Ranulph Fiennes - Killer Elite

De Villiers and Davies were clearly middle-aged executives but Meier looked out of place. His heavy tweed suit was crumpled-his trousers, although a couple of sizes too large, failed to conceal a battered pair of clogs-and the lenses of his steel-rimmed spectacles needed cleaning.

“This steak tastes too sweet to be cow,” Davies muttered.

“Probably horse,” de Villiers said. “Never mind. The fries look good.”

“Chips,” said Davies. “You mean chips.”

De Villiers shrugged. A waiter brought him the lobster he had selected from the tank where the poor creatures waited to be boiled alive. He sat with his back to the steaming lobster vat. That way he could see the cafe entrance but not the tortured sea creatures. Their silent screams occurred at precisely the same time as those of Patrice Symins, by now in a state of solitary suspension. The lobsters, by contrast, had done nothing to deserve their torment.

Over coffee and cognac the three members of the Clinic discussed business, their conversation drowned between the babble at the bar and the bargaining sessions at the brocanteurs’ stores opposite the cafe. Meier, unlike the others, spoke French. He reported on the media’s treatment of the murder, or rather the conspicuous absence of such treatment.

This did not please de Villiers.

“Why the silence? This is just the sort of smut they adore to headline. All the right ingredients.” He shrugged. “Too bad; she has paid up regardless.”

Meier, who had been ferreting, had partial answers.

“The judge was involved with international rights in Mururoa Atoll five years ago. The French had burned their fingers with their nuclear tests. They maybe have some reason for a hush-up now.”

Davies was more lively than de Villiers had seen him in years. The Paris job had suited his temperament, and de Villiers, having received the client’s full payment that morning, had already given both men their checks. Fifteen percent of the total payment of $450,000 would go to Tadnams, the agents, thirty-five percent to de Villiers, and the balance was split down the middle between the other two. The ten percent differential between his slice and theirs helped to reinforce his position as leader. He maintained these percentages for any job completed by the Clinic even when only two members were involved in the action.

Meier, a naturally uncommunicative sort, came alive only when able to indulge his passion for technical innovation. He would, de Villiers knew, spend all his Paris money on advanced radio-controlled model aircraft kits and on whoring somewhere exotic.

Davies would rush back to his pretty little wife in Cardiff laden with gifts and a fat check made payable to her interior-decorating business. Mrs. Davies, de Villiers suspected, was unfaithful to her husband during his long absences on sales tours, but realizing she might never find another man as blindly doting or as generous, she strung him along and depended on his paychecks to fill the voracious purse of her business. She had been born devoid of taste and stayed that way despite expensive courses at London’s Inchbold School of Design. Each decorating job that she obtained-and many came about through liberal application of her body to middle-aged bachelors who did not really want their penthouses redecorated-became a new glaring testament to her reputation for appalling judgment.

One day, de Villiers feared, Davies would arrive home to find his missus wrapped around some poor yuppie whose flat she wished to face-lift. The results, he reflected, would not be a pretty sight, for when in a rage Davies did not respect the niceties of civilized life.

Although there was very little de Villiers did not know about his colleagues, his own circumstances and background were forbidden topics that both men had long since learned never to broach. They trusted de Villiers simply because he had always, to the best of their knowledge, played fair with them. He trusted them because he took the trouble to keep abreast of their problems and to know their limitations.

In a world of deceit and back-stabbing, a profession where over ninety percent of practitioners work alone, the Clinic had managed to remain an effective and cohesive working group for four years. This was, of course, largely due to de Villiers’s personality, which was sincere and straightforward, giving the impression of a positive individual unlikely to suffer from anxiety or indecision. This stemmed from his character, which, unlike his mien, was extremely aggressive. Deep down de Villiers boiled with a sense of fury, a rage at the injustice of Fate and a desperate yearning for roots and a mother’s love.

Was he normal? Can a contract killer be normal? Normal people certainly can and do perform outrageous or sadistic acts but not repeatedly, to order. Such people almost always appear callous, shifty, or aggressive in their everyday life. De Villiers’s ruthlessness, by contrast, did not show through in his day-to-day behavior. He could kill a young woman, by whatever means might suit the contract, before noon, and within minutes be enjoying the banalities of lunchtime gossip and the taste of good food.

His Jekyll and Hyde character was able to support this duality without betraying a hint of outward unpleasantness. If he ever thought about it, de Villiers would claim that he killed purely to make a living. He would deny that there was an inner compulsion, a burning need to get even with Fate.

Since de Villiers made a particular point of meeting would-be clients in person and carefully assessing possible contracts before accepting them, he took less leave than Meier and Davies. He averaged perhaps three or four weeks’ vacation a year, which he invariably spent hunting for rare species of game alone, equipped with the best photographic gear money can buy.

De Villiers paid, adding no tip since the bill was clearly printed service inclus and he was ashamed of having enjoyed the excellent lobster. The others left to find separate cabs to favorite night spots. De Villiers reflected on lessons learned in Paris, on contacts made that might be useful in the future. After a second cognac he returned to the hotel at 31 Avenue George V and put through a call to a number in the Cape Province. There was no answer. He put the phone down and for a moment felt a touch of loneliness. He sat in the overplush bar for a while, indulging in his favorite activity: observing people. But the subject matter was poor. Two gay barmen, an aging Californian film star with her silent toy boy, and an off-duty receptionist picking his nose behind a copy of Paris Match.

He passed through the silent foyer hung with fine Gobelin tapestries and tipped a porter who brought him an envelope on a salver. Back in his room, he exercised for twenty minutes and then, with an Evian from the minibar, lay back and read the message from Tadnams. He was to go immediately to their office in Earls Court and be ready to fly on to the Arabian Gulf.

… A scum-laden lake marks the northeasterly limit of safety for joggers in Central Park, New York City. Beyond the lake you wander at your own risk unless you are poor and black. This rule of thumb held good in the autumn of 1964 but the rich kid from Oklahoma had no knowledge of the dos and don’ts of Lower Harlem. Visiting his grandmother at her spacious apartment on Park Avenue, he had agreed to take her beagle for her evening walk in the nearby park.

Some five minutes’ walk into the scrub and glades that cover the region between the museum and the central reservoir, he found a grassy space, unleashed the beagle and threw her rubber ball. The dog, whose bouncy days were increasingly rare, broke into a halfhearted trot to show herself willing. She halted by the ball and turned back to the boy, tail wagging and grinning as only beagles can, when the six-inch bolt penetrated her neck. She fell without a sound.