thirty years, whether he should refuse a direct order. It would make no difference to Razor – he would simply receive the order from someone else – but the gesture might be worthwhile. After all, he only had another three months in the CO’s chair – what could they do to him?
Davies sighed. Who was he kidding? They could make his life hell, and just when he was happier than he had been for years. All the cushy jobs and consultancies which a retired lieutenant-colonel could expect to be offered would just melt away. All he would ever hear would be the sound of doors closing in his face.
He turned off the main road and thought about Jean. Did he have the right to risk whatever future they might have together by making grand gestures?
She would expect nothing less of him, he decided.
But there was also Razor’s future to consider. He had almost ten years to go before retirement from active service at forty-five, and a refusal to accept this mission – always assuming the bastards didn’t go for a court martial – would certainly stop the lad’s career in its tracks.
Davies felt his temper rising again. The man was a national hero, for God’s sake, whether the nation knew it or not. He had been one of eight SAS men landed on the Argentine mainland during the Falklands War, and one of six who had returned alive. Between them the two four-man patrols had provided early warning of enemy air attacks which could otherwise have wrecked the San Carlos landings, and destroyed three Exocet missiles which might well have claimed three British ships and God knows how many lives.
There had never been any public recognition of their contribution, and now it seemed to Davies as if insult was being added to injury.
He guided the car down the swampy lane to his cottage. Once inside, he poured himself a generous malt whisky, put on Miles’s Porgy and Bess with the volume turned down low, and looked up Razor’s home number in his book.
It was Mrs Wilkinson who answered. Davies had first met Hajrija on the occasion of her arrival in Britain two years earlier, when she was accompanying an SAS team returning from their investigation of alleged renegade activities by a regimental comrade. The welcoming committee from the MoD had asked her what she was doing on British soil, and her future husband had told him that she wanted to see if England was ‘really full of pricks like you’.
Davies smiled inwardly at the memory as he asked to speak to Razor.
‘He’s in Birmingham,’ Hajrija told him. ‘Seeing his mother and his football team. The two great loves of his life,’ she added with a laugh.
Razor had always been close to his mother, Davies remembered. ‘Can you give me her number?’ he asked.
‘Yes, but he won’t be there. He’s meeting friends before the match.’
Hajrija’s English was almost as good as Razor’s, Davies thought. Maybe even better. ‘I’ll call his mother and leave a message,’ he said.
She gave him the number. ‘What’s it about?’ she asked with her usual directness.
‘Sorry, I can’t tell you,’ Davies said.
‘That doesn’t sound good.’
Davies didn’t deny it. ‘When is he due back?’
‘He’s driving back in the morning. I think he has a class at twelve.’
‘Thanks.’ He hung up, feeling worse for hearing the anxiety in Hajrija’s voice. He took a sip of malt, and punched out the Birmingham number she had given him.
The drive from Villa Park to the house his mother and stepfather had recently bought in Edgbaston took Razor Wilkinson about forty-five minutes. It was the first time he had seen Tottenham since November, and the first game they had lost since…November. Someone up there had obviously decided he was too damn happy these days. Bastard.
Razor pulled the car in behind his mum’s Escort and noticed with pleasure that the downstairs lights were still on. He let himself in, and found her watching the opening credits of Newsnight.
‘Jack’s gone to bed,’ she said. ‘He’s got an early start tomorrow.’
And he’s probably also being tactful, Razor thought. One of the things he liked most about his new stepfather was that the man understood how close the bond was between mother and son. Since Razor’s babyhood it had just been the two of them – the classic one-parent family of Tory demonology. And Razor had known a lot of kids with two parents who would have happily swapped them for the relationship he had with one.
He sat down and grinned at her.
‘They lost,’ she said.
‘Yeah, but they looked good.’
She smiled at him. ‘I remember you sulking for days when they lost.’
‘I was only about six.’
‘Twenty-six, more like. Hajrija phoned,’ she added. ‘Your boss wants to talk to you. Urgently.’
‘The CO?’
‘Lieutenant-Colonel Davies. He wanted you to call him as soon as you got in. The number’s by the phone in the hall.’
Razor left her with Peter Snow and walked out into the hall, wondering what could be so urgent that it couldn’t wait until the morning. If Hajrija had passed on the message, then she had to be all right.
He keyed the number, listened to eight rings, and was about to give up when a somewhat breathless Davies answered.
‘Wilkinson, boss,’ Razor replied. He could hear a woman’s voice in the background, which both surprised and vaguely pleased him. He had always felt an instinctive liking for Barney Davies, and it was fairly common knowledge around the Regimental mess that the man’s marriage break-up had turned him into a social recluse. Maybe he was coming out of his shell at last.
Or, then again, it might be a hooker. Or his mother.
‘Something’s come up,’ the CO was saying. ‘Remember the week you and Docherty spent in Guatemala in 1980?’
‘Christ, not very well. I’d only been badged a few months. Why, what’s happened?’
Davies told Razor exactly what Clarke had told him, and did his best to keep his doubts to himself. Before airing them, he wanted Razor’s reaction. ‘Would you be able to recognize this man?’ he asked, hoping the answer would be no.
‘Yeah, I don’t see why not. We spent quite a lot of time with him. Even taught him how to play Cheat.’
‘Did you like him?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. He was holding English hostages, and threatening to kill them.’ He paused. ‘Docherty sort of liked him, though,’ he said.
Davies grunted. ‘Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.’
‘What about Chris Martinson?’ Razor asked.
‘What about him?’ Davies asked, surprised.
‘He’s in Guatemala.’
