Rough Justice (12 page)

“Stay there, my darling, and don’t tell a soul.”

“But what are you going to do?”

“As a priest, I would say I’m about God’s work, but all is not what it seems.”

He hurried out, through into the chapel, got the door open to the crypt, found the lantern, and descended.

 
 
MILLER,
forced down the stairs, found Dolan waiting at the open door at the bottom, holding a Browning. He slapped Miller across the face and shoved him into the cellar where Kelly waited by the table. Ryan entered, tearing at his face, ripping away the bandages and plaster of Paris. “Christ, am I glad to be rid of that stuff. It’s been hell. Sit him down.”

He removed his raincoat and took out a cloth bundle and unwrapped it, revealing bolt cutters and a pair of pliers. He sat opposite Miller, such an ordinary-looking little man who was, in fact, a monster. There was still the sickly-sweet smell to him.

Miller flinched in spite of himself, and Ryan said, “You like the way I smell? I didn’t. The wrong kind of perfume, but it was essential, you see, to smell that way That’s what I told the Paki doctor I used to prepare my file and the medical notes. Everything had to be right, and it even fooled the Mother Superior. The truly good are so easy.”

“The doctor? You killed him?” Miller said.

“Now, how would you be knowing that? You’re quite right. He ended up in a canning factory in South Armagh.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he, after being stupid enough to trust a creature like you.”

He leaned on the table on his left arm and eased down his right hand, trying to find the butt of the Colt. Ryan said cheerfully, “There’s the bolt cutter, they’re for fingers, then the pliers for fingernails. You can take your choice. Hold his arms, boys,” and Dolan and Flannery did, which was exactly the moment that Sharkey, having eased back the bolts on the other side of the door, hurled it open and came through, the Walther extended.

He shot Dolan in the side of the head and Kelly in the throat, and as the hands slipped from him, Miller found the Colt, pulled it out of the ankle holster, and shot Ryan between the eyes, the hollow-point bullet penetrating the skull so that the back disintegrated and the force hurled Ryan backward in his chair. Flannery turned in a panic, making for the door, and Sharkey shot him twice in the back, then leaned over to Kelly, who was choking, and finished him off with a head shot. The silenced weapons had made only the usual muted sounds, but suddenly through the ceiling there was the sound of stamping feet and shouted commands.

“Would you happen to know who that would be?” Sharkey demanded.

“SAS retrieval squad. They might have expected to find me dead.”

“Well, you’re not, and as I just saved your life, you owe me, so let’s get out of here.”

He turned and went through the door, and Miller went after him and shot the bolts. They started through toward the crypt. “They’re bound to hit the priory—they knew I was there.”

Sharkey turned, holding the lantern. “You can go that way if you want, and no hard feelings, but I’ve got my own exit.”

He turned to the far corner, where it was dark and wet. There was an old Victorian manhole cover, and when he removed it, the smell was powerful and yet Miller made an instant decision.

“I’m with you.”

“Then down you go.”

Miller descended a steel ladder and Sharkey followed, pulling the manhole cover over his head. Miller found the tunnel so small he had to crouch, but emerged on the bank of a large tunnel, a brown stream coursing through it.

“The main sewer,” Sharkey told him. “Don’t worry, we’ll pass right through all the Protestant shit from the Shankhill and come up in the Ardoyne.”

They emerged some time later behind a wall on a factory yard. It was still raining, and fog crouched at the end of the street.

“Quite a show,” Miller said. “How did all that happen?”

“It was dear little Bridget. She saw Ryan and Flannery lift you, heard everything.”

“God bless her indeed. Where are we?”

“The Ardoyne, all friends here.”

“You mean your kind of friends?”

“And who would that be?”

“Oh, the sort of people who found Liam Ryan a bad advertisement for the Republican movement, and a chief of staff who called in a top enforcer to take care of things.”

“And that would be me?”

“Well, you’re no priest, that’s for sure, but you gave a good performance as one.”

“Funny you should say that. I used to be an actor, then I gave it up for the theater of the street when the Troubles started.”

“No chance of your name?”

“Which one? It certainly isn’t Martin Sharkey, any more than yours is Mark Blunt. Who are you with?”

“Intelligence Corps.”

“I didn’t think you were SAS. Too clever by half. Turn round, walk straight down two hundred yards, and you’ll find the main road into the town center if you’re lucky. I’m away now. One piece of advice. Make sure you’re playing the game in future and it isn’t playing you.”

He walked away, and so did Miller. After a while, he turned to look, but there was no sign of the man he’d known as Martin Sharkey, only the fog at the end of the street. It was as if he’d never been.

6

THE MEETING IN THE PRIME MINISTER’S STUDY AT DOWNING STREET WAS
composed of Ferguson, Simon Carter, and Harry Miller. At the Prime Minister’s request, Ferguson had provided a breakdown of his department’s activities in the previous couple of months, and Carter and Miller had both been provided with copies.

“I’m impressed with the way you and your people handled this Rashid affair,” said the Prime Minister. “The Hammer of God—such a theatrical title! But responsible for so many deaths. Excellent work, General.” He turned to Carter. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“The outcome of the whole affair was reasonably satisfactory,” said Carter, “although I still find it difficult to accept the actions of Dillon and the Salters.”

“It would appear they got the job done,” the Prime Minister said mildly.

“Of course, Prime Minister, but there are loose ends,” Carter told him.

Oddly enough, it was Miller who spoke up. “I’ve read the report, and I think it quite excellent. What loose ends?”

“The leader of this Army of God we discovered in London, Professor Drecq Khan—he could have been apprehended, but instead I understand the Salters allowed him to flee the country.”

“General?” the Prime Minister asked.

“Khan gave us important information that was crucial to the successful completion of the whole operation—and he’s no good to us in a prison cell. We know exactly where he is—in Beirut—and we have people watching him. I assure you, Prime Minister, we’ll know his next move before he does. He’s the gift that keeps on giving.”

“And this man the Broker, the mystery man who gives him orders?” the Prime Minister said.

Carter cut in. “You don’t seem to be any closer to discovering his identity.”

“But we do know a lot more about his associates now.”

Again, Miller cut in. “And we know that he deals at the very highest level of Russian intelligence—with General Ivan Volkov.”

“Which is as close as one can get to President Putin,” the Prime Minister remarked. “No, I think it’s an excellent result, General. And I assume the two of you have now discussed liaising as appropriate?” He glanced at Miller.

“Absolutely.”

The Prime Minister turned to Carter. “All right, Simon?”

“As always, you have my full support.”

“Good.” The Prime Minister turned to Miller. “There’s a meeting at the United Nations tomorrow that I can’t go to. I’d like you to attend on my behalf, and President Cazalet would like you to call in and see him in Washington on the way back. My staff will give you the details.” He grinned. “Sorry if it disturbs your social life.”

“No problem, Prime Minister.”

They departed and went downstairs. As they went out of the door to Ferguson’s Daimler, Carter said softly, “Watch yourself with this man, Major, he could get you into trouble.”

“Oh, I think I’m a big boy now,” Miller told him.

Ferguson said, “Can I give you a lift, Simon?”

“No, thank you, Charles, it would be a lift with the devil. I’ll walk.” He started down to the security gates.

“Miserable sod, always was,” Ferguson said. “And all those years sitting behind a desk haven’t improved him. What about lunch? Are you up for it?”

“My pleasure.”

“Dillon and Roper were intending to take a break at the Dark Man. Let’s join them. It would give you a chance to get to know them better and meet the Salters, and for me to tell everybody what a hell of a job we did on the Rashid affair.”

“Well, you did.” Miller followed him into the Daimler. “You have some remarkable people on your team.”

They drove out of the security gates into Whitehall. Ferguson said, “Yes, well, you’ve done some pretty remarkable things yourself. Roper showed me your original report on your trip to Belfast in 1986.” He shook his head. “Dillon as a priest.” He chuckled. “Always the actor. I spoke to him late last night and he filled in even more.”

“It was an excellent performance.”

Ferguson said carefully, “But not for you, I think.”

“Not a performance at all, I’m afraid. I surprised myself, but it was the start of something. Nothing was ever the same after that.”

His face was bleak, a hint of sadness there as they turned onto Cable Wharf and stopped at the Dark Man in time to see Dillon standing by the van and Doyle off-loading Roper.

“Out we get,” Ferguson told him. “At least you’re amongst friends here, I can guarantee that.”

 
 
RETURNING FROM LUNCH IN MOSCOW
, Volkov found some interesting trace material on his desk fresh from the computer department, which constantly searched for VIP travel information. Miller was on his way to New York, and then to Washington, he noted. He was staying one night at the Hay-Adams Hotel—which likely meant a visit to the White House.

He sat there thinking about it. Miller’s actions in Kosovo had been unacceptable, a direct attack on the Russian State. A rough town at night, Washington. Muggings, street crimes . . . it was too good a chance to miss. He called the Broker.

 
 
MICHAEL QUINN
was in his early fifties, powerful, well-dressed, the head of Scamrock Security in Dublin. He offered expertise in the field of international private security, which was a multimillion-pound business, especially since the advent of the Iraq war. In his day, he’d been Chief of Staff of the Provisional IRA, and now was exactly the right man to provide mercenaries and security men of every description, men with their skills honed by service in the Provisional IRA over more than thirty years of the Troubles, men who didn’t know what to do with themselves after the peace settlement in Northern Ireland. When he answered his phone and found the Broker at the other end, he was immediately excited.

“What can I do for you?” he asked.

And the Broker told him, emphasizing that it came from General Volkov, who was very good to Quinn in the past, even arranging for him to take charge of security for Belov International. “Can this be arranged?”

“No problem. I’ve got a good friend from the old days, Tod Kelly, who has a sizable operation in Washington. Everything from drugs to protection and most things in between. Tell General Volkov I’ll arrange it. My gift to him.”

 
 
AT HIS HOUSE IN GEORGETOWN
, Tod Kelly was checking his accountant’s entry book when the phone rang. He’d worked under Quinn in Londonderry at the height of the Troubles and was delighted to hear from him. He listened patiently while Quinn explained in detail.

“No problem.”

“It’s of real importance, from a special client, so no slipups.”

“Anyone I would know, this client?”

“He’s strictly a middleman—a broker, you could say.”

“Consider it done.”

 
 
OLIVIA ARRIVED HOME
to shower and change around four-thirty and found Miller packing. “What on earth’s going on?” she demanded.

“Sorry, love, it’s New York for me. The Prime Minister wants me to sit in on a meeting tomorrow at the United Nations.”

“He’s really piling it on with you these days. What time do you have to be at Heathrow?”

“I’m not going from Heathrow. I’m flying from Farley Field.”

“Where on earth is that?”

“Oh, it’s a private field, VIPs in and out, that sort of thing. I’m going by Gulfstream.”

“Who with?”

“Just me.”

“In a Gulfstream?” She was amazed. “Harry, what’s going on?”

“I’m standing in for the PM at the United Nations tomorrow, so they want to make sure I get there safely, that’s all.”

“So you’ll be back tomorrow night?”

“No. I’ve got to stop off in Washington to see the President.”

“Cazalet? What for?”

“That’s an unanswerable question, my love.”

She shook her head and looked so unhappy. “Harry, somehow you’re drifting away from me. I’m left on the shore waving good-bye.”

He laughed out loud. “What a performance. You’re such a wonderful actress, and you know I’m your greatest fan. Now, I’ve got to go. You probably noticed Ellis waiting downstairs for me in the Merc. After he drops me at Farley, I’ve told him to come straight back here and he’s yours to command until I’m back.” He kissed her. “God bless,” and then he grabbed his traveling bag and a dark raincoat and was gone.

She sat there for a moment, shaking her head and feeling pushed to one side. “Oh, Harry,” she said softly. “What’s happening to you?”

IT WAS RAINING HARD
in Washington that Friday night. Tod Kelly waited in an ordinary black Ford sedan across from the Hay-Adams Hotel. Kelly was well-dressed in an expensive gray flannel suit because he’d been inside the hotel itself earlier. He’d seen Miller arrive, sign in, and then go up to his room, after greeting the doorman cheerfully. Surprisingly, the doorman had addressed him as “Major,” although doormen, when you thought of it, made it their business to know who their customers were.