by people who took their politics seriously.
He finally left, dropped in at a nearby restaurant and had a simple meal, fish pie and a salad with sparkling water. By the time he got back to the underground car park, it was nine thirty.
He drove out and up the slope between the walls, and as always it made him remember Airey Neave, the first Englishman to escape from Colditz in World War II – a decorated war hero, and another casualty of the Irish Troubles, who had met his end driving out of this very car park, the victim of a car bomb from the Irish National Liberation Army, the same organization which had taken care of Mountbatten and members of his family.
‘What a world,’ Miller said softly, as he moved into the road and paused, uncertain where to go. Olivia wouldn’t be home yet and she was having a drink with the cast, so what to do? And then he remembered Ferguson’s invitation for him to familiarize himself with the Holland Park safe house.
It looked more like a private nursing home or some similar establishment, but his practised eye noted the electronics on the high wall – certain to give any intruder a shock requiring medical attention – the massive security gates, the cameras.
He wound down the window and pressed the button on the camera entry post. Sergeant Henderson was on duty and his voice was calm and remote, obviously following procedure.
‘Who is it?’
‘Major Harry Miller, on General Charles Ferguson’s invitation.’
The gates opened in slow motion and he passed inside. Henderson came down the entrance door steps.
‘Sergeant Luther Henderson, Royal Military Police. You’ve already been placed on our regular roster. A pleasure to meet you, sir. If you’d like to get out, I’ll park the Mini. General Ferguson isn’t with us this evening, and Major Roper’s having a shower in the wet room.’
‘The wet room? What’s that?’
‘Special facilities, non-slip floor, seats on the walls that turn down. The Major has to take his shower that way. A car bomb left him in a very bad way, nearly every bone in his body broken, his skull, spine and pelvis all fractured. It’s a miracle he still has two arms and legs.’
‘Incredible,’ Miller said.
‘The bravest man I ever knew, sir, and his brain still works like he was Einstein. Straight through the entrance, armoured door last on the left, and you’re in the computer room. I’ll let the Major know you’re here. He’ll be along in a while, but you’ll find Mr Dillon in the computer room having a drink. He’ll look after you, sir.’
He got in the Mini and drove away round the corner, Miller went up the steps and along the corridor, paused at the armoured door and opened it.
Dillon was sitting in one of the swivel chairs in front of the screens, a glass in his right hand. He turned to look and Miller said, ‘You’re Sean Dillon, I believe. I’m Harry Miller.’ Dillon had been smiling slightly, but now he looked puzzled, and shook hands.
‘I know all about you,’ he said. ‘Quite a file.’
‘Well, your own reputation certainly goes before you.’
Dillon said, ‘I was thinking about you, actually. Have a look at this. It was on Moscow television.’
He pressed a button and there was Minsky Park Military Cemetery, and Igor Zorin’s funeral. ‘See the one at the back in the black leather coat and black fedora? That’s President Putin’s favourite security advisor, General Ivan Volkov.’
‘I’ve heard of him, of course.’
‘A right old bastard and not exactly our best friend. He was behind a Russian-sponsored plot to put us all in harm’s way. Unfortunately, it succeeded with one of us.’ His face went grim.
‘Hannah Bernstein,’ said Miller.
‘You know about that? Well, of course you do. Volkov was behind it, with some help.’ He shook his head. ‘A great lady, and sorely missed.’
‘An IRA involvement, you say. I thought that was behind us.’
‘Nineteen sixty-nine was the start of the Troubles, and thirty-eight years later we’re supposed to have peace in Ireland. But what about all those for whom it was a way of life, those who’ve been used to having a gun in their hand for years? What’s the future for them?’
‘Plenty of demand for mercenaries, I’d have thought.’ Miller shrugged. ‘Always enough opportunities for killing in the world today.’
‘It’s a point of view.’ Dillon poured himself another whisky. ‘Join me?’
‘I think I will.’
‘I hear your wife’s in Private Lives at the moment. I won’t ask if she’s doing well, because she always does. I saw her in Brendan Behan’s The Hostage at the National. He’d have jumped out of his grave for her, the old bastard. A great play, and she got it just right.’
There was genuine enthusiasm in his voice, and Miller had a strange, excited smile on his face. ‘And you would know because you were once an actor yourself, but gave it all up for the theatre of the street.’
‘Where the hell did you hear that?’
‘You told me yourself, running for it through a sewer from the Shankill into the Ardoyne, one bad night in Belfast in nineteen eighty-six.’
‘My God,’ Dillon said. ‘I knew there was something about you, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.’
‘Twenty-one years ago,’ Miller said.
Dillon nodded, ‘Long and bloody years, and where did they all go? What in the hell was it all about?’
Looking back, Harry Miller remembered that year well, not just because of the bad March weather in London and the constant rain, but because what happened proved a turning point in his life. He was a full lieutenant in the Intelligence Corps at twenty-four and nothing much seemed to be happening. He shared an office with a young second lieutenant named Alice Tilsey, and she’d beaten him to it that morning. He took off his trench coat, revealing a tweed country suit, uniforms being out that year as the IRA had announced that men in uniform on London streets were a legitimate target.
Alice said brightly, ‘Thank God you’re wearing a decent suit. Colonel Baxter called for you five minutes ago.’
‘What have I done?’
‘I lied and said you were getting the post downstairs.’
‘You’re an angel.’
He hurried up to the next floor and reported to Baxter’s receptionist, a staff sergeant he knew well. ‘Am I in trouble, Mary?’
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