Rough Justice Page 7

  “The wet room? What’s that?”

  “Special facilities, nonslip floor, seats on the walls that turn down. The Major has to take his shower that way. A car bomb left him in a very bad way, nearly every bone in his body broken, his skull, spine, and pelvis all fractured. It’s a miracle he still has two arms and legs.”

  “Incredible,” Miller said.

  “The bravest man I ever knew, sir, and his brain still works like he was Einstein. Straight through the entrance, armored door last on the left, and you’re in the computer room. I’ll let the Major know you’re here. He’ll be along in a while, but you’ll find Mr. Dillon in the computer room having a drink. He’ll look after you, sir.”

  He got in the Mini and drove away around the corner. Miller went up the steps and along the corridor, paused at the armored door, and opened it.

  DILLON WAS SITTING in one of the swivel chairs in front of the screens, a glass in his right hand. He turned to look and Miller said, “You’re Sean Dillon, I believe. I’m Harry Miller.” Dillon had been smiling slightly, but now he looked puzzled, and shook hands.

  “I know all about you,” he said. “Quite a file.”

  “Well, your own reputation certainly goes before you.”

  Dillon said, “I was thinking about you, actually. Have a look at this. It was on Moscow television.”

  He pressed a button and there was Minsky Park Military Cemetery, and Igor Zorin’s funeral. “See the one at the back in the black leather coat and black fedora? That’s President Putin’s favorite security adviser, General Ivan Volkov.”

  “I’ve heard of him, of course.”

  “A right old bastard, and not exactly our best friend. He was behind a Russian-sponsored plot to put us all in harm’s way. Unfortunately, it succeeded with one of us.” His face went grim.

  “Hannah Bernstein,” said Miller.

  “You know about that? Well, of course you do. Volkov was behind it, with some help.” He shook his head. “A great lady, and sorely missed.”

  “An IRA involvement, you say. I thought that was behind us.”

  “Nineteen sixty-nine was the start of the Troubles, and thirty-eight years later we’re supposed to have peace in Ireland. But what about all those for whom it was a way of life, those who’ve been used to having a gun in their hand for years? What’s the future for them?”

  “Plenty of demand for mercenaries, I’d have thought.” Miller shrugged. “Always enough opportunities for killing in the world today.”

  “It’s a point of view.” Dillon poured himself another whiskey. “Join me?”

  “I think I will.”

  “I hear your wife’s in Private Lives at the moment. I won’t ask if she’s doing well, because she always does. I saw her in Brendan Behan’s The Hostage at the National. He’d have jumped out of his grave for her, the old bastard. A great play, and she got it just right.”

  There was genuine enthusiasm in his voice, and Miller had a strange, excited smile on his face. “And you would know because you were once an actor yourself, but gave it all up for the theater of the street.”

  “Where the hell did you hear that?”

  “You told me yourself, running for it through a sewer from the Shankill into the Ardoyne, one bad night in Belfast in 1986.”

  “My God,” Dillon said. “I knew there was something about you, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.”

  “Twenty-one years ago,” Miller said.

  Dillon nodded. “Long and bloody years, and where did they all go? What in the hell was it all about?”

  Belfast

  March 1986

  5

  LOOKING BACK, HARRY MILLER REMEMBERED THAT YEAR WELL, NOT JUST because of the bad March weather in London and the constant rain, but because what happened proved a turning point in his life. He was a full lieutenant in the Intelligence Corps at twenty-four and nothing much seemed to be happening. He shared an office with a young second lieutenant named Alice Tilsey, and she’d beaten him to it that morning. He took off his trench coat, revealing a tweed country suit, uniforms being out that year as the IRA had announced that men in uniform on London streets were a legitimate target.

  Alice said brightly, “Thank God you’re wearing a decent suit. Colonel Baxter called for you five minutes ago.”

  “What have I done?”

  “I lied and said you were getting the post downstairs.”

  “You’re an angel.”

  He hurried up to the next floor and reported to Baxter’s receptionist, a staff sergeant he knew well. “Am I in trouble, Mary?”

  “Search me, love, but he certainly wants you right now. In you go. Captain Glover’s with him.”

  BAXTER GLANCED UP. “There you are, Miller. Just sit down for a moment.”

  He and Glover had their heads together and enjoyed a brief conversation that made no sense to Miller, and then Baxter said, “Still living at Dover Street with your father?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He’s certainly the sort of MP we can rely on. Always has a good word for the Army in his speeches in Parliament.”

  “Old soldier, sir.”

  “Captain Glover would like a word.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Glover had a file open. “You were on the Falklands Campaign seconded to 42 Commando, which of course was invaluable experience of war at the sharp end. Since then, you’ve been seconded once to the Intelligence Desk at Infantry Headquarters at the Grand Hotel in Belfast. What did you make of that?”

  “Interesting, sir, but it was only six weeks.”

  Glover said, “Looking at your personal details, I see you’re a Roman Catholic, Miller. If I ask if your faith is important to you, please don’t be offended. It could be crucial to why you’re here.”

  Uncertain what Glover was getting at, Miller said, “I was raised in the faith, I was a choirboy, I’m obviously familiar with the liturgy, and so on. Having said that, I must admit that, like many people, my religion is not at the forefront of my life.”

  Baxter intervened. “So you’d be capable of going to Belfast for us as a Catholic?”

  There was a distinct pause, Miller totally astonished, and it was Glover who explained. “Think of it as one of those old black-and-white British war films where SOE sends you to go to Occupied France as an undercover agent.”

  “Which is what we want you to do in Belfast for us.” Baxter smiled.

  “Are you up for it?”

  Miller’s stomach was churning. It was the same rush of adrenaline he’d experienced in the landings at San Carlos in the Falkland with those Argentine Skyhawks coming in.

  “I certainly am. Just one thing, sir. Having visited Belfast, I know that the Northern Irish accent is unique, and I don’t know if—”

  “No problem. You’ll stay English,” Glover told him.

  “Then I’m at your command, sir.”

  “Excellent. You’re in Captain Glover’s hands.”

  IN THE PLANNING ROOM, Glover laid out a map of Belfast. “The River Lagan runs into Belfast Lough and the docks; it’s a busy area.” He pushed a manila file across. “Everything you need is in there, but I’ll go through it anyway. Boats go backwards and forwards from Glasgow, trawlers, freighters.”

  “Illegal cargoes, sir?”

  “Sometimes. Arms, for example, and people. There’s a pub in the dock area we’re interested in, the Sailor. The owner is a man named Slim Kelly.”

  “IRA, sir?”

  “Certainly. Did time in the Maze Prison and was released, so there’s good photos of him in your file. He’s supposedly clean these days, but he’s certainly killed many times. Our understanding is that he’s fallen out of favor with the Provos. Lately he’s been involved with a man named Liam Ryan, a psychopath who murders for fun. He’s another one the IRA want to dispose of. Our information is that he’s done a deal to supply Kelly with Stinger missiles. These things can be operated by one man and they’ll bring down a helicopter. We understand
they’ll be delivered to Kelly by Ryan next week in a trawler called the Lost Hope. The moment you can confirm the meet, you call your contact number in Belfast, which will bring in an SAS team on the run. It sounds simple, but who knows? Whatever happens, don’t use the contact number unless you are positive you have Kelly and Ryan in the frame.”

  “What exactly is my cover, sir?”

  “You’re employed by St. Mary’s Hospice in Wapping. There’s a branch in Belfast close to the Sailor, an old priory run by nuns that provides for the deserving poor and so forth. It needs renovating, and it’s already had a building surveyor from London come in. You’re an ordinand, whatever that is.”

  “Someone who’s considering the priesthood.”

  “Perfect cover, I should have thought. You’re from the London estate office. You’ve got all the documents on what needs doing. The story is you’re there to confirm it. You’re the man from head office, in a way.”

  “Where do I stay?”

  “The priory. It’s all arranged by the mother superior, a Sister Maria Brosnan. To her, you’re the genuine article.”

  Which in some strange way made Miller slightly uncomfortable. “Can I ask how you’ve been able to make these arrangements, sir?”

  “As it happens, Colonel Baxter’s younger brother is Monsignor Hilary Baxter in the Bishop of London’s Office. St. Mary’s Hospice in Wapping was facing closure because their lease was coming to an end. We’ve been able to resolve their problem.”

  To that, there was no answer. “I see, sir.”

  “If you call round to Wapping this afternoon with the documents in your file, there’s an old boy called Frobisher who’ll go through them with you. All the necessary work’s been done. You just pretend at the hospice and look busy. Sister Maria Brosnan expects you Monday.”

  “What about my identity?”

  “It’s all in the file, Harry, courtesy of the forgery department of MI6.”

  “And weaponry?”

  “I’m afraid you’re expecting too much there. After all, you’re a traveling civilian heading into the war zone. There’s no way you could go armed.”

  “I see, sir, it’s we-who-are-about-to-die-salute-you time.” It was a statement, not a question, and Miller carried on. “What you really want aren’t the Stingers on that boat. This is all about Kelly, the publican of the Sailor who has fallen out of favor with the Provos, and this Liam Ryan who you say is a psychopath.”

  “Two years ago, he formed a breakaway group, no more than a dozen people, calling it the Irish Liberation Movement. Wholesale butchery, torture, kidnap—his favorite pastime is removing his victims’ fingers with bolt cutters. Bad news for the Republican movement as a whole. The word is the Provos put their best enforcer on the case. Eight of Ryan’s people are known to have been executed for certain, but perhaps more.”

  “But not Ryan?”

  “A will-o’-the-wisp with all the cunning of a beast. He’s one of the few big players who’s never been arrested, so there aren’t prison photos. He’s always avoided cameras like the plague, a bit like Michael Collins in the old days, but we have one anyway.”

  “How is that, sir?”

  “He took out an Irish passport five years ago under a false name. There’s a copy of the passport photo in the file.”

  Miller had a look at it. The face was very ordinary, cheeks hollow, the whole thing desperately stilted, the face of some little man for whom life had always been a disappointment. Miller replaced it.

  “Thanks very much, sir. Would you have told me all this if I hadn’t asked?”

  “It’s the name of the game.” Glover shrugged. “I’d get on with it if I were you.” He patted the file. “I’ll put the word out that you’re off on a spot of leave.”

  THE OFFICE WAS EMPTY when Miller went in, so he sat at the desk and checked out the contents of the file. There was a passport in the name of Mark Blunt, aged twenty-four, a surveyor by profession, a London address in Highbury. He’d been to Italy once, France twice, and Holland on a day trip from Harwich. The photo had the usual hunted look and made him look thinner.

  He worked his way through the survey reports referring to various parts of the priory in Belfast. It was all laid out simply and made perfect sense. There was also a Belfast street map, some photos of the priory and the docks.

  So far so good. He put the file in his briefcase and pulled on his raincoat, tense and slightly worked up. The door opened and Alice Tilsey came in.

  “You clever bastard,” she said. “Off on leave, are we? How in the hell did you work that?”

  “For God’s sake, Alice,” he said. “After a year in the Corps, I’d have thought you’d have learned when to keep your mouth shut and mind your own business.”

  A look of total contrition and horror spread over her face. “Oh, my God, Harry, you’re going in-country, aren’t you? I’m so bloody sorry.”

  “So am I, actually,” he said, and left.

  MR. FROBISHER at St. Mary’s Hospice in Wapping was in his early seventies and looked it. Even his office seemed like something out of Dickens. He stood at a drawing table and went through documents with Harry, in the kind of faded voice that seemed to come from another time and place.

  “I produced these plans after a visit to Belfast a year ago. I thought we’d never be able to attempt the necessary work, but Monsignor Baxter’s explained that everything’s changed. We have money now. You aren’t a trained surveyor, of course. He told me he was sending you for what he termed a layman’s opinion.”

  “I’m that, all right,” Miller said.

  “Yes, well, it’s all detailed very clearly. The cellars extend along the whole waterfront, and in places there is flooding. It’s the docks, you see.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “You’re an ordinand, I understand. Monsignor Baxter said you might enter the priesthood.”

  “Perhaps,” Miller told him. “I’m not certain.”

  “Belfast was not good during my visit. Bombs at night, some shooting. A godless place these days.”

  “The world we live in,” Miller said piously.

  “I would warn you of the pub next door to the priory, the Sailor. I had luncheon there on occasion, but didn’t like it. The people who frequented it were very offensive when they heard my English accent, particularly the landlord, an absolute lout called Kelly.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Take care,” Frobisher said, “and give my regards to Sister Maria Brosnan, the mother superior. She comes from Kerry in the Republic, a beautiful county.”

  Miller left him and walked up to Wapping High Street. He happened to pass a barbershop, and on impulse went in and had his hair cut quite short. It emphasized his gauntness, so that he resembled the man in the passport photo more than ever.

  His Savile Row suit was totally out of place, so he searched and found a downmarket men’s outfitters where he bought a single-breasted black suit, three cheap shirts, and a black tie. He also invested in a shabby fawn raincoat, much to the surprise of the salesman he dealt with, as he’d gone in wearing a Burberry. Spectacles were not possible, because they would have had to be clear glass, a giveaway in the wrong situation.

  He walked on, reaching the Tower of London, adjusting to thoughts of his new persona: someone of no importance, the sort of downtrodden individual who sat in the corner of some musty office, not to be taken seriously at all. Finally, he hailed a taxi and told the driver to take him to Dover Street.

  When he arrived, opening the front door, Monica appeared from the kitchen at the end of the hall. “Guess who?”

  He dropped his bags. “Why aren’t you at Cambridge?”

  “I decided, purely on impulse, to spend a weekend with my dear old dad and my loving brother.” She kissed him and pushed the bag containing the clothes with her foot. “What have you been buying, anything interesting?”

  “No, nothing special.” He put the bag in the cloakroom and took off his
decent trench coat. “Regarding the weekend, I’m afraid I’m only good for tonight. I’ll be going north on the train tomorrow.”

  “Oh, dear, where?”

  “Catterick Camp, Paratroop headquarters.” The lies came smoothly, the deceit. He was surprised how easy it was. “A week at least, perhaps more. I report Sunday morning.”

  She was disappointed, and it showed. “I’ll just have to hope that Dad’s not doing anything. Come on into the kitchen. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

  THERE IS an old saying that in Belfast it rains five days out of seven, and it certainly was on the following Monday morning when Miller went down the gangway of the overnight boat from Glasgow. He carried a canvas holdall that contained his file and the barest of necessities: pajamas, underwear, a spare shirt, and a small folding umbrella. He raised the umbrella and proceeded along the quay in the cheap raincoat and suit, making exactly the impression he had wanted. Having examined the street map thoroughly, he knew where he was going and found St. Mary’s Priory with no difficulty at all.

  It looked out over the harbor as it had done since the late nineteenth century; he knew that from the documents in his file and because that was the period when Catholics were allowed to build churches again. It had a medieval look to it, but that was fake, and rose three stories high, with narrow stained-glass windows, some of them broken and badly repaired. It had the look of some kind of church, which the pub down the street from it didn’t. A sign swung with the breeze, a painting of a sailor from a bygone age on it wearing a faded yellow oilskin and sou’wester. A long window was etched in acid Kelly’s Select Bar. In spite of the early hour, two customers emerged, talking loudly and drunkenly, and one of them turned and urinated against the wall. It was enough, and Miller crossed the road.