Rough Justice

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?’

BELFAST

5

Looking back, Harry Miller remembered that year well, not just because of the bad March weather in London and the constant rain, but because what happened proved a turning point in his life. He was a full lieutenant in the Intelligence Corps at twenty-four and nothing much seemed to be happening. He shared an office with a young second lieutenant named Alice Tilsey, and she’d beaten him to it that morning. He took off his trench coat, revealing a tweed country suit, uniforms being out that year as the IRA had announced that men in uniform on London streets were a legitimate target.

Alice said brightly, ‘Thank God you’re wearing a decent suit. Colonel Baxter called for you five minutes ago.’

‘What have I done?’

‘I lied and said you were getting the post downstairs.’

‘You’re an angel.’

He hurried up to the next floor and reported to Baxter’s receptionist, a staff sergeant he knew well. ‘Am I in trouble, Mary?’

‘Search me, love, but he certainly wants you right now. In you go. Captain Glover’s with him.’

Baxter glanced up. ‘There you are, Miller. Just sit down for a moment.’

He and Glover had their heads together and enjoyed a brief conversation which made no sense to Miller, and then Baxter said, ‘Still living at Dover Street with your father?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘He’s certainly the sort of MP we can rely on. Always has a good word for the Army in his speeches in Parliament.’

‘Old soldier, sir.’

‘Captain Glover would like a word.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Glover had a file open. ‘You were on the Falklands Campaign seconded to 42 Commando, which of course was invaluable experience of war at the sharp end. Since then, you’ve been seconded once to the Intelligence Desk at Infantry Headquarters at the Grand Hotel in Belfast. What did you make of that?’

‘Interesting, sir, but it was only six weeks.’

Glover said, ‘Looking at your personal details, I see you’re a Roman Catholic, Miller. If I ask if your faith is important to you, please don’t be offended. It could be crucial to why you’re here.’

Uncertain what Glover was getting at, Miller said, ‘I was raised in the faith, I was a choirboy, I’m obviously familiar with the liturgy, and so on. Having said that, I must admit that, like many people, my religion is not at the forefront of my life.’

Baxter intervened, ‘So you’d be capable of going to Belfast for us as a Catholic?’

There was a distinct pause, Miller totally astonished, and it was Glover who explained. ‘Think of it as one of those old black and white British war films where SOE sends you to go to Occupied France as an undercover agent.’

‘Which is what we want you to do in Belfast for us.’ Baxter smiled. ‘Are you up for it?’

Miller’s stomach was churning. It was the same rush of adrenaline he’d experienced in the landings at San Carlos in the Falklands with those Argentine Skyhawks coming in.

‘I certainly am. Just one thing, sir, having visited Belfast, I know that the Northern Irish accent is unique, and I don’t know if –’

‘No problem. You’ll stay English,’ Glover told him.

‘Then I’m at your command, sir.’

‘Excellent. You’re in Captain Glover’s hands.’

In the planning room, Glover laid out a map of Belfast. ‘The River Lagan runs into Belfast Lough and the docks, it’s a busy area.’ He pushed a manila file across. ‘Everything you need is in there, but I’ll go through it anyway. Boats go backwards and forwards from Glasgow, trawlers, freighters.’

‘Illegal cargoes, sir?’

‘Sometimes, arms, for example, and people. There’s a pub in the dock area we’re interested in, the Sailor. The owner is a man named Slim Kelly.’

‘IRA, sir?’

‘Certainly. Did time in the Maze Prison and was released, so there’s good photos of him in your file. He’s supposedly clean these days, but he’s certainly killed many times. Our understanding is that he’s fallen out of favour with the Provos. Lately he’s been involved with a man named Liam Ryan, a psychopath who murders for fun. He’s another one the IRA want to dispose of. Our information is that he’s done a deal to supply Kelly with Stinger missiles. These things can be operated by one man and they’ll bring down a helicopter. We understand they’ll be delivered to Kelly by Ryan next week in a trawler called the Lost Hope. The moment you can confirm the meet, you call in your contact number in Belfast, which will bring in an SAS team on the run. It sounds simple, but who knows? Whatever happens, don’t use the contact number unless you are positive you have Kelly and Ryan in the frame.’

‘What exactly is my cover, sir?’

‘You’re employed by St Mary’s Hospice in Wapping. There’s a branch in Belfast close to the Sailor, an old priory run by nuns that provides for the deserving poor, and so forth. It needs renovating, and it’s already had a building surveyor from London come in. You’re an ordinand, whatever that is.’

‘Someone who’s considering the priesthood.’

‘Perfect cover, I should have thought. You’re from the London estate office. You’ve got all the documents on what needs doing. The story is you’re there to confirm it. You’re the man from head office, in a way.’

‘Where do I stay?’

‘The Priory. It’s all arranged by the Mother Superior, a Sister Maria Brosnan. To her, you’re the genuine article.’

Which in some strange way made Miller slightly uncomfortable. ‘Can I ask how you’ve been able to make these arrangements, sir?’

‘As it happens, Colonel Baxter’s younger brother is Monsignor Hilary Baxter in the Bishop of London’s Office. St Mary’s Hospice in Wapping was facing closure because their lease was coming to an end. We’ve been able to resolve their problem.’

To that, there was no answer. ‘I see, sir.’

‘If you call round to Wapping this afternoon with the documents in your file, there’s an old boy called Frobisher who’ll go through them with you. All the necessary work’s been done. You just pretend at the hospice and look busy. Sister Maria Brosnan expects you Monday.’

‘What about my identity?’

‘It’s all in the file, Harry, courtesy of the forgery department of MI6.’

‘And weaponry?’

‘I’m afraid you’re expecting too much there. After all, you’re a travelling civilian heading into the war zone. There’s no way you could go armed.’

‘I see, sir, it’s we-who-are-about-to-die-salute-you time.’ It was a statement, not a question, and Miller carried on, ‘What you really want aren’t the Stingers on that boat. This is all about Kelly, the publican of the Sailor who has fallen out of favour with the Provos, and this Liam Ryan who you say is a psychopath.’

‘Two years ago, he formed a breakaway group, no more than a dozen people, calling it the Irish Liberation Movement. Wholesale butchery, torture, kidnap – his favourite pastime is removing his victim’s fingers with bolt cutters. Bad news for the Republican movement as a whole. The word is the Provos put their best enforcer on the case. Eight of Ryan’s people are known to have been executed for certain, but perhaps more.’

‘But not Ryan?’

‘A will-o’-the-wisp with all the cunning of a beast. He’s one of the few big players who’s never been arrested, so there aren’t prison photos. He’s always avoided cameras like the plague, a bit like Michael Collins in the old days, but we have one anyway.’

‘How is that, sir?’

‘He took out an Irish passport five years ago under a false name. There’s a copy of the passport photo in the file.’

Miller had a look at it. The face was very ordinary, cheeks hollow, the whole thing desperately stilted, the face of some little man for whom life had always been a disappointment. Miller replaced it.

‘Thanks very much, sir. Would you have told me all this if I hadn’t asked?’

‘It’s the name of the game.’ Glover shrugged. ‘I’d get on with it if I were you.’ He patted the file. ‘I’ll put the word out that you’re off on a spot of leave.’

The office was empty when Miller went in, so he sat at the desk and checked out the contents of the file. There was a passport in the name of Mark Blunt, aged twenty-four, a surveyor by profession, a London address in Highbury. He’d been to Italy once, France twice and Holland on a day trip from Harwich. The photo had the usual hunted look and made him look thinner.

He worked his way through the survey reports referring to various parts of the Priory in Belfast. It was all laid out simply and made perfect sense. There was also a Belfast street map, some photos of the Priory and the docks.

So far so good. He put the file in his briefcase and pulled on his raincoat, tense and slightly worked up. The door opened and Alice Tilsey came in.

‘You clever bastard,’ she said. ‘Off on leave, are we? How in the hell did you work that?’

‘For God’s sake, Alice,’ he said. ‘After a year in the Corps, I’d have thought you’d have learned when to keep your mouth shut and mind your own business.’

A look of total contrition and horror spread over her face. ‘Oh, my God, Harry, you’re going in-country, aren’t you? I’m so bloody sorry.’

‘So am I, actually,’ he said and left.

Mr Frobisher at St Mary’s Hospice in Wapping was obviously in his early seventies and looked it. Even his office seemed like something out of Dickens. He stood at a drawing table and went through documents with Harry, in the kind of faded voice that seemed to come from another time and place.

‘I produced these plans after a visit to Belfast a year ago. I thought we’d never be able to attempt the necessary work, but Monsignor Baxter’s explained that everything’s changed. We have money now. You aren’t a trained surveyor, of course. He told me he was sending you for what he termed a layman’s opinion.’

‘I’m that, all right,’ Miller said.

‘Yes, well, it’s all detailed very clearly. The cellars extend along the whole waterfront, and in places there is flooding. It’s the docks, you see.’

‘Thanks for the warning.’

‘You’re an ordinand, I understand. Monsignor Baxter said you might enter the priesthood.’

‘Perhaps,’ Miller told him. ‘I’m not certain.’

‘Belfast was not good during my visit. Bombs at night, some shooting. A godless place these days.’

‘The world we live in,’ Miller said piously.

‘I would warn you of the pub next door to the Priory, the Sailor. I had luncheon there on occasion, but didn’t like it. The people who frequented it were very offensive when they heard my English accent, particularly the landlord, an absolute lout called Kelly.’

‘I’ll remember that.’

‘Take care,’ Frobisher said, ‘and give my regards to Sister Maria Brosnan, the Mother Superior. She comes from Kerry in the Republic, a beautiful county.’

Miller left him and walked up to Wapping High Street. He happened to pass a barber’s shop, and on impulse went in and had his hair cut quite short. It emphasized his gauntness, so that he resembled the man in the passport photo more than ever.