Jack Higgins - Rough Justice

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.’