by Alan G Boyes
“Well, that’s how they cross.” Khan’s habit of saying the obvious sometimes annoyed Fadyar, but not today. She was puzzling out why there were no oars.
“Let’s walk up behind where we left the car, there’s a track that leads off from the lay-by. Maybe they leave the oars out of sight.” She shouted back to Khan as she had already commenced the walk. They quickly found the garages and Fadyar made a specific entry in her notebook of the thick iron chain and cross bolts that secured the doors. She also observed an overhead telephone wire secured to the right top corner of the garages and followed it back to the British Telecom pole.
“I doubt that is for a land phone, or at least not only a phone. There’s a notice that says this place is alarmed, and I guess it connects automatically to both the lodge and the police station, probably at Fort Augustus. If either alarm gets triggered, a simple road block could easily be set up where this road meets the main road and would prevent any escape. The lodge will have its own security system, probably a lot more sophisticated than this but almost certainly linked to the police, and that Arkaig road is similar to this one; it’s really one long road leading to a dead end and easily blocked.”
“We could disable the alarm,” Khan suggested.
“Possibly, but that would require time and tools. It looks a simple enough system, but I suspect it may have one or two additions that could make it tamper-proof. Unfortunately, we do not have the luxury of being able to test that.”
Fadyar was realising that this mission was certainly not going to be easy. In fact, it was already becoming far more difficult than even she imagined when she had first identified the lodge on the Ordnance Survey map back in Birmingham, but she was determined not to let her dismay be noticed by Khan.
“There is only one thing for it. Where there is water, there are always boats. We must hire a boat. I need to get a really good look at Mealag Lodge. The glimpse of it from here, and that cottage or bungalow – whatever it is – that we can see, doesn’t help us much. The map shows quite a large area of various buildings over there. Before we hire a boat, we will need to buy a couple of cheap fly fishing rods and at least look like we have a reason to be on the water. No one will travel up and down these lochs without a purpose.”
Fadyar and Khan returned to the stony parking area next to the switchgear building. Carrying their rucksacks, they climbed over the gate and crossed the dam appearing to be walkers out for a hike. Khan silently counted his footsteps and told Fadyar that the dam was over 300 metres in length. She had also been closely taking mental notes as they walked.
“What’s worse, Nasra, is that as it is so narrow and straight, it affords no cover at all along its length. Your head and shoulders are visible to everyone around the loch and to anyone driving up the road towards the dam from Corach. The walkway itself is a killing zone. A single person placed at one of the gates could hold off an army wanting to cross.”
Fadyar decided they should try and walk towards Mealag Lodge. She carefully noted where a pathway had been worn and they followed it. Her trained eye took in where it deviated from an apparently obvious straight line to keep well away from the water’s edge.
“Write down ‘soft at edge’, Nasra, while I take a look around with my scope. We must appear to be tourists at all times. Remember that.”
Stepping carefully well away from the peat bog, they continued their walk towards Mealag. A large knoll almost blocked their path as it sloped down close to the shore-line, which was itself littered with numerous pieces of wood, rope and other detritus swept to the water’s edge by the high wind of a recent storm. Behind the barren rocky outcrop stood a dense forest of tall pine trees standing proudly against the skyline.
“It’s got to be round the corner,” whispered Fadyar. “Go carefully. I’ll lead.”
Khan nervously followed a few paces behind his leader. Suddenly Fadyar stepped abruptly back, almost colliding with Khan.
“There’s a boundary deer fence at the edge of the trees, but it doesn’t quite reach the shore and then it looks completely open. I don’t think the entrance is sealed off.” She spoke quickly, her excitement growing, as they sheltered once more behind the rock.
She was amazed that there were no notices prohibiting walkers, no strong high fence, in fact nothing that prevented access; it was too easy, much too easy. Had she known it, non-motorised access rights can be exercised over most of Scotland, from urban parks and path networks, to the hills and forests, lochs and rivers and so ‘KEEP OUT’ notices would have been of little legal effect. Not only did Gordon Truscott know that, but he would never have been permitted to scar the landscape by building ugly, visible, security fences even if he had wished to, which he certainly didn’t.
Fadyar once more edged to the front of the knoll and peered around it. She discovered that there were actually two mesh fences, one on each side of the complex marking out its boundary but there was nothing that inhibited anyone from walking along the broad and expansive shore-line that fronted the lodge and chalets. Fadyar realised that the openness of the location also worked to her disadvantage. The main house, Mealag Lodge, was still out of view to her and she correctly deduced it was sited well back but almost adjacent to the forest behind the knoll. She looked across the loch, anxious to check if anyone else had parked their car or was walking along the road. It was clear, so she had time to consider her next move without attracting any unwelcome attention from sightseeing tourists. Somehow she had to get an uninterrupted view of the Lodge. She looked up at the knoll but it would be a dangerous climb and, anyway, the trees would almost certainly prevent her seeing the Lodge. She puzzled about her dilemma for a few minutes and then decided to be bold.
“We will walk past, then stop and take a few photographs of the dam. Then I will turn and we will pretend to take a few photographs of each other with the lodge and general area behind us. Actually, we shall try to take pictures of as much of the complex as possible, but quickly. We must be quick. We will then hold hands to look like a couple in love and walk on well past the lodge and continue wandering around the loch for about half an hour, before coming back so that we get an appreciation of the layout from the other direction.”
Fadyar’s elaborate subterfuge and concern were unnecessary. Only Margaret MacLean was at the lodge itself and she was busy in the kitchen whilst her husband was helping to remove a dead tree several miles away on the estate. There was nothing to inhibit her and Khan taking their time, but they were still able to take all the photographs she wanted.
The following days were spent gathering information. Kinloch Hourn had sea access and offered a potential escape route, but it was a small community and any dubious activity by outsiders would be noticed and reported. As it was, Mattar and Bagheri almost aroused suspicion when they asked at Kinloch Hourn if it was possible to hire a boat as they wished to go fishing near the dam at Loch Quoich. The boat owner explained that the dam was almost seven miles away and assured them that there was no need to travel that far in order to get a good day’s fishing. Nonetheless, Mattar and Bagheri said that they really wanted to fish the whole length of the loch and so, after some discussion, they were sold an extra gallon of fuel at an exorbitant price. The bemused boat owner, thinking the two improbable looking fishermen were even more stupid than the average tourist levied an additional surcharge for the extra wear and tear on the outboard. That trip had however provided a wealth of photographs of small inlets around the loch where a boat could safely reach the shore, plus some more photographs of Mealag.
The four had determined that a larger 4x4, more suited to rugged off-road driving, would be needed to explore the apparently rougher terrain around the Loch Arkaig area – and so hired another vehicle. The alternative access to Mealag had to be land based and therefore near to Loch Arkaig, and they had observed a small track off to the right from the unclassified road marked on the map, which seemed to go at least partway towards the large house. As it turned out, the map was accurat
e and the track petered out to nothing after a few tortuous miles, leaving the group dismayed, frustrated and physically bruised at having to return along the rock strewn, ground, none the wiser.
Farther along the Arkaig road, they quickly found another track, this time definitely not marked on the OS map, which passed through a thick forest and which seemed an altogether more promising prospect in their search for a possible entry and exit route to Mealag. Although rough, the soil had been heavily compacted indicating that heavy machinery or vehicles had regularly passed over it and two distinct parallel tracks had been formed where the grass had been worn away. Attempts had been made to level the very worse bumps and troughs, as spasmodic small areas of compacted, crushed stone could be seen where it had been used to make the route more easily passable. A deer fence had been erected and threaded through the first line of trees on both sides of the track and two miles from where it joined the Arkaig road, a small clearing had been made. Here, double steel and wire-mesh padlocked gates marked the eastern boundary entrance to the Mealag Lodge complex and blocked the way ahead. Much higher and thicker gauge fencing depicting the side boundaries was fixed at the side of each gate and disappeared into the forest, eventually re-appearing where Nasra and Fadyar took their photographs at the shore of Loch Quoich just over a mile away.
Satisfied that they had at least found one alternative access, Fadyar and her team returned to the Loch Arkaig road. Like the Quoich dam road from Invergarry, this was a single carriageway and driving upon it was very slow due to the numerous humps and bends. The Arkaig road did not meet the sea, or at least not directly, as after a few miles from the recently discovered track it ended at a gated path that quickly deteriorated to just rutted, barren earth and projecting rocks that led for miles through the largely uninhabited area of Knoydart. Fadyar had read that those living in these parts did not welcome tourist motor vehicles but, whether true or not, at the very least their large four wheel drive vehicle would be conspicuous and its occupants observed, so they decided to turn around and head back.
They had used a stopwatch to get accurate timings of running and walking across the dam wall, as well as ascertaining the journey time by boat from the bay at Mealag to the small jetty below the road. Road distances were carefully measured, but more importantly the time it took to drive along them was scrupulously logged. Suitable places on the far shore near to Mealag were very discreetly examined as to their suitability for mooring or beaching a boat. They had visited several places on the coast nearby, such as Glenelg and Sandaig, in the hope that a road or track might be found through the mountains and ruled out ever being able to drive a vehicle from Kinloch Hourn through to Knoydart.
Crucially, they had also discovered that because of the mountainous terrain the signal for their mobile phones was non-existent around the lodge and the dam, but was normal by the sea at Kinloch Hourn. The communications problem deeply troubled Fadyar. The mission was fraught with difficulties and to have any chance of success she knew that she would need to be able to communicate with her team at all times. The challenges Fadyar faced were formidable. She had no doubt that she could succeed with an assassination attempt, but capturing Assiter alive and escaping safely would be very difficult indeed. Still, she was determined to do her best and obey orders. She had all the raw data needed. It was now her responsibility as leader to devise a workable plan with reasonable chances of success, and if possible an alternative, if the original idea failed. At the conclusion of their week in the Scottish Highlands, the four terrorists had all the physical information they needed in order to prepare for their September attack, but it would be a daunting challenge.
34
Jack Donaldson learned that Crossland and his wife had agreed the terms of their divorce whilst driving his boss back to Red Gables. Crossland, seated comfortably on the sumptuous black leather rear seat, seemed quite relaxed about telling his driver of his personal matters. He told Donaldson that there was no longer any need to continue his intermittent surveillance of Cindy.
“I’m upset, of course, Jack. Still don’t know what brought about her change of attitude but life moves on. The quicker she is part of my history, the better.” Crossland sounded as if he had certainly become more confident and forward looking compared with the worried and morose figure he had been for the last few months.
Donaldson said little, but he was thinking a lot. There was something about Cindy Crossland’s change of attitude towards her husband that still puzzled him. He had known them both for many years. Cindy had always been the outward going one of the pair, almost dazzling by comparison to Alan. It was Cindy that used to love sailing and horse riding, have a glamorous job in the Press Office of the Government, loved meeting people and enjoying parties. She even looked forward to the ritualistic pre-lunch Sunday drinks of the Stillwood crowd, only too eager when it was the Crossland’s time to host to turn it into an open-house weekend party at Red Gables, that started on the Saturday afternoon and lasted late into Sunday evening. A mere two hours of topping up wine glasses on a Sunday morning wasn’t Cindy’s idea of fun. All were invited to her famed gatherings and she enjoyed nothing more than guests bringing along their own friends, especially if they were foreign as she could speak fluent French, German and Russian. And she was attractive. So much so that most of the men found excuses to gravitate in her direction as often as they deemed they would be safe from the admonition of their wives or mistresses.
Yet she had turned her back on that life and was apparently settling down alone in a reasonably sized, but not large, cottage in Grimley, going to coffee mornings, charity functions and genteel ladies lunches. True she retained an apparent liking for holidays, but her relatively new interest of gun dogs – when she herself didn’t possess a dog or shotgun – totally baffled him. No, it simply didn’t add up, he thought. He determined that he was going to find the answer, even if her husband had given up trying. What had he to lose? He still fancied his chances with her and if she were alone she would be missing male company. Why shouldn’t they have some fun together? Alternatively, if she did have something to hide that he could find out about, she might be willing to reach a mutually acceptable agreement for it to remain a secret. Either way, Donaldson’s interest in Cindy was far from diminished at hearing of her impending divorce.
He suddenly became aware that Crossland was still talking to him, saying something about a woman named Chloe.
“Sorry Sir, concentrating on the road. I didn’t quite catch that last bit.” He leaned back over his left shoulder as he spoke in order that Crossland might speak up.
“I was saying, Jack, that I recently met a woman named Chloe. She’s quite a bit younger and we’re getting on really well, so there was no point in trying to hang onto Cindy.”
“Does she know? Mrs Crossland I mean? Does she know about this Chloe?” Donaldson was not simply a thuggish ex-mercenary. He was sharp, with a quick brain which he had needed to use on several occasions to survive some very dangerous situations.
“No, Jack. I haven’t told her. Prefer her not to know just yet. Not until everything is finalised.”
The chauffeur nodded, saying nothing, but logging another piece of information that might be useful sometime. Perhaps, Donaldson thought, this might be an opportune time to raise the subject of his pay, especially as Crossland seemed in a good frame of mind and had now imparted some very personal information. He explained that his own domestic situation had become somewhat expensive lately but did not tell Crossland that the long suffering Russian wife had finally sought the advice of a support group for East European immigrants. They had ensured that Donaldson had finally paid her in cash for the pleasures he had experienced and the pain he had inflicted. In return, they would not inform the Domestic Violence Unit of the local police.
“I know you have always paid the expenses, Sir, of my trips to keep watch on Mrs Crossland, but that has entailed some very long hours and has frequently been quite tiring. Perhaps sometime, I
don’t wish to trouble you now, you could consider the whole matter of my remuneration as it must be nearly two years since it was last reviewed.”
Crossland’s reply was not to Donaldson’s liking.
“Well, Jack, to be honest, I think the bank pays you pretty well for what we might term your official duties. You have though been a great help to me personally and of course that is not strictly the bank’s business so I think something in the way of a special bonus is called for. I tell you what, I’m going to order one of the new Mercs soon – you know the latest S class – they are really good. You can have this Jag. It’s worth a few thousand and we’ll call it quits. Your bank salary always increases at the rate of inflation so you have that protection. Also, you must be one of the very few drivers, if any, that is in receipt of a bank-subsidised mortgage plus an excellent pension scheme. All in all, I don’t think you can grumble.”
“OK Sir, thank you.” Donaldson was so angry he could hardly get the few words out of his mouth. He didn’t want the fucking Jaguar. What was he supposed to do with that? He couldn’t afford to insure it, let alone pay the cost of pouring petrol down its greedy throat. He surmised, correctly, that the bank had probably written down its value to zero in its books, so the cost to Crossland or his bloody bank was nothing. All Donaldson would be able to do would be to hawk it round various dealers, or try and sell it privately for a measly few thousand quid. Three year old excessive-mileage luxury saloon cars were not renowned for fetching high second hand prices. The conversation marked a turning point for him. Henceforth, he would have a much more formal relationship with his boss and the next time Crossland needed a personal favour he would extract a high price, in cash, up front.
* * *
The months of May to August had been utter bliss for Cindy and Gordon. They had holidayed at the villa again and also taken short breaks in Rome and Milan. Cindy had wanted to see the Papal Basilica of St Peter for many years and was spellbound by its grandeur, architecture and frescos. They also visited the Sistine Chapel within the Apostolic Palace, where Cindy marvelled at the beauty of the paintings by Perugino, Botticelli and Ghirlandaio and was moved to tears at the unparalleled magnificence of the Michelangelo ceiling. In Milan, Gordon escorted her to the famed La Scala opera house for a performance of Tosca, with Cecilia Bartoli in the lead role and the orchestra under the baton of Daniel Barenbohm – the theatre’s recently appointed principal conductor.
