Dreams to Die For

by Alan G Boyes

  “Oh well. I wish you the best and hope something works out. You are still very attractive, Cindy, you won’t have any problem getting fixed up with someone. Just make sure they look after you. Whatever my faults, I have always tried to be kind and to treat you well.”

  Cindy felt the tears welling up behind her eyes. What Alan said was true, he had always been kind. Cindy tried to laugh off her mixed feelings of sentimentality and angst at how she had treated him.

  “Stop it, Alan. All this nostalgia is too much for me. How about we have another drink and a change of subject?”

  “OK, I’ll get them, but while I’m doing that just take a last look around the house – if there is anything that you want take it now, or I’ll arrange for it to be stored or delivered, whatever you decide. I’ve got everything out of the attic, its upstairs in the fourth bedroom.”

  Cindy went around the house. There was nothing she had seen upstairs that she particularly wanted, but as she entered the dining room two china ornaments of working breed springer spaniels caught her eye – a present from Alan when he was trying so hard to please her.

  “Can I take these Alan? You gave them to me, remember? I always loved them.”

  “Of course. They’re yours anyway.” Alan was pleased she had taken them, for they reminded him of unhappier times. “Are you still involved with the dogs? Don’t tell me you have got your own!” he chuckled.

  “Yes I still enjoy the club but no, I haven’t got a dog.”

  As soon as they had finished their drinks, Cindy said it was time for her to go and Alan rose from his chair. Not long ago he probably would have asked her to stay, but now the thought did not enter his head. He accompanied her to the door.

  “No goodbye’s Cindy, please. Just au revoir. And thank you. We did have a lot of good times, shared some laughs and for me you will always be the girl in the coffee shop!” Alan softly wrapped both arms around her waist and kissed her briefly on the lips. She didn’t object and the kiss was fleeting.

  “OK then; au revoir it is. Good luck Alan. I really hope things work out for you.”

  She got into her car, pressed the switch to wind down the electric window and waved as she drove around the large semi-circular driveway. Alan remained standing in the porch, waving back. He was surprised at how much his feelings had changed towards Cindy. She could no longer hurt him, his emotions were controlled and calm – almost, but not quite, indifferent. It was obvious to him that she had lied over the affair, though somewhat perversely he did believe her story that it had started after the fateful journey to London. He was sure she had told the truth over that, but she had still not provided any explanation of her indifferent attitude to him that started way before 7/7. Her confession to the affair made him somewhat angry. He wished she could have been honest sooner and saved him the hurt and torment of wondering whilst they were still living together, but maybe, he said to himself, that’s what people do in these situations – lie until they are either found out or they themselves can’t stand the strain. He shrugged his shoulders. He considered it a little odd that she did not wish to reveal her boyfriend’s name, though in all other respects it had been a pleasant, cordial evening. He was glad he had suggested that they meet for a last time, but he was already looking forward to seeing Chloe tomorrow.

  A few days later, Donaldson was driving Alan to a banking conference in Leeds. Alan was simply a delegate, going more for reasons of finding an excuse to have a day out of the office than in the expectation of learning anything useful and certainly not with a view to contributing to the discussions. He was seated in the ample, comfortable front passenger seat and had been chatting to his driver for quite a while when Crossland said, “Cindy came round the other night to Red Gables, we had a very pleasant evening. She seems pretty relaxed now the divorce and everything is wrapped up.”

  “Really, that’s good. What brought that about?” Donaldson enquired.

  “Oh, I’m thinking of selling Red Gables and moving to the southeast. Thought I would ask her if there was anything she wanted etc and really to say goodbye. Of course, if I do move, I’ll make it worthwhile for you to come too.”

  Before Donaldson had time to reply Crossland quickly added, “Don’t get the wrong idea Jack, nothing happened between us. It wasn’t one of those final fucks for old-times type of things!”

  “Well it wouldn’t be, would it? Now she’s getting laid by this Truscott bloke.” The words came out before Donaldson had given them any thought, and he instantly regretted saying them.

  “What? What did you say? Truscott? The millionaire who has that property company that owns the cottage at Grimley?” Crossland paused slightly before shouting, “Him?”

  Crossland was dumfounded and Donaldson spent the next quarter of an hour providing some excuse as to how he didn’t think his boss would want to know given Chloe and his divorce. He explained he had seen the two of them together in Cindy’s car and, out of curiosity, had followed them back to Grimley where Truscott stayed the weekend. It was several minutes before Crossland spoke, his mind trying to unscramble the plethora of recollections along with dates to try and make sense of what he had just been told. Once he had recovered from the initial shock, he became angry; very angry indeed.

  “She bloody deceived me. Not just about him, but she even got me to pay her three quarters of a million plus half the flat! Bloody money-grabbing bitch.”

  His ire came from the deep hurt he felt. He could scarcely believe that Cindy could be so duplicitous towards him. She appeared so pleasant and friendly the evening they spent together, whilst all the time she was hiding this enormous secret from him. She should have been honest with him. He deserved to be told. He had a right to know when he was her husband and they were living together, and he certainly should have been told before he agreed the financial settlement. He felt deceived, betrayed, tricked.

  “Turn the car round, Jack. Fuck the conference. I’m going home”

  43

  Fadyar Masri returned to Paris, refreshed and invigorated by her holiday. The journey back was tiring and she relaxed in her bath, letting the hot water soothe away the ache between her shoulders and at the base of her spine caused by driving such a long way in a small car. She had been unable to take her mind completely off her assignment whilst away, but it had helped her unwind and had also ensured that everything about the operation had been firmly committed to memory. She was ready. Tomorrow morning, she would send the necessary instructions to the banks.

  She rose at 7:30am and an hour later was sitting at her laptop, typed in her password and waited for the desktop icons to appear. She was calm and unhurried. She accessed the internet and then the online banking service for Hannet-Mar International Bank. She keyed in her bank logonid, then her password and was presented with a final security screen. The bank’s computer had randomly selected that she had to infill the first, third and fourth digits of another password, the other four digits being blanked out. She typed them in and ‘Welcome Halima Chalthoum” appeared in large, bold lettering in the centre of the screen alongside, in smaller print, her account number. Listed below were a range of services that she could select. Fadyar marvelled at the technology. The infidels sure were good at developing technology that made life easy for everyone including their enemies. She double-clicked her mouse against the service marked ‘Withdrawals’, and a few moments later the screen appeared and she commenced filling in the required fields. She needed a sum that would cover all of Carron’s expenses, plus reimburse the Birmingham accounts and also give her some money to draw upon and exchange for sterling. There were bound to be some losses on exchange and currency rates, plus charges from some banks and she had calculated that she should therefore withdraw 150,000 pounds sterling.

  She carefully entered the name of an Egyptian bank, its international sort code and the account number into which the money would be initially credited. She completed the remainder of the screen and pressed the ‘enter’ key. A copy of
the screen she had just input appeared with a message saying to key ‘enter’ again if all the details were correct. She carefully re-read the completed boxes and pressed the key. Nothing happened for a few moments, then another screen appeared telling her the transaction had been successful and asked if there was any other service she would like. She declined and logged out of the bank’s system. She was unsure just how quickly the funds would be credited into the Egyptian account but she logged onto their system anyway. Having navigated through all the screens and passwords that were similar to those of Hannet-Mar, she was disappointed to find that the account did not record them as being received. She tried again a quarter of an hour later and obtained the same negative response. She started to get nervous. She had understood from the banks that such transactions were immediate, and she really hoped that information was correct as she had not planned for a lengthy delay. She became agitated when she thought that perhaps they would not be credited until the next day since that would seriously affect her timetable. Surely, she thought, there is not going to be a problem so early in the mission.

  She waited, nervously tapping a pencil hard onto a pad beside the computer such that the point penetrated the paper before breaking off. She carried on banging the broken end ever harder into the paper, whilst she feverishly kept logging onto the Egyptian system. After an hour she had become quite dispirited, and out of habit pressed the enter key again to view the account screen, following the ‘Welcome Halima’ message. Her eyes lit up and euphoria swept over her. There it was, a seemingly huge sum of Egyptian pounds and a few piasters, such was the exchange rate. The delay, unknown to Fadyar, was not that the transfer had not taken place. It had, but it took an hour for the web site to be automatically updated. She navigated to the withdrawal section of the system and this time completed the screens for 75,000 Egyptian Pounds, equivalent to 10,000 euros, to be transferred to the Yemeni Bank. She did not however exit the system when asked if there was any other service she wanted. She answered in the affirmative and selected again the withdrawal facility. She now entered the details of the Banque Privee del Solegit SA that was based just outside of Geneva and transferred to it the remaining money. The Swiss account was particularly important as she knew it was the major vehicle by which the Abu Al-Mazan terrorist group concealed the bulk of their funds, not just for Fadyar’s mission but for all their activities throughout Western Europe. As with most Swiss bank accounts where anonymity of ownership was a pre-requisite, the account itself was in the name of corporation registered in the Cayman Islands which in turn was owned by a Panamanian Trust. The trust had purportedly been set up by two apparently wealthy individuals, both from Lithuania – though any country where individuals are likely to be difficult to be traced would have sufficed. The persons themselves knew nothing of the Trust, their stolen passports being used to set it up without their knowledge.

  Fadyar again suffered anguish and nervous fatigue from the even longer delay in receiving confirmation of the transaction from the Yemeni bank, but the Swiss transaction went through quickly. Eventually she saw the details on the Yemeni system and immediately transferred that to an account in Dubai. This was her own account, in her real name of Yasmin Hasan, but which had been set up to allow a Fadyar Masri to access and withdraw funds on demand – and it was as Fadyar that she had logged onto the Dubai bank. Becoming weary from staring at what had become a succession of soporific screens, she stood up and made herself a coffee. Her eyes were grateful to be removed from the brightness and slowly adjusted to the ambient light in the room. Refreshed and stimulated from the intake of caffeine and the fifteen minute break it afforded her, she returned to the desk and sat back on the fully adjustable chair before embarking upon the final part of the deception. She successfully entered the passwords and other security details, and using the name of Fadyar Masri electronically transferred a sum roughly equivalent to 10,000 euros to a French bank account in the name of Yasmin Hasan. Thirty minutes later, it appeared on her account as credited. In just over three hours, sitting behind a desk using an ordinary laptop computer she had transferred 150,000 English Pounds half way around the world, into different currencies and back again into Euros. In the note she gave to Carron were instructions for drawing upon the Swiss bank accounts and for that bank to credit her fellow conspirators in Birmingham. That would take longer than a few hours, but the money would be received well before it was needed. Carron, or whoever, would have the cash to finance the expensive items of the mission.

  It had all taken place so smoothly, and Fadyar wished now she had transferred the money the following day. She had not done so in order to give herself a day’s contingency, whereby if there had been a problem she might have been able to resolve it in time for her planned trip on the Saturday to still go ahead. As it was, she would now spend almost the entire day nervously twiddling her fingers. She also realised that if, just if, the transactions came to the attention of any authorities in the countries involved or were reported to them by any of the banks, there were twenty-four hours to trace her. She did not think such an outcome would happen, being confident that enquiries into the Swiss account would come to nothing, but the theoretical possibilities for her own account were a concern.

  Prior to shutting down her computer she had one more task to perform. Fadyar was aware that virtually all internet sites, especially the interactive ones such as online banking, download a small program known as a cookie onto the user’s computer without the user knowing. In the main, these cookies are harmless and help to speed up the user’s navigation through the various screens, pre-filling as many as possible to save the user time and to minimise errors. Some cookies therefore hold data about the user, and their computer, which can subsequently be accessed by other programs as well as the programs they were originally set up for. Fadyar had set her computer to block such access, but in case any had managed to by-pass the system she now commenced removing all cookies and the automatic log of her internet browsing history from her hard disk using a disk clean-up facility. Tomorrow she would totally erase the disk but she would not do that now in case she needed the computer again.

  44

  Cindy ached to be with Gordon, she knew she loved him, wanted him, but completely severing her relationship with Alan had always sent a slight shiver of apprehension down her spine whenever she thought about it. It was such a big step to take, but the meeting with her ex-husband at Red Gables the previous evening had stripped away from her any excuse at delaying her decision. Alan had found someone else, and was lost to her forever. The divorce had been finalised much quicker than she had anticipated, and there was now little reason for her to stay in Worcestershire. It seemed that just at the point when she had completed the furnishings and decorated the cottage to her style, the raison d’être for living in it had disappeared. This was a disappointment but she needed to be with Gordon permanently at his loch side home, experiencing the wonders and excitement of the vast natural wilderness and challenge of the Scottish Highlands, rather than the amiable, unruffled pleasures of rural Middle England. Her thoughts strayed once more to Mealag. She yearned for the gale-driven sleet smacking into her cheeks, the blue black clouds racing between the hills, the angry waters of the loch crashing into the dam wall, the thunderous sound of the deer stampeding across the thick white snow, as well as the calm, crystal clear days where one could watch the soaring eagles and predatory buzzards. She wondered if the vivid images captured in her mind were really an indulgent metaphor of her future life with Gordon; unpredictable, exhilarating and tumultuous. Mealag beckoned, and she responded. She packed a case and within an hour she was driving north on the M6 motorway.

  Several hours later as she sat in the large lounge overlooking the loch, she spoke to Gordon about when she might move in permanently.

  “Whenever, it cannot be soon enough for me. I miss you terribly when we’re not together so why not now, what’s to stop you?”

  “Well, it can’t happen quite like that
!” Cindy’s voice rose with excitement, not anger. “There’s all the cottage to sort out and my things are there, but if you are happy to leave the cottage empty and re-let it later then that’s great.” She leant across the sofa and kissed him. “In fact, it’s wonderful. Oh, I do so love you, you lovely man. Thank you for rescuing me”

  “That’s settled then. We have a few weeks before Dean and Paulette arrive, so in a couple of days I’ll get the company to start the re-letting process on the cottage. We can arrange from here a removal van for your stuff and we’ll fly down the day before. I’ve never asked, have you ever been on a helicopter or private jet? Would you like it?”

  Things were being decided so quickly Cindy was a little stunned. “Mmmm, yes, I guess so. I mean, you know I’m OK with flying but I’ve never been in anything other than a commercial airliner. Sounds like it might be fun, but how do we get the large items into here, Gordon? Not by small plane or helicopter, that’s for sure!”

  “No, silly. There are two ways really. In the garages by the dam there is a much larger boat and that will take items up to the size of a single wardrobe and the like. Anything really difficult can come in a container from the Arkaig road, then into the estate at the rear of Mealag. We use a tractor pulling a large, very large, trailer. It’s slow but certain, and as long as one uses plenty of foam packaging and makes certain the load is secure, very effective. So, leave all that to me. You bring everything you want. There’s an excellent removal firm based in Fort Augustus that I’ve used several times. They can get any contents you want from the cottage to here. They know Mealag well and can use all the equipment we have on the estate to move stuff into here, so we can leave it to them to advise what method we need to use. So, you have no reason to delay moving in.”