Ranulph Fiennes - Killer Elite

She smiled and wound down the window. “Nine-fifteen,” she said and returned to the pages of Cosmopolitan.

Jock thanked her and returned to his car. The accent was Midlands with no foreign inflection, but that was no guarantee. Why was she there, and been there the previous day? Only a keen, suspicious eye would have picked up any significance in her presence, only somebody who knew of Mac’s uniquely hazardous status. Knowing the various terrorist organizations who might have good reason to fear and therefore to hate the SAS, Jock was fully aware that a man with Mac’s history and health would be a prime target for any of these groups.

Distinctly uneasy, Jock stopped off at a pay phone in town and called his old comrade-in-arms and longtime friend Detective Constable Ken Borthwick of the Worcester Police. He would know whom to alert.

They met on a bench overlooking the Serpentine and surrounded by noisy Canada geese. Spike had not been in touch with Mason for almost a year and the latter was pleased at the short-notice summons.

“Do you remember the events of January, February and March 1975 on the Dhofar jebel?”

Mason was surprised by the question but he had good reason to recall the period with clarity.

“I lost some good friends at the time. Do you want a potted history?”

Spike nodded.

“I was attached to Jebel Regiment for the disastrous attack on Sherishitti, an adoo weapons store, and I worked closely with their officers. Later, in mid-February, at a base called Hagaif, the soldiers from one of the companies involved at Sherishitti mutinied against their major and forced him to leave by night alone in his Land Rover into enemy territory. Three weeks later two of the remaining Hagaif officers and the pilot of their helicopter were shot down and killed. I knew all of them well.”

Mason paused to light a cigar.

“Four days after the Hagaif mutiny, at my own base close to the Yemen border, I spent the hairiest night of my life. Seven men from another company set out on a patrol via a narrow track below a cliff face. The adoo had sewn the track with PMN plastic mines and three of the men were hurt, two losing feet and a great deal of blood. A second group were sent to help but they too ran into mines and only added to the casualties. With another officer, I took a small unit out around midnight and carefully made it some seven hundred feet down the cliff to the first wounded man. There was little we could do but haul the mine victims up on stretchers. One died just before dawn. When I came to one of the wounded he held up the remains of his leg for me to dress. All he said was, ‘ Al lahham, al qadam, kull khallas. ’ The meat, the foot, all finished. “At every step we knew that our own feet might be blown into fragments. A bad night to remember.”

Mason looked up and saw that Spike was waiting. “That was it. A period of setbacks, or so it seemed at the time. Soon after my friends crashed at Hagaif, two other Bells were shot out of the sky with further fatalities and an SAS Land Rover was destroyed east of Hagaif by a landmine.”

“Did you know the occupants?”

“Of the Land Rover?… Yes, probably, but not well enough to remember their names.”

“Well, the driver was the finest mortar man in the regiment.” Spike took a sheet of A4 from his briefcase and scanned it. He put on spectacles to do so. Anno Domini, Mason thought wryly. “You will find his full name and personal details in a file I will give you.” Spike tapped his case. “When the Land Rover was blown up, he was thrown forward and badly injured. At the FST unit in Salalah the surgeon diagnosed that the part of his brain controlling his character had been damaged. I will call him Mac, the nickname used by his friends then and now. He appeared to recover very quickly and was soon able to rejoin his squadron out in Belize, sent there to counter the Guatemalan threat. He was promoted to sergeant but had increasing problems with concentration. His attention simply wandered from the job at hand.”

Spike handed the file to Mason and continued. “About a year after the mine injury, the SAS were forced to retire Mac. He received a handsome Army pension and continued treatment by the very best military medicos. A rehabilitation course-he chose welding-was not a success and Mac retired to his home in Hereford and a succession of local jobs. His condition has slowly deteriorated but he still holds down a job and lives with his family and may well continue to do so for years to come.”

Spike swiveled on the bench, looking directly at Mason. “As an Irishman, Mac is careful to keep a low profile-ex-directory and so on. I was called on Saturday night with a warning that somebody is having Mac watched. The police have checked that there is no evidence of known terrorist involvement, so they are not interested.”

Mason was nodding. “You think it’s our friends again?”

Spike gazed out over the water. “Milling… Kealy… Marman… all dead… Smythe missing. This may be our chance to catch the people responsible. Maybe not, but it is worth an effort.”

Mason agreed and Spike promised him the support of three other Locals, including Hallett. He told Mason to warn Mac without alarming him unduly; also to give him an ankle-buzzer, a single-frequency alarm transmitter, which Spike handed to Mason in an envelope.

“Search the local hotels for the Sumail men. The old photos may be a bit out of date but better than nothing.”

When Mason left, Spike remained with the geese. The committee, he knew, would not approve. They would veto any further action involving the Dhofar-connected killings. That was why he had not asked them. For the first time he had instigated action by Locals without committee approval or even awareness. If they should find out, Spike realized, there would be a move to get rid of him. But they need never know, and he was damned if he would miss out on this chance to catch the killers.

In November 1986 Sheikh Bakhait received a video and file on the death of Major Michael Marman. A check for $1 million was paid to de Villiers, who passed on an appropriate amount to Davies.

Meier’s death caused neither man undue concern but they were baffled by the origins of Smythe. His car, his clothing and his behavior had shed no light on his identity. The binoculars that he carried were almost antique, certainly not equipment on issue to field agents of Special Branch or the Secret Intelligence Service. They agreed that the two men who had previously crossed their path, during work on the sheikh’s contract, had been similarly difficult to classify.

De Villiers shrugged. “We will get nowhere hypothesizing. Whoever they are, they cannot know our identities and they have only one more chance to intercept us.”

De Villiers returned to Anne at La Pergole, tasking Davies to concentrate on locating the sheikh’s fourth man to the exclusion of all other work. This Davies proceeded to do with the utmost care. Not $1 million but $2 million were at stake for the completion of the sheikh’s contract. Even so, Davies was thoroughly wary.

He spent an unprecedented amount of time in Cardiff with his wife and, since this frustrated her normal philandering, he found her difficult to please without maintaining a shower of expensive gifts, weekend flights to exotic spots and healthy checks for the business. In between bouts of wife-cosseting, Davies rented a small flat in Hereford and, over a five-month period, frequented a number of local pubs known to be haunts of the SAS. He perpetuated his standard cover as an insurance salesman and became known as a congenial divorcee who liked nothing better than to dispense alcoholic largesse and enjoy good company. Determined to raise no suspicions, Davies asked no questions and merely bided his time, listening and waiting for the right contact.