Killer Elite (previously published as the Feather Men) (10 page)

Colonel Tommy Macpherson and Bletchley were, with the founder, the initiators of the committee. Now eight years and many successes later, Macpherson looked at Bletchley and wondered how the founder, such a magnificent judge of men, had chosen him at all. And yet he too had originally thought the man was sound. Come to think of it, he really had been a first-class mover in the early days and a great source of inspiration. It had been he who had first coined the phrase “the Feather Men”—“because our touch is light.” Somewhere along the line, however, Bletchley had undergone a subtle change.

Although he had known the founder for over forty years, and despite the fact that both men were from Highland clans, had served during the war in the Special Forces and been POWs in Germany (the founder in Colditz), Macpherson never really knew the inner workings of the founder’s brilliant mind. His precise motives for starting the committee were lost in the mists of time but there had been rumors of a tragedy. They concerned someone close to the founder, whose death in 1968 could have been prevented but for the inadequacy of the police. The latter’s scope and budget, not their efficiency, had been to blame. There were not enough police in the right place at the right time.

The very decency of democracy hinders the prevention of numerous crimes. In Belfast, the British Army knows the identity of a dozen or more IRA killers but the law forbids the forces of the law to “take them out.” So the killers will strike again and again. This principle
also applies to drug pushers, muggers, and other such predators at large throughout the United Kingdom.

The founder knew his limitations; he was not about to take on the evils of the nation as a whole. He stuck to his own niche, since charity begins at home. He was intimately involved with the family of SAS regiments, regular and territorial, and would set up a body of watchdogs to look after the well-being of the two-thousand-plus ex-members of the Artists Rifles Regiment and other SAS units. This body would also respond to cries for help that were beyond the scope of the existing regimental associations.

It is a sad fact of life in democratic societies that there are no-go areas where crime thrives and innocent citizens are preyed upon yet where the police are powerless to act.

In the early 1950s, 21 SAS Regiment was based close to St. Pancras station and headed by the famous wartime commando, Colonel Charles Newman VC. Newman was one of a number of ex-Special Forces daredevils including Colonels Lapraik, Sutherland, and Bill Macpherson, who successively commanded 21 SAS. The last-named, soon to be Chief of the Clan Macpherson, was a relation of Colonel Tommy Macpherson.

One day a veteran sergeant approached Colonel Newman and complained that his family had been threatened by local hoodlums in Notting Hill. Newman called a meeting of half a dozen stalwarts, and a deputation in civilian dress visited the source of harassment. The tactic worked and reached the ears of the founder. Technically no law of the land had been breached, for the Notting Hill gangsters did not call the SAS men’s bluff and no violence took place.

All matters for committee business were collated by Bob Mantell from diverse sources about the country, mostly ex-SAS men in various professions, including the
police. Wherever Mantell could persuade the injured party to deal with the problem through the police he would do so, but in nearly every case the police had already been approached and had been unable to help.

After the usual preamble, Bletchley began the meeting with a short list of minor cases to be handled and of actions that appeared to have been ineffective. After an hour, business moved on to two topics labeled by Bletchley as “tender.” Both were the territory of Spike Allen.

Spike was no great wordsmith. “Islington,” he said, looking up very briefly from his papers, “worked well. The info from August proved reliable and the Mercedes has already been returned to our friends together with £1,000 in cash for the inconvenience.”

Bletchley nodded. “The police?” he asked quietly.

Spike was ready for him. “Our Local checked at the Upper Street Station. Mr. James had reported the theft to them immediately after the car disappeared. He explained how he knew that the Davenham Garage’s service department were in league with the Islington mob and how it was safe to deduce the car would, over a period of at least three hours, be repainted at their spray shop.”

Spike checked backward through his report. “The police called him back two
days
later with the usual refrain. There was no sign of the car and the police had no power to inspect Davenham’s service depot without a warrant.”

“How many people did you send to Davenham’s?” Bletchley asked. He always laid great emphasis on the need for minimal force.

“Three,” said Spike. “All on the large side.”

“Are you happy, Michael?”

Bletchley addressed the former lawyer Panny, who nodded. “August knows the Davenham brothers well. They’re too small to need to make a point merely to save
their egos and they can hardly complain to the police of intimidation used to force them to return stolen property to its rightful owners. No, I think Spike handled the whole thing with the right amount of pressure.”

Spike, never one to hog the limelight, thanked the twins, who had advised him on the level of fear likely to get the car back. In the same breath he switched to his Bristol report, hoping to bathe it in the glow of goodwill generated by the success in Islington.

“Bristol,” he announced. “The operation the committee sanctioned at the September meeting last year. This was completed in November and I can now safely state there has been no comeback to or from the police, nor any media publicity. Our Local has good contacts in the City and confirms that Symins, the man directly responsible for the death of our friend’s daughter, has moved from Bristol.”

Spike tapped the blue folder in front of him. “Jane has given everyone copies of my detailed report.”

The don looked up. “Not exactly detailed,” he murmured. “Two pages only and all of that deals with the target. I, for one, would like to know more of our own activities. I fully understand that they obtained the required result, but what form did they take? Since they were effected in our name, we must be sure we would approve of the methods used by your Locals, don’t you think?”

There was a murmur of agreement from most of the others, as Spike had expected. “I took the advice of committee members as to the best means of forcing this issue.” He did not look their way but both of the twins became heavily preoccupied with their folders at this point. “Anything less persuasive, they assured me, would have been a waste of time with this man. There were only two Locals involved and both knew precisely how
far to go. There will have been virtually no signs of physical damage to Symins.”

The don’s face was grave. “You had this man tortured, then?”

Spike explained the means used by Hallett and Mason. He did not mention their names, since Mantell, who had laid the ground rules, stressed that only Spike must know Locals’ identities. Then, should any Local turn sour, he or she would be able to recognize Spike but none of the other committee members. No Local knew Spike’s real name, nor his address—only the number of his answering machine and a postbox number. Should Spike die, his trustees would send Bletchley and Macpherson sealed envelopes containing the contact details of the Locals.

“Never mind the lack of scars,” the don persisted. “To all intents and purposes we, the committee, have condoned the use of torture. Yes or no?”

“Hang on, mate.” It was August, with a reddish tinge to his cheeks. “Spike was tasked to get rid of this bastard, this child-killer, without injuring him. Well, he has and I say congratulations to Spike and his lads in the West Country. Blimey, what d’you expect, Don?” He hit the table with his folder. “You don’t crack a nut with a pair of scissors, do you?”

The don remained calm. “Nobody’s talking of scissors. But hook-hanging is a favorite with the world’s most unpleasant regimes. The Nazis used it and today it is popular throughout the Middle East. Just read through any Amnesty International report. The hook-hang can drive a person insane overnight. It is an inhumanity that I would not condone for my worst enemy.”

The fatter of the two twins muttered, “Your worst bloody enemy, Don, is probably your tax inspector. Your head’s in the sand, man. The heavy stuff is the only thing these druggies understand. If Spikey hadn’t scared him
rigid, he’d not have turned a hair and he’d be latching himself back onto the Bristol kiddies as though nothing had ever happened.” He subsided, having made the longest speech any committee member remembered ever coming from either twin.

“We exist to deal with men of this ilk,” the don countered, “but not by trading violence for violence. We could, I am sure, have scared him off equally well with a heavy dose of fear. I’m not advocating cracking nuts with scissors, August, but I am recommending that we shatter glasses by emitting the right frequency. Ours should be a game of chess, of emotion and timing. First we obtain up-to-date, accurate information, then we strike by guile not force. That way we stay legal and we retain our decency.”

“Perhaps,” Bletchley suggested smoothly, “Spike could not obtain sufficient information and had to overreact as a result?” Macpherson noticed that Bletchley’s eyes were performing disconcerting saccades.

“My information was detailed and sufficient for our purposes,” Spike replied. “Our sources in Bristol are first-class. They confirmed that our target would not respond to verbal warnings and threats alone.”

“In that case,” Bletchley snapped, “should you not have come back to the committee at once? We could have looked at the operation again. Chosen a different path or even aborted.”

The chairman raised his arms in an abrupt gesture and spilled his coffee. Jane was at once on her feet to fetch paper from the nearby lavatory.

“You are raising the issue of our general policy, are you not?” Macpherson’s voice was cold. “Can we take it you have moved on from the specific subject of Bristol?”

Spike listened with interest. He made a point of not participating in the intermittent heated exchanges between committee members, but he never missed a nuance.
Over the past three years he felt that Bletchley had become increasingly dogmatic. Only Macpherson, in Spike’s opinion, had the influence to prevent Bletchley from dampening the spirits of the committee to the point of emasculation.

Bletchley could normally count on the support of Mantell and Panny where a matter of law and order was concerned, but Macpherson, as a last resort, could fall back on the casting vote of the founder, absent but still the éminence grise.

Mantell had recruited and run the first few Locals in the early seventies, but then an operation on his hips had partially failed. Spike was taken on at Mantell’s suggestion and became the only salaried member of the team. Macpherson alone knew the identity of the sponsor who provided Spike’s pay. Spike had grown to dislike Mantell and his rigid toeing of the line laid down by Bletchley. As far as Spike was concerned, strict adherence to the law could and often did hamper their efficiency. It could also endanger his Locals. That they should never carry firearms, even if as individuals they possessed licenses, was a major bugbear and one that Spike rigidly, if unwillingly, enforced. Even the least important of his operations was always recorded and, after discussion by the committee, filed and logged at Jane’s home.

Bletchley was not to be diverted by Macpherson on this occasion. Bristol should never have happened. “The ethics of the committee and the disgraceful goings-on in Bristol are inextricably entwined,” he growled at the meeting in general and Macpherson in particular. “We have enough high-level contacts between us to manipulate events of this nature. A word in the ear of the Bristol constabulary would probably have been every bit as effective.” He turned to Spike. “Was any approach made to the police?”

The committee, according to Bletchley, were so blessed with prestigious acquaintances that they could steamroller their way almost anywhere by a series of strategic string pulls. To him all criminals could be outwitted by cunning, by disinformation and checkmates. The right pressure at the right time could achieve the committee’s every aim.

Spike knew that this had been the original concept of the founder and of Macpherson too, but unlike Bletchley and his disciples, they had adapted to the demands of reality when the concept proved largely a pipe dream.

“No. We did not tip off the police,” Spike replied. “You may remember that my report last October made it clear that the police knew our target was involved in drugs long before we became involved. But they had nothing at all to hang on him, so they were powerless to move against him.”

“Chairman.” Macpherson sounded irritated. He was a man of action and could not stand time wasted in dithering. “This matter comes down yet again to the simple question of whether we as a committee are prepared to be flexible and move with the times. Of course, I do not mean we should lower our basic moral tenets to those of the unpleasant people we attempt to frustrate. But we should look to the likes of Churchill and Kennedy, both leaders of democracy who clearly believed that some ends justify some means. The nastiness that can threaten our ex-SAS people is becoming more varied and our enemies are more sophisticated at finding loopholes in the law. If and where the police cannot provide adequate protection, we
have
to try to find an appropriate way to do so.”

There was silence but for the strains of a bagpipe lesson mingled with the muted screams of Hill House School children playing football on the grass outside.

Macpherson spoke again. “In the last war our best
Special Forces leaders were those who studied Lenin, whose saying included ‘the need for “all-sidedness” is a safeguard against rigidity.’ And Chairman Mao echoed this theme with ‘We must learn to see the reverse side of things. In given conditions a bad thing can lead to good results.’ This Committee will get nowhere if we remain hidebound by rules we ourselves set nearly a decade ago.”