When I travelled to that part of the country, I found interlopers close to the borders. Russians.’
There was silence. Cazalet said, ‘What kind of Russians?’
‘Soldiers in uniform, not freebooters.’
‘Can you describe them? Which unit, that sort of thing?’
‘Actually, I can. The ones I met were Siberians. I know that because their commanding officer identified himself as a Captain Igor Zorin of a regiment called the Fifteenth Siberian Storm Guards. I checked them on my laptop, and the unit exists. It’s a reconnaissance outfit, special ops, that sort of thing. They were apparently based over the border in Bulgaria, and their mission was to visit a village called Banu that was supposed to be a centre for Muslim extremists crossing the border and creating merry hell in Bulgaria.’
Ferguson said, ‘This fellow Zorin, did you find him on the regimental roster?’
‘Oh, yes, he was there all right. But here’s the interesting thing – just as I was checking him out…he disappeared.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘My screen went blank. He might as well never have existed.’
There was a pause. Cazalet said, ‘Something you did, perhaps? You know what computers can be like.’
‘No, Mr President, I swear to you. What happened in Banu was shaping up to be pretty nasty and I witnessed it – and they clearly wanted no record of it.’
Ferguson nodded. ‘But except for your word in the matter, there’s no proof. Accuse the Russian government, they’ll simply deny it ever happened. I see the game they are playing.’
‘The cunning bastards,’ Cazalet said. ‘Somewhere in the Bulgarian mountains is a unit that doesn’t exist, commanded by a man who doesn’t exist named Igor Zorin.’
Blake said, ‘Actually, not quite, Mr President.’ He turned to Ferguson. ‘General, do you by any chance know a British Member of Parliament named Miller – Major Harry Miller?’
Ferguson frowned, ‘Why, was he involved in some way?’
‘You could say that. He shot Igor Zorin between the eyes. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘And he’s a Member of Parliament? What was he doing there in the first place?’ Cazalet demanded.
‘He was doing what I was doing, Mr President, checking out things in the back country. We met by chance at a country inn about twenty miles from Banu. We stayed overnight, got talking, and each of us discovered who we were. Decided to carry on together the following day.’
Cazalet turned to Ferguson. ‘Charles, this Major Harry Miller, do you know him?’
‘I know of him, but keep my distance, and by design. You know what I do for the Prime Minister – with my team, we provide a distinctly hands-on approach to any problems of security or terrorism. Most of what we do is illegal.’
‘Which means you dispose of bad guys without troubling the rule of law. I’ve no trouble with that, it’s the times we live in. Blake does the same for me, as you know. So what about Major Miller?’
‘I don’t fraternize with the Major, because I try to keep out of the political side of things, and he has a political relation ship with the Prime Minister. Before he became a Member of Parliament, though, he was a career soldier in the army, Intelligence Corps, retired some years ago.’
‘Quite a change,’ Cazalet said.
‘You could say that. He became an Under-Secretary of State in the Northern Ireland Office, a desk man helping to develop the peace process.’
‘A troubleshooter?’ Cazalet asked.
‘Exactly, but since the changes in Northern Ireland, the Prime Minister has found uses for him elsewhere.’
‘Again as a troubleshooter?’
‘The Prime Minister’s eyes and ears. Sent to Lebanon, Iraq, the Gulf States – places like that.’
‘And Kosovo,’ Cazalet said. ‘He must be quite a guy.’
‘He is, Mr President. People are very wary of him because of his privileged position. Even members of the Cabinet tread carefully. He is also modestly wealthy from family money, and married to a lovely, intelligent woman, an actress named Olivia Hunt, Boston born. In fact, her father is a Senator.’
‘Good lord,’ Cazalet said. ‘George Hunt. I know him well.’
There was silence now for a while and then Cazalet said, ‘Blake, old friend, I think it’s about time you told us exactly what happened in Banu that day.’
Blake reached for the shot glass in front of him, swallowed the whisky in it and leaned back. ‘It was like this. It was lousy weather, Mr President, and I’d just about had enough of it. I was driving myself in a jeep through a forest and over miserable terrain, and towards evening, I came to an inn near Kuman. The landlord appeared, and we were making arrangements for my stay when suddenly another jeep appeared out of the forest and the rain. It gave me quite a turn.’
‘Why was that?’
Blake considered. ‘It was strange, strange country, like some old movie taking place in Transylvania. There was rain, mist, darkness falling, and suddenly the jeep emerged from all that. It was kind of spooky.’
He accepted another whisky from Clancy, and Cazalet said, ‘Major Harry Miller?’
‘Yes, Mr President. I hadn’t expected anyone, not in a place like that, and there he was at the back end of nowhere.’
Cazalet nodded. ‘Tell us what happened, Blake, as you remember it, the whole business. Take your time.’
‘I’ll do my best, Mr President.’ Blake sat back thinking about it and suddenly, it was as if he was there.
Harry Miller was a little under six feet, with saturnine, grey eyes, and a slight scar tracing his left cheek, which Blake was old soldier enough to recognize as a shrapnel scar. He had a face that gave nothing away, that showed only a man, calm and confident in himself. Also, someone who’d known command, unless Blake was much mistaken. He wore an old-fashioned long military trench coat over basic camouflaged field overalls, the kind any ordinary soldier might wear, and paratroop boots. A crumpled combat hat guarded him against the rain, as he ran across to the steps to the inn, a canvas holdall in his left hand.
He stood in the porch, beat his hat against his leg. ‘Bloody rain, godawful 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