Rough Justice by Jack Higgins

invaluable experience of war at the sharp end. Since then, you’ve been seconded once to the Intelligence Desk at Infantry Headquarters at the Grand Hotel in Belfast. What did you make of that?”
    “Interesting, sir, but it was only six weeks.”
    Glover said, “Looking at your personal details, I see you’re a Roman Catholic, Miller. If I ask if your faith is important to you, please don’t be offended. It could be crucial to why you’re here.”
    Uncertain what Glover was getting at, Miller said, “I was raised in the faith, I was a choirboy, I’m obviously familiar with the liturgy, and so on. Having said that, I must admit that, like many people, my religion is not at the forefront of my life.”
    Baxter intervened. “So you’d be capable of going to Belfast for us as a Catholic?”
    There was a distinct pause, Miller totally astonished, and it was Glover who explained. “Think of it as one of those old black-and-white British war films where SOE sends you to go to Occupied France as an undercover agent.”
    “Which is what we want you to do in Belfast for us.” Baxter smiled.
    “Are you up for it?”
    Miller’s stomach was churning. It was the same rush of adrenaline he’d experienced in the landings at San Carlos in the Falkland with those Argentine Skyhawks coming in.
    “I certainly am. Just one thing, sir. Having visited Belfast, I know that the Northern Irish accent is unique, and I don’t know if—”
    “No problem. You’ll stay English,” Glover told him.
    “Then I’m at your command, sir.”
    “Excellent. You’re in Captain Glover’s hands.”
     
 
IN THE PLANNING ROOM, Glover laid out a map of Belfast. “The River Lagan runs into Belfast Lough and the docks; it’s a busy area.” He pushed a manila file across. “Everything you need is in there, but I’ll go through it anyway. Boats go backwards and forwards from Glasgow, trawlers, freighters.”
    “Illegal cargoes, sir?”
    “Sometimes. Arms, for example, and people. There’s a pub in the dock area we’re interested in, the Sailor. The owner is a man named Slim Kelly.”
    “IRA, sir?”
    “Certainly. Did time in the Maze Prison and was released, so there’s good photos of him in your file. He’s supposedly clean these days, but he’s certainly killed many times. Our understanding is that he’s fallen out of favor with the Provos. Lately he’s been involved with a man named Liam Ryan, a psychopath who murders for fun. He’s another one the IRA want to dispose of. Our information is that he’s done a deal to supply Kelly with Stinger missiles. These things can be operated by one man and they’ll bring down a helicopter. We understand they’ll be delivered to Kelly by Ryan next week in a trawler called the Lost Hope. The moment you can confirm the meet, you call your contact number in Belfast, which will bring in an SAS team on the run. It sounds simple, but who knows? Whatever happens, don’t use the contact number unless you are positive you have Kelly and Ryan in the frame.”
    “What exactly is my cover, sir?”
    “You’re employed by St. Mary’s Hospice in Wapping. There’s a branch in Belfast close to the Sailor, an old priory run by nuns that provides for the deserving poor and so forth. It needs renovating, and it’s already had a building surveyor from London come in. You’re an ordinand, whatever that is.”
    “Someone who’s considering the priesthood.”
    “Perfect cover, I should have thought. You’re from the London estate office. You’ve got all the documents on what needs doing. The story is you’re there to confirm it. You’re the man from head office, in a way.”
    “Where do I stay?”
    “The priory. It’s all arranged by the mother superior, a Sister Maria Brosnan. To her, you’re the genuine article.”
    Which in some strange way made Miller slightly uncomfortable. “Can I ask how you’ve been able to make these arrangements, sir?”
    “As it happens, Colonel Baxter’s