Jack Higgins - Rough Justice

‘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?’

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.’