Killer Elite (previously published as the Feather Men) by Ranulph Fiennes Page B
Book: Killer Elite (previously published as the Feather Men) by Ranulph Fiennes
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Authors: Ranulph Fiennes
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but a few specialists—the “scum de la scum,” to use Davies’s term—it had become a buyers’ market with operators accepting fees of less than half pre-1976 rates.
There was no lessening in demand. Far from it—rather a flood of amateur killers, mostly unemployed and often unemployable by reason of their emotional state, Vietnam veterans, washed up by the U.S. withdrawal the previous year. Many were charging $500 for a straight killing which, after allowing for their expenses and the agent’s percentage, often worked out at a profit of around $100. Such low prices soon stimulated increased activity at the bottom end of the market. Frustrated citizens were now finding the local contract agency a financially viable method of ridding themselves of noisy neighbors or irritating mothers-in-law.
The cab driver, a locally employed Palestinian, turned to de Villiers. “Abu Daoud is free,” he said, his eyes aglow with pride.
They were inching through a crowd of chanting, laughing Arabs—all Palestinians, de Villiers presumed—who brandished old rifles or camel sticks and had all but paralyzed the traffic. The cause of the rejoicing was the abject surrender that morning of the French government to terrorist coercion. Over the weekend the Paris police had arrested Abu Daoud, the notorious founder of Black September, who stood accused of organizing the MunichOlympics terror attack of 1976, which killed eleven Israeli athletes. Now, after a hastily convened court hearing, the French deported him to Algiers—a free man and the cause of great joy among all Palestinians.
Perhaps the client would turn out to be a Palestinian. But no, there were plenty of ex-PLO killers about. More likely, de Villiers felt, a Gulf oil sheikh with a personal grudge. There was every likelihood that de Villiers would be met by a mere representative of the client. Or even the representative of a representative. That was why he never sent Meier or Davies to meet a client. You needed to be razor-sharp on these occasions. He remembered the time he had rendezvoused with a Dutch representative who had actually tried to redirect him, boomeranglike, toward his own boss, the real client. Instinct, rather than any identifiable slip on the part of the Dutchman, had alerted de Villiers, who decided to have Tadnams send him a photograph of their original client, the Dutchman’s employer. Embarrassment was avoided and the outcome had been a double fee for the removal of the originally intended target
and
the disloyal representative.
De Villiers paid off his joyful cabbie in a deserted side street and walked for five minutes through the shuttered gold market. The hotel was plush and discreet. Following the written instructions received via Tadnams, de Villiers nodded politely at the reception desk, avoiding eye contact with its occupant, and crossed to the hairdresser’s salon at the far end of the entrance hall. No hair was being cut, no beards trimmed. Like everyone else, around noon the barber was hors de combat.
The salon’s inner door was labeled “Staff Only” and hung with a planner chart of bookings. De Villiers closed this door behind him. He was now inside a walnut-paneled elevator that responded to only two buttons, an up and a down. Ascending to an indeterminate level, heemerged into a corridor hung with Persian and Baluchi rugs, where he was met by a girl of eleven or so with a shy smile. He followed her down the passageway admiring the intricate sewing of her patterned jellaba. Her neck, ears and wrists jangled with beaten silver ornaments of South Arabian style, probably Yemeni.
The girl entered a long and richly furnished drawing room. The subtle scent of burnt
leban
(frankincense) was pleasing and in keeping with the general air of Arab high living that the room exuded. An elaborate brass lamp stood in each of the four corners, their bulbs hidden within giant crystal geodes, so that each cabbagelike rock gave forth an orange
There was no lessening in demand. Far from it—rather a flood of amateur killers, mostly unemployed and often unemployable by reason of their emotional state, Vietnam veterans, washed up by the U.S. withdrawal the previous year. Many were charging $500 for a straight killing which, after allowing for their expenses and the agent’s percentage, often worked out at a profit of around $100. Such low prices soon stimulated increased activity at the bottom end of the market. Frustrated citizens were now finding the local contract agency a financially viable method of ridding themselves of noisy neighbors or irritating mothers-in-law.
The cab driver, a locally employed Palestinian, turned to de Villiers. “Abu Daoud is free,” he said, his eyes aglow with pride.
They were inching through a crowd of chanting, laughing Arabs—all Palestinians, de Villiers presumed—who brandished old rifles or camel sticks and had all but paralyzed the traffic. The cause of the rejoicing was the abject surrender that morning of the French government to terrorist coercion. Over the weekend the Paris police had arrested Abu Daoud, the notorious founder of Black September, who stood accused of organizing the MunichOlympics terror attack of 1976, which killed eleven Israeli athletes. Now, after a hastily convened court hearing, the French deported him to Algiers—a free man and the cause of great joy among all Palestinians.
Perhaps the client would turn out to be a Palestinian. But no, there were plenty of ex-PLO killers about. More likely, de Villiers felt, a Gulf oil sheikh with a personal grudge. There was every likelihood that de Villiers would be met by a mere representative of the client. Or even the representative of a representative. That was why he never sent Meier or Davies to meet a client. You needed to be razor-sharp on these occasions. He remembered the time he had rendezvoused with a Dutch representative who had actually tried to redirect him, boomeranglike, toward his own boss, the real client. Instinct, rather than any identifiable slip on the part of the Dutchman, had alerted de Villiers, who decided to have Tadnams send him a photograph of their original client, the Dutchman’s employer. Embarrassment was avoided and the outcome had been a double fee for the removal of the originally intended target
and
the disloyal representative.
De Villiers paid off his joyful cabbie in a deserted side street and walked for five minutes through the shuttered gold market. The hotel was plush and discreet. Following the written instructions received via Tadnams, de Villiers nodded politely at the reception desk, avoiding eye contact with its occupant, and crossed to the hairdresser’s salon at the far end of the entrance hall. No hair was being cut, no beards trimmed. Like everyone else, around noon the barber was hors de combat.
The salon’s inner door was labeled “Staff Only” and hung with a planner chart of bookings. De Villiers closed this door behind him. He was now inside a walnut-paneled elevator that responded to only two buttons, an up and a down. Ascending to an indeterminate level, heemerged into a corridor hung with Persian and Baluchi rugs, where he was met by a girl of eleven or so with a shy smile. He followed her down the passageway admiring the intricate sewing of her patterned jellaba. Her neck, ears and wrists jangled with beaten silver ornaments of South Arabian style, probably Yemeni.
The girl entered a long and richly furnished drawing room. The subtle scent of burnt
leban
(frankincense) was pleasing and in keeping with the general air of Arab high living that the room exuded. An elaborate brass lamp stood in each of the four corners, their bulbs hidden within giant crystal geodes, so that each cabbagelike rock gave forth an orange
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