by Alan G Boyes
32
Assistant Commissioner Phillip Manders was holding his regular monthly progress review with his immediate subordinates and Bill Ritson had reported on virtually all of the cases for which he was responsible, but there was one small aspect he felt he should bring to the attention of his boss.
“There has been an interesting development on the Hannet-Mar / Crossland case, Sir. The money still hasn’t moved, but I did do a bit of checking along the lines you mentioned. Crossland’s relatives are all legit – nothing there to cause us any alarm – but it would appear that his wife is known to some very high-ranking people. Part of her computer records are so highly classified that even we can’t access the details.”
“What!” shouted Manders. “We’re the bloody ATU. We can look at anything, anywhere. What do you mean? What’s going on?”
“Well, we were of that opinion too, Sir, so of course have checked it out and actually there is one classification of computer record that we are barred from. It’s not mentioned in our manuals anywhere, but it is coded as SR12. Haven’t a clue what that stands for, but anyhow, shall I tell you what we’ve found out?”
“OK, OK, get on with it then, but if its important I’m not going to let this go.” Manders’ ire was rising, something his doctor had told him to control only a few weeks earlier when he had his six monthly check-up for hypertension.
“Well, it isn’t much. As I say, we used that secret software program that draws together data from all State computer records across the varying systems… ”
“Eyeball… ” interrupted Manders, “the one nobody knows we have.”
“That’s the one. Well, the data it came back with on the screen was virtually blank apart, of course, from the name of Mrs Cindy Crossland. The surname is how it came up on our regular cross check of names, and her address matches that of Alan Crossland. Her date and place of birth, car registration details from DVLA, National Insurance number was shown and… ”
“Get to the point Bill, I don’t want to know if she is a fucking pensioner!” Manders blood pressure had clearly not abated and he was beginning to flush around the cheeks on his face. Ritson ignored the interruption.
“… and her security classification was in place of what was supposed to be the data from any of the geeks files.” Manders let out a low, but clearly audible whistle and sat back in his chair taking in deep breaths. He waved his hand for his detective chief superintendent to continue.
“She has been cleared by Five” said Ritson, making reference to Great Britain’s famous MI5 counter espionage organisation.
“Her clearance is high, level seven.” He paused, deliberately knowing it would add emphasis to his next statement.
“What is even more intriguing is that Six have also cleared her to that level.” The reference to Great Britain’s foreign counter intelligence agency made Manders sit bolt upright in his chair.
“There is only one other note on the data record, in the comments box, and I’ll read it if I may, Sir?”
Manders nodded.
“A Mr Jack Donaldson was noted on one occasion as following the subject by car. This aspect has been thoroughly investigated and no action required and assessed as no threat to the subject.”
“We ran the name of Jack Donaldson through our systems, and came up with over a thousand possible matches. However, only one lives within a radius of twenty-five miles of the Crossland’s and, this is another really intriguing aspect, he turns out to be none other than Mr Crossland’s chauffeur.”
Ritson was proud of the way he had presented the sparse facts, like an accomplished angler delicately casting a fly to attract his quarry. He just hoped that he had hooked Manders into finding out more.
“Well, I’m buggered. But you’re wrong about Donaldson being the interesting bit. Probably nothing strange in her husband’s driver being spotted driving behind her. I expect there was a pretty innocent explanation. But in any event Bill, that cannot be why the computer record is protected. What has Mrs Crossland done to be cleared by both intelligence services? Do you know?”
Ritson cursed under his breath. He was so keen to dramatise his presentation for effect that he had made a fundamental mistake of not reciting everything his team had found out. His lure had crashed onto the water and he now had to come clean with an impatient Manders.
“Mrs Crossland is ex-Cabinet Office, Press and PR, and now is a freelance journalist and writer. Her experience in government might explain why she has been cleared to a high level by some agencies, but all I can ascertain about SR12 is that all enquiries have to go through to the Foreign Office. That seems strange. As far as I can ascertain she has never worked in the FO nor be high enough in Cabinet Office to merit that level of attention by them unless, perhaps, she was or is some kind of agent. I thought I should await your instructions before proceeding further with that line of enquiry”
Manders rose from his chair and started pacing around the large floor. After a minute he sat back in his chair and leaned forward towards Ritson.
“This is bloody odd. We think that Crossland may wittingly or unwittingly be channelling funds to terrorists whilst his wife is cleared by both security organisations and has some highly important connection to the Foreign Office. I want this looked into, but do not, emphasis not, approach the Foreign Office. In fact, I will take over the file temporarily and raise the matter with the commissioner himself. He moves in circles that we can only dream of, and he might shed more light on this SR12 classification. The other aspect might be Donaldson, and whether he was actually tailing Mrs Crossland for a reason or simply following her down the road. Perhaps they had both just left somewhere. Anyhow, we can leave that Bill. If the security guys are satisfied, it will not be that important.”
The Chief Commissioner, Sir Neil Roberts, an Old Etonian with a first in Classics from Balliol College Oxford had risen rapidly through the ranks, fast-tracked from the moment he entered the Police Academy. Now forty-eight he was less than a year into what would be his final appointment, and they came no higher in his chosen profession than chief commissioner. He was already well paid, but looking forward a few years he was expecting to make serious money from his final year salary inflation proof pension scheme, plus lucrative part-time consultancies and private company board appointments. The recent terrorist outrage, fortunately occurring on someone else’s watch, and the threat of more, could have derailed lesser men’s careers in the inevitable reshuffle at the top that occurs after such monumental events, but Sir Neil Roberts was not going to let that happen to him. He realised very early in his career that the greatest value of delegation was that it usually ensured he could never be held personally accountable when things went wrong. Getting one’s own hands dirty was not something that appealed to him, and he disliked it when, as now, one of his assistant chief commissioners made a special visit to see him, albeit by appointment. It usually meant that they needed Sir Neil’s personal authority for something.
Manders decided not to waste his Chief’s time with the peripheral issues of the Styles death or Donaldson, and in ten minutes had outlined some chosen facts. He ended by asking if Roberts could, and would, access the concealed pages from the computer record of Cindy Crossland. Roberts had listened patiently, sitting perfectly still and upright in his large chair, and never nodding his head or making any other gesture or mannerism that might indicate how he was thinking. This lack of emotion and absence of feedback frustrated and irritated Manders whose animated manner displayed a quite different personality. The cold Roberts gave nothing away until he had to.
“Phillip.” Having listened to what Manders had to say Roberts cordially addressed his subordinate who hated being addressed by his full Christian name, especially by his boss whom Manders was convinced only used it to sound pompous.
“You have no actual evidence, yet, with which to confront Mr Crossland and really, all you have are a lot of loose ends that you may eventually tie into a knot – though what y
ou expect that to retain is problematic.”
Manders’ loathing of tortured metaphors exceeded that of not being called simply ‘Phil’, and he was sure his disdain slightly showed in his facial expression. Roberts raised his voice.
“Is that not right?” he said accusingly but continued before Manders could reply.
“As it happens I believe I can personally access SR12 cases, but I am not minded to do so at this point in time on this matter.” He paused. “As you may be aware, the relationship between the government and myself has become a little strained of late and I really would have to have solid grounds to poke my nose into SR12 cases. The system will log my access of the computer record and if I were to be approached to explain my personal interest in the file, I can say little other than I did so out of curiosity. From what you have told me it seems that, if anything, the wife’s classification from both Five and Six in itself implies, does it not, that her husband’s probity is likely to be beyond question? She would not have got that clearance if there was the slightest suspicion about her husband.”
Manders was not happy at the way the chief had turned the whole basis of the interview on its head, but knew when to retreat gracefully in defeat.
“As you wish, Sir.” Manders rose to leave, but Roberts waved at him to stay seated.
“Phillip, stay a while. As you know, I am a great admirer and supporter of you and your crew at ATU, and that will always continue as long as I am at the helm.” Manders inwardly groaned as he anticipated having to listen to a lecture from his sailing fanatic boss interspersed with nautical imagery.
“Your work in helping to clear up the London attacks last year was outstanding and you have saved this country from numerous other threats. Politically, however, we have a government whose main focus is conducting the war on terror overseas but obsessed with reducing domestic crimes, like burglary. Our very success here in thwarting the major threats to our security at home can lead to complacency in some quarters and the ATU is an expensive part of my ship. I get somewhat tired of the politicians in Whitehall who make incomprehensible comparisons, such as equating how many extra coppers on the beat we could have if we reduced our specialist task forces and technical departments. I just wanted you to know, I have to chart our passage through very choppy waters these days. I back you and Ritson. He is a good man. If you are suspicious then follow it through as best you can and come back to me when you have something more tangible.”
Manders was genuinely surprised and appreciative of Roberts candour though not his pompous manner and his maritime analogies. He had never known the man to talk in such personal terms and could only wonder how much pressure he was under.
33
Fadyar Masri, Nasra Khan, Mawdud Mattar and Sharid Bagheri had taken almost eleven hours driving the 440 mile journey to Lochaber region of the Highlands of Scotland. Masri and Khan had hired a Renault, Mattar and Bagheri a 4x4 Freelander, but from different small garages who leased out very few cars. Both had been paid for in cash. Unlike Cindy Crossland, none of the four had taken much interest in the grandness of the mountains, glens or of the glittering beauty of the lochs. The nearby church bell was striking eight o’clock when the group finally reached Spean Bridge on a wet Sunday evening. Fadyar and Khan pulled onto the forecourt of the local hotel where they had booked a room using false names, and waved goodbye to Mattar and Bagheri who continued along the road. They next met the following morning at 10am in the car park of the Eagles Rest Hotel, situated two miles from the tiny hamlet of Corach and near to Loch Quoich. Fadyar went over to Mattar, sitting behind the wheel of the Freelander. She was pleased to see that he and Bagheri were dressed as typical tourists, prepared for bad weather. An assortment of waterproof jackets, boots and hats cluttered the cargo area, whilst on the backseats were rucksacks, and thick woollen sweaters.
“Firstly, we are going to drive the length of this road, to Kinloch Hourn. Drive slowly as might a tourist. Sharid, you will make notes of anything of interest, whilst Mawdud drives. You should particularly make an accurate grid reference of every track that leads off this road as the Ordnance Survey maps may not have plotted them all, or some may have changed over time. I will be ahead of you on the road; don’t follow me too closely. Wait about ten minutes before you leave here. If you see we have stopped, then join us.” Fadyar then walked back to Khan and got in.
“Drive slowly, Nasra. I don’t want to miss anything.”
True to his word they took nearly an hour on the journey to the dam, with Khan repeatedly having to stop while Fadyar briefly took photographs or made notes.
As the rear face of the huge dam came into view, Khan gasped. “In the name of Allah, that is enormous. I wasn’t expecting anything that size.”
“Nor me,” uttered an equally shocked Fadyar.
As they reached the dam they parked at the same spot Cindy had the previous Christmas, on the large area of flattened earth and rubble immediately adjacent to the bland building which houses the dam’s recording equipment and a variety of switchgear controls for the shaft intake. For a full five minutes, neither said a word as they studied the dam and its surroundings.
It was Khan who broke the silence. “Our target cannot be far away, look at this”. As he spoke, he passed the folded map to Fadyar.
“You are right, Nasra. That is why I am taking so long to study the dam. The lodge is on the far shore, probably over there I expect,” she pointed her finger towards where the loch disappeared into a hidden bay. “We will see all that later, but this dam will be very crucial to our planning. It appears to be the only crossing point to the far shore, but is certainly not wide enough for a vehicle and I noticed as we passed it also has a small iron gate at both ends.”
The Freelander arrived, parked next to them and they all got out of their vehicles. Bagheri placed the high powered binoculars to his eyes and slowly turned so that he covered every aspect of the dam.
“They have to get in by boat, Fadyar, but I’ve looked and can’t see boats anywhere.”
“The lodge must have at least two access options. The weather here can be appalling and crossing by boat would be highly dangerous in such conditions. There has to be a way in from another road.” As she spoke, Fadyar looked carefully at the map and rested the tip of her index finger, much like a pointer, an inch away from the dam.
“Can you see that small road, the one next to Loch Arkaig? Even though no road is shown off it, there has to be a forest trail or track that leads into Mealag Lodge. A helipad has also been built somewhere within the grounds – I learnt that from the internet – so the materials needed for that must have required access by road.”
“How wealthy is the target?” Bagheri inquired.
“I can tell you our target is not the wealthy owner.” Fadyar didn’t elaborate, and changed the subject.
“My guess is that if we carry on down this road towards Kinloch Hourn, in a mile or two the lodge will come into view. Nasra and I will stop there. You two will drive on as though you do not know us, and continue with your note taking. I want a thorough report on Kinloch Hourn. There are people there and it has access to the sea, so there must be some kind of anchorage or harbour. I shall visit there tomorrow, whilst you two will go back to the main road and find the road to Loch Arkaig and also confirm if there is a way from there into the Lodge. If you need to hire an even more powerful 4x4 then hire one the following day. OK let’s move. I’ll see you back here when you’ve completed your reconnaissance of Kinloch Hourn.”
When the Mealag complex came into view, Fadyar asked Khan to stop the car. There was no immediate place to do so on the road, but he saw a passing place on the right and reversed into it so that they could look out of the front windscreen across the loch. Fadyar produced her small pocket telescope from her pocket. It was a cheap four section scope that extended to 35cm, but it provided remarkably clear images up to twenty five times magnification, and she preferred its simplicity to that of binoculars which always see
med to give her difficulty in focusing upon an object. She smiled as she thought of Bagheri’s expensive binoculars that albeit provided sharper images but at less than half the magnification of her telescope and at ten times the cost. They could see the landing stage and part of one of the chalets, but not the lodge itself. She and Khan independently jotted down some notes. They casually got out of the car and strolled along the road pretending to take in the scenery and within a few steps noticed the trodden down grass that signified the pathway to shore. They walked down and found a single wooden boat tied up at a small jetty. The boat was without oars or an outboard.
