Dreams to Die For

by Alan G Boyes

  As he slowly turned his head, he refocused his eyes to study the loch. The dam had raised the water level by over one hundred feet and the enlarged canyon was nearly seven miles long and a significant contributor to hydro-electric energy supply. When he was first brought here by his parents, he was in awe at the sheer grandness of the mountains and the size of the dam. The whole panorama and setting both excited and scared him in the same moment, and that familiar adrenalin rush was now sweeping over him just as it had as a ten year old. He took several slow, deep gulps of the clear air and slowly closed his eyes. He wanted to savour the peace and the open space for a few moments more; to enjoy and listen to the silence and tranquillity that can never be found in a city and which certainly had been shattered so completely the previous week when he travelled on London Underground train 204. He opened his eyes three minutes later and glanced towards Corach, briefly catching sight of the van as it suddenly appeared and, just as quickly, vanished as it made its tortuous progress along the winding single track road. Gordon began to walk briskly back along the wall towards the south gate in order to take up his favoured vantage spot to witness his latest arrivals. Mealag Lodge was sited well back from a dog-legged, narrow bay on the southern shore of the loch, which made the house almost impossible to spot by those driving casually along the road on the far shore. It also afforded total obscurity of the dam wall from the house, yet permitted its occupants to enjoy the vastly superior, uninterrupted view down almost the entire length of the loch towards Kinloch Hourn. Gordon was in his concealed position just as the van came to a halt in the lay-by. The six passengers got out, stretched their legs and arms, and then collected up their own cases and bags from the rear of the transit. They gathered round awaiting the driver to join them, speculating with each other as to where they were to be taken next. The van drove off. Unknown to the stranded passengers this would turn onto a short track about a mile farther on and from there be parked inside a large garage. The driver would covertly make his way back to the shore by foot and then use a boat to return to Mealag, but not before he was certain all the others on the van had got safely across the water.

  Gordon picked up the field glasses and focused on the six bewildered souls. Two were existing directors of the board of a global insurance corporation and the remaining four all aspired to a position on it. Each felt they deserved the promotion. All they had been told by their chairman, in a letter marked ‘PERSONAL’ and received three days previously, was that they had been specially selected and invited to attend an ‘Executive Development Course to include Team Building’ in the Scottish Highlands and to present themselves at 10:30am on Monday 18th July outside Fort William rail station, where the driver of their onward transport would be holding a placard. The entire six, had they spoken truthfully to each other, groaned in dismay when they read the chairman’s invitation.

  “Another bloody course,” uttered the deputy finance director whilst travelling on the overnight sleeper, a comment which found much empathy amongst his colleagues and accurately summed up the collective mood of the chairman’s chosen few. They had received no guidance as to what to bring, wear or carry, and now they were alone in the middle of nowhere with instructions from the driver to make their way to Mealag Lodge.

  “Where did he say that was?” called out the gruff voice of the compliance director, standing away from his colleagues.

  “He didn’t – merely pointed across the loch as he said the name.”

  “Great. Terrific. So what do we do now?”

  This was the moment Gordon wanted to witness. He could see that two of the nervous men had chosen to wear suits for their Scottish trip and each was carrying a suitcase. Three others were dressed smartly, but casually, and one was dressed in jeans and shirt with a rucksack on his back. He was busily changing his trainers for walking boots. After about five minutes of animated conversation, several hands pointed towards the dam wall a mile away. However, it was evident that the prospect of carrying a heavy bag a considerable distance, dressed in a suit, was not to everyone’s liking and the sound of raised voices carried across the still water to be heard by Gordon, who laughed.

  A further fifteen minutes went by and still the group was no nearer to resolving its dilemma, though a couple of delegates had begun to trudge wearily towards the dam. Everyone was tired from the ten hour rail journey to Fort William and had then undergone a most uncomfortable hour and half being bumped and swung around inside an old, noisy van, its seats – having lost their springing long ago – supplemented only by bare, thin foam mattresses. The dishevelled driver who had awaited them at the station, wearing an oil-stained dirty denim overall on top of faded brown corduroy trousers and a considerably worn chequered shirt, had been singularly gruff and unhelpful in his responses to their questions, and conversation with him had been almost non-existent. Indeed they felt he had driven deliberately fast around the bends in the road simply to make their journey even more disagreeable.

  Gordon noticed the one with walking boots heading towards the loch. It was a steep downward slope from the road to the loch but easily manageable. The ground was completely barren, strewn fifty years ago with the waste rocks not used in the infill of the dam and which in several places had reached a height that prevented the water’s edge from being visible from the road. Lodged amongst the boulders were various items of heavily-rusting ironwork, discarded and deliberately abandoned on site to keep the building costs at a minimum. Some were small, some very large but all were twisted or rotted beyond recognition, and had clearly emanated from some form of reinforcement pipework or broken machinery. Gordon noticed how easily the new visitor progressed on his perilous path downwards, avoiding the jagged, sharp splinters of reddish-brown rusted metal as he stepped purposefully around the obstacles which could seriously injure the unwary. When he came into sight of the shoreline, he turned and shouted to the others above him. Almost immediately three figures started to clamber down but the two others were still headed for the dam, their distance from the rest of the group preventing them hearing the shouts of their colleagues.

  At the shore, a single wooden clinker boat had been tied to a small jetty little more than twelve metres in length but which was quite sufficient to permit more than just the one rowing boat to be tied up alongside. The thick landing stage planks had originally been stained a dark brown but now resembled a sombre grey matching its precast concrete supports, all of which had been firmly embedded deep within the loch floor making the structure extremely sturdy and able to withstand the violent storms of winter. On the cross bench of the boat, inside a polythene sleeve, was pinned a note on how to start the outboard and a map marking the precise location of Mealag Lodge. As the others reached the shore, the man with the boots picked up the note, read it and passed it to his grateful companions who gleefully slapped him on the back as one by one they stepped into the boat. As the last one sat down, someone started to row the boat away from the shore and quickly thereafter the raucous noise of the outboard cut through the air, causing an initial small spurt of blue smoke to curl along behind them until it dissipated in the breeze. Gordon saw that a lady was sitting in the stern and steering the boat, her right hand gripping the tiller on the outboard and her left resting easily on top of the port bulkhead. She began to make a turn towards the dam. The two visitors – still laboriously making their way along the road, lugging their heavy cases and frequently pausing to pass their burden from one hand to another – had heard the outboard and the boat was now in their view. They waved and started their descent to the shore. Gordon watched keenly as the man with the rucksack took up a position at the prow and peered into the diminishing depths of the crystal clear water, giving directions to the woman who was able to carefully navigate a clear passage.

  Gordon was impressed with the care both had shown at ensuring the boat could be safely brought into shore and near to where their colleagues were waiting. Such team work and initiative would score highly when he completed their c
ourse report. She cut the outboard and lifted it from the water whilst one of the others dropped the anchor. The realisation by the two men in suits that to reach the boat would involve taking a few steps across the rocky terrain and into the cold loch could be seen in their faces as their initial joy turned to dismay. Gordon laughed out loud as he viewed their dilemma through the binoculars. They both removed their shoes and socks, but neither seemed too keen to damage their expensively-tailored suits. For a few moments they both hesitated. Then one slowly removed his trousers before gingerly stepping into the water. He quickly realised that keeping his balance on the slippery rocks below was no easy task at any time. To do so whilst carrying a suitcase and his shoes was well-nigh impossible. Clearly embarrassed and feeling very self-conscious of his brightly coloured underwear that had already attracted some sarcastic wolf whistles and ribald comments, he stepped back onto the firmer shore. Once he had regained his composure he stood up, looked around himself in an assured manner and then placed his removed clothes in his suitcase before picking it up again and hoisting it onto his shoulder, keeping one arm around it to ensure it did not fall as he entered the water for the second time. To shouts of encouragement from his rescuers he half-stumbled, half-slipped his way to the boat where eager hands hoisted him aboard and clapped as he sat down, relieved at not having fallen on his short but dangerous journey.

  The second, an Armani-tailored executive, was not so fortunate. Emulating his colleague he gingerly took his first steps into the loch but the coldness of the water surprised him. He uttered an expletive so loud that even Gordon heard it, before the man lost his footing completely and he inelegantly performed a slow pirouette before crashing face down in the loch. The suitcase landed with a heavy splash next to him and immediately started to drift away from both the boat and its owner. Desperate to retrieve the case, the man swam after it, grabbed it by the handle and brought it back to the side of the boat where the amused makeshift crew had extended their hands in offers of assistance. The suitcase was lifted on board, streams of water leaking from it as surely as if it had been a sieve. Turning their attention to their hapless colleague, they started to haul him up by his arms over the side of the boat. The laws of gravity quickly operated upon the weight of water within his soaked and unflatteringly long white boxer shorts, such that they slid gently down to his ankles. His semi-naked trunk was upended as he was pulled into the boat, causing his colleagues to roar with laughter. It was a very angry and red-faced executive that eventually regained his modesty as the anchor was weighed and the engine re-started. Twenty-five minutes later, Gordon met them all outside Mealag Lodge. It had, as usual, been an enjoyable and thoroughly entertaining morning witnessing the arrival of his guests.

  Gordon Truscott did not need the income from the eight, one-week courses he hosted each year. There was always an element of team building on the course, but principally it was to acquaint rising stars of business with the experience and advice of successful people, usually entrepreneurs and executives from other organisations, from Britain or abroad, who were prepared to give of their time and who were prepared to make the journey. Few charged for their services apart from expenses and were pleased to impart their wisdom and knowledge to the next generation. Most helicoptered in, though some took a more scenic and leisurely route like the guests themselves. Gordon personally always took at least one of the daily sessions himself, and his courses had won a deserved reputation and admiration from those who had attended them.

  He led his visitors to the clearing at the front of Mealag Lodge, pointed out the chalets which each had been allotted and took the wet suitcase from the man who had introduced himself as the compliance director.

  “Get yourself dried off and I will have a tracksuit sent over to you in a few minutes. We will dry out your case and have its contents all ironed by tomorrow morning. Any non-clothes items will be dried and returned as they are ready.” Gordon had little sympathy for someone whom he was already regarding as silly at best and probably incompetent at worst. He certainly had shown little common sense by wearing a suit for his journey and he recalled that this man had been the first to walk away from the group when they had alighted from the van. Gordon was not going to extend any fatuous sympathy for what had befallen him.

  “We will meet at Ruraich in thirty minutes. Any questions?” Gordon asked. He wondered if anyone would ask where or what Ruraich was, but no one dared.

  “Good. See you in half an hour.”

  All the guests found Ruraich without difficulty. In fact with the exception of the shivering compliance director whom they insisted went straightway to his chalet to get warm and dry, the group quickly split up and searched the immediate area, finding the training centre within a couple of minutes.

  A small but excellent buffet had been prepared and was laid out on the table, alongside some bottles of white wine and fruit juices. Gordon sat amongst his new arrivals and over the informal lunch introduced himself fully and outlined the events, seminars and conferences to be held during their stay. Sandy MacLean joined them a few minutes later bringing forth astonished gasps from some of the visitors. Sandy had completely transformed his appearance from that of a poorly-dressed white van driver to a rather imposing figure, in tracksuit bottoms and short sleeved white shirt. Sandy went through all the safety procedures both at the Mealag complex and those that appertained to the more physically demanding, and potentially dangerous, external events. Gordon ended lunch by pointing out to them that their first task, that of arriving at Mealag Lodge, had not been an outstanding success and he counselled them to reflect upon the morning’s events.

  “If you fail to learn the lessons from today,” he spoke softly but with authority, “you will not acquit yourselves well on this course or in business. Your very survival might be at stake at some point this week and you will then be required to deploy all your combined resources of skill, enterprise and initiative quickly and effectively. Many of you were dressed quite inappropriately for a trip to the Highlands and as a group you failed to show any team work or devise a suitable plan once you left the transit. In fact, within minutes your group had fragmented. Not an impressive start and if it had not been for one person’s initiative in putting on his boots and searching the immediate area for a boat, and another person’s skill at managing the boat and its outboard, I suspect that some of you would not have reached here until mid-afternoon… ” and fixing a withering stare upon the two previously suited gentlemen Gordon remarked “… perhaps not at all! We shall meet again, here, at 7:00pm. Dinner will be taken in the main house at 7:30pm when we shall be joined by the Chief Executive of Bowden Chemicals Inc of Massachusetts.”

  “Is it a formal dinner?” enquired one of the insurance corporation’s employees “I mean, er, dress-wise,” he nervously added.

  “Whatever you think is appropriate,” replied Gordon, and he walked smartly out the door quickly followed by Sandy.

  “There’s always one” said Sandy as he and Gordon relaxed over a beer in Mealag’s spacious kitchen.

  “Yep” said Gordon laughing. “Arrivals never fail to amuse. Why companies employ prats in senior posts when they can’t even make a decision on what to wear is beyond me.”

  They both liked organising and running the courses that were held at Mealag but for quite different reasons. Sandy could utilise his experience on the vigorous outdoor activities, which enabled him to visit the more remote parts of the estate and to keep his fitness level up, whilst Gordon enjoyed them because he was giving something back to a business world that had been extremely generous to him. The eight short breaks throughout the year also ensured that living at Mealag was generally enhanced, not diminished, as the fresh arrival of ‘guests’ removed any potential possibility of life becoming routine. The courses provided a stimulus not just to Gordon, Sandy and Margaret but to all the estate families who, in one way or other, were included and made a contribution – whether helping Sandy on the various outdoor exercises or in
helping Margaret with the catering and cleaning.

  6

  As Gordon’s guests were trying hard to mask their apprehension at the challenges that awaited them over the few days whilst seemingly enjoying the light lunch provided, a black Mercedes E300 saloon drew up outside a row of garages situated in a small cul-de-sac off the Rue Raspail southeast of Paris. The driver, Claude Carron, kept the engine running and thirty seconds later Fadyar Masri emerged from the rear of her apartment block, opened the passenger door and got inside. Carron quickly executed a three-point turn and turned left at the main road. They chatted about nothing of consequence for several minutes before Fadyar raised the subject that had been the reason for her coded call to meet Carron.

  “Does London alter anything?” she demanded. “Why wasn’t I informed?”

  “Because you didn’t need to know; I wasn’t told either. Actually, I am picking up rumours that the London bombings were carried out by some dissidents angry at the Iraq War but I just don’t know. Frankly no one else does either. It wasn’t anyone we are aware of.”