Dreams to Die For

by Alan G Boyes

  Ritson stormed back into his office shouting for his team to gather round. “Why didn’t one of you lot link Fadyar Masri with the delegate photographs of Kenneth Styles? Her soddin’ name is on them for Christ’s sake.”

  The faces at the desk looked up at him, much as a naughty children look at parents when they know they have done something wrong. Someone said, “We didn’t put every bloody one of those names on the computer, because we had no reason to. Remember?”

  “We fucked up. I’m as much to blame as you, I didn’t remember either but we have lost valuable time. From here on in, everyone must sharpen up.”

  Ritson was angry with himself more than with the team and what he said was merely the product of his frustration. He gave instructions for Cindy Crossland to be traced and went over to the incident board that had brief details of what was known about the persons forming the subject of the investigation. On it were the names of Halima Chalthoum, Fadyar Masri, Yasmin Hasan, and Alan Crossland. As he studied it, he realised that very few details were present under the names of Chalthoum and Hasan, but there was good deal of information under Crossland and, particularly, Masri. Ritson stroked his chin, thinking hard.

  “Are we certain that the photograph of Chalthoum is not also that of Masri?”

  “Affirmative. The labs boys ruled it out.” An unknown voice somewhere behind him called out. Ritson had studied them himself in Crossland’s office that afternoon and it was pretty obvious they were of two different people.

  “Of course, it doesn’t mean they are different people, just that one used a different photograph,” contributed one of his bright female officers.

  “Well, it cannot be Masri’s. Her photo must be genuine as it was taken by the conference photographer, so if there is a false one it has to be that of Chalthoum.” Another, different voice spoke.

  “That’s assuming that the person claiming to be Masri at the conference was actually Masri.” The female officer again.

  “Bloody hell, just get me some answers!” Ritson’s brain was swimming in a thick fog of confusion, “Not more bloody ifs and maybe’s. Look, work on the assumption that the conference picture is actually that of Fadyar Masri.”

  Ritson returned to his desk, thinking. He had some clues, some detail, but he was really struggling to put it together. He went to see Manders, but returned disappointed. Certainly Manders was pleased with the results they had obtained and he agreed that something was in the offing, but he had nothing specific which he or the commissioner could use to seek an emergency meeting of the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre (JTAC), and raise the national threat alert. Ritson also doubted that Manders could convene an emergency meeting of the newly formed Counter Terrorism Command (CTC) SO15, that had resulted from the merger of the previous anti-terrorism agencies, and which Manders himself now headed, without the approval of the JTAC. Ritson had to be satisfied with Manders’ promise that he would have an off the record chat with the security agencies about using their resources regarding Fadyar Masri, but he would not ask for a hunt across a wide list of names until he was more certain of their actual involvement.

  51

  After taking breakfast in their room at the Eagles Rest Hotel, Mattar drove to Glenelg. Khan and Fadyar were standing at the memorial as he drew up alongside the camper. The three made a deliberate effort to be noticed as they loaded Mattar’s Land Rover, and as they left the car park Fadyar ebulliently waved to Morag. The single track road climbed steadily around Mount Ratagan until, near the summit, Mattar pulled into the view point car park where Bagheri was waiting in the Vauxhall. Fadyar and Khan gathered their belongings and took over the Vauxhall as Bagheri jumped into the Land Rover. Khan, in the Vauxhall, drove away first followed fifteen minutes later by Mattar. It took them an hour and a half to reach the dam and both vehicles were parked facing the loch. Fadyar raised her telescope to her right eye and surveyed the far shore. It was a little after midday.

  “No sign of any security forces,” she reported, factually. “We’ll go on. See you at the cottage.”

  Mattar and Bagheri stayed at the dam five minutes longer than their fellow conspirators in the Vauxhall, then they also set off for Kinloch Hourn. Fadyar and Khan collected the keys to their rented cottage which was situated near to the end of the road, and set back from the tiny harbour that sheltered a few small boats. They unloaded their bags and walked to the boat house where a few months earlier they had hired the clinker built boat and outboard, ostensibly for fishing on Loch Quoich. A burly, ruddy-faced man, with an unruly mop of white curly hair answered the door. He vaguely recognised Khan who was able to negotiate a small discount on the daily rate for booking the boat for ten days, delighting the owner. As the man closed the door, he chuckled loudly at the stupidity of tourists wasting all their holiday time fishing for a few measly trout. Kinloch Hourn was literally many miles from anywhere, tourists were few. Those who did venture to the end of the road faced a long drive back and so there was seldom any demand for a fishing boat at that end of Loch Quoich. Any that did would only want to hire it for a few hours, not several days, and he would gladly have rented the boat out at half price for a ten day period had he been asked. They rejoined the others at the cottage and as they ate a sandwich they heard the unmistakeable repetitive drumming as a helicopter’s rotors thumped away huge swathes of air.

  “Merlin,” said Fadyar. She had heard hundreds of Merlin helicopters in Iraq and the sound sent a quiver of excitement through her. “His protection is arriving.”

  As is to be expected, information about the British Government Communication Headquarters (GCHQ) is limited. Over the years, its precise activities of intelligence monitoring of communications and other electronic signals, intercepted at listening stations in the UK and overseas, has given rise to more speculation than fact. The listening stations themselves are believed to include GCHQ Cheltenham, Composite Signals Organisation (CSO) Morwenstow, CSO Ascension Island and Ayios Nikolaous on Cyprus. RAF Menwith Hill, situated just outside Harrogate, North Yorkshire is one of the world’s largest communications monitoring stations and, despite its name, is operated by the National Security Agency (NSA) of the United States. In return for allowing the US use of its old RAF base, Britain receives and shares communications intelligence with its US partner under a formal UKUSA agreement. CSO Morwenstow and RAF Menwith Hill work closely together and are probably the most important communication monitoring stations in the world. CSO Morwenstow, based near Bude, North Cornwall, comprises twenty-one satellite ground antennas of various sizes (three have a diameter in excess of thirty metres), and can cover the frequency bands used by orbiting satellites. CSO Morwenstow can monitor communications across the Atlantic Ocean, the African and Indian Oceans as well as over the Middle East and mainland Europe. RAF Menwith Hill, along with smaller stations based in Australasia, covers the South Americas and Pacific Ocean. It occupies a 560 acre site on which is a vast variety of satellite dishes, masts and radomes, often likened to large golf balls, which are constructed in the mass polygon shapes to disguise the direction of the satellite dish within. Both locations employ American NSA and British GCHQ staff and their operations are so secret that the British and American governments refuse to release information about virtually anything of the sites’ activities.

  The Anti-Terrorist Unit liaison officer’s first request for information, in 2005, on the names of Halima Chalthoum, Chalthoum Universal Holdings and Corniche Consortium was sent to GCHQ Cheltenham who checked their databases and reported back in the negative. The second request did not make it as far as an operator’s terminal. Communications monitoring was a twenty-four hour, seven day a week operation and the hugely expensive computers, not to mention the optical storage data costs, were manned by equally costly personnel who had specific priorities. In short, ATU liaison could ask once; next time, it had to be prioritised by the Joint Analysis Committee. Despite Ritson and Manders both sensing that some plot or atrocity was being planned, there was little
they could do. Manders’ off the record chat with GCHQ had got nowhere and he was discussing with Ritson what to do next.

  “You and I both know something is in the wind. We have to do something,” Ritson implored the assistant commissioner.

  “I agree Bill, but… I just don’t know what.” Manders sounded deflated.

  “I’ve an idea, boss, but it’s a bit of a stretch. Crossland’s wife has left him and moved. She had been renting a cottage, but she’s gone, we don’t know for how long. It may only be a day or so. The local lads have been round, all looks OK, but the neighbours say she has been away quite a while – whatever that means – ‘weeks’ is the best they could come up with. One of the neighbours said she disappeared at about the same time that someone in a car parked up the road a few times. The neighbour thought it was a bit suspicious, but didn’t report it. No vehicle make or identity of course, never is, but it appears that this person, whoever he or she was, has not returned since. Suppose we surmise that Crossland and his wife did entertain Chalthoum, or at least that his wife knew he did and could testify to it. The last acquaintance of Masri, whom we suspect is also Chalthoum, was Styles and he was killed or had a suspicious accident. Maybe, we could get people interested if we thought a murder or kidnap might have been committed. It would be a bit of a flyer, but it might attract interest especially given the Crossland woman’s security clearance.”

  Manders thought about it. This was not for the commissioner as he would quickly see through this charade and rule it out, but it was worth a try elsewhere. He would modify Ritson’s idea but the basis was the same. He picked up the phone.

  “John. Phil of ATU. Sorry to bother you, but I need your guys help. The liaison officers have already been in touch, but when they first made the approach last year it was, frankly, premature and understandably they were shown the door when they came knocking yesterday with more names. Unfortunately, I don’t have quite enough, yet, to convene the CTC, but my experience as head of the ATU leaves me in no doubt that something big is about to go down. However, it appears that a totally innocent woman has gone missing. She may be in serious threat of her life as she can identify one of our principal suspects in this plot, which I stress I am sure exists. I want to avoid her death and for that I need your help to give me all you can on a couple of names. Will you do it?”

  John Walters was command head of Middle East section at GCHQ, which had replaced the Russian section many years previously as being the busiest and largest department within the secret establishment. He also sat on the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre. He knew that Manders did not have enough to justify a formal approach, but he also respected Manders and had been impressed by how accurate his hunches had been in the past.

  “I’ll do it, but I can’t do it as a special request. The best I can do is to put the names into the schedule for tomorrow. If something more urgent crops up it will be put down the pecking order, but I will make sure it is at least on the routine list. Now, Phil, give me the details.”

  “Fadyar Masri is one name, believed to live outside of Paris, but almost certainly now in the UK and also a Yasmin Hasan. She may have a Dubai connection as she has a bank account there. That’s it”. There was little point in repeating all the names, which could well be counter-productive. A routine request was far less likely to get actioned if it contained numerous names.

  * * *

  Alan Crossland was frightened. After Ritson’s interrogation he had called Chloe saying he would be home late, and then summoned Donaldson to drive him to his London flat, which – like Red Gables – was still stubbornly refusing to sell despite the booming property market.

  “What am I to do, Jack? What the bloody hell do I do now?” Crossland had spent the previous twenty minutes explaining about the Chalthoum account and now looked to his driver for help. Donaldson didn’t answer him. Still smarting from not getting a substantial salary rise, and being fobbed off with a second-hand car that fetched only just over seven thousand measly quid, he was in no mood to bring solace to his employer. He decided to let Crossland suffer a little longer.

  “The cops haven’t interviewed you under caution and not arrested you. So they can’t have much.”

  “Not yet, no. But they are bloody persistent, and I know they don’t believe I never met the woman.” A slight note of exasperation was creeping into his voice.

  “Did you ever meet up with this Chalthoum woman at any other time? You didn’t screw her did you?” Donaldson smirked as he looked towards Crossland.

  “Oh for pity’s sake, Jack, we’re not all like you. No, I never met her again.”

  “So only the ex Mrs Crossland knows you met her and only she can state that?”

  “As far as I am aware, yes. I certainly did not tell anyone and Cindy would have no reason to. I sometimes used to bring home prospective clients of the bank, so it wasn’t something unusual, though not common.” Crossland was becoming impatient at the questioning but Donaldson wasn’t ready to end it.

  “Do you think the ex Mrs Crossland would lie to protect you? Suppose you contacted her and asked her to deny that Chalthoum came to the house? I should have thought she owed you a favour,” Donaldson went for the jugular. He knew that repeatedly referring to Cindy as his ex-wife, plus the oblique reference of her deception over the divorce settlement and the link that made to the new love of her life, would inflame Crossland.

  “Bloody bitch. I am not asking her anything. Besides, she two-timed me acting all sweetness and light and then shafted me good and proper. She repeatedly deceived and lied to me Jack. Why should I believe anything she says now? It’s just too risky. I could go to jail here, probably for several years if it turns out there is some criminal or terrorist connection. Even if I get charged with a minor offence I would be ruined at the bank, probably serve a prison sentence – and I can’t see Chloe waiting around for long. She is young and attractive. She won’t have any trouble replacing me.”

  “I thought you said the police asked where the ex Mrs Crossland was?”

  “Jack, just call her Mrs Crossland or Cindy, please. You’re beginning to sound as though she’s dead.”

  Crossland’s words hung in the air, Donaldson cleverly remaining silent for nearly a minute. Then, slowly, he spoke in a quiet soft voice.

  “That’s looking to be your only hope, isn’t it? If Mrs Crossland couldn’t give evidence, the police do not have a case against you, at least not a terrorist one.”

  “Some hope of that Jack! But I wish the bloody cow was dead, no more than she deserves for the way she has treated and used me. Bloody bitch.”

  “Well, it isn’t going to happen naturally is it? Staging an accident or a professional hit will cost many thousands,” Donaldson took full advantage of his chance.

  “What? What are you saying Jack? That Cindy could suffer some sort of fatal accident as you put it? Are you saying have her killed?” Alan Crossland was shocked at his own words.

  “I’m not saying anything. All I am doing is pointing out is that the police will trace her and if she is alive, she will testify that this Chalthoum woman came to your house. Mrs Crossland is flush with money, so one couldn’t bribe her to keep her mouth shut, and anyway you say she wouldn’t lie for you for old-time sake. I am simply stating the hard facts.”

  Donaldson was pleased at the way he had worked in the provocation that Cindy no longer needed money, it would again remind Crossland with whom she was now living and he suspected that still angered him every bit as the divorce settlement itself. Crossland held his head in his hands and closed his eyes. His brain was reeling, trying to make sense of it all.

  ‘How did I get here?’ He asked himself over and over.

  Several minutes passed and slowly Crossland lifted his head and looked straight at Donaldson and in a soft voice muttered, “I wouldn’t know where to start looking for someone who does that kind of thing.”

  Donaldson had a quick response ready. “I’m still in touch with a few bloke
s from the old days that might be interested, army types. They were pretty good at that sort of thing in Iraq and Africa.”

  Crossland let the words swirl around his brain. After a minute he spoke again to Donaldson, “Who? Can you introduce them to me?”

  “You do not want to meet them, do you? You’re in enough shit. I might be able to arrange it so that nothing can be traced back to you, so the less you know the better. The guys I’m thinking of will want about a hundred grand with fifty up front, they won’t do it for less.”

  “A hundred grand! You must be joking.”

  Donaldson decided it was time to reel in his played-out fish. “In that case, come up with another solution. Is your career and a future life with Chloe not worth 100K? I thought you said you’d recently struck it rich?”

  Alan sat, once more head in hands, thinking.

  “Oh my God, Jack. What do I have to do then?”

  “Give me the fifty in cash tomorrow. I’ll meet you at the Italian place in Covent Garden. Get me off your payroll from last month with a year’s salary and, if anyone says they have seen us this month tell them I took the dismissal badly and you were trying to help me out a bit. I will give you an account into which the money for the hit can go. It’s not traceable but make sure all your money isn’t either. After tomorrow, you and I must not meet for a very long time; you understand that, don’t you? If you want me to do your dirty work, I’ll do it as you’ve been good to me but it means the end for us.” Donaldson’s sweet compliment to his boss carried the sickly odour of blood money.

  “Do you really mean that Jack? Can you find someone to do it? What about you? You must have something for doing all this; say twenty-five for yourself with the upfront cash. You would be entitled to the salary in lieu anyway, as it was part of the deal we made when I hired you. Just make sure it gets done, and done very soon, before the police get to her.”