Ranulph Fiennes - Killer Elite

They took the stairs to the second floor.

The door responded to Hallett’s practiced technique and the security chain was not in place. The bedside light was on but the bed was empty. There were unmistakable sounds from the far side of the room. The thick carpet ensured that their approach was noiseless, and Hallett elongated the rabbit snare’s loop to fit over Davies’s head.

The woman’s eyes were closed and her mouth open. Her legs were clasped around Davies’s back as they rocked back and forth. Hallett changed his mind and, adjusting the size of the wire loop, bent down and pulled it tight around Davies’s scrotum. The effect was immediate. Davies swore and withdrew from the woman. Further movement was strictly limited since Hallett kept the wire taut.

“Try to be clever and my friend will drill your stomach with. 44 caliber lead.” Davies tugged ineffectively at the snare. “But only after I have castrated you.” Wally, taking the hint, bulked out his jacket pocket with his right hand.

Hallett gave the naked woman a friendly smile and nodded toward the bed. She eased away from under Davies and, following Hallett’s instructions, slit the rear seam of Davies’s trousers from crotch to waistband with Wally’s penknife.

“Get up and get dressed,” Hallett bade the Welshman, “No, not the pants. My friend will take them.”

With difficulty, and wincing from the pain in his testicles, Davies put on his trousers, holding them in place with one hand. Then his shirt, jacket and raincoat. Finally his socks and shoes, an especially painful process.

“You are a lucky girl,” Hallett told the woman. “This man has already cut the throats of two ladies. You will stay here and speak to nobody. Tomorrow morning you will leave as though nothing has happened. No further harm will come to you if you do exactly as I say. Understand?”

The woman cowered on the bed, clutching her breasts. She nodded vehemently. “Thank you, thank you. I promise.” Hallett believed her but he tore the phone cable from its wall plug before they left.

Wally moved down the stairs beside Davies. Hallett stayed a step behind them, keeping taut the thin wire that disappeared into the rear vent of Davies’s raincoat. As the three men passed the receptionist, Wally handed in his and Hallett’s keys. “Back in a couple of hours,” he promised.

From the Bedford van, Wally produced a ball of orange twine with which he lashed the Welshman’s thumbs and wrists together behind his back. The free end of the snare was then fastened to the wrist knot. Both men hauled Davies into the rear of the van and laid him facedown among the garden tools and other odds and ends that Wally kept there.

They drove down Victoria Street and crossed the Wye by Greyfriars Bridge, heading south for the A49. Hallett turned to look back through the mesh of the dog grille between the driver’s compartment and the rear of the van.

“You killed Mac, didn’t you? And the others. You bastard! Who are you? Who pays you? My God, I hope you live to regret everything you’ve done.”

Davies squirmed some inches to the left and positioned his wrists against the blade of Wally’s trenching shovel. Quietly he applied pressure in a seesaw motion until the twine was cut and his arms were free.

He waited for a steeply descending stretch of the road. Up ahead he saw approaching car lights and lurched for the rear doors of the van. Finding no inner handle, he kicked out with all his might at the central catch and, as Wally brought the van to a skidding halt, the right-hand rear door burst open and Davies rolled out into the road. His concentration was focused on the oncoming cars, to flag them down and, probably, plead abduction by thugs. He did not see the juggernaut that sped downhill behind them until it was too late.

The driver, tired and caught unawares by Wally’s sudden halt, had decided his best answer was speed, to overtake the van and return to his side of the road before the arrival of the oncoming cars. From his point of view a sensible decision, but by the time he saw Davies, his momentum was unstoppable. The nearside corner of the lorry’s bumper struck Davies and catapulted his body to the side of the road. The driver narrowly avoided colliding with the approaching traffic and thundered on his way without pausing.

The lorry’s lights must have blinded the approaching car drivers so that none witnessed Davies’s death. At any rate no one stopped.

“Quick.” Hallett did not hesitate. “Get him.” They picked up the limp and shattered body. As they bundled it into the back of the van, the driver of a car coming up fast behind them from the north with dipped headlights flicked on full beam and illuminated Hallett, Wally and the body. As he flashed by, the driver applied his horn in an angry peal.

“Did he see us?” Wally asked.

“Maybe,” said Hallett. “We will have to assume that he did. He may have a car phone. We must get off this road as soon as we can.”

By a circuitous route they reached the agreed rendezvous. The Volvo driver, to whom Hallett handed his report, hastily updated, agreed to take Wally straight back to his home.

“If the police visit you,” Hallett instructed Wally, “simply say your van has been stolen. If nothing happens, I will tell you in a week or so where I have left it. Thanks for your help.”

They placed Davies’s body in the back of the Volvo. Hallett assumed Spike would know what to do with it. He drove Wally’s van to a free car park in Ross and then hitched a lift back to his car.

Hallett telephoned Spike from home and was thanked in a noncommittal tone. He had no way of imagining the uproar that would be caused by Davies’s death, since he, like all the Locals, knew nothing of the workings of the committee, nor the identities of the members.

The meeting was held in the Wandsworth home of Bob Mantell. There was a full house despite the short notice.

Colonel Macpherson arrived early. He was expecting big trouble, and had seen it coming from the moment Spike had called with the news. He was angry with Spike, yet without admitting it openly, sympathetic to the thought processes that had led Spike into acting as he had, without authority.

There was nothing that could be done now about Mac except to add his name to the list of those the Feather Men had failed to protect. At least Spike had tried: Macpherson knew the committee would have refused any request Spike might have made for an authorized Mac-watch. Nevertheless, Spike had unintentionally caused what Macpherson recognized to be conditions ripe for a showdown.

Spike had assured Macpherson that there was no longer any traceable evidence that the Welshman was dead, by whatever cause, but even so Macpherson had instructed him to send a full report on the accident to their in-house solicitor and to be ready for police inquiries at any time. Hallett and Wally were told to make no comment but to contact the solicitor at once if they received a visit from the police.

Tommy Macpherson sighed. If only the founder had been well enough to attend the meeting and make his presence felt there might yet be a sensible outcome. As it was, Bletchley would undoubtedly blow a gasket and do something foolish.

The committee members were unusually silent as they awaited the start of the proceedings. Jane completed her vacuum-flask routine to a roll call of “thank yous,” and Bletchley, whose personal hygiene and mannerisms had deteriorated so much that the committee members no longer doubted that he was seriously ill, received his in an unbreakable mug. Unsubstantiated hints that he had some sexually transmitted disease were circulating, but when August Graves had openly asked him what was wrong following a particularly alarming attack of leg jerking and impaired speech, he had merely responded, “Nothing’s wrong. Nothing at all.”