Read Online Killer Elite (previously published as the Feather Men) by Ranulph Fiennes - Free Book Online Page A

to the poor bloke,” Mason said.
    “Well, he is certainly a trier … Clifton was next, allmiddle-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 ofthe 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.
    Four men, all smoking cigarettes, stood around as Symins stressed the heinous nature of Jason’s betrayal. He ended, appearing to expect an acknowledgment from the accused. There was none because someone had liberally applied sticking plaster to Jason’s mouth in readiness for the coming punishment.
    “He’ll be difficult to hold once we get started,” one of the heavies warned.
    “That’s what the toolbox is for, ya twit,” said another. “Boss said to nail him down.”
    “The floor’s concrete.”
    “Use your common sense, Spitty. What’s wrong with the back doors? Bring the lamp.”
    The three men in the backyard could now see nothing and