Rough Justice

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

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 lies, the pretence, the deceit of it all, had been giving him a problem. He was two people: the man his wife and sister thought he was, and the dealer in death and secrets. A new dimension had entered his life, a new kind of terror, just when things were looking hopeful in Northern Ireland. It was called Muslim fundamentalism. It had become apparent to him that this was where his future would unfold and the prospect filled him with a kind of despair, because he didn’t want to be involved.

But fate intervened, giving him a solution. His father died of an unexpected heart attack and they buried him on a wet and miserable day at Stokely Parish Church. Afterwards there was a wake at Stokely Hall, and champagne, his father’s favourite drink, was poured, a great deal of it, in honour of a much-loved man.

Miller was standing at an open window, smoking a cigarette and considering his lot when he was approached by his father’s political agent, Harold Bell.

‘What are you thinking about, Harry?’

‘Contemplating my future. If I stay with the Corps, I’ll make lieutenant-colonel, but that’s it. If I leave, what do I have to offer? When I was at Sandhurst, they taught me the seven ways of sorting someone out with my bare hands. I became a weapons expert, acquired reasonable Arabic, Russian and French. But what do I do with all that out of the Army?’

Olivia had heard as she approached and gave him a gin and tonic. ‘Cheer up, darling, someone might offer you a nice job in the City.’

‘That someone is me,’ Bell told them, savouring his drink. ‘But it’s not the City. The Party wants you to come forward as a candidate for your father’s seat. The local committee is completely behind you. Harry Miller, Member of Parliament.’

Miller was shocked and couldn’t think of a thing to say, so his wife did all the talking. ‘Does that mean I get him home nights?’

‘Absolutely,’ Bell assured her.

She’d immediately announced it to the entire room and he was kissed on the cheek and slapped on the back many times. ‘Better than Iraq, or Afghanistan, old man,’ someone said. ‘You’re well out of that.’

He resigned his commission and was duly elected, suddenly free of what had haunted him all those years, but he should have remembered that nothing ever worked out as expected. The Prime Minister was privy to his army record and appointed him to the Northern Ireland Office, and when the Irish situation was finally settled, started sending him from one trouble spot to another.

The Prime Minister’s Rottweiler – that was a good one, and any guarantee he would be home nights had long since gone with the wind, and Olivia didn’t like it at all.

That was one thing, but this – the events at Banu – it was like a return to the past. It could have been a Unit 16 operation. The shooting of the sentry, the instant execution of Zorin. The fact that he’d taken the Browning with him in the first place using his political clout to circumvent security, what was that supposed to mean?

He said softly, ‘For God’s sake, Harry, what in the hell happened to you?’

Maybe the genie had escaped from the bottle, but that didn’t make sense. He’d always understood the genie was a supernatural creature who did one’s bidding. In Kosovo, perhaps it was the other way around. Maybe it was he who had done the genie’s bidding.

He shook his head, unable to accept such a thought, even for a moment, and went back to bed.

At Holland Park, Roper had worked through into the middle of Saturday morning, had put together as much information on Miller as he could find. Around ten o’clock, Luther Henderson, the day sergeant, came in.

‘Tony told me you’d been at it all night, Major. I asked him if it was anything special and he suddenly turned into Mr Mystery.’

‘You’ll find out at the right time, Luther. What’s new?’

‘Levin, Chomsky and Major Novikova have all begun that induction course at Kingsmere Hall now, trying to turn MI6 agents into good little Russians.’

‘With all their years in Russian Military Intelligence, if anybody can do it, they can.’ He shook his head. ‘Still – they’re supposed to be down at Kingsmere for a month, which means we don’t have them. I hope Ferguson doesn’t regret saying yes when Simon Carter asked.’

‘It’s difficult to say no to Mr Carter, Major, especially when he had the Prime Minister’s backing.’

‘I suppose.’ Simon Carter was not popular with many people, but he was, unfortunately, Deputy Director of the Security Services, and that was difficult to argue with.

‘Is Mr Dillon in, by any chance?’

‘He called about an hour ago, sir, from Stable Mews. Said he’d be in later.’ He glanced at the main screen. ‘What a lovely lady, sir, who might she be?’

‘That’s Olivia Hunt, the actress,’ Roper told him. ‘She’s married to Major Harry Miller, who works out of the Cabinet Office for the Prime Minister.’

‘Is that a fact, sir?’

‘Tell me something. Did you ever come across him, maybe in Belfast or somewhere like that? You did enough Irish time.’

‘Five tours. Nothing like you, Major. You were never out of the bloody place. God, but you saved some lives. And that big one at the Grand Hotel in Belfast? Six bloody hours on your own. No wonder they gave you the George Cross.’

‘Yes, I was rather good, wasn’t I? Peed myself several times because there was nowhere else to go.’ Roper was mocking the whole business now. ‘King of the castle until the little red Toyota turned up with the supermarket bag on the passenger seat. No big deal, only it was and here I am. Whisky and cigarettes, but no wild, wild women like the song said.’

‘Fuck them, Major, the bastards who did that to you.’

‘Nicely put, Luther, but alas, there’s no possibility of that with anyone, so I’ll settle for an invigorating shower in the wet room and would welcome your assistance.’

‘My pleasure, sir,’ and as Henderson wheeled him out, he added, ‘as to your question about Major Miller, sir, no, I never did come across him over there.’

There was no sign of Roper when Sean Dillon arrived at Holland Park. He wore black velvet cords and a black bomber jacket; a small man, his hair pale as straw. Once a feared enforcer for the IRA, he was now Ferguson’s strong right hand. He was sitting in one of the swivel chairs examining Roper’s screens when Henderson entered.

‘Where’s the Major?’ Dillon asked.

‘I just helped him shower in the wet room, and now he’s dressing. He’ll be along directly.’ He nodded to Olivia Hunt on the screen. ‘A lovely lady. Know who she is?’

Roper entered in his wheelchair. ‘Of course he does. Mr Dillon was involved with the theatre himself once upon a time. Who is she, Sean?’

‘Olivia Hunt. Born in Boston and she’s illuminated the British stage for years. That’s her in Chekhov’s Three Sisters. A National Theatre production a year ago.’

‘Told you,’ said Roper. ‘We’ll have a pot of tea, Luther,’ and Henderson went out.

‘What’s she doing there?’

‘I’m investigating her husband for Ferguson. Harry Miller, he works out of the Cabinet Office, a kind of troubleshooter for the Prime Minister. Used to be Army Intelligence. A headquarters man only, supposedly, but now it seems there’s been more to him for some time.’ Henderson came in with the tea. Roper said, ‘Leave us, Luther, I’ll call you if I need you.’

Henderson went out. Dillon said, ‘What kind of more?’

‘Have a hefty swig of that tea, Sean. I think you’re going to be interested in what I’ve found out about Major Harry Miller.’

When he was finished, Dillon said, ‘And after that, I think I could do with something stronger.’

‘You can pour one for me while you’re at it.’

‘So you say Ferguson wants this for breakfast, American time, with Cazalet?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Jesus and Mary.’ Dillon poured the drinks. ‘It must have been a hell of a thing, he and Blake together.’

‘You can say that again. Come on, do you have any input?’

‘I heard whispers about Titan, but I don’t think anyone in the movement took it too seriously, or Unit 16. We had enough to deal with. You were there, Roper, you know what I’m talking about. So many people got killed, far more than the dear old British public ever realized. I remember the River Street affair, though. It’s true the Chief of Staff put it out as an SAS atrocity.’

‘Gallant freedom fighters gunned down without mercy?’

‘That’s right. So Miller left the Army four years ago, becomes an MP, helps the Prime Minister get Ian Paisley and Martin McGuinness running the government together. A decent job there, actually. I’m not sure I can help you too much, Roper. I left the Provos in eighty-nine to do my own thing.’

‘Which included the mortar attack on John Major’s war cabinet at Downing Street in February ninety-one.’

‘Never proved.’ Dillon shook his head.

‘Bugger off, Sean, it was a hell of a payday for you, but never mind. Is there anything you can add to Miller’s story?’

‘Not a word.’

‘All right, then. I’ll send it straight to Ferguson. We’ll see what he makes of it.’

After breakfast at the beach house on Nantucket, Clancy passed round the coffee, and Cazalet said, ‘So, what do you have for me, Charles?’

‘Something so extraordinary I’m surprised my laptop didn’t catch fire, Mr President.’

‘I see.’ Cazalet stirred his coffee. ‘So tell us.’

Ferguson started to do just that.

When he was finished, there was silence and then the President turned to Clancy, ‘Well?’

‘That’s one hell of a soldier.’

Blake said, ‘I knew there was something special about him the moment we met.’

‘And you, Charles?’ Cazalet asked.

‘Obviously, I knew a certain amount about him,’ Ferguson answered. ‘But I’m stunned to hear the full story.’

‘It would certainly shock his father-in-law, Senator Hunt. Very old-fashioned conservative guy, Hunt.’

‘So, how do you want to handle this, Mr President?’

‘I think I’d like to meet Miller. He could be a useful recruit on certain missions for you and me, Charles. Discuss it with the Prime Minister and Miller first, of course. What do you think, Blake?’

‘I think that could be beneficial to all parties, Mr President.’

‘Excellent. Now why don’t we all go for a walk on the beach, take the sea air? The surf is particularly fine this morning.’

The Saturday-night performance of Private Lives was another triumph for Olivia Hunt, and she drove down in the Mercedes afterwards to Stokely with Harry and Monica, and Miller’s usual driver, Ellis Vaughan, who had provided a hamper, sandwiches, some caviar and a couple of bottles of champagne.

‘You’ve excelled yourself, Ellis,’ Monica told him.

‘We do our best, my lady,’ he told her.

The truth was that as an ex-paratrooper, he enjoyed working for Miller. During these overnight stops at Stokely, he stayed in the spare bedroom at the Grants’ cottage.

Olivia was on a high. Miller, on the other hand, felt strangely lifeless, a reaction to his trip, he told himself. They didn’t arrive until one thirty in the morning, and went to bed almost at once, where Miller spent a disturbed night.

They had a family breakfast on Sunday morning, with Aunt Mary later than usual. She was eighty-two now, whitehaired, but with a healthy glow to her cheeks, and her vagueness was, in a way, quite charming.

‘Don’t mind me, you three. Go for a walk, if you like. I always read the Mail on Sunday at this time.’

Mrs Grant brought it in. ‘There you are, Madam. I’ll clear the table if you’re all finished.’

Miller was wearing a sweater, jeans and a pair of ankle boots. ‘I feel like a gallop round the paddock. I asked Fergus to saddle Doubtfire.’

Olivia said, ‘Are you sure, darling? You look tired.’

‘Nonsense.’ He was restless and impatient, a nerviness there.

Monica said, ‘Off you go. Be a good boy. We’ll watch, you can’t complain about that.’

He hesitated, then forced a smile. ‘Of course not.’

He went out through the French windows and it was Aunt Mary who put it in perspective. ‘I think it must have been a difficult trip. He looks tired and he’s not himself.’

‘Well, you would know,’ Monica said. ‘You’ve known him long enough.’

They took their time walking down to the paddock and he was already in the saddle when they got there, Fergus standing by the stables, watching.

Miller cantered around for a while and then started taking the hedge jumps. He was angry with himself for allowing things to get on top of him, realizing now that what had happened in Kosovo had really touched a nerve and he was damned if he was going to allow that to happen.

He urged Doubtfire over several of the jumps, then swung the plucky little mare round and, on an impulse, urged her towards the rear fence’s forbiddingly tall five-barred gate.

‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘We can do it,’ and he pushed her into a gallop.

His wife cried out, ‘No, Harry, no!’

But Doubtfire sailed over into the meadow, and just as she caught her breath in relief, Miller galloped a few yards on the other side, swung Doubtfire round and once again tackled the gate.

Olivia’s voice raised in a scream, ‘No, Harry!’ Monica flung an arm around her shoulders. Miller took the jump perfectly, however, cantered over to Fergus and dismounted. ‘Give her a good rubdown and oats. She’s earned it.’

Fergus took the reins and said, ‘If you’ll excuse me, Major, but I’ve the right to say after all these years that –’

‘I know, Fergus, it was bloody stupid. Just get on with it.’

He walked towards the two women, and Olivia said, ‘Damn you, Harry Miller, damn you for frightening me like that. It will take some forgiving. I’m going in.’

She walked away. Monica stood looking at him, then produced a cigarette case from her handbag, offered him one and took one herself. She gave him a light from her Zippo.

He inhaled with conscious pleasure. ‘We’re not supposed to do this these days.’

She said, ‘Harry, I’ve known you for forty years, you are my dearly loved brother, but sometimes I feel I don’t know you at all. What you did just now was an act of utter madness.’

‘You’re quite right.’

‘You used to do things like that a lot when you were in the Army, but for the last four years, working for the Prime Minister, you’ve seemed different. Something’s happened to you, hasn’t it? Kosovo, that trip there?’ She nodded. ‘What was it? Come on, Harry, I know Kosovo is a hell of a place. People were butchered in the thousands there.’

‘That was then, this is now, Monica, my love.’ He suddenly gave her the Harry smile and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’m tired, a bit wound up, that’s all. Now be a good girl, come up to the house and help me with Olivia.’

And so she went, reluctantly, but she went.

THE KREMLIN

4

There was a hint of sleet in the rain falling in Moscow as Max Chekov’s limousine transported him from his hotel to the Kremlin. It was a miserable day, and to be perfectly frank, he’d have preferred to have stayed in Monaco, where one of the best clinics in Europe had been providing him with essential therapy to his seriously damaged left leg. But when you received a call demanding your appearance at the Kremlin from General Ivan Volkov, the personal security adviser to the President of the Russian Federation, you hardly said no.

The limousine swept past the massive entrance to the Kremlin, and negotiated the side streets and checkpoints until they reached an obscure rear entrance. Chekov got out and mounted a flight of stone steps with some difficulty, making heavy use of the walking stick in his left hand. His approach was obviously under scrutiny, for the door opened just before he reached it.

A tough-looking young man in the uniform of a lieutenant in the GRU greeted him. ‘Do you require assistance?’

‘I’m all right if we stay on the ground floor.’

‘We will. Follow me.’

Chekov stumped after him along a series of incredibly quiet, dull corridors that seemed to stretch into infinity and then his guide opened a door leading to a much more ornate passageway lined with paintings and antiques. At the far end, a burly man in a dark suit, his head shaven, sat outside a door, a machine pistol across his knees. The GRU officer ignored him, opened the door and motioned Chekov inside.

Chekov moved past him and the door closed behind. The room was fantastic, decorated in a kind of seventeenth-century French style, beautiful paintings everywhere, a superb carpet on the floor, and a marble fireplace, with what at least looked like a real fire. There was a desk, three chairs in front of it and General Ivan Volkov behind it. There was nothing military about him at all. In his sixties with thinning hair, wearing a neat dark blue suit, and conservative tie, he could have been the manager of some bank branch, not one of the most powerful men in the Russian Federation.

He wore old-fashioned wire spectacles and removed them as he glanced up. ‘My dear Chekov.’ His voice was curiously soft. ‘It’s good to see you on your feet again.’

‘Only just, Comrade General.’ Chekov stuck to the old titles still popular with older party members. It was better to be safe than sorry. ‘May I sit down?’

‘Of course.’ Chekov settled himself. ‘Your stay in Monaco has been beneficial?’

‘I’m better than I was.’ Chekov decided to bite the bullet. ‘May I ask why I’m here, Comrade?’

‘The President has expressed an interest in your personal welfare.’

Such news filled Chekov with a certain foreboding but he forced a smile. ‘I’m naturally touched.’

‘Good, you can tell him yourself.’ Volkov glanced at his watch. ‘I anticipate his arrival in approximately two minutes.’

Chekov waited in some trepidation, and was thrown when a secret door in the panelled wall behind Volkov’s desk swung open and President Putin walked in. He was in a tracksuit, a white towel around his neck. Chekov struggled to his feet.

‘My dear Chekov, good to see you up and about again. You must excuse my appearance, but I look upon my gym time as the most important hour in the day.’

‘Comrade President,’ Chekov gabbled. ‘So wonderful to see you.’

‘Sit down, man,’ Putin urged him and sat on the edge of Volkov’s desk. ‘So, they’ve saved the leg and the word is you’re almost as good as new.’

Volkov put in, ‘Which must confound that animal, this London gangster, Harry Salter, who ordered the shooting.’

‘I must say General Charles Ferguson employs some unlikely help.’ Putin smiled. ‘Perhaps he’s getting hard up for the right kind of people these days. Afghanistan must be taking its toll. So, Chekov, you’re ready to get back to work? I’m delighted to hear it.’

As it was the first thing Chekov had heard on the matter, he made the mistake of hesitating. ‘Well, I’m not sure about that, Comrade President.’

‘Nonsense. You must get back in the saddle. Best thing for you! Besides, you have that wonderful apartment in London going to waste. And as the CEO of Belov International, you have a lot of responsibilities to the company – and to us.’

‘Responsibilities that I’ve had to take care of while you’ve been recovering,’ Volkov pointed out.

‘Which obviously can’t go on,’ Putin said. ‘I suggest you move back within the next few days. Any further therapy you need can obviously be found in London. Once established, you will ease yourself back in harness and liaise with General Volkov.’

Chekov didn’t even try to resist. ‘Of course, Comrade President.’

As if by magic, the door by which Chekov had entered opened again, revealing the GRU lieutenant. Chekov understood that he was being dismissed. As he stood up again, Volkov said, ‘One more thing. I know you’re angry about being shot. But I don’t want you going off on any personal revenge mission against Salter or Ferguson’s people when you get back. That’s our job. They’ll be taken care of eventually.’

‘I hope so,’ Chekov said with some feeling, and went out.

Putin turned to Volkov. ‘Keep an eye on him, Volkov. He’s all right for now, but he strikes me as a weak link. Just like those traitors we lost: Igor Levin, a decorated war hero, of all things, a captain in the GRU; Major Greta Novikova; even this Sergeant Chomsky of the GRU. I still can’t understand what happened with them. What are the British doing with them?’

‘Our people at the London Embassy inform me that all three have been transferred for the moment to teach a total immersion course in Russian to agents of MI6. Ferguson was reluctant to let them, but Simon Carter, Deputy Director of the Security Services, persuaded the Prime Minister to order it.’

‘Did he indeed?’ Putin’s smile was enigmatic. ‘Well, much good it’ll do them. So, Ivan, anything else? Otherwise, I’ll get to the gym.’

‘As a matter of fact, there is, Comrade President. An unfortunate incident has just taken place in Kosovo, involving the death of an officer commanding a special ops patrol from the Fifteenth Siberian Storm Guards…’

When he was finished, Putin sat there, thinking. Finally, he said, ‘You are absolutely certain it was this Miller, no possibility of error?’

‘He announced his identity when he challenged Captain Zorin. Zorin’s sergeant confirms it.’

‘And you can definitely confirm the other man was Blake Johnson?’

‘The sergeant heard Miller call him Blake, and people on the ground traced the inn where they’d spent the previous night. The landlord had taken their passport details. He told our people that they didn’t arrive together, but seemed to meet by chance.’

‘That doesn’t sound too plausible.’ Putin shook his head. ‘Blake Johnson, the President’s man.’

‘And Harry Miller, the Prime Minister’s. What do we do?’

‘Nothing. Zorin’s unit wasn’t supposed to be there and so we can’t very well complain, and if anybody says they were there, we’d have to strenuously deny it. I don’t think we need to worry about the wretched Muslim peasants in those parts. They’ll keep their heads down. And as for the US and Britain, their attitude will be the same as mine. It’s not worth World War Three.’

‘A pity about Zorin. He was a good man, decorated in Chechnya. His mother is a widow in poor health, but his uncle…’ here Volkov looked at his papers ‘…is Sergei Zorin. Investment companies in Geneva, Paris and London. What do I do about him?’

‘Just explain to him that for the good of the State we can’t take it further. As for the mother, say Zorin was killed in action, died valiantly, the usual nonsense. Tell her we’ll arrange a splendid funeral. And make sure the regimental commander confirms our story.’

He stood. ‘We should do something about Miller, though. Are you still in contact with this mystery man of yours, the Broker?’

‘Our link with Osama? Certainly.’

‘You might want to give him a call.’ And he left.

An excellent idea, Volkov thought. He dialled a coded number and had a quick conversation. Then he phoned Colonel Bagirova of the Fifteenth Siberians and gave him his orders, which left him with Sergei Zorin. He phoned the great man’s office and was informed that he couldn’t possibly see anyone else that day, his appointment book was full. Volkov didn’t argue, simply told the secretary to inform Zorin that President Putin’s chief security adviser expected to meet him at the Troika restaurant in forty-five minutes, and put the phone down.

Sergei Zorin was already there when Volkov arrived, and squirming like all of them, frightened to death that he’d done something wrong. ‘General Volkov, such an honour. Unfortunately, the headwaiter says they don’t have a table available, only stools at the bar.’

‘Really.’ Volkov turned as the individual concerned approached in total panic.

‘General Volkov – please. I had no idea you were joining us today.’

‘Neither had I. We’ll sit by the window. Caviar and all that goes with it and your very finest vodka.’

They were seated at the necessary table, Zorin terrified. Volkov said, ‘Calm yourself, my friend. People always treat me like Death in a black hood, like something from a Bergman film, but I can assure you that you are guilty of nothing.’ The vodka arrived in pointed glasses stuck in crushed ice. ‘Drink up and then another. You’re going to need it. The news is not good, but you will have the satisfaction of knowing you have been part of something that has served Mother Russia well.’

Zorin looked bewildered. ‘But what would that be?’

‘Your nephew, Captain Igor Zorin, has died in action while taking part in a highly dangerous and most secret covert operation. I had the unhappy duty of conveying this news to our President a short while ago. He sends his condolences.’

‘Oh, my God.’ Zorin tossed back the vodka, then poured another. But was that a certain relief on his face? Yes, thought Volkov. ‘What terrible news. When did this happen?’

‘Within the last few days. His body is already here in Moscow at the military morgue.’

‘Where did it happen?’

‘I’m afraid I cannot divulge that information. However, he died honourably, I can assure you of that. There may even be another medal.’

‘That won’t help my sister. She’s been widowed for years and her health isn’t good.’ The caviar arrived and more vodka.

‘Try some of this. A man must live, my friend.’ Volkov spooned some of the caviar himself. ‘Your sister is here in town at the moment?’

‘Yes, she lives alone with her maid.’

‘Would you like me to be with you when you go to see her?’

The relief on Zorin’s face was even greater. ‘That would be too much to expect, General.’

‘Nonsense, I’m happy to do it. Now eat up. It will do you good. Then you can take me to your sister’s house and we’ll break the bad news.’

Zorin was pathetically grateful, strange when you considered his stature, and yet dealing with such a wealthy man gave Volkov no problem at all. The oligarchs, the billionaires, those Russians who preferred the delights of English public schools for their children and townhouses in Mayfair for their residences still had enough to contend with back in Moscow. In the old days, the KGB had kept Russians of every level in line, and now it was the FSB, Putin’s old outfit. Putin was hugely popular as President – which meant that he, Ivan Volkov, didn’t need to be. Fear was enough.

The Zorin apartment was in a grand old block with views over the river and looked as if it hailed from Tsarist times. The bell echoed hollowly and the door was opened by an old woman who answered to Tasha, dressed in a peasant blouse and long skirt, grim and rather forbidding, her hair bound by a scarf, her face like a stone.

‘Where is she?’ Zorin demanded.

‘In the parlour,’ she said, and with the privilege of an old servant asked, ‘Forgive me, but is this bad news?’

‘It couldn’t be worse. This is General Volkov from the President himself to tell us of her son’s glorious death in action against our country’s enemies.’

His sense of theatre was poorly received. She glanced at Volkov briefly, obviously not particularly impressed, but then she looked as if she had lived forever. She had probably been born during the Great Patriotic War, the kind of woman who had seen it all.

‘I will speak to her first,’ she said. ‘If you gentlemen would wait here.’

Simple, direct, it brooked no denial. She opened a mahogany door with a gold handle, went in and closed it behind her. Zorin shifted from foot to foot, very uncomfortable.

‘She’s very direct, Tasha,’ he said. ‘Peasant stock from the family estate.’

‘So I can see.’ There was a dreadful keening from inside the room, a wailing that was quite disturbing, followed by sobbing. After a while, Tasha opened the door. ‘She will see you now, both of you.’

They entered, and Volkov found himself in a room that was a time capsule from another age: tall French windows to a terrace outside, a distant view of the river, old-fashioned mahogany furniture, wallpaper with paintings of rare birds, an Indian carpet, the grand piano covered with family photos. There were green velvet curtains, a musty smell to everything. It was as if nothing had changed since the nineteen twenties, and even the clothes that the broken-hearted mother wore seemed antique.

She was sitting in a chair clutching a photo in a silver frame, her hair bound with a gold scarf, and Zorin embraced her.

‘Now then, Olga, you mustn’t fret. He wanted only to be a soldier since his youth, no one knows that better than you. See, look who I have brought you. General Ivan Volkov, with words from President Putin himself extolling the bravery of Igor.’

She stared vacantly at Volkov, who said, ‘He died for the Motherland. There’s talk of a medal.’

She shook her head, bewildered. ‘A medal? He’s got medals. I don’t understand. Where are we at war?’ She clutched at Zorin. ‘Where was he killed?’

Volkov said, ‘On a mission of the greatest importance to the State, that’s all I can say. You may remember him with pride.’

She held up the photo of Igor Zorin in a bemedalled uniform, and Volkov took in the handsome face, the arrogance, the look of cruelty, and then she seemed to come to life.

‘That’s no good to me, General. I want my son alive again and he’s dead. It’s turned my heart to stone already.’

She burst into a torrent of weeping. Tasha held her close and nodded to Zorin and Volkov. ‘Go now,’ she said. ‘I’ll see to her.’

They did as they were told, went out into the street and paused beside their two limousines.

‘I can’t thank you enough for coming with me,’ Zorin said.

‘When I spoke to Colonel Bagirova of the Fifteenth Siberians, we agreed on the day after tomorrow for the funeral, ten o’clock in the morning, the Minsky Park Military Cemetery, so your nephew will be laid to rest with some of Russia’s finest soldiers. We will see what we can do about the medal. I can certainly promise a letter with Putin’s name on it.’

‘I doubt whether even that will cheer her.’ Zorin got in his limousine and was driven away.

‘Just another day at the office,’ Volkov murmured, got into his own limousine and was driven back to the Kremlin.

The funeral at Minsky Park was all that could be desired. There was a company of soldiers from the Fifteenth Siberian’s training camp outside Moscow, plenty of mourners in black, family and friends. The coffin was delivered on a gun carriage, lowered into the prepared grave, and twenty soldiers delivered the correct volley as ordered at Colonel Bagirova’s shouted command.

Olga Zorin stood with her brother, a few relatives behind, Tasha on the end of a line. Zorin held the umbrella, his sister sobbed, the regimental bugler played a final salute. Volkov stood some distance away wearing a military coat of finest leather and a black fedora, an umbrella over his head. The crowd dispersed to their various cars and Zorin came towards him.

‘It was good of you to come. The family are very grateful.’

Volkov, who had observed the furtive glances coming his way, smiled. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think they’re more worried than anything else. This coat always makes me look as if the Gestapo actually got to Moscow.’

Zorin obviously couldn’t handle such levity. ‘The reception is at the Grand. You’re very welcome.’

‘Duty calls, I’m afraid, you must make my excuses.’

‘The letter from the President, which came yesterday, was a great comfort to her after all.’

‘Yes, it was intended to be.’ In truth, he’d signed it himself, but that was no matter.

Olga Zorin sobbed as relatives helped her into the back seat of one of the funeral cars and Tasha followed her.

‘A mother’s love,’ Zorin said piously. ‘I’m a widower with no children, you know. Igor was my only heir.’

‘Well, he isn’t now,’ Volkov said brutally. ‘You’ll get over it. We know what you oligarchs get up to in London. That bar at the Dorchester, the delights of Mayfair, the ladies of the night. Oh, you’ll cheer yourself up in no time.’

He walked away smiling, leaving Zorin with his mouth gaping.

Shortly after his return from America, Ferguson received a call to visit the Prime Minister, where they discussed Miller and the Kosovo affair at length.

‘So what do you think, Charles?’

‘I’ve no quarrel with Miller’s actions regarding Zorin. But I’ll be frank with you, Prime Minister, I thought I knew him and I find I didn’t. The stuff he was engaged in all those years, Titan and Unit 16. Remarkable.’

‘Especially when you consider that even people as knowledgeable as you had no idea. No, I’m very impressed with Harry Miller.’ He got up and paced around. ‘Miller has done many excellent things for me, great on-the-ground reporting. He has a brilliant eye and a gift for a tactical approach to difficult situations. You’d find him very useful, Charles.’

Ferguson could see how things were going. ‘Are you saying you think we should get together?’

‘Yes. I know there’s always been a fine line between what you do and his more political approach.’

‘And the fact that the two might clash,’ Ferguson said.

‘Yes, but I believe Harry Miller is a kind of hybrid, a mixture of the two.’

‘I’ve no argument with that. So what are your orders?’

‘To get together and sort things out, Charles.’ The Prime Minister shook his head. ‘What a world. Fear, uncertainty, chaos. It’s a war in itself. So let’s try and do something about it.’

The following day, Roper had Doyle drive him down to the Dark Man on Cable Wharf in Wapping, the first pub Harry Salter had owned and one still dear to his heart. When they arrived, Doyle parked the van and extracted Roper from the rear, using the lift, and they went inside.

Harry Salter and his nephew, Billy, were at the table in the corner booth, his two minders, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, having a beer at the bar. Ruby Moon served drinks and Mary O’Toole beside her handled food orders from the kitchen. Roper joined the table and nodded to Ruby, who immediately sent him a large Scotch by way of Joe Baxter.

Harry Salter and Billy were reading a file between them. Roper said, ‘Is that the stuff I sent you on Miller?’

‘It certainly is,’ Harry said. ‘Where have they been keeping this guy all these years?’

‘In plain sight,’ Billy told him. ‘He’s been around. We just didn’t know the other side of him.’

Harry, a gangster most of his life, said to his nephew, ‘And what an other side. His past is incredible.’

‘I wouldn’t argue with that.’ As Billy leaned over, his jacket gaped, revealing a shoulder holster and the butt of a Walther PPK.

‘I’ve told you before,’ his uncle said. ‘A shooter under your arm when we’re about to have our lunch – is that necessary? I mean, there are ladies present.’

‘God bless you, Harry,’ Ruby called.

‘As an agent in Her Majesty’s Secret Service, I’m licensed to use it, Harry, and in this wicked world we live in, you never know when.’

‘Give it a rest, Billy,’ Harry told him and Ferguson walked in. ‘Thank God, it’s you, General, perhaps we can have some sanity round here. Where’s Dillon?’

‘He got a call last night from Levin, down at Kingsmere Hall. They’ve asked Dillon to give them a day for some reason. He’ll be back this evening.’

At that moment, a man walked in behind him. A light navy blue raincoat hung from his shoulders, over a smart suit of the same colour, a white shirt and regimental tie.

‘I had to park by the river,’ he told Ferguson. ‘Had to run for it.’ He slipped off the raincoat. ‘It’s started to pour.’

That his suit was Savile Row stood out a mile. There was a small silence and Harry said, ‘Who’s this?’

‘Sorry,’ Ferguson told him. ‘I’m forgetting my manners. Meet Major Harry Miller. You could be seeing him from time to time in the future. He’s thinking of joining us.’

The silence was total. It was Billy who said, ‘Now that’s a show stopper if ever I heard one.’ He stood up and held out his hand.

There was only a certain amount of truth in what Ferguson had said. He’d spoken to the Major as the Prime Minister had asked him, and Miller in his turn had had his orders from the great man, which he’d accepted with some reluctance. On the other hand, after looking at the file Ferguson had given him, with details of his unit’s activities and personnel, he’d warmed to the idea.

‘A drink, Major?’ Harry asked. ‘Best pint of beer in London.’

‘Scotch and water,’ Miller said.

‘A man after my own heart,’ Roper told him, and called to Ruby, ‘Another here, love, for Major Miller, and a repeat for me.’

Billy said to Ferguson, ‘So what’s Dillon doing at Kingsmere? I know he speaks Russian, but Levin, Greta and Chomsky are the real thing.’

‘Maybe they’re supposed to be encouraged by how well Dillon copes with the language,’ Roper said. ‘After all, he is still a Belfast boy at heart.’

‘Anyway, Simon Carter sanctioned it, and I wasn’t about to argue it,’ Ferguson said.

Miller surprised them all by saying, ‘You have to understand his logic. All Irish are bogtrotters, with faces like dogs and broken boots. By displaying Dillon with his Russian ability, his argument probably runs something like: If this animal can do it, so can you.’

‘Jesus, Major, that’s really putting the boot in old Carter.’

‘Who isn’t popular in our society,’ Roper told him. ‘And he loathes Dillon.’

‘Why, particularly?’

‘It goes a long way back, to when John Major was PM. Major was hosting an affair on the terrace of the House of Commons for President Clinton, and Simon Carter was responsible for security. Dillon told Carter the security was crap, and he laid a bet that no matter what Carter did, sometime during the affair he would appear on the terrace, dressed as a waiter, and serve the two great men canapés.’

‘And did he?’

It was Ferguson who said, ‘Yes. He got in from the river. Harry and Billy dropped him off overnight in a wet suit.’

‘Me being the biggest expert in London on the Thames,’ Harry said modestly. ‘You’ve got to get the tide just right, and the current can be a killer.’

‘President Clinton was very amused,’ Ferguson said.

‘But Simon Carter wasn’t.’ That was Miller.

‘No,’ Roper laughed. ‘Hates him beyond reason, perhaps because Dillon is what Carter can never be.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Carter is the ultimate desk man,’ Ferguson put in. ‘He’s never been in the field in his life. Sean is someone quite beyond his understanding. He will kill at the drop of a hat if he thinks it’s necessary.’

‘And on the other side of his coin, he has an enormous flair for languages; a scholar and poet by inclination,’ Harry said. ‘Plays great piano, if you like Cole Porter, and flies a plane.’

‘And don’t forget, a bloody good actor in his day,’ Roper said. ‘A student at RADA, even performed with the National Theatre.’

‘And gave it all up, as he once said to me,’ Ferguson put in, ‘for the theatre of the street.’

Miller nodded, a strange alertness there. ‘Is that what he said?’

‘I remember it well. We have what you might call a special relationship. At a stage when he was no longer with the IRA, I was responsible for him ending up in the hands of Serbs and facing the possibility of a firing squad.’

‘And what was the alternative?’

‘A little judicious blackmail led him to work for me.’ Ferguson shrugged. ‘It’s the name of the game, but then no one knows that better than you.’

Miller smiled. ‘If you say so. I look forward to meeting him.’

‘He’s often found at the Holland Park safe house. You’re welcome there any time.’

‘I look forward to it.’

Harry Salter interrupted, ‘That’s enough chat. We’ve got some of the best pub grub in London here, so let’s get started.’

Later in the afternoon, Miller looked in at Dover Street and found his wife preparing for the evening performance. She was in the kitchen in a terrycloth robe, her hair up, preparing cucumber sandwiches, her personal fetish and absolute good-luck charm before every performance. He stole one and she admonished him.

‘Don’t you dare.’ The kettle boiled and she made green tea. ‘I’m going for my bath after this. Are you looking in on the show tonight? You don’t need to, I don’t expect you to be there every night, Harry. And anyway, I’m having a drink with the cast afterwards.’

‘I should check in at Westminster. There’s a foreign policy debate and I do have things to do. The PM’s asked me to interest myself in General Charles Ferguson’s security unit, just as an adviser.’

‘Oh, I didn’t tell you! I came home on the tube last night, and something truly strange happened.’

‘What was it?’

‘It was reasonably busy, quite a few people, and this man got on, a real thug and horribly drunk. He started working his way along, leering at women and putting his arm about one or two of the young ones. Of course, everybody, including the men, buried themselves in books and newspapers, or looked the other way.’

Miller felt anger stirring inside. ‘Did he bother you?’

‘I think he was going to, because he looked at me and started forward, but then he was distracted by a terribly young girl, and he went over and put his arm round her, and she was crying and struggling.’

‘What happened?’

‘There was a young black man who’d been reading an Evening Standard. He wore a raincoat over a very nice suit, gold-rimmed glasses. He looked like an office worker. He suddenly sort of rolled up the newspaper, then doubled it. He got up, holding it in his right hand and tapped the drunk on the shoulder. He said: Excuse me, she doesn’t like you. And you’ve no idea what happened next.’

‘Yes, I have. When you do that with a newspaper, it becomes brick-hard, like a weapon. I should imagine he rammed it up under the drunk’s chin.’

She was amazed. ‘How on earth did you know that? He went down like a stone and lay there vomiting. The train came into the station a few minutes later and we all got off and left him.’

‘And the young man?’

‘He smiled at me, Harry, and said, I’ve already seen Private Lives, Miss Hunt, you were wonderful. Sorry about what just happened. What terrible times we live in. And then he just walked off and disappeared up the escalator. But how did you know about the newspaper trick?’

He shrugged. ‘Someone told me once. Have a great performance, darling.’ And he went out the door. Olivia’s eyes followed him as he left.

At Westminster, he parked the Mini in the underground car park, walked up to his office and found far more paperwork than he had expected. Two hours flew by, then he went into the Chamber and took his usual seat on the end of one of the aisles. The debate concerned the secondment of British troops to Darfur to back up the United Nations force. It was difficult, with Afghanistan still a drain on military forces. As usual at that time in the evening, the Chamber was barely a quarter full. Still, it was always useful to hear informed opinion, and if Miller had learned anything about politics in his four years as an MP, it was that these sparsely attended evening debates were often attended by people who took their politics seriously.

He finally left, dropped in at a nearby restaurant and had a simple meal, fish pie and a salad with sparkling water. By the time he got back to the underground car park, it was nine thirty.

He drove out and up the slope between the walls, and as always it made him remember Airey Neave, the first Englishman to escape from Colditz in World War II – a decorated war hero, and another casualty of the Irish Troubles, who had met his end driving out of this very car park, the victim of a car bomb from the Irish National Liberation Army, the same organization which had taken care of Mountbatten and members of his family.

‘What a world,’ Miller said softly, as he moved into the road and paused, uncertain where to go. Olivia wouldn’t be home yet and she was having a drink with the cast, so what to do? And then he remembered Ferguson’s invitation for him to familiarize himself with the Holland Park safe house.

It looked more like a private nursing home or some similar establishment, but his practised eye noted the electronics on the high wall – certain to give any intruder a shock requiring medical attention – the massive security gates, the cameras.

He wound down the window and pressed the button on the camera entry post. Sergeant Henderson was on duty and his voice was calm and remote, obviously following procedure.

‘Who is it?’

‘Major Harry Miller, on General Charles Ferguson’s invitation.’

The gates opened in slow motion and he passed inside. Henderson came down the entrance door steps.

‘Sergeant Luther Henderson, Royal Military Police. You’ve already been placed on our regular roster. A pleasure to meet you, sir. If you’d like to get out, I’ll park the Mini. General Ferguson isn’t with us this evening, and Major Roper’s having a shower in the wet room.’

‘The wet room? What’s that?’

‘Special facilities, non-slip floor, seats on the walls that turn down. The Major has to take his shower that way. A car bomb left him in a very bad way, nearly every bone in his body broken, his skull, spine and pelvis all fractured. It’s a miracle he still has two arms and legs.’

‘Incredible,’ Miller said.

‘The bravest man I ever knew, sir, and his brain still works like he was Einstein. Straight through the entrance, armoured door last on the left, and you’re in the computer room. I’ll let the Major know you’re here. He’ll be along in a while, but you’ll find Mr Dillon in the computer room having a drink. He’ll look after you, sir.’

He got in the Mini and drove away round the corner, Miller went up the steps and along the corridor, paused at the armoured door and opened it.

Dillon was sitting in one of the swivel chairs in front of the screens, a glass in his right hand. He turned to look and Miller said, ‘You’re Sean Dillon, I believe. I’m Harry Miller.’ Dillon had been smiling slightly, but now he looked puzzled, and shook hands.

‘I know all about you,’ he said. ‘Quite a file.’

‘Well, your own reputation certainly goes before you.’

Dillon said, ‘I was thinking about you, actually. Have a look at this. It was on Moscow television.’

He pressed a button and there was Minsky Park Military Cemetery, and Igor Zorin’s funeral. ‘See the one at the back in the black leather coat and black fedora? That’s President Putin’s favourite security advisor, General Ivan Volkov.’

‘I’ve heard of him, of course.’

‘A right old bastard and not exactly our best friend. He was behind a Russian-sponsored plot to put us all in harm’s way. Unfortunately, it succeeded with one of us.’ His face went grim.

‘Hannah Bernstein,’ said Miller.

‘You know about that? Well, of course you do. Volkov was behind it, with some help.’ He shook his head. ‘A great lady, and sorely missed.’

‘An IRA involvement, you say. I thought that was behind us.’

‘Nineteen sixty-nine was the start of the Troubles, and thirty-eight years later we’re supposed to have peace in Ireland. But what about all those for whom it was a way of life, those who’ve been used to having a gun in their hand for years? What’s the future for them?’

‘Plenty of demand for mercenaries, I’d have thought.’ Miller shrugged. ‘Always enough opportunities for killing in the world today.’

‘It’s a point of view.’ Dillon poured himself another whisky. ‘Join me?’

‘I think I will.’

‘I hear your wife’s in Private Lives at the moment. I won’t ask if she’s doing well, because she always does. I saw her in Brendan Behan’s The Hostage at the National. He’d have jumped out of his grave for her, the old bastard. A great play, and she got it just right.’

There was genuine enthusiasm in his voice, and Miller had a strange, excited smile on his face. ‘And you would know because you were once an actor yourself, but gave it all up for the theatre of the street.’

‘Where the hell did you hear that?’

‘You told me yourself, running for it through a sewer from the Shankill into the Ardoyne, one bad night in Belfast in nineteen eighty-six.’

‘My God,’ Dillon said. ‘I knew there was something about you, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.’

‘Twenty-one years ago,’ Miller said.

Dillon nodded, ‘Long and bloody years, and where did they all go? What in the hell was it all about?’

BELFAST

5

Looking back, Harry Miller remembered that year well, not just because of the bad March weather in London and the constant rain, but because what happened proved a turning point in his life. He was a full lieutenant in the Intelligence Corps at twenty-four and nothing much seemed to be happening. He shared an office with a young second lieutenant named Alice Tilsey, and she’d beaten him to it that morning. He took off his trench coat, revealing a tweed country suit, uniforms being out that year as the IRA had announced that men in uniform on London streets were a legitimate target.

Alice said brightly, ‘Thank God you’re wearing a decent suit. Colonel Baxter called for you five minutes ago.’

‘What have I done?’

‘I lied and said you were getting the post downstairs.’

‘You’re an angel.’

He hurried up to the next floor and reported to Baxter’s receptionist, a staff sergeant he knew well. ‘Am I in trouble, Mary?’

‘Search me, love, but he certainly wants you right now. In you go. Captain Glover’s with him.’

Baxter glanced up. ‘There you are, Miller. Just sit down for a moment.’

He and Glover had their heads together and enjoyed a brief conversation which made no sense to Miller, and then Baxter said, ‘Still living at Dover Street with your father?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘He’s certainly the sort of MP we can rely on. Always has a good word for the Army in his speeches in Parliament.’

‘Old soldier, sir.’

‘Captain Glover would like a word.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Glover had a file open. ‘You were on the Falklands Campaign seconded to 42 Commando, which of course was invaluable experience of war at the sharp end. Since then, you’ve been seconded once to the Intelligence Desk at Infantry Headquarters at the Grand Hotel in Belfast. What did you make of that?’

‘Interesting, sir, but it was only six weeks.’

Glover said, ‘Looking at your personal details, I see you’re a Roman Catholic, Miller. If I ask if your faith is important to you, please don’t be offended. It could be crucial to why you’re here.’

Uncertain what Glover was getting at, Miller said, ‘I was raised in the faith, I was a choirboy, I’m obviously familiar with the liturgy, and so on. Having said that, I must admit that, like many people, my religion is not at the forefront of my life.’

Baxter intervened, ‘So you’d be capable of going to Belfast for us as a Catholic?’

There was a distinct pause, Miller totally astonished, and it was Glover who explained. ‘Think of it as one of those old black and white British war films where SOE sends you to go to Occupied France as an undercover agent.’

‘Which is what we want you to do in Belfast for us.’ Baxter smiled. ‘Are you up for it?’

Miller’s stomach was churning. It was the same rush of adrenaline he’d experienced in the landings at San Carlos in the Falklands with those Argentine Skyhawks coming in.

‘I certainly am. Just one thing, sir, having visited Belfast, I know that the Northern Irish accent is unique, and I don’t know if –’

‘No problem. You’ll stay English,’ Glover told him.

‘Then I’m at your command, sir.’

‘Excellent. You’re in Captain Glover’s hands.’

In the planning room, Glover laid out a map of Belfast. ‘The River Lagan runs into Belfast Lough and the docks, it’s a busy area.’ He pushed a manila file across. ‘Everything you need is in there, but I’ll go through it anyway. Boats go backwards and forwards from Glasgow, trawlers, freighters.’

‘Illegal cargoes, sir?’

‘Sometimes, arms, for example, and people. There’s a pub in the dock area we’re interested in, the Sailor. The owner is a man named Slim Kelly.’

‘IRA, sir?’

‘Certainly. Did time in the Maze Prison and was released, so there’s good photos of him in your file. He’s supposedly clean these days, but he’s certainly killed many times. Our understanding is that he’s fallen out of favour with the Provos. Lately he’s been involved with a man named Liam Ryan, a psychopath who murders for fun. He’s another one the IRA want to dispose of. Our information is that he’s done a deal to supply Kelly with Stinger missiles. These things can be operated by one man and they’ll bring down a helicopter. We understand they’ll be delivered to Kelly by Ryan next week in a trawler called the Lost Hope. The moment you can confirm the meet, you call in your contact number in Belfast, which will bring in an SAS team on the run. It sounds simple, but who knows? Whatever happens, don’t use the contact number unless you are positive you have Kelly and Ryan in the frame.’

‘What exactly is my cover, sir?’

‘You’re employed by St Mary’s Hospice in Wapping. There’s a branch in Belfast close to the Sailor, an old priory run by nuns that provides for the deserving poor, and so forth. It needs renovating, and it’s already had a building surveyor from London come in. You’re an ordinand, whatever that is.’

‘Someone who’s considering the priesthood.’

‘Perfect cover, I should have thought. You’re from the London estate office. You’ve got all the documents on what needs doing. The story is you’re there to confirm it. You’re the man from head office, in a way.’

‘Where do I stay?’

‘The Priory. It’s all arranged by the Mother Superior, a Sister Maria Brosnan. To her, you’re the genuine article.’

Which in some strange way made Miller slightly uncomfortable. ‘Can I ask how you’ve been able to make these arrangements, sir?’

‘As it happens, Colonel Baxter’s younger brother is Monsignor Hilary Baxter in the Bishop of London’s Office. St Mary’s Hospice in Wapping was facing closure because their lease was coming to an end. We’ve been able to resolve their problem.’

To that, there was no answer. ‘I see, sir.’

‘If you call round to Wapping this afternoon with the documents in your file, there’s an old boy called Frobisher who’ll go through them with you. All the necessary work’s been done. You just pretend at the hospice and look busy. Sister Maria Brosnan expects you Monday.’

‘What about my identity?’

‘It’s all in the file, Harry, courtesy of the forgery department of MI6.’

‘And weaponry?’

‘I’m afraid you’re expecting too much there. After all, you’re a travelling civilian heading into the war zone. There’s no way you could go armed.’

‘I see, sir, it’s we-who-are-about-to-die-salute-you time.’ It was a statement, not a question, and Miller carried on, ‘What you really want aren’t the Stingers on that boat. This is all about Kelly, the publican of the Sailor who has fallen out of favour with the Provos, and this Liam Ryan who you say is a psychopath.’

‘Two years ago, he formed a breakaway group, no more than a dozen people, calling it the Irish Liberation Movement. Wholesale butchery, torture, kidnap – his favourite pastime is removing his victim’s fingers with bolt cutters. Bad news for the Republican movement as a whole. The word is the Provos put their best enforcer on the case. Eight of Ryan’s people are known to have been executed for certain, but perhaps more.’

‘But not Ryan?’

‘A will-o’-the-wisp with all the cunning of a beast. He’s one of the few big players who’s never been arrested, so there aren’t prison photos. He’s always avoided cameras like the plague, a bit like Michael Collins in the old days, but we have one anyway.’

‘How is that, sir?’

‘He took out an Irish passport five years ago under a false name. There’s a copy of the passport photo in the file.’

Miller had a look at it. The face was very ordinary, cheeks hollow, the whole thing desperately stilted, the face of some little man for whom life had always been a disappointment. Miller replaced it.

‘Thanks very much, sir. Would you have told me all this if I hadn’t asked?’

‘It’s the name of the game.’ Glover shrugged. ‘I’d get on with it if I were you.’ He patted the file. ‘I’ll put the word out that you’re off on a spot of leave.’

The office was empty when Miller went in, so he sat at the desk and checked out the contents of the file. There was a passport in the name of Mark Blunt, aged twenty-four, a surveyor by profession, a London address in Highbury. He’d been to Italy once, France twice and Holland on a day trip from Harwich. The photo had the usual hunted look and made him look thinner.

He worked his way through the survey reports referring to various parts of the Priory in Belfast. It was all laid out simply and made perfect sense. There was also a Belfast street map, some photos of the Priory and the docks.

So far so good. He put the file in his briefcase and pulled on his raincoat, tense and slightly worked up. The door opened and Alice Tilsey came in.

‘You clever bastard,’ she said. ‘Off on leave, are we? How in the hell did you work that?’

‘For God’s sake, Alice,’ he said. ‘After a year in the Corps, I’d have thought you’d have learned when to keep your mouth shut and mind your own business.’

A look of total contrition and horror spread over her face. ‘Oh, my God, Harry, you’re going in-country, aren’t you? I’m so bloody sorry.’

‘So am I, actually,’ he said and left.

Mr Frobisher at St Mary’s Hospice in Wapping was obviously in his early seventies and looked it. Even his office seemed like something out of Dickens. He stood at a drawing table and went through documents with Harry, in the kind of faded voice that seemed to come from another time and place.

‘I produced these plans after a visit to Belfast a year ago. I thought we’d never be able to attempt the necessary work, but Monsignor Baxter’s explained that everything’s changed. We have money now. You aren’t a trained surveyor, of course. He told me he was sending you for what he termed a layman’s opinion.’

‘I’m that, all right,’ Miller said.

‘Yes, well, it’s all detailed very clearly. The cellars extend along the whole waterfront, and in places there is flooding. It’s the docks, you see.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’

‘You’re an ordinand, I understand. Monsignor Baxter said you might enter the priesthood.’

‘Perhaps,’ Miller told him. ‘I’m not certain.’

‘Belfast was not good during my visit. Bombs at night, some shooting. A godless place these days.’

‘The world we live in,’ Miller said piously.

‘I would warn you of the pub next door to the Priory, the Sailor. I had luncheon there on occasion, but didn’t like it. The people who frequented it were very offensive when they heard my English accent, particularly the landlord, an absolute lout called Kelly.’

‘I’ll remember that.’

‘Take care,’ Frobisher said, ‘and give my regards to Sister Maria Brosnan, the Mother Superior. She comes from Kerry in the Republic, a beautiful county.’

Miller left him and walked up to Wapping High Street. He happened to pass a barber’s shop, and on impulse went in and had his hair cut quite short. It emphasized his gauntness, so that he resembled the man in the passport photo more than ever.

His Savile Row suit was totally out of place, so he searched and found a downmarket men’s outfitters where he bought a single-breasted black suit, three cheap shirts and a black tie. He also invested in a shabby fawn raincoat, much to the surprise of the salesman he dealt with, as he’d gone in wearing a Burberry. Spectacles were not possible, because they would have had to be clear glass, a giveaway in the wrong situation.

He walked on, reaching the Tower of London, adjusting to thoughts of his new persona: someone of no importance, the sort of downtrodden individual who sat in the corner of some musty office, not to be taken seriously at all. Finally, he hailed a taxi and told the driver to take him to Dover Street.

When he arrived, opening the front door, Monica appeared from the kitchen at the end of the hall. ‘Guess who?’

He dropped his bags. ‘Why aren’t you at Cambridge?’

‘I decided, purely on impulse, to spend a weekend with my dear old Dad and my loving brother.’ She kissed him and pushed the bag containing the clothes with her foot. ‘What have you been buying, anything interesting?’

‘No, nothing special.’ He put the bag in the cloakroom and took off his decent trench coat. ‘Regarding the weekend, I’m afraid I’m only good for tonight. I’ll be going north on the train tomorrow.’

‘Oh, dear, where?’

‘Catterick Camp, Paratroop headquarters.’ The lies came smoothly, the deceit. He was surprised how easy it was. ‘A week at least, perhaps more. I report Sunday morning.’

She was disappointed and it showed. ‘I’ll just have to hope that Dad’s not doing anything. Come on into the kitchen. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

There is an old saying that in Belfast it rains five days out of seven and it certainly was raining on the following Monday morning when Miller went down the gangway of the overnight boat from Glasgow. He carried a canvas holdall which contained his file and the barest of necessities: pyjamas, underwear, a spare shirt and a small folding umbrella. He raised it and proceeded along the quay, in the cheap raincoat and suit, making exactly the impression he had wanted. Having examined the streetmap thoroughly, he knew where he was going and found St Mary’s Priory with no difficulty at all.

It looked out over the harbour as it had done since the late nineteenth century, he knew that from the documents in his file and because that was the period when Catholics were allowed to build churches again. It had a medieval look to it, but that was fake, and rose three stories high, with narrow stained-glass windows, some of them broken and badly repaired. It had the look of some kind of church, which the pub down the street from it didn’t. A sign swung with the breeze, a painting of a sailor from a bygone age on it wearing a faded yellow oilskin and sou’wester. A long window was etched in acid Kelly’s Select Bar. In spite of the early hour, two customers emerged, talking loudly and drunkenly, and one of them turned and urinated against the wall. It was enough, and Miller crossed the road.

The sign read: St Mary’s Priory Little Sisters of Pity. Mother Superior: Sister Maria Brosnan.

Miller pushed open the great oaken door and went in. A young nun was at a reception desk sorting some sort of register. A large notice promised soup and bread in the kitchen at noon. There was also a supper in the canteen at six. There were times for Mass in the chapel noted and also for Confession. These matters were in the hands of a Father Martin Sharkey.

‘Can I help you?’ the young nun asked.

‘My name is Blunt, Mark Blunt. I’m from London. I believe the Mother Superior is expecting me.’

The girl sparkled. ‘You’re from Wapping? I’m Sister Bridget. I did my novitiate there last year. How is the Mother Superior?’

Miller’s hard work reading the files paid off. ‘Oh, you mean Sister Mary Michael? She’s well, I believe, but I’m working out of Monsignor Baxter’s office at the Bishop’s Palace.’

A door to the panelled wall at one side of her, labelled Sacristy, had been standing ajar, and now it opened and a priest in a black cassock stepped out.

‘Do you have to bother the boy with idle chatter, Bridget, my love, when it’s the Mother Superior he’s needing?’

She was slightly confused. ‘I’m sorry, Father.’

He was a small man, fair-haired, with a lively intelligent face alive with good humour. ‘You’ll be the young man with the plans for the improvements we’ve been waiting for, Mr Blunt, isn’t it?’

‘Mark Blunt.’ He held out his hand and the priest took it.

‘Martin Sharkey. You know what women are like, all agog at the thought that the old place is going to be finally put to rights.’ There was only a hint of an Ulster accent in his voice, which was fluent and quite vibrant in a way. ‘I’m in and out of the place at the moment, but if there’s anything I can do, let me know. You’ll find the lady you seek through the end door there which leads to the chapel.’ He turned and went back into the sacristy.

The chapel was everything Miller expected. Incense, candles and the Holy Water, the Virgin and Child floating in semidarkness, the confessional boxes to one side, the altar with the sanctuary lamp. Sister Maria Brosnan was on her knees scrubbing the floor. To perform such a basic task was to remind her to show proper humility. She stopped and glanced up.

‘Mark Blunt, Sister.’

‘Of course.’ She smiled, a small woman with a contented face. ‘You must excuse me. I have a weakness for pride. I need to remind myself on a daily basis.’

She put the brush and a cloth in her bucket, he gave her his hand and pulled her up. ‘I was talking to Mr Frobisher the other day. He asked to be remembered to you.’

‘A good and kind man. He saw what was needed here a year ago and doubted the order could find the money.’ She led the way into the darkness, opened a door to reveal a very ordered office, a desk, but also a bed in the corner. ‘But all that has changed, thanks to Monsignor Baxter in London. It’s wonderful for all of us that the money has been made available.’

‘As always, it oils the wheels.’

She went behind her desk, saying, ‘Take a seat for a moment,’ which he did. ‘As I understand it, you will examine everything referring to Mr Frobisher’s original findings and report back to Monsignor Baxter?’

‘That’s it exactly, but let me stress that I don’t think you have the slightest need to worry. There is a very firm intention to proceed. I just need a few days to check things out. I understand I can stay here?’

‘Absolutely. I’ll show you around now.’

‘I met Father Sharkey on my way in,’ Miller told her.

‘A great man, a Jesuit no less.’

‘Soldier of Christ.’

‘Of course. We are fortunate to have him. Father Murphy, our regular priest was struck down the other week with pneumonia. The diocese managed to find Father Sharkey for us. He was due at the English College at the Vatican, a great scholar, I understand, but he’s helping out until Father Murphy is fit again. Now let’s do the grand tour.’

She showed him everything, starting with the top floor, where there was dormitory space for twenty nuns, the second floor with specialist accommodation for nursing cases of one kind or another, a theatre for medical attention. There were half a dozen patients, nuns in attendance.

‘Do you get people in and out on a regular basis?’

‘Of course – we are, after all, a nursing order. Five of the people on this floor have cancer of one kind or another. I’m a doctor, didn’t you know that?’

All Miller could do was say, ‘Actually, I didn’t. Sorry.’

The doors stood open for easy access, and a couple of the nuns moved serenely in and out offering help as it was needed. Some patients were draped in a festoon of needles and tubes, drips of one kind or another. Sister Maria Brosnan murmured a few words of comfort as she passed. The end room had a man in a wheelchair, and what appeared to be plaster of Paris supporting his head, a strip of bandaging covering his left eye. He was drinking through a straw from a plastic container of orange juice.

‘Now then, Mr Fallon, you’re doing well, but try a little walk. It will strengthen you.’

His reply was garbled and they moved to the next room, where a woman, looking pale as death, lay propped up against a pillow, eyes closed. Sister Maria Brosnan stroked her forehead and the woman’s tired eyes opened.

‘You’re very good to me,’ she whispered.

‘Go to sleep, dear, don’t resist it.’

They walked out. Miller said, ‘She’s dying, isn’t she?’

‘Oh, yes, and very soon now. Each is different. A time comes when radiotherapy and drugs have done their best and failed. To ease the patient’s journey into the next world then becomes one of our most important duties.’

‘And Fallon?’

‘He’s different. According to his notes, he has a cancer biting deep into the left eye and it also affects his speech. He’s only been with us for two days, waiting for a bed at the Ardmore Institute. You see, radiotherapy is beyond our powers here. Up at Ardmore, they do wonderful things.’

‘So there could still be hope for him?’

‘Young man, there is hope for all of us. God willing. With cancer, I’ve seen total remission in my time, in some cases.’

‘A miracle?’ Miller said.

‘Perhaps, Mr Blunt.’ Her simple faith shone out of her. ‘Our Lord performed them.’

They were on the ground floor: kitchens, canteen, a dormitory for twenty-five, with a divider, women one side, men the other.

‘Street people. They queue to get a bed for the night.’

‘Amazing,’ Miller said. ‘You really do good work.’

‘I like to think so.’ They were back in the entrance hall, Bridget at her desk.

She produced a parcel. There was a bright painted label which read Glover Hi-Speed Deliveries.

‘For you, Mr Blunt,’ she said. ‘A young man on a motorcycle – I had to sign for it.’

Miller took it and managed to smile, ‘Something I needed to help me in my work,’ he said to the Mother Superior.

She accepted that. ‘Just come this way.’ He followed her towards the chapel entrance, and she turned into a short corridor with a door that said Washroom and two doors opposite.

‘Father Sharkey has one room, now you, the other.’ She turned the key in the door and opened it. There was a locker, a desk and a small bed in the corner.

‘This will be fine,’ Miller told her.

‘Good. Obviously, you’re free to go anywhere you want. If you need me, just call. One thing, do keep your room locked. Some of our guests can be light-fingered.’

She went out. Miller locked the door, sat on the bed and tore open the package. Inside in a cardboard box was a soft leather ankle holder, a Colt .25 with a silencer and a box containing twenty hollow-point cartridges, a lethal package if ever there was one. There was no message, the name Glover Hi-Speed Deliveries

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