Dreams to Die For (10 page)

“Have you seen the Lanasse order, I can't see it anywhere.” Monsieur Henri Pethane, the fat boss, was searching his desk, rifling through the various scattered files and papers whilst talking to Fadyar at the same time. She knew exactly where it was: In the filing cabinet where she had put it an hour ago but said she would have a good look round. She spent ten minutes apparently searching through files before going to the cabinet. Saying nothing she withdrew the file, slowly closed the drawer and placed the paper on his desk. The routine drudgery of the office was making her sullen, and she desperately yearned to be told of a new mission where at last she could get out of this dump and seek retribution for her parent's murder still vividly etched in her mind.

On that fateful day, Yasmin had hurried out of the centre of Baghdad, keeping to roads that she hoped would be safe, though a nearby bomb blast and distant automatic weapons fire caused her to jump over a partly demolished wall and take shelter. Others in the street did likewise, scrambling over the bricks as quickly as they could manage. Yasmin noticed their frightened eyes. Dark, like her own, they appeared to be stuck into their hollow, dusty faces but were also, like hers, cold and defiant. A few machine gun shots could be heard periodically and she and the others waited several hours before the gunfire stopped.

During this time she struck up a conversation with a young man next to her and told him of the death of her parents a few hours earlier. He, too, had his own horror story but he had joined up with a small militia dedicated to confronting the Americans and to force them out of the city. However, in a recent fire fight he had become separated from his group and was trying to work his way back to their headquarters. He offered to take Yasmin with him and later that evening she met his commander. He realised that with no military training Yasmin would be a liability not a help but she still might be useful to the cause and so she was passed along a trail that led her to ultimately join a group with close links to Al-Qaeda and whose first indoctrination of her was to tell her that Yasmin Hasan was now dead; henceforth she was Fadyar Masri. She excelled in her training, from map reading to communications, from survival techniques to combat and her knowledge and fluency in English quickly singled her out for overseas service. Fadyar longed to go to America, the country who had sent the murderous soldier to her home and who had inflicted her parents' savage death, but her instructors told her that she may be sent anywhere in the world.

“The imperialist American infidels commit their acts of brutality wherever they tread. Our Holy War is global.”

There would be opportunities for her to deploy her special skills and these would ensure that her dream of killing Americans would be fulfilled. Prior to that happening, she was to live an apparently normal life in France and await orders. Although provided with excellent forged papers, she had been able to persuade the factory owner to take her on at a cheaper than usual salary, with no perks or pension, and paid in cash only – thereby ensuring there would be no official record of her employment. Casual labour was a common practice in France and hard-pressed small businesses were only too keen on ways to avoid taxes and state bureaucracy by employing unregistered immigrants, especially those who were, or claimed to be, Algerian.

She knew her Islamic controllers would test her in a minor operation before she would be granted her wish to plan and carry out a major mission, and when her tutors thought she was ready she was given specific instructions regarding the opening of an account at the Hannet-Mar International Bank in London. This was a bank that had many contacts in the Middle East and a new account with links to Dubai, provided it seemed authentic, was unlikely to arouse suspicion. However, there was a risk the bank might not wish to create a new account unless the manager, Crossland, could be convinced of the bona-fides of the client.

She was told of a Mr Kenneth Styles, a friend of the English bank manager and who was a businessman with extensive interests in Dubai, and her mission was to get to know Styles and use him to effect an introduction to Crossland. Fadyar executed the plan perfectly. She ascertained when Styles was next attending a conference in Dubai and took a short holiday from work. She posed as an agent for a consortium and deliberately became acquainted with him. Styles was clearly impressed by the good looking, dark skinned and very westernised woman, and easily flattered. Once she was satisfied from her meeting with Crossland that he would be prepared to set up an account, Fadyar set about removing the connection between her and Styles. On false, but seemingly perfect, papers that would pass any computer scan or database search, it was only a few weeks later that Fadyar emailed Crossland, by which time Styles was dead.

She knew approximately where he lived from their cosy conversations in Dubai, and once she had located his address it was easy to monitor him covertly. Styles was a man of habit and that is always a weakness. Fadyar had been given the name of an operative who could organise and carry out the next stage for her, and in a coded message passed on the details. Driving home after his regular visit to the golf club, a simple interception on a quiet country road by a large 4x4 and two cars, forced him to stop. His car was moved to the side of the road where he was first made to sign a forged affidavit and then made to drink mouthfuls of whisky until he passed out. Styles' car was then driven farther along the road to a spot where it straightened out for hundred yards or so before turning a long and increasingly sharp left bend that clung to the side of a hill.

Keeping in touch by mobile phone, the drivers of the other two vehicles quickly took up position and, pretending to have stalled their engines whilst performing a three point turn, blocked each approach to the bend at a point which made certain that what was happening at the sharp turn remained out of sight of any other motorists, irrespective of their direction of travel. The bull bars on the 4x4 driven by the third man ensured that Styles, now belted into the driver's seat, and his car rolled over the hill, and as it did so the cars blocking the road quickly sped on their way. The whole operation had been carried out with ruthless efficiency and was over in less than thirty seconds. There was no immediate trace of any accident having occurred and no suspicions were raised in the minds of the other road users. Apart from a brief confirmatory message to Fadyar, enclosing the affidavit, she never heard from the operatives again.

As she sat in the office, she yearned to be in action again. She had proved herself and now needed the opportunity to put into practice all her specialist training. She just had to get out of this hell hole in France if she possibly could, but how and when? She decided that she would wait six months, and if no assignment had been given her by that time she would look herself for opportunities to go it alone. Despite the assurances she had been given by her controllers, she was not prepared to just sit around, almost moribund, for what might prove to be months or even years. If Carron was right that the London bombings were the work of a group acting alone, then she was more than capable of following their lead.

The weeks were also passing far too slowly for Cindy. Not that she had little to do, nor was she any longer inhibited by her leg. The plaster had been removed, the physiotherapy exercises determinedly undertaken, ensuring that her wasted muscles were quickly restored to full strength, and she had rapidly regained her normal fitness. She was thrilled at being able to drive again and in itself that provided her with a sense of freedom whether she sat behind the wheel or not. It was a great comfort for her to know that she could escape Red Gables whenever she wanted, but having finished the magazine article, she was now busy spending a great deal of her time writing a novel loosely based on her experience working on the fringes of government and rubbing shoulders alongside such notables as Alastair Campbell and Jonathan Powell – a novel which she would dearly love to complete. Her friends in the Orchard Gun Dog Club had kept in touch with her and she knew that they were hoping to be invited by the organisers to give a demonstration of their skills at the forthcoming Autumn Show at Lanthorne. Cindy had never been to a Game Fair or Show and during a rest from her writing telephoned Don to confirm whether the club were going.

“Absolutely, both days. We're now busy practising a couple of evenings a week, but the light fades so rapidly that we shall be doing the next two weekends as well. That's all the time we have left. In fact we are at Tony's farm tonight, up at Farrington. Why not come along? Five thirty start if you can make it?”

Cindy jumped at the chance and at 4:30pm she had changed into a pair of faded jeans and a thick jumper to ward of the chill air that was now prevalent most evenings and put her boots and wax cotton jacket into the cargo area of her Accord Estate. Even though the cost of fuel was not an issue for her, she took careful note of the odometer reading so she could claim the tax back as a freelance journalist working on a story.

When she arrived, she was warmly greeted by the members. What particularly impressed Cindy about the dog club was how genuinely egalitarian it was. The educational background, financial status or chosen career mattered not a jot. There was a mix of persons from landed gentry and estate owners to unemployed youngsters, and no one cared and nobody was made to feel inferior. She found this attitude totally refreshing, so different from her experience of London and even, she had to concede to herself, from life in the Cotswolds. Everyone's focus was solely on the dogs. After two and a half hours or so, the sun had set and the early September light started to fade rapidly until the point was reached where the training had to cease. The group adjourned to Tony's farm, enjoyed hot drinks and chatted excitedly about the forthcoming show. Someone asked who was going to be the club's compere. The group needed someone to stand in the centre of the ring with the microphone to inform the spectators of what was going on and to generally introduce the dogs and describe the tests they would be demonstrating. A lady named Pamela had done this previously, but this year she had a young dog and felt she could not demonstrate and compere. Don turned to Cindy.

“What about you, Cindy? You know all the dogs' names and their breeds. You know the exercises and tests, could you do it?” Cindy was dumbstruck, not knowing quite what to say. Everyone round the large pine table started saying that it was a great idea, and implored her to say yes.

A young lad, no more than seventeen who was training an excellently bred black Labrador, and who lived in a council house in Lower Dister shouted out, “Maybe Cindy don't wanna do it. I know I wouldn't. I ain't got the guts. Don't let this lot talk you into it Cindy if you don't wanna.”

Cindy thought that very kind and thoughtful and told him so, but she was thrilled at being asked.

“If you're all sure I can do it, really sure. After all I've not known you that long, but you have all made me very welcome and so, yes!” she exclaimed excitedly. “I'm really honoured to be asked but I'm not even a member and even worse, I don't have a dog.”

“No problem” said Don. You don't need to own a dog to be a member and we can grant you honorary member status.”

Cindy did not think that fair and so, after a few more minutes, she handed over a ten pound note for her membership and a further twenty pounds for one of the club's brown jumpers emblazoned with O.G.D.C. on the back in large gold lettering. Before leaving Tony's farm, she took detailed notes about the dogs, their respective owners and the tests that each would be demonstrating. At home the next day, she typed out her notes onto small individual pieces of paper before laminating them to make the waterproof crib sheets she might need.

There were just two practice sessions remaining prior to the show and these took the form of full dress rehearsals, including Cindy providing the narrative. She was determined to look the part and chose to wear her moleskin trousers and placed a rather fetching dull green hat at a slightly jaunty angle upon her head that complemented her appearance perfectly. She had tied her hair, swept back, with matching olive-coloured ribbon and the overall effect was both elegant yet casual. Even the brown club jumper, the like of which Cindy had never worn before and which she would never have considered wearing only a few months ago, looked good, fitted well and closely hugged the curves of her figure. A wax jacket and boots completed the transformation. Everyone was impressed with her.

She introduced the dogs perfectly, faultlessly describing each by breed, age and gender. She eloquently described the exercises and training techniques, explaining why these were so important for gun dogs but also emphasising that any dog would benefit from the thorough obedience training so necessary in a working dog. When a dog did something wrong or broke ranks, Cindy was able to add an impromptu narrative, often humorous, that showed her skill at keeping the continuity whilst order was being restored.

The club were providing two demonstrations on both the Saturday and Sunday. Special car park permits had been provided that enabled presenters to park their vehicles close to the show ring and Cindy was amazed just how many exhibitors, let alone paying visitors, thronged the stalls and activity centres. She soaked in the atmosphere and marvelled at how her life was changing. The days of claustrophobic city meetings, the endless hours of political intrigue and spin and the boredom of life with Alan were gone. This was truly a breath of fresh air, liberating and uplifting, genuine and honest. She had not told Alan where she was going when she left Red Gables on Saturday morning and to disguise her movements even more she wore only jeans and an old jacket, changing into her gun dog clothes at Tony's where several members were meeting up to minimise the number of vehicles making the trip. In fact, she was hardly speaking to Alan these days. It was obvious he was terribly upset and confused but her love for him had gone. She knew that sooner or later she must face Alan and tell him that they would have to part but she was not ready for that yet. She did not even want to think about it. The last thing she needed was another argument and bitterness to spoil the current happiness of her life. Alan interfered with that enough just by being her husband, and she unfairly resented him for it.

The whole experience at Lanthorne for her was nothing but joy. The dogs did much as expected. Most behaved well, but the odd one or two caused some laughter from within the crowd of several hundred standing around the ring perimeter, as they broke ranks or decided to cock their leg instead of fetching the dummy. As Pippa, a normally very well behaved female springer suddenly broke ranks to pick up a dummy that was not meant for her, Cindy overheard one very rustic looking elderly gentleman, leaning over the white wooden railing which he was using for support, say in a broad Gloucestershire accent, “Them spaniels do that, them buggers they are, and she's a good bitch. Showin' off that's all, too clever by ‘arf,” making Cindy smile as that was precisely what Pippa's owner had said only a few nights previously, though then with the addition of a few more earthy expletives.

After a hearty supper at Tony's on Sunday night, they all said their goodbyes and particularly thanked Cindy. Her colleagues thought the shows had been all they could have hoped for and they proclaimed Cindy a star act. After a mock election, she was formally booked for next season before the discussion moved on to the Weston Park Game Fair, held at the end of September. It was the last major game fair of the year within reasonable travelling distance of the gun dog club members, and whilst they were not participating it was evidently a show they all tried to visit if they could for end of season bargains. They asked if Cindy would come along with them and were delighted when she agreed.

The next few weeks Cindy spent around the house and gardens, keeping busy and her mind occupied. Despite her lack of feeling towards Alan, she loved Red Gables. She had devoted a lot of time to the planting of the garden with her choices of bushes and perennials, bulbs and fruit trees. Many of these were now fully established and the garden looked colourful and interesting throughout most of the year. It was also what she termed “low maintenance”. The total plot exceeded a little over three acres in size, but its upkeep now did not take up so much time as to be intrusive, as she and Alan employed a gardener to mow the grass, edge the borders and prune the bushes and hedges. Weeds had been controlled by the prolific use of bark chips and only minimal intervention was needed to keep the gardens looking their best.

She had also decided to go out more, visit various acquaintances in the neighbouring villages or invite them round for coffee. The meetings provided a ready excuse to be out of the house and catch up on the village gossip, and through them she made a couple of good female friends, who were excellent shopping companions in Cheltenham or Oxford. She also joined an exclusive Ladies Only gym, not that she needed to lose weight but because she was keen to get fitter. Her training sessions with the gun dog club had necessitated a lot of walking and standing, and there had been times when she had become aware of just how much stamina members seemed to have. On more than one occasion, when walking up a steep hillside, she had gratefully accepted the offer of a springer that she could take hold of by its slip lead. The eager dog, typical of the breed, pulled her along, thereby easing the strain on her lungs and legs.

Alan would occasionally come down midweek, but it was the weekends that Cindy dreaded most. Try as she might, she could not find it within herself to be totally relaxed in Alan's company, and she kept inventing new excuses to go out or force herself to appear interested in whatever conversation they were having. She would try to write more of her latest novel, but the solitude it entailed paradoxically made it harder to concentrate as when she was alone she kept thinking of Gordon, and conjured up pictures in her mind of how Mealag must look in the snow of winter. Fortunately the gun dog meetings, formal and impromptu, carried on at various times and were an increasing source of material for not just one feature but several. Her agent had been able to secure an excellent publishing deal for them in a high-priced monthly glossy magazine aimed at A and B class readers but of the type who liked to read about the countryside and all aspects of country life rather than enact it, and whose interest in rural pastimes did not extend to getting their shoes, let alone boots, muddy.

By late October, Alan had almost exhausted himself trying to please Cindy and was seriously worried that she might have permanently drifted away from him and that her love, or at least close affection, might not return. On several weekends he had mentioned to her that he should like to discuss their relationship and feelings for each other, but Cindy had always avoided it and also failed to give any indication of when she might be ready to talk to him. He felt quite helpless, utterly bereft of any ideas that might rescue his failing marriage. The calamity of their weekend away in the Lake District still haunted him, but Cindy had not at any time referred to it nor used it as an excuse. He still loved his wife, but it was obvious this was not reciprocated. He tried not to show his anger and frustration when Cindy pointed out to him, as she usually did, that of course she was happy.

“Look at the work I've done in the garden,” she would tell him. “And don't I still cook you your favourite meals when we're together?”

Alan acknowledged this was all true, but he also silently believed such protestations were a sham designed to avoid the real issues. Yet Alan had to face the fact that he had no evidence Cindy was embarking on an affair. Her attitude had been the same for months. During this troubled time, there had been no strange phone calls where the caller suddenly puts down the receiver. There were no evenings when Cindy was out late. She always said where she was going and who she was with and so on. He had seen the draft articles she had written on the gun dog club, and Cindy seemingly spoke quite openly about the people she met there, just as she had about the gym or anything else.

Frustratingly, reluctantly and sadly, he had to accept the position. He wasn't happy about it, but he needed Cindy and would always love her, even if she would not share his bed and satisfy his needs. He was in his mid-thirties, had a successful and lucrative career and he needed physical affection. He had been patient but something had to change if Cindy was to continue to work out her hang-ups month after month without any apparent resolution in sight.

After a couple of large glasses of whisky, he broached the delicate subject in as light hearted a manner as he could muster. Alan put his crossword down onto the glass coffee table, and in a slightly jocular tone, his anxiety making his speech more clipped than usual, spoke to Cindy.

“Cinders, I know what you've said about being happy here and all that, and of course you do know that I love you so much, but I can't really be expected to sleep alone for the rest of my life. I need physical affection. You surely understand that. I should have thought… you would also want that in your life.” The last few haltingly spoken words trailed slowly across the space between them.