Killer Elite

by Ranulph Fiennes

  Davies well remembered his previous attempts to elicit information from SAS personnel and knew that his task would not be easy. With patience, however, he was confident he would eventually identify the commander of the SAS Mirbat detachment.

  He parked outside the Bunch of Carrots shortly after it opened and settled himself down in the Wheel Bar with a local newspaper and a pint of HP Bulmer’s Strongbow cider. By 8 p.m. the pub was packed with drinkers and Davies made a mental list of likely SAS men. There were many obvious clues, from suntans and haircuts to “brothel creepers,” but Davies largely ignored these. Returnees from ambush duty in Northern Ireland or plainclothes terrorist-reaction duty at Heathrow would sport pale faces and, often enough, hippie-length hair. Desert boots worn in the UK had become as ostentatious to SAS men as old school ties to genuine Old Etonians, but men who are honed to a fine state of fitness and alertness, who prefer to observe and listen rather than swear and guffaw, develop their own stamp and mold.

  Bob Bennett, on a local army course, was enjoying his usual evening drink in the Wheel Bar, accompanied by his wife, Lyn, and a number of his regimental colleagues. His eyes roamed the room as though they had a life of their own, missing nothing. Lyn often ribbed him, for she sometimes caught him at it when everyone else was engaged in the most intense of debates.

  Not long after he had arrived and settled down in the larger lounge by the public bar, Bob spotted the Welshman. He positioned himself so that he could watch without being observed. He was in no doubt that this was the same man he had mentioned to Ken Borthwick the previous year. If he had been uncertain, the man’s actions left no room for doubt. Over a two-hour period he moved between three groups of drinkers, keeping to the periphery, quick to laugh and offer a drink, never short of a grin or a nod. In two of the three groups targeted by the Welshman, Bennett spotted at least one SAS man that he recognized.

  At 9:30 the Welshman returned from a visit to the lavatory and came to a sudden halt as though confronted by a ghost. For a moment he stood transfixed and facing the wall, then immediately resumed his affable amble back to his latest drinking position. Ten minutes later, with a cheery wave at no one in particular, he donned a tweed cap and raincoat and left. Bob Bennett did not follow him because the last time he had contacted Ken Borthwick there had been no comeback: the man was obviously perfectly innocent, even if overcurious by nature.

  Davies telephoned de Villiers with his discovery but was called away for eight months for a complicated job in Los Angeles. When he next returned to the Bunch of Carrots, in the first week of December 1978, there were a number of habitues from the SAS staff and a few ex-SAS men, including Bob Bennett, enjoying a pre-Christmas chat.

  Having written the Welshman off as harmless, Bob no longer paid him much attention until the single word “Mirbat” acted like a bullet in his ear and he tuned in to the Welshman’s conversation with a group behind his back. “I could swear the picture was on the wall right here,” the Welshman said, “a small print it was, artist’s impression of a battle and, like I say, I’m sure it had the word ‘Mirbat’ printed below… very powerful image, you know, stark fortress, smoking gun and bodies all over.”

  “One of the lads put that up in the New Year,” someone offered, “but Keith Grant moved it somewhere else last May when he did the alterations to the Wheel Bar.”

  “Mirbat was quite an affair,” the Welshman pressed the point. “I gather there were only a handful of your lads against a horde.”

  “Aye, it was a right dingdong,” a low Scots voice put in. “Nigh on seven years ago now. It all came out in the papers a couple of years back. The boss there, Mike Kealy, got himself a gong. Deserved it by all counts.”

  The conversation moved on, but Bob Bennett was alarmed. He had definitely been right in the first place. He waited until the Welshman took his leave, then he eased out of the pub’s delivery door and took the details of the suspect’s departing car. He did not attempt to follow, for he had no wish to disturb Lyn nor break up his party. He called Ken Borthwick. The police officer was out but Bennett left a message with his wife: “The Welshman is back and his interest is still in Mirbat matters.” She assured him she would pass the message to her husband on his return, and satisfied he could do no more, Bennett returned to the bar.

  Early in the morning of Sunday, December 3, 1978, the Committee met at 4 Somers Crescent, the London home of Colonel Macpherson. There was a full house, which was normal for winter meetings, especially when they were likely to prove punchy. Spike had convened the meeting at short notice, which meant something unusual was in the wind. The colonel’s wife was away at Balavil, the Macpherson family home in Kingussie, so Jane brought her coffee paraphernalia and the members sat in a cramped circle, as the sitting room was long and rather narrow. Bletchley was chairman of the day and it was immediately clear that his mood was aggressive.

  Spike went on about the Dhofar business once again and Bletchley was determined they should have nothing more to do with the wretched affair.

  “No. No. No.” He thumped the side of his armchair. “Don’t you see that this is a departure from our very charter? The founder and I”-he paused, then added with a venomous glance at Tommy Macpherson-“ and the colonel, were in unanimous agreement when we first laid down the limitations to involvement. An important ruling was and-until last year-has always remained that we would never touch terrorist organizations. Not the IRA nor the mafia nor lesser home-grown groupings. We are too small, we are unfunded, and above all we are bound by the laws of the land.”

  “Bletchley is right,” Macpherson interjected before the chairman could continue. This was not difficult since Bletchley’s sentences came in bursts of speed that often tailed away as though he had forgotten the direction of his flow. “But we set out those ground rules many years ago now and no organization can survive or compete without adapting to changing circumstances.” He ran a hand through his short, wavy hair, a sign of exasperation that the committee knew well. “At the outset we designed our own suit of clothing in the fashion of the time but it has become a straitjacket and we risk becoming castrated… impotent. Let me suggest another Maoism. ‘A frog in a well says “the sky is no bigger than the mouth of my well.” ’ I believe the time has come to look closely at the committee’s well because we are here to protect our own wherever the threat comes from.”

  Mike Panny’s eyebrows rose. “What aspects thereof?” He always enjoyed seeing his name in the minutes as the instigator of penetrating questions and worthy new ideas.

  “Any which reveal our outlook to be muffled by cobwebs. Exactly what activities should we become involved with? At what point should we tip off the police? How much force or coercion may our Locals use? To what extent must they feel bound by the letter of the law in cases where we know the law cannot help?”

  “Not forgetting,” Panny added, “the other side of the coin. I believe we should change the ground rules for the control of Locals. It cannot be right that only Spike knows the identity of our own men, that only he can contact them. I mean nothing personal, but I believe we should as a committee have a much closer control over the controller, be he Spike or some other person.”

  Bletchley and Bob Mantell were nodding, Graves and the twins shaking their heads, and the don airing a sardonic smile. Personal viewpoints were fairly evenly balanced on such topics. This was just as well since, far from being flexible, they were not far short of intractable.

  “Chairman.” It was Macpherson again. “This meeting has to end by 10 a.m., as you know. We are here to decide upon a single question. May I suggest we agree to a separate meeting to discuss general policy changes? This meeting must keep to specifics.”

  “That’s all very well,” said Mantell, filling the gap caused by an unexpected silence from the chairman, who looked decidedly unwell: he appeared to lack tongue control and mopped sweat from his brow with his pocket handkerchief, “but the chairman is rightly concerned that any agreement to further activ
ity on this specific matter involves a basic change of direction in our general policy. We therefore need to reassess the latter before we can address Spike’s immediate needs.”

  “Look, mate,” August Graves interrupted the excavation work of his little finger in his right ear to stab the air in Mantell’s direction. “Wiv due respect to our chairman, Spikey asked us ’ere to give ’im yes or no on the ’Ereford geezer. We all knew that when we turned up this mornin’. Right? Am I right? ’Course I am, so none of yer bleedin’ moral yatter. I say put it to the vote and give the lad ’is answer one way or t’other.”

  The don shook his head in disbelief and said nothing. The twins nodded as vigorously as their age and double chins permitted and Jane continued with her note-taking.

  Bletchley found his voice. “Since we are indeed pressed for time we will vote on the immediate matter and at next month’s meeting we will review the overall policy.” He nodded at Jane, who handled the agendas. “I must again advise the committee that in my opinion we should never have sanctioned last year’s Oman operation. The pilot Milling had no connections at all with our interests and our man was of course unable to prove any links between his death and the Welshman we picked up in Hereford.” He turned to Mantell. “That is correct, is it not?”

  Mantell nodded, and answered, “We passed the photographs to our friends in Scotland Yard. There was no record from their files nor those of the antiterrorist branch. Immigration also drew a blank. None of the three men photographed by Spike’s man in Oman have previous records on UK or Interpol computers.”

  “There can be little point then, surely, in wasting further time on this Welshman. He may well be involved in skullduggery; in fact there can be no doubt of it, but the unfortunate Milling, I repeat, had nothing whatever to do with Mirbat nor with our people. My recommendation is that we direct Spike to leave the matter well alone and that you, Mantell, leak Friday’s sighting of the Welshman in Hereford to the relevant police authorities.”

  Mantell nodded. Spike raised his hand. “The police can do nothing. They need proof and motives and names. We have none of these things. Either we follow up this new visit by the Welshman or no one does. If the latter, then it is my opinion that another death will result and almost certainly it will be one of the Mirbat survivors who dies.”

  “Why so,” asked the don, “if Milling had nothing to do with Mirbat?”

  “I don’t know,” Spike said simply, “but the Welshman who was last year linked to both Milling and Mirbat is now making fresh inquiries about Mirbat and is known to have located the names of those SAS men who fought there. There is, at the very least, a risk that he may try to kill one or more of them.” Spike looked around the room. “This is clearly a direct threat to persons we are tasked by our founder to protect. If one should die following our inaction, that will lie heavily on my conscience. I have no vote on the committee but I strongly recommend that you direct me to have the Welshman found and followed immediately.”

  Spike collected the nine sheets of A4 paper. Five were marked with a tick, four with a cross. Both chairmen were permitted to vote and Spike could guess which course each person, other than Jane and the don, had supported. He was relieved. As he left the room he saw that Bletchley was sweating profusely and staring at the fireplace with an expression akin to despair.

  They met halfway, at the Leigh Delamere service station, and Spike climbed into Darrell Hallett’s Avenger in a corner of the busy car park. As usual the rear half of the car was stacked high with packs of Yorkie bars. Against the roar of the evening traffic on the M4 motorway, Spike gave Hallett his briefing.

  Hallett studied the list of the seven Mirbat survivors, their addresses and known activities. Only three were currently in Britain and one of these was Captain Michael Kealy, still a serving officer in the British Army.

  “I am working the central district at present,” Hallett said. “I might as well concentrate on Bennett and Kealy, since they will both be in Hereford. I have a colleague in Bristol who can keep tabs on the third guy.”

  “Remember,” Spike emphasized, “if you locate the Welshman, let me know as soon as he steps out of line in any way or if he meets either of the two in the photos. Have camera and recording kit ready for any meeting he’s involved in. But don’t get involved in any rough stuff unless he attacks you, Kealy or Bennett. As soon as you pick up any usable evidence we hand this one over to the boys in blue.”

  22

  Aware of the increasing sophistication of IRA active service units in mainland Britain, the Lord Chancellor issued on February 26, 1982, a directive entitled “Disclosure of Information from Personal Records.” From that date onward no records could be divulged by the authorities without the specific permission of the servicemen involved.

  On December 4, 1978, Davies had faced no such bureaucratic obstacles when he telephoned the Ministry of Defense Officers’ Inquiries Department and asked for the current address of Captain Michael Kealy.

  “May I ask your name?”

  Davies gave a name.

  “And the reason for your inquiry?”

  “Yes, of course. I am sending out centenary details of Captain Kealy’s old school, Eastbourne College.”

  “I am afraid, in Captain Kealy’s case, I am not at liberty to give you his address, but I can give you that of his parents, which you could, of course, also obtain through Directory Inquiries.”

  “That would be most kind,” purred Davies.

  The following day he was on the road before dawn in a Ford Escort from Tadnams. From London he followed the A23 as far as Albourne, then turned east to the sleepy village of Ditchling under the shadow of the South Downs.

  Forge House was not difficult to find, being on the main road through the village and directly opposite the North Star pub. Davies parked in a side street and settled down to a cup of tea and fresh doughnut in the Tudor Bakery. Refreshed, he returned to the car and made ready his standard country gear consisting of basic bird-watcher’s ensemble, shooting stick, binoculars, and a camera with an indecently long lens attached.

  While parking by the North Star he noticed a blue Renault in the yard of Forge House, whereas a green Mini that he had seen there earlier was gone. A jumble of items packed the rear shelf of the Renault, and Davies picked out with his binoculars a seemingly innocuous pair of army puttees. These ankle wrappings, dating back to the First World War, are worn by many infantry units and are always khaki in color with the sole exception of those of SAS officers. Theirs, like the pair Davies spotted in the Renault, are light beige.

  Mike Kealy made his father a cup of tea and took it up to his room. The colonel hated illness and, confined to bed with influenza, he fretted to be out and about. Mike puffed up a pillow behind his father and sat on the end of the bed. He admired his father more than any man alive and was sorry he could not stay with him longer. His maternal grandmother had died ten days before and he had promised his mother he would be at the funeral in Frimley that afternoon.

  A gentle reminder from his father sent Mike up to his room to shave. As he looked up and removed steam from the mirror, he saw someone behind him. Without his spectacles he turned around. It was only the old bloodstained Chinese field cap that hung on the wall. He laughed. His aunt Olga had ticked him off only a week or two before about it.

  “Get rid of that terrorist’s hat,” she had said. “It will bring you bad luck.” Mike took leave of his father and drove the Renault north. His mother had gone ahead in the Mini to prepare things. He would have spent a day or two in Ditchling to help her but he needed to be in Hereford to look after his wife, Maggi.

  They already had a daughter of three, Alice, and now Maggi was about to give birth to twins, their doctor assured them. She had somehow contracted mumps with only two or three weeks to go, so Mike was treating her with kid gloves and felt uneasy to be away at all.

  After a year with his parent regiment in Germany and Northern Ireland, he was overjoyed to be given command
of an SAS squadron. His MFO crates containing his personal belongings had recently arrived from Werle in Germany at his new quarters in Hereford. Several days of DIY operations, in between nursing Maggi, stretched ahead of him.

  He passed through Billingshurst and Loxwood. One thing that occupied his mind, apart from a natural worry about his adequacy to lead a squadron of Britain’s finest fighting men, was the question of his physical fitness. His recent desk job had allowed him time for routine jogging, but Mike was used to being at peak performance. Few men could outpace him in the hills with a heavy rucksack and rough going and he believed he should take over D Squadron in top personal condition. As soon as Maggi was recovered he would settle into a strict training regime.

  He arrived at St. Peter’s Church in Frimley at noon, just in time to join his mother in the front pew. After the service, with thirty or so relatives, they walked down the road to the White Hart pub for lunch. Later Mike drove to the nearby town of Chobham, where his father-in-law, the Reverend Acworth, was rector. After tea at the rectory he headed home with the gift of a corner cupboard protruding from the Renault’s trunk.

  Where the A49 enters the suburbs of Hereford, Mike turned right into Bradbury Lines, the Regiment Headquarters and married-quarters area, and up Bullingham Lane. Number 79 was fairly secluded, set back from the road by a circular cul-de-sac. When Mike needed to go into the main regimental compound he could either drive up the lane to the main gate and show his ID card or walk to a side entrance in the security fence and enter with his electronic card.

  Davies had long since drained his vacuum flask and the doughnut was a distant memory, so he was delighted when Kealy finally came home to roost. The fact that his married quarters were within SAS home territory did not please Davies at all, and he left Bullingham Lane as soon as he had seen Kealy carry the corner cupboard into number 79 and place newspaper over his front windshield against overnight frost.