Read the book: «Rough Justice»
Rough Justice
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2008
Copyright © Jack Higgins 2008
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2008
Cover photograph © Paul Bowen/Getty Images (helicopter); Don Farrall/Getty Images (lightning)
Jack Higgins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008124960
Ebook Edition © August 2015 ISBN: 9780007283422
Version: 2017-07-21
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
NANTUCKET THE PRESIDENT
Chapter 1
THE VILLAGE OF BANU KOSOVO
Chapter 2
NANTUCKET LONDON
Chapter 3
THE KREMLIN LONDON
Chapter 4
BELFAST MARCH 1986
Chapter 5
LONDON WASHINGTON
Chapter 6
MOSCOW LONDON BEIRUT
Chapter 7
LONDON STOKELY
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
SCOTLAND IRELAND
Chapter 13
DRUMORE PLACE
Chapter 14
LONDON END GAME
Chapter 15
About the Author
ALSO BY JACK HIGGINS
Further Reading
About the Publisher
For Ian Haydn Smith
We sleep safe in our beds because rough
men stand ready to visit violence on
those who would do us harm.
George Orwell
NANTUCKET
1
There was no place President Jake Cazalet wanted to be more right now than this Nantucket beach, the sea thundering in to the shore in the strange luminous light of early evening, the wind tasting of salt.
The President had been delivered there by helicopter from the White House only an hour before, and here he was, walking with his favourite Secret Service man, Clancy Smith; his beloved flatcoat retriever, Murchison, dashing in and out of the incoming waves.
‘He’ll need a good hosing,’ Cazalet said. ‘Silly old boy. You’d think he’d have learned by now that the salt is bad for his skin.’
‘I’ll see to it, Mr President.’
‘I’ll have a cigarette now.’
Clancy offered him a Marlboro and flicked his Zippo lighter, which flared in the wind. Cazalet smiled. ‘I know, Clancy, what would the voters think? It’s the curse of old soldiers.’
‘We’ve all been there, Mr President.’
‘Harper on communications as usual?’
‘Yes. The only other person in the house is Mrs Boulder, cooking dinner.’
‘Amen to that.’ Cazalet smiled. ‘I love this place, Clancy. Iraq, Afghanistan, our friends in Moscow – if we can call them that – they could all be on another planet when I’m here.’ He sighed. ‘At least until that damned helicopter picks us up and deposits me back at the White House.’
Clancy’s cellphone rang and he answered, listened for a few moments, then turned to Cazalet. ‘Blake Johnson, Mr President. He’s arrived back from Kosovo sooner than he thought.’
‘Well, that’s great. Is he coming down?’
‘By helicopter. And he also ran into General Charles Ferguson, who was passing through Washington on his way to London after some business at the United Nations. He thought you might like to meet with him, so he’s bringing him down, too.’
‘Excellent.’ Cazalet smiled. ‘It’s always good to see Ferguson, find out what the Prime Minister’s up to. It’d be interesting to get his take on Blake’s report, too.’
They continued walking. ‘I thought Kosovo was history, Mr President,’ Clancy said.
‘Not really. After what the Serbs did to them, they want their independence. The Muslims are in the majority now, Serbs the minority. It’s still a problem. The Kosovo Protection Corps the UN set up in 2004 is still operating – troops from various countries, a British general coordinating the situation – but when you get into the back country, things happen. There’ve been reports of outside influence, rumours of the presence of Russian troops.’
‘And they were always for the Serbs,’ Clancy pointed out.
‘Exactly, which is why I decided to send in Blake to scout around and see what’s happening.’ There was the sound of a helicopter in the distance. ‘That must be them. We’d better get back.’
Cazalet called to Murchison, turned to the beach house, and Clancy followed.
Blake and Ferguson sat together on one of the leather sofas beside the open fire, the coffee table between them and the President. Clancy served drinks, whisky and branch water for both of them. Cazalet toasted them.
‘Here’s to both of you. It’s a real bonus having you here, Charles.’
Ferguson said, ‘You look well, Mr President, and you, Clancy.’
‘We get by,’ Cazalet said. ‘How is the Prime Minister?’
‘I saw him three days ago and he seemed to be coping. Iraq hasn’t helped, and Afghanistan is a major problem. There’s combat of the most savage kind there – we haven’t seen its like since the hand-to-hand fighting against the Chinese on the Hook during the Korean War. Most of our infantry and paratroops are nineteen or twenty. Boys, when you think about it. They’re winning the battles, but perhaps losing the war.’
Cazalet nodded, remembering his time in Vietnam. ‘War has always been a young man’s game. So, tell me – what did the Prime Minister send his private security adviser to the UN for? Can you tell us, or is it for his eyes only?’
‘I can certainly tell you, Mr President. I’m keeping an eye on the Russian Federation. I sat in on two committees also attended by Moscow and Iran. Supposedly, they were trade delegations.’
‘Why am I laughing?’ Cazalet asked.
‘I listened, drifted around. Putin was the name on everyone’s lips.’
‘What would you say he’s after?’ Cazalet raised his hand. ‘No, let me put this in another way. What’s his purpose?’
‘I need hardly tell you, Mr President – to make the Russian Federation a power in the world again. And he’s using the riches of Russia’s gas and oil fields, networked throughout Europe as far as Scandinavia and Scotland, to do it.’
Blake said, ‘And once Europe signs up, if he wants to bring them to heel, all he has to do is turn off the taps.’
There was silence. Cazalet said, ‘He knows he couldn’t win anything militarily. One of our Nimitz aircraft carriers alone, plus its battle group, is the equivalent of the present Russian navy.’
‘And we certainly have enough of them,’ Blake put in.
Ferguson said, ‘He wouldn’t be so foolish as to imagine he could take those on and succeed.’
‘So what is he after?’ Cazalet asked.
‘A return to the Cold War,’ Ferguson said. ‘With certain differences. His personal experiences in Chechnya, Afghanistan and Iraq give him considerable insight into the Muslim mind. Extremist Muslims hate America in an almost paranoid way. Putin recognizes that and uses it.’
‘How do you mean?’ Cazalet asked.
‘The favourite weapon of the IRA was the bomb, and the influence of the IRA on revolutionary movements throughout the world has been enormous. Only a handful of years ago, they virtually brought London to a standstill, blew up the Baltic Exchange, almost wiped out the entire British Cabinet at Brighton.’
Cazalet nodded. ‘So what’s your point?’
‘Putin wants disorder, chaos, anarchy, a breakdown in the social order, particularly with countries dealing with America. In instructing his intelligence people to cultivate Muslims, he is actually getting them to do his dirty work for him. The terrorists’ favourite weapon is the bomb, too, which means increased civilian casualties, which means a growing hatred of all things Muslim. We hate them, they hate us – chaos.’
There was silence. Cazalet sighed and turned to Clancy. ‘I really could do with another drink. In fact, I think we all could.’
‘As you say, Mr President.’
Cazalet said, ‘After that, I could also do with some good news, Blake. Somehow I doubt I’m going to get it.’
‘Well, Kosovo could be worse, Mr President, but it also could be better. The United Nations troops are in place, but Bosnia intends to hang in there for as long as possible. The Serbian government in Belgrade has been urging the Serbs in Kosovo to boycott the November elections.’
‘And what’s the Muslim opinion on that in Kosovo?’
‘The memory of what the Serbs did in the war, the shocking butchery of the Muslims, will never go away. The Muslims want total independence, nothing less. And there are outside influences at work, which aren’t helping the situation.’
‘Such as?’ Cazalet demanded.
‘Well, when you go out into the boonies, you find villages, market towns that aren’t exactly twenty-first century, very old-fashioned people, Muslims on the whole. When I travelled to that part of the country, I found interlopers close to the borders. Russians.’
There was silence. Cazalet said, ‘What kind of Russians?’
‘Soldiers in uniform, not freebooters.’
‘Can you describe them? Which unit, that sort of thing?’
‘Actually, I can. The ones I met were Siberians. I know that because their commanding officer identified himself as a Captain Igor Zorin of a regiment called the Fifteenth Siberian Storm Guards. I checked them on my laptop, and the unit exists. It’s a reconnaissance outfit, special ops, that sort of thing. They were apparently based over the border in Bulgaria, and their mission was to visit a village called Banu that was supposed to be a centre for Muslim extremists crossing the border and creating merry hell in Bulgaria.’
Ferguson said, ‘This fellow Zorin, did you find him on the regimental roster?’
‘Oh, yes, he was there all right. But here’s the interesting thing – just as I was checking him out…he disappeared.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘My screen went blank. He might as well never have existed.’
There was a pause. Cazalet said, ‘Something you did, perhaps? You know what computers can be like.’
‘No, Mr President, I swear to you. What happened in Banu was shaping up to be pretty nasty and I witnessed it – and they clearly wanted no record of it.’
Ferguson nodded. ‘But except for your word in the matter, there’s no proof. Accuse the Russian government, they’ll simply deny it ever happened. I see the game they are playing.’
‘The cunning bastards,’ Cazalet said. ‘Somewhere in the Bulgarian mountains is a unit that doesn’t exist, commanded by a man who doesn’t exist named Igor Zorin.’
Blake said, ‘Actually, not quite, Mr President.’ He turned to Ferguson. ‘General, do you by any chance know a British Member of Parliament named Miller – Major Harry Miller?’
Ferguson frowned, ‘Why, was he involved in some way?’
‘You could say that. He shot Igor Zorin between the eyes. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘And he’s a Member of Parliament? What was he doing there in the first place?’ Cazalet demanded.
‘He was doing what I was doing, Mr President, checking out things in the back country. We met by chance at a country inn about twenty miles from Banu. We stayed overnight, got talking, and each of us discovered who we were. Decided to carry on together the following day.’
Cazalet turned to Ferguson. ‘Charles, this Major Harry Miller, do you know him?’
‘I know of him, but keep my distance, and by design. You know what I do for the Prime Minister – with my team, we provide a distinctly hands-on approach to any problems of security or terrorism. Most of what we do is illegal.’
‘Which means you dispose of bad guys without troubling the rule of law. I’ve no trouble with that, it’s the times we live in. Blake does the same for me, as you know. So what about Major Miller?’
‘I don’t fraternize with the Major, because I try to keep out of the political side of things, and he has a political relation ship with the Prime Minister. Before he became a Member of Parliament, though, he was a career soldier in the army, Intelligence Corps, retired some years ago.’
‘Quite a change,’ Cazalet said.
‘You could say that. He became an Under-Secretary of State in the Northern Ireland Office, a desk man helping to develop the peace process.’
‘A troubleshooter?’ Cazalet asked.
‘Exactly, but since the changes in Northern Ireland, the Prime Minister has found uses for him elsewhere.’
‘Again as a troubleshooter?’
‘The Prime Minister’s eyes and ears. Sent to Lebanon, Iraq, the Gulf States – places like that.’
‘And Kosovo,’ Cazalet said. ‘He must be quite a guy.’
‘He is, Mr President. People are very wary of him because of his privileged position. Even members of the Cabinet tread carefully. He is also modestly wealthy from family money, and married to a lovely, intelligent woman, an actress named Olivia Hunt, Boston born. In fact, her father is a Senator.’
‘Good lord,’ Cazalet said. ‘George Hunt. I know him well.’
There was silence now for a while and then Cazalet said, ‘Blake, old friend, I think it’s about time you told us exactly what happened in Banu that day.’
Blake reached for the shot glass in front of him, swallowed the whisky in it and leaned back. ‘It was like this. It was lousy weather, Mr President, and I’d just about had enough of it. I was driving myself in a jeep through a forest and over miserable terrain, and towards evening, I came to an inn near Kuman. The landlord appeared, and we were making arrangements for my stay when suddenly another jeep appeared out of the forest and the rain. It gave me quite a turn.’
‘Why was that?’
Blake considered. ‘It was strange, strange country, like some old movie taking place in Transylvania. There was rain, mist, darkness falling, and suddenly the jeep emerged from all that. It was kind of spooky.’
He accepted another whisky from Clancy, and Cazalet said, ‘Major Harry Miller?’
‘Yes, Mr President. I hadn’t expected anyone, not in a place like that, and there he was at the back end of nowhere.’
Cazalet nodded. ‘Tell us what happened, Blake, as you remember it, the whole business. Take your time.’
‘I’ll do my best, Mr President.’ Blake sat back thinking about it and suddenly, it was as if he was there.
THE VILLAGE OF BANU
2
Harry Miller was a little under six feet, with saturnine, grey eyes, and a slight scar tracing his left cheek, which Blake was old soldier enough to recognize as a shrapnel scar. He had a face that gave nothing away, that showed only a man, calm and confident in himself. Also, someone who’d known command, unless Blake was much mistaken. He wore an old-fashioned long military trench coat over basic camouflaged field overalls, the kind any ordinary soldier might wear, and paratroop boots. A crumpled combat hat guarded him against the rain, as he ran across to the steps to the inn, a canvas holdall in his left hand.
He stood in the porch, beat his hat against his leg. ‘Bloody rain, godawful country.’ And then he held out his hand to Blake and smiled, for the moment totally charming. ‘Harry Miller. Who might you be?’
Blake had never liked anyone so much so quickly. ‘Blake Johnson.’
Something showed in Miller’s face, a change of expression, ‘Good heavens, I know who you are. You run the Basement for Cazalet.’
His announcement was received by Blake with astonishment. ‘How in the hell do you know that?’
‘Work for the Prime Minister. Poke my nose in odd places when he orders and report back. That’s what I’m doing now. What about you?’
‘Doing exactly the same thing for the President. I had to see someone in Zagreb, and I thought I’d check out Kosovo before I went back.’
‘Excellent. Let’s freshen up and compare notes over dinner.’
When Blake came down from his room a little while later, he found the innkeeper, one Tomas, behind the bar. The room was pleasant, a beamed ceiling, a log fire burning.
‘I’ll have a beer. It’s very quiet.’
‘You and the Major are the only guests.’
‘Major?’ Blake said.
‘So it says in his passport, sir.’ He poured the beer. ‘We don’t get many guests these days.’
‘Why not?’
‘Bad things can happen, just like in the war. People are afraid.’
At that moment Miller came down the stairs into the great lounge and found him.
‘Beer?’ Blake asked.
‘Perfect. What’s happening?’
‘I was just asking him why there’s no one here. He says people are afraid.’
‘Of what?’ Miller asked.
Tomas pushed two large flagons of beer across the bar. ‘Between here and the Bulgarian border is not a good place. I would leave, but the inn is all I have.’
Miller said, ‘So what gives you the problem?’
‘Those who cross the border and attack the villages.’
‘And who are they?’
‘People who don’t like Muslims. But sit by the fire, gentlemen, and enjoy your drink. We have good bread, sausages and a lamb stew. I’ll bring your beer over.’
They did as he suggested, taking a chair each on either side of a great log fire. There was a small table next to each chair and he put the beer down carefully. ‘The food will be ready soon.’
He turned away and paused as Miller said, ‘But the soldiers of the Kosovo Protection Corps – what about them?’
The innkeeper nodded. ‘They are good people, but their effect is minimal. Small patrols, jeeps, sometimes a Warrior or two. They appear and then go away again, which leaves us at the mercy of those who would harm us.’
‘Again, who are they?’ Blake asked.
‘Sometimes Russians.’
Miller said to the innkeeper, ‘Are you saying uniformed soldiers from the Russian Army?’
‘Oh, yes, sir. Usually they stay close to the border.’ He shrugged. ‘They have even been as far as this inn. Maybe a dozen men, all in uniform.’
Miller said, ‘So how did they treat you?’
‘The food in my inn is excellent and I sell good beer. They ate, they drank, and they went. Their captain even paid me, and in American dollars.’
Blake said, ‘So they did you no harm?’
The innkeeper shrugged. ‘Why should they? The captain said they’d see me again. To burn me down would be to penalize themselves. On the other hand, there were bad things happening elsewhere. Several people died in a village called Pazar. There was a small mosque. They burned that and killed seven people.’
Miller said, ‘Just a minute. I was at the Protection Corps headquarters the day before yesterday. I asked to see their file on incident reports for the past six months, and there was one on this place Pazar. It said that, yes, the small village mosque had been burned down, but when the Protection Corps sent a patrol to check it out, the village mayor and his elders said it was an accidental fire, and there was no mention of seven dead people, certainly no mention of Russian soldiers.’
‘The village council decided it was not in their best interests to make an official complaint. The Russian authorities would always deny it, and some bad night, the villagers would find themselves going through it all over again.’ The innkeeper bowed slightly. ‘And now please excuse me. I must see to your dinner.’
He disappeared through a green baize door leading to the kitchen. Blake said, ‘What do you think?’
‘I suspect what he said about the villagers at Pazar taking the easy way out is true.’
‘You were in the military?’ Blake asked.
‘Yes, Intelligence Corps.’
‘So when you became a Member of Parliament, the Prime Minister decided that your special talents could be put to good use?’
‘Whenever he sees what appears to be a problem, he sends me. I’m classed as an Under-Secretary of State, although not attached to any particular Ministry. It gives me a little muscle when I need it.’ He drank some of his beer. ‘And what about you?’
‘To a certain degree, I’m in a similar situation. The President’s man.’
Miller smiled gently. ‘I’ve heard about what you do. Only whispers, of course.’
‘Which is the way we like it.’ Blake stood up. ‘I think they’re ready for us now. Let’s eat.’
‘Excellent,’ Miller said, and followed him out.
Afterwards, the meal having proved excellent, they returned to their seats by the fire and the innkeeper brought coffee.
Blake said, ‘I’ve been thinking. I’m only here for another couple of days, travelling south, visiting a few villages, getting the feel of things.’
‘From here to the border?’ Miller said. ‘That makes sense. I checked it all out on the maps. A lot of forest, villages from a bygone age. The people go nowhere, only to market, they keep to themselves.’
‘Peasants who keep their heads down and don’t want trouble.’ Blake nodded. ‘Have you anywhere in mind?’
‘There’s a place called Banu, deep in the forest, about ten miles from the border.’
‘How far from here?’
‘Thirty miles or so, dirt roads, but it could be worthwhile. We could leave your jeep here and travel in mine, that’s if you favour the idea of us going together?’
‘Favour it?’ Blake said. ‘I’d welcome it. What time do you suggest in the morning?’
‘No need to rush. Let’s enjoy a decent breakfast and get away about nine to nine thirty.’
‘Excellent,’ Blake told him. ‘I think I’ll get an early night.’
Miller glanced at his watch. ‘It’s later than you think. Half past ten. I’ll hang on, enjoy a nightcap and arrange things with the innkeeper.’
Blake left him there, and mounted the wide stairway. There was something about Miller, a calmness that seemed to distance him from other people, a self-assurance that was obvious, and yet no arrogance there at all.
In the bedroom, he sat at a small dressing table, took out his laptop, entered Harry Miller and found him without difficulty. He was forty-five, married, wife Olivia, thirty-three, maiden name Hunt, actress by profession. No children.
His military career was dealt with so sparsely that to the trained eye it was obviously classified. From Military Academy, Sandhurst, he had joined the Army Intelligence Corps. He experienced war very quickly, only three months later, as a second lieutenant attached to 42 Commando. Afterwards, his posting was to Army Intelligence Corps headquarters in London, where he had served for the rest of his career, retiring in the rank of major in 2003, before being elected a Member of Parliament for a place called Stokely that same year. As he had indicated, he enjoyed the rank of Under-Secretary of State although in no special Ministry. Nothing but mystery piling on mystery here.
‘Who in the hell is he?’ Blake murmured to himself. ‘Or more to the point, what is he?’
No answer, so he closed his laptop down and went to bed.
On the following day, Blake was doing the driving. Miller had a military canvas holdall beside them and he rummaged in it and produced a map. It was a grey and misty morning, dark because of the pine trees crowding in.
‘Looks as if there’s been no upkeep on this road since the war,’ Blake said. ‘What’s between here and Banu?’
‘Not much at all.’ Miller put the map back in his holdall. ‘Depressing sort of place isn’t it? You’d wonder why anyone would want to live here.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Are you married?’
‘For a few years, but it didn’t work out mainly because of the demands of my job. She was a journalist.’
‘Do you still see her?’
‘No, she’s dead, murdered actually, by some rather bad people.’
‘My God.’ Miller shook his head. ‘That’s terrible. I can only hope there was some kind of closure.’
‘The courts, you mean?’ Blake shook his head. ‘No time for that, not in today’s world, not in my world. The rules are no rules. The people concerned were taken care of with the help of some very good friends of mine.’ He shrugged. ‘It was a long time ago, Major.’
‘Why do you call me that?’
‘Tomas, the innkeeper. You had to show him your passport.’
‘You were military yourself, I think?’
‘Yes, I was also a major at the early age of twenty-three, but that was Vietnam for you. All my friends seemed to die around me, but I never managed it. Are you married?’
Although he knew the answer, it might seem strange to Miller not to ask and he got an instant response. ‘Very much so. Olivia. American, actually. She’s an actress. Twelve years younger than me, so she’s in her prime. Gets plenty of work in London.’
‘Children?’
‘Not possible, I’m afraid.’
Blake didn’t say he was sorry. There just didn’t seem any point, and at that moment, there was the sound of shooting and they went over a rise and saw a young peasant riding a bicycle towards them. He was swaying from side to side, his mouth gaping, panic stricken. Blake braked to a halt. The man on the bicycle slewed onto his side and fell over. Miller got out, approached him and pulled him up.
‘Are you all right? What’s wrong?’ He spoke in English. The man seemed bewildered and there was blood matting his hair on the left side of the head. ‘Banu?’ Miller tried.
The man nodded energetically. ‘Banu,’ he said hoarsely, and pointed along the road. There were a couple more shots.
‘I’ll try Russian,’ Miller said, and turned to the man. ‘Are you from Banu?’
His question was met by a look of horror and the man was immediately terrified, turned and stumbled away into the trees.
Miller got back in the jeep and said to Blake, ‘So much for Russian.’
‘It frightened him to death,’ Blake said. ‘That was obvious. I speak it a certain amount myself, as it happens.’
‘Excellent. Then I suggest we go down to Banu and find out what’s going on, don’t you think?’
Miller leaned back and Blake drove away.
They paused on a rise, the village below. It wasn’t much of a place: houses of wood mainly on either side of the road, scattered dwellings that looked like farm buildings extending downwards, a stream that was crossed by a wooden bridge supported by large blocks of granite. There was a wooden building with a crescent above it, obviously what passed as a small mosque, and an inn of the traditional kind.
A sizeable light armoured vehicle was parked outside the inn. ‘What the hell is that?’ Blake asked.
‘It’s Russian, all right,’ Miller told him. ‘An armoured troop carrier called a Storm Cruiser. Reconnaissance units use them. They can handle up to twelve soldiers.’ He opened his holdall and took out a pair of binoculars. ‘Street’s clear. I’d say the locals are keeping their heads down. Two soldiers on the porch, supposedly guarding the entrance, drinking beer, a couple of girls in headscarves crouched beside them. The shooting was probably somebody having fun inside the inn.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Well, to a certain extent I represent United Nations interests here. We should go down and take a look at what’s happening.’
Blake took a deep breath. ‘If you say so.’
‘Oh, I do, but I like to be prepared.’ Miller produced a Browning from the holdall. ‘I know it might seem a little old-fashioned, but it’s an old friend and I’ve always found it gets the job done.’ He produced a Carswell silencer and screwed it in place.
‘I wouldn’t argue with that,’ Blake said, and took the jeep down into the village street, his stomach hollow. There were people peering out of windows on each side as they drove down and braked to a halt outside the inn. The two soldiers were totally astonished. One of them, his machine pistol on the floor, stared stupidly, his beer in his hand. The other had been fondling one of the girls, his weapon across his knees.
Miller opened the jeep door and stepped out into the rain, his right hand behind him holding the Browning. ‘Put her down,’ he said in excellent Russian. ‘I mean, she doesn’t know where you’ve been.’
The man’s rage was immediate and he shoved the girl away, knocking her to one side against her friend, started to get up, clutching the machine pistol, and Miller shot him in the right knee. In the same moment, Miller swung to meet the other soldier as he stood up and struck him across the side of the head with the Browning.
The two girls ran across the road, where a door opened to receive them. Blake came round the jeep fast and picked up one of the machine pistols.
‘Now what?’
‘I’m going on. You take the alley and find the rear entrance.’
Blake, on fire in a way he hadn’t been in years, did as he was told, and Miller crossed to the door, opened it and went in, his right hand once again behind his back holding the Browning.
The inn was old fashioned in a way to be expected deep in such countryside: a beamed ceiling, wooden floors, a scattering of tables and a long bar, bottles ranged on shelves behind it. There were about fifteen men crouched on the floor by the bar, hands on heads, two Russian soldiers guarding them. A sergeant stood behind the bar drinking from a bottle, a machine pistol on the counter by his hand. Two other soldiers sat on a bench opposite, two women crouched on the floor beside them, one of them sobbing.
The officer in command, a captain from his rank tabs, sat at a table in the centre of the room. He was very young, handsome enough, a certain arrogance there. That the muted sound of Miller’s silenced pistol had not been heard inside the inn was obvious enough, but considering the circumstances, he seemed to take the sudden appearance of this strange apparition in combat overalls and old-fashioned trench coat with astonishing calm. He had a young girl on his knee who didn’t even bother to struggle as he fondled her, so terrified was she.
He spoke in Russian. ‘And who are you?’
‘My name is Major Harry Miller, British Army, attached to the United Nations.’ His Russian was excellent.
‘Show me your papers.’
‘No. You’re the one who should be answering questions. You’ve no business this side of the border. Identify yourself.’
The reply came as a kind of reflex. ‘I am Captain Igor Zorin of the Fifteenth Siberian Storm Guards, and we have every right to be here. These Muslim dogs swarm over the border to Bulgaria to rape and pillage.’ He pushed the girl off his knee and sent her staggering towards the bar and his sergeant. ‘Give this bitch another bottle of vodka, I’m thirsty.’
She returned with the bottle, and Zorin dragged her back on his knee, totally ignoring Miller, then pulled the cork in the bottle with his teeth, but instead of drinking the vodka, he forced it on the girl, who struggled, choking.
‘So what do you want, Englishman?’
A door opened at the rear of the room and Blake stepped in cautiously, machine pistol ready.
‘Well, I’ve already disposed of your two guards on the porch, and now my friend who’s just come in behind you would like to demonstrate what he can do.’
Blake put a quick burst into the ceiling, which certainly got everybody’s attention, and called in Russian, ‘Drop your weapons!’
There was a moment’s hesitation and he fired into the ceiling again. All of them, including the sergeant at the bar, raised their hands. It was Zorin who did the unexpected, dragging the girl across his lap in front of him, drawing his pistol, and pushing it into her side.
‘Drop your weapon, or she dies.’
Without hesitation, Miller shot him twice in the side of the skull, sending him backwards over the chair. There was total silence, the Muslims getting to their feet. Everyone waited. He spoke to the sergeant in Russian.
‘You take the body with you, put it in the Storm Cruiser and wait for us with your men. See they do it, Blake.’ He turned to the Muslims. ‘Who speaks English?’
A man moved forward and the girl turned to him. ‘I am the Mayor, sir, I speak good English. This is my youngest daughter. Allah’s blessing on you. My name is Yusuf Birka.’
The Russians were moving out, supervised by Blake, two of them carrying Zorin’s body, followed by the sergeant.
Miller said to Birka, ‘Keep the weapons, they may be of use to you in the future.’
Birka turned and spoke to the others and Miller went outside. Blake was standing at the rear of the Storm Cruiser, supervising the Russians loading Zorin’s body and the wounded man. There was an ammunition box on the ground.
‘Semtex and timer pencils. I suppose that would be for the mosque.’
The soldiers all scrambled in and the sergeant waited, looking bewildered. ‘If these people had their way, they’d shoot the lot of you,’ Miller told him.
To his surprise, the sergeant replied in reasonable English. ‘I must warn you. The death of Captain Zorin won’t sit well with my superiors. He was young and foolish, but well connected in Moscow.’
‘I can’t help that, but I have a suggestion for your commanding officer when you get back. Tell him from me that since you shouldn’t have been here in the first place, we’ll treat the whole incident as if it didn’t happen. Now get moving.’
‘As you say.’ The sergeant looked unhappy, but climbed up behind the wheel and drove the Storm Cruiser away, to the cheers of the villagers.
People milled around in the street, staring curiously. Some of the men arrived now, but they kept their distance as Miller and Blake talked with the mayor, who said, ‘How can we thank you?’
‘By taking my advice. Keep quiet about this. If they come again, you have arms. I don’t think they will, though. It’s better for them to pretend it never happened, and better if you do, too. I won’t report any of this to the Protection Corps.’
The mayor said, ‘I will be guided by you. Will you break bread with us?’
Miller smiled, ‘No, my friend, because we aren’t here. We never were.’ He turned to Blake. ‘Let’s get going. I’ll drive this time.’
As they moved away, Blake said, ‘Do you think the villagers will do as you say?’
‘I don’t see why not. It’s entirely to their advantage, and I don’t think it’s worth us mentioning it to the Corps because of, shall we say, the peculiar circumstances of the matter.’
‘I’ve no problem with that,’ Blake said. ‘But I’ll have to report back to the President.’
‘I agree. I’ll do the same with the PM. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s been informed of this sort of thing. Meanwhile, you’ve got your laptop there, and the information pack you were given by the Protection Corps people includes Russian military field service codes for the area. See what they have on Captain Igor Zorin and the Fifteenth Siberian Storm Guards.’
Blake opened his laptop on his knees, got to work and found it in a matter of minutes. ‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘Forward Field Centre, Lazlo, Bulgaria. Igor Zorin, twenty-five, decorated in Chechnya. Listings for the unit, home base near Moscow.’
‘Sounds good,’ Miller said.
And then a magic hand wiped it clean, the screen went dark. ‘Dammit.’ Blake punched keys desperately. ‘It’s all gone. What have I done?’
‘Nothing,’ Miller told him. ‘I imagine the sergeant called in and gave his masters the bad news within minutes of his leaving us. It didn’t happen, you see, just like I told you. Except the Russians are being even more than usually thorough. So, is it back to Zagreb for you?’
‘No, Pristina. I’m hitching a lift from there back to the States with the Air Force. How about you?’
‘Belgrade for me, and then London. Olivia’s opening on Friday in the West End. An old Noël Coward play, Private Lives. I hope I can make it. I disappoint her too often.’
‘Let’s hope you do.’ Blake hesitated, awkward. ‘It’s been great meeting you. What you did back there was remarkable.’
‘But necessary. That’s what soldiers do, the nasty things from which the rest of society turns away. Zorin was something that needed stepping on, that’s all.’ And he increased speed as they went over the next rise.
NANTUCKET
3
Seated by the fire in the beach house, Blake finished his account of what had taken place at Banu and there was silence for a while and it was Cazalet who spoke first.
‘Well, it beats anything I’ve heard in years. What do you think, Charles?’
‘It’s certainly given the Russians a black eye. No wonder they wiped the screen clean,’ Ferguson replied. ‘It’s the smart way to deal with it.’
‘And you think it could stay that way? A non-event?’
‘As regards any important repercussions. How could the Kremlin complain while at the same time denying any involvement? OK, these things sometimes leak, Chinese whispers as they say, but that’s all. Miller will mention it to the PM, but it’s no different from the kind of things I have to tell him on a regular basis these days. We’re at war, whether we like it or not, and I don’t mean just Iraq and Afghanistan.’
‘One thing does interest me,’ Blake said. ‘According to his entry on the computer, except for the Falklands as a boy out of Sandhurst, Miller spent his eighteen years behind a desk at Army Intelligence headquarters in London.’
‘What’s your point?’ Cazalet said.
‘That was no desk jockey at that inn in Banu.’
Ferguson smiled gently. ‘All it does is show you how unreliable information on computers can be. I should imagine there are many things people don’t know about Harry Miller.’ He turned to Cazalet. ‘With your permission, I’ll retire.’
‘Sleep well, Charles, we’ll share the helicopter back to Washington tomorrow afternoon. I’ll see you for breakfast.’
‘Of course, Mr President.’
Ferguson moved to the door, which Clancy held open for him, and Cazalet added, ‘And, Charles, the redoubtable Major Miller. I really would appreciate learning some of those “many things” people don’t know about him, if that were possible, of course.’
‘I’ll see what I can do, Mr President.’
Ferguson lay on the bed in the pleasant guest room provided for him, propped up against the pillows. Ten o’clock London time was six hours ahead, but he didn’t worry that no one would be in. He called the Holland Park safe house and got an instant response.
‘Who is this?’
‘Don’t play silly buggers, Major, you know very well who it is.’
‘What I do know is that it’s four o’clock in the morning,’ Roper told him.
‘And if it’s business as usual, you’re right now sitting ensconced in your wheelchair in front of those damned computer screens exploring cyberspace on your usual diet of bacon sandwiches, whisky and cigarettes.’
‘Yes, isn’t life hell?’
He was doing exactly what Ferguson had said he was. He put the telephone system on speaker, ran his hands over his bomb-scarred face, poured a generous measure of Scotch into a glass, and tossed it down.
‘How were things at the United Nations?’
‘Just what you’d expect – the Russians are stirring the pot.’
‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they? I thought you’d be back today. Where are you, Washington?’
‘I was. Briefed the Ambassador here and bumped into Blake Johnson just back from a fact-finding mission to Kosovo. He brought me down to Nantucket to see Cazalet.’
‘And?’
‘And Kosovo turned out to be rather interesting for our good friend Blake. Let me tell you.’
When Ferguson was finished, he said, ‘What do you think?’
‘That it’s a hell of a good story to enliven a rather dull London morning. But what do you want me to do with it? Miller’s a trouble shooter for the Prime Minister, and you’ve always said to avoid politicians like the plague. They stick their noses in where they aren’t wanted and ask too many questions.’
‘I agree, but I don’t like being in the dark. Miller’s supposed to have spent most of his career behind a desk, but that doesn’t fit the man Blake described in this Banu place.’
‘You have a point,’ Roper admitted.
‘So see what you can come up with. If that means breaking a few rules, do so.’
‘When do you want it, on your return?’
‘You’ve got until tomorrow morning, American time. That’s when I’m having breakfast with the President.’
‘Then I’d better get on with it,’ Roper said.
He clicked off, poured another whisky, drank it, lit a cigarette, then entered Harry Miller’s details. He found the basic stuff without difficulty, but after that it was rather thin on the ground.
The outer door opened and Doyle, the Military Police sergeant who was on night duty, peered in. A soldier for twenty years, Doyle was of Jamaican ancestry although born in the East End of London, with six tours of duty in Northern Ireland and two in Iraq. He was a fervent admirer of Roper, the greatest bomb disposal expert in the business during the Troubles, a true hero in his eyes.
‘I heard the speaker, sir. You aren’t at it again, are you? It’s four o’clock in the bleeding morning.’
‘Actually it’s four thirty and I’ve just had the General on. Would you believe he’s with the President in Nantucket?’
‘He certainly gets around.’
‘Yes, well, he’s given me a request for information he wants to have available for breakfast.’
‘Anything special, sir?’
‘He wants a background on a Major Harry Miller, a general fixer for the Prime Minister.’
Doyle suddenly stopped smiling. ‘A bit more than that, I’d have thought.’
‘Why do you say that? How would you know him? You don’t exactly get to Downing Street much these days.’
‘No, of course not, sir. I’m sorry if I’m speaking out of turn.’
‘He looks pretty straightforward to me. Sandhurst, saw what war was like in the Falklands for a few months, then spent the rest of his career in Army Intelligence Corps headquarters in London.’
Doyle looked uncomfortable. ‘Yes, of course, sir, if you say so. I’ll get your breakfast. Bacon and egg sandwich coming up.’
He turned and Roper said, ‘Don’t go, Tony. We’ve known each other a long time, so don’t mess around. You’ve known him somewhere. Come on – tell me.’
Doyle said, ‘Okay, it was over the water in Derry during my third tour.’ Funny how the old hands never called it Londonderry, just like the IRA.
‘What were you up to?’
‘Part of a team manning a safe house down by the docks. We weren’t supposed to know what it was all about, but you know how things leak. You did enough tours over there.’
‘So tell me.’
‘Operation Titan.’
‘God in heaven,’ Roper said. ‘Unit 16. The ultimate disposal outfit.’ He shook his head. ‘And you met him? When was this?’
‘Fourteen years ago. He was received, that’s what we called it, plus a younger officer badly wounded. Their motor was riddled. An SAS snatch squad came in within the hour and took them away.’
‘They weren’t in uniform?’
‘Unit 16 didn’t operate in uniform.’
‘And you don’t know what happened?’
‘Four Provos shot dead on River Street is what happened. It hit the news the following day. The IRA said it was an SAS atrocity.’
‘Well, they would.’ Roper nodded. ‘And when did you see him again?’
‘Years later on television when he became an MP and was working for the Northern Ireland Office.’
‘It gets worse.’ Roper nodded. ‘So, a bacon and egg sandwich and a pot of tea and bring me another bottle of Scotch. Be prepared to hang around. I may need your expertise on this one.’
Harry Miller had been born in Stokely in Kent in the country house in which the family had lived since the eighteenth century. His father, George, had served in the Grenadier Guards in the Second World War, there was family money, and after the war he became a barrister and eventually Member of Parliament for Stokely and the general area. Harry was born in 1962, his sister Monica five years later, and tragically her mother had died giving birth to her.
George Miller’s sister Mary, a widow, moved in to hold the fort, as it were. It worked well enough, particularly as the two children went to boarding school at an early age, Winchester for Harry and Sedgefield for Monica, who was only fourteen when he went to Sandhurst. She was a scholar by nature, which eventually took her to New Hall college at Cambridge to study archaeology, and when Roper checked on her, he found she was still there, a lecturer and a Fellow of the college, married to a professor, Sir John Starling, who had died of cancer the previous year.
According to the screen, Miller’s career with the Intelligence Corps had been a non-event, and yet the Prime Minister had made him an Under-Secretary of State at the Northern Ireland Office, which obviously meant that the PM was aware of Miller’s past and was making use of his expertise.
Roper was starting to go to town on Unit 16 and Operation Titan, when Doyle came in with a tray.
‘Smells good,’ Roper said. ‘Draw up a chair, Tony, pour me a nice cup of tea and I’ll show you what genius can do to a computer.’
His first probings produced a perfect hearts-and-minds operation out of Intelligence Headquarters in London, in which Miller was heavily involved, full of visits to committees, appeals to common sense and an effort to provide the things that it seemed the nationalists wanted. It was a civilized discussion, providing the possibility of seeing each others’ points of view, and physical force didn’t figure in to the agenda.
Miller met and discussed with Sinn Fein and the Provos, everything sweetly reasonable. Then came a Remembrance Day, with assembled Army veterans and their families, and a bomb which killed fourteen people and injured many more. A few days later, a hit squad ambushed a local authority van carrying ten Protestant labourers who were there to do a road repair. They were lined up on the edge of a ditch and machine-gunned.
Finally, a roadside bomb destined for two Land Rover army patrols was late, and the vehicle which came along was a bus carrying schoolgirls.
It was that which had changed Miller’s views drastically. Summary justice was the only way to deal with such people, and his superiors accepted his plans. No more hearts and minds, only Operation Titan and disposal by Unit 16, the bullet leading to a crematorium. All very efficient, a corpse turned into six pounds of grey ash within a couple of hours. It was the ultimate answer to any terrorist problem and Roper was fascinated to see that many hard men in the Protestant UVF had also suffered the same fate when necessary.
He found the names of members of Unit 16 and the details of some who had fallen by the wayside. Miller had been tagged as a systems analyst and later as a personnel recruiter at Army Intelligence Headquarters in London, and then, a captain, was put in charge of what was described as the Overseas Intelligence Organization Department. A harmless enough description that was obviously a front.
Unit 16 itself consisted of twenty individuals, three of them women. Each had a number, with no particular logic to it. Miller was seven. The casualty reports were minimal on the whole: the briefest of descriptions, names of victims, location of the event, not much more. Miller’s number figured on twelve occasions over the years, but the River Street affair was covered in more detail than usual.
Miller had been detailed to extract a young lieutenant named Harper who’d been working undercover and had called in that his cover had been blown. When Miller picked him up, their car was immediately cut off in River Street by the docks, one vehicle in front, another behind.
A burst of firing wounded Harper, and Miller was ordered at gunpoint to get out of his vehicle. Fortunately, he had armed himself with an unusual weapon, a Browning with a twenty-round magazine. He had killed two Provos by shooting them through the door of his car as he opened it, turned and disposed of the two men in the vehicle behind through their windscreen. As Doyle had mentioned, they’d reached the safe house later and been retrieved by the SAS.
‘My God, Major,’ Doyle said in awe. ‘I never knew the truth of it, just the IRA making those wild claims. You’d have thought he’d have got a medal.’
Roper shook his head. ‘They couldn’t do that, it would lead to questions, give the game away. By the way, Lieutenant Harper died the following day at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast.’
Doyle shook his head, genuinely distressed. ‘After all that.’
‘Name of the game, Tony, and I don’t need to remind you that this is all top secret at the highest level.’
‘I’ve worked for General Ferguson long enough to know my place, and it isn’t in Afghanistan, it’s right here at Holland Park. I wouldn’t jeopardize that for anything.’
‘Sensible man. Let me get on with this report for Ferguson.’
‘I’ll check on you later.’ Doyle hesitated. ‘Excuse me asking, but is Major Miller in some kind of trouble?’
‘No, but old habits die hard. It would appear he’s been handing out his original version of justice in Kosovo, in company with Blake Johnson, of all people.’
Doyle took a deep breath. ‘I’m sure he had his reasons. From what I’ve heard, the Prime Minister seems to think a lot of him.’
He went out and Roper sat considering it, then tapped No. 10 Downing Street into his computer, punched Ferguson’s private link code, checked the names of those admitted during the past twenty-four hours, and there was Miller, booked in at five, the previous evening, admitted to the Prime Minister’s study at five forty.
‘My goodness,’ Roper said softly, ‘he doesn’t let the grass grow under his feet. I wonder what the Prime Minister had to say.’
Miller hadn’t bothered with Belgrade. A call to an RAF source had indicated a Hercules leaving Pristina Airport after he and Blake had parted. There had been an unlooked-for delay of a couple of hours, but they had landed at RAF Croydon in the late afternoon, where his credentials had assured him of a fast staff car to Downing Street.
He didn’t phone his wife. He’d promised to try and make her opening night, and still might, but duty called him to speak to the Prime Minister on his return and that had to be his priority. There was a meeting of course, there always was. He kicked his heels in the outer office, accepted a coffee from one of the secretaries and waited. Finally, the magic moment came and he was admitted.
The Prime Minister, scribbling something at his desk, looked up and smiled. ‘So good to have you back, Harry, and good to see you. How did it go? Sit down and tell me.’
Which Miller did.
When he was finished, the Prime Minister said, ‘Well, you have been busy. I would remind you, however, that this isn’t Northern Ireland, and the Troubles are over. We have to be more circumspect.’
‘Yes, Prime Minister.’
‘Having said that, I’m a practical man. The Russians shouldn’t have been in this Banu place in the first place. They’ll let it go. Whatever else he is, Putin’s no fool. As far as I can see, shooting this wretched Zorin chap probably prevented a serious atrocity. It must have enlivened things for Blake Johnson, though. I’m sure President Cazalet will find his report interesting.’
‘It’s good of you to take such a view in the matter, Prime Minister.’
‘Let’s be frank, Harry, I’ve heard worse. Charles Ferguson’s people – their activities are beyond belief sometimes. For that matter…’ He paused. ‘I know you’ve always kept out of his way, but it might make sense if you two talked. You’ve got a lot of interests in common.’
‘If you wish, Prime Minister. Now, if there’s nothing else, may I be excused? It’s Olivia’s opening night.’
The Prime Minister smiled. ‘Give her my love, Harry, and get going. It’ll be curtain up before you know it.’
Curtain up was seven thirty and he arrived at the stage door at ten past seven to find Marcus, the ancient doorman, at his desk reading the Standard. Marcus was delighted to see him.
‘Good God, Major, she’ll be thrilled. And your sister’s with her, Lady Starling. Your wife’s been prepping an understudy. They thought you was still in Kosovo. Anthony Vere broke a bone in his right foot, so you’ve got Colin Carlton. He’s a little young for the part, but them Madame looks ten years younger than she is.’
‘Tell her that and you’ll have a friend for life.’
‘You haven’t got long, sir. Front row, dress circle. House seats. I got them myself.’
Miller was at the door of his wife’s dressing room in seconds, knocked and entered and was greeted with enormous excitement. His wife had her stage make-up beautifully applied, her red hair superb, and was being zipped up in her dress by his sister Monica, who looked lovely, as usual, her blonde hair beautifully cut, looking younger than her own forty years.
They were thrilled, Olivia actually crying a little. ‘Damn you, Harry, you’re ruining my make-up. I didn’t expect you’d make it. You usually don’t.’
They kissed gently and his sister said, ‘Come on, move it. We won’t even have time for a drink at the bar.’
He kissed her on the forehead. ‘Never mind, we’ll make up for it afterwards. You’re staying over at Dover Street, I hope?’
‘Of course.’
Monica had rooms at the University in Cambridge, but the London townhouse had been the family home since Victorian times. It was close to South Audley Street, convenient to the Dorchester Hotel, Park Lane and Hyde Park, and it was spacious enough for her to have her own suite. She also had shared use of Stokely Hall in the Kent countryside where Aunt Mary led a gentle life, supported by Sarah Grant, the housekeeper, and her husband, Fergus, who chauffeured the old Rolls and turned his hand to most things. They lived in the lodge and a Mrs Trumper came in from the village to cook.
In a strange way, all this was going through Miller’s mind as he and Monica made tracks for the dress circle. It was a reaction to what had happened, the violence of Kosovo, the prospect of a weekend in the peace of the countryside in the company of loved ones. He and Olivia had no children, Monica had no children, and dear old Aunt Mary would have been totally alone without them all. As he and Monica settled into their seats, he felt relaxed and happy, back with the close-knit family members who were so important. Love, kindness, concern – these were the people dearest to him in his life and yet totally unaware of the dark secrets, the death business behind his apparently quiet service in the Intelligence Corps.
So many times over the years, family friends had congratulated him on his desk job with Intelligence. He had only two medals to show for eighteen years in the Army: the South Atlantic ribbon for the Falklands Campaign and the Campaign Medal for Northern Ireland that all soldiers who’d served there received. It was ironic when you thought of River Street in Derry, the four dead Provos, and the many similar occasions for Unit 16, and yet the two people closest to him, his sister and his wife, didn’t have even the slightest hint of that part of his life. He’d never go away for more than a week at a time and was always supposed to be at Catterick, Salisbury Plain, Sandhurst or Germany, somewhere like that.
He took a deep breath, squeezed Monica’s hand, the music started to play and then the lights dimmed and the curtains parted. It was the old, wonderful excitement, just what he needed, and then his wife entered stage-left looking fantastic, the woman with whom he had fallen hopelessly in love on their first meeting so many years before, and his heart lifted.
The performance was a triumph, earning four curtain calls; young Carlton was more than adequate and Olivia superb. She’d booked a late dinner at a favourite French bistro in Shepherd Market, and the three of them, she and Miller and Monica, thoroughly indulged themselves, sharing a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne.
‘Oh, I’m very pleased with myself,’ Olivia announced.
‘And, you’ve got tomorrow to look forward to,’ Monica told her. ‘Saturday night and a full house.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Miller put in. ‘I’ll arrange a car from the Cabinet Office. After the show tomorrow, we’ll go straight down to Stokely, the three of us. Chill out on Sunday, then come back for Monday evening’s performance.’
‘Oh, you two lovebirds don’t want me around,’ Monica told them. ‘I’ll stay the night at Dover Street and go back to Cambridge tomorrow.’
‘Nonsense,’ Olivia said, ‘It’ll be nice to be together for a change, and Aunt Mary will be thrilled.’ She put her hand on Monica’s. ‘Just to be together. It’s so important. And imagine. We’ve actually got him to ourselves for a change. You and I can go shopping tomorrow.’
She kissed her husband on the cheek and Monica said, ‘I bumped into Charley Faversham at a function last week, Harry. He called you the Prime Minister’s Rottweiler and asked after you. I said I understood you were visiting Kosovo. He was there during the war covering it for The Times when the Serbs were killing all those Muslims. He said it was as bad as anything he’d ever seen in all his years as a war correspondent. It’s different now, I suppose?’
‘Completely,’ Miller told her. ‘And Olivia’s right. You must come down to Stokely with us. After all, there is no one in this life I am more indebted to than the sister who argued and begged me all those years ago to take her down to Chichester Festival Theatre to see Chekhov’s A Month in the Country. As you well know, I was never a Chekhov person until the girl from Boston walked in through the French windows.’ He reached for Olivia’s right hand and kissed it. ‘And after that, nothing in my life was ever the same.’
She glowed as she squeezed his hand. ‘I know, darling, same for me.’
Monica laughed. ‘I used to despair of him. Women just didn’t seem to be part of his agenda.’
‘Well, I was hardly exciting enough, not Household Cavalry or Three Para, no red beret and a row of medals. Pretty staid, a Whitehall warrior. No real soldiering, I’ve heard that mentioned enough.’
‘And thank God for it,’ Olivia told him. ‘Let’s have the bill and go home.’
Afterwards at Dover Street after they’d retired, he and Olivia made love very quickly, genuine passion still there. Not much was said, but the joy was there so strongly. Afterwards, she fell asleep very quickly and he lay there listening to her gentle breathing, unable to sleep himself, and finally slipped from the bed, found his dressing gown and went downstairs.
The sitting room was his favourite room in the entire house. He didn’t need to switch on the lights because there was enough drifting in from the street outside. It was raining, the occasional car swishing by, and he went to the drinks cabinet, poured himself a very large Scotch and did something he only did at times of stress. He opened a silver cigarette box and lit a Benson & Hedges. It was Kosovo, of course, and what had happened, and it made him think back four years to what had got him out of the Army.
The free sample has ended.
