Killer Elite (previously published as the Feather Men) (41 page)

On August 22 he received a call at La Pergole from the Tadnams office in Earls Court. The client in Dubai required contact.

De Villiers telephoned and, to his surprise, was answered by Bakhait.

He told Anne, as he said goodbye, that he would return
just as soon as he could. He would not go but for the fact that it was his best chance of paying for her treatment in Washington or Los Angeles, in a place where he could have a bed beside hers, and where they might even have a cure before very long …

In August 1990 Saddam Hussein ordered his troops to pull out of territory they had won from the Iranians after years of bitter fighting and at a cost of many lives. Towns that to Iraqis in 1990 meant as much as Verdun and Passchendaele to Europeans in the 1920s were given up overnight. The pull-out from Meymak, Mehran and the Kalleh Qandi heights in Ilem province was accompanied by Saddam’s announcement of the release of some 50,000 prisoners of war.

President Rafsanjani was naturally delighted by this unexpected largesse from his archenemy, and on August 18 the first 1,000 Iraqi prisoners were released by Tehran. Bakhait came out with a later batch on August 21 and vowed never to do business with either country again.

After an extravagant welcome-back feast in Dubai and an updating on the affairs of the business, Bakhait learned that de Villiers had, two years before, completed the
thaa’r
.

De Villiers could see immediately that Bakhait had not enjoyed his time in Iran. He was thin and cadaverous, his hair had receded and he walked with a faint stoop. Certainly he looked far older than his thirty-one years and had lost his natural bonhomie. Nevertheless, he made de Villiers welcome and apologized for his earlier absence.

After the customary coffee and small talk Bakhait studied the Clinic’s written report on the location and identification stages of the fourth operation. He looked at the photographs, the medical reports and the obituary, then slotted the video in place and watched Mac, apparently listening from his bed, being accused by de Villiers of killing Bakhait’s brother Mahad.

The Dhofari, showing no sign of emotion, wrote out a check for $1 million.

“As regards the final payment, for completing the entire assignment, I have a single query. Yesterday I forced myself to review the earlier films. As you know I did not agree with the pursuance of this whole matter, but I am a man of my word and I pledged my father on his deathbed that I would see the family
thaa’r
through to its end and reestablish our good name in our homeland.”

De Villiers nodded, quite unaware of what was to come.

“The Kealy film and the Marman video raise no doubts in my mind, but the Milling film should have been queried when first you showed it to me. I was at the time eighteen years old and I made the mistake of accepting evidence which, I can see now, will not only prove inadequate but may raise doubts in the minds of the relevant Jarboatis in Dhofar as to the correct identification of the killers of my other three brothers.”

The original Milling Super 8 film footage had been transferred onto video and together they watched as de Villiers accused John Milling of killing Salim bin Amr. When the film ended Bakhait raised his arms.

“Can you not see the problem?”

“No,” said de Villiers. “I have no problem with that.”

“But Inspector Milling clearly states that he did
not
kill my brother Salim. He even tells you that the officer responsible for the ambush openly admitted his role in a book.”

“That is true,” de Villiers agreed, “but I have experienced such flights of the imagination from condemned men on other occasions. It is not uncommon. If Milling had really known of such a book, he would certainly have known its title and the name of its author. He would have revealed both key points then and there. Surely you can see that?”

“You assume that he had no honor.” Bakhait gave a small smile. “I look at this man Milling’s face and I see a strong personality. A soldier who would not have another man killed to save his own neck.”

“With all due respect,” said de Villiers, “I cannot agree with you. We are talking of a European, not a Muslim.”

“You are very cynical about your own race,” Bakhait commented.

“I am not European but, yes, I have over the years noted a different set of priorities between the true followers of Islam and the majority of Western Christians.”

Bakhait stared straight at de Villiers. The Dhofari’s face was set. “I cannot accept the
thaa’r
as settled nor my pledge complete until this is thoroughly checked out. Did you search at all for a book such as Milling refers to?”

“We contacted main retailers in New York and London. There was no such book available.”

“Does that mean it does not exist?”

“Not at all, but the circumstances did not warrant an exhaustive search due to the rationale I have already explained. It is conceivable that some officer had printed a book privately rather than through a known publisher. Or there may have been such a book but, by the time of our inquiry, it might have gone out of print, become unavailable.”

“So a more detailed check would be needed to entirely eliminate the possibility that Milling’s ‘book’ exists or existed?”

De Villiers nodded.

Bakhait was a successful businessman. Ambitious and anxious to make up time wasted in the stinking Iranian jail, he wished above all to succeed in his own homeland. He had complete confidence that he could expand the business not just to Muscat and Salalah but throughout Oman. He could become a senior citizen, a minister. There was no end to the possibilities. He already shone in the Gulf States but, as he had grown older, the urge for recognition in his own land had become a grail of which he had often dreamed in the long Tehran nights.

The other side of the coin was the
thaa’r
. The family of his cousin Hamoud would not wish to see him back. Without exoneration and acceptance by the Jarboati elders, he could never be safe, nor could his young family, without constant vigilance. He did not wish to spend his life looking over his shoulder.

He addressed de Villiers as he would his accountant. “I would like you to check thoroughly the assertion of Inspector Milling. All your expenses will be covered. If, as I personally expect, you find that an error has been made, then that is God’s will; you will not be to blame. But my father’s wishes, to which I am bound, were to avenge all four killers of his sons, my brothers. One of these killers
may
still be alive. The payment cannot therefore be made. Either we must have incontrovertible proof that there is no such book and never was one or we discover that the book and the author exist, in which case you still have work to do.”

Between 1977 and 1990 considerable progress was made by many libraries and retailers in the computerization of their books by title and by author. This did not help de Villiers, who knew neither detail. He knew only the subject matter and, to within five or six years, the publication date.

Back in London he visited a number of shops, starting with Hatchards and Harrods, then branching out to lesser-known but well-stocked shops dealing in secondhand books. When asked, as he often was, for the book’s general classification, he guessed at War, History, and Arabia.

After a frustrating week, he finally made progress on September 17. Arthur Probsthain & Co.’s Oriental Bookshop was one of many shops that he telephoned. The receptionist who answered his call passed him to a Mrs. Sheringham, whose accent sounded Germanic and who, according to the receptionist, knew everything about every book ever published.

“Good afternoon, my name is Lawrence. I am researching on Middle East matters and am looking for a book on the Dhofar war in Oman, Arabia. Do you have anything that deals with the late-sixties period of that conflict?” After a number of forays from her end of the phone, the redoubtable Mrs. Sheringham finally established three possible titles and their publishers.

Thanking her and cursing to himself, for he had earnestly hoped for a negative outcome to his search, he called the publisher of the most likely of the three titles, Hodder & Stoughton of Bedford Square in London. The receptionist passed de Villiers to the publicity department, as was her wont with all inquiries about noncurrent titles.

“Kate Farquhar-Thompson. Publicity. Can I help?”

“I believe you have a book about the Dhofar war in 1969 written by an ex-Army officer.” De Villiers gave her the title. “Do you have a copy, please, or know where I can get one?”

After several minutes the girl returned sounding pleased with herself. “We have no copies left. It went out of print in early 1977, was reprinted in ’78 and no copies have been available for eleven years. Sorry.”

“Is there no way I can borrow or copy some sort of master copy of the book?”

“Not with us but maybe a secondhand bookshop, you never know.”

De Villiers could see he had run out of options. He contacted Tadnams for the first time in months and was relieved to find one of his old contacts. It was agreed they would “do a drag” for the book as soon as staff was available.

In fact de Villiers found the book for himself in a run-down antique shop in Kilburn. The book was battered and dog-eared with various paragraphs heavily underlined, some pages removed, and comments scribbled in the margins by, de Villiers deduced, an ultra-left-wing student in the seventies.

He was charged twenty-five pence for the book and went back to his hotel to read the key passages.

There was no doubt in his mind. They should not have killed Milling. He could see only too clearly why the error had been made. At the time the Clinic knew only that their target was the white officer in charge of Operation Snatch. They had learned from Brigadier Maxwell and others that there was only one Army unit in the region of Operation Snatch and that the only officer from that unit involved in Operation Snatch was the then Captain John Milling … QED.

The book, however, now revealed to de Villiers that the
adoo
had been deceived into making more or less the same false assumption as had the Clinic. The sultan’s Intelligence officer, one Tom Greening, was a clever sod who had secretly ordered up a roving desert unit from the South Yemen border zone and sent them by night to execute the ambush many hours away from their normal patrol area. Had the real Operation Snatch officer not written this book, Milling’s identification would never have been questioned.

As it was, in light of this new information de Villiers had no option but to call Bakhait.

“You are quite sure this is the man?” Bakhait asked.

“A hundred percent,” de Villiers replied. “I have it in black and white.”

“Is he alive?”

“I believe so.”

“If he is, go ahead.”

De Villiers telephoned Tadnams. They suggested he check the
Who’s Who of International Writers
. “It gives all authors’ updated addresses,” he was told.

Darrell Hallett had time on his hands. He had recently passed his yearly relicensing exams and continued success could mean promotion to Area Manager. Life-insurance sales was a highly competitive business and Hallett was determined to do well. Right now, however, after the exertions of the exams, he had given himself a few days’ rest. He took his rod and tackle down to the river and spent many happy hours with the latest Colin Thubron book in his lap and a straw in his mouth.

Next day, October 5, the weather precluded fishing, so he decided to pursue his other great hobby, collecting travel books. His favorite topics were sailing, mountaineering and wild river journeys, but he also collected all books by certain travel authors and, where possible, had them signed.

Hallett telephoned a number of publishers including Hodder & Stoughton, whose book list included more travel subjects than most of their competitors. Hallett was put through to Kate Farquhar-Thompson in the publicity department and he asked for a copy of a book about a Canadian river journey entitled
Headless Valley
. She disappeared, presumably to a computer.

“Sorry about the delay,” she said cheerily. “It’s odd. Someone rang not long ago about the same author. He wanted his book on some Arab war. I’m afraid it’s the same for you as it was for him. We have no copies
left.
Headless Valley
is out of print. You will have to try the secondhand shops. You could make a start with Foyles … okay?”

She was about to hang up. He could hear her other phone.

“Wait a second,” he said.

“Yes?”

He paused, not quite certain what was niggling him.

“Listen. Thanks very much for your advice … Can you tell me who called you about the Arab war book?”

“No,” she replied after a pause. “Sorry, but it was two or three weeks ago and I get a lot of inquiries. I think he was foreign. Maybe American … I think he mentioned Amman or Oman.”

He thanked her, hung up, and reached for a brown book on his top bookshelf. It was a long shot but Hallett believed in the saying “Better safe than sorry.” He called Spike.

Three days after Hallett’s call to Kate Farquhar-Thompson, Colonel Macpherson caught the 4:15 p.m. shuttle flight from Glasgow and reached his home in Archery Close at 6:30. Spike’s Mini was parked farther down the cobbled mews.

After a dram, Macpherson led Spike through to an inner room.

“So they are back again?” he asked.

“There is that possibility, Colonel. It is a very slim lead; certainly not enough to enable us to entice the police into providing protection.”

“But enough to raise your concern or you wouldn’t have brought me south in a rush.”

Spike nodded. “I would hate to ignore it.”

“Very well,” said Macpherson. “There’s nothing to be lost, providing we have no repetition of the A49 event.
Strangely enough, I met your new ‘target’ about twelve years ago on an export promotion committee onto which I was inveigled by Campbell Adamson.”

“I will check on his background right away and start to alert the Locals,” said Spike.

“How many?” asked Macpherson.