Killer Elite

by Ranulph Fiennes

  De Villiers raised his hand. “Okay, okay, keep your skin on, my friend. I have every faith in your brilliance, but what if we go ahead with your Boston brakes on his Salisbury journey and it does fail?”

  Meier nodded violently. “In the impossible event of failure there, I move the equipment to the car of another suitable third party and we catch up with him later here.” He indicated Suffolk. “But I tell you for sure: it cannot fail if I am on the controls.”

  De Villiers was pensive. “Certainly we need to ensure total lack of suspicion at this stage to avoid any interested party connecting Marman with Kealy and Milling. There can be no doubt that the Boston brakes is perfect from that point of view.”

  “If you are both dead set on it,” Davies sighed, “as I can see is the case, then we’d be better off down south. We know some of the coastal geography, at least.”

  The previous summer the Clinic had worked for a Paris-based agency that used them from time to time. De Villiers suspected that the client was a drug baron, controlling the Channel route into Britain from Deauville, and wanted a rival group wiped off the map without creating ripples. Although gang warfare was not exactly the Clinic’s field, the fee was good.

  Davies had pinpointed the target’s landing and handover spot as a desolate stretch of Pagham Harbor Nature Reserve to the north of Church Norton, in West Sussex. Having observed two previous handover ceremonies, he decided that a seaborne attack by Tadnams heavies in the narrow harbor, or a land attack as the French rendezvoused with their reception party, would both lead to major mayhem. To achieve a surprise attack, the Clinic had obtained through a Saudi purchasing agency a twelve-seater, forty mph hovercraft with a quiet engine and twenty inches of obstacle clearance. The Tadnams group had approached over mud flats, done away with the four-man French crew using silenced HK53 submachine guns, and towed their boat out to sea without reaction from the land-based reception party. They failed to locate the heroin but sank the trawler in forty feet of water before hovering back to the mainland.

  “Marman’s Wiltshire return journey is scheduled for the afternoon of Tuesday, November eleventh. Is ten days sufficient time for you, Meier?”

  “I will start collecting the gear together immediately with help from the agency. I can see no problem on that score. The difficulty will, of course, be finding a suitable proxy.”

  De Villiers did not hesitate. “Marman will be at home this evening, so Davies and I will pay him a visit with the video. You go ahead with a full proposal for Wiltshire on the eleventh that we can decide upon tomorrow.”

  Had Meier objected to the timetable, he would have done himself a favor, but his brilliance did not extend to seeing into the future.

  30

  The door of Marman’s house was ajar on the evening of Monday, November 3. Inside, oblivious to the draft, he was entertaining an old friend from his days in Dhofar. The two men occasionally met for a drink and to set the world to rights.

  “I could always tell he was a chancer,” Marman exclaimed, commenting on the recent resignation of Jeffrey Archer, deputy chairman of the Conservative Party, following accusations of involvement in a sex scandal. “That lewd smirk gives him away.”

  “You are quite wrong,” said his guest. “I have it on the best information that the woman was put up to it. A prime case of carefully planted disinformation. Once the smear has been disseminated, especially when the dirt is fairly credible, the victim will never live it down. Archer will be tarnished in the minds of the majority long after they have forgotten the actual details of the supposed scandal”-he knocked cigar ash onto the carpet-“and in this case the timing is excellent. The accusation was published on the twenty-sixth in the knowledge that Archer would reply the very next day… and what happens on the twenty-seventh… the Big Bang, of course, the City’s greatest event in decades. Not much space left in the daily rags for Archer’s repudiations at the time when he most needed to scream them far and wide.”

  Marman nodded. “His wife’s a good-looker. I could do more than sketch her if she gets fed up with hubby.”

  “Not bad, your latest offerings, Mike. Where did you do them?”

  The offerings in question were a handful of pencil and charcoal sketches of nudes, mostly reclining on a beach or emerging from the sea.

  “Ah yes, did I not tell you? Had an excellent sailing holiday in the Med. It helped me to sort myself out and think positively about life. Indeed a great time was had by all. That lass actually had her bikini on at the time I sketched her, sad to relate.”

  “You’re very good at it, you know.”

  “Stripping girls in my head, you mean… Thanks,” he laughed. “I do feel much better for the time away. I was beginning to be very down in the dumps after months of negative responses to my job-hunting. Makes you feel you’re over the hill, a has-been with no prospects but the dole.”

  He rose to fill their glasses. “To employment,” he said, and they toasted his prospects. “Next week I’ve a couple of good meetings lined up. You’ll remember Searby, Brook and Amoore, all good lads in Oman. Well, they’re helping out with likely leads.”

  “How’s Rose May these days?”

  “I see her most weekends when I collect the lads.” He was silent for a while, slowly turning his glass about. “I miss her, you know. Julia’s a very good friend, an angel, and Gillie, just up the road, is like a sister to me. But it’s not the same. The loneliness, the regrets, what could have been. Footloose and fancy-free sounds good but it’s not for me.”

  “I wouldn’t call you footloose. What about this place?”

  Marman’s rather lugubrious expression lightened. “Yes, it’s a lifesaver. That was dear Gillie, of course. It was her suggestion to get in on the property market, and my God she’s proved right. What with the hugely increased value of the investment and the rental income, it’s been a boon. But I still need a job. Two sons at Bousefield’s and I do want to do my best by them. Rose May’s a good mum but everyone needs a father.”

  Marman’s own father, a brave RAF pilot in his day, had emigrated to Australia in 1962 when Michael was seventeen and determined to become a cavalry officer. When his family had departed, Michael stayed with his grandparents in Kingston. A quarter of a century later, apart from one brother in the RAF, he seldom saw his family. The 9th/12th Lancers had given him the best years of his life. They had been his home but now he was on his own, a fish out of water. Never mind. He was a fighter. He would start a new life…

  Marman realized he was in danger of appearing morbid. Boring hosts and party-poopers were anathema to him. He changed the subject to that of mutual friends and was soon back to his normal, cheery form.

  There was a heavy knocking at the door and Marman’s friend rose to depart. “I’d better be going, Mike, or Monique will be wondering where I am. I’ll probably drop in for a dram next week sometime.”

  At the door he was confronted by two plainclothes police officers. One, holding an identity badge, addressed him with obvious deference.

  “Mr. Marman, sir, could we trouble you briefly?” He introduced himself and his colleague.

  “No. I am just leaving. This is Mike Marman. Been up to some naughtiness, has he?”

  He left and Marman ushered in the unexpected visitors. They accepted the offer of tea and while Marman fixed the kettle they sat down so that Davies was able to correctly position the briefcase that concealed a Sony video camera with a wide-angle lens.

  Marman, they suggested, had, at 6:40 p.m. on Thursday, October 30, been in a brawl outside the Antelope public house, 22 Eaton Terrace, which had upset members of the public. His own car had been reported by two bystanders as having fled the scene on the arrival of the police. Marman vehemently denied any involvement in the fracas.

  David Mason was annoyed. He prided himself on his memory for faces yet he could not place the policemen at Marman’s house. The fawn Range Rover, a manual 1985 model, sped up the M40 and A40 to Oxford and then Eynsham, as Mason
niggled away at the recesses of his mind, attempting to match the two faces to an associated event. Eventually, not far from home, it came to him in a rush and the Range Rover accelerated, gravel flying, as Mason realized the full implications of his blunder.

  Running into Scott’s House, he located the keys and let himself into the gun-room. Inside one of the inner document safes he located a green folder and withdrew a sheaf of photographs, the Sumail pictures of Milling’s killers that he had taken ten years earlier. There could be no mistaking the two men. The colleagues of Floppy Hat had called on Michael Marman that evening. They might conceivably still be there.

  Mason telephoned at once and was greatly relieved when Marman answered. “No. They have gone. They were only here for twenty minutes. Something to do with a street fight at the Antelope. Thought I was involved but I soon put them right and they apologized. Why do you ask?”

  “Listen, Mike,” Mason said with deliberate intensity, for he knew Marman took most things in life with a pinch of salt, “those men were not policemen. They are dangerous and you should avoid them like the plague. I will be with you as soon as I can tomorrow to explain.”

  After a good deal of amused cajoling, Marman promised that he would at least lock his doors and windows that night, if only to humor Mason.

  Mason then called Spike Allen, who was in and agreed to contact the Feather Men immediately.

  31

  Colonel Tommy Macpherson believed that British citizens exposed, in the 1980s, as wartime Nazi killers and torturers should not receive a pardon merely because they had outwitted justice for forty years. He also believed that the hunt for the killers of Milling and Kealy should continue until they were caught. When Spike Allen called him, some nine years after Kealy’s death, to say his assassins were again at large, Macpherson’s immediate reaction was, “Excellent. This time they will not slip through the net.”

  He agreed to a committee meeting the next morning despite an unavoidable early date with the New Zealand billionaire Ron Brierley at the London flat of an Irish entrepreneur.

  Since the 1970s Macpherson’s life had become very full and, in four weeks’ time, he was due to submit to the Secretary of State for Defense a full report, called for by Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, on employment and other problems affecting the efficiency of Britain’s Territorial Army and other volunteer reserves.

  Two years earlier, Macpherson, a senior nonexecutive director of the National Coal Board and the close confidant and adviser of Ian MacGregor, the NCB chairman, had performed two roles that were to prove critical in the defeat of the miners’ leader, Arthur Scargill. First, he persuaded Ian MacGregor to limit his appearances on television and to let the more subtle and down-to-earth Michael Eaton become the visible face of the NCB. Second, he urged the formation of British Coal Enterprises with the specific and enormous task of finding new work for the miners whom MacGregor had to render redundant.

  Additionally Macpherson had chaired the London Chamber of Commerce, the British National Chamber of Commerce, the CBI’s London and Southeastern branch, Birmid Qualcast, Webb-Brown International, and the Mallinson-Denny Group.

  Even when the founder of the Feather Men had initially checked out the young Tommy Macpherson in the early fifties, his record had been impressive. Educated at Fettes College (of which he was now governor) and Trinity College, Oxford, he was a First Open Classical Scholar, an Athletics Blue and Scottish International. He also played rugby and hockey for Oxford. Soon after the outbreak of war he joined the Scottish Commando from the Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders, became a POW in November 1941 but escaped late in 1943, and served in the Special Forces with the French and the Italian Resistance. He received the Military Cross with two Bars, the Legion d’Honneur, the Croix de Guerre, and various other honors.

  By the winter of 1986 Tommy Macpherson was as busy as he had ever been, but on the morning of Tuesday, November 4, he hurried through his meeting with Ron Brierley and Tony O’Reilly, the chairman of Heinz International, and arrived only minutes late for the committee meeting of the Feather Men. Bletchley was in the chair and Macpherson was shocked at the look of him. Thin and gaunt to the point of emaciation, he seemed to have lost interest in his appearance. His collar was awry and food stains were clearly evident on his poorly adjusted tie. A recent minor road accident, when his foot had applied pressure to his Audi’s accelerator instead of the brake, had left contusions and cuts on his forehead, eyebrows and nose. All in all he was a sorry sight, and Jane, seated close beside him with her notes, was obviously giving him the mother-hen treatment.

  Macpherson nodded his apologies to the chair and Spike Allen spoke. “The chairman allowed me to wait for your arrival, Colonel, before bringing up the specific matter which is the reason for today’s unscheduled meeting.”

  Macpherson nodded.

  The don smiled to himself. Spike had fought Bletchley hard to delay things for Macpherson’s benefit.

  Apart from Macpherson, nobody was aware of the reason for Spike’s sudden call. Their interest was aroused. The twins had long since retired, replaced by two fifty-year-olds with excellent Home Office connections. Both had been put forward by Mantell and seconded by Bletchley. August Graves had dubbed them the “little gray men.”

  “Most of you,” Spike’s voice was toneless, “will remember that in 1976 the committee sanctioned one of our Locals to follow a suspect to Arabia. The Local identified this man’s intended target but, unfortunately, the wrong target. An ex-Marine helicopter pilot was killed and the three Europeans involved were photographed but not identified.”

  Spike looked around. As he later commented to Macpherson, “You could hear a flea fart, they were so attentive.” Bletchley had begun to sweat profusely and his shoulder moved with a furtive tic as though some manikin was trying to burst out of his collarbone.

  “A year later,” Spike continued, “one of Bob Mantell’s sources in the Worcester police gave us another lead to the same suspect. This time our Locals identified the correct target but their watch was called off when, after a three-week period, the suspect appeared to have been frightened off by one of them. Sadly this second target, an SAS officer, was killed and no additional information was obtained about the assassins.”

  “A pretty abysmal record by all counts,” muttered Mike Panny.

  Spike ignored him and continued. “A great deal of water has passed under the bridge since then, but yesterday a veteran Local recognized the same suspect who was implicated in both previous murders, at the house of a Major Michael Marman in Clapham. The suspect posed as a policeman and was accompanied by a second colleague whom our man also recognized from the 1977 Milling affair. The reason for their visit to Marman’s home seems to have been familiarization with his house and circumstances.”

  “What has Marman to do with the two previous targets?” Mantell asked.

  “That is not the point,” Bletchley burst out. White in the face and shaking as though from St. Vitus’s Dance, he hammered his fist on his papers. “The question should be: ‘What has any of this to do with us?’ ” For a minute or more, words seemed to fail him. He leaned forward, jerking at the neck, and Jane placed her hands anxiously around him. His eyes stood out and he stared at her, gulping as though for air. Believing Bletchley was having a stroke, Macpherson was about to suggest an immediate journey to the hospital when Bletchley recovered both his voice and his composure.

  “Before I make further comment,” he said to Spike, “have you finished your report?”

  Spike shook his head. “I believe the suspects intend to kill Major Marman. He served in Dhofar with the Sultan’s Armed Forces, as did the other two officers. The motive may lie in some knowledge possessed by all three targets. It may even have to do with revenge or blackmail. I ask that the committee sanction an immediate and close watch over Marman until such time as we have enough evidence of intent to murder or I am proved to be wrong.” Spike sat back and several people spoke at once.

&n
bsp; As Bletchley was again gripped by a palsied shuddering, Bob Mantell became his mouthpiece.

  “As the chairman noted and I repeat, ‘This has nothing to do with us.’ May I remind you all that my friends at the Yard looked very closely at the Kealy case. They found absolutely no evidence of foul play and the South Powys police have closed the matter for good. I must remind you further that a majority of this committee agreed at that time to have nothing further to do with the Dhofar Connection, as the don insisted on calling the two killings.”

  Mantell paused, shifting his gammy hip before continuing on a new tack. “I also have to ask you… does this Marman have any link with our flock? Should we feel motivated in any way to protect him? What I am querying is: did he or did he not serve with an SAS unit?”

  “Negative,” said Spike, “but he is our only link with the men who killed Kealy, and therefore our only chance of obtaining justice for the killing of an SAS officer.”

  “With due respect to our Regular brethren,” Mantell countered, “we exist to look after living individuals with SAS histories and their families. The pursuit of justice for Kealy’s killers, though laudable, is not our concern. The Marman case is outside our terms of reference and purely a matter for the police.”

  “We have been through all this before.” Macpherson’s voice was low and controlled, but Spike, who knew him better than the others did, could see that he was angry. “Since Mantell has engaged in repeating the rationale for inaction, let me remind old members, and suggest to our newer colleagues, that the police simply cannot act upon vague threats, with no known motivation, to non-VIP members of the public and by unidentified persons. Therefore, if we have good reason to believe Major Marman’s life is in danger, we should help him. No one else will. Major Kealy was a very brave SAS officer and I do believe we should extend our activities to putting his killers where they belong, should they again fall into our laps.”