Ranulph Fiennes - Killer Elite

Mason awoke early on the Saturday and telephoned the Bailey house at 7 a.m. This time the Kashmiri houseboy fetched the Chief Superintendent from his breakfast.

Mason went straight to the point.

“I am very glad to make contact. I need to speak to you at once, for I have good reason to believe your life is in danger.”

“I must thank you for your concern,” Bailey’s voice sounded cool, “but, forgive me for asking, who are you?”

David was keen to avoid knowledge of his presence in Muscat leaking out. There were still a few British, mostly ex-Army officers on contract, who would remember him, and people talk. It would not be long before someone in the Welsh Guards heard the gossip.

“Please understand that it is difficult to talk on the telephone. I can come to see you immediately anywhere that suits you.”

Bailey began to sound standoffish.

“You told my houseboy I was not to go flying.”

“Correct.” Mason was emphatic. “Your machine has been damaged, sabotaged by one of your own workers. I can show you a photograph of the man.”

“Have you told the police?”

Mason hesitated. “I have no proof… but I know you are in danger. We must meet so I can explain the situation.”

Bailey was impatient now. “Look, I have a very busy day today and it does not include any flying. Quite honestly, I think this is a police matter and you should contact them at once. The earliest I can see you is tomorrow morning and then I’m afraid it must be brief. This is a very busy time of the year for us.”

Mason agreed to meet the police chief at 8:30 a.m. on the Sunday. He spent Saturday morning developing the film shot in the Sumail. Davies was back and using room service for all his meals. Mason was forced to curb his curiosity as to whether the hornets had altered the man’s appearance.

Davies had in fact been lucky: saved only by plunging into a subterranean pool and staying there until the hornets had gone. The Clinic members had split up as soon as Mason went underground. Davies had followed him down the falaj but the others had remained above in case their quarry reemerged. Davies had eventually crawled from the pool, but could not see through his swollen eyelids. Hearing his cries, the others had descended and hauled him up on the rope.

They had left Karim Bux’s body in the gravel wastes of the Wadi Umayri, off the Fahud road, for the wolves and vultures. Then they had driven to the Gulf Hotel and helped Davies to his room, where the in-house medic had removed two dozen hornet stings from his face and hands. He would be of no further use to the operation.

Meier had passed a good deal of time in idle conversation with the European ROP aircraft engineers. Milling, he learned, was highly regarded and nearly always nominated as pilot-instructor to the police cadets on their first helicopter flights. Meier had decided therefore to go ahead with the operation that night since three cadet flights were planned for the following morning.

Meier and two Joannou and Pariskavides contract workers spent the morning installing ducting for a new intercom system within the ROP hangar. All normal duty personnel left by 1:30 p.m. Only three people would remain: the Operations officer who left at 6 p.m., and two engineers, one fixed-wing and the other a helicopter specialist, who covered the afternoon shift. They would spend their time continuing tasks left over from the morning shift and preparing the aircraft for the following day’s flying program, including, that day, twenty minutes checking the Bell to be flown by Milling. Just a standard inspection of oil levels and control integrity.

Meier and his two J amp;P colleagues worked on during the afternoon, concentrating on the intercom installation and leaving the two engineers to do their work. There was no flying that afternoon, and by 4 p.m. the engineers had completed the daily inspections and preparing the aircraft for the next day’s program and left. Meier was relieved to see them go. He had delegated the relatively simple task of fixing the ducting to his two Indian coworkers while he worked separately, sorting out some wiring in another room. Soon after the Air Wing engineers had left he suggested to the two J amp;P workers that they might wrap it up, but he would stay on for another half hour or so to finish what he was doing. Meier told them to take the J amp;P pickup and said that he would get a lift with the Ops officer to the airport roundabout and hitch from there.

By 4:30 p.m. he had let the Operations officer know that the J amp;P workers were leaving. After making sure they were off the premises, he went down to the general workshop underneath the Operations Room, laid a mat on the floor, closed the door and fell asleep. His wristwatch alarm was set for 7 p.m.

At 5:30 p.m. Meier was woken by a metallic clanking. At the far side of the well-lit workshop a tall man was checking through an engineer’s toolbox. Meier recognized Brendan O’Brien, one of the aerobatic aces of the Rothmans flying team, on a visit from England. Their four Pitt Special biplanes were parked inside the hangar and O’Brien was probably carrying out some repair to his machine.

Meier remained motionless, uncertain whether he had been seen. He was worried on two counts. Chief Superintendent Bailey was holding a buffet supper party that evening, to which the Rothmans people had been invited. If O’Brien had seen him, he might well mention the fact to Chief Bailey. If, on the other hand, O’Brien intended to work overnight on his biplane, Meier’s own plans would be scuppered.

After an hour or so Meier heard O’Brien laughing with the Duty Operations Officer and then the sounds of their leaving the hangar. He double-checked that he was alone in the building, then climbed the stairs to the executive corridor and the Operations Room, where he checked the daily roster board. For the following day, March 20, the main duty was marked up as “Police Cadet Helicopter Familiarization Flights,” with Milling’s name entered as pilot-instructor. The first take-off of three separate flights by that machine was scheduled for 8 a.m., but he knew the flight engineers would arrive at least an hour earlier to check and prepare the machine. Meier had twelve hours to himself. A single armed guard patrolled the compound at night, but he would only enter the hangar if given reason for suspicion.

Meier stripped off his clothes and donned an ROP set of engineer’s blue overalls with tactile gloves and flip-flops. He then placed his tools and instruments on a trolley and wheeled it to the machine with the correct tail number. His plan was simple enough. He would create a mechanical defect, and Milling would crash, but the event would be blamed on pilot error, not sabotage.

Meier eased himself upward from the hangar floor and into the innards of the machine by way of the heavy rubberized ring that protects the helicopter from the pendulum motions of the swinging cargo hook. The hook itself was not fitted. If it had been, Meier would have had to work on top of the helicopter’s roof by removing the gear box cowling in full view of any surprise visitor to the hangar.

Once inside the area known to most helicopter aficionados as the “hellhole,” Meier used the rubberized bumper as a conveniently placed seat. He carefully positioned himself in the rear left-hand side of the hellhole with his back against the apex of that corner. Reaching upward, he hooked a fluorescent inspection lamp over a hydraulic ingress pipe and strapped his ready tool bag around his waist.

Oman is relatively cool in mid-March, and the hangar, despite the lack of air-conditioning, would remain around sixty-four degrees most of the night. Inside the hellhole, Meier worked in a cramped position and was soon smeared with grease impregnated with grit and dirt.