Dreams to Die For

by Alan G Boyes

  At the end of the evening, Fadyar spoke to them. “We are ready. Our mission will bring glory to our people, revenge for all those murdered by the invading, imperialist infidels. Sharid will be my deputy and he will ensure that if for whatever reason I am unable to continue command, or carry out the mission, it will still succeed.”

  She went to bed, tired but not totally happy. It was the second anniversary of that awful day when her parents had been murdered and the horrible recollections came flooding back to her in a series of vivid images, as if she was watching a movie in slow motion. Before going to sleep she said several more prayers than usual.

  The following morning the group rose early and spent Sunday driving leisurely to Scotland, stopping frequently on the journey. Bagheri drove the Vauxhall, with Mattar as a passenger and Khan drove the large camper accompanied by his tense, but focused, leader. Mattar was able to collect the Land Rover, paying the balance in cash, and drove along the A82 to meet up with his companions a little while later in the small public car park at the rear of the shops in Spean Bridge, the supermarket providing all the provisions that Fadyar and her conspirators would need for the next few days. They all knew what they were to do next. Bagheri took the Vauxhall and Mattar the Land Rover. Khan drove the camper van with Fadyar as passenger. He headed along the A82, past a very grey Loch Lochy, and onwards to Invergarry where he turned left on the A87. However, he did not make the second left turn a mile later that would have taken them along the Kinloch Hourn road via Corach and the dam. Instead, he stayed on the A87 for another twenty-one miles and having filled the camper with diesel from the petrol station sited at the junction, turned left at Shiel and climbed into the hills and forest of Ratagan along an unclassified road. The view was awesome as they climbed higher and Khan expertly handled the camper around the tight and twisty bends.

  After the summit, the road became easier and Khan was able to increase speed as they gradually dropped down towards the strait that divides the Isle of Skye from the mainland. The stretch of water, known as the Sound of Sleat, is a frequent passage for sharks, whales and a host of other marine life, plus British and NATO submarines, and all are often seen as they make their journey through the narrow channel but, as Khan approached, the surface of the sea was totally flat and undisturbed.

  At the coast, he headed left once more before finally stopping at the large car park, seemingly constructed almost on and only a little above the rock strewn beach, at the pretty village of Glenelg. They parked the camper at the far side of the car park, well away from the tourists who usually wished to stop and loiter, looking either at the view of Skye or at the Memorial to the Fallen proudly standing at the centre of the coastal edge of the car park. The road beyond Glenelg follows the coastline and continues for several miles around the massive mountain Beinn Sgritheall, meeting the waters of Loch Hourn and finishing only a few miles short of Kinloch Hourn village. When Fadyar had first visited the area, she cursed how unlucky they were that the Glenelg road had not been continued to meet the Corach road at Kinloch Hourn – but it was obvious why it had not been constructed. Sheer massive cliffs formed a promontory at the mouth of Kinloch Hourn, making any linking of the roads completely uneconomic. She also lamented the fact that Loch Quoich itself had no navigable outlet to the sea, either at the Straits or at Loch Hourn, despite reaching almost to the village. Because a couple of miles or so of rock had not been blasted away she had been forced to devise a much slower escape route, one that relied upon the camper van now parked at Glenelg.

  The car park was not empty. Glenelg is a tourist destination not just because of its commanding position across the narrows from Skye, nor due to its famous Bernera military barracks of 1725. Nearby, along the coast at Sandaig a few miles to the south-west, was the site of ‘Camusfearna’ where Gavin Maxwell had lived with the otters he made famous in ‘Ring of Bright Water’, and within a mile of the village were two of the best preserved 1st and 2nd Century dwellings of the ancient Picts – Dun Telve and Dun Troddan. Visitors arrived for many reasons and, as usual, several vehicles were scattered across the tarmac, all facing towards the Straits and the Isle of Skye and all immaculately parked within the neat, white lines that marked an approved space. The occupants of the camper were not interested in looking at marine life, nor ancient monuments. Once they had stopped, the two fundamentalists got out and made a deliberate effort to be noticed. They walked around, stretching their arms above their heads and casually walking over to the memorial. They looked at the small row of terraced houses, and then lingered a while on the road opposite a row of clean, colour-washed cottages. Fadyar and Khan waited, hoping that someone local would come along. A quarter of an hour passed, then half an hour, and the light was rapidly fading causing the mountains on Skye to glow a vivid orange that reflected onto the calm sea. At last a small, plump woman came out of one of the terraced houses and went to walk along the road.

  “Excuse me,” said a relieved Fadyar. “We have come a long way and I was wondering if it is permitted to leave our van on the car park,” she pointed to the camper, ”over there?”

  “O aye. Nay problem. Ach, I know it says no overnight parking but folks do it all the time and old John, who is supposed to check these things, usually turns a blind eye. Anyway, leave a note inside the screen that says you’re staying with me a wee while. Morag’s the name.”

  Fadyar smiled at Morag.

  “Are you sure? That’s very kind. We have some friends we hope to see and they have a four wheel drive vehicle that can go where our van can’t. They are also renting a cottage but it’s a bit of a way from here, so we may leave the camper for a few days and then come back to it. Sort of come and go.” Fadyar did not allow any time for conversation to be developed about the supposed friends and changed the subject before Morag could interject.

  “This is a really lovely area, isn’t it? We hope to be up here about a fortnight and do plenty of walking in the mountains so we may not see you much, but thank you again.”

  After a few more exchanges, to reinforce her apparent integrity, Fadyar wrote a fictitious mobile number on a piece of paper and handed it to the woman. “I know these things don’t always work in the hills around here but if there is a problem with the van, do please phone me or leave a message. I will get here as quickly as I can.”

  Fadyar was in her element and the chat went exactly as she had hoped for. She knew that they could leave the camper van and it would be perfectly safe, watched over by Morag, who reassured her again that the parking would be ‘Nay bother’. Khan and Fadyar returned to the van where they spent a surprisingly comfortable night after a good meal cooked on the camper’s stove. Tomorrow’s supper would be eaten in the self-catering cottage they had rented at Kinloch Hourn.

  Bagheri drove from Spean Bridge straight to the Eagles Rest Hotel at Corach where he and Mattar had reserved a room with twin single beds. They had given false, English sounding names that belied their ancestry, but had credit cards that backed their deception. After unpacking and a brief rest, Mattar was anxious that the sparkling clean Land Rover was itself too noticeable, but he was also impatient at wanting to test out his new toy and its two or four wheel drive options. He suggested that he take the vehicle for a drive.

  “Whenever have you seen a clean Land Rover, especially if we are supposedly local?” Mattar rhetorically asked his companion as he gave him a wave before heading out of the hotel car park.

  He headed back towards Spean Bridge, then along the A86 Newtonmore road. He had not travelled this particular road before and was awe struck when after a few miles he parked next to another large dam. This dam, at the head of Loch Laggan, was quite different in construction from the one at Quoich. Whereas the Quoich dam was huge this was only moderate in size, but the Laggan dam was equally, if not more, impressive. Built before Quoich, it was of a more expensive form of construction having a weather protected rear face as well as an impervious front slope – features which permitted a slimmer desi
gn. Along the length of the top of the dam were thirty-six arches through which water over-spilled when the level rose too high, sending it spectacularly cascading down into a gorge one hundred feet below. It also had four huge independently operated siphons which passed through the wall of the dam, each being automatically triggered by successive increases of the water pressure as the loch level rose. When functioning, these created a massive water spout churning out hundreds of gallons of water a second into the gorge. There was no power station, the dam being used solely to ensure that an adequate supply of water could be fed through miles of tunnel to yet another loch, Loch Triegg. At the opposite end of that loch, water was continuously being drained at a staggering rate by a second tunnel through the mountains, emerging immediately above the aluminium production plant at Fort William. The processes required enormous volumes of water for power and cooling, and three huge pipes carried the water as it accelerated down the mountain slope directly into the works. Bagheri was fascinated as he stopped and studied the elegant dam, before turning back towards Spean Bridge.

  He turned onto a very narrow road marked ‘Fersit’ that meandered through a large, dark forest of tall conifers, hoping to find some suitable rough land on which to dirty and test his vehicle. In places, the road had grassy unkempt earth banks at its edges that provided the ideal mud splash to despoil the clean Land Rover. He also found a forestry road that clearly had not been used for several months and he soon became accustomed to handling his vehicle in rough terrain. The light was fading fast as he cleared the forest and he suddenly had to brake hard as he found himself rapidly approaching the base of yet another dam, this one very small, only a few yards ahead. The crudely finished back slope of the dirty brown, rock-fill dam, no more than thirty metres in length by twenty high, looked shabby and forgotten. Tufts of grass hung limply from the joints where the rocks had been piled on top of each other and mosses covered most of the area of the block work. The forest was behind him, dark and shadowy with only the tiniest glimpse of light arcing down through an occasional dead branch.

  In the other direction was a level field, if you could call it that, of long coarse grass, not bright or even green but a dirty yellow, and through it ran what appeared to be a broad and deep dried up river bed. Regular, heavy winter rains swelled the loch each year to the point where the side-spill overflow was almost in constant daily use, frequently relieving the pressure on the dam of several thousand gallons of water an hour. Smooth white, brown and grey boulders were strewn along the length of watercourse, evidence of the forces created by the winter torrents that had long ago washed away all traces of the thin earth leaving only the cleansed stones and bed-rocks to remain exposed.

  Mattar looked around. The place was desolate, bleak and unattractive, abandoned and forgotten by man and neglected by nature. There were no noises to be heard; no birds singing, no babbling of water, not even the sound of a breeze to rustle the trees. The totally eerie silence seemed to predicate foreboding. Mattar felt a chill run down his back. He decided to walk the short distance along the dried track that led towards the deserted, tiny dam, to view what lay beyond, expecting there would be little of interest. When he reached the top he immediately recoiled in shock. A mere few feet from him lay the vast, and deep, Loch Triegg. He shuddered at the realisation that so much water was held back by what he considered to be only a small, almost inconsequential, deserted dam. He had never felt so alone and vulnerable in his life. Shaken, he turned and ran down towards his Land Rover, jumped in and drove fast to escape from the frightening place as quickly as possible. He arrived at the hotel forty minutes later and was met by Bagheri.

  “Looks like you had a good trip, I see you got some mud.” Bagheri laughed.

  Still unnerved by his experience at the Triegg dam, Mattar lied. “Yes, great time. Vehicle’s good.” He hoped the rest of the mission would not be as scary.

  * * *

  Cindy and Gordon, with Sandy MacLean’s assistance, checked the boats and brought all three across to the jetty at Mealag. Sandy serviced two outboards and generally ensured that everything on them was in order. He particularly made certain that the small padlocks holding the outboard to the security chain had not corroded and were working properly as Sandy had once lost an outboard when the padlock hasp had rusted through unnoticed. When the skeg struck a large branch floating just beneath the water, the motor reared up and released itself from its mountings before sinking into the loch. The third, larger boat had an inboard engine and was used for the ferrying of moderately sized goods or simply to cruise the loch in comfort. Gordon had checked over his fishing tackle, wiped his spare rods, carefully re-varnished the whipping that secured the snake guides and re-greased all the reels. The fly lines had been stretched by tying one end to a drain pipe at the lodge and the other to a tree in the grounds to ensure that they would cast straight and true, and not be slowed by them retaining the crookedness and kinks that come from being wound tight around a reel for several months.

  As well as the rods, Gordon had also cleaned his guns and made certain that they, like his fishing gear, were in fine working order. He had even checked the two sporting rifles he kept in the garages, the gun cabinet containing them disguised as a wooden box. They had not been used for at least two years, but Gordon had protected them well and they were still very serviceable. He knew that technically he should not keep them in the garages, even though it would take an immense effort for anyone to break into them, but he had been grateful on occasions for them being handily placed on the far side of the loch. A couple of times whilst fishing, he had seen some deer on the hill, had changed his mind and decided to go shooting instead. It was easier to get a gun from the garages than go all the way back to Mealag.

  Cindy had helped Margaret MacLean in the kitchen and around the house, finalising the preparations for their guests and making certain that four of the smaller chalets were ready for the security people. Gordon had been informed that there would be four British and two American police, though Cindy had said that she doubted any of them would simply be officers, more likely they would be Special Protection forces. Sufficient food and supplies had been brought in to feed an army, but Mealag was used to catering for large numbers of people. The police, or whatever they were, could eat at Ruraich, and the freezers there were stocked high with ready meals that could easily be microwaved to provide hot sustenance at irregular hours, should that be necessary.

  By Sunday evening, Cindy and Gordon were satisfied that everything was in order for their important visitors the following Tuesday. They relaxed listening to a live recording by the Greek star Yanni of his sell-out concert performed at the Acropolis, whilst they each sipped a glass of Gordon’s favourite whisky – an eighteen year-old single malt from a small Scottish distillery. As they settled back, enjoying the soft, warm glow of the amber liquid, excitedly anticipating the arrival of the American Secretary of State and his wife, four sinister subversives were closing in with thoughts of how they would wrest the U.S politician from them.

  49

  Monday 11th September was another day of preparation for some; for others, it was a day of frenetic activity and escalating concern.

  At 8:10am Ritson and his enlarged team were busy at their desks. Everyone realised that time was of the essence and there was a high level of noise and chatter as officers spoke earnestly on telephones or to each other. Dongle was sitting alone at his computer, staring intently at the monitor as screens of information flashed before him. Other detectives seemed equally absorbed as they scurried across the room to check some detail or other with a colleague. Sergeant Hill, in marked contrast to her mirth of the previous evening, was seriously studying the whiteboard hoping that within the cryptic jottings and scraps of information there might be a clue to a vital aspect which everyone had missed. Ritson’s phone rang immediately he had replaced the receiver from a previous call. His French counterpart, Pierre Dervisais, greeted him in English.

  “Good Morning
Chief Superintendent, I am sorry to convey to you some rather disappointing news. I can confirm that a Fadyar Masri certainly has a bank account at the Banque Grecoriale. We have visited the bank and are currently checking the account and all transactions, but so far it appears to be satisfactory. There are no withdrawals to other named persons, so no leads there I am afraid. We have however ascertained from the account that the suspect has a credit card and we are currently checking all those transactions but the only one of any interest appears to be for petrol. Of course, the suspect is probably using different names – until we know those it will be impossible to trace anything for them.”

  “Yes, I understand. Do you have an address for her?” Ritson enquired.

  “Indeed, we got that from the bank. Fadyar Masri does not appear on our national register of persons, strongly indicating she is an illegal immigrant. If so, she no doubt was careful for that reason, let alone any other, to pay mostly in cash. Money probably earned locally. Sadly, we French regard avoidance of tax and state regulations as something of a national hobby and it is very common place for employers, even quite large ones, to pay their staff cash and only retain minimal records.”

  Ritson knew of the reputation the French had at flouting governmental, particularly financial and taxation, laws. It seemed to be something everyone took for granted across the Channel – rather akin to a French politician taking a mistress, or two, which merits little or no media coverage in France, unlike the UK.

  “Anyway, we have visited Masri’s apartment. It is nothing exceptional but it has been thoroughly cleaned, quite a professional job as we have found no fingerprints and it would appear that many of the suspect’s items are missing. We have taken into our possession a computer, which doesn’t appear to be working, and that will of course be examined by our technicians. There are some miscellaneous items like a kettle and so on but none have any prints on them. We are in the process of making a more detailed search and examination of the flat, but to be frank it looks as though she has left. We can keep it under surveillance but I doubt anything will materialise.”