Killer Elite (previously published as the Feather Men) (25 page)

The Clinic had been busy in the United States throughout the past year. De Villiers had been paid promptly enough by Bakhait in Dubai. Sheikh Amr bin Issa’s eldest son had left his school in England with two A levels and taken to the family business in a hands-on manner that would have been alien to his late father. He was totally uninterested in the matter of the
thaa’r;
indeed de Villiers had sensed a palpable hostility from the young Dhofari, who, as far as he could make out, hardly bothered to watch the Milling film before handing over the crisp Bank of Dubai check for $1 million.

A temporary lull in new contract work had led de Villiers to dispatch Davies back on the trail of the Clinic’s second Dhofar target. The known facts were in this case quite helpful: Ali bin Amr Bait Jarboat had been killed on July 19, 1972, during an attack on the village of Mirbat. The detachment he had led was directly tasked with
the capture of the British artillery gun, and surviving members of his patrol had watched Ali shot down at close range by the foreigners in the gun pit.

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 habitués 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 activity 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.”

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.