Ranulph Fiennes - Killer Elite

Smells: “Dislike: gangrene, B.O., fast food, car exhaust, wet sleeping bags, hospitals, nylon socks, dog shit, instant coffee, government offices.”

“Like: the sea, sawed timber, mown grass, heather, cordite, wood smoke, Harrods Food Hall, clean children, cigar smoke, the African bush.”

People: “Impossible to categorize. Everytime I have tried to do so I have found an exception to the rule. But if I had to paint a stereotype of the sort of character for whom I reserve particular derision… chin sticking in rather than out, watery eyes, runny nose, wispy red beard, CND amulet around the neck, plays guitar in modern church services, goes to prenatal classes with the wife after she has been made pregnant by the milkman, lives in Hampstead, faints when a car backfires, vegetarian, no sense of humor, follows trends, reads the Guardian, feet smell despite (or because of) sandals, uses words like ‘totally,’ ‘at the end of the day,’ ‘up and down the country,’ ‘ongoing struggle,’ etc.”

Germaine Greer: “An intelligent and interesting woman. Unfortunately a horde of shrill harpies have taken over the feminist issue in much the same way as strident black activists have the race industry. If someone applied to me for a job I would appoint the person most suited to it, regardless of sex.”

Politics: “In a nutshell I am a right-winger, but there has been almost as much interference with personal freedom under the Conservatives, even if they have been more subtle about it. Government should be kept to a minimum. People should be able to get on with their lives unimpeded by bureaucracy, nannying, hectoring and meddling by ignorant politicians anxious to make their names.

“Socialism is a religion espoused by fools, crooks or liars or, as in the case of many people at the BBC, people who are all three. It has failed miserably, but the more dimwitted of its adherents have still not realized this.

“Liberalism is not much better. There are just fewer crooks and more fools. There are some honorable exceptions but not many.”

Coming from the majority of people, these responses would have put Spike off right away. A fascist bigot, a narrow-minded elitist, were descriptions that sprang to mind. But he decided, and the recruit-trawler agreed, that Mason simply liked to appear bluff and autocratic.

The passage of time and a number of testing jobs at home and abroad had confirmed Mason to be a fair-minded man, a friend to anyone regardless of background, once he had decided they were genuine.

Like the rest of the Locals, David Mason operated for Spike without remuneration and often without payment even of his expenses. He knew only that the Committee of the Feather Men commanded Spike’s loyalty and stood for freedom and democracy. They aimed to operate within the law to protect individuals or to prevent crimes, where the official arm of the law was powerless or too undermanned to be effective. For the most part Spike worked the Locals within their home areas, where they were likely to be streetwise. This also saved travel expenses. Few of the Locals knew one another since Spike kept them apart as far as possible.

David studied the scanty contents of the file Spike handed him. It contained street maps of Bristol and the personal details of one Patrice Symins, drug dealer. When David laid the file down and stubbed out his cigar, Spike told him the background.

“Two weeks ago the only daughter of a Chippenham accountant, once a squaddie with C Squadron in Hitchin, died of drug abuse. She was supplied by the same group who organized her introduction to heroin when she was a student at Bristol University last year. The police know all about the dealer, Symins, but can prove nothing. There is a local Hungarian who has helped us in the past. He knows the city like the back of his one good hand. He will be your guide. Symins is well protected, which is why I want you to back up our Local, a Welshman called Darrell Hallett.”

They talked for an hour. Then Spike Allen handed over some equipment and left. David sighed. He had asked for a day to recover from palace duties, but Spike’s hit was planned for that Monday night.

A great deal of redevelopment took place in Bristol during the mid-seventies, but Pennywell Road, though only a mile from the city center, remained a shoddy backwater skirting the fringes of St. Paul’s and joining Easton with the old market district.

A number of self-contained housing estates and small industrial units lined both sides of this long, ill-lit road, as well as a smattering of derelict and vandalized lockups. In one such unit a kangaroo court took place on the evening of Monday, November 1, 1976. The functions of judge and jury were assumed by Patrice Symins. His five colleagues, uniform in their bulk and ugliness, stood around a sixth man whose hands were secured behind him to the plumbing of a disused wash basin.

Symins wore an ermine-collared overcoat and leather driving gloves. He grinned a good deal as he spoke, either because he admired his own teeth or because he had been told his smile made him look charming. He was a tall, rangy man of about fifty who enjoyed the considerable influence he wielded within his particular sphere of the Bristol drug scene.

Jason had been seen twice with “snouts” operated by Lionel Hawkins of the local drug squad. Both times he had loudly proclaimed his innocence. The men were old friends of his and he had not the faintest idea that either was a snout. Symins knew he should have acted the first time but he had a soft spot for Jason, who had worked for him since his arrival in Bristol. Twice was not just suspicious, it was downright incriminating; and Jason must now serve as a memorable example to others.

“You can sweat it out a bit, Jason. Think about yourself, mate, and you’ll be the first to admit you done bad wrong. We will be lenient this time. You squeal again-so much as get seen in spitting distance of those bastards-and next time it’ll be terminal.”

Symins ran his hand over his bald head, donned a cloth cap with a loud check and turned to the Cockney black girl, his secretary and mistress since she was fifteen.

“Get the cars up, Di. I don’t want you here when Jason gets the surgery. Your stomach’s flat and firm, okay, but is it strong enough? A masonry drill grinding through our friend here’s kneecaps will not be a beautiful thing, my love. Not to see and not to hear. So we’ll go back to the office for an hour or two, leave you there, then come back with the Bosch.”

The cars, parked four hundred yards up the street, responded to Di’s phone and arrived at the lockup.

“Harry, be a good lad and wait here with Jason,” Symins ordered. “Any trouble, you fix him any way you please, but leave him compos mentis for the joy to come.”

Darrell Hallett drove south from his parents’ small farm in Tenby. He always felt at ease with the world after visiting them. The Avenger car headed east over the Severn Bridge, then south down the M5. Rowntree, the chocolate manufacturers, owned it and the sample boxes of Yorkie bars in the rear. Darrell was star salesman for his district and he knew it. He had worked for Rowntree for four years since leaving the Forces.

He was at heart a country boy, and most weekends he returned home to grab his rod or twelve-bore. From the age of five Darrell, with his three brothers, had spent every spare moment in the woods and fields, poaching, egg collecting, destroying wasps’ nests by hand and jumping from treetops. By the age of ten Darrell could paunch and skin a rabbit in under sixty seconds, then sell it for two bob to the local butcher. He knew the separate signs and the smells of the fox, the stoat and many other woodland creatures.

Born the year the Second World War ended, Darrell was a natural fighter. From kindergarten onward he punched his way through half a dozen school playgrounds and, when still a youngster, became Air Training Corps Welsh Boxing Champion. In 1962 he joined the RAF Regiment and became Middleweight Champion of the RAF and the Combined Services. Trained by Dave James, he was asked by the great Al Philips to turn pro. He was a streetfighter with gloves on, but he loved Forces life too much and missed his chance for the international ring.