Rough Justice (2 page)

“As you say, Mr. President.”

Cazalet said, “After that, I could also do with some good news, Blake. Somehow I doubt I’m going to get it.”

“Well, Kosovo could be worse, Mr. President, but it also could be better. The United Nations troops are in place, but Bosnia intends to hang in there for as long as possible. The Serbian government in Belgrade has been urging the Serbs in Kosovo to boycott the November elections.”

“And what’s the Muslim opinion on that in Kosovo?”

“The memory of what the Serbs did in the war, the shocking butchery of the Muslims, will never go away. The Muslims want total independence, nothing less. And there are outside influences at work, which aren’t helping the situation.”

“Such as?” Cazalet demanded.

“Well, when you go out into the boonies, you find villages, market towns that aren’t exactly twenty-first century, very old-fashioned people, Muslims on the whole. When I traveled to that part of the country, I found interlopers close to the borders. Russians.”

There was silence. Cazalet said, “What kind of Russians?”

“Soldiers in uniform, not freebooters.”

“Can you describe them? Which unit, that sort of thing?”

“Actually, I can. The ones I met were Siberians. I know that because their commanding officer identified himself as a Captain Igor Zorin of a regiment called the Fifteenth Siberian Storm Guards. I checked them on my laptop, and the unit exists. It’s a reconnaissance outfit, special ops, that sort of thing. They were apparently based over the border in Bulgaria, and their mission was to visit a village called Banu that was supposed to be a center for Muslim extremists crossing the border and creating merry hell in Bulgaria.”

Ferguson said, “This fellow Zorin—did you find him on the regimental roster?”

“Oh, yes, he was there all right. But here’s the interesting thing—just as I was checking him out . . . he disappeared.”

“What do you mean?”

“My screen went blank. He might as well never have existed.”

There was a pause. Cazalet said, “Something you did, perhaps? You know what computers can be like.”

“No, Mr. President, I swear to you. What happened in Banu was shaping up to be pretty nasty, and I witnessed it—and they clearly wanted no record of it.”

Ferguson nodded. “But except for your word in the matter, there’s no proof. Accuse the Russian government, they’ll simply deny it ever happened. I see the game they are playing.”

“The cunning bastards,” Cazalet said. “Somewhere in the Bulgarian mountains is a unit that doesn’t exist, commanded by a man who doesn’t exist named Igor Zorin.”

Blake said, “Actually, not quite, Mr. President.” He turned to Ferguson. “General, do you by any chance know a British Member of Parliament named Miller—Major Harry Miller?”

Ferguson frowned. “Why, was he involved in some way?”

“You could say that. He shot Igor Zorin between the eyes. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“And he’s a Member of Parliament? What was he doing there in the first place?” Cazalet demanded.

“He was doing what I was doing, Mr. President, checking out things in the backcountry. We met by chance at a country inn about twenty miles from Banu. We stayed overnight, got talking, and each of us discovered who we were. Decided to carry on together the following day.”

Cazalet turned to Ferguson. “Charles, this Major Harry Miller, do you know him?”

“I know of him, but keep my distance, and by design. You know what I do for the Prime Minister—with my team, we provide a distinctly hands-on approach to any problems of security or terrorism. Most of what we do is illegal.”

“Which means you dispose of bad guys without troubling the rule of law. I’ve no trouble with that, it’s the times we live in. Blake does the same for me, as you know. So what about Major Miller?”

“I don’t fraternize with the Major, because I try to keep out of the political side of things, and he has a political relationship with the Prime Minister. Before he became a Member of Parliament, though, he was a career soldier in the army, Intelligence Corps, retired some years ago.”

“Quite a change,” Cazalet said.

“You could say that. He became an under secretary of state in the Northern Ireland Office, a desk man helping to develop the peace process.”

“A troubleshooter?” Cazalet asked.

“Exactly, but since the changes in Northern Ireland, the Prime Minister has found uses for him elsewhere.”

“Again as a troubleshooter?”

“The Prime Minister’s eyes and ears. Sent to Lebanon, Iraq, the Gulf States—places like that.”

“And Kosovo,” Cazalet said. “He must be quite a guy.”

“He is, Mr. President. People are very wary of him because of his privileged position. Even members of the Cabinet tread carefully. He is also modestly wealthy from family money, and married to a lovely, intelligent woman, an actress named Olivia Hunt, Boston born. In fact, her father is a senator.”

“Good Lord,” Cazalet said. “George Hunt. I know him well.”

There was silence now for a while and then Cazalet said, “Blake, old friend, I think it’s about time you told us exactly what happened in Banu that day.”

Blake reached for the shot glass in front of him, swallowed the whiskey in it, and leaned back. “It was like this. It was lousy weather, Mr. President, and I’d just about had enough of it. I was driving myself in a jeep through a forest and over miserable terrain, and toward evening, I came to an inn near Kuman. The landlord appeared, and we were making arrangements for my stay when suddenly another jeep appeared out of the forest and the rain. It gave me quite a turn.”

“Why was that?”

Blake considered. “It was strange, strange country, like some old movie taking place in Transylvania. There was rain, mist, darkness falling, and suddenly the jeep emerged from all that. It was kind of spooky.”

He accepted another whiskey from Clancy, and Cazalet said, “Major Harry Miller?”

“Yes, Mr. President. I hadn’t expected anyone, not in a place like that, and there he was at the back end of nowhere.”

Cazalet nodded. “Tell us what happened, Blake, as you remember it, the whole business. Take your time.”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. President.” Blake sat back thinking about it, and suddenly, it was as if he was there.

2

HARRY MILLER WAS A LITTLE UNDER SIX FEET, WITH SATURNINE, GRAY EYES,
a slight scar tracing his left cheek, which Blake was old soldier enough to recognize as a shrapnel scar. He had a face that gave nothing away, that showed only a man, calm and confident in himself. Also, someone who’d known command, unless Blake was much mistaken. He wore an old-fashioned long military trench coat over basic camouflage field overalls, the kind any ordinary soldier might wear, and paratroop boots. A crumpled combat hat guarded him against the rain, as he ran across to the steps to the inn, a canvas holdall in his left hand.

He stood on the porch, beat his hat against his leg. “Bloody rain, god-awful country.” And then he held out his hand to Blake and smiled, for the moment totally charming. “Harry Miller. Who might you be?”

Blake had never liked anyone so much so quickly. “Blake Johnson.”

Something showed in Miller’s face, a change of expression. “Good heavens, I know who you are. You run the Basement for Cazalet.”

His announcement was received by Blake with astonishment. “How in the hell do you know that?”

“Work for the Prime Minister. Poke my nose in odd places when he orders and report back. That’s what I’m doing now. What about you?”

“Doing exactly the same thing for the President. I had to see someone in Zagreb, and I thought I’d check out Kosovo before I went back.”

“Excellent. Let’s freshen up and compare notes over dinner.”

 
 
WHEN BLAKE CAME DOWN
from his room a little while later, he found the innkeeper, one Tomas, behind the bar. The room was pleasant, a beamed ceiling, a log fire burning.

“I’ll have a beer. It’s very quiet.”

“You and the Major are the only guests.”

“Major?” Blake said.

“So it says in his passport, sir.” He poured the beer. “We don’t get many guests these days.”

“Why not?”

“Bad things can happen, just like in the war. People are afraid.”

At that moment, Miller came down the stairs into the great lounge and found him.

“Beer?” Blake asked.

“Perfect. What’s happening?”

“I was just asking him why there’s no one here. He says people are afraid.”

“Of what?” Miller asked.

Tomas pushed two large flagons of beer across the bar. “Between here and the Bulgarian border is not a good place. I would leave, but the inn is all I have.”

Miller said, “So what gives you the problem?”

“Those who cross the border and attack the villages.”

“And who are they?”

“People who don’t like Muslims. But sit by the fire, gentlemen, and enjoy your drink. We have good bread, sausages, and a lamb stew. I’ll bring your beer over.”

They did as he suggested, taking a chair each on either side of a great log fire. There was a small table next to each chair, and he put the beer down carefully. “The food will be ready soon.”

He turned away and paused as Miller said, “But the soldiers of the Kosovo Protection Corps—what about them?

The innkeeper nodded. “They are good people, but their effect is minimal. Small patrols, jeeps, sometimes a warrior or two. They appear and then go away again, which leaves us at the mercy of those who would harm us.”

“Again, who are they?” Blake asked.

“Sometimes Russians.”

Miller said to the innkeeper, “Are you saying uniformed soldiers from the Russian Army?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Usually they stay close to the border.” He shrugged. “They have even been as far as this inn. Maybe a dozen men, all in uniform.”

Miller said, “So how did they treat you?”

“The food in my inn is excellent and I sell good beer. They ate, they drank, and they went. Their captain even paid me, and in American dollars.”

Blake said, “So they did you no harm?”

The innkeeper shrugged. “Why should they? The captain said they’d see me again. To burn me down would be to penalize themselves. On the other hand, there were bad things happening elsewhere. Several people died in a village called Pazar. There was a small mosque. They burned that and killed seven people.”

Miller said, “Just a minute. I was at the Protection Corps headquarters the day before yesterday. I asked to see their file on incident reports for the past six months, and there was one on this place Pazar. It said that, yes, the small village mosque had been burned down, but when the Protection Corps sent a patrol to check it out, the village mayor and his elders said it was an accidental fire, and there was no mention of seven dead people, certainly no mention of Russian soldiers.”

“The village council decided it was not in their best interests to make an official complaint. The Russian authorities would always deny it, and some bad night, the villagers would find themselves going through it all over again.” The innkeeper bowed slightly. “And now please excuse me. I must see to your dinner.”

He disappeared through a green baize door leading to the kitchen. Blake said, “What do you think?”

“I suspect what he said about the villagers at Pazar taking the easy way out is true.”

“You were in the military?” Blake asked.

“Yes, Intelligence Corps.”

“So when you became a Member of Parliament, the Prime Minister decided that your special talents could be put to good use?”

“Whenever he sees what appears to be a problem, he sends me. I’m classed as an under secretary of state, although not attached to any particular ministry. It gives me a little muscle when I need it.” He drank some of his beer. “And what about you?”

“To a certain degree, I’m in a similar situation. The President’s man.”

Miller smiled gently. “I’ve heard about what you do. Only whispers, of course.”

“Which is the way we like it.” Blake stood up. “I think they’re ready for us now. Let’s eat.”

“Excellent,” Miller said, and followed him out.

 
AFTERWARD,
the meal having proved excellent, they returned to their seats by the fire and the innkeeper brought coffee.

Blake said, “I’ve been thinking. I’m only here for another couple of days, traveling south, visiting a few villages, getting the feel of things.”

“From here to the border?” Miller said. “That makes sense. I checked it all out on the maps. A lot of forest, villages from a bygone age. The people go nowhere, only to market, they keep to themselves.”

“Peasants who keep their heads down and don’t want trouble.” Blake nodded. “Have you anywhere in mind?”

“There’s a place called Banu, deep in the forest, about ten miles from the border.”

“How far from here?”

“Thirty miles or so, dirt roads, but it could be worthwhile. We could leave your jeep here and travel in mine—that’s if you favor the idea of us going together?”

“Favor it?” Blake said. “I’d welcome it. What time do you suggest in the morning?”

“No need to rush. Let’s enjoy a decent breakfast and get away about nine to nine-thirty.”

“Excellent,” Blake told him. “I think I’ll get an early night.”

Miller glanced at his watch. “It’s later than you think. Half past ten. I’ll hang on, enjoy a nightcap, and arrange things with the innkeeper.”

Blake left him there and mounted the wide stairway. There was something about Miller, a calmness that seemed to distance him from other people, a self-assurance that was obvious, and yet no arrogance there at all.

In the bedroom, he sat at a small dressing table, took out his laptop, entered “Harry Miller” and found him without difficulty. He was forty-five, married, wife Olivia, thirty-three, maiden name Hunt, actress by profession. No children.