Dreams to Die For (35 page)

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.

Monday 11
^th
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.”

“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.