Killer Elite (previously published as the Feather Men) (19 page)

The three men returned by their outward route carrying the suitcase and, having passed the rocks where Mason hid, stopped in the shadows of the first camelthorn bush that they reached.

As they settled down, Mason, crouching below the silhouette of the rock outcrop, circled 180 degrees until, approaching their position with the sun behind him, he
monkey-crawled in the dirt of the scrub to within twenty paces of the bush.

Camel thorn is sharper and tougher than any rose thorn, and Mason could get no closer even when he eased his travel bag along the ground behind him. He unzipped it and removed a pocket-sized bug gun. He could hear conversation but no words were clearly audible, so he loaded a transmitter dart and cocked the powerful crossbow mechanism. He could see his target at ground level only and he aimed at the roots of a thorn tree close to the floppy hat, which lay in the dirt near its perspiring owner. The dart struck the ground quite close to the hat and, donning the earphones of his receiver, Mason was soon able to tune into the conversation.

The transmitting bug’s position was by no means ideal and Mason could distinguish the words of only one man. A German accent, he guessed, but could not be sure. The meeting lasted some forty-five minutes. Mason learned little, although a few bits of information were of immediate interest. The speaker was a worker at a police helicopter hangar, his boss was called Chief Superintendent Bailey and he was to fix his machine to crash on the morning flight.

Mason felt elated. He would locate the relevant police chief and warn him of his danger. Meanwhile, if he glued himself to Floppy Hat instead of the Welshman, he might yet identify the leader and the motivation behind their activities.

He kept well behind until he heard the Nissan drive off. Then he broke cover and jogged, as fast as the rifle and travel bag would allow, to the Datsun. Placing the rifle beside him, he leaned sideways to throw the travel bag onto the rear seat. This action may well have saved his life, for a bullet shattered the windshield. Mason reacted with speed. Grabbing travel bag and rifle, he dropped
from the passenger door to the ground and slithered into the scrub.

Almost immediately a second bullet smashed into the bodywork of the Datsun. Mason spotted the only possible position of cover from which his car was visible, a jumble of rock no more than 150 yards to his front and across the low wadi. The sun favored neither party but Mason was a marksman and the .22 Hornet was his favorite weapon.

With such a small-caliber bullet he needed a head shot. He took careful aim at the most likely rock. In a few seconds he saw a dark face and white-shirted shoulder appear just left of his aiming point. He realigned in an instant and squeezed the trigger.

The rifle was zeroed for a hundred meters, so the 45-grain hollow-point bullet, muzzle velocity 2,400 feet per second, required two and a half inches’ elevation aim-off. There was no further sound. No movement. Mason left his bag in the scrub and loped across the wadi, having reloaded his rifle.

The body was that of an Asian. He must have been in the Nissan with the others. Mason shrugged. He noticed that the bullet had entered an inch or so higher than his aiming point. Intended to hit the thinnest part of the skull, the left eye socket, the bullet had in fact penetrated the eyebrow and the thicker bone and sinus cavity beneath, and gone into the brain.

There was no pulse at the carotid artery under the jaw. A drop of blood had issued from the wound, and a thin trickle from one ear, but there was no exit wound: the bullet, probably fragmented, was somewhere inside the skull. A quick body search revealed only a Parker pen and a tin of tobacco. Mason had begun to consider whether to dispose of the dead man or to attempt to catch up with the Nissan when that vehicle reappeared at speed around the nearest bend in the wadi.

Uncertain whether the men were armed, Mason took
no chances. Wedging the Asian’s .303 behind a rock, he struck west and directly away from the negotiable floor of the wadi. He headed, by a circuitous route, for the plateau of the
falaj
mounds, the only solid cover within miles.

No bullets chased him but he did not look back until, reaching the mound with the hidden suitcase, he found a climber’s rope affixed to a steel peg and disappearing down the
falaj
shaft. Before lowering himself, he spotted the three men not far behind.

The
falaj
system was developed in Persia in 400
BC
and introduced to Oman two thousand years ago. The diggers were known as
muqanat
, “men of the killers,” for many died of rockfalls or escaping gases. They were often young boys, blinded at birth, who developed an uncanny accuracy when digging through solid rock with simple tools, so that the narrow channels ran straight and dipped only imperceptibly to maintain gravity. Some
falaj
were up to 150 feet deep and fifty miles long, taking water under the hottest of deserts with little loss from evaporation.

Since the last of the Persian invaders were expelled, centuries had passed in which many
falaj
, especially minor offshoots to long-abandoned villages, became neglected and partially blocked. Mason had no way of knowing how far he would be able to travel within this
falaj
but he was certainly safer below than aboveground in his present circumstances.

He reached the canal floor, or rather a heap of spoil and a goat carcass, some eighteen feet down. The diameter of the shaft had been sufficiently narrow to enable a tall man to chimney his way upward without help from a rope, and Mason assumed other shafts would be no wider. He headed south in the knowledge that the canal would gradually rise as it led away from the mountains.

There were numerous rockfalls but none entirely blocked the way. Mason was aware that various types of viper and water snake infested the Omani
falaj
system
but he kept his mind on other things. A loud shout or a rifle shot might trigger a major rockfall.

Perhaps nobody would follow him. Well past the second vertical shaft he waited and listened, cursing silently when he clearly heard a clatter of rocks down the tunnel behind him. He increased his speed and blundered into a waist-deep pool where the channel floor was faulted. Beyond this and close to the third vertical shaft, Mason’s head, bent forward and low, made painful contact with an earthen wall.

Swearing aloud, he rubbed his scalp. At the same time he felt apprehension surge through his stomach, a fairly rare experience since he was blessed with an unusually high threshold of fear. The cause of his dread was the sound of hornets, many hundreds of them, stirring in anger. Two years earlier, on a patrol in central Oman, Mason had witnessed the agonizing death of two young Omani girls attacked by
jebel
hornets in a deserted hovel. The nest had hung from the ceiling like some giant inverted cone of mud. Now the memory made him fall to the tunnel floor and scrabble forward. To his relief the way was clear, with sufficient space beneath the nest to make his way forward. Knowing the smell of his fear would leave a scented trail, he forced himself to lie calm and still along the damp surface of the channel. He was not stung and the nest quietened down. Gingerly he continued, and minutes later heard the terrified screams of his pursuers roaring down the echo chamber of the tunnel. The sound of splashing water followed, and then silence but for an occasional low moan.

Two shafts to the south Mason came to a pile of spoil that helped him gain a chimneying position at the base of the man-made tube. He waited patiently for two hours, then, with his back and his arms inching up one side, his braced feet up the other and his rifle hanging below him from its strap, he reached the surface panting and filthy.

The plateau was lifeless in all directions, a midday heat shimmer raising inverted mirages to the south. He returned cautiously to the Datsun, collected his bag from the bushes, knocked away the remnants of the windshield and drove back to the main road. There was no sign of the Nissan. Mason took his second travel bag down to the wadi a mile upstream of Fanjah and, washing with care, changed into the standard expatriate uniform of cotton slacks and shirtsleeves.

From the pocket of his dirty Army trousers he took the empty case of the only bullet he had fired and buried it in the wadi bed. Lighting a Montecristo cigar, he cleaned the Rigby thoroughly and sat back to enjoy life in general and especially the magnificent view of the great mountains to the north.

At 3 p.m., back in his hotel room, Mason telephoned Inquiries. There were two numbers for Chief Superintendent Bailey of the Royal Oman Police Air Wing. He took both and tried the home number first.

The Baileys’ Kashmiri houseboy, Said, who spoke good English, answered and apologized that the sah’b was out and would be quite unobtainable for the rest of the day.

“But this is
very
urgent.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Could you give him a message?”

“Very happy, sir. Yes, a message.”

“Please tell him he must on no account go flying tomorrow morning. In fact no flying at all until he has spoken to me on this number.”

He gave the Kashmiri the hotel number and his room extension, but not his name.

Mason had been prebooked into the Gulf Hotel as “MOD VIP ex-Kendall,” and on arrival had told the receptionist his passport was at the British Embassy for renewal. Three subsequent and generous tips to receptionists for minor services had helped avoid any reminders
about the passport. He had called himself Mr. D. Messon and given the management to understand he would be staying for a further three weeks.

The Kashmiri repeated Mason’s message back to him and then added, “Chief Superintendent Bailey will not be flying tomorrow, sir. You must not worry about that. He is not to fly for at least two more days.”

“Are you certain of that?” Mason was bewildered.

“Certain sure, sir. Oh yes indeed, he will not fly. I know his program. I look after him.”

Mason thanked the Kashmiri. The man sounded honest and reliable. There was nothing more he could do to warn Bailey until the next day. At no stage in the Sumail had his face been visible to the Welshman or his cronies. Of that he was certain. Nothing would connect him with the dead Asian and he felt fairly sure that the opposition would dispose of the body themselves. That evening, when traffic in and out of Northern Headquarters was at its busiest, he returned the Datsun to the Motor Transport Section and borrowed a Land Rover in its place. If anyone noticed the soiled state of his uniform they might feel disdain but not suspicion.

After an excellent dinner, Mason settled back in his room to an evening of Tolkien and listening for the return of the Welshman.

Bridgie wore a cleverly cut white dress that accentuated her narrow shoulders and superlative cleavage while playing down the current size of her midriff. She was a touch troubled by John’s mood. He was as gentle and attentive as ever where she was concerned, but definitely out of sorts for some reason. He had been a touch upset by his recent Jebel Akhdar mission but this was altogether different. If she did not know him better she might have thought him nervous. This and the memory of the St. Patrick’s Day omen made her especially anxious
when John failed to turn up at the embassy dinner. The ambassador, Sir Peter Treadwell, was leaving, and his wife had laid on a splendid affair, a distant echo of the Raj.

John had flown down to Salalah that morning with Geoff Leggatt to inspect a sailing boat and to bid farewell to RAF friends. After forty-nine years, RAF Salalah, one of Britain’s remoter outposts, was packing up and hauling down the flag. Its very existence had saved the Sultanate from a Marxist takeover in the late sixties.

The guests took their seats and Bridgie was beside herself with worry. She had every confidence in John’s flying abilities but she could not shake off the sense of foreboding that increasingly weighed on her mind.

The third course had been served when the animated hubbub puttered to near silence. Every woman in the room found her eyes following the splendid figure of John Milling in his white tuxedo as he strode to the ambassador to apologize for his unavoidably late arrival. He laid his hands affectionately on Bridgie’s bare shoulders then sat down between two ladies, both of whom addressed him at once. Many members of the Muscat expatriate community were secretly jealous of one or other of the Millings while finding both the best of fun.

The postdinner cigars and superlative port from the embassy cellar soon gave way to boisterous games, and a number of guests, including John, ended up fully dressed in the pool.

Back at home John and Bridgie were asleep by midnight. Their worries put aside, they were both looking forward to spending a free Sunday with young Oliver on their secret beach. Twenty minutes by helicopter to the southeast of Muscat, John had discovered a deserted cove of white sand and surf. There they had spent many a perfect day wandering naked along the limitless shore, collecting seashells and lazing with a picnic in the dunes.

Mason awoke early on the Saturday and telephoned the Bailey house at 7 a.m. This time the Kashmiri houseboy fetched the Chief Superintendent from his breakfast.

Mason went straight to the point.

“I am very glad to make contact. I need to speak to you at once, for I have good reason to believe your life is in danger.”

“I must thank you for your concern,” Bailey’s voice sounded cool, “but, forgive me for asking, who are you?”

David was keen to avoid knowledge of his presence in Muscat leaking out. There were still a few British, mostly ex–Army officers on contract, who would remember him, and people talk. It would not be long before someone in the Welsh Guards heard the gossip.

“Please understand that it is difficult to talk on the telephone. I can come to see you immediately anywhere that suits you.”

Bailey began to sound standoffish.

“You told my houseboy I was not to go flying.”

“Correct.” Mason was emphatic. “Your machine has been damaged, sabotaged by one of your own workers. I can show you a photograph of the man.”