Rough Justice. Jack Higgins
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Wharf in Wapping, the first pub Harry Salter had owned and one still dear to his heart. When they arrived, Doyle parked the van and extracted Roper from the rear, using the lift, and they went inside.
Harry Salter and his nephew, Billy, were at the table in the corner booth, his two minders, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, having a beer at the bar. Ruby Moon served drinks and Mary O’Toole beside her handled food orders from the kitchen. Roper joined the table and nodded to Ruby, who immediately sent him a large Scotch by way of Joe Baxter.
Harry Salter and Billy were reading a file between them. Roper said, ‘Is that the stuff I sent you on Miller?’
‘It certainly is,’ Harry said. ‘Where have they been keeping this guy all these years?’
‘In plain sight,’ Billy told him. ‘He’s been around. We just didn’t know the other side of him.’
Harry, a gangster most of his life, said to his nephew, ‘And what an other side. His past is incredible.’
‘I wouldn’t argue with that.’ As Billy leaned over, his jacket gaped, revealing a shoulder holster and the butt of a Walther PPK.
‘I’ve told you before,’ his uncle said. ‘A shooter under your arm when we’re about to have our lunch – is that necessary? I mean, there are ladies present.’
‘God bless you, Harry,’ Ruby called.
‘As an agent in Her Majesty’s Secret Service, I’m licensed to use it, Harry, and in this wicked world we live in, you never know when.’
‘Give it a rest, Billy,’ Harry told him and Ferguson walked in. ‘Thank God, it’s you, General, perhaps we can have some sanity round here. Where’s Dillon?’
‘He got a call last night from Levin, down at Kingsmere Hall. They’ve asked Dillon to give them a day for some reason. He’ll be back this evening.’
At that moment, a man walked in behind him. A light navy blue raincoat hung from his shoulders, over a smart suit of the same colour, a white shirt and regimental tie.
‘I had to park by the river,’ he told Ferguson. ‘Had to run for it.’ He slipped off the raincoat. ‘It’s started to pour.’
That his suit was Savile Row stood out a mile. There was a small silence and Harry said, ‘Who’s this?’
‘Sorry,’ Ferguson told him. ‘I’m forgetting my manners. Meet Major Harry Miller. You could be seeing him from time to time in the future. He’s thinking of joining us.’
The silence was total. It was Billy who said, ‘Now that’s a show stopper if ever I heard one.’ He stood up and held out his hand.
There was only a certain amount of truth in what Ferguson had said. He’d spoken to the Major as the Prime Minister had asked him, and Miller in his turn had had his orders from the great man, which he’d accepted with some reluctance. On the other hand, after looking at the file Ferguson had given him, with details of his unit’s activities and personnel, he’d warmed to the idea.
‘A drink, Major?’ Harry asked. ‘Best pint of beer in London.’
‘Scotch and water,’ Miller said.
‘A man after my own heart,’ Roper told him, and called to Ruby, ‘Another here, love, for Major Miller, and a repeat for me.’
Billy said to Ferguson, ‘So what’s Dillon doing at Kingsmere? I know he speaks Russian, but Levin, Greta and Chomsky are the real thing.’
‘Maybe they’re supposed to be encouraged by how well Dillon copes with the language,’ Roper said. ‘After all, he is still a Belfast boy at heart.’
‘Anyway, Simon Carter sanctioned it, and I wasn’t about to argue it,’ Ferguson said.
Miller surprised them all by saying, ‘You have to understand his logic. All Irish are bogtrotters, with faces like dogs and broken boots. By displaying Dillon with his Russian ability, his argument probably runs something like: If this animal can do it, so can you.’
‘Jesus, Major, that’s really putting the boot in old Carter.’
‘Who isn’t popular in our society,’ Roper told him. ‘And he loathes Dillon.’
‘Why, particularly?’
‘It goes a long way back, to when John Major was PM. Major was hosting an affair on the terrace of the House of Commons for President Clinton, and Simon Carter was responsible for security. Dillon told Carter the security was crap, and he laid a bet that no matter what Carter did, sometime during the affair he would appear on the terrace, dressed as a waiter, and serve the two great men canapés.’
‘And did he?’
It was Ferguson who said, ‘Yes. He got in from the river. Harry and Billy dropped him off overnight in a wet suit.’
‘Me being the biggest expert in London on the Thames,’ Harry said modestly. ‘You’ve got to get the tide just right, and the current can be a killer.’
‘President Clinton was very amused,’ Ferguson said.
‘But Simon Carter wasn’t.’ That was Miller.
‘No,’ Roper laughed. ‘Hates him beyond reason, perhaps because Dillon is what Carter can never be.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Carter is the ultimate desk man,’ Ferguson put in. ‘He’s never been in the field in his life. Sean is someone quite beyond his understanding. He will kill at the drop of a hat if he thinks it’s necessary.’
‘And on the other side of his coin, he has an enormous flair for languages; a scholar and poet by inclination,’ Harry said. ‘Plays great piano, if you like Cole Porter, and flies a plane.’
‘And don’t forget, a bloody good actor in his day,’ Roper said. ‘A student at RADA, even performed with the National Theatre.’
‘And gave it all up, as he once said to me,’ Ferguson put in, ‘for the theatre of the street.’
Miller nodded, a strange alertness there. ‘Is that what he said?’
‘I remember it well. We have what you might call a special relationship. At a stage when he was no longer with the IRA, I was responsible for him ending up in the hands of Serbs and facing the possibility of a firing squad.’
‘And what was the alternative?’
‘A little judicious blackmail led him to work for me.’ Ferguson shrugged. ‘It’s the name of the game, but then no one knows that better than you.’
Miller smiled. ‘If you say so. I look forward to meeting him.’
‘He’s often found at the Holland Park safe house. You’re welcome there any time.’
‘I look forward to it.’
Harry Salter interrupted, ‘That’s enough chat. We’ve got some of the best pub grub in London here, so let’s get started.’
Later in the afternoon, Miller looked in at Dover Street and found his wife preparing for the evening performance. She was in the kitchen in a terrycloth robe, her hair up, preparing cucumber sandwiches, her personal fetish and absolute good-luck charm before every performance. He stole one and she admonished him.
‘Don’t you dare.’ The kettle boiled and she made green tea. ‘I’m going for my bath after this. Are you looking in on the show tonight? You don’t need to, I don’t expect you to be there every night, Harry. And anyway, I’m having a drink with the cast afterwards.’
‘I should check in at Westminster. There’s a foreign policy debate and I do have things to do. The PM’s asked me to interest myself in General Charles Ferguson’s security unit, just as an adviser.’
‘Oh, I didn’t tell