Rough Justice Read Online Free PDF Page B

London, and then, a captain, was put in charge of what was described as the Overseas Intelligence Organization Department. A harmless enough description that was obviously a front.
    Unit 16 itself consisted of twenty individuals, three of them women. Each had a number, with no particular logic to it. Miller was seven. The casualty reports were minimal on the whole: the briefest of descriptions, names of victims, location of the event, not much more. Miller’s number figured on twelve occasions over the years, but the River Street affair was covered in more detail than usual.
    Miller had been detailed to extract a young lieutenant named Harper who’d been working undercover and had called in that his cover had been blown. When Miller picked him up, their car was immediately cut off in River Street by the docks, one vehicle in front, another behind.
    A burst of firing wounded Harper, and Miller was ordered at gunpoint to get out of his vehicle. Fortunately, he had armed himself with an unusual weapon, a Browning with a twenty-round magazine. He had killed two Provos by shooting them through the door of his car as he opened it, turned and disposed of the two men in the vehicle behind through their windscreen. As Doyle had mentioned, they’d reached the safe house later and been retrieved by the SAS.
    “My God, Major,” Doyle said in awe. “I never knew the truth of it, just the IRA making those wild claims. You’d have thought he’d have got a medal.”
    Roper shook his head. “They couldn’t do that—it would lead to questions, give the game away. By the way, Lieutenant Harper died the following day at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast.”
    Doyle shook his head, genuinely distressed. “After all that.”
    “Name of the game, Tony, and I don’t need to remind you that this is all top secret at the highest level.”
    “I’ve worked for General Ferguson long enough to know my place, and it isn’t in Afghanistan, it’s right here at Holland Park. I wouldn’t jeopardize that for anything.”
    “Sensible man. Let me get on with this report for Ferguson.”
    “I’ll check on you later.” Doyle hesitated. “Excuse me asking, but is Major Miller in some kind of trouble?”
    “No, but old habits die hard. It would appear he’s been handing out his original version of justice in Kosovo, in company with Blake Johnson, of all people.”
    Doyle took a deep breath. “I’m sure he had his reasons. From what I’ve heard, the Prime Minister seems to think a lot of him.”
    He went out and Roper sat considering it, then tapped “No. 10 Downing Street” into his computer, punched Ferguson’s private link code, checked the names of those admitted during the past twenty-four hours, and there was Miller, booked in at five the previous evening, admitted to the Prime Minister’s study at five-forty.
    “My goodness,” Roper said softly. “He doesn’t let the grass grow under his feet. I wonder what the Prime Minister had to say?”
     
 
MILLER HADN’T BOTHERED with Belgrade. A call to an RAF source had indicated a Hercules leaving Pristina Airport after he and Blake had parted. There had been an unlooked-for delay of a couple of hours, but they had landed at RAF Croydon in the late afternoon, where his credentials had assured him of a fast staff car to Downing Street.
    He didn’t phone his wife. He’d promised to try and make her opening night, and still might, but duty called him to speak to the Prime Minister on his return and that had to be his priority. There was a meeting, of course, there always was. He kicked his heels in the outer office, accepted a coffee from one of the secretaries, and waited. Finally, the magic moment came and he was admitted.
    The Prime Minister, scribbling something at his desk, looked up and smiled. “So good to have you back, Harry, and good to see you. How did it go? Sit down and tell me.”
    Which Miller did.
     
 
WHEN HE WAS FINISHED, the Prime Minister said, “Well,