Rough Justice. Jack Higgins

justice was the only way to deal with such people, and his superiors accepted his plans. No more hearts and minds, only Operation Titan and disposal by Unit 16, the bullet leading to a crematorium. All very efficient, a corpse turned into six pounds of grey ash within a couple of hours. It was the ultimate answer to any terrorist problem and Roper was fascinated to see that many hard men in the Protestant UVF had also suffered the same fate when necessary.

      He found the names of members of Unit 16 and the details of some who had fallen by the wayside. Miller had been tagged as a systems analyst and later as a personnel recruiter at Army Intelligence Headquarters in London, and then, a captain, was put in charge of what was described as the Overseas Intelligence Organization Department. A harmless enough description that was obviously a front.

      Unit 16 itself consisted of twenty individuals, three of them women. Each had a number, with no particular logic to it. Miller was seven. The casualty reports were minimal on the whole: the briefest of descriptions, names of victims, location of the event, not much more. Miller’s number figured on twelve occasions over the years, but the River Street affair was covered in more detail than usual.

      Miller had been detailed to extract a young lieutenant named Harper who’d been working undercover and had called in that his cover had been blown. When Miller picked him up, their car was immediately cut off in River Street by the docks, one vehicle in front, another behind.

      A burst of firing wounded Harper, and Miller was ordered at gunpoint to get out of his vehicle. Fortunately, he had armed himself with an unusual weapon, a Browning with a twenty-round magazine. He had killed two Provos by shooting them through the door of his car as he opened it, turned and disposed of the two men in the vehicle behind through their windscreen. As Doyle had mentioned, they’d reached the safe house later and been retrieved by the SAS.

      ‘My God, Major,’ Doyle said in awe. ‘I never knew the truth of it, just the IRA making those wild claims. You’d have thought he’d have got a medal.’

      Roper shook his head. ‘They couldn’t do that, it would lead to questions, give the game away. By the way, Lieutenant Harper died the following day at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast.’

      Doyle shook his head, genuinely distressed. ‘After all that.’

      ‘Name of the game, Tony, and I don’t need to remind you that this is all top secret at the highest level.’

      ‘I’ve worked for General Ferguson long enough to know my place, and it isn’t in Afghanistan, it’s right here at Holland Park. I wouldn’t jeopardize that for anything.’

      ‘Sensible man. Let me get on with this report for Ferguson.’

      ‘I’ll check on you later.’ Doyle hesitated. ‘Excuse me asking, but is Major Miller in some kind of trouble?’

      ‘No, but old habits die hard. It would appear he’s been handing out his original version of justice in Kosovo, in company with Blake Johnson, of all people.’

      Doyle took a deep breath. ‘I’m sure he had his reasons. From what I’ve heard, the Prime Minister seems to think a lot of him.’

      He went out and Roper sat considering it, then tapped No. 10 Downing Street into his computer, punched Ferguson’s private link code, checked the names of those admitted during the past twenty-four hours, and there was Miller, booked in at five, the previous evening, admitted to the Prime Minister’s study at five forty.

      ‘My goodness,’ Roper said softly, ‘he doesn’t let the grass grow under his feet. I wonder what the Prime Minister had to say.’

      Miller hadn’t bothered with Belgrade. A call to an RAF source had indicated a Hercules leaving Pristina Airport after he and Blake had parted. There had been an unlooked-for delay of a couple of hours, but they had landed at RAF Croydon in the late afternoon, where his credentials had assured him of a fast staff car to Downing Street.

      He didn’t phone his wife. He’d promised to try and make her opening night, and still might, but duty called him to speak to the Prime Minister on his return and that had to be his priority. There was a meeting of course, there always was. He kicked his heels in the outer office, accepted a coffee from one of the secretaries and waited. Finally, the magic moment came and he was admitted.

      The Prime Minister, scribbling something at his desk, looked up and smiled. ‘So good to have you back, Harry, and good to see you. How did it go? Sit down and tell me.’

      Which Miller did.

      When he was finished, the Prime Minister said, ‘Well, you have been busy. I would remind you, however, that this isn’t Northern Ireland, and the Troubles are over. We have to be more circumspect.’

      ‘Yes, Prime Minister.’

      ‘Having said that, I’m a practical man. The Russians shouldn’t have been in this Banu place in the first place. They’ll let it go. Whatever else he is, Putin’s no fool. As far as I can see, shooting this wretched Zorin chap probably prevented a serious atrocity. It must have enlivened things for Blake Johnson, though. I’m sure President Cazalet will find his report interesting.’

      ‘It’s good of you to take such a view in the matter, Prime Minister.’

      ‘Let’s be frank, Harry, I’ve heard worse. Charles Ferguson’s people – their activities are beyond belief sometimes. For that matter…’ He paused. ‘I know you’ve always kept out of his way, but it might make sense if you two talked. You’ve got a lot of interests in common.’

      ‘If you wish, Prime Minister. Now, if there’s nothing else, may I be excused? It’s Olivia’s opening night.’

      The Prime Minister smiled. ‘Give her my love, Harry, and get going. It’ll be curtain up before you know it.’

      Curtain up was seven thirty and he arrived at the stage door at ten past seven to find Marcus, the ancient doorman, at his desk reading the Standard. Marcus was delighted to see him.

      ‘Good God, Major, she’ll be thrilled. And your sister’s with her, Lady Starling. Your wife’s been prepping an understudy. They thought you was still in Kosovo. Anthony Vere broke a bone in his right foot, so you’ve got Colin Carlton. He’s a little young for the part, but them Madame looks ten years younger than she is.’

      ‘Tell her that and you’ll have a friend for life.’

      ‘You haven’t got long, sir. Front row, dress circle. House seats. I got them myself.’

      Miller was at the door of his wife’s dressing room in seconds, knocked and entered and was greeted with enormous excitement. His wife had her stage make-up beautifully applied, her red hair superb, and was being zipped up in her dress by his sister Monica, who looked lovely, as usual, her blonde hair beautifully cut, looking younger than her own forty years.

      They were thrilled, Olivia actually crying a little. ‘Damn you, Harry, you’re ruining my make-up. I didn’t expect you’d make it. You usually don’t.’

      They kissed gently and his sister said, ‘Come on, move it. We won’t even have time for a drink at the bar.’

      He kissed her on the forehead. ‘Never mind, we’ll make up for it afterwards. You’re staying over at Dover Street, I hope?’

      ‘Of course.’

      Monica had rooms at the University in Cambridge, but the London townhouse had been the family home since Victorian times. It was close to South Audley Street, convenient to the Dorchester Hotel, Park Lane and Hyde Park, and it was spacious enough for her to have her own suite. She also had shared use of Stokely Hall in the Kent countryside where Aunt Mary led a gentle life, supported by Sarah Grant, the housekeeper, and her husband, Fergus, who chauffeured the old Rolls and turned his hand to most things. They lived in the lodge and a Mrs Trumper came in from the village to cook.

      In a strange way, all this was going through Miller’s mind as he and Monica made tracks for the dress circle. It was a reaction to what had happened, the violence of Kosovo,