Читать книгу Rough Justice - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 14

There was a hint of sleet in the rain falling in Moscow as Max Chekov’s limousine transported him from his hotel to the Kremlin. It was a miserable day, and to be perfectly frank, he’d have preferred to have stayed in Monaco, where one of the best clinics in Europe had been providing him with essential therapy to his seriously damaged left leg. But when you received a call demanding your appearance at the Kremlin from General Ivan Volkov, the personal security adviser to the President of the Russian Federation, you hardly said no.

The limousine swept past the massive entrance to the Kremlin, and negotiated the side streets and checkpoints until they reached an obscure rear entrance. Chekov got out and mounted a flight of stone steps with some difficulty, making heavy use of the walking stick in his left hand. His approach was obviously under scrutiny, for the door opened just before he reached it.

A tough-looking young man in the uniform of a lieutenant in the GRU greeted him. ‘Do you require assistance?’

‘I’m all right if we stay on the ground floor.’

‘We will. Follow me.’

Chekov stumped after him along a series of incredibly quiet, dull corridors that seemed to stretch into infinity and then his guide opened a door leading to a much more ornate passageway lined with paintings and antiques. At the far end, a burly man in a dark suit, his head shaven, sat outside a door, a machine pistol across his knees. The GRU officer ignored him, opened the door and motioned Chekov inside.

Chekov moved past him and the door closed behind. The room was fantastic, decorated in a kind of seventeenth-century French style, beautiful paintings everywhere, a superb carpet on the floor, and a marble fireplace, with what at least looked like a real fire. There was a desk, three chairs in front of it and General Ivan Volkov behind it. There was nothing military about him at all. In his sixties with thinning hair, wearing a neat dark blue suit, and conservative tie, he could have been the manager of some bank branch, not one of the most powerful men in the Russian Federation.

He wore old-fashioned wire spectacles and removed them as he glanced up. ‘My dear Chekov.’ His voice was curiously soft. ‘It’s good to see you on your feet again.’

‘Only just, Comrade General.’ Chekov stuck to the old titles still popular with older party members. It was better to be safe than sorry. ‘May I sit down?’

‘Of course.’ Chekov settled himself. ‘Your stay in Monaco has been beneficial?’

‘I’m better than I was.’ Chekov decided to bite the bullet. ‘May I ask why I’m here, Comrade?’

‘The President has expressed an interest in your personal welfare.’

Such news filled Chekov with a certain foreboding but he forced a smile. ‘I’m naturally touched.’

‘Good, you can tell him yourself.’ Volkov glanced at his watch. ‘I anticipate his arrival in approximately two minutes.’

Chekov waited in some trepidation, and was thrown when a secret door in the panelled wall behind Volkov’s desk swung open and President Putin walked in. He was in a tracksuit, a white towel around his neck. Chekov struggled to his feet.

‘My dear Chekov, good to see you up and about again. You must excuse my appearance, but I look upon my gym time as the most important hour in the day.’

‘Comrade President,’ Chekov gabbled. ‘So wonderful to see you.’

‘Sit down, man,’ Putin urged him and sat on the edge of Volkov’s desk. ‘So, they’ve saved the leg and the word is you’re almost as good as new.’

Volkov put in, ‘Which must confound that animal, this London gangster, Harry Salter, who ordered the shooting.’

‘I must say General Charles Ferguson employs some unlikely help.’ Putin smiled. ‘Perhaps he’s getting hard up for the right kind of people these days. Afghanistan must be taking its toll. So, Chekov, you’re ready to get back to work? I’m delighted to hear it.’

As it was the first thing Chekov had heard on the matter, he made the mistake of hesitating. ‘Well, I’m not sure about that, Comrade President.’

‘Nonsense. You must get back in the saddle. Best thing for you! Besides, you have that wonderful apartment in London going to waste. And as the CEO of Belov International, you have a lot of responsibilities to the company – and to us.’

‘Responsibilities that I’ve had to take care of while you’ve been recovering,’ Volkov pointed out.

‘Which obviously can’t go on,’ Putin said. ‘I suggest you move back within the next few days. Any further therapy you need can obviously be found in London. Once established, you will ease yourself back in harness and liaise with General Volkov.’

Chekov didn’t even try to resist. ‘Of course, Comrade President.’

As if by magic, the door by which Chekov had entered opened again, revealing the GRU lieutenant. Chekov understood that he was being dismissed. As he stood up again, Volkov said, ‘One more thing. I know you’re angry about being shot. But I don’t want you going off on any personal revenge mission against Salter or Ferguson’s people when you get back. That’s our job. They’ll be taken care of eventually.’

‘I hope so,’ Chekov said with some feeling, and went out.

Putin turned to Volkov. ‘Keep an eye on him, Volkov. He’s all right for now, but he strikes me as a weak link. Just like those traitors we lost: Igor Levin, a decorated war hero, of all things, a captain in the GRU; Major Greta Novikova; even this Sergeant Chomsky of the GRU. I still can’t understand what happened with them. What are the British doing with them?’

‘Our people at the London Embassy inform me that all three have been transferred for the moment to teach a total immersion course in Russian to agents of MI6. Ferguson was reluctant to let them, but Simon Carter, Deputy Director of the Security Services, persuaded the Prime Minister to order it.’

‘Did he indeed?’ Putin’s smile was enigmatic. ‘Well, much good it’ll do them. So, Ivan, anything else? Otherwise, I’ll get to the gym.’

‘As a matter of fact, there is, Comrade President. An unfortunate incident has just taken place in Kosovo, involving the death of an officer commanding a special ops patrol from the Fifteenth Siberian Storm Guards…’

When he was finished, Putin sat there, thinking. Finally, he said, ‘You are absolutely certain it was this Miller, no possibility of error?’

‘He announced his identity when he challenged Captain Zorin. Zorin’s sergeant confirms it.’

‘And you can definitely confirm the other man was Blake Johnson?’

‘The sergeant heard Miller call him Blake, and people on the ground traced the inn where they’d spent the previous night. The landlord had taken their passport details. He told our people that they didn’t arrive together, but seemed to meet by chance.’

‘That doesn’t sound too plausible.’ Putin shook his head. ‘Blake Johnson, the President’s man.’

‘And Harry Miller, the Prime Minister’s. What do we do?’

‘Nothing. Zorin’s unit wasn’t supposed to be there and so we can’t very well complain, and if anybody says they were there, we’d have to strenuously deny it. I don’t think we need to worry about the wretched Muslim peasants in those parts. They’ll keep their heads down. And as for the US and Britain, their attitude will be the same as mine. It’s not worth World War Three.’

‘A pity about Zorin. He was a good man, decorated in Chechnya. His mother is a widow in poor health, but his uncle…’ here Volkov looked at his papers ‘…is Sergei Zorin. Investment companies in Geneva, Paris and London. What do I do about him?’

‘Just explain to him that for the good of the State we can’t take it further. As for the mother, say Zorin was killed in action, died valiantly, the usual nonsense. Tell her we’ll arrange a splendid funeral. And make sure the regimental commander confirms our story.’

He stood. ‘We should do something about Miller, though. Are you still in contact with this mystery man of yours, the Broker?’

‘Our link with Osama? Certainly.’

‘You might want to give him a call.’ And he left.

An excellent idea, Volkov thought. He dialled a coded number and had a quick conversation. Then he phoned Colonel Bagirova of the Fifteenth Siberians and gave him his orders, which left him with Sergei Zorin. He phoned the great man’s office and was informed that he couldn’t possibly see anyone else that day, his appointment book was full. Volkov didn’t argue, simply told the secretary to inform Zorin that President Putin’s chief security adviser expected to meet him at the Troika restaurant in forty-five minutes, and put the phone down.

Sergei Zorin was already there when Volkov arrived, and squirming like all of them, frightened to death that he’d done something wrong. ‘General Volkov, such an honour. Unfortunately, the headwaiter says they don’t have a table available, only stools at the bar.’

‘Really.’ Volkov turned as the individual concerned approached in total panic.

‘General Volkov – please. I had no idea you were joining us today.’

‘Neither had I. We’ll sit by the window. Caviar and all that goes with it and your very finest vodka.’

They were seated at the necessary table, Zorin terrified. Volkov said, ‘Calm yourself, my friend. People always treat me like Death in a black hood, like something from a Bergman film, but I can assure you that you are guilty of nothing.’ The vodka arrived in pointed glasses stuck in crushed ice. ‘Drink up and then another. You’re going to need it. The news is not good, but you will have the satisfaction of knowing you have been part of something that has served Mother Russia well.’

Zorin looked bewildered. ‘But what would that be?’

‘Your nephew, Captain Igor Zorin, has died in action while taking part in a highly dangerous and most secret covert operation. I had the unhappy duty of conveying this news to our President a short while ago. He sends his condolences.’

‘Oh, my God.’ Zorin tossed back the vodka, then poured another. But was that a certain relief on his face? Yes, thought Volkov. ‘What terrible news. When did this happen?’

‘Within the last few days. His body is already here in Moscow at the military morgue.’

‘Where did it happen?’

‘I’m afraid I cannot divulge that information. However, he died honourably, I can assure you of that. There may even be another medal.’

‘That won’t help my sister. She’s been widowed for years and her health isn’t good.’ The caviar arrived and more vodka.

‘Try some of this. A man must live, my friend.’ Volkov spooned some of the caviar himself. ‘Your sister is here in town at the moment?’

‘Yes, she lives alone with her maid.’

‘Would you like me to be with you when you go to see her?’

The relief on Zorin’s face was even greater. ‘That would be too much to expect, General.’

‘Nonsense, I’m happy to do it. Now eat up. It will do you good. Then you can take me to your sister’s house and we’ll break the bad news.’

Zorin was pathetically grateful, strange when you considered his stature, and yet dealing with such a wealthy man gave Volkov no problem at all. The oligarchs, the billionaires, those Russians who preferred the delights of English public schools for their children and townhouses in Mayfair for their residences still had enough to contend with back in Moscow. In the old days, the KGB had kept Russians of every level in line, and now it was the FSB, Putin’s old outfit. Putin was hugely popular as President – which meant that he, Ivan Volkov, didn’t need to be. Fear was enough.

The Zorin apartment was in a grand old block with views over the river and looked as if it hailed from Tsarist times. The bell echoed hollowly and the door was opened by an old woman who answered to Tasha, dressed in a peasant blouse and long skirt, grim and rather forbidding, her hair bound by a scarf, her face like a stone.

‘Where is she?’ Zorin demanded.

‘In the parlour,’ she said, and with the privilege of an old servant asked, ‘Forgive me, but is this bad news?’

‘It couldn’t be worse. This is General Volkov from the President himself to tell us of her son’s glorious death in action against our country’s enemies.’

His sense of theatre was poorly received. She glanced at Volkov briefly, obviously not particularly impressed, but then she looked as if she had lived forever. She had probably been born during the Great Patriotic War, the kind of woman who had seen it all.

‘I will speak to her first,’ she said. ‘If you gentlemen would wait here.’

Simple, direct, it brooked no denial. She opened a mahogany door with a gold handle, went in and closed it behind her. Zorin shifted from foot to foot, very uncomfortable.

‘She’s very direct, Tasha,’ he said. ‘Peasant stock from the family estate.’

‘So I can see.’ There was a dreadful keening from inside the room, a wailing that was quite disturbing, followed by sobbing. After a while, Tasha opened the door. ‘She will see you now, both of you.’

They entered, and Volkov found himself in a room that was a time capsule from another age: tall French windows to a terrace outside, a distant view of the river, old-fashioned mahogany furniture, wallpaper with paintings of rare birds, an Indian carpet, the grand piano covered with family photos. There were green velvet curtains, a musty smell to everything. It was as if nothing had changed since the nineteen twenties, and even the clothes that the broken-hearted mother wore seemed antique.

She was sitting in a chair clutching a photo in a silver frame, her hair bound with a gold scarf, and Zorin embraced her.

‘Now then, Olga, you mustn’t fret. He wanted only to be a soldier since his youth, no one knows that better than you. See, look who I have brought you. General Ivan Volkov, with words from President Putin himself extolling the bravery of Igor.’

She stared vacantly at Volkov, who said, ‘He died for the Motherland. There’s talk of a medal.’

She shook her head, bewildered. ‘A medal? He’s got medals. I don’t understand. Where are we at war?’ She clutched at Zorin. ‘Where was he killed?’

Volkov said, ‘On a mission of the greatest importance to the State, that’s all I can say. You may remember him with pride.’

She held up the photo of Igor Zorin in a bemedalled uniform, and Volkov took in the handsome face, the arrogance, the look of cruelty, and then she seemed to come to life.

‘That’s no good to me, General. I want my son alive again and he’s dead. It’s turned my heart to stone already.’

She burst into a torrent of weeping. Tasha held her close and nodded to Zorin and Volkov. ‘Go now,’ she said. ‘I’ll see to her.’

They did as they were told, went out into the street and paused beside their two limousines.

‘I can’t thank you enough for coming with me,’ Zorin said.

‘When I spoke to Colonel Bagirova of the Fifteenth Siberians, we agreed on the day after tomorrow for the funeral, ten o’clock in the morning, the Minsky Park Military Cemetery, so your nephew will be laid to rest with some of Russia’s finest soldiers. We will see what we can do about the medal. I can certainly promise a letter with Putin’s name on it.’

‘I doubt whether even that will cheer her.’ Zorin got in his limousine and was driven away.

‘Just another day at the office,’ Volkov murmured, got into his own limousine and was driven back to the Kremlin.

The funeral at Minsky Park was all that could be desired. There was a company of soldiers from the Fifteenth Siberian’s training camp outside Moscow, plenty of mourners in black, family and friends. The coffin was delivered on a gun carriage, lowered into the prepared grave, and twenty soldiers delivered the correct volley as ordered at Colonel Bagirova’s shouted command.

Olga Zorin stood with her brother, a few relatives behind, Tasha on the end of a line. Zorin held the umbrella, his sister sobbed, the regimental bugler played a final salute. Volkov stood some distance away wearing a military coat of finest leather and a black fedora, an umbrella over his head. The crowd dispersed to their various cars and Zorin came towards him.

‘It was good of you to come. The family are very grateful.’

Volkov, who had observed the furtive glances coming his way, smiled. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think they’re more worried than anything else. This coat always makes me look as if the Gestapo actually got to Moscow.’

Zorin obviously couldn’t handle such levity. ‘The reception is at the Grand. You’re very welcome.’

‘Duty calls, I’m afraid, you must make my excuses.’

‘The letter from the President, which came yesterday, was a great comfort to her after all.’

‘Yes, it was intended to be.’ In truth, he’d signed it himself, but that was no matter.

Olga Zorin sobbed as relatives helped her into the back seat of one of the funeral cars and Tasha followed her.

‘A mother’s love,’ Zorin said piously. ‘I’m a widower with no children, you know. Igor was my only heir.’

‘Well, he isn’t now,’ Volkov said brutally. ‘You’ll get over it. We know what you oligarchs get up to in London. That bar at the Dorchester, the delights of Mayfair, the ladies of the night. Oh, you’ll cheer yourself up in no time.’

He walked away smiling, leaving Zorin with his mouth gaping.

Shortly after his return from America, Ferguson received a call to visit the Prime Minister, where they discussed Miller and the Kosovo affair at length.

‘So what do you think, Charles?’

‘I’ve no quarrel with Miller’s actions regarding Zorin. But I’ll be frank with you, Prime Minister, I thought I knew him and I find I didn’t. The stuff he was engaged in all those years, Titan and Unit 16. Remarkable.’

‘Especially when you consider that even people as knowledgeable as you had no idea. No, I’m very impressed with Harry Miller.’ He got up and paced around. ‘Miller has done many excellent things for me, great on-the-ground reporting. He has a brilliant eye and a gift for a tactical approach to difficult situations. You’d find him very useful, Charles.’

Ferguson could see how things were going. ‘Are you saying you think we should get together?’

‘Yes. I know there’s always been a fine line between what you do and his more political approach.’

‘And the fact that the two might clash,’ Ferguson said.

‘Yes, but I believe Harry Miller is a kind of hybrid, a mixture of the two.’

‘I’ve no argument with that. So what are your orders?’

‘To get together and sort things out, Charles.’ The Prime Minister shook his head. ‘What a world. Fear, uncertainty, chaos. It’s a war in itself. So let’s try and do something about it.’

The following day, Roper had Doyle drive him down to the Dark Man on Cable Wharf in Wapping, the first pub Harry Salter had owned and one still dear to his heart. When they arrived, Doyle parked the van and extracted Roper from the rear, using the lift, and they went inside.

Harry Salter and his nephew, Billy, were at the table in the corner booth, his two minders, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, having a beer at the bar. Ruby Moon served drinks and Mary O’Toole beside her handled food orders from the kitchen. Roper joined the table and nodded to Ruby, who immediately sent him a large Scotch by way of Joe Baxter.

Harry Salter and Billy were reading a file between them. Roper said, ‘Is that the stuff I sent you on Miller?’

‘It certainly is,’ Harry said. ‘Where have they been keeping this guy all these years?’

‘In plain sight,’ Billy told him. ‘He’s been around. We just didn’t know the other side of him.’

Harry, a gangster most of his life, said to his nephew, ‘And what an other side. His past is incredible.’

‘I wouldn’t argue with that.’ As Billy leaned over, his jacket gaped, revealing a shoulder holster and the butt of a Walther PPK.

‘I’ve told you before,’ his uncle said. ‘A shooter under your arm when we’re about to have our lunch – is that necessary? I mean, there are ladies present.’

‘God bless you, Harry,’ Ruby called.

‘As an agent in Her Majesty’s Secret Service, I’m licensed to use it, Harry, and in this wicked world we live in, you never know when.’

‘Give it a rest, Billy,’ Harry told him and Ferguson walked in. ‘Thank God, it’s you, General, perhaps we can have some sanity round here. Where’s Dillon?’

‘He got a call last night from Levin, down at Kingsmere Hall. They’ve asked Dillon to give them a day for some reason. He’ll be back this evening.’

At that moment, a man walked in behind him. A light navy blue raincoat hung from his shoulders, over a smart suit of the same colour, a white shirt and regimental tie.

‘I had to park by the river,’ he told Ferguson. ‘Had to run for it.’ He slipped off the raincoat. ‘It’s started to pour.’

That his suit was Savile Row stood out a mile. There was a small silence and Harry said, ‘Who’s this?’

‘Sorry,’ Ferguson told him. ‘I’m forgetting my manners. Meet Major Harry Miller. You could be seeing him from time to time in the future. He’s thinking of joining us.’

The silence was total. It was Billy who said, ‘Now that’s a show stopper if ever I heard one.’ He stood up and held out his hand.

There was only a certain amount of truth in what Ferguson had said. He’d spoken to the Major as the Prime Minister had asked him, and Miller in his turn had had his orders from the great man, which he’d accepted with some reluctance. On the other hand, after looking at the file Ferguson had given him, with details of his unit’s activities and personnel, he’d warmed to the idea.

‘A drink, Major?’ Harry asked. ‘Best pint of beer in London.’

‘Scotch and water,’ Miller said.

‘A man after my own heart,’ Roper told him, and called to Ruby, ‘Another here, love, for Major Miller, and a repeat for me.’

Billy said to Ferguson, ‘So what’s Dillon doing at Kingsmere? I know he speaks Russian, but Levin, Greta and Chomsky are the real thing.’

‘Maybe they’re supposed to be encouraged by how well Dillon copes with the language,’ Roper said. ‘After all, he is still a Belfast boy at heart.’

‘Anyway, Simon Carter sanctioned it, and I wasn’t about to argue it,’ Ferguson said.

Miller surprised them all by saying, ‘You have to understand his logic. All Irish are bogtrotters, with faces like dogs and broken boots. By displaying Dillon with his Russian ability, his argument probably runs something like: If this animal can do it, so can you.’

‘Jesus, Major, that’s really putting the boot in old Carter.’

‘Who isn’t popular in our society,’ Roper told him. ‘And he loathes Dillon.’

‘Why, particularly?’

‘It goes a long way back, to when John Major was PM. Major was hosting an affair on the terrace of the House of Commons for President Clinton, and Simon Carter was responsible for security. Dillon told Carter the security was crap, and he laid a bet that no matter what Carter did, sometime during the affair he would appear on the terrace, dressed as a waiter, and serve the two great men canapés.’

‘And did he?’

It was Ferguson who said, ‘Yes. He got in from the river. Harry and Billy dropped him off overnight in a wet suit.’

‘Me being the biggest expert in London on the Thames,’ Harry said modestly. ‘You’ve got to get the tide just right, and the current can be a killer.’

‘President Clinton was very amused,’ Ferguson said.

‘But Simon Carter wasn’t.’ That was Miller.

‘No,’ Roper laughed. ‘Hates him beyond reason, perhaps because Dillon is what Carter can never be.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Carter is the ultimate desk man,’ Ferguson put in. ‘He’s never been in the field in his life. Sean is someone quite beyond his understanding. He will kill at the drop of a hat if he thinks it’s necessary.’

‘And on the other side of his coin, he has an enormous flair for languages; a scholar and poet by inclination,’ Harry said. ‘Plays great piano, if you like Cole Porter, and flies a plane.’

‘And don’t forget, a bloody good actor in his day,’ Roper said. ‘A student at RADA, even performed with the National Theatre.’

‘And gave it all up, as he once said to me,’ Ferguson put in, ‘for the theatre of the street.’

Miller nodded, a strange alertness there. ‘Is that what he said?’

‘I remember it well. We have what you might call a special relationship. At a stage when he was no longer with the IRA, I was responsible for him ending up in the hands of Serbs and facing the possibility of a firing squad.’

‘And what was the alternative?’

‘A little judicious blackmail led him to work for me.’ Ferguson shrugged. ‘It’s the name of the game, but then no one knows that better than you.’

Miller smiled. ‘If you say so. I look forward to meeting him.’

‘He’s often found at the Holland Park safe house. You’re welcome there any time.’

‘I look forward to it.’

Harry Salter interrupted, ‘That’s enough chat. We’ve got some of the best pub grub in London here, so let’s get started.’

Later in the afternoon, Miller looked in at Dover Street and found his wife preparing for the evening performance. She was in the kitchen in a terrycloth robe, her hair up, preparing cucumber sandwiches, her personal fetish and absolute good-luck charm before every performance. He stole one and she admonished him.

‘Don’t you dare.’ The kettle boiled and she made green tea. ‘I’m going for my bath after this. Are you looking in on the show tonight? You don’t need to, I don’t expect you to be there every night, Harry. And anyway, I’m having a drink with the cast afterwards.’

‘I should check in at Westminster. There’s a foreign policy debate and I do have things to do. The PM’s asked me to interest myself in General Charles Ferguson’s security unit, just as an adviser.’

‘Oh, I didn’t tell you! I came home on the tube last night, and something truly strange happened.’

‘What was it?’

‘It was reasonably busy, quite a few people, and this man got on, a real thug and horribly drunk. He started working his way along, leering at women and putting his arm about one or two of the young ones. Of course, everybody, including the men, buried themselves in books and newspapers, or looked the other way.’

Miller felt anger stirring inside. ‘Did he bother you?’

‘I think he was going to, because he looked at me and started forward, but then he was distracted by a terribly young girl, and he went over and put his arm round her, and she was crying and struggling.’

‘What happened?’

‘There was a young black man who’d been reading an Evening Standard. He wore a raincoat over a very nice suit, gold-rimmed glasses. He looked like an office worker. He suddenly sort of rolled up the newspaper, then doubled it. He got up, holding it in his right hand and tapped the drunk on the shoulder. He said: Excuse me, she doesn’t like you. And you’ve no idea what happened next.’

‘Yes, I have. When you do that with a newspaper, it becomes brick-hard, like a weapon. I should imagine he rammed it up under the drunk’s chin.’

She was amazed. ‘How on earth did you know that? He went down like a stone and lay there vomiting. The train came into the station a few minutes later and we all got off and left him.’

‘And the young man?’

‘He smiled at me, Harry, and said, I’ve already seen Private Lives, Miss Hunt, you were wonderful. Sorry about what just happened. What terrible times we live in. And then he just walked off and disappeared up the escalator. But how did you know about the newspaper trick?’

He shrugged. ‘Someone told me once. Have a great performance, darling.’ And he went out the door. Olivia’s eyes followed him as he left.

At Westminster, he parked the Mini in the underground car park, walked up to his office and found far more paperwork than he had expected. Two hours flew by, then he went into the Chamber and took his usual seat on the end of one of the aisles. The debate concerned the secondment of British troops to Darfur to back up the United Nations force. It was difficult, with Afghanistan still a drain on military forces. As usual at that time in the evening, the Chamber was barely a quarter full. Still, it was always useful to hear informed opinion, and if Miller had learned anything about politics in his four years as an MP, it was that these sparsely attended evening debates were often attended by people who took their politics seriously.

He finally left, dropped in at a nearby restaurant and had a simple meal, fish pie and a salad with sparkling water. By the time he got back to the underground car park, it was nine thirty.

He drove out and up the slope between the walls, and as always it made him remember Airey Neave, the first Englishman to escape from Colditz in World War II – a decorated war hero, and another casualty of the Irish Troubles, who had met his end driving out of this very car park, the victim of a car bomb from the Irish National Liberation Army, the same organization which had taken care of Mountbatten and members of his family.

‘What a world,’ Miller said softly, as he moved into the road and paused, uncertain where to go. Olivia wouldn’t be home yet and she was having a drink with the cast, so what to do? And then he remembered Ferguson’s invitation for him to familiarize himself with the Holland Park safe house.

It looked more like a private nursing home or some similar establishment, but his practised eye noted the electronics on the high wall – certain to give any intruder a shock requiring medical attention – the massive security gates, the cameras.

He wound down the window and pressed the button on the camera entry post. Sergeant Henderson was on duty and his voice was calm and remote, obviously following procedure.

‘Who is it?’

‘Major Harry Miller, on General Charles Ferguson’s invitation.’

The gates opened in slow motion and he passed inside. Henderson came down the entrance door steps.

‘Sergeant Luther Henderson, Royal Military Police. You’ve already been placed on our regular roster. A pleasure to meet you, sir. If you’d like to get out, I’ll park the Mini. General Ferguson isn’t with us this evening, and Major Roper’s having a shower in the wet room.’

‘The wet room? What’s that?’

‘Special facilities, non-slip floor, seats on the walls that turn down. The Major has to take his shower that way. A car bomb left him in a very bad way, nearly every bone in his body broken, his skull, spine and pelvis all fractured. It’s a miracle he still has two arms and legs.’

‘Incredible,’ Miller said.

‘The bravest man I ever knew, sir, and his brain still works like he was Einstein. Straight through the entrance, armoured door last on the left, and you’re in the computer room. I’ll let the Major know you’re here. He’ll be along in a while, but you’ll find Mr Dillon in the computer room having a drink. He’ll look after you, sir.’

He got in the Mini and drove away round the corner, Miller went up the steps and along the corridor, paused at the armoured door and opened it.

Dillon was sitting in one of the swivel chairs in front of the screens, a glass in his right hand. He turned to look and Miller said, ‘You’re Sean Dillon, I believe. I’m Harry Miller.’ Dillon had been smiling slightly, but now he looked puzzled, and shook hands.

‘I know all about you,’ he said. ‘Quite a file.’

‘Well, your own reputation certainly goes before you.’

Dillon said, ‘I was thinking about you, actually. Have a look at this. It was on Moscow television.’

He pressed a button and there was Minsky Park Military Cemetery, and Igor Zorin’s funeral. ‘See the one at the back in the black leather coat and black fedora? That’s President Putin’s favourite security advisor, General Ivan Volkov.’

‘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?’