Jack Higgins: Rough Justice

‘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.

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.’