Rough Justice. Jack Higgins
‘So it says in his passport, sir.’ He poured the beer. ‘We don’t get many guests these days.’
‘Why not?’
‘Bad things can happen, just like in the war. People are afraid.’
At that moment Miller came down the stairs into the great lounge and found him.
‘Beer?’ Blake asked.
‘Perfect. What’s happening?’
‘I was just asking him why there’s no one here. He says people are afraid.’
‘Of what?’ Miller asked.
Tomas pushed two large flagons of beer across the bar. ‘Between here and the Bulgarian border is not a good place. I would leave, but the inn is all I have.’
Miller said, ‘So what gives you the problem?’
‘Those who cross the border and attack the villages.’
‘And who are they?’
‘People who don’t like Muslims. But sit by the fire, gentlemen, and enjoy your drink. We have good bread, sausages and a lamb stew. I’ll bring your beer over.’
They did as he suggested, taking a chair each on either side of a great log fire. There was a small table next to each chair and he put the beer down carefully. ‘The food will be ready soon.’
He turned away and paused as Miller said, ‘But the soldiers of the Kosovo Protection Corps – what about them?’
The innkeeper nodded. ‘They are good people, but their effect is minimal. Small patrols, jeeps, sometimes a Warrior or two. They appear and then go away again, which leaves us at the mercy of those who would harm us.’
‘Again, who are they?’ Blake asked.
‘Sometimes Russians.’
Miller said to the innkeeper, ‘Are you saying uniformed soldiers from the Russian Army?’
‘Oh, yes, sir. Usually they stay close to the border.’ He shrugged. ‘They have even been as far as this inn. Maybe a dozen men, all in uniform.’
Miller said, ‘So how did they treat you?’
‘The food in my inn is excellent and I sell good beer. They ate, they drank, and they went. Their captain even paid me, and in American dollars.’
Blake said, ‘So they did you no harm?’
The innkeeper shrugged. ‘Why should they? The captain said they’d see me again. To burn me down would be to penalize themselves. On the other hand, there were bad things happening elsewhere. Several people died in a village called Pazar. There was a small mosque. They burned that and killed seven people.’
Miller said, ‘Just a minute. I was at the Protection Corps headquarters the day before yesterday. I asked to see their file on incident reports for the past six months, and there was one on this place Pazar. It said that, yes, the small village mosque had been burned down, but when the Protection Corps sent a patrol to check it out, the village mayor and his elders said it was an accidental fire, and there was no mention of seven dead people, certainly no mention of Russian soldiers.’
‘The village council decided it was not in their best interests to make an official complaint. The Russian authorities would always deny it, and some bad night, the villagers would find themselves going through it all over again.’ The innkeeper bowed slightly. ‘And now please excuse me. I must see to your dinner.’
He disappeared through a green baize door leading to the kitchen. Blake said, ‘What do you think?’
‘I suspect what he said about the villagers at Pazar taking the easy way out is true.’
‘You were in the military?’ Blake asked.
‘Yes, Intelligence Corps.’
‘So when you became a Member of Parliament, the Prime Minister decided that your special talents could be put to good use?’
‘Whenever he sees what appears to be a problem, he sends me. I’m classed as an Under-Secretary of State, although not attached to any particular Ministry. It gives me a little muscle when I need it.’ He drank some of his beer. ‘And what about you?’
‘To a certain degree, I’m in a similar situation. The President’s man.’
Miller smiled gently. ‘I’ve heard about what you do. Only whispers, of course.’
‘Which is the way we like it.’ Blake stood up. ‘I think they’re ready for us now. Let’s eat.’
‘Excellent,’ Miller said, and followed him out.
Afterwards, the meal having proved excellent, they returned to their seats by the fire and the innkeeper brought coffee.
Blake said, ‘I’ve been thinking. I’m only here for another couple of days, travelling south, visiting a few villages, getting the feel of things.’
‘From here to the border?’ Miller said. ‘That makes sense. I checked it all out on the maps. A lot of forest, villages from a bygone age. The people go nowhere, only to market, they keep to themselves.’
‘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