Читать книгу Rough Justice - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 12

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.