Ranulph Fiennes - Killer Elite

Since the last of the Persian invaders were expelled, centuries had passed in which many falaj, especially minor offshoots to long-abandoned villages, became neglected and partially blocked. Mason had no way of knowing how far he would be able to travel within this falaj but he was certainly safer below than aboveground in his present circumstances.

He reached the canal floor, or rather a heap of spoil and a goat carcass, some eighteen feet down. The diameter of the shaft had been sufficiently narrow to enable a tall man to chimney his way upward without help from a rope, and Mason assumed other shafts would be no wider. He headed south in the knowledge that the canal would gradually rise as it led away from the mountains.

There were numerous rockfalls but none entirely blocked the way. Mason was aware that various types of viper and water snake infested the Omani falaj system but he kept his mind on other things. A loud shout or a rifle shot might trigger a major rockfall.

Perhaps nobody would follow him. Well past the second vertical shaft he waited and listened, cursing silently when he clearly heard a clatter of rocks down the tunnel behind him. He increased his speed and blundered into a waist-deep pool where the channel floor was faulted. Beyond this and close to the third vertical shaft, Mason’s head, bent forward and low, made painful contact with an earthen wall.

Swearing aloud, he rubbed his scalp. At the same time he felt apprehension surge through his stomach, a fairly rare experience since he was blessed with an unusually high threshold of fear. The cause of his dread was the sound of hornets, many hundreds of them, stirring in anger. Two years earlier, on a patrol in central Oman, Mason had witnessed the agonizing death of two young Omani girls attacked by jebel hornets in a deserted hovel. The nest had hung from the ceiling like some giant inverted cone of mud. Now the memory made him fall to the tunnel floor and scrabble forward. To his relief the way was clear, with sufficient space beneath the nest to make his way forward. Knowing the smell of his fear would leave a scented trail, he forced himself to lie calm and still along the damp surface of the channel. He was not stung and the nest quietened down. Gingerly he continued, and minutes later heard the terrified screams of his pursuers roaring down the echo chamber of the tunnel. The sound of splashing water followed, and then silence but for an occasional low moan.

Two shafts to the south Mason came to a pile of spoil that helped him gain a chimneying position at the base of the man-made tube. He waited patiently for two hours, then, with his back and his arms inching up one side, his braced feet up the other and his rifle hanging below him from its strap, he reached the surface panting and filthy.

The plateau was lifeless in all directions, a midday heat shimmer raising inverted mirages to the south. He returned cautiously to the Datsun, collected his bag from the bushes, knocked away the remnants of the windshield and drove back to the main road. There was no sign of the Nissan. Mason took his second travel bag down to the wadi a mile upstream of Fanjah and, washing with care, changed into the standard expatriate uniform of cotton slacks and shirtsleeves.

From the pocket of his dirty Army trousers he took the empty case of the only bullet he had fired and buried it in the wadi bed. Lighting a Montecristo cigar, he cleaned the Rigby thoroughly and sat back to enjoy life in general and especially the magnificent view of the great mountains to the north.

At 3 p.m., back in his hotel room, Mason telephoned Inquiries. There were two numbers for Chief Superintendent Bailey of the Royal Oman Police Air Wing. He took both and tried the home number first.

The Baileys’ Kashmiri houseboy, Said, who spoke good English, answered and apologized that the sah’b was out and would be quite unobtainable for the rest of the day.

“But this is very urgent.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Could you give him a message?”

“Very happy, sir. Yes, a message.”

“Please tell him he must on no account go flying tomorrow morning. In fact no flying at all until he has spoken to me on this number.”

He gave the Kashmiri the hotel number and his room extension, but not his name.

Mason had been prebooked into the Gulf Hotel as “MOD VIP ex-Kendall,” and on arrival had told the receptionist his passport was at the British Embassy for renewal. Three subsequent and generous tips to receptionists for minor services had helped avoid any reminders about the passport. He had called himself Mr. D. Messon and given the management to understand he would be staying for a further three weeks.

The Kashmiri repeated Mason’s message back to him and then added, “Chief Superintendent Bailey will not be flying tomorrow, sir. You must not worry about that. He is not to fly for at least two more days.”

“Are you certain of that?” Mason was bewildered.

“Certain sure, sir. Oh yes indeed, he will not fly. I know his program. I look after him.”

Mason thanked the Kashmiri. The man sounded honest and reliable. There was nothing more he could do to warn Bailey until the next day. At no stage in the Sumail had his face been visible to the Welshman or his cronies. Of that he was certain. Nothing would connect him with the dead Asian and he felt fairly sure that the opposition would dispose of the body themselves. That evening, when traffic in and out of Northern Headquarters was at its busiest, he returned the Datsun to the Motor Transport Section and borrowed a Land Rover in its place. If anyone noticed the soiled state of his uniform they might feel disdain but not suspicion.

After an excellent dinner, Mason settled back in his room to an evening of Tolkien and listening for the return of the Welshman.

Bridgie wore a cleverly cut white dress that accentuated her narrow shoulders and superlative cleavage while playing down the current size of her midriff. She was a touch troubled by John’s mood. He was as gentle and attentive as ever where she was concerned, but definitely out of sorts for some reason. He had been a touch upset by his recent Jebel Akhdar mission but this was altogether different. If she did not know him better she might have thought him nervous. This and the memory of the St. Patrick’s Day omen made her especially anxious when John failed to turn up at the embassy dinner. The ambassador, Sir Peter Treadwell, was leaving, and his wife had laid on a splendid affair, a distant echo of the Raj.

John had flown down to Salalah that morning with Geoff Leggatt to inspect a sailing boat and to bid farewell to RAF friends. After forty-nine years, RAF Salalah, one of Britain’s remoter outposts, was packing up and hauling down the flag. Its very existence had saved the Sultanate from a Marxist takeover in the late sixties.

The guests took their seats and Bridgie was beside herself with worry. She had every confidence in John’s flying abilities but she could not shake off the sense of foreboding that increasingly weighed on her mind.

The third course had been served when the animated hubbub puttered to near silence. Every woman in the room found her eyes following the splendid figure of John Milling in his white tuxedo as he strode to the ambassador to apologize for his unavoidably late arrival. He laid his hands affectionately on Bridgie’s bare shoulders then sat down between two ladies, both of whom addressed him at once. Many members of the Muscat expatriate community were secretly jealous of one or other of the Millings while finding both the best of fun.

The postdinner cigars and superlative port from the embassy cellar soon gave way to boisterous games, and a number of guests, including John, ended up fully dressed in the pool.

Back at home John and Bridgie were asleep by midnight. Their worries put aside, they were both looking forward to spending a free Sunday with young Oliver on their secret beach. Twenty minutes by helicopter to the southeast of Muscat, John had discovered a deserted cove of white sand and surf. There they had spent many a perfect day wandering naked along the limitless shore, collecting seashells and lazing with a picnic in the dunes.