Ranulph Fiennes - Killer Elite

It must have been a false alarm, for the men returned and I was prodded back to the Montego’s driving seat, one man climbing into the seat beside me. My brain raced. I remembered the old Army maxim taught during resistance to interrogation training: make your escape move as soon as possible after being caught. Desperately I tried to concoct a workable plan.

My passenger spoke. He had a hard, East London accent. “Wait until the Volvo moves out. Then go. They will turn left out of the lane. You go right and down the hill as you normally do. Do not exceed fifteen miles per hour.” My brain continued to race, but in neutral. No plan of action materialized. I felt like a rabbit in the presence of snakes.

I counted four men climbing into the Volvo immediately ahead. As the fourth closed his door, it happened. From the lane’s T-junction with the road some fifteen yards ahead an intense white light beamed down the lane. My eyes hurt and I turned away, clutching at them and fearing I was blinded. I expected the sound of bullets and shrank back behind the steering wheel. But I heard only the noise of breaking glass and a quickly cut-off scream.

The passenger door of the Montego was flung open and the man beside me disappeared as though sucked from the car. The all-consuming light was switched off and the night was black as pitch, the silence punctured only by the sound of oaths and muffled violence. This tailed away but for the scuff of rubber soles on tarmac. Then a car started up and someone climbed into the Montego. I felt a hand grip my shoulder and a friendly voice said, “Cheer up. They’ve all gone. You’re in no danger.”

My vision slowly began to return.

“Thank you, officer,” I said. “Are you from Dulverton, or Minehead?” I found myself naming the two district police stations.

“Don’t you worry where we’re from. Just hang on right there a minute and I’ll explain.”

Dimly I saw a vehicle reverse into the lane with only its side lights on; almost certainly a Range Rover, judging by its silhouette. On its roof an orange glow and the glinting parabola of a satellite dish, probably the light source. Doors slammed and the vehicle accelerated away. A large van then reversed toward us, similar to a standard high-roofed Transit laundry van. The back doors were opened and an interior roof light revealed an empty, cell-like cargo space lined with mattresses.

Four men approached the Montego, all with dark ski goggles hanging loose around their necks and carrying what appeared to be police truncheons. Their faces were streaked with black lines and unrecognizable. The man beside me spoke rapidly and the others dispersed. Soon I watched as five figures, all with their hands on their heads, entered the rear of the van. The doors were closed and the vehicle drove off, heading north toward Porlock.

“Come back for a drink,” I said, trying to make out the features of my rescuer. “I would like my wife to meet you. I really can’t thank you enough. Who were those people?”

“Call me Spike.” He shook my hand. “Don’t be surprised but I am not from the police and nor are my men. We are your friends and we have hunted those men for a long time. A very long time. Who were they? Well, that will take a wee while to explain.”

“Whoever you represent, Spike, I will forever be grateful, but come back to the house-”

He lifted his hand. “Do you trust me?” he asked quietly.

“Of course.”

“Listen. I have a great deal to do and very little time. I must ask you to speak to no one at all about all this. Your car is undamaged. No one has touched you. The police will think you have had a bad dream, to put it politely, if you tell them what happened. They will ask what has been stolen and they will look for motives.”

He paused but I said nothing. I could see the sense of his words.

“On Thursday you will be driving to London. Correct?”

“Why, yes. How do you know?” I asked.

“Never mind. Come to this address at 11:30 p.m.,” he said, scribbling on the back of a card and giving it to me, “and I will personally explain everything. Until then tell no one, not even your wife. There’s no point in upsetting her. Remember this, you are no longer in any danger. All those who wished you ill are accounted for. Okay? Do you agree?”

I felt I could trust this man. His features were clearer to me now. He had a large, careworn face. His gravelly voice was North Country and steady.

“No problem,” I told him. “I will see you on Thursday and talk to no one.”

He shook my hand again. “You’d better dump the rubbish and get back home or your wife will think the Highland cows got you.” He smiled and left. His car must have been along the Porlock Road.

I emptied the trailer and returned home. My wife seemed to notice nothing amiss. “Your supper’s in the oven,” she said.

On Thursday, October 25, 1990, I represented Dr. Hammer at the annual dinner of the International Board of the United World Colleges. Many members from various countries, such as Sonny Ramphal, Secretary General of the Commonwealth, had come to say farewell to their long-serving director, who happened to be a personal friend of mine. I was very sorry indeed to see him go, but my mind was filled with curiosity and a certain degree of apprehension about my imminent visit to see the man called Spike.

From the dinner in Mecklenburgh Square, I drove my American colleagues back to Claridges, then walked through Grosvenor Square, and reached the address on South Audley Street at 11:30 p.m.

Spike, respectable in a gray suit, ushered me into the hallway. The house appeared to be both office and home, well furnished but functional, and we climbed the stairs to a sitting room, expensively decorated, where Spike introduced me to the “Colonel,” a fit-looking man, probably in his late sixties. I recognized him at once although at least ten years had passed since the days of the committee meetings in which we had both participated.

“You are surprised?” Colonel Macpherson smiled. “Wondering perhaps how I could possibly be involved with such reprobates as Spike here? I will explain. Do sit down.”

He sat behind a fine, dark desk and, a master of economy with words, explained that he was part of a small group of people around the country who, for a dozen years and more, had hunted a band of contract killers in the pay of a Dubai merchant. These men sought to carry out revenge murders in return for the deaths of the merchant’s four sons during the Dhofar fighting in the late sixties and early seventies.

I shook my head in amazement. Had such a tit-for-tat feud involved the IRA, I could easily have believed it, but all the Arabs I had ever known were gentle folk who believed in the will of Allah and seldom bore grudges. Nevertheless, the colonel was deadly serious and I could certainly think of no other possible rationale for the events in the barn.

“May I ask what happened to the other men they were after?”

Macpherson shook his head sadly. “Our people were not able to prevent their deaths. In your case we were in the right place at the right time. We had watched them watching you for the previous three weeks, but we were never sure where they would strike until one of our men pointed out that your only recurrent weekly activity was your dustbin removal. We predicted their strike and Spike was ready with eight others and suitable gear.”

“And the killers? Where are they now?”

Macpherson looked at me closely. “Ranulph, I know something of your past. I know that your nonfiction books have sold well, that you were in the SAS and, of course, the Sultan’s Armed Forces. Fate has brought you into contact with us, however briefly, and at the same time into contact with the contract killers.”