Rough Justice

by Higgins, Jack

  “Something so extraordinary, I’m surprised my laptop didn’t catch fire, Mr. President.”

  “I see.” Cazalet stirred his coffee. “So tell us.”

  Ferguson started to do just that.

  When he was finished, there was silence and then the President turned to Clancy, “Well?”

  “That’s one hell of a soldier.”

  Blake said, “I knew there was something special about him the moment we met.”

  “And you, Charles?” Cazalet asked.

  “Obviously, I knew a certain amount about him,” Ferguson answered. “But I’m stunned to hear the full story.”

  “It would certainly shock his father-in-law, Senator Hunt. Very old-fashioned conservative guy, Hunt.”

  “So how do you want to handle this, Mr. President?”

  “I think I’d like to meet Miller. He could be a useful recruit on certain missions for you and me, Charles. Discuss it with the Prime Minister and Miller first, of course. What do you think, Blake?”

  “I think that could be beneficial to all parties, Mr. President.”

  “Excellent. Now, why don’t we all go for a walk on the beach, take the sea air? The surf is particularly fine this morning.”

  THE SATURDAY-NIGHT performance of Private Lives was another triumph for Olivia Hunt, and she drove down in the Mercedes afterward to Stokely with Harry and Monica and Miller’s usual driver, Ellis Vaughan. He had provided a hamper, sandwiches, some caviar, and a couple of bottles of champagne.

  “You’ve excelled yourself, Ellis,” Monica told him.

  “We do our best, my lady,” he said.

  The truth was that as an ex-paratrooper, he enjoyed working for Miller. During these overnight stops at Stokely, he stayed in the spare bedroom at the Grants’ cottage.

  Olivia was on a high. Miller, on the other hand, felt strangely lifeless, a reaction to his trip, he told himself. They didn’t arrive until one-thirty in the morning, and went to bed almost at once, where he spent a disturbed night.

  They had a family breakfast on Sunday morning, with Aunt Mary later than usual. She was eighty-two now, white haired, but with a healthy glow to her cheeks, and her vagueness was, in a way, quite charming.

  “Don’t mind me, you three. Go for a walk, if you like. I always read the Sunday Mail at this time.”

  Mrs. Grant brought it in. “There you are, Madame. I’ll clear the table if you’re all finished.”

  Miller was wearing a sweater, jeans, and a pair of short boots. “I feel like a gallop round the paddock. I asked Fergus to saddle Doubtfire.”

  Olivia said, “Are you sure, darling? You look tired.”

  “Nonsense.” He was restless and impatient, a nerviness there.

  Monica said, “Off you go. Be a good boy. We’ll watch, you can’t complain about that.”

  He hesitated, then forced a smile. “Of course not.”

  He went out through the French windows, and it was Aunt Mary who put it in perspective. “I think it must have been a difficult trip. He looks tired and he’s not himself.”

  “Well, you would know,” Monica said. “You’ve known him long enough.”

  They took their time walking down to the paddock, and he was already in the saddle when they got there, Fergus standing by the stables, watching.

  Miller cantered around for a while and then started taking the hedge jumps. He was angry with himself for allowing things to get on top of him, realized now that what had happened in Kosovo had really touched a nerve and he was damned if he was going to allow that to happen.

  He urged Doubtfire over several of the jumps, then swung the plucky little mare around and, on an impulse, urged her toward the rear fence’s forbiddingly tall five-barred gate.

  “Good girl,” he said, “We can do it,” and he pushed her into a gallop.

  His wife cried out, “No, Harry, no!”

  But Doubtfire sailed over into the meadow, and just as Olivia caught her breath in relief, Miller galloped a few yards on the other side, swung Doubtfire around, and once again tackled the gate.

  Olivia’s voice rose in a scream. “No, Harry!” Monica flung an arm around her shoulders. Miller took the jump perfectly, however, cantered over to Fergus, and dismounted. “Give her a good rubdown and oats. She’s earned it.”

  Fergus took the reins and said, “If you’ll excuse me, Major, but I’ve the right to say after all these years that—”

  “I know, Fergus, it was bloody stupid. Just get on with it.”

  He walked toward the two women, and Olivia said, “Damn you, Harry Miller, damn you for frightening me like that. It will take some forgiving. I’m going in.”

  She walked away. Monica stood looking at him, then produced a cigarette case from her handbag, offered him one, and took one herself. She gave him a light from her Zippo.

  He inhaled with conscious pleasure. “We’re not supposed to do this these days.”

  She said, “Harry, I’ve known you for forty years, you are my dearly loved brother, but sometimes I feel I don’t know you at all. What you did just now was an act of utter madness.”

  “You’re quite right.”

  “You used to do things like that a lot when you were in the Army, but for the last four years, working for the Prime Minister, you’ve seemed different. Something’s happened to you, hasn’t it? Kosovo, that trip there?” She nodded. “What was it? Come on, Harry, I know Kosovo is a hell of a place. People were butchered in the thousands there.”

  “That was then, this is now, Monica, my love.” He suddenly gave her the Harry smile and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m tired, a bit wound up, that’s all. Now, be a good girl, come up to the house and help me with Olivia.”

  And so she went—reluctantly, but she went.

  The Kremlin

  London

  4

  THERE WAS A HINT OF SLEET IN THE RAIN FALLING IN MOSCOW AS MAX Chekhov’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. Chekhov 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.”

  Chekhov stumped after him along a series incredibly quiet, quite 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 Chekhov inside.

  Chekhov 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 on the wall 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 Chekhov.” His voice was curiously soft. “It’s good to see you on
your feet again.”

  “Only just, Comrade General.” Chekhov 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.” Chekhov settled himself. “Your stay in Monaco has been beneficial?”

  “I’m better than I was.” Chekhov 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 Chekhov 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.”

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

  “My dear Chekhov, 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,” Chekhov 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, Chekhov, you’re ready to get back to work? I’m delighted to hear it.”

  As it was the first thing Chekhov 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.”

  Chekhov didn’t even try to resist. “Of course, Comrade President.”

  As if by magic, the door by which Chekhov had entered opened again, revealing the GRU lieutenant. Chekhov 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,” Chekhov 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 U.S. 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 dialed 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 honor. 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 honorably, 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, grim and rather forbidding, her hair bound by a scarf, her face like a stone, dressed in a peasant blouse and a long skirt.

  “Where is she?” Zorin demanded.

  “In the parlor,” 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.”