Ranulph Fiennes - Killer Elite

The Khoja merchant was as fat as a sumo wrestler and his bald scalp glinted under the fluorescent bulbs as a result of daily application of scented unguent. He was solicitous in the extreme and twice interrupted the meeting with offers of more coffee before de Villiers bade him leave them in peace.

He emerged from the majlis, the inner room used for entertaining and business, glad that he had overcharged the supercilious sons of bitches. He joined their “local representative,” Karim Bux, in the small room immediately behind his stall.

“This tall man was English?” Karim Bux asked the Khoja. “You are certain?” The merchant shrugged. “It is as I told you. My sisters saw only this tall foreigner behind your friend, so, as instructed, they blocked his way. He spoke to them in good Arabic but like an Ingleezi .”

Karim Bux sipped at his loomee. Despite the fans, the cushioned room was rank with the smell of lovemaking and he wished de Villiers would hurry up. He decided to make no mention of the man who had followed Davies. There was always a smattering of Europeans about the Lawatiyah. The Khoja and his sisters were probably merely fishing for an extra tip.

Karim Bux was Tadnams’ only agent in the subcontinent and had plenty of overdue work in Delhi. He objected to his current role in Oman, for he was not accustomed to playing second fiddle to Europeans. But he kept his feelings to himself for Tadnams paid him well and he knew his three charges were veterans, possibly with influence in Earls Court.

Davies leafed through the photographs of John Milling, his wife, and two other men: they showed the men in uniform, or simply relaxing by the seaside. “Big fellow, this Milling, looks like some Greek god,” Davies commented.

De Villiers shrugged. “Tomorrow we will test his immortality.”

Davies was content with the plans. He preferred methods that the Clinic had successfully used in the past, and de Villiers had, in Milling’s case, settled for a simple domestic accident.

For two weeks the Millings had been subjected to an intensive and annotated study. It was the custom of the Clinic to spot repetitive patterns of activity in their prospective targets’ lives or, if none were apparent, to gain access to some pointer to their future plans such as an office wall chart, a diary or a personal secretary who could be encouraged to gossip.

Once a pattern or a specific intended activity was identified, the Clinic would select a time and place where the target would be alone and vulnerable to an accident.

On arrival in Oman, de Villiers had settled in at the Intercontinental Hotel and Meier at the Falaj Hotel. De Villiers looked after Milling’s home life and Meier his Police Air Wing activities.

A sign at the Air Wing perimeter gate announced maintenance works by J amp;P Contractors, so Meier went to their recruiting office in Azaiba. His excellent references, including seven years with Mercedes, probably helped, but electrical and mechanical engineers were anyway much sought after. As luck would have it, that morning J amp;P had sent a European engineer home on compassionate leave. The company’s considerable connections in high places enabled it, under the current circumstances, to circumvent the normal immigration rule that would have required Meier to leave the country while his work-permit application was being processed. He was able to start work within a few hours of the initial phone call to J amp;P’s sponsor’s office. He was assigned to the maintenance team handling the contract for the Royal Flight and Police complex, including the current alterations to the Police Air Wing workshops.

Subsequent comparative studies indicated that, while Meier was keen and confident that he could sabotage Milling’s helicopter in such a way as to produce “accidental death,” a more certain method would be a visit to the target’s home at a time of day when he was normally alone.

Davies was to provide backup and removal facilities, while the other two would complete the killing in a manner they had carefully prepared and rehearsed.

The Clinic agreed to all the details and Karim Bux dropped them off, each within walking distance of their separate hotels.

At 3:45 p.m. John Milling, a green and white wizaar wrapped about his waist, watched his wife set off for her usual Thursday shopping spree at the Matrah Cold Store supermarket.

He felt a pang of quite unnecessary jealousy as his friend Geoff Leggatt, six feet four inches tall, helped Bridgie into the front passenger seat. Even seven and a half months pregnant she was stunningly attractive. The long slim legs, the golden blond hair, the large green eyes and the sparky Irish temperament had earned her the tag of the loveliest, sexiest girl in Oman.

Cha Cha, their albino Kashmiri houseboy, sat in the back with three-year-old Oliver, whose features already showed the Milling stamp. Geoff slammed the door and waved to John. They had been friends since schooldays in Enniskillen. Four years ago John had fallen headlong in love with Bridgie, who was then Geoff’s girlfriend. A passionate affair followed, punctuated by Bridgie’s worldwide travels, for she was then a BOAC hostess. Geoff accepted the situation and they all remained the best of friends. He had called in at their home in Seeb a week earlier on his way to teach English in Japan.

John Milling closed the front door of the bungalow and settled into an armchair with his feet on the drawing-room table. In an hour or so he would go jogging along the coast road. This was not his normal practice on Thursday afternoons, but the pilot, James A. Sims, Jr., with whom he usually jogged or went scuba diving twice a week, was on leave. Jim was a tall, dark native of Tennessee and unmarried. John was looking forward to this outing since he found it hard going to keep pace with the athletic American and today he would accompany the forty-five-year-old George Halbert, a retired RAF navigator and one of the Air Wing’s fixed-wing pilots. George liked to drink and to keep fit so he indulged in binges of each activity on alternate months. He lived just down the street from the Millings.

The Economist magazine fell to the floor as John nodded off to the gentle rattle of the air-conditioning. Some minutes later he woke with a start at the chime of the doorbell. Perhaps George had arrived early, the silly bugger, in the full heat of the afternoon.

Milling recognized neither of his visitors. Both wore slacks and clean white shirts, and the balding, shorter man with spectacles carried a briefcase. Both were profuse in their apologies. They had not realized Superintendent Milling would be resting. They would come back later. They were American military historians writing a definitive account of guerrilla wars in the mid- to late twentieth century. Colin Maxwell and Ted Ashley had suggested they seek Milling’s advice. John’s curiosity was pricked.

“Come in.” He waved them into the cool, curtained living room. “I can offer you a beer, loomee or iced tea.”

He indicated the armchairs and padded to the refrigerator in the kitchen. The bungalow was mostly open-plan. The refrigerator was tucked against a side wall in the kitchen and just out of sight of the living room. As Milling returned, grasping two beer cans and tankards, he noticed the snub-nosed revolver in the hands of the taller man.

“Put the beers down, Superintendent, and lie facedown on the floor.”

Milling did so.

“Now clasp your hands together, fingers interlaced, behind your back.”

One of the men bound his fingers and then his wrists together with a material that felt like electrical tape. Although there was no discomfort, the bindings were rock solid and did not respond to his subsequent attempts to dislodge them.

He was helped into one of the chairs and the armed man stayed behind him. The other set up an 8mm cine camera on a tripod, then moved around the bungalow bolting windows and doors. He moved a single venetian blind aside to allow more light onto Milling’s face.