Rough Justice Read Free Page A

official complaint. The Russian authorities would always deny it, and some bad night, the villagers would find themselves going through it all over again.” The innkeeper bowed slightly. “And now please excuse me. I must see to your dinner.”
    He disappeared through a green baize door leading to the kitchen. Blake said, “What do you think?”
    “I suspect what he said about the villagers at Pazar taking the easy way out is true.”
    “You were in the military?” Blake asked.
    “Yes, Intelligence Corps.”
    “So when you became a Member of Parliament, the Prime Minister decided that your special talents could be put to good use?”
    “Whenever he sees what appears to be a problem, he sends me. I’m classed as an under secretary of state, although not attached to any particular ministry. It gives me a little muscle when I need it.” He drank some of his beer. “And what about you?”
    “To a certain degree, I’m in a similar situation. The President’s man.”
    Miller smiled gently. “I’ve heard about what you do. Only whispers, of course.”
    “Which is the way we like it.” Blake stood up. “I think they’re ready for us now. Let’s eat.”
    “Excellent,” Miller said, and followed him out.
     
AFTERWARD, the meal having proved excellent, they returned to their seats by the fire and the innkeeper brought coffee.
    Blake said, “I’ve been thinking. I’m only here for another couple of days, traveling south, visiting a few villages, getting the feel of things.”
    “From here to the border?” Miller said. “That makes sense. I checked it all out on the maps. A lot of forest, villages from a bygone age. The people go nowhere, only to market, they keep to themselves.”
    “Peasants who keep their heads down and don’t want trouble.” Blake nodded. “Have you anywhere in mind?”
    “There’s a place called Banu, deep in the forest, about ten miles from the border.”
    “How far from here?”
    “Thirty miles or so, dirt roads, but it could be worthwhile. We could leave your jeep here and travel in mine—that’s if you favor the idea of us going together?”
    “Favor it?” Blake said. “I’d welcome it. What time do you suggest in the morning?”
    “No need to rush. Let’s enjoy a decent breakfast and get away about nine to nine-thirty.”
    “Excellent,” Blake told him. “I think I’ll get an early night.”
    Miller glanced at his watch. “It’s later than you think. Half past ten. I’ll hang on, enjoy a nightcap, and arrange things with the innkeeper.”
    Blake left him there and mounted the wide stairway. There was something about Miller, a calmness that seemed to distance him from other people, a self-assurance that was obvious, and yet no arrogance there at all.
    In the bedroom, he sat at a small dressing table, took out his laptop, entered “Harry Miller” and found him without difficulty. He was forty-five, married, wife Olivia, thirty-three, maiden name Hunt, actress by profession. No children.
    His military career was dealt with so sparsely that to the trained eye it was obviously classified. From Sandhurst Military Academy he had joined the Army Intelligence Corps. He experienced war very quickly, only three months later, as a second lieutenant attached to 42 Commando. Afterward, his posting was to Army Intelligence Corps headquarters in London, where he had served for the rest of his career, retiring in the rank of major in 2003, before being elected a Member of Parliament for a place called Stokely that same year. As he had indicated, he enjoyed the rank of under secretary of state, although in no special ministry. Nothing but mystery piling on mystery here.
    “Who in the hell is he?” Blake murmured to himself. “Or, more to the point, what is he?”
    No answer, so he closed his laptop down and went to bed.
     
 
ON THE FOLLOWING DAY, Blake was doing the driving. Miller had a military canvas holdall beside them, and he rummaged in it and produced a map. It