Although Mike had listened in amazement to David Mason’s warning and his remarkable story about the killing of John Milling and Mike Kealy, both of whom he had known, he was not convinced. It was inconceivable that anyone could actually be plotting to kill him. Somehow David had gotten things wrong. Nevertheless Marman’s grin faded as he thought about it. Mason had asked him to mention the threat to nobody and he had agreed not to.
During the sermon, Marman found his thoughts dwelling on death. So many of his best muckers from Army days were dead, killed in the war or in peacetime soldiering. Charles Stopford had recently crashed his Beaver plane into a hilltop at Dummer, the home village of Sarah Ferguson. Then, last weekend, he had called at Rose May’s and only one of his sons had come away with him. The elder son, Alistair, had stayed to comfort his mother. Rose May’s fiance, Alan Stewart, had been killed earlier that week. A talented Thames TV news producer, on his last day’s coverage of the famine in southern Sudan, he had driven over a mine and died of the injuries.
Rose May had said to Marman, “How strange life is. My peace-loving Alan is dead, yet you, after all your years of wars and bloodshed, are still alive and totally unscathed.”
34
On Monday, November 10, five men arrived at Park Court soon after midnight, having parked the dark blue Volvo estate car in a field at the northern end of the village. They carried tools and equipment in easily portable containers, apart from the pressurized diver’s bottle, which was slung over de Villiers’s shoulder, and the bulky curtains, which the two Tadnams men carried between them. They moved at well-spaced intervals, ready to fade into the shadows, but nothing and no one disturbed their progress to Sir Peter’s outhouse garage.
Meier sprayed WD40 lubricant on the moving parts of the sliding doors before attempting to close them. The Tadnams men confirmed that Horsley and his dogs were asleep, then remained outside to keep watch and to warn against any noise coming from the garage.
Meier and Jake had twice attached and removed the equipment using their rehearsal BMW 728i automatic. De Villiers had come along to help Meier and, perhaps, to reassure himself that the plan really was as sound as Meier had painted it.
With the sound-baffle curtains in place against the sliding doors, and the blackout blinds taped to the windows, Meier assembled the thirty-two separate, labeled units together with the wires, cable and piping to connect them, while Jake laid out the tools and positioned the spotlights to be powered from one of the garage’s wall sockets.
“You are sure you can detach everything afterward?” de Villiers asked.
“No problem at all,” Meier replied, “but you don’t have to worry. Even if we cannot retrieve the device for some unforeseen reason, we can quickly prepare other sets. If the police should find all this in situ, they will merely conclude somebody is after Horsley, not Marman.”
De Villiers murmured, “Would it not be easier to override Horsley’s steering rather than his brakes?”
Meier nodded. “Easier when it comes to the action phase but not practical to install given our particular needs. We would require heavier gear and a lot more time. Then again, Horsley, if he survives the impact, must be confused, not suspicious, about what went wrong. To fiddle with the steering will not achieve this. Obviously, when the brakes on a wheel lock up and the car goes into a skid, the steering will not work properly. Afterward the driver will not be able to explain what went amiss. He will be confused and uncertain. Was there a brake failure or some other malfunction? He cannot tell.”
Meier gestured at the equipment line. “The beauty of controlling the brakes is that, if Horsley survives, he will remember perfectly well that the car deliberately disobeyed the steering wheel. He will be mystified, of course, but not suspicious. Remember, also, that the gear must be as easy as possible to remove quietly and by flashlight tomorrow night. That would not be so were we to doctor the steering.”
Meier squatted down by his prefabricated devices. “If all this had to be mounted as a single unit, it simply would not fit under the hood. We attach everything in nooks and crannies. Even if Horsley should lift the hood, say to check the oil, he would notice nothing.”
De Villiers could see that Meier was already convinced that success was the only possible outcome.
“The difficulty with my system is the unpredictable behavior of the four individual brakes. I have used radio control with model cars, boats and airplanes of my own design, some scaled to half life size, but nothing has required as much practice to perfect as this system. This week, in Kent, we have rehearsed on tarmac and on uneven grass, and I can now predict the reaction of most drivers to the sudden realization of an imminent collision. I should also stress that we can abort right up until the last moment if the actual meeting point is marred by any form of obstacle, static or moving, between the two cars.”
“Exactly what is your plan in layman’s terms?” De Villiers was keen to comprehend as much as possible, and Meier was delighted to expound.
“You will maintain permanent radio contact with me as you travel east behind Marman’s car. You will keep me informed of his exact position as he continues to come closer to Horsley. Jake will drive me in the Volvo and ensure that, at the moment when I take over control from Horsley, our Volvo has a clear, uninterrupted view of the BMW. I will then steer the BMW to head-on impact with Marman’s Citroen.”
Meier removed a notebook and pen from his black boiler suit and drew a diagram of a standard braking system. “We assume that this model may have antilock ABS brakes since they were developed as an option in 1978. Because of its personalized registration plate, we have no idea of its year of manufacture. Therefore my system can cope with ABS or non-ABS models. Very few British drivers chose the ABS option but Horsley may just be one of them.”
Meier ran his finger along his diagram. “The key part of a braking system is the master cylinder, full of brake fluid and connected to a brake-fluid reservoir, so it is always topped up. When you press the brake pedal, that pressure, assisted by an air vacuum from the engine inlet manifold, forces the fluid out of the cylinder, down a narrow pipe, and against a piston that in turn forces the brake pads to clamp on to the brake disc. This is of course repeated down three other pipes to the three other discs. Release the brake pedal and the fluid is allowed back into the cylinder.
“If ABS units are fitted, they are positioned between master cylinder and piston and powered by an electrical supply from the car battery. Since we will not want the ABS to work when I take control, I will, by radio control, cut the electrical supply to the ABS unit. What do you know about radio control?”
“Nothing,” said de Villiers.
“The key kit is a servo motor or actuator which, on receiving a signal from a small radio receiver will cause a lever to move through ninety or even 180 degrees and mechanically turn a valve, or a switch, on or off. So the actuator is controlled by the receiver, which in turn receives its orders from a transmitter up to several hundred yards away. My transmitter consists of a board with four joysticks to control each of the BMW’s four brakes. As I pull at a particular stick, the corresponding brake is applied as hard as I wish. This is achieved by two ‘proportional’ control transmitters, but I will also use a single channel transmitter to activate my entire system and to deactivate the ABS system if we find there is one. The latter transmitter is capable of operating several actuators and relays all at once… All understood?”
De Villiers nodded. “Clear as Mississippi mud.”
“In that case,” Meier said, “you will have no problem with my braking system.” He rapidly sketched a more complex diagram on a fresh page of his notebook. “The source of power I will use to substitute the pressure from Horsley’s foot is this little air cylinder, ten inches long by two and a third inches in diameter. It is a standard retail item as used by experienced scuba divers and contains half a liter of compressed air pressurized to two hundred bar for emergency use.”
Meier’s index fing
er moved down his diagram. “Next we have another item of scuba equipment, a ‘first stage regulator,’ which is a device for distributing air at different pressures to different parts of a diver’s paraphernalia. We will be using it to split the air four ways, each to a separate system for each brake. From each outlet in this regulator, air will flow into a separate motorized air valve, whenever I cause its tap to open. When I close the tap, by a movement on a joystick, air will escape and the brake will be released as much or as little as I wish.”
De Villiers seemed to be happy, so Meier continued. “For each wheel there is then my own design of master cylinder, which I have modified by capping off three outlets and using just one to channel brake fluid to the brakes. A more complex modification, achieved by the excellent Jake, has been to enable the cylinders to operate on air pressure alone, without either mechanical pressure or normal vacuum assistance. Each of my cylinders is topped up by its own brake fluid reservoir.”
Meier picked up one of four small valves. “These are critical to my system. A simple change-over valve which, at the switch of a lever, will divert brake fluid from one routing to another. When on Normal, the BMW’s master cylinder will relay Horsley’s foot pressure to the brakes, but when I switch it to Remote, my system will take over. On my control board I have a single master-switch transmitter that will, at the chosen moment, change the four valves to Remote, and, as appropriate, isolate all four ABS systems. From that moment, I will be in control of each of the four brakes.”
The three men set to work to the pattern preestablished by Meier and Jake. There was little noise and no unanticipated problem.
The brake fluid was drained into a drip tray, and the brake lines, disconnected from the master cylinder, were connected to outlets from the change-over valves. These last were preconnected to the modified cylinders and to their servo motors. The wiring to the receivers was also already in place.
Separate lines from the change-over valves, labeled “Normal,” were connected back to the BMW’s master cylinder. Then came the tricky job of tracing the positive wires from each ABS system and fitting the electric relays in series for connection to the single channel receiver. Using specialist tapes, Meier and Jake clamped the many new units firmly in place and, via a voltage transformer, affixed the receivers and servo motors to the car battery. The system and the five reservoirs were then topped up with brake fluid when set both at Normal and at Remote.
With the car’s own jack in position and one wheel off the ground, de Villiers spun the wheel manually. Meier, as though by magic, then stopped the rotation by touching a temporary remote transmitter control. All four wheels were tested in this manner and the air cylinder then topped up to two hundred bar from the fully pressurized fifteen-liter driver’s bottle.
Meier then set the system to Normal, the three remote transmitters to Off, the three receivers to On, and the air cylinder’s hand valve to fully open. The system was primed.
By the time every visible sign of their presence was removed and the swing doors were open again, the only trace of the eight-hour visit was a faint smell of brake fluid mingled with sweat, and even that had dissipated by dawn.
35
John Smythe had no dependents and lived easily on his means as a freelance photographer. He was never happier than when doing a job for Spike. He remembered Mantell, who first recruited him, but Spike epitomized the sort of person he would himself like to be. He never considered the possibility of being paid for his time and seldom passed his expenses to Spike. Smythe hero-worshiped his Nottingham coal-miner father, and knew he would have approved, if he were still alive, of everything Spike stood for. He felt he was doing his bit for Blighty, for the well-being of his fellow citizens and, as Spike had once put it, acting as a freelance ferret-man to seek out those vermin the official gamekeepers do not catch.
He was slightly uneasy about the day ahead since none of the four Locals cooperating over the Marman watch could help out until the evening, so he was entirely alone for the day. To follow a mobile “mark” without being spotted requires great concentration and quick reactions; a far more demanding task than can be imagined by someone who has not tried it.
Marman had left Blandfield Road at 11:05 a.m., filled up the 2CV with 3-Star leaded petrol at a fuel station on the M3, and arrived at Steeple Langford in Wiltshire’s Wylye Valley at 12:45 p.m. Smythe parked well away from the entrance to the drive of Manor House and sat himself down at the upper rim of a cow field. There was a blustery autumn wind but he wore a battered Barbour jacket and tweed cap. He had, as always on jobs for Spike, an old gas-mask carrier containing a coffee flask, cheese sandwiches, and his late father’s binoculars.
Mike Marman was in a very fine mood because Rose May had telephoned him the previous evening to say her father had agreed to pay for their sons’ private education costs: an enormous load off Marman’s shoulders. He was also happy to be seeing his hosts, General Robin Brockbank and his wife, Gillie. The general, now colonel of Marman’s old regiment, had also been its commanding officer at the time Marman joined up.
The Brockbanks were full of advice and information to help Marman find civilian employment, and he much enjoyed the meal with them. He drank only a gin and tonic and a glass of wine because he was driving and felt pleasantly relaxed when he took his leave at 3:15 p.m., with ample time to get back to Clapham during office working hours.
Smythe found that he could not tail the 2CV quite as he would have liked, due to the presence of a white Ford Escort that kept to the same route and some distance behind the Marman car.
As his wife was away visiting her mother in the north, Sir Peter rose early and worked with his secretary, Mrs. Bromley, in the outhouse office until lunchtime on his board papers and the agenda for the following day. He planned to arrive at the Moorland Links Hotel in Yelverton, near Plymouth, by 6 p.m., in plenty of time for the Board dinner that evening.
After a leisurely lunch he reversed the BMW out onto the drive and switched on the car radio to keep him company on the long drive down the A303.
Meier nodded to Jake. The Volvo nudged away from the curb in the center of Houghton and a stone’s throw from Park Court.
Some twenty minutes later, at 3:25 p.m., as the Volvo passed the Bulford turning off the A303, heading west, de Villiers’s voice came over Meier’s CB radio: “2CV doing seventy miles per hour. Just crossed the A360 turn-off. Out.”
Meier’s fingers flickered on his calculator. He muttered to Jake, “Marman will reach the big roundabout in three minutes. We will be there in one and a half minutes. Horsley must keep his speed up so we meet well clear of the far side of the roundabout.”
De Villiers’s voice again: “At the Stonehenge fork now. One and a half miles to the roundabout. Still seventy miles per hour. One car behind me. All clear ahead of Marman. Out.”
Meier’s veins stood out on his forehead. His knuckles were white as he clutched at the control board strapped to his left thigh. “Dammit. Geh schnell, mach schnell, man. ”
But Sir Peter was in no hurry. A Bedford horse box with a woman driver was already on the roundabout and using the same exit lane. Sir Peter slowed down and only began to overtake it when clear of the roundabout.
De Villiers’s voice cut through the babble of Meier’s cursing: “2CV still seventy miles per hour. Last stretch to the roundabout. Still no cars ahead of Marman.
Out.”
“No good,” yelled Meier at Jake. “The horse van is in the way… quick, overtake, overtake… No, the horse-van driver will suspect. You must get past Horsley too… go on, go on… I can operate okay looking back.”
The road was almost dry, the sky overcast but visibility excellent. The highway climbed gently to the west with an almost imperceptible leftward curve.
Sir Peter had overtaken the horse van at sixty-five miles per hour and was intending to return to the inside lane. He glanced in his mirror to check that all was clear behind him in that lane and, accelerating gently to sev
enty, he was halfway back across the central broken white lines when a large car overtook him.
At this point the nightmare began. The BMW appeared to yaw violently and Sir Peter’s heart missed a beat as he clearly felt the car’s rear end lurch sideways. A burst tire? He could not be certain but what was increasingly clear, as he struggled to control the now wildly snaking vehicle, was that neither the steering nor the braking system was having any effect on the chaotic course of his maverick car. It was as though the car had developed a mind of its own. It swerved to the right and struck the curb of the center grass divider.
Sir Peter sensed the red blur of an approaching car before the actual impact. The 2CV, traveling at seventy miles per hour, struck the BMW head-on and Marman was killed instantly, his skull fractured. His car spun away to the very edge of a sheer forty-foot embankment.
Jake was cheering. “Perfect… ausgezeichnet… You are a genius.” He had seen the crash in his mirror. “Nobody could survive. The 2CV is like a concertina.”
But Meier was shaking. He switched the BMW back to Normal and shouted at Jake, “Stop, stop. We must be sure the job is done.” As Jake slowed, Meier released his pent-up emotions. “That was very, very bad. Never have I had such trouble in our practice in Boston and Kent. The bloody horse van… I am first from the side, then from the front, but all our practice was from behind.”
Killer Elite Page 26
