Rough Justice

by Higgins, Jack

  “Are you available?” he asked.

  “Since my promotion, I’m in charge of my own destiny. What is it you want?”

  “Come round to the shop and I’ll tell you.”

  SAM BOLTON was actually Selim. His story was simple. His mother was Muslim and despised by her people for marrying his English father, who raised him in a totally Christian culture. His father had died during his first year studying accountancy at London University, and his mother had returned to her Islamic faith. There had been those who had seen distinct possibilities in a handsome young man in a good suit who seemed English and had an excellent background in the City. The truth was that Bolton wasn’t in the slightest religious and accepted his sleeper role in the movement more out of a sense of adventure than anything else. The other truth was that Ali, wise in the way of the world, was perfectly aware of the situation.

  Ali didn’t think Bolton had any need to know what the mission was really about, nor who Miller really was. Bolton looked puzzled when Ali gave him the name, and checked him out on the laptop.

  “So why him?” he asked, looking at the laptop on his knees. “He seems a typically pin-striped MP, except for his patch in the Falklands, and enjoyed a totally deskbound career.”

  “Appearances can be deceptive.”

  “Do you know more than you’re telling me?”

  “See what you make of him.”

  “If that’s a challenge, you’re on.” Bolton closed his laptop. “You do realize I haven’t had breakfast. I’ll stop at a Little Chef on the way.”

  “You intend to go as you are?”

  “You mean dressed like this, an accountant from one of the best investment firms in the City, on his way to Bognor Regis in his Audi and lost in the labyrinth of country roads that is West Sussex?”

  “Go with my blessing, you rogue, and Allah protect you.” Ali patted him on the cheek as Bolton went out.

  MILLER HAD A GOOD fast run from London through Guildford all the way to Chichester and down to the best of West Sussex, into a complex of country roads that he remembered well. It was a two-and-a-half-hour run, so he was at Folly’s End about half past one.

  There were sailing boats anchored in the inlet, a solitary motor cruiser, four cars outside the pub. He parked the Mini Cooper, walked down to the shingle beach, smelling the same salt smell from childhood, then turned to Smugglers’. When he went into the bar, two couples were sitting in separate booths, working their way through ham salads, beer on the tables.

  Behind the bar, polishing a glass, was the publican, Lizzie Arnold, a widow for seven years now, one son away in the Army, a paratrooper. She was forty-five and comely, a local farmer’s daughter. Miller had known her forever.

  “My God, look what the cat’s brought in.” She leaned over the bar and kissed him. “It’s been too long. Where have you been?”

  He held her hands across the bar. “Oh, here, there, and everywhere. You wouldn’t want to know. Everything okay at the cottage?”

  Stepping in through the door, Sam Bolton had heard all this and did an excellent impersonation of someone who didn’t have the slightest idea where he was.

  “Excuse me.”

  Lizzie took a key from one of many hanging on a board behind the bar. “Everything’s in apple pie order, Harry.” He started to move out, and she said to Bolton, “What’s your problem, my love?”

  “I’m down from London, managed to hit Chichester, and as it’s Bognor Regis I’m making for, I thought I’d find a scenic route, cut into the country, and I seem to have got thoroughly lost.”

  Miller said from the door, “You certainly have, but she’ll put you straight. I’ll be back, Lizzie.”

  He went out, and Bolton said, “I suppose I could do with some lunch while I’m here, and a pint of beer. But just the one, I’m driving.”

  He really was a handsome devil, she thought, and pumped his beer.

  “I’ll just lock my car.”

  “No need round here, love, believe me.”

  “I’ve got some really important papers in there for the client I’m seeing in Bognor.”

  He slid behind the wheel of the Audi, reached under the dashboard, and dropped a flap that held a Walther PPK. He slipped it into the briefcase he was carrying as he returned to the pub. He was probably being foolish, but the pin-striped MP in the laptop was one thing and the man in black cords and bomber jacket wearing Ray-Ban Wayfarers was something entirely different. He was now perfectly certain that Ali had not been honest with him, had involved him in something that was more than it seemed.

  She had his beer waiting at a corner table. “My trade is mainly in the evening these days, so I’m finished for lunch. Steak-and-ale pie, and fries out of the microwave. Any good?”

  “Just bring it on,” he said, and started to drink his beer.

  THE COTTAGE was in first-rate condition, not a trace of damp, the smell of polish everywhere, the kitchen spotless. Miller picked up the photo of his mother. She’d been the most important thing in his life for the first five years and then tragically died in childbirth with Monica. He kissed the photo as he always did, replaced it on the sideboard, then took out his Codex and contacted Roper.

  “It’s Harry. I’ve taken the day off. I’ve come down to a hamlet called Folly’s End on the West Sussex coast. We’ve had a cottage here for years.”

  “And—?”

  “Roper, the only reason I’m still here at forty-five is because all those years in and out of Northern Ireland branded me. When I see some individual who’s out of the ordinary, I know him instinctively and beyond doubt to be suspicious. Some guy just appeared in the small pub of this tiny hamlet, claiming to have lost his way to Bognor Regis. No name, but I have the number of a silver Audi coupe.”

  “Then give it to me,” which Miller did. He was back in seconds. “Samuel Bolton. Has a flat in Belsize Park. M.B.A. from London University, investment manager with Goldman-Greene in the City. Does that help?”

  “I didn’t know his name when I asked you, so I’ll have to go and check. Is that it? Nothing else?”

  “Except the fact that his mother was a Muslim and Iranian. She’s dead, by the way, heart attack five years ago, his father last year. It’s all here. These finance houses are very thorough. What is this, Harry?”

  “I left my place in Dover Street this morning. I was giving my chauffeur from the Cabinet Offices his orders for the day, telling him I was coming down here in the Mini Cooper, and I saw something I’d never seen before.”

  “What was that?”

  “A man in a yellow oilskin jacket with a yellow trolley, and he was sweeping the street. He was a Muslim from his appearance, and he was close enough to hear me.”

  “Army of God,” Roper said. “The sweepers, the Brotherhood. What are you going to do?”

  “I told you in my Beirut report about Drecq Khan confessing that a man named Ali Hassim ran the Brotherhood. I’ll see what Bolton thinks about that.”

  “Take care, Harry. The Brotherhood isn’t supposed to exist. However, if this guy Sam Bolton is an agent of such an organization, have you considered his purpose in being there?”

  “Well, I could always ask him.”

  A LITTLE EARLIER, a speedboat had arrived in the inlet and Lizzie had come to the window and groaned. “Not him again.”

  Bolton glanced out and saw the man at the wheel push the prow into the shingle of the beach, scramble over the side, and wade out of the water. He was big and powerful, wore a fisherman’s smock, and had tangled hair and was badly in need of a shave. The youth who scrambled out behind him looked about eighteen and was a younger version.

  One of the couples on the other side of the bar glanced out, there was a hurried exchange, and they got up and left. The other couple looked distinctly worried.

  “Trouble?” Bolton asked.

  “Nothing but trouble. Seth Harker. He likes the fisherman look, but he’s a retired property millionaire from London who made it by walkin
g all over people. Drunk as a lord most of the time, and the other idiot is his son, Claude, who’s permanently on something. I tried barring them, but it’s difficult. And there’s no man around the place until this evening.”

  Harker came in laughing, followed by the youth, and the remaining couple who had been having lunch got up to go.

  “Leaving, are you?” Harker roared, and as the young couple passed, his son patted the woman’s bottom.

  “Nice arse on her, Dad.”

  The couple hurriedly left and Lizzie came straight around the bar. “I’m not having that kind of conduct in my pub. I’m telling you for the last time, you’re barred, so get out.”

  Claude Harker came up behind her, grabbed her close, and ran a hand up her skirt. “That’s nice,” he leered, absolutely coked up to the eyeballs from the look of him. “I like that.”

  Lizzie Arnold was helpless, crying with rage as she struggled in his grasp, and Harker went behind the bar, laughing his head off, and helped himself to whiskey. Sam Bolton got to his feet and moved in.

  “She doesn’t like that, you little toad, hadn’t you noticed?” He pulled Claude around, slapped him across the face and simply threw him away, then turned to Lizzie. “Are you all right?”

  Seth Harker, moving surprisingly fast for such a big man, was through the bar flap instantly, had one arm round Bolton’s neck, and grabbed a wrist.

  “Trouble is it, you bastard? You’ve come to the right place. Go on, Claude, do him up.”

  Lizzie cried out in indignation. Claude Harker got one good punch in, and Miller arrived on the run behind him and punched him in the kidneys. Young Harker howled in agony, and Miller simply dragged him away to fall over a table.

  Seth Harker seemed transfixed, staring at Miller in a kind of wonder. He released Bolton, who staggered away, blood on his mouth. Claude, pulling himself together, swung a wild punch at Bolton, who blocked it easily and punched him in the face.

  Harker said, “I’ll have you for that, but first, I’m going to break your friend’s arms, both of them.”

  He launched his full weight at Miller, hands reaching. Miller simply deflected the left arm, grabbed the wrist, and twisted, running Harker into a display of bottles at the end of the bar. The arm for the moment was rigid, and his clenched right fist descended in a hammer blow.

  Harker’s cry of agony was very real, and Miller said to him, “You mentioned two broken arms. I’ve let you off with one this time. If you ever show your face here again, I’ll break the other.”

  Harker was clutching his broken arm. Miller grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and called to Bolton, “Bring that nasty little sod, will you?”

  He urged Harker down through the shingle to the speedboat. “In you get,” he said, and heaved him headfirst. Bolton brought up the rear with Claude Harker and thrust him over behind the wheel, where he sat, blood on his face, looking distinctly the worse for wear.

  “Use your brain, if you’ve got one left, turn the key and the engine should start, then just go away. Come back and you know what to expect.” Miller turned to Bolton. “The bastards are going to need a shove.”

  They gave the speedboat a push. It drifted out into the waters of the inlet, the engine started, and the boat moved away. Miller said, “I think I could do with a drink. How about you?”

  “I’m driving, but I could kill for a cup of tea.” Bolton had a handkerchief out and was trying to stem the blood from the punch in the mouth he’d received.

  “Nasty,” Miller told him.

  “Nothing like as nasty as what you did to Seth Harker. Is he always like that?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Miller said. “My family’s owned a holiday cottage here since I was a kid, but it’s been a year since I was here. Harker, you say?”

  “That’s what the lady called him.”

  They went in the pub and found Lizzie picking up bottles that had been knocked off the bar. She turned and threw her arms around Miller and kissed him. There was a kind of awe on her face. “My God, Harry Miller, I’ve known you since we were kids together.” She shook her head. “It was as if I’d never known you as I watched what you did to that rotter.”

  “Oh, he made me angry,” Miller told her. “Enough said, Lizzie. If he bothers you again, I can arrange for pressure to be applied from the right people to assist him in mending his ways.”

  She turned to Bolton and held out her hand. “Lizzie Arnold. When that slimy little article put his hand up my skirt, I felt sick, but you came roaring in.” She kissed him on the cheek. “You’re another hero in my book. Can I have your name?”

  “You can have my card, if you like.” Bolton extracted one from his wallet and gave it to her.

  “Harry Miller.” He held out his hand. “Can I have one, too?”

  “Certainly.” Bolton found another, and Miller read it. “Goldman-Greene Investments. You’re a long way from the City.”

  “Making for Bognor—we’ve got clients there. Actually, I think I’d better make a move.”

  “Well, God bless you, love, and you’re welcome anytime,” Lizzie told him.

  “I’ll see you off,” Miller said, and they went out.

  They walked a little way on to the beach, the shingle crunching under their feet. Sam Bolton felt calm, better in himself than he had in a long time. “This is a really special place. I envy you.” He simulated hesitation. “You know, I feel in some strange way that I know you or that I’ve seen you somewhere.”

  Miller was amused but didn’t show it. “I’ve been on television on the odd occasion. I’m a Member of Parliament.”

  “Of course.” Bolton laughed. “Well, if you don’t mind me saying so, you’re like no Member of Parliament I ever knew.”

  “Sometimes I lose my temper. Did you get what you came for?”

  Bolton answered instinctively, his big mistake. “Yes, I think so.”

  He froze for a moment, and Miller smiled. “Well, that’s good. Safe journey, and thanks for stepping in. There’s still a brotherhood of men of goodwill who’re willing to step in when the going gets rough in this wicked old world. I like that.” He turned and went into the pub.

  What had been said, the use of the word “brotherhood,” could only have one meaning, and Bolton got in the Audi and drove away, and for some reason found himself laughing, because he’d liked Miller, liked him a lot.

  “He knows,” he said aloud. “The bastard actually knows. I wonder how.”

  Fifteen minutes later, he found the main road and started back to London.

  WHILE LIZZIE was making him ham sandwiches in the kitchen, he Codexed Roper. “Call off the cavalry,” he said, and gave him a brief account of what had happened.

  “Dammit all, Harry, you seem to have a flair for turning everything into the Gunfight at the OK Corral.”

  “Not quite true this time. It was Sam Bolton who stepped in first, to protect a lady’s honor, as it were. He didn’t hesitate, even though there were two of them. He didn’t know I was going to arrive through the door to back him up. Anyway, he could handle himself and he was prepared to have a go. He wasn’t your average guy next door, but the most significant thing was that instinctive reply he made when I asked him had he got what he’d come for.”

  “And he said I think so.”

  “And what do you think he’d come for?”

  “To suss you out, Harry, something like that. I must say he must have found you interesting.”

  “He did say I was like no Member of Parliament he ever knew.”

  “Don’t worry, old lad, you’re definitely a one-off. Perhaps that’s what he needed to find out. We’ll speak again.”

  IN LONDON, Bolton went straight to Hampstead when he arrived, and found the corner shop still open, a young girl in a head scarf working behind the counter. Bolton asked for Hassim, she went in the back, returned and held the door open for him, and he passed through.

  Hassim was sitting behind his desk and glanced up. “How did it
go?”

  Bolton took a chair by the fire. “He’s a very exceptional man.”

  “I had become aware of that. Tell me what happened. Obviously, something out of the ordinary did.”

  “You could say that.” Bolton proceeded to give an account. “This is a very dangerous individual. His image, the Reform Club member, the MP in a pin-striped suit, gives a totally false idea of who he is.”

  “No, of what he is would be more accurate.” Ali Hassim sighed. “Of course, it is a pity that your actions called into question your own credentials. You are convinced that he was onto you?”

  “Why use that reference to ‘brotherhood’? But there was more than that, I sensed it. It was as if he knew me.”

  “Which is unfortunate,” Ali Hassim told him. “You were in your own car and the number plate alone would open a wealth of information about you and your identity.”

  “As a sleeper, my usefulness is the genuineness of my identity. I gave him my card because I am who I say I am, an investment manager with an important City firm. We live in the world of the instant check. Mine would prove at once, even to the police, that I am totally respectable.”

  “But yet you say he suspects you of being a member of the Brotherhood?”

  “That is true, and if I am right, there must be more going on in the background than even you know. Has it ever occurred to you that your enemies are perfectly well aware that under the respectable religious cloak of the Army of God, the Brotherhood exists? Perhaps the situation suits them.” Bolton got up. “So I’ve done my bit. I must get back to earning a living.”

  He went out and Ali Hassim sat there, thinking. Bolton was right in what he had said, the implication that people like Ferguson were happy to allow the activities of an organization like the Brotherhood to continue because they were able to monitor it. A slightly depressing thought, but even more depressing was the fact that Bolton was beginning to query things. The trouble was, he wasn’t religious at all, so no control was possible because it meant he was not to be trusted. So, in future, he would have to be treated with caution. On the other hand, he was so useful to the cause, totally accepted as one of their own by the enemy, hugely intelligent. Too valuable to let go. In any case, he had made his vows to serve Allah to the death. If he ever attempted to go back on that, there would only be one possible outcome. He sighed, went into the kitchen, and made a cup of tea.