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

in the future, you look back and remember this little dalliance in hell, please know that it is but a mild introduction to next time.”
    He hauled hard on the cord with one hand while hoisting upward with his other hand crooked in Symins’s crotch. He did not want the chandelier fixture to break. Symins now swung free. He was not in pain—he was in agony. Most of us go through life without experiencing more than a few seconds of such anguish.
    Darrell concluded his monologue. “Make no mistake, perhaps in five years’ time, in thinking there will not be a next time. If you touch the drug world again we will visit you in earnest.” He glanced at his watch, then making himself comfortable in an easy chair, he pulled out a paperback of George Borrow’s 1862 travel classic,
Wild Wales
. At home Darrell had a collection of hardback travel and adventure stories, many of them signed by the authors. Often, when he had a spare hour or two, he would phone around publishers and old bookshops to chase up titles long out of print, to fill gaps in his collection.
    After thirty minutes they lowered Symins to the carpet for ten minutes. Then they raised him on tiptoe for fifteen, and finally at dangle height for a further half hour. When they departed they left him still suspended but with his feet on the ground.
    Hallett silently hoped Symins would be non compos mentis by the time his breakfast was brought up in the morning. It would depend largely on his pain threshold.
    Mason did not bother to reset the alarm circuit on their way out. Spike could hardly make a fuss over a couple of lost circuit-breaker sets. They followed Hongozo over the wall and he drove them back to their cars in the city.
    “An honor to meet you, mister.” The Hungarian shook Mason’s hand. They did not know each other’s names. He hugged Darrell in his East European way. “Don’t make it too long until next time, my friend.”
    The two Locals parted. Hallett was subdued. It would be days before he lost the vision of the eight-inch nails appearing through the lockup doors. Mason was unaffected. The proceedings had gone off as Spike would have wanted. The result might well be as hoped. He stopped at a telephone booth and called Spike’s answering machine. “Everything is fine,” he said. He gave neither the time nor his name. Spike would be in his flat listening to the machine and would recognize David’s voice. If anything had gone wrong, he would have done what he could as an individual, but without committee involvement. That was their way.

6
    The Seine, the music of an unseen accordion and the Gallic bustle of the Marché Vernaison flea market drifted by the Gypsy café, lulling its diners, mostly tourists, into a nostalgic haze. The waiters were Gypsies clad in black berets and aprons, and there was an air of slick disdain about their trim moustaches. The head waiter, who fancied himself a bit of a Maigret, decided that the three gentlemen at table seven were international businessmen. Their lack of raincoats suggested that they had come from the only hotel close by, the George V. He deduced they had already spent a couple of nights at the hotel since its in-house restaurant, Les Princes, served exquisite food enhanced by a famous cellar. He nudged the sous-chef. “Sanch will do well at number seven. Those three are from the George. If they can afford nine hundred a night they will add twenty percent service, no problem.”
    De Villiers and Davies were clearly middle-aged executives but Meier looked out of place. His heavy tweed suit was crumpled—his trousers, although a couple of sizes too large, failed to conceal a battered pair of clogs—and the lenses of his steel-rimmed spectacles needed cleaning.
    “This steak tastes too sweet to be cow,” Davies muttered.
    “Probably horse,” de Villiers said. “Never mind. The fries look good.”
    “Chips,” said Davies. “You mean chips.”
    De Villiers shrugged. A waiter brought him the