Killer Elite (previously published as the Feather Men) (7 page)

“Harry, be a good lad and wait here with Jason,” Symins ordered. “Any trouble, you fix him any way you please, but leave him compos mentis for the joy to come.”

Darrell Hallett drove south from his parents’ small farm in Tenby. He always felt at ease with the world after visiting them. The Avenger car headed east over the Severn Bridge, then south down the M5. Rowntree, the chocolate manufacturers, owned it and the sample boxes of Yorkie bars in the rear. Darrell was star salesman for his district and he knew it. He had worked for Rowntree for four years since leaving the Forces.

He was at heart a country boy, and most weekends he returned home to grab his rod or twelve-bore. From the
age of five Darrell, with his three brothers, had spent every spare moment in the woods and fields, poaching, egg collecting, destroying wasps’ nests by hand and jumping from treetops. By the age of ten Darrell could paunch and skin a rabbit in under sixty seconds, then sell it for two bob to the local butcher. He knew the separate signs and the smells of the fox, the stoat and many other woodland creatures.

Born the year the Second World War ended, Darrell was a natural fighter. From kindergarten onward he punched his way through half a dozen school playgrounds and, when still a youngster, became Air Training Corps Welsh Boxing Champion. In 1962 he joined the RAF Regiment and became Middleweight Champion of the RAF and the Combined Services. Trained by Dave James, he was asked by the great Al Philips to turn pro. He was a streetfighter with gloves on, but he loved Forces life too much and missed his chance for the international ring.

Darrell spoke with a gentle Welsh accent. Honesty was a religion to him and, despite his air of latent aggression, his temper was slow to rouse and his reputation for honesty and fairness had seen him reach the rank of sergeant with his regiment. He worked in the sixties in Cyprus, Singapore, Malaya, Zambia and South Yemen, as part of the rearguard to the Empire’s mostly honorable retreat from the colonies.

In 1970, two years before Darrell became a salesman for Rowntree, he was accepted into the ranks of 21 SAS Regiment (Territorials), and four years later was recruited into the Feather Men by Spike Allen, who needed a highly mobile Local in the Southwest.

Darrell eased the Avenger off the M5 at Junction 18 and down the Portway to Hotwell Road. Bristol was not his sales area but there were few towns in the Southwest he did not know reasonably well. He parked by the side
of the Iceland Freezer Center in Easton Road and crossed the street to the Pit Pony pub.

Rows of Victorian terraced houses and ill-lit streets abounded in Easton, an area of ethnic hodgepodge. There were dozens of small, shabby pubs, but the Pit Pony was different. It had recently been redecorated, and the management had kept the original atmosphere of a local working-class haunt where you could safely take your wife so long as her dictionary was wide. The walls sported brass Davy lamps, pit-pony harnesses, shovels and other coal-mining accessories ranged above wooden booths in which stood tables and benches.

Darrell ordered two pints of Guinness and took them straight to the corner booth where Jo was waiting for him.

“Good to see you, my friend.” Jo’s East European accent clashed with his checked Viyella shirt, tartan tie and immaculately pressed tweed suit. At 6:15 p.m. the pub was still fairly empty, but after greeting Josef Hongozo, Darrell fed the nearby jukebox with enough coins to keep their conversation drowned for a while.

“It’s been a while, Jo,” he said, shaking the Hungarian’s left hand. A Soviet tank had torn off Jo’s right hand during the 1956 Budapest uprising, but now, at forty-nine, he could still beat all contenders at arm wrestling.

Darrell gave Hongozo Spike’s file on Symins. He felt it was unlikely to contain information that Jo did not already know, since, for a week now, he had shadowed the drug dealer’s every move. The little Hungarian looked up sharply and said, “This man is evil, you know, a bastard! He is killing our city’s young people, even little children.” Jo disliked drugs in any form, even medicines when he was ill. Drug pushers he loathed.

Only Darrell and Spike knew of Hongozo’s help for the Feather Men. Darrell had recruited him two years earlier after a meeting in The Ravers transport café in
Bristol’s Stapleton Road. Darrell had spent three hours there awaiting darkness with interminable cups of espresso. Jo, the café owner, had time on his hands and, being a gregarious sort, pounced on his lone clients for a friendly chat. One thing had led to another.

Jo’s early life, like that of millions of Europeans, reflected the human miseries of the mid-twentieth century. Born near the Yugoslav-Hungarian border, in the farming village of Keleshalom, he had been haunted throughout his childhood by the pervasive shadow of Hitler. Local Nazis would mark village trees with the names of non-Nazi folk. “When Hitler comes,” they would leer, “you will dangle there.” The Stormtroopers came and many villagers died, were raped or starved. Then, in 1945, the Soviets arrived and the horrors continued.

Jo had joined the freedom fighters and shared their predictable defeat. Two years after the uprising he fled to the West with his wife, Maria. In February 1958 he settled in Bristol, where there was already a large Hungarian population. For five lean years Jo worked at the Parno-Yates washing-machine factory. He saved enough money to buy two lorries, set himself up as a haulage contractor, and cashed in on the 1965 Severn Bridge and Coventry Airport projects. He prospered and became known throughout the expatriate community as a generous donor to those in need. But his marriage suffered from his frequent absences and he parted from Maria. He then bought the café and became a solid British citizen.

Perhaps Jo saw in Darrell a bit of himself in his freedom-fighting days. Whatever his motives, he had become Darrell’s anchorman whenever Spike sent the Welshman to the Southwest’s capital of crime.

The only time Darrell had ever seen a glint of anger in Jo’s eyes was when he offered to pay his expenses. The
Hungarian had hit the bowl of his clay pipe against the heel of his shoe and shaken his head.

“I will help you to help freedom, to hurt the dirty buggers who make trouble. I have had to leave my beloved Budapest because of them. Now you give me a chance to hit them a little. That is enough. Don’t talk again of money.”

The Pit Pony was filling up with uniformed men and women. Raucous laughter and expletives; banalities in place of conversation.

“The city bus depot is just up the road,” Jo explained. “The drivers bring their conductresses here before going home to their wives.”

Darrell spotted a tall executive type with a Dunlop travel bag. He nudged the Hungarian. “That’s him. Christ, he stands out like a spare prick at a wedding.” He went to the bar and offered David Mason a beer. They had never met before but each knew that Spike was unlikely to pick a rotten apple. The jukebox was silent now but drinkers were shoulder-to-shoulder and a Concorde could have flown by at street level unnoticed.

Mason was thankful he had hired a Ford Escort. The Porsche would have risked more than its paintwork in the pub car park, where groups of mostly white young rowdies sat on the low brick wall looking for trouble or anything that might alleviate their boredom.

“We have two hours before Symins goes home at 8:30 p.m.,” said Jo. “He is as regular as the clockwork. He is due back at what he calls a justice session anytime now. Then home. I will take you to see what sort of bugger this man is even with his own men. Then I know you will not pussyfoot like English gentlemen later tonight.”

“Is he local?” Mason asked. “I mean, has he always been on the Bristol crime scene?” Spike’s file had been positively skeletal.

Jo shook his head and relit his pipe. “Not local, no,” he replied, “but in the two years he’s been here, he’s cut himself a strong corner of the local drug market.”

Darrell thought Jo was wasted as the owner of a transport café. He had an amazing knack of ferreting out details, an ability that had saved Darrell time and embarrassment on a number of occasions. Symins, Jo now told them, had spent much of his youth in Australia after his family emigrated from London in the mid-fifties. By the end of the sixties he was worth £300,000, having benefited from the burgeoning Sydney drug scene. When the Sydney police put on the pressure, Symins, and others like him, moved to Pakistan. He thrived until, in 1975, the Pakistan police found a ton of cannabis in a boat that he owned.

Symins returned home to Britain. His first attempt to set up shop in Isleworth, West London, met with a bloody nose from the entrenched dealers’ heavies. Cautiously he tested the water elsewhere, eventually deciding on Bristol, where his girlfriend, Diana, had close relatives already pushing drugs in St. Paul’s.

“Our Mr. Symins took things slow and easy at first,” Jo explained. “Didn’t make the mistake so many of them do: rushing into someone else’s kitchen. That’s the quickest route to concrete boots. He settled down with his black bitch and her cousins and sussed out the ground.”

Jo explained the territories. The Bristol criminal fraternity are far more provincial than their London counterparts, seldom operating beyond the clearly defined boundaries of their often long-established fiefdoms. To find an uncontested niche took Symins quite a while. The black district of St. Paul’s offered a network of dark streets where white prostitutes operated by black pimps serviced a nonstop fleet of curb crawlers. The police, in a vain attempt to control drug pushers and prostitutes,
had turned many streets into cul-de-sacs. Black gangs had then lured police patrol cars into these traps and beaten up the officers. Touché. The result was no-go areas, the territory of black capos, and no place for the likes of Symins despite the drug opportunities offered at the nightly she-beens, illegal drink parties open to anybody with fifty pence to pay for a Guinness or Red Stripe.

Westbury on Trym was a respectable, middle-class area where few drug targets existed, but neighboring Southmead looked ripe. Built in the thirties to house folks from the inner-city slums, the place was all red brick and, to Symins, had the signs of good pickings. But he was several years too late: Southmead was in the grip of a local family, and Ronnie and his trio of hulking sons dealt summarily with would-be poachers.

“Ronnie is into the lot,” said Jo. “Drugs, protection and toms. Nothing moves in Southmead but he and his boys know it.”

“What’s toms?” Darrell asked.

“Prostitutes.”

“Not much left then for our Patrice?”

“Not in Southmead, no. But he had a go in Knowle West at the beginning of ’76. After a month he was rumbled by the West Coast Chapter of the Hells Angels, who run an HQ deep in nearby Knowle, a couple of houses knocked together by sledgehammer. They did that one day to fit in an extra-long billiard table. They hold cannabis and speed parties, immune to surprise drug raids thanks to steel doors and a video surveillance setup. A couple of Angels live in but thirty more arrive within minutes when summoned. They soon saw Symins off.”

“You’re making me sympathetic to the poor bloke,” Mason said.

“Well, he is certainly a trier … Clifton was next, all
middle-class students and rich folk. Plenty of takers, but too many police. Symins especially liked Clifton as he’s a snob and Cliftonians reckon they’re the cream of Bristol.”

So Symins had settled for Stoke Bishop, among the grassy heights of Bristol’s more affluent suburbs, which contain a mixture of well-heeled nouveaux riches and struggling middle-class families. The inhabitants mix very little, which assured Symins of privacy without suspicion.

Three years previously the government had removed the right of general practitioners to prescribe heroin or cocaine except for patients with proven terminal illnesses. Until then any junkie could obtain a controlled amount of his chosen drug legally. With this cushy arrangement ended, the street price of drugs escalated overnight, and from his eyrie in Stoke Bishop, Symins masterminded a rash of break-ins to chemists all over the Southwest. In Bristol itself he controlled these activities except in Keynsham, Knowle West, and Montpelier, where other teams were active under minityros such as Joe Lembo (subsequently caught and given five years in prison).

“What about his pushing system?” Darrell asked Jo.

“He has an expanding network of student pushers controlled by black colleagues, mostly friends of his mistress, and kept in line by half a dozen thugs who also protect his person. They are efficient, but”—Jo preened himself—“there is a loophole.” With the aid of Mason’s silver Parker pen and a beer mat, Jo demonstrated how he would help the two Locals.

They left the pub and walked to the southern end of Pennywell Road. Jo led the way into a deserted yard and over a chain-link fence. This joined a high wall, the main purpose of which was to conceal an evil-smelling waterway, a dank canal that was all that remained of
the once scenic River Frome. They followed the wall for a hundred yards, then scaled it using a hook and knotted line that Jo produced from an overcoat pocket. “Natty, eh?” He looked at both men. He was in his element and needed surprisingly little help beyond a tug to the top.

From the wall they dropped into a scrapyard, or rather a garden used as a rubbish dump, and Mason knelt to unzip his Dunlop bag. He took out a ten-inch-long tubular instrument on loan from Spike, and left the bag hidden by brambles at the foot of the wall. Moving with care among the rubbish, Jo made for the rear of a low building with double doors. As the three watched, gaps in the doors were faintly illuminated by some low light source within.

Jo said nothing but pointed to one of the gaps. Mason nodded and screwed a telescopic monopod into his eavesdropping device. A prototype of a device later developed as the Wolf’s Ear 1411 and obtainable through the Surveillance Technology Group in Port Chester, New York, it was a “minishotgun,” bidirectional system capable of collecting sound from up to five hundred feet away. Powered by a built-in 1.5 volt battery, it weighed only two and a half ounces and could be used in conjunction with earplugs, binoculars and tape recorder. Mason positioned the Wolf’s Ear and gave Hallett one of the earplugs. The two men listened to the action, while Hongozo watched their backs.