Rough Justice. Jack Higgins

as the most important hour in the day.’

      ‘Comrade President,’ Chekov 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, Chekov, you’re ready to get back to work? I’m delighted to hear it.’

      As it was the first thing Chekov 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.’

      Chekov didn’t even try to resist. ‘Of course, Comrade President.’

      As if by magic, the door by which Chekov had entered opened again, revealing the GRU lieutenant. Chekov 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,’ Chekov 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 US 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 dialled 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 honour. 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 honourably, 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