Edge. Part 11

"I'll walk back. Be glad of the exercise."

"It must be five kilometres."

"Right."

He turned away and began walking. After a minute, he heard Kath's car hum into life, then roll past him. She continued to the road's end, then sped up, and was gone from sight.

Just trying to help.

Maybe. Or maybe she was a vulnerable woman looking for a vulnerable man to connect with, which made sense only if the c.u.mberland marriage was over, which half of him couldn't accept while the other half took it as read.

Both halves felt awful.

He was in his own car when a call came through. The image was of Haresh Riley, known to everyone in the Regiment as Raghead Mick and seeming not to mind. Josh pressed to accept.

"Did Tony tell you to call me?"

"Tony who?"

"s.h.i.+t."

"Oh yeah, Tony s.h.i.+t. He did ring, come to think of it. Said you were a miserable f.u.c.ker who wasn't going to see his mates unless they called him first."

Josh had no idea what to say.

"So the RV is the Bunch of Grapes, seventeen hundred precisely. Be there, or we'll have your nuts."

"You'll eat all the peanuts in the pub?"

"See? You're better already. Out."

The phone blanked out.

"Tony, Tony, Tony."

Silly b.a.s.t.a.r.d, trying to be helpful. And then there was Kath Gleason, and her Maybe you need someone to look Maybe you need someone to look after you. after you. They were wrong, all of them; for the person who needed help was Sophie, but no one was doing anything, achieving anything, while she was trapped in a h.e.l.l whose entranceway read Persistent Vegetative State, the abandonment of hope, a sentence no one seemed capable of commuting. They were wrong, all of them; for the person who needed help was Sophie, but no one was doing anything, achieving anything, while she was trapped in a h.e.l.l whose entranceway read Persistent Vegetative State, the abandonment of hope, a sentence no one seemed capable of commuting.

Bad, bad, bad.

At 5pm on a Sat.u.r.day, the Bunch of Grapes was packed. By the bar, a huge wallscreen was showing the opening credits of Knife Edge Knife Edge, the thirteenth season. Regulars were seated at small round tables, on the bench seats near the walls, and at the counter, beer in hand, their attention on the screen. At the back, five quiet men were gathered around a table.

You're here. Thanks, lads.He was on time, because if you agree to a rendezvous you keep it. With a gla.s.s-tipping signal to Haresh, he established that they had drinks already, and there was a drink waiting for him. It would be Diet c.o.ke, and he could trust them not to spike it without telling him. Threading his way among the crowd, he checked the environment harmless, cheerful, and noisy and the five guys: Haresh, Kev, Vinnie, and Del, plus a wideshouldered man he didn't know.

Haresh pointed: "Josh c.u.mberland, Matt Klugmann. Now drink."

"Hey," said Josh.

"Likewise." Matt's accent was American Southwest. He raised his beer. "Bottoms up, old chap."

"Jesus, don't let these b.u.g.g.e.rs teach you how we speak."

"You mean, they might be less than truthful? Heaven forfend."

"Hey," said someone nearby. "Who are these f.u.c.kers?"

On the wallscreen, the picture changed to a news report. Two overweight men in suits were sitting at the bar counter, and one of them had the screen's remote in hand. It didn't take ma.s.sive awareness to notice the tensing body language around the room, or the scowls as Knife Edge Knife Edge was replaced by pictures of President Brand failing to return Premier Han Lei's bow at the Geneva Conference. was replaced by pictures of President Brand failing to return Premier Han Lei's bow at the Geneva Conference.

"a.s.shole," muttered Matt.

"The guy who changed the picture?" asked Del. "Or your duly elected president?"

"Either one." Matt stared toward the screen, and a muscle at the side of his mouth jumped. "There."

The image changed back to Knife Edge. Knife Edge."Er, we like to be more discreet," said Haresh. "Ghosts in the night, remember?"

"s.h.i.+t, have I got cowflap on my boots again?"

"When don't you, good buddy?" said Del. To Josh: "Epsilon Force, been here four months, poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

The barman took the remote from the guy in the suit, shook it as though to demonstrate that it was broken, then put it below the counter. He made no attempt to change the image back.

"So who'd you p.i.s.s off," asked Josh, "to end up among this lot?"

"Truth to tell, I can't rightly remember, there bein' so many."

"See?" said Del. "Fits right in."

"Too bad it's not a compliment," said Josh. "What have you been?"

"Hush," said Haresh. "They're going back to the House after training. Should be interesting."

Everyone was looking at the screen, besides the businessmen finis.h.i.+ng off their drinks, looking ready to leave.

"Why interesting?" asked Josh.

"s.h.i.+t," said Del. "You missed the previous episode?"

"Well, yeah."

More important things to worry about.

"Two of the lightweights, Andre and Lynwood, had a little contretemps."

Matt mouthed the word: contretemps. contretemps.

"Oh," said Josh. "OK."

Haresh leaned forward. "What he means is, Lynwood p.i.s.sed down Andre's leg, standing at the urinal. In the training centre."

"And the cameras were there? Jesus."

"They're both on Fireman Carlsen's team," said Del, "so they're not likely to have to fight each other until much later. If they make it that far."

"Unless they go for it on their own time."

"Right. Exactly."

Knives and booze were banned from the Knife Edge House. But so were phones and wallscreens only a few hardcopy fight mags allowed which meant close confinement for sixteen semi-pro fighters, most from troubled childhoods or they wouldn't be there, although three fighters over the years had been PhDs, and a handful of pros in the Knifefight Challenge Federation held master's degrees.

A grudge match with its extra excitement accounted for the leaning forward in seats, antic.i.p.ation as the drinkers focused on the wallscreen. Under other circ.u.mstances, Josh would have resonated with the mood.

"Come on, mate," said Haresh. "Let's check out the beer garden."

"All right."

On screen, two of the fighters, in the kitchen of the training house, were having at it with rolled-up hardcopy mags. Half of the regulars were laughing at the sight, but Del and Kev held still, along with several older men sitting quietly here and there. To some people, the use of improvised weapons to shatter a cheekbone or take out an eye was as basic as polymorphism and delegation in software design, or the inverse-power law of adaptive networks. Or perhaps Ghost Force thinking was a form of insanity, far removed from the thoughts of ordinary people.

Josh followed Haresh out into the garden. There were plenty of seats free, in contrast to the crowded indoor lounge.

"You remember Lofty getting us to read the Go Rin Go Rin No Sho No Sho?" Haresh put his beer down on a table.

The Go Rin No Sho Go Rin No Sho, or Book of Five Rings, was written by master strategist Miyamoto Musas.h.i.+, the j.a.panese counterpart to Sun Tzu and von Clausewitz. Josh was never sure whether the three of them were geniuses or psychopaths. Musas.h.i.+, unbeaten swordsman, stank with body odour, his skin scrofulous after a.s.sa.s.sins tried to cut him down in the bath, he developed a phobia of bath-houses and led an isolated, friendless life.

"That thing Musas.h.i.+ wrote" Haresh sat down, scanning the environment "about mastering one discipline gives you mastery of all? But then Lofty said, no matter how many times he hit the punchbag, he still couldn't play the f.u.c.king piano, because of specificity in training."

"And you said: Maybe you ought to take the gloves off, Lofty. Make it easier to hit the keys."

"Right."

"And Lofty made us do a hundred push-ups for laughing, as I recall."

"Yeah. So, look." As Haresh sipped beer, he maintained a clear view of their surroundings. "Marriages are casualties of war. Always have been."

"Except that I'm out of the life. Should've made things different."

"Civvie street. I have no idea how to cope with that. Not sure I'd want to."

"It's not so bad."

"Backstabbing s.h.i.+ts for co-workers" Haresh scowled "and no sense of camaraderie."

"And no one trying to kill you."

"Good point. Look, you know software and combat. I'm wondering," said Haresh, "if you need a job. Something you're good at, cause like Lofty said, training is specific."

"I'm doing stuff for Tony."

"He seemed to think you need a break. Something different from teaching corporates."

"Like what?"

"I notice you didn't say he was wrong."

Josh rubbed his chin with his thumb, and stared up at the sky. It was empty of inspiration.

"I got something," Haresh went on, "from our Epsilon Force pal in there."

"You mean Captain Implant?"

"Yeah. They don't travel commercial, not those guys."

Joining the SAS had been a huge challenge of physicality and mental toughness; joining Ghost Force, the Service-inside-the-Regiment, had stretched his intellect in unexpected ways; and their missions lay within MI6 as much as Army territory. Josh, along with Haresh and the rest, had worked espionage/sabotage ops, looking like civilians, sometimes just sitting in a coffee shop or railway station, running infiltration code from a covert phone.

The Americans had travelled a different route, and Epsilon Force owed as much to the Marine Corps as to their parent Delta Force, their troops armed with as much implanted tech as they could operate. Storming military installations guarded with smart weapons was their forte, and they could take down enemy AI-drones in the field; but subtle they were not. This Matt Klugmann might be able to crash the systems at Heathrow, but to walk through the airport scanners like an ordinary person would be impossible.

"So what, is this a job in the States?"

"No." Haresh nodded back toward the lounge. "Our friend has a cousin, lived here for ages. She asked Matt about a missing person job, and he put her onto Geordie Biggs."

"Geordie's got guys who can do that."

"Sure, and he'd like you to be one of them. Freelance basis, like your training gig with Tony." Haresh raised his gla.s.s. "You know Geordie. Always looking out for new opportunities."

"I wouldn't know where to start."

"Missing kid in London? It's a systems problem."

"The police might have official access to surveillance, but I don't. And won't they be looking for the kid?"

"Like they say in movies, you can work the case fulltime, the cops can't. Also, you're better. Plus, you remember Andy's sister? Petra Osbourne?"

"Er, yeah."

He hadn't seen Petra since Andy's memorial service. There'd been no funeral, on the basis that Andy's body had been vaporised during a hostage rescue on the Ivory Coast, with nothing left to bury. Not unless you s.h.i.+pped a few tonnes of soil and rubble home, for whatever organic traces remained mixed up inside.