Dreams to Die For

by Alan G Boyes

“Well, I can imagine there is no point in my asking you to explain your reasons, but I do have the bank’s interests to consider. I trust I can remove my own personal code on it?”

  “I understand that Sir, but I have the nation’s security to consider. I am requesting you do nothing with that account, but if you disagree I can insist upon it and legally force you to comply. I am not concerned if it remains marked for your attention only, provided no one takes any action upon it.”

  “Chief Superintendent, there will be no need for legal measures or anything like that. The whole purpose of this call was to ask your opinion. Now I have it, you have my word we will not take any action on the account.” Crossland remained pleasant and calm despite Ritson’s rather high-handed threat.

  “Thank you, Sir, I appreciate your co-operation.”

  Crossland smiled as he put down the phone, satisfied with the outcome of his call. He would have been delighted had he known of Ritson’s reaction once the conversation had ended. The detective stormed into Manders’ office and explained what had transpired.

  “I actually had to say thank you to the bastard,” Ritson exclaimed to his boss. “But he’s no bloody terrorist. He’s a typically smooth wanker banker. That’s what he is!”

  Manders laughed loudly, “Crossland has really got to you, hasn’t he? Clever though, he’s turned the tables on us in a way. Yep. Clever… very neat. He now knows we are continuing to monitor the account, and by implication the persons associated with it, but has distanced himself from the enquiry. I tend to agree with your assessment of him Bill, but if he were to be involved with these fanatics or was being used by them, albeit unwittingly, he’s someone we must keep on our radar. Was that telephone call really just out of courtesy, or was it to find out if we are still watching him and his bank? I have a feeling that the Chalthoum account is causing him more angst than we know. Why? That’s what I want to find out. Why?”

  36

  In Paris, the morning June sunshine was causing the city temperature to rise rapidly, and a thin layer of smog from the emissions of thousands of vehicle exhausts hung languidly over the streets in the still air. Having eaten a simple breakfast of half a grapefruit and a slice of toast washed down with two mugs of very sweet black coffee, Fadyar Masri was ready once more to use her apartment as a planning centre. She pushed all her lounge chairs and occasional tables to the walls, clearing the largest area she could of her carpeted floor. Spread out were photographs, maps, notes and various diagrams. Before she contemplated even starting to draft out the detail, she wanted to know exactly what information she had. The most trivial piece of data could be vital and she needed to ensure that her plan would not omit something of importance that had lain unread on the floor. One by one she examined the photographs and placed them so it was possible to get a full panoramic view of all sides of the loch near to Mealag Lodge. When she had absorbed one set of photographs, she would remove them to be replaced by another. She moved other pictures in position to show areas such as Kinloch Hourn and the dam itself. There were nearly two dozen photographs of the latter, taken at every angle from both sides of the dam plus others that members of her group had taken as they walked across the dam towards Mealag. There were photographs of tracks and paths including several of the large garages, the padlock and chains that held them, and the external bell of the alarm system that guarded them. All the access points to Mealag had been photographed whether from Loch Quoich or Loch Arkaig. It surprised her that there were fifteen pictures just of Mealag Lodge and the complex, as she hadn’t realised they had been able to take so many, and she was also impressed with the clarity and detail of all the pictures. Her initial fears at the dam of not being able to get close enough to the lodge had been unfounded as the sharp images before her proved.

  Three hours had elapsed and Fadyar was suddenly very aware of the scorching sun searing through her cotton blouse and onto her shoulders. She stood up, her back painful and stiff from being bent over for so long, and stretched her arms upwards to relieve the pressure. She fully closed the window blinds and the room darkened, but was still bright enough for her to see everything clearly. She reached into the fridge and pulled the ring on a cola can. Holding it to her lips, she poured the cold liquid into her mouth swallowing quickly. Refreshed, she returned to the assortment of information strewn across the floor and took hold of the pile of maps. She had purchased some additional maps when in Scotland, two each of numbers 413 and 414 of the Ordnance Survey Explorer series. Scaled at 1:25000, these were twice as detailed as the Landranger maps. From her needlework basket, she cut a length of strong black cotton and spent the next hour and half carefully laying the thread along roads and tracks before measuring its length against the scale imprinted on the map. She compared the distances calculated in this way with those she and her compatriots had taken in the car or estimated by foot. She made a definitive note of the longer of the two measurements, thereby never underestimating journey times nor distances. Fadyar Masri was determined that this mission was going to succeed. The death of her parents had left her with a burning ambition for revenge, the flames of which could only be quenched by a retaliatory act of such daring that it would shock those who sent their soldiers to kill innocent Iraqi citizens like her mother and father. Failure was not an option and she was quite prepared to die proving it. She therefore needed to anticipate and understand every foreseeable difficulty that might arise, and find a way of neutralising any threat to the mission. She worked the next three days carefully compiling options and strategies until she was satisfied she had as near-perfect plan as she could devise.

  The following day was spent building in options at key points in the plan, and the day after Fadyar worked on producing the list of equipment she would need. She was exhausted. Her brain was aching and her body was rebelling against having received only very spasmodic and totally inadequate replenishment of vital nutrients. The strain of such intense reading had reddened the white sclera surrounding her soft brown eyes and her heart continually thumped hard into the wall of her chest. She knew she needed to rest and spent two days trying to relax, not touching any of the material gathered from the reconnaissance trip, but she had no control over her mind which whirred incessantly with details of the plan. The following week she meticulously checked and reviewed every aspect about her plan, making certain that everything that could be thought of had been. Satisfied, she left a coded message for Carron to visit her at the flat after dark, giving him a choice of three dates.

  37

  The Secretary of State is the chief executive officer of the United States Department of State, the most senior of all federal executive departments, and, after the President and Vice President, is the third-highest official of the federal government. Dean Assiter was a man who wielded considerable power and influence around the world, not just in Washington. He was the President’s chief adviser on U.S. foreign policy and personally negotiated, interpreted and, when the need arose, terminated treaties and agreements. US foreign trade missions and overseas intelligence assets reported to him. He was a familiar face at international conferences (he had first met Gordon Truscott at a world poverty meeting) and was responsible for the administration and management of foreign embassies and consulate offices. All the inter-departmental activities of the U.S. Government overseas were known to him and he was responsible for giving them direction and ensuring their effective co-ordination. Such was his stature within the US Administration that he reported directly to the President.

  It was well after 6pm on a sultry midsummer evening in Washington DC, and Dean Assiter had been behind his desk since seven that morning. He would have liked, just for once, to have been able to go home after an eleven hour working day and enjoy a drink on his patio, or stroll along the mighty Potomac. Instead, it seemed as if he would yet again be stuck in his office breathing artificially cooled, regurgitated air for a couple more hours. Whilst he never minded working long hours, indeed they had been the norm since taking
office, he felt he had more important things to deal with than discuss his September holiday arrangements, and he was becoming impatient.

  Seated before him in the large, oblong room were three special advisers who together had found it necessary to approach the Secretary of State’s chief of staff in order to get the top man to see them, as their several requests through more normal channels had been largely ignored. Assiter had hitherto put off any meeting but, pressed by his own department’s chief of staff, had finally conceded to the request and scheduled a half hour meeting commencing at 5:30pm. Forty minutes had now elapsed and his usually mild and affable demeanour, that belied nerves of steel and a brain as sharp as a rapier’s blade, was close to changing.

  “Look, guys, let me sum up. You all want me to take, at the US taxpayers expense, at least four Special Forces as protection to Scotland, in addition to the two already scheduled. Yet you say Truscott’s place is easy to defend and has minimal risk of attack. We’re going in by chopper right to the door and the Brits will also have some of their people around, all armed. Is that right so far?”

  Three heads nodded their agreement. Assiter continued.

  “You need to understand this is supposed to be a holiday, a goddamn break away from all this crap here.” He waved his arm across the top of the magnificent mahogany desk, indicating the sheaves of papers stacked neatly upon it. “It’s not a trip to Baghdad for Christ’s sake. You also say I shouldn’t go out fishing or walking in the mountains since even if you had an army you couldn’t guarantee me safe from sniper fire, so whether you have two SF’s or six seems to make little difference to my overall safety as the whole goddamn point of this trip is to go fishing, hunting and so on.”

  The middle of the trio in front of Assiter had gradually taken on the mantle as spokesperson for them all.

  “Secretary of State, as you have heard this afternoon the CIA, FBI and the Executive Protection Agency are all agreed that more SF’s would be better for your overall protection, in the unlikely event that some threat did exist.”

  Pointing to the man on his left the spokesperson continued, “Roger, here, has told you the CIA assessment is that Great Britain has become the European hub of Islamic militancy due to its relaxed immigration stance over many years, especially in relation to immigrants coming into their country from states like Pakistan. A second important factor is the rise of home-grown militant fanaticism, whipped up by the religious teachers who exploit the disenchantment of many adolescent young men who have grown up poor and out of work in the ethnic communities of their parents. The UK’s own 7/7 on the London Underground last year sent shock waves through Downing Street when it was realised that the perpetrators were all resident British nationals. Turning to your holiday itself, if you go fishing in a small boat in the middle of one of their Scottish lakes, or lochs, or whatever they’re termed, you can be picked off anywhere from the surrounding hills by someone with a rifle equipped with a telescopic sight. It is simply too damned dangerous, Sir.”

  Assiter was quick to respond. “If I cannot fish and shoot, what is the point in going? None. I repeat gentlemen, I am going and I am going to fish and hunt. So, extra men will be superfluous; they will not protect me more. You tell me there are only three ways into the Lodge: One, over a dam which has a single track across the top for 300 yards and can be easily defended at the lodge end. The second would entail any attackers negotiating some of the roughest, most remote mountain tracks in the Highlands – and then they face a locked gate built into a high wire fence, where doubtless there will be a patrol. Lastly, the only other access is from the water itself. Anyone crossing directly and trying to storm the house from the shore-front will be easily visible for at least fifteen minutes, or they somehow land themselves miles away, unseen, from a boat; carry their assault gear through a thick forest, only to be faced with another high steel mesh fence that will be patrolled. Most rooms in the house are alarmed and the only two roads that could be used can be sealed off quickly and are dead-ended. If your two guys and the Brits can’t defend these access points, only God can save me. I’m very sorry gentlemen, I thank you for your concern which is appreciated, but the answer is no. I will take two Special Forces, that’s all. You have confirmed to me that only very few people within the British government, and within our own Administration, know of my plans and that we will be supplying disinformation to the press and media via releases and misleading TV newsreels and so on which will purport to show my departure to the US after the three day meetings and will also confirm my arrival back here in Washington. I think that is sufficient. Any final questions?”

  “Can we please ask you to wear one of our protective vests at all times when you are fishing or out walking?” One of the aides implored.

  I’ll take it and try to remember to wear it, but if it interferes with my fishing I shall throw it away.” Assiter’s dogmatic tone stifled any further discussion on that subject but the aide did ask another question.

  “The Brits have insisted, as they always do, that our SF’s are unarmed; a request they know we routinely ignore but which could aid them politically if there was an incident. I presume, Sir, you will be happy for us to follow normal procedure?”

  Assiter replied quickly, “Yep, that’s fine and the only concession I will make. The guys looking after me may be armed with semi-automatic weapons and a single hand gun each. Nothing else, understood?” Three heads nodded. “You may use my personal baggage if you need to.”

  “No need, Sir. Our embassy there has adequate provisions of material.”

  “OK then. Apart from me thanking you for your concern and advice which is appreciated, that, gentlemen, seems to be it. There is no more to say”.

  Turning to his chief of staff who had remained silent throughout, he concluded the meeting. ”Draw up a minute of this discussion and I’ll sign it. Thank you all again.”

  Assiter rose from his chair, grabbed his jacket from its hanger and walked to the door with the advisers, hopeful of making it home before eight. As his secretary held the door open for the others to walk through, his green telephone rang. He took a deep sigh, returned to the desk and lifted the receiver.

  “Good evening, Mr President.”

  38

  Fadyar opened the door of her flat. She had hidden away all the plans and photographs that the previous week had littered her floor and the furniture had been returned to its normal place. On this occasion Carron was not displeased to be visiting, though he was a little out of breath. He had parked his car over a mile away and then walked through a maze of small side streets before turning back on his route to ensure he was not being followed. Satisfied, he made his way to Fadyar’s flat and was glad of the glass of peach juice she offered on his arrival.

  “Here’s to success, Fadyar, whatever your mission is.” Carron raised his glass and gave the toast.

  “Indeed, yes. To success”. They lightly clinked the glasses together and drank a little.

  “Claude, I have to tell you something of what I am planning as there are some aspects that trouble me. Are you happy about that, or would you prefer to contact someone else asking them to speak with me?”

  “My role Fadyar is to assist you in certain ways if I can be of help. Please keep details to an absolute minimum, but what is it you want?”

  Fadyar then outlined the terrain and the lodge where her target would be staying, carefully not revealing its whereabouts nor any information about Assiter. She said she had a good plan, with inbuilt contingencies for the target’s removal, but the location presented innumerable difficulties.

  “An outright assault on the house would end in certain failure. Reason one: it would be hard to even get to the location without being seen. Reason two: once there, the target’s security forces would be a major obstacle and there will be little chance of a surprise element. Long before we could reach the house the alarm would be triggered and those inside would be alerted.”

  “So, are you planning an exte
rnal attack? Surely that carries more risk?” Carron’s surprise registered in his voice.

  “I don’t think so. Firstly, not all those guarding my friend at the house will necessarily leave when he does, and anyway I need to ensure we have a rapid departure from the scene. The lodge itself does not have that. My target likes the outdoor life – fishing or shooting, and he may even just go for a walk. It is a very scenic area and I am hopeful that makes a quick exit easier with various options open to me.”

  Fadyar continued before Carron could comment, “I need to know from you Claude whether resources will be available to take the suspect off my hands quickly. Whilst initially we can use a vehicle for our escape, the roads are very few and will be easily blocked long before we can travel far. It will be impossible to get the subject a long way away by road. That leaves boat, helicopter or small plane. I favour the latter. Where he is taken after that is not my concern.”

  “OK. Others will probably have already considered that aspect. As I understand it, your mission is limited to making the initial capture and removal. I presume you have made a note of the various options and details I can take?”

  “Yes.” She handed him a sealed envelope on which she had crudely applied melted candlewax onto the flap. Fadyar was not happy about giving out any sort of note but she had little option, as for her plan to succeed she needed to be certain of the additional support. Besides, she knew Carron would not dare open it but merely pass it on.

  “I also have a list of equipment we shall need, plus some instructions I should like implemented please.” She passed Carron a slip of paper, which he studied, whist Fadyar kept talking. “I shall require some items here but most will need to be given to our brothers in Birmingham. On the note is a code-word I have agreed with them for when you contact them with any shipments. Remember, any stuff you get must work in the UK, I’m particularly referring to the two-way radios.” Carron’s eyes widened as he read.