Rough Justice

She shook her head, bewildered. ‘A medal? He’s got medals. I don’t understand. Where are we at war?’ She clutched at Zorin. ‘Where was he killed?’

Volkov said, ‘On a mission of the greatest importance to the State, that’s all I can say. You may remember him with pride.’

She held up the photo of Igor Zorin in a bemedalled uniform, and Volkov took in the handsome face, the arrogance, the look of cruelty, and then she seemed to come to life.

‘That’s no good to me, General. I want my son alive again and he’s dead. It’s turned my heart to stone already.’

She burst into a torrent of weeping. Tasha held her close and nodded to Zorin and Volkov. ‘Go now,’ she said. ‘I’ll see to her.’

They did as they were told, went out into the street and paused beside their two limousines.

‘I can’t thank you enough for coming with me,’ Zorin said.

‘When I spoke to Colonel Bagirova of the Fifteenth Siberians, we agreed on the day after tomorrow for the funeral, ten o’clock in the morning, the Minsky Park Military Cemetery, so your nephew will be laid to rest with some of Russia’s finest soldiers. We will see what we can do about the medal. I can certainly promise a letter with Putin’s name on it.’

‘I doubt whether even that will cheer her.’ Zorin got in his limousine and was driven away.

‘Just another day at the office,’ Volkov murmured, got into his own limousine and was driven back to the Kremlin.

The funeral at Minsky Park was all that could be desired. There was a company of soldiers from the Fifteenth Siberian’s training camp outside Moscow, plenty of mourners in black, family and friends. The coffin was delivered on a gun carriage, lowered into the prepared grave, and twenty soldiers delivered the correct volley as ordered at Colonel Bagirova’s shouted command.

Olga Zorin stood with her brother, a few relatives behind, Tasha on the end of a line. Zorin held the umbrella, his sister sobbed, the regimental bugler played a final salute. Volkov stood some distance away wearing a military coat of finest leather and a black fedora, an umbrella over his head. The crowd dispersed to their various cars and Zorin came towards him.

‘It was good of you to come. The family are very grateful.’

Volkov, who had observed the furtive glances coming his way, smiled. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think they’re more worried than anything else. This coat always makes me look as if the Gestapo actually got to Moscow.’

Zorin obviously couldn’t handle such levity. ‘The reception is at the Grand. You’re very welcome.’

‘Duty calls, I’m afraid, you must make my excuses.’

‘The letter from the President, which came yesterday, was a great comfort to her after all.’

‘Yes, it was intended to be.’ In truth, he’d signed it himself, but that was no matter.

Olga Zorin sobbed as relatives helped her into the back seat of one of the funeral cars and Tasha followed her.

‘A mother’s love,’ Zorin said piously. ‘I’m a widower with no children, you know. Igor was my only heir.’

‘Well, he isn’t now,’ Volkov said brutally. ‘You’ll get over it. We know what you oligarchs get up to in London. That bar at the Dorchester, the delights of Mayfair, the ladies of the night. Oh, you’ll cheer yourself up in no time.’

He walked away smiling, leaving Zorin with his mouth gaping.

Shortly after his return from America, Ferguson received a call to visit the Prime Minister, where they discussed Miller and the Kosovo affair at length.

‘So what do you think, Charles?’

‘I’ve no quarrel with Miller’s actions regarding Zorin. But I’ll be frank with you, Prime Minister, I thought I knew him and I find I didn’t. The stuff he was engaged in all those years, Titan and Unit 16. Remarkable.’

‘Especially when you consider that even people as knowledgeable as you had no idea. No, I’m very impressed with Harry Miller.’ He got up and paced around. ‘Miller has done many excellent things for me, great on-the-ground reporting. He has a brilliant eye and a gift for a tactical approach to difficult situations. You’d find him very useful, Charles.’

Ferguson could see how things were going. ‘Are you saying you think we should get together?’

‘Yes. I know there’s always been a fine line between what you do and his more political approach.’

‘And the fact that the two might clash,’ Ferguson said.

‘Yes, but I believe Harry Miller is a kind of hybrid, a mixture of the two.’

‘I’ve no argument with that. So what are your orders?’

‘To get together and sort things out, Charles.’ The Prime Minister shook his head. ‘What a world. Fear, uncertainty, chaos. It’s a war in itself. So let’s try and do something about it.’

The following day, Roper had Doyle drive him down to the Dark Man on Cable 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.