort. They were on the edge of a momentous decision, one that would change the nature of their world, whatever they decided.

‘Whatever that takes,’ Blythe repeated, trying out D’Arby’s words for size. ‘Which in this case means—’

Yet before she could finish her thought there came the most extraordinary sound as Shunin pushed a tray from the table and cast it to the floor. Everyone jumped, their concentration shattered.

‘Clumsy of me,’ Shunin confessed as Nipper bounded across the room to retrieve the tray. ‘Young man,’ he continued, ‘why not take the dirty cups to the kitchen before I knock them all over? We’ll call you if we need anything else.’

As a smiling Nipper disappeared through the door with the crockery, Shunin tapped his ear and pointed after the boy. ‘You can’t be too careful who’s listening. Not when you’re about to go to war.’

Lunchtime, Saturday. Castle Lorne.

Blythe Edwards called a pause to their discussions. She wanted time to think. D’Arby protested, in a gentle but persistent fashion, suggesting that their time was too short and they should continue with the matter over lunch, but she insisted. ‘Lunch can wait, Mark, the next hundred years won’t be so patient.’ She retired to her room, instructing Washington to remain at hand in his own room. Away from the others. To isolate the infection, perhaps.

Lavrenti Konev also disappeared. He had remained remarkably silent during their discussions, almost morose, drawn in upon himself and no sooner had he made it to the top of the stairs than Shunin decided to follow. Harry, too, made his excuses to D’Arby. He needed fresh air more than food, he would stretch his legs along the cliff.

Harry was sitting on his bed, changing into stouter shoes, when he heard the raised voices escaping from Konev’s room a little further down the passage. The exchange quickly grew to a quarrel of extraordinary ferocity. Konev and his father-in-law were having the sort of fight that would leave scars. It was in Russian
and Harry couldn’t understand a word, but venom needed little translation. Shunin seemed to be on the point of losing his self-control while Konev was struggling to force his own views into the torrent of fluent Slavic curses.

Then it grew physical. Something was thrown, a brush, a shoe, perhaps; it hit the bedroom door and clattered onto the floor. Harry, unable to resist his curiosity, took up position by his own door. He heard what sounded like a drawer being emptied and luggage tossed around, as though the room was being ransacked. Konev was protesting, but to no effect. There came ripping, as though clothing was being torn, then an abrupt silence, filled with exquisite menace, followed by a single word, a name–Katya. After that came the distinctive sound of violence, of a punch–no, more likely a full slap, landing across a cheek, one so sharp that it must have inflicted intense pain.

A few seconds later Shunin emerged onto the landing. His face was flushed, a dark spot of fury glowed on his brow; he was wheezing, and his arms hung heavy and leaden by his side. And his hand, the one that bore his presidential ring, was covered in blood.

Saturday lunchtime. Castle Lorne.

Harry bumped into Nipper in the hallway by the front door.

‘Are you going out, Mr Jones?’

‘For a walk.’

‘Can I come?’

‘Will you be allowed? It’s lunchtime.’

‘Luncheon,’ he declared grandly, ‘has been cancelled.’

‘So has the
Mr Jones
thing. If we’re to be fellow travellers we’d also better be friends, so you must call me Harry. A deal?’

Nipper nodded enthusiastically. So they set off across the causeway, but they didn’t follow the road, instead taking a path that emerged faintly from the heather. It led them up towards the cliffs, weaving way through the gorse and scrub that hugged the coastline. They didn’t talk as they climbed–or, in Nipper’s case, skipped. Harry stretched his legs and fell
into the long, even paces that he could maintain for many miles when he’d had to. He’d once done that across the Iraqi desert. Three nights. With a bullet in his back and a friend’s body across his shoulders. The other soldier died after the second night, but still Harry had carried him. Harry was stubborn that way. They’d been on a mission that nobody was permitted to talk about, one that had been undertaken before the war started. He had known those desk generals at the Ministry of Defence would never tell the wife what had happened; left up to them, she’d get neither the truth nor her husband’s body. Thanks to Harry, she got both.

Now, along with Nipper, he came to a crevasse in the cliff top, not much more than a yard wide; Harry stood ready to jump, holding out his hand to give Nipper his support, but Nipper wanted to do it himself.

‘Don’t worry, I’ve done it a million-zillion times before,’ the boy exclaimed as he stood on the edge, yet despite his determination he looked a trifle apprehensive. Harry remembered the story of Nipper’s fall. The boy was still protesting when a razorbill, startled from its nesting place, burst from the crevasse directly beneath his feet in a flurry of feathers. Nipper screamed in alarm, then slipped. He toppled backwards.

It was nothing short of a miracle that Harry was able to catch the boy’s flailing hand and heave him back to safety. Nipper stood shaking, gulping for air, yet when
at last he looked up his face was filled not with childish fear but with determination. Then, with one bound, the boy skipped across the crevasse.

A little further on they stopped to rest in the thick heather at a point overlooking the castle. From here they could see how the granite cliffs swept in an arc like an audience before a stage on which stood the towering figure of Castle Lorne. The ruined chapel looked down from its perch amongst the gods while a thousand gulls beat their wings in applause. This was an enchanting spot, and Harry knew why Flora MacDougall wanted to spend the rest of her days here.

‘Mr Jones,’ Nipper began, ‘do you live in Heathen?’

‘In where?’

‘Heathen,’ the boy repeated, his face set in earnest. ‘Where the Heathens come from.’

Harry bit his lip, desperate to control his desire to be engulfed with laughter. ‘Why do you ask, Nipper?’

‘Granny said you are all Heathens. She was upset because you’d walked out on her lunch. But I don’t know where Heathen is.’

Now Harry could resist no longer and the laughter burst forth. He tousled the boy’s brilliant mop of hair. ‘A little part of me is English, Nipper, and that might make me a Heathen in your grandmother’s eyes. And I’m sorry for her lunch. One day, if I’m allowed, I’d like to come back. We can do everything properly then.’

‘I’d like that, too. When I get my pilot’s licence I can fly you here myself.’

Suddenly the laughter had blown away with the wind and Harry’s heart ached for the disappointment that was waiting for the child. ‘Heathen,’ Harry said, ‘isn’t a place, it’s a description. Of those who don’t believe in God. But I think your granny was using the word in a looser sense to describe those who don’t believe in her cooking, and if it comes to that, I’m no Heathen.’

‘You missed her lunch.’

‘I just needed to let the sea wind blow the cobwebs away so that I could do a little thinking.’

‘It almost blew me away, too.’

‘I think your granny will be unhappy that I brought you here. You’ve had bad experiences with these rocks, I believe.’

Nipper’s brow formed a perfect single furrow. ‘No, Mr Jones, she wouldn’t be cross. Granny’s very clear about it. She says that living in fear isn’t living at all.’

‘She is a very wise woman, your granny.’

‘When my Grandda’ died, I was unwell for a little while. But as soon as I got better she took me back to the place where we had fallen. We threw some flowers off the cliff, then we sat down and had a little picnic. Grandda’s favourite, Marmite sandwiches. She hates Marmite but still she ate them, and she cried. I asked her why she was so unhappy, but she says she wasn’t unhappy, she was simply giving thanks for having met
Grandda’, and for having me. That’s when she told me I must never be afraid.’

‘And that’s why you had to jump across the rocks.’

As they sat there, the wind picked up and began to ripple through the heather.

‘We should go back, Nipper.’

‘But I thought you came up here to think. Have you done your thinking?’

‘Somehow I think you and your granny have done it for me.’

When Harry and Nipper returned to the castle they found D’Arby sitting in the sunshine by the causeway. He was perched atop a weather-beaten stone block that might once have been used by guests to mount their horses.

‘Ah, the travellers return!’ he greeted as they approached. ‘I’ve been waiting for you, Harry. A word?’

Taking his cue, Nipper held out a hand and solemnly shook Harry’s, thanking him for his company. Then the boy scampered back inside, his arms out wide, pretending to be an airplane. D’Arby, too, extended an arm, placing it round Harry’s shoulders and leading him away from the castle until they were entirely on their own. They sat themselves on a rock close by the shore.

‘We’ve come to that time, Harry. The next couple of hours will decide all, and I need your help.’

‘In what way, Mark? I feel I’ve done nothing since I’ve been here.’

‘You have been waiting for the moment. Now it’s here.’ D’Arby bent to scoop up a handful of pebbles and began casting the stones, one by one, into the waters of the blue firth. For a while he seemed to have lost his train of thought. ‘It’s moving much as I’d expected,’ he said eventually. ‘Shunin’s up for it. Stands to reason. Whatever else he may be he’s a patriot, a devoted Russian, and no fool. He knows how fragile his country is. He was part of the nineties when old women stood in the streets of Moscow, begging in the snow for a stranger to buy their only coat because they hadn’t eaten in three days. Once the Chinese start playing their games, he’d be only a snowstorm away from disaster. All the Muslim areas, the Tatars, the Ingush, the Humpty Dumpties, they’ll go, but Chechnya will be first, and at that point the Russian dream is over. Our Mr Shunin knows very clearly what’s at stake.’

‘You think you can trust him?’

‘Trust him? Trust that bastard? Good God, no! But I think I
know
him, Harry, I think I’ve known how he’ll react.’

‘It seems Shunin hasn’t been the only one playing chess.’

‘The man’s an animal, Harry. Put him in a tight corner and the only thing he knows is to fight. And Washington is a notorious hawk. Wind him up and watch him go. Totally reliable. But Blythe…’ He sighed and threw the rest of the pebbles into the water, grown tired of his
game. ‘Frankly, she’s been a disappointment. So slow to see the point, to make up her mind.’

‘She’s had distractions. Personal problems.’

‘Ah, I see.’ He squinted into the sun. ‘I knew you’d understand her better than any of us, Harry. I’ve seen the two of you together here. I knew I’d made the right choice in bringing you.’

‘How?’

‘She trusts you–as do I. Help me to bring her back into play.’

‘What do you expect me to do?’

The Prime Minister took Harry’s arm and squeezed it. ‘Whatever it takes,’ he said, slowly repeating the words he had used earlier.

‘Give her a little time, Mark—’

‘But we have no time! We’re about to get hung out to dry! Brought to our knees! Made to beg!’ His shoe kicked out in frustration at the pebbles that lay at his feet, sending them scattering. ‘Blythe is our only chance.’ he cried, raising his arms to the gods, imploring their intervention, but then his shoulders sagged and his hands fell to his side. ‘Without her, Shunin won’t come with us, not on his own. He’ll be on the first plane to Beijing hoping he can scratch out some sort of deal, while we shall be left entirely alone. Everything–
everything
–depends on us staying together, and right now that’s down to Blythe. We have to persuade her–
you
have to persuade her!’

‘And how do you suggest I do that?’

The arms were waving once more, this time in frustration. Harry was supposed to know, not be asking damn fool questions. ‘Reason with her. Plead with her. Tell her she owes it to you for saving her son–and she does, Harry, you pulled her fingers out of the wringer on that. And if guilt doesn’t work, appeal to her sense of history. Tell her she’ll be right up there with George Washington. Flatter her. Promise her anything. Whatever it takes…’

Now, with a clarity so sharp it was painful, Harry knew why he had been brought along. Being the keeper of D’Arby’s conscience had nothing to do with it; in fact, the man appeared to have no conscience at all. Harry was a donkey, a beast of a burden intended to carry Blythe along the chosen path, whether she wanted the ride or not. He sat looking out towards the islands, his loyalties in turmoil. He felt used by D’Arby. He let forth a long sigh.

‘Why so glum, Harry?’

‘It’s just that I’d been planning to spend the weekend with a ridiculously entertaining woman from Manhattan named Gabbi. So far, your alternative isn’t coming up to scratch.’

D’Arby gave a dry chuckle. ‘Come on, old friend,’ he encouraged, placing his arm round Harry’s shoulder. ‘Your country needs you. And we don’t have much time,’ he said glancing at his watch as he led the way back inside.

Saturday, 2.17 p.m. British Summer Time; 5.17 p.m. Persian Gulf.

A barge, ugly, smeared with grime and rust, nudged up against the USS
Reuben James
as it unloaded the fuel and water, anything to lighten the load. While they waited, the warship’s crew offered up their own private prayers that the high tide would re-float them and send them far away from this bug-infested place. They knew they might be attacked at any moment, stuck out there in the open, but they scarcely needed the Iranians to finish them off; the humiliation alone was going to be enough to kill them.

They had gathered a mighty audience. Patrol boats of the Islamic Republic of Iran were swarming in the sea around the
Reuben James
, while along the smudge of coastline on the horizon, military units massed in their support. Above the scene, helicopters of the US 5th Fleet hovered in close attendance, and many thousands of feet higher their warplanes kept a vigilant eye on everything that moved. Almost lost amongst the crowd was a commercial tug, sent from Kuwait, just in case the high tide didn’t do its job. It was turning into quite a party. And as they rubbed shoulders, the Persian Gulf teetered on the brink.

The day seemed endless beneath the withering sun. Nerves were frayed. When, many hours earlier, the commander of the frigate had first reported his difficulties, a rescue plan had been put into immediate
effect. At first light the commander of the US 5th Fleet, from his flagship in Bahrain, had sent a senior officer to the stricken frigate in order to take over its command–the ship’s own senior officer could no longer be trusted, not after parking on a sandbank. The nuclear-powered USS
Ronald Reagan
, one of the US Navy’s newest aircraft carriers, had also been ordered to the area. It was as long as the Empire State Building was high and carried an awesome inventory of armaments, and although it hadn’t yet reached the scene its mere suggestion cast a long shadow.

The Iranian patrol boats had arrived shortly after dawn. They were small and not heavily armed but they posed a direct threat to the safety of the
Reuben James
, and in any other circumstances the Americans would simply have blown them from the water. Yet there was one glaring problem with such a response. The patrol boats were on home territory. Instinct suggested the Iranians should be swatted like flies, but caution dictated that instead the Americans wait and see. So the
Reuben James
’ new captain gave orders that the patrol boats should not be attacked unless they showed hostile intent or came within four hundred yards of his ship. This was radioed to the boats but the
Reuben James
had no way of knowing whether it was using the right frequency or whether the Iranians even understood English, so to back up this message three helicopters were sent to mark the perimeter, squatting menacingly above waters that began to boil in the downdraughts. For the moment both sides
waited, pistols at the ready, with no one entirely sure who was the sheriff and who the bad guy.

There was more immediate justice to be dispensed. The new captain of the
Reuben James
was on the point of having his predecessor relieved of all duties and flown from the ship–the standard consequence for such a god-awful screw-up–when strange faults in the navigation systems were discovered. At first the mess seemed like a straightforward case of catastrophic incompetence, but when the computer history of the navigation system was examined, it suggested something more sinister had taken place. Four thousand tons of warship can’t jump more than two miles in a nanosecond, but that’s what the computer logs showed. They had to be wrong, so…Sabotage. And that meant the Iranians–didn’t it?

These were dangerous seas, no stranger to confrontation. A few years earlier a large detachment of British Royal Marines in pursuit of smugglers had been arrested by the Iranians and held captive. It hadn’t been the first such incident. Tehran had crowed, the British had been humiliated, yet in the end the Britons had all been safely released. Twenty years earlier it had been a different story. The US had shot down Iran Air Flight 655 after mistaking the civilian Airbus for an attacking warplane. All two hundred and ninety passengers on board had died, including sixty-six children. No apology had ever been forthcoming from the Americans.