by Alan G Boyes
“Very well, then,” she curtly replied. “Assistant Commissioner, the floor is yours.”
She beckoned at Manders to start. Manders then laid out all the evidence. His presentation was flawless as was his mastery of the facts both salient and the less significant. He replied to questions with courtesy and patience and succinctly explained the reasons why he had taken the extraordinary step of pre-emptively raising the threat level.
“With these facts and particularly the decoded message that reveals the dates for such an attack, it was imperative in my view not to lose any time at all in alerting our security and protection forces across the country. To have delayed until this morning, only to find that overnight an attack had occurred on an unprotected installation or, worse, during the London rush hour, would in my humble submission have been tantamount to a dereliction of my duty and obligation to the state.” Manders ended his evidence with a flourish that brought wry smiles around the table but which did nothing to harmonise his relationship with Rosalind Craglis.
A further hour of debate followed, and then various proposals were put by the Chair and voted upon, the most pertinent being unanimous agreement to endorse the raising of the threat level and to also immediately notify the Joint Intelligence Committee. Craglis closed the meeting at 10:45am, twenty minutes after four persons were either dead or dying 600 miles away.
Manders returned to the office where he saw Ritson leaning over Dongle’s shoulder staring intently at a computer screen. Ritson looked up.
“How did it go?” he enquired.
“Fine, apart from that bloody Craglis woman.” Then mindful of Dongle’s presence added hastily, “I’ll tell you about it sometime. God, these meetings can be tiring.” Manders threw his file of papers rather too hard onto Dongle’s desk and sat back on a vacant chair. The documents spewed out of their protective folder with some going over the desk and others drifting drunkenly to the floor. Dongle and Ritson went to gather them up, when a piece of typescript caught Dongle’s eye.
“Can I ask what this is, I haven’t seen it before?” He enquired, passing it over to Manders.
“You don’t know? That’s the decoded message that was the clincher for the raised alert, are you sure you haven’t seen it?” Manders asked, as he looked quizzically towards his detective chief superintendent.
Ritson replied, “Dongle wasn’t shown it, Sir. His skills are in computer analysis and stuff the rest of us don’t understand. We don’t want him tied up in doing phone number searches on databases, stuff we can all do!” he chuckled.
Dongle remained serious. “May I look at it again, Sir?”
Manders passed it to him and Dongle studied it in silence for about a minute whilst the others looked at each other, puzzled.
When Dongle spoke again he did so in a hushed, faltering manner. “I, er, I don’t think this has any phone numbers on it. In fact… um, I don’t think it’s got anything to do with a phone number at all.”
“What?” Ritson shouted, and jumped up from his chair. Manders mouth gaped open but no words came.
“No Sir. You see, I do a lot of walking when I can, holidays and the like, and I use Ordnance Survey maps. This number looks awfully like a grid reference to me. And the initials NH at the end would probably be the actual map. It will be somewhere up north.”
Manders grabbed the paper from Dongle’s hand and looked at it. He then passed it to Ritson. All three men stood for several more seconds before Ritson broke the silence.
“Oh fuck.”
64
A number of persons, each with differing motives, observed the MacLeans drive out of Mealag at 8:45am using the Range Rover. The British protection officer patrolling the lodge waved at them as they passed by and offered to close the gate behind them as they drove out. Donaldson, carefully concealed at the outer edge of the fence, also noted their departure. Fadyar Masri, having taken up her familiar position, glanced at her watch as the MacLeans pulled away. The smell of diesel fumes invaded her nostrils and she fleetingly resented the affront to the usually clean, odourless air. Ten minutes later, Assiter and Truscott appeared. They were carrying their rifles and rucksacks and headed towards the jetty where two boats were moored. They got in the larger one and sat down. A few moments later, the American agents walked smartly down to join them.
“Get in,” said Gordon, “You can travel first-class with us today.”
Five minutes later, they had drawn up at the jetty, unloaded the boat, and were about to commence their ascent of the hill. Fadyar waited, her telescope firmly focused on the group. As soon as they started the climb she spoke into her radio.
“Sharid. They are on their way, as planned. It’s safe to move out. Over.”
“OK. Over”
Bagheri started the Land Rover and drove it to the track by the garages where he parked it out of sight of the road. He and Mattar deliberately left the doors unlocked and slid the key under the driver’s floor mat. Concealed by their fabric carrying cases and hidden by their loose-fitting camouflage jackets were their CAR-15 sub-machine guns and the Walthur hand guns, holstered at their side. Each wore an ammunition belt, also underneath the jacket, from which hung two grenades, clips for the Walthurs and a large supply of bullets for the SMG’s. Mattar wore the field glasses around his neck, whilst Bagheri carried various items in a rucksack. A few minutes later they walked along the road to the dam where they turned off and started to climb the hill. Their ascent attracted the attention of the officer at the dam gate, curious as to why, today, two groups should be deer stalking the same area. He switched on his radio and spoke into the microphone which was pinned to his lapel.
“Bill. It’s Nigel at the dam. Are there any others on this deer stalking trip that we know of?”
“Don’t think so. I can go and look on the board if you think it’s important.”
“Yes, can you do that. Two other guys have just followed our party up the hill, about fifteen minutes behind at a guess.”
“Will do. Out”
Bill Green, still on his patrol, walked to Ruraich and looked at the board. Nothing was mentioned about more persons joining the party.
“Nigel, I’m outside Ruraich. Nothing on the board – what next?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll come over to the house. Can you get Pete from the gate to join us before he goes off duty. No point in waking up Simon, at least not yet. Oh, and can you confirm with the women that no one else is expected on their husbands’ trip.”
Fadyar watched intently as the three officers gathered outside the house and she moved silently to be in earshot of their conversation. She was just in time to hear them trying to raise their CIA counterparts on the radio.
“Bloody things. You would think that with all those farts in Whitehall and Washington they could at least ensure that the radios we use are the same or at least compatible. The US guys have their own comms and I think theirs must work on a different frequency. I can’t get them.”
“Well, I think two of us should go across and follow the second lot of walkers. After all Assiter is the priority and if something odd is happening over there we should take a look. Pete and I will go. You and Simon stay here, but wake Simon.” It was Bill that was taking charge and a few moments later the two officers started their long walk across the dam wall towards the mountain opposite. The four went their separate ways just as Cindy and Paulette took their usual morning swim and dived into the pool. A few minutes later the phone rang in Ruraich but no one heard it. Then the phone in the hall of the lodge rang and no one heard that either. Eventually the MI5 officer in London hung up and went on to ring the next number on his list of those who should be told of the Level 1 alert.
Fadyar slid herself back into deeper cover until she was well away from the lodge complex, then she spoke quietly into her radio, ensuring the scrambler was on. “Mattar. There are two British police coming over and they will be behind you. You will need to take them out before attempting any attack on our targ
et. Note there are four, repeat four, British police in total. Not three. And some good news, the Americans and British can’t communicate via their radios.”
“Understood Fadyar. We will let you know the outcome.”
She then told Khan to withdraw from his position and make his way back, past Mealag, and anchor a little way beyond so as not to attract any attention from the officers who would be crossing the dam. Fadyar had considered whether she, and perhaps Khan, could have shot the officers as they walked across but dismissed the idea. Although her rifle was silenced and she was an expert shot, the odds did not favour a clean kill on two moving targets at a distance she estimated to be in excess of 700 metres. Also, the muffled noise would still be very audible to anyone close by and any shots would totally compromise her position and probably the mission itself. Khan would have a very difficult shot from a boat bobbing around on the waves. She slowly wriggled on her stomach to return to her original vantage point, pleased that at least severing the communications at the lodge was now going to be a whole lot easier than she first envisaged – though there was still the matter of the two remaining protection officers to resolve, not to mention the two women, but her plan included those challenges.
65
Donaldson, in hiding by the pool, had also overheard the conversation between the officers and he, too, had watched the two disappear from sight only to emerge several minutes later beginning their ascent of the hill. His pleasure at knowing that two of the enemy (a term he used for anyone in opposition to his objectives) had removed themselves from the zone, was only slightly dimmed by his concern at what he had learned. He now understood for the first time that someone named Assiter, an American, was being guarded not Truscott. The name was familiar to him, but he was not interested in politics – so exactly who Assiter was, or what he did, failed to arouse any interest or curiosity. He also realised, like Fadyar, that there were in total six guards of which four were climbing up a mountain half a mile away. That left two at the lodge and one of those had been woken up so presumably would be tired. Donaldson started to get excited, the odds were moving quickly in his favour to achieve all his ambitions. He needed to strike very soon as he might never get a better chance.
Officer Simon Willison joined his colleague on the lawn in front of the lodge. Donaldson started to subconsciously stroke the handle of his knife with his stubby fingers. His blue eyes were wide, clear and alert. His short cropped hair began to stiffen as did the hairs on the nape of his neck, all signs that he was ready for action.
“I’ll do the patrol, you take the gate Simon. You can continue to rest up a bit there.”
The words were music to Donaldson’s ears. Things just get better and better he thought. In his lifetime, Donaldson had effected entry at numerous establishments allegedly well protected and guarded, many of them via the main gate. In his experience, it was often the most vulnerable area and where security measures could be at their most lax. The guard or guards were usually tired, bored, drunk or all three. The gatehouse, if there was one, was overstuffed with electronic gadgets and monitors so numerous that the guards didn’t bother to look at them, let alone reposition the cameras at frequent intervals, thereby allowing attackers to creep up unseen using the blind spots. The same folly was being repeated here. Instead of putting the freshest, most alert officer at the gate, there was going to be some poor guy named Simon who had not fully rested and would be only half awake. Manning the entrance, he would not have long to wait before he was asleep again. Permanently.
Donaldson now knew exactly how he was going to get inside Mealag Lodge. He just hoped that the two women would still be there when he knocked on the door. For some while, he had concentrated upon the officers and their conversations at the lodge and as he prepared to leave his hideaway he took a quick glance back at the pool building. To his amazement he saw Cindy and Paulette swimming leisurely up and down its length. Any other time such a sight would have delayed him, but not now. He licked his lips, whispered an obscenity under his breath and left. When he reached his hidden vehicle he climbed into the driver’s seat, changed out of his new camouflage jacket into his normal one, and started the engine. He leant across the passenger seat, collected up the hire papers from the glove compartment and placed them in his inside pocket. He then drove straight to the gate at Mealag Lodge. As he approached, Police Constable Willison stood more erect. Donaldson gave a brief press of the horn button and waved at the officer to open the gate. The officer responded by an exaggerated wave of his hands clearly indicating “No”. Donaldson got out of the car and went up to the gate.
“You’re new here, haven’t seen you before. Open up mate,” said Donaldson pleasantly.
“I’m sorry. No one is allowed in today” replied Willison.
“Don’t be bloody daft. It’s Friday. I come every Friday to clean and maintain Mr Truscott’s pool. Sam Dickens is the name, it’s bound to be on that list of yours – if that’s what’s in your hand.” Donaldson had pulled this ruse so many times, most people at gates held lists, another means of their undoing. The officer did indeed hold such a list in his hands that showed the names of authorised, prearranged visitors. He scanned the list carefully but before he reached the end and looked up, Donaldson spoke again.
“Look, here is the authorisation and order signed by Mr Truscott personally”. Donaldson moved closer to the wire mesh, producing the papers from his jacket inside pocket and proffered them in his left hand, just far enough from the gate for Willison to have to take a step towards the fence in order to view them. As he neared, Donaldson slightly lowered the papers, and unthinkingly the police officer automatically leant forward to study them. Donaldson instantly pulled his knife from its sheath with his right hand and in one movement plunged it through the large gap in the mesh, deep into the side of the officer’s neck. Blood spurted in great profusion as the officer fought for his breath, whilst Donaldson grasped hold of his tunic and held him firm against the wire. As Willison went limp, Donaldson withdrew his knife and wiped it on the nearby grass before calmly replacing the papers in his pocket. The officer fell to the ground, vainly trying to stop the massive flow of blood with his hands. Donaldson had never wasted time watching a man in his death throes, and before Willison died Donaldson had taken out a crowbar from the tool box of the 4x4 and prized open the padlocked chain. He flung back the gate and dragged the almost lifeless body into the nearest undergrowth, out of sight. He used his considerable strength to pull out by the roots a couple of medium-sized bushes and swept them back and forth across the blood that had spilled onto the track. As quickly as the earth dropped from the impromptu brooms, the blood disappeared until none could be seen. Any observer arriving at the gate would notice only the soil.
Donaldson resumed his position behind the wheel of the Ford. Collecting his semi-automatic pistol from his rucksack, he screwed on the silencer before placing the gun on the seat beside him. He pressed the starter and drove into the lodge complex. Officer Nigel Probert was seated at the bench just above the jetty, but he was not taking in the view. He was watching the mountain opposite through high-powered binoculars, straining to see if anything untoward was happening. Assiter and his party were out of his sight, having walked around the hill a little below the summit, but the other two stalkers were still following. Probert heard Donaldson’s approaching vehicle, but, thinking it to be the MacLeans returning early for some reason, he didn’t trouble to turn around. Anyway he had no reason to investigate who had arrived, as his colleague Simon Willison was manning the gate. Donaldson now knew for certain this was going to be his lucky day. He had overheard all that he needed to plan an easy assault on the house. The two women were still indoors, oblivious to their plight. The guard at the gate was tired and stupid and now the one on the bench was too busy sightseeing to even look round. Donaldson picked up his gun and held it out in front of him as he walked silently on the grass. He stopped, took careful aim and fired. The bullet smashed into the back of Of
ficer Probert’s head, blowing half of it away. Donaldson ran forward, roughly grabbed hold of the lifeless body and pulled it into the trees only a few metres from where a shocked and alarmed Fadyar was laying as flat as she possibly could, her own hand gun held rock steady in her right hand, the safety catch off. She need not have been concerned for her own well-being. Donaldson was in triumphant mood. He had successfully stormed Mealag and he thought his ex-army mates would have been proud of him. He recalled their own arrant motto that was embroidered onto the sleeve of his army jacket in Africa: adepto tantum victorem praemio – ‘only the winner will get the reward’. It was time to collect his.
Fadyar held her breath as Donaldson walked past her, the crunching sound of his heavy boots on the stone pathway gradually fading as he neared the lodge. She hardly dared move and had only managed a fleeting glimpse of the man who alighted from the 4x4. Initially thinking him to be additional security from the army she had laid low anxious not to be detected, but the cold-blooded killing of the British police officer had completely unnerved her. She had pressed herself so hard into the ground, not risking lifting her head, that all she could see was Donaldson taking his final steps before he entered the kitchen door. Her mind was in turmoil. Who was this man and what was his connection with those at the lodge? Were there others involved? How had he got past the gate? Was he in collusion with one of the guards? Surely not, she thought, but in those few brief moments nothing made much sense to her.
Yes, there must be others as how else had he got past the gate? She asked herself any number of questions but found no answers.
Was the man after Assiter, too, and would he now lie in wait for him? Again more questions.
She gradually regained her composure and started to think about what had happened more logically, more calmly. She reasoned that the man could not be after Assiter. Why risk being killed at the gate, or even in the grounds several hours before the American returned. Surely the man, whoever he is, would have been surveying the lodge and watching Assiter’s movements so would know he had left earlier to go shooting? The fact that this intruder must also have been undertaking surveillance was a concern. She had not noticed anyone else near the house and she had spent many hours keeping it under observation. Then she remembered the brief flash of reflected light, across the path and from within the trees behind the building, the day before.
