Rough Justice Read Online Free PDF Page A

measure of scotch into a glass, and tossed it down.
    “How were things at the United Nations?”
    “Just what you’d expect—the Russians are stirring the pot.”
    “Well, they would, wouldn’t they? I thought you’d 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.”
    “And?”
    “And Kosovo turned out to be rather interesting for our good friend Blake, let me tell you.”
     
 
WHEN FERGUSON WAS FINISHED, he said, “What do you think?”
    “That it’s a hell of a good story to enliven a rather dull London morning. But what do you want me to do with it? Miller’s a troubleshooter for the Prime Minister, and you’ve always said to avoid politicians like the plague. They stick their noses in where they aren’t wanted and ask too many questions.”
    “I agree, but I don’t like being in the dark. Miller’s supposed to have spent most of his career behind a desk, but that doesn’t fit the man Blake described in this Banu place.”
    “You have a point,” Roper admitted.
    “So see what you can come up with. If that means breaking a few rules, do so.”
    “When do you want it, on your return?”
    “You’ve got until tomorrow morning, American time. That’s when I’m having breakfast with the President.”
    “Then I’d better get on with it,” Roper said.
    He clicked off, poured another whiskey, drank it, lit a cigarette, then entered Harry Miller’s details. He found the basic stuff without difficulty, but after that it was rather thin on the ground.
    The outer door opened and Doyle, the Military Police sergeant who was on night duty, peered in. A soldier for twenty years, Doyle was of Jamaican ancestry although born in the east end of London, with six tours of duty in Northern Ireland and two in Iraq. He was a fervent admirer of Roper, the greatest bomb-disposal expert in the business during the Troubles, a true hero in Doyle’s eyes.
    “I heard the speaker, sir. You aren’t at it again, are you? It’s four o’clock in the bleeding morning.”
    “Actually, it’s four-thirty and I’ve just had the General on. Would you believe he’s with the President in Nantucket?”
    “He certainly gets around.”
    “Yes, well, he’s given me a request for information he wants to have available for breakfast.”
    “Anything special, sir?”
    “He wants a background on a Major Harry Miller, a general fixer for the Prime Minister.”
    Doyle suddenly stopped smiling. “A bit more than that, I’d have thought.”
    “Why do you say that? How would you know him? You don’t exactly get to Downing Street much these days.”
    “No, of course not, sir. I’m sorry if I’m speaking out of turn.”
    “He looks pretty straightforward to me. Sandhurst, saw what war was like in the Falklands for a few months, then spent the rest of his career in Army Intelligence Corps Headquarters in London.”
    Doyle looked uncomfortable. “Yes, of course, sir, if you say so. I’ll get your breakfast. Bacon and egg sandwich coming up.”
    He turned and Roper said, “Don’t go, Tony. We’ve known each other a long time, so don’t mess around. You’ve known him somewhere. Come on—tell me.”
    Doyle said, “Okay, it was over the water in Derry during my third tour.” Funny how the old hands never called it Londonderry, just like the IRA.
    “What were you up to?”
    “Part of a team manning a safe house down by the docks. We weren’t supposed to know what it was all about, but you know how things leak. You did enough tours over there.”
    “So tell me.”
    “Operation Titan.”
    “God in heaven,” Roper said. “Unit Sixteen. The ultimate disposal outfit.” He shook his head. “And you met him? When was this?”
    “Fourteen years ago. He was received, that’s what we called it, plus a younger officer badly wounded. Their motor was riddled. An SAS