Ranulph Fiennes - Killer Elite

“How long does Spike want Mac covered?” Hallett asked.

“For as long as the two of us are game.”

“D’you realize this thing has been going on for nearly ten years and we’re still none the wiser as to the motives of the opposition?”

Mason stubbed out his cigar, ignoring the glare of the elderly waitress, who instantly removed the evil-smelling ashtray. “You say ten years, Darrell, but we don’t know that we were in at the beginning. Milling may not have been their first target. Nor do we have any idea how many people they are after.”

“Why do you give up valuable time for Spike?”

Mason smiled. “I like the man. I believe there is a need for us. We harm nobody but characters who would, without us, continue to harm others. What about you?”

“I’m Welsh,” Hallett mused. “I like to see fair play, and in this particular case, the boyo you followed to Muscat once gave me a very stiff neck.”

“Charles Bronson and his Death Wish films have done us no big favor,” said Mason. “No member of the public would be seen dead condoning vigilantism and that is how our activities, if revealed, might be classified. The silent majority might approve but most would never admit it. Just listen to the shrill squeals directed at the very idea of Guardian Angels on the London Underground. Everyone knows there are not enough Transport Police to protect the passengers yet few approve of the thought of red-bereted patrols.”

“I can think of nobody,” Hallett interrupted, “who would not support the Angels when saved from yobbos or rapists on a dark and lonely tube platform.”

“Too right,” said Mason, “but the fools who denounce our existence do not stop to think of the lives we have saved and the fears we have eased.”

“Ah well,” said Hallett, paying the bill, “I am proud to have worked with Spike and you and the others. To hell with the righteous bloody Pharisees. My conscience is clear and that’s what I have to live with.”

“Are you happy with everything?” Mason asked, handing Hallett the receiver.

Hallett smiled. “If they show their faces, they’ll regret it.”

Both men wore dinner jackets but the soles of their patent-leather shoes were rubber. It was their custom, when walking in cities at night, to dress in the manner least likely to alert the suspicions of patroling policemen. People in smart dinner jackets are seldom involved in the pursuit of physical crimes. Davies carried a briefcase.

At 3 a.m. de Villiers and Davies donned thin leather gloves and entered the shrub garden to the immediate right of Mac’s house. The previous night Davies had used a silenced. 22 to shatter the lamp of an unwelcome streetlight in Salisbury Avenue.

Once within the darkness of Mac’s rear garden, the two men placed triangles of black cloth over their necks. These covered the whiteness of their dress shirts and they moved like shadows into the gloom of an adjacent garden. It was possible that some busybody insomniac might have seen them enter the premises and called the police. If so, they could expect a visit during the next hour and would evade any front-and-rear police approach.

After an hour, damp and cold, de Villiers deemed it safe and they entered Mac’s garage, which functioned only as a storage shed, to wait out the early hours.

At 6:30, well before dawn, they slipped across the big open garden to the rear of the house. Both men were agile and Davies had previously checked all relevant details. Mac always kept his bedroom window wide open, appeared to sleep soundly, probably because of his medication, and apart from caged hamsters there were no animals or birds kept as pets. All windows were hinged, not sash-operated, with firm, ample outer sills.

Standing on the windowsill of the dining room, de Villiers reached up and soundlessly raised himself up to and through Mac’s open window. Davies followed. Deep breathing indicated an undisturbed Mac, so both men entered the large double wardrobe at the far side of the bed, and settled down for a further wait.

At 7:30 Pauline and Lucia rose, washed and ate breakfast. Pauline normally worked on Saturdays and, before leaving the house, would say goodbye to Mac, who had the weekends off. That morning, shortly before 8 o’clock, she popped her head around the landing door to his bedroom and saw that he was sleeping soundly. Closing the door quietly, she left for the bus stop, a stone’s throw from the house.

“What about the daughter?” de Villiers whispered as the front door slammed shut.

“She will have gone too. She has ballet or riding classes on Saturday mornings.”

Silently they emerged from the wardrobe, keeping a wary eye on the sleeping Mac.

The plan, starkly simple, had been conceived by Davies after studying Mac’s medical report and a good deal of literature on the topic of epilepsy. Cling film applied to mouth and nostrils would cause asphyxiation, and death would be attributed to a severe epileptic fit. Coroners, Davies knew, will seldom spend more time and energy than common sense dictates. If there is no reason to suspect foul play, why waste hours searching for signs of it? If the BBC World Service announcer Gyorgi Markov had not been Bulgarian or had not complained long and loud about an invisible umbrella jab in his leg, his coroner would never have initiated the blood tests that uncovered the rare toxin leaked into his bloodstream from an ampoule smaller than a pinhead.

Everyone, including his doctor, knew that Mac’s condition was gradually worsening, and death by asphyxiation following a fit would surprise no one. Davies set up the video camera on its light alloy tripod at the side of Mac’s bed head and de Villiers silently mouthed his accusation from a prepared script. A gauze-filtered spotlight was affixed to the camera. The video showed the back of Mac’s head on his pillow and de Villiers facing him from the far side of his bed. Later they would synchronize de Villiers’s voice to his lip movements. The sheikh would receive enough visual evidence to satisfy him. He would not see Mac’s face during the accusation sequence, but this would be rectified by what followed.

Davies moved the tripod in readiness for the next action. Mac’s duvet was awry and his legs uncovered, but he remained in deep sleep because of the side effects of his pills.

“What the hell?” Davies hissed in alarm. He had spotted the buzzer strapped to Mac’s ankle.

“Don’t worry,” de Villiers murmured, “many patients have them to summon aid if in distress.”

“But why on his ankle?” Davies was definitely unhappy.

“Whatever the reason, remove it,” de Villiers snapped.

With everything ready for a hasty departure while the last dark vestiges of the winter dawn remained, Davies moved to the bed head and unpeeled the cling film. He nodded to de Villiers. In a single movement they straddled Mac’s body, de Villiers pinning down his legs and arms and Davies, with his knees over Mac’s shoulders, applying the cling film to his mouth and nostrils.

The result was not as expected. Mac was not of a robust stature but he was tough and wiry. In normal circumstances he could never have unseated both men while starved of oxygen. But within seconds of the interruption to his rhythmic breathing, Mac’s limbs lashed out with superhuman power produced by a convulsive, myoclonic attack triggered by brain disturbance. De Villiers was thrown to the floor but Davies managed to retain his position. De Villiers heard noises downstairs. He pulled at Davies and both men retired to the cupboard.

Lucia had decided to skip her ballet class. She was watching television in the sitting room when she heard a thud from her father’s bedroom. She knew at once that he had fallen over, probably in a fit, and ran up to help him.