Ranulph Fiennes - Killer Elite

Westbury on Trym was a respectable, middle-class area where few drug targets existed, but neighboring Southmead looked ripe. Built in the thirties to house folks from the inner-city slums, the place was all red brick and, to Symins, had the signs of good pickings. But he was several years too late: Southmead was in the grip of a local family, and Ronnie and his trio of hulking sons dealt summarily with would-be poachers.

“Ronnie is into the lot,” said Jo. “Drugs, protection and toms. Nothing moves in Southmead but he and his boys know it.”

“What’s toms?” Darrell asked.

“Prostitutes.”

“Not much left then for our Patrice?”

“Not in Southmead, no. But he had a go in Knowle West at the beginning of ’76. After a month he was rumbled by the West Coast Chapter of the Hells Angels, who run an HQ deep in nearby Knowle, a couple of houses knocked together by sledgehammer. They did that one day to fit in an extra-long billiard table. They hold cannabis and speed parties, immune to surprise drug raids thanks to steel doors and a video surveillance setup. A couple of Angels live in but thirty more arrive within minutes when summoned. They soon saw Symins off.”

“You’re making me sympathetic to the poor bloke,” Mason said.

“Well, he is certainly a trier… Clifton was next, all middle-class students and rich folk. Plenty of takers, but too many police. Symins especially liked Clifton as he’s a snob and Cliftonians reckon they’re the cream of Bristol.”

So Symins had settled for Stoke Bishop, among the grassy heights of Bristol’s more affluent suburbs, which contain a mixture of well-heeled nouveaux riches and struggling middle-class families. The inhabitants mix very little, which assured Symins of privacy without suspicion.

Three years previously the government had removed the right of general practitioners to prescribe heroin or cocaine except for patients with proven terminal illnesses. Until then any junkie could obtain a controlled amount of his chosen drug legally. With this cushy arrangement ended, the street price of drugs escalated overnight, and from his eyrie in Stoke Bishop, Symins masterminded a rash of break-ins to chemists all over the Southwest. In Bristol itself he controlled these activities except in Keynsham, Knowle West, and Montpelier, where other teams were active under minityros such as Joe Lembo (subsequently caught and given five years in prison).

“What about his pushing system?” Darrell asked Jo.

“He has an expanding network of student pushers controlled by black colleagues, mostly friends of his mistress, and kept in line by half a dozen thugs who also protect his person. They are efficient, but”-Jo preened himself-“there is a loophole.” With the aid of Mason’s silver Parker pen and a beer mat, Jo demonstrated how he would help the two Locals.

They left the pub and walked to the southern end of Pennywell Road. Jo led the way into a deserted yard and over a chain-link fence. This joined a high wall, the main purpose of which was to conceal an evil-smelling waterway, a dank canal that was all that remained of the once scenic River Frome. They followed the wall for a hundred yards, then scaled it using a hook and knotted line that Jo produced from an overcoat pocket. “Natty, eh?” He looked at both men. He was in his element and needed surprisingly little help beyond a tug to the top.

From the wall they dropped into a scrapyard, or rather a garden used as a rubbish dump, and Mason knelt to unzip his Dunlop bag. He took out a ten-inch-long tubular instrument on loan from Spike, and left the bag hidden by brambles at the foot of the wall. Moving with care among the rubbish, Jo made for the rear of a low building with double doors. As the three watched, gaps in the doors were faintly illuminated by some low light source within.

Jo said nothing but pointed to one of the gaps. Mason nodded and screwed a telescopic monopod into his eavesdropping device. A prototype of a device later developed as the Wolf’s Ear 1411 and obtainable through the Surveillance Technology Group in Port Chester, New York, it was a “minishotgun,” bidirectional system capable of collecting sound from up to five hundred feet away. Powered by a built-in 1.5 volt battery, it weighed only two and a half ounces and could be used in conjunction with earplugs, binoculars and tape recorder. Mason positioned the Wolf’s Ear and gave Hallett one of the earplugs. The two men listened to the action, while Hongozo watched their backs.

Four men, all smoking cigarettes, stood around as Symins stressed the heinous nature of Jason’s betrayal. He ended, appearing to expect an acknowledgment from the accused. There was none because someone had liberally applied sticking plaster to Jason’s mouth in readiness for the coming punishment.

“He’ll be difficult to hold once we get started,” one of the heavies warned.

“That’s what the toolbox is for, ya twit,” said another. “Boss said to nail him down.”

“The floor’s concrete.”

“Use your common sense, Spitty. What’s wrong with the back doors? Bring the lamp.”

The three men in the backyard could now see nothing and the Wolf’s Ear was redundant since they were inches from Symins and his men.

Sounds of a violent struggle ended with the noise of hammering. There were no screams, merely muted laughter. One by one the points of four eight-inch nails appeared through the door frame.

Hallett’s hamlike fists clenched and the veins swelled in his neck. “Bastards,” he hissed. “They’re crucifying him.”

Mason laid a restraining hand on his back. “Calm yourself, Darrell. There’s worse to come. We don’t want you bursting in there like a raging bull. They will have guns. We do not.”

They heard the unmistakable hum of a portable generator and, just distinguishable, the whine of a Bosch power drill. Although they could neither see nor hear what followed, each man felt nausea at the inhumanity of Symins and his thugs.

Mason had spent twelve months in Northern Ireland some years earlier and had, for a month, been a frequent visitor to the Vascular Unit of the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast. One of his friends was being treated there for a spinal bullet injury, and David had often chatted to the RAMC surgeons. Over a twelve-year period the surgeons at the hospital had become specialists in treating the hideous damage caused by kneecapping. Bullets often missed the patella altogether but still caused severe vascular trauma. Many victims were men in the prime of life whose futures were marred through osteoporosis or, where gas gangrene set in, amputation. At least, Mason thought, the poor devil in the lockup was to be knee-capped with an electric drill, about the ultimate in low-velocity weapons. When flesh and bone is penetrated by foreign matter, the higher the velocity of the projectile the greater the damage done. Nevertheless, the long-term benefits of a masonry drill over a bullet would not at that moment mean very much to the tormented Jason. Mason felt pressure on his shoulder. Jo was tapping his watch. They left by the way they had come.

Symins addressed Jason’s lolling head, uncertain whether or not he was conscious. “We will phone the fire service in twelve hours, matey. Then us taxpayers will pay for your recovery.” He flashed his very white teeth at the others, who responded with guffaws. “In the meanwhile you’d better talk yourself into being a good boy. When you come out of the Krankenhaus, we’ll see if you’re still on the payroll.”

Symins drove off in his Jaguar Mark Ten and the others followed in a stretch Ford Granada. In convoy they headed northwest for the Downs, over the open grasslands and along Lady’s Mile to a prominent water tower. Here they forked left to Julian Road, home of the police forensic headquarters. An open field known as the Plateau fell away to the south, ending abruptly at the cliff-top of the Avon Gorge. The heart of Stoke Bishop, Mariners Drive is a place of secluded houses set back from the road and screened by the shrubbery of their well-tended gardens. Only the Anglican church stands out, and not far past this landmark of piety, the Jaguar turned into Symins’s drive. When the electronic gates snapped shut behind the boss, the heavies in the Granada swung away, their work done for the day.