Ranulph Fiennes - Killer Elite

Last to arrive were Colonel Tommy Macpherson, Chairman of the London Branch of the CBI, together with Michael Panny and Spike Allen. “The good news or the bad?” Panny addressed the room in his normal jovial manner. He was a man who set much store by feeling popular. Most of the others detested him but, an ex-commercial lawyer and a mine of City information, he was Bletchley’s protege and as such an unavoidable fixture. Nobody replied.

“Well, the bad news is Roy Jenkins has resigned. The good that those foul-mouthed Sex Pistols have been sacked by their own record company.”

Spike sat beside Bletchley, whom he disliked, a fact nobody would have suspected since Spike showed about as much emotion as a basking cobra. Spike preferred the alternate meetings when Macpherson was chairman. He knew there would be trouble about the Bristol job so he had decided to report on Islington first.

Colonel Tommy Macpherson and Bletchley were, with the founder, the initiators of the committee. Now eight years and many successes later, Macpherson looked at Bletchley and wondered how the founder, such a magnificent judge of men, had chosen him at all. And yet he too had originally thought the man was sound. Come to think of it, he really had been a first-class mover in the early days and a great source of inspiration. It had been he who had first coined the phrase “the Feather Men”-“because our touch is light.” Somewhere along the line, however, Bletchley had undergone a subtle change.

Although he had known the founder for over forty years, and despite the fact that both men were from Highland clans, had served during the war in the Special Forces and been POWs in Germany (the founder in Colditz), Macpherson never really knew the inner workings of the founder’s brilliant mind. His precise motives for starting the committee were lost in the mists of time but there had been rumors of a tragedy. They concerned someone close to the founder, whose death in 1968 could have been prevented but for the inadequacy of the police. The latter’s scope and budget, not their efficiency, had been to blame. There were not enough police in the right place at the right time.

The very decency of democracy hinders the prevention of numerous crimes. In Belfast, the British Army knows the identity of a dozen or more IRA killers but the law forbids the forces of the law to “take them out.” So the killers will strike again and again. This principle also applies to drug pushers, muggers, and other such predators at large throughout the United Kingdom.

The founder knew his limitations; he was not about to take on the evils of the nation as a whole. He stuck to his own niche, since charity begins at home. He was intimately involved with the family of SAS regiments, regular and territorial, and would set up a body of watchdogs to look after the well-being of the two-thousand-plus ex-members of the Artists Rifles Regiment and other SAS units. This body would also respond to cries for help that were beyond the scope of the existing regimental associations.

It is a sad fact of life in democratic societies that there are no-go areas where crime thrives and innocent citizens are preyed upon yet where the police are powerless to act.

In the early 1950s, 21 SAS Regiment was based close to St. Pancras station and headed by the famous wartime commando, Colonel Charles Newman VC. Newman was one of a number of ex-Special Forces daredevils including Colonels Lapraik, Sutherland, and Bill Macpherson, who successively commanded 21 SAS. The last-named, soon to be Chief of the Clan Macpherson, was a relation of Colonel Tommy Macpherson.

One day a veteran sergeant approached Colonel Newman and complained that his family had been threatened by local hoodlums in Notting Hill. Newman called a meeting of half a dozen stalwarts, and a deputation in civilian dress visited the source of harassment. The tactic worked and reached the ears of the founder. Technically no law of the land had been breached, for the Notting Hill gangsters did not call the SAS men’s bluff and no violence took place.

All matters for committee business were collated by Bob Mantell from diverse sources about the country, mostly ex-SAS men in various professions, including the police. Wherever Mantell could persuade the injured party to deal with the problem through the police he would do so, but in nearly every case the police had already been approached and had been unable to help.

After the usual preamble, Bletchley began the meeting with a short list of minor cases to be handled and of actions that appeared to have been ineffective. After an hour, business moved on to two topics labeled by Bletchley as “tender.” Both were the territory of Spike Allen.

Spike was no great wordsmith. “Islington,” he said, looking up very briefly from his papers, “worked well. The info from August proved reliable and the Mercedes has already been returned to our friends together with?1,000 in cash for the inconvenience.”

Bletchley nodded. “The police?” he asked quietly.

Spike was ready for him. “Our Local checked at the Upper Street Station. Mr. James had reported the theft to them immediately after the car disappeared. He explained how he knew that the Davenham Garage’s service department were in league with the Islington mob and how it was safe to deduce the car would, over a period of at least three hours, be repainted at their spray shop.”

Spike checked backward through his report. “The police called him back two days later with the usual refrain. There was no sign of the car and the police had no power to inspect Davenham’s service depot without a warrant.”

“How many people did you send to Davenham’s?” Bletchley asked. He always laid great emphasis on the need for minimal force.

“Three,” said Spike. “All on the large side.”

“Are you happy, Michael?”

Bletchley addressed the former lawyer Panny, who nodded. “August knows the Davenham brothers well. They’re too small to need to make a point merely to save their egos and they can hardly complain to the police of intimidation used to force them to return stolen property to its rightful owners. No, I think Spike handled the whole thing with the right amount of pressure.”

Spike, never one to hog the limelight, thanked the twins, who had advised him on the level of fear likely to get the car back. In the same breath he switched to his Bristol report, hoping to bathe it in the glow of goodwill generated by the success in Islington.

“Bristol,” he announced. “The operation the committee sanctioned at the September meeting last year. This was completed in November and I can now safely state there has been no comeback to or from the police, nor any media publicity. Our Local has good contacts in the City and confirms that Symins, the man directly responsible for the death of our friend’s daughter, has moved from Bristol.”

Spike tapped the blue folder in front of him. “Jane has given everyone copies of my detailed report.”

The don looked up. “Not exactly detailed,” he murmured. “Two pages only and all of that deals with the target. I, for one, would like to know more of our own activities. I fully understand that they obtained the required result, but what form did they take? Since they were effected in our name, we must be sure we would approve of the methods used by your Locals, don’t you think?”

There was a murmur of agreement from most of the others, as Spike had expected. “I took the advice of committee members as to the best means of forcing this issue.” He did not look their way but both of the twins became heavily preoccupied with their folders at this point. “Anything less persuasive, they assured me, would have been a waste of time with this man. There were only two Locals involved and both knew precisely how far to go. There will have been virtually no signs of physical damage to Symins.”