Rough Justice Read Free

rain, god-awful country.” And then he held out his hand to Blake and smiled, for the moment totally charming. “Harry Miller. Who might you be?”
    Blake had never liked anyone so much so quickly. “Blake Johnson.”
    Something showed in Miller’s face, a change of expression. “Good heavens, I know who you are. You run the Basement for Cazalet.”
    His announcement was received by Blake with astonishment. “How in the hell do you know that?”
    “Work for the Prime Minister. Poke my nose in odd places when he orders and report back. That’s what I’m doing now. What about you?”
    “Doing exactly the same thing for the President. I had to see someone in Zagreb, and I thought I’d check out Kosovo before I went back.”
    “Excellent. Let’s freshen up and compare notes over dinner.”
     
 
WHEN BLAKE CAME DOWN from his room a little while later, he found the innkeeper, one Tomas, behind the bar. The room was pleasant, a beamed ceiling, a log fire burning.
    “I’ll have a beer. It’s very quiet.”
    “You and the Major are the only guests.”
    “Major?” Blake said.
    “So it says in his passport, sir.” He poured the beer. “We don’t get many guests these days.”
    “Why not?”
    “Bad things can happen, just like in the war. People are afraid.”
    At that moment, Miller came down the stairs into the great lounge and found him.
    “Beer?” Blake asked.
    “Perfect. What’s happening?”
    “I was just asking him why there’s no one here. He says people are afraid.”
    “Of what?” Miller asked.
    Tomas pushed two large flagons of beer across the bar. “Between here and the Bulgarian border is not a good place. I would leave, but the inn is all I have.”
    Miller said, “So what gives you the problem?”
    “Those who cross the border and attack the villages.”
    “And who are they?”
    “People who don’t like Muslims. But sit by the fire, gentlemen, and enjoy your drink. We have good bread, sausages, and a lamb stew. I’ll bring your beer over.”
    They did as he suggested, taking a chair each on either side of a great log fire. There was a small table next to each chair, and he put the beer down carefully. “The food will be ready soon.”
    He turned away and paused as Miller said, “But the soldiers of the Kosovo Protection Corps—what about them?
    The innkeeper nodded. “They are good people, but their effect is minimal. Small patrols, jeeps, sometimes a warrior or two. They appear and then go away again, which leaves us at the mercy of those who would harm us.”
    “Again, who are they?” Blake asked.
    “Sometimes Russians.”
    Miller said to the innkeeper, “Are you saying uniformed soldiers from the Russian Army?”
    “Oh, yes, sir. Usually they stay close to the border.” He shrugged. “They have even been as far as this inn. Maybe a dozen men, all in uniform.”
    Miller said, “So how did they treat you?”
    “The food in my inn is excellent and I sell good beer. They ate, they drank, and they went. Their captain even paid me, and in American dollars.”
    Blake said, “So they did you no harm?”
    The innkeeper shrugged. “Why should they? The captain said they’d see me again. To burn me down would be to penalize themselves. On the other hand, there were bad things happening elsewhere. Several people died in a village called Pazar. There was a small mosque. They burned that and killed seven people.”
    Miller said, “Just a minute. I was at the Protection Corps headquarters the day before yesterday. I asked to see their file on incident reports for the past six months, and there was one on this place Pazar. It said that, yes, the small village mosque had been burned down, but when the Protection Corps sent a patrol to check it out, the village mayor and his elders said it was an accidental fire, and there was no mention of seven dead people, certainly no mention of Russian soldiers.”
    “The village council decided it was not in their best interests to make an