The Village of Banu
Kosovo
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.
His military career was dealt with so sparsely that to the trained eye it was obviously classified. From Sandhurst
Military Academy he had joined the Army Intelligence Corps. He experienced war very quickly, only three months later, as a second lieutenant attached to 42 Commando. Afterward, his posting was to Army Intelligence Corps headquarters in London, where he had served for the rest of his career, retiring in the rank of major in 2003, before being elected a Member of Parliament for a place called Stokely that same year. As he had indicated, he enjoyed the rank of under secretary of state, although in no special ministry. Nothing but mystery piling on mystery here.
“Who in the hell is he?” Blake murmured to himself. “Or, more to the point, what is he?”
No answer, so he closed his laptop down and went to bed.
ON THE FOLLOWING DAY, Blake was doing the driving. Miller had a military canvas holdall beside them, and he rummaged in it and produced a map. It was a gray and misty morning, dark because of the pine trees crowding in.
“Looks as if there’s been no upkeep on this road since the war,” Blake said. “What’s between here and Banu?”
“Not much at all.” Miller put the map back in his holdall. “Depressing sort of place, isn’t it? You’d wonder why anyone would want to live here.”
“I suppose so.”
“Are you married?”
“For a few years, but it didn’t work out, mainly because of the demands of my job. She was a journalist.”
“Do you still see her?”
“No, she’s dead, murdered actually, by some rather bad people.”
“My God.” Miller shook his head. “That’s terrible. I can only hope there was some kind of closure.”
“The courts, you mean?” Blake shook his head. “No time for that, not in today’s world, not in my world. The rules are no rules. The people concerned were taken care of with the help of some very good friends of mine.” He shrugged. “It was a long time ago, Major.”
“Why do you call me that?”
“Tomas, the innkeeper. You had to show him your passport.”
“You were military yourself, I think?”
“Yes, I was also a major at the early age of twenty-three, but that was Vietnam for you. All my friends seemed to die around me, but I never managed it. Are you married?”
Although he knew the answer, it might seem strange to Miller not to ask, and he got an instant response. “Very much so. Olivia. American, actually. She’s an actress. Twelve years younger than me, so she’s in her prime. Gets plenty of work in London.”
“Children?”
“Not possible, I’m afraid.”
Blake didn’t say he was sorry. There just didn’t seem any point, and at that moment, there was the sound of shooting and they went over a rise and saw a young peasant riding a cycle toward them. He was swaying from side to side, his mouth gaping, panic stricken. Blake braked to a halt. The man on the cycle slewed onto his side and fell over. Miller got out, approached him, and pulled him up.
“Are you all right? What’s wrong?” He spoke in English. The man seemed bewildered, and there was blood matting his hair on the left side of the head. “Banu?” Miller tried.
The man nodded energetically. “Banu,” he said hoarsely, and pointed along the road. There were a couple more shots.
“I’ll try Russian,” Miller said, and turned to the man. “Are you from Banu?”
His question was met by a look of horror, and the man was immediately terrified, turned and stumbled away into the trees.
Miller got back in the jeep and said to Blake, “So much for Russian.”
“It frightened him to death,” Blake said. “That was obvious. I speak it a certain amount myself, as it happens.”
“Excellent. Then I suggest we go down to Banu and find out what’s going on, don’t you think?”
Miller leaned back and Blake drove away.
THEY PAUSED on a rise, the village below. It wasn’t much of a place: houses of wood mainly on either side of the road, scattered dwellings that looked like farm buildings extending downward, a stream that was crossed by a wooden bridge supported by large blocks of granite. There was a wooden building with a crescent above it, obviously what passed as a small mosque, and an inn of the traditional kind.
A sizable light armored vehicle was parked outside the inn. “What the hell is that?” Blake asked.
“It’s Russian, all right,” Miller told him. “An armored troop carrier called a Storm Cruiser. Reconnaissance units use them. They can handle up to twelve soldiers.” He opened his holdall and took out a pair of binoculars. “Street’s clear. I’d say the locals are keeping their heads down. Two soldiers on the porch, supposedly guarding the entrance, drinking beer, a couple of girls in head scarves crouched beside them. The shooting was probably somebody having fun inside the inn.”
“So what do we do?”
“Well, to a certain extent I represent United Nations interests here. We should go down and take a look at what’s happening.”
Blake took a deep breath. “If you say so.”
“Oh, I do, but I like to be prepared.” Miller produced a Browning from the holdall. “I know it might seem a little old-fashioned, but it’s an old friend and I’ve always found it gets the job done.” He produced a Carswell silencer and screwed it in place.
“I wouldn’t argue with that,” Blake said, and took the jeep down into the village street, his stomach hollow. There were people peering out of windows on each side as they drove down and braked to a halt outside the inn. The two soldiers were totally astonished. One of them, his machine pistol on the floor, stared stupidly, his beer in his hand. The other had been fondling one of the girls, his weapon across his knees.
Miller opened the jeep door and stepped out into the rain, his right hand behind him holding the Browning. “Put her down,” he said in excellent Russian. “I mean, she doesn’t know where you’ve been.”
The man’s rage was immediate and he shoved the girl away, knocking her to one side against her friend, started to get up, clutching his machine pistol, and Miller shot him in the right knee. In the same moment, Miller swung to meet the other soldier as he stood up and struck him across the side of the head with the Browning.
The two girls ran across the road, where a door opened to receive them. Blake came around the jeep fast and picked up the machine pistol on the porch floor.
“Now what?”
“I’m going on. You take the alley and find the rear entrance.”
Blake, on fire in a way he hadn’t been in years, did as he was told, and Miller crossed to the door, opened it, and went in, his right hand once again behind his back holding the Browning.
THE INN was old-fashioned in a way to be expected deep in such countryside: a beamed ceiling, wooden floors, a scattering of tables, and a long bar, bottles ranged on shelves behind it. There were about fifteen men crouched on the floor by the bar, hands on heads, two Russian soldiers guarding them. A sergeant stood behind the bar drinking from a bottle, a machine pistol on the counter by his hand. Two other soldiers sat on a bench opposite, two women crouched on the floor beside them, one of them sobbing.
The officer in command, a captain from his rank tabs, sat at a table in the center of the room. He was very young, handsome enough, a certain arrogance there. That the muted sound of Miller’s silenced pistol had not been heard inside the inn was obvious enough, but considering the circumstances, he seemed to take the sudden appearance of this strange apparition in combat overalls and old-fashioned trench coat with astonishing calm. He had a young girl on his knee who didn’t even bother to struggle as he fondled her, so terrified was she.
He spoke in Russian. “And who are you?”
“My name is Major Harry Miller, British Army, attached to the United Nations.” His Russian was excellent.
“Show me your papers.”
“No. You’re the one who should be answering questions. You’ve no business this side of the border. Identify yourself.”
The reply came as a kind of reflex. “I am Captain Igor Zorin of the Fifteenth Siberian S
torm Guards, and we have every right to be here. These Muslim dogs swarm over the border to Bulgaria to rape and pillage.” He pushed the girl off his knee and sent her staggering toward the bar and his sergeant. “Give this bitch another bottle of vodka. I’m thirsty.”
She returned with the bottle, and Zorin dragged her back on his knee, totally ignoring Miller, then pulled the cork in the bottle with his teeth. But instead of drinking the vodka, he forced it on the girl, who struggled, choking.
“So what do you want, Englishman?”
A door opened at the rear of the room and Blake stepped in cautiously, machine pistol ready.
“Well, I’ve already disposed of your two guards on the porch, and now my friend who’s just come in behind you would like to demonstrate what he can do.”
Blake put a quick burst into the ceiling, which certainly got everybody’s attention, and called in Russian, “Drop your weapons!”
There was a moment’s hesitation, and he fired into the ceiling again. All of them, including the sergeant at the bar, raised their hands. It was Zorin who did the unexpected, dragging the girl across his lap in front of him, drawing his pistol, and pushing it into her side.
“Drop your weapon or she dies.”
Without hesitation, Miller shot him twice in the side of the skull, sending him backward over the chair. There was total silence, the Muslims getting to their feet. Everyone waited. He spoke to the sergeant in Russian.
“You take the body with you, put it in the Storm Cruiser, and wait for us with your men. See they do it, Blake.” He turned to the Muslims. “Who speaks English?”
A man moved forward and the girl turned to him. “I am the mayor, sir, I speak good English. This is my youngest daughter. Allah’s blessing on you. My name is Yusuf Birka.”
The Russians were moving out, supervised by Blake, two of them carrying Zorin’s body, followed by the sergeant.
Miller said to Birka, “Keep the weapons. They may be of use to you in the future.”
Rough Justice Page 2
