Ranulph Fiennes - Killer Elite

Underneath his greatcoat David wore his dark blue “number one dress tunic.” The trousers sport a broad red band and are worn outside “Wellingtons,” footwear that looks like cowboy boots minus the high Cuban heels. Since the tunic jacket is often too warm when worn beneath a greatcoat, many officers dispense with it except in very cold weather. One lieutenant was badly caught out when summoned into the royal presence and invited to make himself comfortable. He wore only a Snoopy T-shirt under his greatcoat, and Her Majesty was not amused.

At 8 a.m. sharp David crossed from the palace to the “Birthday Cake,” as Guards officers describe the Victoria Memorial, and then across to the far side of the busy roundabout. Many officers, frightened of being run over, take the slower route to St. James’s Palace, by using the pedestrian crossing at the Buckingham Palace end of Constitution Hill, but David regarded this as a waste of time. He carried his sword menacingly free of its polished steel scabbard and, since his bearskin appeared to perch on his nose, obscuring his vision, the traffic invariably screeched to a standstill and let him pass.

On arriving at St. James’s Palace, he acknowledged the shouldered rifles and salutes of the sentries and entered to eat a full cooked breakfast in sumptuous surroundings. In the officers’ sitting room on the first floor, he paused to look at the Times headlines. In a revenge raid following the murder of white farmers, Rhodesian commandos had penetrated deep into Mozambique. During the night, at midnight, 3 a.m., and 6 a.m., while his ensign, the young and rather green Second Lieutenant James Manningham-Buller, had inspected the St. James’s Palace Guard, he had inspected the Buckingham Palace Guard. Now he wrote up his Guard Report and signed for his mess bill.

David paused in front of a large mirror inside the door of the officers’ guardroom and adjusted his calf-length, blue-gray greatcoat and the brass-link chin strap of his bearskin with its six-inch green and white plume. He emerged from the guardroom without bending. In his bearskin David was almost eight feet tall, but the doorway had been designed with just such problems in mind. He returned to Buckingham Palace, causing en route a motorcyclist to collide with a taxi.

At 10:30 a.m. Major Charles Stephens, Captain of the Queen’s Guard, handed over to the New Guard to the camera-clicking delight of the tourists.

As the majority of the New Guard marched off down the Mall with the Corps of Drums, the Old Guard, including David and his men, headed for the nearby Wellington Barracks to the tune of “Liberty Belle.” As well as being good marching music, this was also the signature tune of the television comedy series Monty Python’s Flying Circus. David had nobbled the Band Sergeant-Major, who substituted the correct final note with a huge, discordant fart from the tuba as in the Python version. This was enjoyed by the troops and tourists alike.

David gave his orderly his uniform for cleaning back at the Guards Barracks in Caterham, south of London. Then, in slacks and a tweed jacket, he located his R-registration Porsche 911 Targa convertible and drove through near-empty streets to his flat in South Kensington.

Letting himself in, he noticed a white, two-inch-square card with the rest of his mail. The card was blank. He felt a surge of anticipation, for this was no ordinary caller.

David, a great believer in priorities, went into the kitchen, switched on the kettle and put hot water in the teapot. Then, without removing the brown paper band that circled its butt, he lit up a Montecristo Number 5 cigar. He smoked half a dozen a day and especially relished his first post-palace-duty puff.

Spike Allen was standing by the bookshelf and greeted David with a creasing of the skin at the corners of his eyes. David disguised his pleasure. “You break in here on a Sunday morning when I am knackered by forty-eight hours of ensuring the Queen’s personal safety.” He gestured at the copy of the Times that lay beside a green cardboard file. “I had assumed you were in Mozambique leading the attack.”

Spike grimaced. “I hope you’re not sardonic with Her Majesty. Sarcasm ill becomes an officer of the Welsh Guards.”

David had been on a sniper’s course in West Germany when one of Spike’s talent-trawlers had spotted him and, a year later, Spike had made the approach while David was on a demolition and explosives course with the Royal Engineers. The committee had specifically instructed Spike never to recruit from the Armed Forces and, in the case of ex-soldiers, no one who had ever served with the regular (22nd) Special Air Service Regiment. Spike had adhered rigidly to this rule until 1971, when a specialist job in Edinburgh had proved beyond the expertise of his two dozen operatives-his “Locals,” as he called them-in Britain. He had needed a man with up-to-date military contacts and skills.

He managed on that occasion by himself but decided then and there to recruit a suitable person from Her Majesty’s Forces. Since he and he alone knew the identities of the founder, the committee members, and the Locals, and since the committee entrusted the work of running the Locals entirely to Spike, no one objected to the recruitment of an active soldier because no one except one or two of the other Locals knew about it. Ignorance was bliss, decided Spike, who was a realist.

David had worked for the Feather Men for four years, and Spike had every cause to congratulate himself on his choice. He knew the details of Captain Mason’s file, as he knew those of every one of his Locals. Spike was married with two children, but the Locals were his extended family and Mason, Local 31, was a star performer. His file read:

Born Oxford 8/13/51.

Arrogant but fiercely loyal. Old-fashioned but quick, confident and decisive

Eynsham Park, Witney, Oxon; 97a Onslow Square, South Kensington

Eton. Mons Officer Cadet School. 1st Bn. Welsh Guards

Skills/Abilities: Cross-country runner BAOR Championship ’71, ski, marksman

Instructor-Sniper’s Course BAOR ’72

Northern Ireland 1971-72

O. C. IS/CRW weapons trials 1972/73

Demolitions/Explosives courses ’72

Best Regimental handgun shot ’73

Military adviser to BBC for Internal Security Program ’73

Sultan’s Bravery Medal ’75 (Oman active service 1974-76)

London District duties ’76

Height 6?4?. Weight 200 lbs. Hair brown. Eyes gray.

Languages: Arabic, French, German

One of Spike’s practices before selecting a Local was to discover his views on a number of topics, some apparently immaterial. Mason’s responses were also filed:

Abortion: “I think Parliament has got it about right. I don’t think a woman should be forced to give birth to an unwanted child, especially if it is diagnosed early on to be disfigured. Many handicaps can now be diagnosed twenty-two weeks into pregnancy, and a termination should be at this early stage or not at all.”

Racism: “A whole industry has sprung up around this issue. Ostensibly to prevent racism, it has the opposite effect by noisily drawing undue attention to the subject. People should be treated the same and, if black or brown, they should neither be penalized nor rewarded. Positive discrimination is counterproductive.”

Arming the Police: “This would be a dreadful mistake. The police on the whole know very little about firearms. The training given to those officers who are occasionally authorized to carry firearms is inadequate.”

Sounds: “Dislike: Radio 1, Radio 2, airport announcements, in-flight announcements, women gossiping, telephones ringing, BBC reporters’ voices, children whining, traffic.”

“Like: clocks ticking, birds singing, stags roaring, children laughing, huge explosions, wind in trees, foghorns.”