Rough Justice. Jack Higgins
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a few years, but it didn’t work out mainly because of the demands of my job. She was a journalist.’
‘Do you still see her?’
‘No, she’s dead, murdered actually, by some rather bad people.’
‘My God.’ Miller shook his head. ‘That’s terrible. I can only hope there was some kind of closure.’
‘The courts, you mean?’ Blake shook his head. ‘No time for that, not in today’s world, not in my world. The rules are no rules. The people concerned were taken care of with the help of some very good friends of mine.’ He shrugged. ‘It was a long time ago, Major.’
‘Why do you call me that?’
‘Tomas, the innkeeper. You had to show him your passport.’
‘You were military yourself, I think?’
‘Yes, I was also a major at the early age of twenty-three, but that was Vietnam for you. All my friends seemed to die around me, but I never managed it. Are you married?’
Although he knew the answer, it might seem strange to Miller not to ask and he got an instant response. ‘Very much so. Olivia. American, actually. She’s an actress. Twelve years younger than me, so she’s in her prime. Gets plenty of work in London.’
‘Children?’
‘Not possible, I’m afraid.’
Blake didn’t say he was sorry. There just didn’t seem any point, and at that moment, there was the sound of shooting and they went over a rise and saw a young peasant riding a bicycle towards them. He was swaying from side to side, his mouth gaping, panic stricken. Blake braked to a halt. The man on the bicycle slewed onto his side and fell over. Miller got out, approached him and pulled him up.
‘Are you all right? What’s wrong?’ He spoke in English. The man seemed bewildered and there was blood matting his hair on the left side of the head. ‘Banu?’ Miller tried.
The man nodded energetically. ‘Banu,’ he said hoarsely, and pointed along the road. There were a couple more shots.
‘I’ll try Russian,’ Miller said, and turned to the man. ‘Are you from Banu?’
His question was met by a look of horror and the man was immediately terrified, turned and stumbled away into the trees.
Miller got back in the jeep and said to Blake, ‘So much for Russian.’
‘It frightened him to death,’ Blake said. ‘That was obvious. I speak it a certain amount myself, as it happens.’
‘Excellent. Then I suggest we go down to Banu and find out what’s going on, don’t you think?’
Miller leaned back and Blake drove away.
They paused on a rise, the village below. It wasn’t much of a place: houses of wood mainly on either side of the road, scattered dwellings that looked like farm buildings extending downwards, a stream that was crossed by a wooden bridge supported by large blocks of granite. There was a wooden building with a crescent above it, obviously what passed as a small mosque, and an inn of the traditional kind.
A sizeable light armoured vehicle was parked outside the inn. ‘What the hell is that?’ Blake asked.
‘It’s Russian, all right,’ Miller told him. ‘An armoured troop carrier called a Storm Cruiser. Reconnaissance units use them. They can handle up to twelve soldiers.’ He opened his holdall and took out a pair of binoculars. ‘Street’s clear. I’d say the locals are keeping their heads down. Two soldiers on the porch, supposedly guarding the entrance, drinking beer, a couple of girls in headscarves crouched beside them. The shooting was probably somebody having fun inside the inn.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Well, to a certain extent I represent United Nations interests here. We should go down and take a look at what’s happening.’
Blake took a deep breath. ‘If you say so.’
‘Oh, I do, but I like to be prepared.’ Miller produced a Browning from the holdall. ‘I know it might seem a little old-fashioned, but it’s an old friend and I’ve always found it gets the job done.’ He produced a Carswell silencer and screwed it in place.
‘I wouldn’t argue with that,’ Blake said, and took the jeep down into the village street, his stomach hollow. There were people peering out of windows on each side as they drove down and braked to a halt outside the inn. The two soldiers were totally astonished. One of them, his machine pistol on the floor, stared stupidly, his beer in his hand. The other had been fondling one of the girls, his weapon across his knees.
Miller opened the jeep door and stepped out into the rain, his right hand behind him holding the Browning. ‘Put her down,’ he said in excellent Russian. ‘I mean, she doesn’t know where you’ve been.’
The man’s rage was immediate and he shoved the girl away, knocking her to one side against her friend, started to get up, clutching the machine pistol, and Miller shot him in the right knee. In the same moment, Miller swung to meet the other soldier as he stood up and struck him across the side of the head with the Browning.
The two girls ran across the road, where a door opened to receive them. Blake came round the jeep fast and picked up one of the machine pistols.
‘Now what?’
‘I’m going on. You take the alley and find the rear entrance.’
Blake, on fire in a way he hadn’t been in years, did as he was told, and Miller crossed to the door, opened it and went in, his right hand once again behind his back holding the Browning.
The inn was old fashioned in a way to be expected deep in such countryside: a beamed ceiling, wooden floors, a scattering of tables and a long bar, bottles ranged on shelves behind it. There were about fifteen men crouched on the floor by the bar, hands on heads, two Russian soldiers guarding them. A sergeant stood behind the bar drinking from a bottle, a machine pistol on the counter by his hand. Two other soldiers sat on a bench opposite, two women crouched on the floor beside them, one of them sobbing.
The officer in command, a captain from his rank tabs, sat at a table in the centre of the room. He was very young, handsome enough, a certain arrogance there. That the muted sound of Miller’s silenced pistol had not been heard inside the inn was obvious enough, but considering the circumstances, he seemed to take the sudden appearance of this strange apparition in combat overalls and old-fashioned trench coat with astonishing calm. He had a young girl on his knee who didn’t even bother to struggle as he fondled her, so terrified was she.
He spoke in Russian. ‘And who are you?’
‘My name is Major Harry Miller, British Army, attached to the United Nations.’ His Russian was excellent.
‘Show me your papers.’
‘No. You’re the one who should be answering questions. You’ve no business this side of the border. Identify yourself.’
The reply came as a kind of reflex. ‘I am Captain Igor Zorin of the Fifteenth Siberian Storm Guards, and we have every right to be here. These Muslim dogs swarm over the border to Bulgaria to rape and pillage.’ He pushed the girl off his knee and sent her staggering towards the bar and his sergeant. ‘Give this bitch another bottle of vodka, I’m thirsty.’
She returned with the bottle, and Zorin dragged her back on his knee, totally ignoring Miller, then pulled the cork in the bottle with his teeth, but instead of drinking the vodka, he forced it on the girl, who struggled, choking.
‘So what do you want, Englishman?’
A door opened at the rear of the room and Blake stepped in cautiously, machine pistol ready.
‘Well, I’ve already disposed of your two guards on the porch, and now my friend who’s just come in behind you would like to demonstrate what he can do.’
Blake