above it, obviously what passed as a small mosque, and an inn of the traditional kind.
A sizeable light armoured vehicle was parked outside the inn. ‘What the hell is that?’ Blake asked.
‘It’s Russian, all right,’ Miller told him. ‘An armoured troop carrier called a Storm Cruiser. Reconnaissance units use them. They can handle up to twelve soldiers.’ He opened his holdall and took out a pair of binoculars. ‘Street’s clear. I’d say the locals are keeping their heads down. Two soldiers on the porch, supposedly guarding the entrance, drinking beer, a couple of girls in headscarves crouched beside them. The shooting was probably somebody having fun inside the inn.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Well, to a certain extent I represent United Nations interests here. We should go down and take a look at what’s happening.’
Blake took a deep breath. ‘If you say so.’
‘Oh, I do, but I like to be prepared.’ Miller produced a Browning from the holdall. ‘I know it might seem a little old-fashioned, but it’s an old friend and I’ve always found it gets the job done.’ He produced a Carswell silencer and screwed it in place.
‘I wouldn’t argue with that,’ Blake said, and took the jeep down into the village street, his stomach hollow. There were people peering out of windows on each side as they drove down and braked to a halt outside the inn. The two soldiers were totally astonished. One of them, his machine pistol on the floor, stared stupidly, his beer in his hand. The other had been fondling one of the girls, his weapon across his knees.
Miller opened the jeep door and stepped out into the rain, his right hand behind him holding the Browning. ‘Put her down,’ he said in excellent Russian. ‘I mean, she doesn’t know where you’ve been.’
The man’s rage was immediate and he shoved the girl away, knocking her to one side against her friend, started to get up, clutching the machine pistol, and Miller shot him in the right knee. In the same moment, Miller swung to meet the other soldier as he stood up and struck him across the side of the head with the Browning.
The two girls ran across the road, where a door opened to receive them. Blake came round the jeep fast and picked up one of the machine pistols.
‘Now what?’
‘I’m going on. You take the alley and find the rear entrance.’
Blake, on fire in a way he hadn’t been in years, did as he was told, and Miller crossed to the door, opened it and went in, his right hand once again behind his back holding the Browning.
The inn was old fashioned in a way to be expected deep in such countryside: a beamed ceiling, wooden floors, a scattering of tables and a long bar, bottles ranged on shelves behind it. There were about fifteen men crouched on the floor by the bar, hands on heads, two Russian soldiers guarding them. A sergeant stood behind the bar drinking from a bottle, a machine pistol on the counter by his hand. Two other soldiers sat on a bench opposite, two women crouched on the floor beside them, one of them sobbing.
The officer in command, a captain from his rank tabs, sat at a table in the centre of the room. He was very young, handsome enough, a certain arrogance there. That the muted sound of Miller’s silenced pistol had not been heard inside the inn was obvious enough, but considering the circumstances, he seemed to take the sudden appearance of this strange apparition in combat overalls and old-fashioned trench coat with astonishing calm. He had a young girl on his knee who didn’t even bother to struggle as he fondled her, so terrified was she.
He spoke in Russian. ‘And who are you?’
‘My name is Major Harry Miller, British Army, attached to the United Nations.’ His Russian was excellent.
‘Show me your papers.’
‘No. You’re the one who should be answering questions. You’ve no business this side of the border. Identify yourself.’
The reply came as a kind of reflex. ‘I am Captain Igor Zorin of the Fifteenth Siberian Storm Guards, and we have every right to be here. These Muslim dogs swarm over the border to Bulgaria to rape and pillage.’ He pushed the girl off his knee and sent her staggering towards the bar and his sergeant. ‘Give this bitch another bottle of vodka, I’m thirsty.’
She returned with the bottle, and Zorin dragged her back on his knee, totally ignoring Miller, then pulled the cork in the bottle with his teeth, but instead of drinking the vodka, he forced it on the girl, who struggled, choking.
‘So what do you want, Englishman?’
A door opened at the rear of the room and Blake stepped in cautiously, machine pistol ready.
‘Well, I’ve already disposed of your two guards on the porch, and now my friend who’s just come in behind you would like to demonstrate what he can do.’
Blake put a quick burst into the ceiling, which certainly got everybody’s attention, and called in Russian, ‘Drop your weapons!’
There was a moment’s hesitation and he fired into the ceiling again. All of them, including the sergeant at the bar, raised their hands. It was Zorin who did the unexpected, dragging the girl across his lap in front of him, drawing his pistol, and pushing it into her side.
‘Drop your weapon, or she dies.’
Without hesitation, Miller shot him twice in the side of the skull, sending him backwards over the chair. There was total silence, the Muslims getting to their feet. Everyone waited. He spoke to the sergeant in Russian.
‘You take the body with you, put it in the Storm Cruiser and wait for us with your men. See they do it, Blake.’ He turned to the Muslims. ‘Who speaks English?’
A man moved forward and the girl turned to him. ‘I am the Mayor, sir, I speak good English. This is my youngest daughter. Allah’s blessing on you. My name is Yusuf Birka.’
The Russians were moving out, supervised by Blake, two of them carrying Zorin’s body, followed by the sergeant.
Miller said to Birka, ‘Keep the weapons, they may be of use to you in the future.’
Birka turned and spoke to the others and Miller went outside. Blake was standing at the rear of the Storm Cruiser, supervising the Russians loading Zorin’s body and the wounded man. There was an ammunition box on the ground.
‘Semtex and timer pencils. I suppose that would be for the mosque.’
The soldiers all scrambled in and the sergeant waited, looking bewildered. ‘If these people had their way, they’d shoot the lot of you,’ Miller told him.
To his surprise, the sergeant replied in reasonable English. ‘I must warn you. The death of Captain Zorin won’t sit well with my superiors. He was young and foolish, but well connected in Moscow.’
‘I can’t help that, but I have a suggestion for your commanding officer when you get back. Tell him from me that since you shouldn’t have been here in the first place, we’ll treat the whole incident as if it didn’t happen. Now get moving.’
‘As you say.’ The sergeant looked unhappy, but climbed up behind the wheel and drove the Storm Cruiser away, to the cheers of the villagers.
People
