Jack Higgins: Rough Justice

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.’