Not possible, Im afraid.
Blake didnt say he was sorry. There just didnt 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? Whats 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.
Ill 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 whats going on, dont you think?
Miller leaned back and Blake drove away.
They paused on a rise, the village below. It wasnt 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.
Its 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. Streets clear. Id 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 whats 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 its an old friend and Ive always found it gets the job done. He produced a Carswell silencer and screwed it in place.
I wouldnt 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 doesnt know where youve been.
The mans 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?
Im going on. You take the alley and find the rear entrance.
Blake, on fire in a way he hadnt 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 Millers 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 didnt 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. Youre the one who should be answering questions. Youve 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, Im 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, Ive already disposed of your two guards on the porch, and now my friend whos just come in behind you would like to demonstrate what he can do.
Blake put a quick burst into the ceiling, which certainly got everybodys attention, and called in Russian, Drop your weapons!
There was a moments hesitation and he fired into the ceiling again. All of them, including the sergeant at the bar, raised their hands. It was Zorin who did the unexpected, dragging the girl across his lap in front of him, drawing his pistol, and pushing it into her side.
Drop your weapon, or she dies.
Without hesitation, Miller shot him twice in the side of the skull, sending him backwards over the chair. There was total silence, the Muslims getting to their feet. Everyone waited. He spoke to the sergeant in Russian.
You take the body with you, put it in the Storm Cruiser and wait for us with your men. See they do it, Blake. He turned to the Muslims. Who speaks English?
A man moved forward and the girl turned to him. I am the Mayor, sir, I speak good English. This is my youngest daughter. Allahs blessing on you. My name is Yusuf Birka.
The Russians were moving out, supervised by Blake, two of them carrying Zorins body, followed by the sergeant.
Miller said to Birka, Keep the weapons, they may be of use to you in the future.
Miller said to Birka, Keep the weapons, they may be of use to you in the future.
Birka turned and spoke to the others and Miller went outside. Blake was standing at the rear of the Storm Cruiser, supervising the Russians loading Zorins body and the wounded man. There was an ammunition box on the ground.
Semtex and timer pencils. I suppose that would be for the mosque.
The soldiers all scrambled in and the sergeant waited, looking bewildered. If these people had their way, theyd shoot the lot of you, Miller told him.
To his surprise, the sergeant replied in reasonable English. I must warn you. The death of Captain Zorin wont sit well with my superiors. He was young and foolish, but well connected in Moscow.
I cant help that, but I have a suggestion for your commanding officer when you get back. Tell him from me that since you shouldnt have been here in the first place, well treat the whole incident as if it didnt happen. Now get moving.
As you say. The sergeant looked unhappy, but climbed up behind the wheel and drove the Storm Cruiser away, to the cheers of the villagers.
People milled around in the street, staring curiously. Some of the men arrived now, but they kept their distance as Miller and Blake talked with the mayor, who said, How can we thank you?
By taking my advice. Keep quiet about this. If they come again, you have arms. I dont think they will, though. Its better for them to pretend it never happened, and better if you do, too. I wont report any of this to the Protection Corps.
The mayor said, I will be guided by you. Will you break bread with us?
Miller smiled, No, my friend, because we arent here. We never were. He turned to Blake. Lets get going. Ill drive this time.
As they moved away, Blake said, Do you think the villagers will do as you say?
I dont see why not. Its entirely to their advantage, and I dont think its worth us mentioning it to the Corps because of, shall we say, the peculiar circumstances of the matter.
Ive no problem with that, Blake said. But Ill have to report back to the President.
I agree. Ill do the same with the PM. It wouldnt be the first time hes been informed of this sort of thing. Meanwhile, youve got your laptop there, and the information pack you were given by the Protection Corps people includes Russian military field service codes for the area. See what they have on Captain Igor Zorin and the Fifteenth Siberian Storm Guards.
Blake opened his laptop on his knees, got to work and found it in a matter of minutes. Here it is, he said. Forward Field Centre, Lazlo, Bulgaria. Igor Zorin, twenty-five, decorated in Chechnya. Listings for the unit, home base near Moscow.
Sounds good, Miller said.
And then a magic hand wiped it clean, the screen went dark. Dammit. Blake punched keys desperately. Its all gone. What have I done?
Nothing, Miller told him. I imagine the sergeant called in and gave his masters the bad news within minutes of his leaving us. It didnt happen, you see, just like I told you. Except the Russians are being even more than usually thorough. So, is it back to Zagreb for you?
No, Pristina. Im hitching a lift from there back to the States with the Air Force. How about you?
Belgrade for me, and then London. Olivias opening on Friday in the West End. An old Noël Coward play, Private Lives. I hope I can make it. I disappoint her too often.
Lets hope you do. Blake hesitated, awkward. Its been great meeting you. What you did back there was remarkable.
But necessary. Thats what soldiers do, the nasty things from which the rest of society turns away. Zorin was something that needed stepping on, thats all. And he increased speed as they went over the next rise.
NANTUCKET3
Seated by the fire in the beach house, Blake finished his account of what had taken place at Banu and there was silence for a while and it was Cazalet who spoke first.
Well, it beats anything Ive heard in years. What do you think, Charles?
Its certainly given the Russians a black eye. No wonder they wiped the screen clean, Ferguson replied. Its the smart way to deal with it.
And you think it could stay that way? A non-event?
As regards any important repercussions. How could the Kremlin complain while at the same time denying any involvement? OK, these things sometimes leak, Chinese whispers as they say, but thats all. Miller will mention it to the PM, but its no different from the kind of things I have to tell him on a regular basis these days. Were at war, whether we like it or not, and I dont mean just Iraq and Afghanistan.
One thing does interest me, Blake said. According to his entry on the computer, except for the Falklands as a boy out of Sandhurst, Miller spent his eighteen years behind a desk at Army Intelligence headquarters in London.
Whats your point? Cazalet said.
That was no desk jockey at that inn in Banu.
Ferguson smiled gently. All it does is show you how unreliable information on computers can be. I should imagine there are many things people dont know about Harry Miller. He turned to Cazalet. With your permission, Ill retire.
Sleep well, Charles, well share the helicopter back to Washington tomorrow afternoon. Ill see you for breakfast.
Of course, Mr President.
Ferguson moved to the door, which Clancy held open for him, and Cazalet added, And, Charles, the redoubtable Major Miller. I really would appreciate learning some of those many things people dont know about him, if that were possible, of course.
Ill see what I can do, Mr President.
Ferguson lay on the bed in the pleasant guest room provided for him, propped up against the pillows. Ten oclock London time was six hours ahead, but he didnt worry that no one would be in. He called the Holland Park safe house and got an instant response.
Who is this?
Dont play silly buggers, Major, you know very well who it is.
What I do know is that its four oclock in the morning, Roper told him.
And if its business as usual, youre right now sitting ensconced in your wheelchair in front of those damned computer screens exploring cyberspace on your usual diet of bacon sandwiches, whisky and cigarettes.
Yes, isnt life hell?
He was doing exactly what Ferguson had said he was. He put the telephone system on speaker, ran his hands over his bomb-scarred face, poured a generous measure of Scotch into a glass, and tossed it down.
How were things at the United Nations?
Just what youd expect the Russians are stirring the pot.
Well, they would, wouldnt they? I thought youd be back today. Where are you, Washington?
I was. Briefed the Ambassador here and bumped into Blake Johnson just back from a fact-finding mission to Kosovo. He brought me down to Nantucket to see Cazalet.