Rough Justice

‘Peasants who keep their heads down and don’t want trouble.’ Blake nodded. ‘Have you anywhere in mind?’

‘There’s a place called Banu, deep in the forest, about ten miles from the border.’

‘How far from here?’

‘Thirty miles or so, dirt roads, but it could be worthwhile. We could leave your jeep here and travel in mine, that’s if you favour the idea of us going together?’

‘Favour it?’ Blake said. ‘I’d welcome it. What time do you suggest in the morning?’

‘No need to rush. Let’s enjoy a decent breakfast and get away about nine to nine thirty.’

‘Excellent,’ Blake told him. ‘I think I’ll get an early night.’

Miller glanced at his watch. ‘It’s later than you think. Half past ten. I’ll hang on, enjoy a nightcap and arrange things with the innkeeper.’

Blake left him there, and mounted the wide stairway. There was something about Miller, a calmness that seemed to distance him from other people, a self-assurance that was obvious, and yet no arrogance there at all.

In the bedroom, he sat at a small dressing table, took out his laptop, entered Harry Miller and found him without difficulty. He was forty-five, married, wife Olivia, thirty-three, maiden name Hunt, actress by profession. No children.

His military career was dealt with so sparsely that to the trained eye it was obviously classified. From Military Academy, Sandhurst, he had joined the Army Intelligence Corps. He experienced war very quickly, only three months later, as a second lieutenant attached to 42 Commando. Afterwards, his posting was to Army Intelligence Corps headquarters in London, where he had served for the rest of his career, retiring in the rank of major in 2003, before being elected a Member of Parliament for a place called Stokely that same year. As he had indicated, he enjoyed the rank of Under-Secretary of State although in no special Ministry. Nothing but mystery piling on mystery here.

‘Who in the hell is he?’ Blake murmured to himself. ‘Or more to the point, what is he?’

No answer, so he closed his laptop down and went to bed.

On the following day, Blake was doing the driving. Miller had a military canvas holdall beside them and he rummaged in it and produced a map. It was a grey and misty morning, dark because of the pine trees crowding in.

‘Looks as if there’s been no upkeep on this road since the war,’ Blake said. ‘What’s between here and Banu?’

‘Not much at all.’ Miller put the map back in his holdall. ‘Depressing sort of place isn’t it? You’d wonder why anyone would want to live here.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Are you married?’

‘For 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.