“Fuck them, Major, the bastards who did that to you.”
“Nicely put, Luther, but alas, there’s no possibility of that with anyone, so I’ll settle for an invigorating shower in the wet room and would welcome your assistance.”
“My pleasure, sir,” and as Henderson wheeled him out, he added, “As to your question about Major Miller, sir, no, I never did come across him over there.”
THERE WAS NO SIGN
of Roper when Sean Dillon arrived at Holland Park. He wore black velvet cords and a black bomber jacket; a small man, his hair was pale as straw. Once a feared enforcer for the IRA, he was now Ferguson’s strong right hand. He was sitting in one of the swivel chairs examining Roper’s screens when Henderson entered.
“Where’s the Major?” Dillon asked.
“I just helped him shower in the wet room, and now he’s dressing. He’ll be along directly.” He nodded to Olivia Hunt on the screen. “A lovely lady. Know who she is?”
Roper entered in his wheelchair. “Of course he does. Mr. Dillon was involved with the theater himself once upon a time. Who is she, Sean?”
“Olivia Hunt. Born in Boston and she’s illuminated the British stage for years. That’s her in Chekhov’s
Three Sisters.
A National Theatre production a year ago.”
“Told you,” said Roper. “We’ll have a pot of tea, Luther,” and Henderson went out.
“What’s she doing there?”
“I’m investigating her husband for Ferguson. Harry Miller, he works out of the Cabinet Office, a kind of troubleshooter for the Prime Minister. Used to be Army Intelligence. A headquarters man only, supposedly, but now it seems there’s been more to him for some time.” Henderson came in with the tea. Roper said, “Leave us, Luther. I’ll call you if I need you.”
Henderson went out. Dillon said, “What kind of more?”
“Have a hefty swig of that tea, Sean. I think you’re going to be interested in what I’ve found out about Major Harry Miller.”
WHEN HE WAS FINISHED,
Dillon said, “And after that, I think I could do with something stronger.”
“You can pour one for me while you’re at it.”
“So you say Ferguson wants this for breakfast, American time, with Cazalet?”
“That’s it.”
“Jesus and Mary.” Dillon poured the drinks. “It must have been a hell of a thing, he and Blake together.”
“You can say that again. Come on, do you have any input?”
“I heard whispers about Titan, but I don’t think anyone in the movement took it too seriously, or Unit Sixteen. We had enough to deal with. You were there, Roper, you know what I’m talking about. So many people got killed, far more than the dear old British public ever realized. I remember the River Street affair, though. It’s true the Chief of Staff put it out as an SAS atrocity.”
“Gallant freedom fighters gunned down without mercy?”
“That’s right. So Miller left the Army four years ago, becomes an MP, helps the Prime Minister get Ian Paisley and Martin McGuiness running the government together. A decent job there, actually. I’m not sure I can help you too much, Giles. I left the Provos in ’eighty-nine to do my own thing.”
“Which included the mortar attack on John Major’s war cabinet at Downing Street in February ’ninety-one.”
“Never proved.” Dillon shook his head.
“Bugger off, Sean, it was a hell of a payday for you, but never mind. Is there anything you can add to Miller’s story?”
“Not a word.”
“All right, then. I’ll send it straight to Ferguson. We’ll see what he makes of it.”
AFTER BREAKFAST
at the beach house on Nantucket, Clancy passed around the coffee, and Cazalet said, “So, what do you have for me, Charles?”
“Something so extraordinary, I’m surprised my laptop didn’t catch fire, Mr. President.”
“I see.” Cazalet stirred his coffee. “So tell us.”
Ferguson started to do just that.
When he was finished, there was silence and then the President turned to Clancy, “Well?”
“That’s one hell of a soldier.”
Blake said, “I knew there was something special about him the moment we met.”
“And you, Charles?” Cazalet asked.
“Obviously, I knew a certain amount about him,” Ferguson answered. “But I’m stunned to hear the full story.”
“It would certainly shock his father-in-law, Senator Hunt. Very old-fashioned conservative guy, Hunt.”
“So how do you want to handle this, Mr. President?”
“I think I’d 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 don’t 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 afterward to Stokely with Harry and Monica and Miller’s usual driver, Ellis Vaughan. He had provided a hamper, sandwiches, some caviar, and a couple of bottles of champagne.
“You’ve excelled yourself, Ellis,” Monica told him.
“We do our best, my lady,” he said.
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 didn’t arrive until one-thirty in the morning, and went to bed almost at once, where he spent a disturbed night.
They had a family breakfast on Sunday morning, with Aunt Mary later than usual. She was eighty-two now, white haired, but with a healthy glow to her cheeks, and her vagueness was, in a way, quite charming.
“Don’t mind me, you three. Go for a walk, if you like. I always read the
Sunday Mail
at this time.”
Mrs. Grant brought it in. “There you are, Madame. I’ll clear the table if you’re all finished.”
Miller was wearing a sweater, jeans, and a pair of short 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. We’ll watch, you can’t 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 he’s not himself.”
“Well, you would know,” Monica said. “You’ve 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, realized 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 around and, on an impulse, urged her toward the rear fence’s 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 Olivia caught her breath in relief, Miller galloped a few yards on the other side, swung Doubtfire around, and once again tackled the gate.
Olivia’s voice rose 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. She’s earned it.”
Fergus took the reins and said, “If you’ll excuse me, Major, but I’ve the right to say after all these years that—”
“I know, Fergus, it was bloody stupid. Just get on with it.”
He walked toward the two women, and Olivia said, “Damn you, Harry Miller, damn you for frightening me like that. It will take some forgiving. I’m 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. “We’re not supposed to do this these days.”
She said, “Harry, I’ve known you for forty years, you are my dearly loved brother, but sometimes I feel I don’t know you at all. What you did just now was an act of utter madness.”
“You’re 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, you’ve seemed different. Something’s happened to you, hasn’t 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. “I’m tired, a bit wound up, that’s 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 Kremlin
London
4
THERE WAS A HINT OF SLEET IN THE RAIN FALLING IN MOSCOW AS MAX
Chekhov’s limousine transported him from his hotel to the Kremlin. It was a miserable day, and to be perfectly frank, he’d 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. Chekhov 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?”
“I’m all right if we stay on the ground floor.”
“We will. Follow me.”
Chekhov stumped after him along a series incredibly quiet, quite 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 Chekhov inside.
Chekhov 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 on the wall 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 Chekhov.” His voice was curiously soft. “It’s good to see you on your feet again.”
“Only just, Comrade General.” Chekhov 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.” Chekhov settled himself. “Your stay in Monaco has been beneficial?”
“I’m better than I was.” Chekhov decided to bite the bullet. “May I ask why I’m here, Comrade?”
“The President has expressed an interest in your personal welfare.”
Such news filled Chekhov with a certain foreboding, but he forced a smile. “I’m naturally touched.”
“Good, you can tell him yourself.” Volkov glanced at his watch. “I anticipate his arrival in approximately two minutes.”
Chekhov waited in some trepidation, and was thrown when a secret door in the paneled wall behind Volkov’s desk swung open and President Putin walked in. He was in a tracksuit, a white towel around his neck. Chekhov struggled to his feet.
“My dear Chekhov, 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,” Chekhov gabbled. “So wonderful to see you.”
“Sit down, man,” Putin urged him, and sat on the edge of Volkov’s desk. “So they’ve saved the leg and the word is you’re 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 he’s getting hard up for the right kind of people these days. Afghanistan must be taking its toll. So, Chekhov, you’re ready to get back to work? I’m delighted to hear it.”
As it was the first thing Chekhov had heard on the matter, he made the mistake of hesitating. “Well, I’m 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 I’ve had to take care of while you’ve been recovering,” Volkov pointed out.
“Which obviously can’t 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.”