So, how do you want to handle this, Mr President?
I think Id like to meet Miller. He could be a useful recruit on certain missions for you and me, Charles. Discuss it with the Prime Minister and Miller first, of course. What do you think, Blake?
I think that could be beneficial to all parties, Mr President.
Excellent. Now why dont we all go for a walk on the beach, take the sea air? The surf is particularly fine this morning.
The Saturday-night performance of Private Lives was another triumph for Olivia Hunt, and she drove down in the Mercedes afterwards to Stokely with Harry and Monica, and Millers usual driver, Ellis Vaughan, who had provided a hamper, sandwiches, some caviar and a couple of bottles of champagne.
Youve excelled yourself, Ellis, Monica told him.
We do our best, my lady, he told her.
The truth was that as an ex-paratrooper, he enjoyed working for Miller. During these overnight stops at Stokely, he stayed in the spare bedroom at the Grants cottage.
Olivia was on a high. Miller, on the other hand, felt strangely lifeless, a reaction to his trip, he told himself. They didnt arrive until one thirty in the morning, and went to bed almost at once, where Miller spent a disturbed night.
They had a family breakfast on Sunday morning, with Aunt Mary later than usual. She was eighty-two now, whitehaired, but with a healthy glow to her cheeks, and her vagueness was, in a way, quite charming.
Dont mind me, you three. Go for a walk, if you like. I always read the Mail on Sunday at this time.
Mrs Grant brought it in. There you are, Madam. Ill clear the table if youre all finished.
Miller was wearing a sweater, jeans and a pair of ankle boots. I feel like a gallop round the paddock. I asked Fergus to saddle Doubtfire.
Olivia said, Are you sure, darling? You look tired.
Nonsense. He was restless and impatient, a nerviness there.
Monica said, Off you go. Be a good boy. Well watch, you cant complain about that.
He hesitated, then forced a smile. Of course not.
He went out through the French windows and it was Aunt Mary who put it in perspective. I think it must have been a difficult trip. He looks tired and hes not himself.
Well, you would know, Monica said. Youve known him long enough.
They took their time walking down to the paddock and he was already in the saddle when they got there, Fergus standing by the stables, watching.
Miller cantered around for a while and then started taking the hedge jumps. He was angry with himself for allowing things to get on top of him, realizing now that what had happened in Kosovo had really touched a nerve and he was damned if he was going to allow that to happen.
He urged Doubtfire over several of the jumps, then swung the plucky little mare round and, on an impulse, urged her towards the rear fences forbiddingly tall five-barred gate.
Good girl, he said. We can do it, and he pushed her into a gallop.
His wife cried out, No, Harry, no!
But Doubtfire sailed over into the meadow, and just as she caught her breath in relief, Miller galloped a few yards on the other side, swung Doubtfire round and once again tackled the gate.
Olivias voice raised in a scream, No, Harry! Monica flung an arm around her shoulders. Miller took the jump perfectly, however, cantered over to Fergus and dismounted. Give her a good rubdown and oats. Shes earned it.
Fergus took the reins and said, If youll excuse me, Major, but Ive the right to say after all these years that
I know, Fergus, it was bloody stupid. Just get on with it.
He walked towards the two women, and Olivia said, Damn you, Harry Miller, damn you for frightening me like that. It will take some forgiving. Im going in.
She walked away. Monica stood looking at him, then produced a cigarette case from her handbag, offered him one and took one herself. She gave him a light from her Zippo.
He inhaled with conscious pleasure. Were not supposed to do this these days.
She said, Harry, Ive known you for forty years, you are my dearly loved brother, but sometimes I feel I dont know you at all. What you did just now was an act of utter madness.
Youre quite right.
You used to do things like that a lot when you were in the Army, but for the last four years, working for the Prime Minister, youve seemed different. Somethings happened to you, hasnt it? Kosovo, that trip there? She nodded. What was it? Come on, Harry, I know Kosovo is a hell of a place. People were butchered in the thousands there.
That was then, this is now, Monica, my love. He suddenly gave her the Harry smile and kissed her on the cheek. Im tired, a bit wound up, thats all. Now be a good girl, come up to the house and help me with Olivia.
And so she went, reluctantly, but she went.
THE KREMLIN4
There was a hint of sleet in the rain falling in Moscow as Max Chekovs limousine transported him from his hotel to the Kremlin. It was a miserable day, and to be perfectly frank, hed have preferred to have stayed in Monaco, where one of the best clinics in Europe had been providing him with essential therapy to his seriously damaged left leg. But when you received a call demanding your appearance at the Kremlin from General Ivan Volkov, the personal security adviser to the President of the Russian Federation, you hardly said no.
The limousine swept past the massive entrance to the Kremlin, and negotiated the side streets and checkpoints until they reached an obscure rear entrance. Chekov got out and mounted a flight of stone steps with some difficulty, making heavy use of the walking stick in his left hand. His approach was obviously under scrutiny, for the door opened just before he reached it.
A tough-looking young man in the uniform of a lieutenant in the GRU greeted him. Do you require assistance?
Im all right if we stay on the ground floor.
We will. Follow me.
Chekov stumped after him along a series of incredibly quiet, dull corridors that seemed to stretch into infinity and then his guide opened a door leading to a much more ornate passageway lined with paintings and antiques. At the far end, a burly man in a dark suit, his head shaven, sat outside a door, a machine pistol across his knees. The GRU officer ignored him, opened the door and motioned Chekov inside.
Chekov moved past him and the door closed behind. The room was fantastic, decorated in a kind of seventeenth-century French style, beautiful paintings everywhere, a superb carpet on the floor, and a marble fireplace, with what at least looked like a real fire. There was a desk, three chairs in front of it and General Ivan Volkov behind it. There was nothing military about him at all. In his sixties with thinning hair, wearing a neat dark blue suit, and conservative tie, he could have been the manager of some bank branch, not one of the most powerful men in the Russian Federation.
He wore old-fashioned wire spectacles and removed them as he glanced up. My dear Chekov. His voice was curiously soft. Its good to see you on your feet again.
Only just, Comrade General. Chekov stuck to the old titles still popular with older party members. It was better to be safe than sorry. May I sit down?
Of course. Chekov settled himself. Your stay in Monaco has been beneficial?
Im better than I was. Chekov decided to bite the bullet. May I ask why Im here, Comrade?
The President has expressed an interest in your personal welfare.
Such news filled Chekov with a certain foreboding but he forced a smile. Im naturally touched.
Good, you can tell him yourself. Volkov glanced at his watch. I anticipate his arrival in approximately two minutes.
Chekov waited in some trepidation, and was thrown when a secret door in the panelled wall behind Volkovs desk swung open and President Putin walked in. He was in a tracksuit, a white towel around his neck. Chekov struggled to his feet.
My dear Chekov, good to see you up and about again. You must excuse my appearance, but I look upon my gym time as the most important hour in the day.
Comrade President, Chekov gabbled. So wonderful to see you.
Sit down, man, Putin urged him and sat on the edge of Volkovs desk. So, theyve saved the leg and the word is youre almost as good as new.
Volkov put in, Which must confound that animal, this London gangster, Harry Salter, who ordered the shooting.
I must say General Charles Ferguson employs some unlikely help. Putin smiled. Perhaps hes getting hard up for the right kind of people these days. Afghanistan must be taking its toll. So, Chekov, youre ready to get back to work? Im delighted to hear it.
As it was the first thing Chekov had heard on the matter, he made the mistake of hesitating. Well, Im not sure about that, Comrade President.
Nonsense. You must get back in the saddle. Best thing for you! Besides, you have that wonderful apartment in London going to waste. And as the CEO of Belov International, you have a lot of responsibilities to the company and to us.
Responsibilities that Ive had to take care of while youve been recovering, Volkov pointed out.
Which obviously cant go on, Putin said. I suggest you move back within the next few days. Any further therapy you need can obviously be found in London. Once established, you will ease yourself back in harness and liaise with General Volkov.
Chekov didnt even try to resist. Of course, Comrade President.
As if by magic, the door by which Chekov had entered opened again, revealing the GRU lieutenant. Chekov understood that he was being dismissed. As he stood up again, Volkov said, One more thing. I know youre angry about being shot. But I dont want you going off on any personal revenge mission against Salter or Fergusons people when you get back. Thats our job. Theyll be taken care of eventually.
I hope so, Chekov said with some feeling, and went out.
Putin turned to Volkov. Keep an eye on him, Volkov. Hes all right for now, but he strikes me as a weak link. Just like those traitors we lost: Igor Levin, a decorated war hero, of all things, a captain in the GRU; Major Greta Novikova; even this Sergeant Chomsky of the GRU. I still cant understand what happened with them. What are the British doing with them?
Our people at the London Embassy inform me that all three have been transferred for the moment to teach a total immersion course in Russian to agents of MI6. Ferguson was reluctant to let them, but Simon Carter, Deputy Director of the Security Services, persuaded the Prime Minister to order it.
Did he indeed? Putins smile was enigmatic. Well, much good itll do them. So, Ivan, anything else? Otherwise, Ill get to the gym.
As a matter of fact, there is, Comrade President. An unfortunate incident has just taken place in Kosovo, involving the death of an officer commanding a special ops patrol from the Fifteenth Siberian Storm Guards
When he was finished, Putin sat there, thinking. Finally, he said, You are absolutely certain it was this Miller, no possibility of error?
He announced his identity when he challenged Captain Zorin. Zorins sergeant confirms it.
And you can definitely confirm the other man was Blake Johnson?
The sergeant heard Miller call him Blake, and people on the ground traced the inn where theyd spent the previous night. The landlord had taken their passport details. He told our people that they didnt arrive together, but seemed to meet by chance.
That doesnt sound too plausible. Putin shook his head. Blake Johnson, the Presidents man.
And Harry Miller, the Prime Ministers. What do we do?
Nothing. Zorins unit wasnt supposed to be there and so we cant very well complain, and if anybody says they were there, wed have to strenuously deny it. I dont think we need to worry about the wretched Muslim peasants in those parts. Theyll keep their heads down. And as for the US and Britain, their attitude will be the same as mine. Its not worth World War Three.
A pity about Zorin. He was a good man, decorated in Chechnya. His mother is a widow in poor health, but his uncle here Volkov looked at his papers is Sergei Zorin. Investment companies in Geneva, Paris and London. What do I do about him?
Just explain to him that for the good of the State we cant take it further. As for the mother, say Zorin was killed in action, died valiantly, the usual nonsense. Tell her well arrange a splendid funeral. And make sure the regimental commander confirms our story.
He stood. We should do something about Miller, though. Are you still in contact with this mystery man of yours, the Broker?
Our link with Osama? Certainly.
You might want to give him a call. And he left.
An excellent idea, Volkov thought. He dialled a coded number and had a quick conversation. Then he phoned Colonel Bagirova of the Fifteenth Siberians and gave him his orders, which left him with Sergei Zorin. He phoned the great mans office and was informed that he couldnt possibly see anyone else that day, his appointment book was full. Volkov didnt argue, simply told the secretary to inform Zorin that President Putins chief security adviser expected to meet him at the Troika restaurant in forty-five minutes, and put the phone down.
Sergei Zorin was already there when Volkov arrived, and squirming like all of them, frightened to death that hed done something wrong. General Volkov, such an honour. Unfortunately, the headwaiter says they dont have a table available, only stools at the bar.
Really. Volkov turned as the individual concerned approached in total panic.
General Volkov please. I had no idea you were joining us today.
Neither had I. Well sit by the window. Caviar and all that goes with it and your very finest vodka.
They were seated at the necessary table, Zorin terrified. Volkov said, Calm yourself, my friend. People always treat me like Death in a black hood, like something from a Bergman film, but I can assure you that you are guilty of nothing. The vodka arrived in pointed glasses stuck in crushed ice. Drink up and then another. Youre going to need it. The news is not good, but you will have the satisfaction of knowing you have been part of something that has served Mother Russia well.
Zorin looked bewildered. But what would that be?