Dreams to Die For

by Alan G Boyes

  “I see. Thank you.” It was another small piece of information.

  “We have not yet disturbed the carpets and fixtures in the flat. It is leased by a highly respectable property company in Paris and we are contacting them regarding the ultimate owners, but if this person is part of some sort of terror group that will yield nothing. We may get a name, only to waste hours trying to trace someone who died many years ago. We plan to instruct the forensic team to go through the property, room by room, dismantling everything. It will take time of course but is the only way we are likely to find out more.”

  Ritson agreed, he had been down that route himself many times. It would be the same with the car, assuming Masri had one but he thought he had better ask. “Do you know if she had a car?”

  “She did, a blue Peugeot 205, according to the neighbours. They can’t really help with the registration number, but I can tell you that no car is registered on our national database, nor with any French insurance company, in any of the names you supplied. You may wish to note that our registrations are in the format of nnnn LL dd, or nnn LLL dd where nnnn is a 2, 3 or 4 digit number and LLL is a 2 or 3 letter group and dd is the department or district (as you would call it) where the car is registered. The neighbours say the last two numbers are 75. That is Paris department. One person is certain that there were only three letters beginning with a ‘P’. If correct that would indicate Paris registration in either 2003 or 2004 and there will only be three numbers preceding it. It is a crazy system Chief Superintendent, long overdue for change. You are ahead of us in your vehicle registration systems, if not in rugby!”

  Ritson did not rise to the bait, but chuckled.

  “You have been extremely kind and obviously very busy. I am very grateful.” Ritson was actually quite impressed with the amount of work the French police had managed to do in such a short space of time. They must have dedicated considerable resources to the matter, perhaps fearing that any outrage might be going to be conducted on their soil. When he put the receiver down, he went over to the white board and wrote

  Blue Peugeot 205 reg: nnn – Pxx – 75 . Masri left flat. No trace of her on French databases.

  He then went over to his two liaison officers who were his contacts with MI5 and MI6, and briefed them on what he had just learnt. “Look,” he told them. “There is something going down here and I need you guys to get the departments really involved. We haven’t heard a thing from Five or Six, yet they have the most sophisticated stuff in the world. I need their help and I want it now.”

  His anxiety showed in his voice but it made no difference to their answer. Officer Greg Kingsley answered for MI5. “Sir, Five are fully aware of our enquiries, but with respect they will not and cannot deploy more resources until either the level of threat is raised or unless they receive specific instruction from the commissioner himself. In practice both would occur at the same time. The same will be true for Jack here, and Six.” Kingsley referred to the MI6 contact.

  “OK, OK. Understood.” Ritson responded quickly, an indication of his growing impatience. He walked away thinking whether he yet had enough to escalate the enquiry, and decided that he did not. There was still nothing to confirm an actual plot, only suspicious financial transactions. There was no indication of where any attack (if one was being planned) would take place and there was no information at all on any of the names, other than the bank account in London and the recent overseas transactions. Everything else relied a lot on supposition. But in his guts he knew this was for real, and it was his job to turn emotion into evidence. He needed his specially trained team to turn up something very quickly indeed, for there was no point in Manders approaching the chief commissioner until some hard facts emerged.

  * * *

  The olive green Agusta Westland AW101 Merlin helicopter based at RAF Benson in South Oxfordshire landed on the helipad at Mealag Lodge at precisely 2:30pm, exactly the time Gordon had been told it would. Two passengers alighted. Numerous black luggage bags were passed down to them, which they quickly removed from the vicinity of the helicopter. Two minutes later, they stood away and one waved to the pilot. The blades of the helicopter, still spinning slowly, gradually increased speed until with a sudden roar the helicopter became airborne and was gone, disappearing over the trees. The noise of the rotors had been so loud the two men had not heard Gordon drive up behind them seated at the wheel of a quad bike onto which had been hitched an open trailer. The two turned towards the lodge, saw Gordon and came over.

  “Hi. I’m Chuck Drew and the good looking one is Josh Atkins.” The slightly taller CIA protection officer held out his hand. “Guess you’re Gordon Truscott”

  “That’s me. Good to see you and welcome to Mealag. I hope you enjoy your stay. If you want to put your bags on the trailer and hop on, I’ll give you a lift.”

  Atkins answered in a deep Southern American accent, more of a drawl than an intonation. “That’s mighty decent of you, Gordon. Thanks. My, this is some place you have here – saw it from the chopper. Too out of the way for me; I like big cities.”

  It was true he had seen it from the helicopter, but he had also studied numerous aerial photographs and a whole dossier of information about Mealag before he flew over the Scottish mountains and he knew its layout and perimeters every bit as well as its owner.

  Gordon took them to their chalet and they were pleased that it overlooked Mealag and also gave them a pretty good sighting across the loch. Two hours after the Americans had unpacked the Merlin returned, having picked up the four British protection officers. Gordon went through the same routine for them as he had for the CIA agents and left them to introduce themselves to each other. Gordon said that Ruraich would be placed at their sole disposal and he left the six officers chatting away to each other around the large table in the training room. It was an ideal operations room, equipped with whiteboards, large tables, data and communication links and superb lighting. A little while later, all six took a close look around the immediate vicinity of Mealag and at the dam. When they returned they made some decisions.

  Drew said that he and Atkins would have to stay close at all times to Assiter, and that meant they would accompany him even if he decided to go fishing or was simply out for a walk. They would sleep when Assiter slept. The four British officers would remain in the close vicinity of Mealag Lodge, providing 24-hour cover. One would be stationed at the dam wall gate on the south (lodge) side of the loch; the second would primarily guard the access gate from the Arkaig track, and patrol the surrounding area; whilst the third would cover the grounds of the lodge to the shore, the clearing and helipad. The officer stationed at the dam would make an occasional reconnaissance stroll along the shoreline, as far as the large knoll, before returning to his station. Anyone seeking to cross the dam itself would still be visible. They would stagger the commencement of each of their shifts thereby allowing rotation of duties and sufficient sleep. The officers agreed that two other security measures were essential. All exterior lighting was to be left switched on after dusk and that they were to be notified of all proposed movements of every occupant of the house. At 6pm Atkins walked across to Mealag and asked if everyone, including the MacLeans, could meet for a short briefing an hour later.

  After the introductions and pleasantries, the American, Chuck − who seemed to be taking the lead in the meeting − started to outline the security team’s plan for protecting Assiter.

  “Firstly, we really don’t want this to be intrusive. We’ll try and stay out of your hair as much as we can, but it is important that we know your movements and plans well in advance. If that is not possible, and if ever you go off to do something we don’t know about, you must – emphasise must – write it big on this board first. Complete as many columns as you can.”

  He pointed to one of the white boards fixed to the far wall that already contained a grid with a row for each day of Assiter’s stay. The grid contained four columns: who; where; time out; time due in.

 
“Now, I don’t want to scare you people by what I am going to say next, but please listen up. The threat level assessment for this assignment is deemed low. Not by us, but by our superiors back in Washington. That means they don’t expect anything much to happen, but that is a hell of a lot different from saying no risk at all. Frankly, I would put the level higher, ‘cos I would need a team ten times what we have here to fully protect the Secretary of State and sure as hell I would not let him out on that pond. It’s too exposed and too damned dangerous. If we encounter an incident, we do not want dead heroes. Keep indoors, your head down. Do not, repeat not, get involved. Stay calm. We can get people here quickly if we have to. Any attackers will wish to escape, not be trapped inside this house. Remember that. I gather that panic alarms have been installed throughout the bedrooms, lounge, kitchen of the main house and also in our huts and at Ruraich here. They are on a separate circuit, being wired independently of the main alarm system. Use them if you see or hear anything suspicious or are worried. Do NOT hesitate. The alarm could save not just your life. We will test all the alarms, and lighting, later today. Finally, all landline telephone communication to the main house or any of the huts will be re-routed and intercepted before it rings here. You may answer the telephone as normal, but remember it is being monitored and every call will be being traced. Any questions?”

  Cindy looked blankly at Gordon. The MacLeans looked at each other. There really was nothing to say or ask, but Cindy was not alone in feeling a certain unease that she could not explain.

  “OK then. Just go about your normal routines. Our guy arrives tomorrow at 11:30am. Have a great time.”

  The irony of his final statement in the light of his preceding comments brought a wry smile to Gordon’s face. As they left the room, Cindy smiled and whispered to Gordon, “Didn’t you just love his reference to the chalets as huts?” They both laughed.

  50

  Ritson was impatient for information, spending much of his time walking around his team checking on their progress but learning nothing of consequence. He had put out a bulletin asking all UK police forces to look out for the foreign registered blue Peugeot 205, but that had so far yielded nothing.

  In mid-afternoon his telephone rang and it was once again Pierre Dervisais, his French counterpart. “Some more news, my friend. Fadyar Masri travelled to the UK on Saturday 9th September on the 8:20am ferry to Dover and has a return ticket for 23rd September departing Dover 2:30pm local time. Her car registration number is 969-PX-75. No passengers.”

  “That’s terrific, Pierre. Thanks.”

  “Don’t get too excited, Chief Superintendent. The car registration actually belongs to a Citroen and is certainly false for the Peugeot. The plate properly belongs to someone whom we have checked out. It will not provide any more leads for us.”

  “Pierre, it’s the most I’ve got. So thanks.”

  Ritson gathered his team. “Circulate this number, absolute priority. If the vehicle is spotted, do not apprehend but report to us immediately. Also, get hold of all the near motorway and garage CCTV films to see if we can pick this vehicle up anywhere. We need to know where it went.”

  He updated the board. Half an hour later Dongle came to see him. “I’ve got something, boss. That car. On the 3rd May 2005 it went through a Gatso speed camera coming into Woodstock, Oxfordshire at about 6pm. It’s recorded in the untraced driver file.”

  “Dongle, you are a bloody marvel. How on earth did you think to look there?”

  “Well, everyone else can poke around into the main databases – I look where others don’t.”

  Ritson hurried to his desk. May 2005. Two months before 7/7. Two months before the bank account. He pulled the Crossland file from the grey, steel sliding drawer, slamming it back into the cabinet so hard that the sound temporarily silenced the room and caused his colleagues to turn around.

  “Sorry”.

  The general murmur resumed.

  He read the notes again. Crossland had consistently denied meeting anyone in connection with the Chalthoum file, but it must have been very close to May when some sort of initial contact was made.

  “Someone get me a road map of the UK,” he shouted across the room and within a few seconds one was handed to him. He quickly leafed through the pages and found Woodstock. Following the A44 road, he quickly came to Stillwood. He got up quickly, gathering the file under his arm and ordering a car to take him immediately to the Hannet-Mar bank. He bounded up the steps and, flashing his warrant card, demanded to speak to Crossland immediately. Within a minute, he was seated opposite a rather nervous looking bank manager.

  “I am going to be very blunt, Mr Crossland. You could be in a great deal of trouble and for reasons I cannot disclose I do not have much time, so I want some straight answers to some straight questions.”

  Crossland’s heart pounded. He had become rapidly fearful of what lay ahead for him, but he knew he did not have to be bullied.

  “Chief Superintendent, please! You cannot just barge in here and demand answers. Am I suspected of something? If so please tell me, as I shall obviously wish to ring my solicitor.”

  “Sir, I can and will arrest you if you do not cooperate. I have the powers invested in me under the Prevention of Terrorism legislation, but actually I do not suspect you of being a terrorist. If I did, you would already be behind bars. I would however like some answers.”

  “I will see how this goes,” said Crossland. “I have nothing to hide, so ask away.”

  “When did you first have any contact with Halima Chalthoum?”

  Crossland called his secretary to locate the paper file, while he himself tapped away at the keyboard. As he studied the screen, the file was brought in brought in by Kelly Palmer.

  “Well, the computer does not give an exact date,” Crossland then read a few of the paper documents, “and neither does the paper file. From memory I think it was around April last year.”

  “I put it to you, Sir, that you did meet this woman – or someone who claimed to be her – and I have good reason to believe that you met her at your home Red Gables in Stillwood at about 7pm on the 3rd May last year.”

  Crossland was shaken. He had denied seeing Halima several times and if he backtracked now it would finish him. At the very least Ritson would certainly press charges of wasting police time and in all probability would add aiding and abetting terrorists, if that indeed was what Halima was. He resolved to brazen it out.

  “Good God, man. You cannot go around accusing people like that. Have you witnesses? I strongly suspect not.”

  Ritson studied the file before him and froze. He stared for several seconds at the Styles photographs of the conference delegates. Listed half way down was the name of Fadyar Masri. SHIT, he said to himself, cursing silently at not remembering the name earlier. Without doubt there was now a connection that might be just sufficient to get his superiors really interested. Regaining his composure, he put the photograph of Fadyar Masri in front of Crossland.

  “What about this woman, Sir. Have you ever met her?”

  “Chief Superintendent Ritson, you asked me the very same question months ago. The answer is still the same. No.”

  “What about Mrs Crossland, Sir. Is it possible she could have met with either of these women?” Although quietly spoken, the question exploded into the room setting off alarm bells in Alan Crossland. Crossland reeled from its impact.

  “Er, no, I doubt that. No. How could she?”

  “Perhaps you could ask her to give me a ring Sir, just for the record.”

  “I’m sorry. We are divorced and I no longer have any contact with her. I cannot even tell you where she is living.” Crossland replied.

  “I’m sorry to learn that, Sir. We can probably trace her quite quickly, but perhaps you could write down the name of the solicitor she used.”

  Crossland obliged, passing Ritson the note.

  “Thank you. My enquiries into the true identities of Halima Chalthoum and Fadyar Masri wil
l be continuing. In the meantime, I must ask that you hand your passport in at any police station within twenty-four hours, and that you give me an undertaking not to leave the country. Indeed, I strongly urge you not to try. When my enquiries are concluded you will be informed.”

  “What! Chief Superintendent, please go now before I lose my patience. I have done nothing wrong and I shall seek to have your conduct thoroughly investigated. I shall not be leaving the country anyway, and my solicitor will be in touch with you regarding the passport and this whole matter. I think you have behaved quite disgracefully.”

  Crossland rang through to his secretary saying Ritson was leaving. Neither shook hands.

  After Ritson left, Crossland poured himself a stiff whisky. He was sweating. Ritson’s enquiries could be ruinous for him and he wished he had never taken Styles’ advice and opened an account for Chalthoum Universal, but it was too late for regrets. His nerves steadied by the swift intake of alcohol, he began to think more rationally. Ritson could not have much on him as he was not under arrest, but he was being leaned on very hard indeed. The police were still very active on the case and that meant that Halima, or Fadyar as he knew her, was linked to some sort of terrorism. Crossland recalled that his friend Styles had died in rather mysterious circumstances, but he still found it difficult to believe that terrorists would be involved in staging a road traffic accident, and he dismissed it as absurd that the gentle, attractive woman that visited him and Cindy could in any way be implicated in his death. That idea was fanciful. There was, however, one very worrying aspect to Ritson’s interview and Crossland left the office early, determined to speak to the only man whom he thought might be able to help him, Jack Donaldson.