Dreams to Die For (5 page)

Gordon was impressed with the care both had shown at ensuring the boat could be safely brought into shore and near to where their colleagues were waiting. Such team work and initiative would score highly when he completed their course report. She cut the outboard and lifted it from the water whilst one of the others dropped the anchor. The realisation by the two men in suits that to reach the boat would involve taking a few steps across the rocky terrain and into the cold loch could be seen in their faces as their initial joy turned to dismay. Gordon laughed out loud as he viewed their dilemma through the binoculars. They both removed their shoes and socks, but neither seemed too keen to damage their expensively-tailored suits. For a few moments they both hesitated. Then one slowly removed his trousers before gingerly stepping into the water. He quickly realised that keeping his balance on the slippery rocks below was no easy task at any time. To do so whilst carrying a suitcase and his shoes was well-nigh impossible. Clearly embarrassed and feeling very self-conscious of his brightly coloured underwear that had already attracted some sarcastic wolf whistles and ribald comments, he stepped back onto the firmer shore. Once he had regained his composure he stood up, looked around himself in an assured manner and then placed his removed clothes in his suitcase before picking it up again and hoisting it onto his shoulder, keeping one arm around it to ensure it did not fall as he entered the water for the second time. To shouts of encouragement from his rescuers he half-stumbled, half-slipped his way to the boat where eager hands hoisted him aboard and clapped as he sat down, relieved at not having fallen on his short but dangerous journey.

The second, an Armani-tailored executive, was not so fortunate. Emulating his colleague he gingerly took his first steps into the loch but the coldness of the water surprised him. He uttered an expletive so loud that even Gordon heard it, before the man lost his footing completely and he inelegantly performed a slow pirouette before crashing face down in the loch. The suitcase landed with a heavy splash next to him and immediately started to drift away from both the boat and its owner. Desperate to retrieve the case, the man swam after it, grabbed it by the handle and brought it back to the side of the boat where the amused makeshift crew had extended their hands in offers of assistance. The suitcase was lifted on board, streams of water leaking from it as surely as if it had been a sieve. Turning their attention to their hapless colleague, they started to haul him up by his arms over the side of the boat. The laws of gravity quickly operated upon the weight of water within his soaked and unflatteringly long white boxer shorts, such that they slid gently down to his ankles. His semi-naked trunk was upended as he was pulled into the boat, causing his colleagues to roar with laughter. It was a very angry and red-faced executive that eventually regained his modesty as the anchor was weighed and the engine re-started. Twenty-five minutes later, Gordon met them all outside Mealag Lodge. It had, as usual, been an enjoyable and thoroughly entertaining morning witnessing the arrival of his guests.

Gordon Truscott did not need the income from the eight, one-week courses he hosted each year. There was always an element of team building on the course, but principally it was to acquaint rising stars of business with the experience and advice of successful people, usually entrepreneurs and executives from other organisations, from Britain or abroad, who were prepared to give of their time and who were prepared to make the journey. Few charged for their services apart from expenses and were pleased to impart their wisdom and knowledge to the next generation. Most helicoptered in, though some took a more scenic and leisurely route like the guests themselves. Gordon personally always took at least one of the daily sessions himself, and his courses had won a deserved reputation and admiration from those who had attended them.

He led his visitors to the clearing at the front of Mealag Lodge, pointed out the chalets which each had been allotted and took the wet suitcase from the man who had introduced himself as the compliance director.

“Get yourself dried off and I will have a tracksuit sent over to you in a few minutes. We will dry out your case and have its contents all ironed by tomorrow morning. Any non-clothes items will be dried and returned as they are ready.” Gordon had little sympathy for someone whom he was already regarding as silly at best and probably incompetent at worst. He certainly had shown little common sense by wearing a suit for his journey and he recalled that this man had been the first to walk away from the group when they had alighted from the van. Gordon was not going to extend any fatuous sympathy for what had befallen him.

“We will meet at Ruraich in thirty minutes. Any questions?” Gordon asked. He wondered if anyone would ask where or what Ruraich was, but no one dared.

“Good. See you in half an hour.”

All the guests found Ruraich without difficulty. In fact with the exception of the shivering compliance director whom they insisted went straightway to his chalet to get warm and dry, the group quickly split up and searched the immediate area, finding the training centre within a couple of minutes.

A small but excellent buffet had been prepared and was laid out on the table, alongside some bottles of white wine and fruit juices. Gordon sat amongst his new arrivals and over the informal lunch introduced himself fully and outlined the events, seminars and conferences to be held during their stay. Sandy MacLean joined them a few minutes later bringing forth astonished gasps from some of the visitors. Sandy had completely transformed his appearance from that of a poorly-dressed white van driver to a rather imposing figure, in tracksuit bottoms and short sleeved white shirt. Sandy went through all the safety procedures both at the Mealag complex and those that appertained to the more physically demanding, and potentially dangerous, external events. Gordon ended lunch by pointing out to them that their first task, that of arriving at Mealag Lodge, had not been an outstanding success and he counselled them to reflect upon the morning's events.

“If you fail to learn the lessons from today,” he spoke softly but with authority, “you will not acquit yourselves well on this course or in business. Your very survival might be at stake at some point this week and you will then be required to deploy all your combined resources of skill, enterprise and initiative quickly and effectively. Many of you were dressed quite inappropriately for a trip to the Highlands and as a group you failed to show any team work or devise a suitable plan once you left the transit. In fact, within minutes your group had fragmented. Not an impressive start and if it had not been for one person's initiative in putting on his boots and searching the immediate area for a boat, and another person's skill at managing the boat and its outboard, I suspect that some of you would not have reached here until mid-afternoon… ” and fixing a withering stare upon the two previously suited gentlemen Gordon remarked “… perhaps not at all! We shall meet again, here, at 7:00pm. Dinner will be taken in the main house at 7:30pm when we shall be joined by the Chief Executive of Bowden Chemicals Inc of Massachusetts.”

“Is it a formal dinner?” enquired one of the insurance corporation's employees “I mean, er, dress-wise,” he nervously added.

“Whatever you think is appropriate,” replied Gordon, and he walked smartly out the door quickly followed by Sandy.

“There's always one” said Sandy as he and Gordon relaxed over a beer in Mealag's spacious kitchen.

“Yep” said Gordon laughing. “Arrivals never fail to amuse. Why companies employ prats in senior posts when they can't even make a decision on what to wear is beyond me.”

They both liked organising and running the courses that were held at Mealag but for quite different reasons. Sandy could utilise his experience on the vigorous outdoor activities, which enabled him to visit the more remote parts of the estate and to keep his fitness level up, whilst Gordon enjoyed them because he was giving something back to a business world that had been extremely generous to him. The eight short breaks throughout the year also ensured that living at Mealag was generally enhanced, not diminished, as the fresh arrival of ‘guests' removed any potential possibility of life becoming routine. The courses provided a stimulus not just to Gordon, Sandy and Margaret but to all the estate families who, in one way or other, were included and made a contribution – whether helping Sandy on the various outdoor exercises or in helping Margaret with the catering and cleaning.

As Gordon's guests were trying hard to mask their apprehension at the challenges that awaited them over the few days whilst seemingly enjoying the light lunch provided, a black Mercedes E300 saloon drew up outside a row of garages situated in a small cul-de-sac off the Rue Raspail southeast of Paris. The driver, Claude Carron, kept the engine running and thirty seconds later Fadyar Masri emerged from the rear of her apartment block, opened the passenger door and got inside. Carron quickly executed a three-point turn and turned left at the main road. They chatted about nothing of consequence for several minutes before Fadyar raised the subject that had been the reason for her coded call to meet Carron.

“Does London alter anything?” she demanded. “Why wasn't I informed?”

“Because you didn't need to know; I wasn't told either. Actually, I am picking up rumours that the London bombings were carried out by some dissidents angry at the Iraq War but I just don't know. Frankly no one else does either. It wasn't anyone we are aware of.”

This temporarily stunned Fadyar.

“Amateurs!” She shouted. “Are you saying a bunch of amateurs did that?”

Carron thought a while and in a slow sombre tone said, “No Fadyar, I'm not, but whoever they were they gave their lives. Our turn will come.”

Fadyar had no answer to that. It was true.

“OK.” She paused whilst she tried to think of something useful to say but could not. “OK
Claude
”. She sarcastically emphasised the controller's name knowing it to be false. No one knew real names, only the aliases given to each of them whilst training.

“Fadyar, we don't have much time. The less we see of each other the better, and driving around Paris is always an accident waiting to happen. So, you are to abandon your planned mission and await further instructions. It may be some while before you hear from me or anyone else.” said Carron, gravely.

“But I've deposited some of the money, ready for when we need it.” She tried to find an excuse, any excuse, to have her mission go ahead.

“Money isn't important,” he mockingly reproved her. “That's one thing we are never short of. Leave it where it is, we might use it someday if we have business in the UK. Britain is now on maximum alert. Their security forces are going frantic, picking up anyone that moves or has connections with Pakistan or the Muslim community. The furore will gradually subside. Their guard will be down again and that is when we will strike.”

There was little more Fadyar could say. She had to obey and so she accepted that she would continue being a loyal secretary to her fat boss in the clothing factory until Carron next called upon her.

“Drop me home then, will you?” she asked.

Carron duly obliged and stopped the vehicle on the main road, just long enough to allow Fadyar to hurry inside the main apartment block entrance before he pressed the accelerator and the powerful automatic swung back into the traffic and disappeared.

Fadyar climbed the two flights of stairs and opened her apartment front door, went into the lounge and slumped onto her sofa. She was dismayed at the prospect of just waiting, certainly for months and possibly for years – had she realised then just how frustrated she would become at the enforced postponement she would probably have packed her suitcase and returned to her home town of Baghdad. She recalled the joy and exhilaration she had felt when she had heard from Carron that she was to head up an attack on Manchester Airport but just as she was preparing her plans the London bombings had occurred, spoiling everything. She just hoped all the laborious and demanding training, both physical and mental, that she had received from the fundamentalists would not now be wasted. She understood the need for Jihad, but the burning resentment she felt towards the British and American forces was intensely personal. Her primary need was to avenge the cold blooded slaying of her parents.

* * *

Cindy Crossland took a few faltering and unsteady steps along the ward helped by the young nurse Jacqui. Cindy was determined to dispense with the crutches as soon as she was able and was making remarkable progress towards her goal. She had combed her hair whilst sitting up in bed but she was anxious to reach the bathroom where she could have the benefit of a large mirror. She needed to uplift her spirits. She had not yet been able to contact Gordon and, for a reason which she did not wish to properly analyse, the absence of hearing his voice, even just once more, had made her feel depressed. The young nurse left her at the door and twenty minutes later Cindy emerged, smiling broadly and looking radiant. Her shoulder length light brown hair, with blonde highlights, was now immaculately groomed and swayed softly as she hobbled on the shiny vinyl tiled floor. Her face, slightly flushed but still gentle and smooth, was complemented only by the faintest of make up around her lips and her grey-green eyes sparkled in the cold white fluorescent light of the ward. Cindy looked good, and she knew it. At five feet nine inches she was not overly tall, but she stood high enough to show her figure to best advantage. The swell of her breasts – moving rhythmically and in unison as she hobbled along – was sufficient that, even constrained by a less than flattering red dressing gown, Cindy was still able to look both attractive and slightly sensuous.

“You look great” the nurse said, “and home tomorrow then?”

* * *

Cindy viewed that prospect with mixed emotion. Of course she wanted to get home, out of this hospital and back to the Cotswolds, leaving behind her the awful events of last week. However, that meant living with Alan again and possibly never knowing anything more about Gordon. She had gone over and over her last real conversation with Alan. She had lied to him so as not to hurt his feelings but that had only made her feel worse. For how much longer could she go on living a lie and masking her lack of affection for him? Yet Alan had been wonderful to her during her hospitalisation, visiting two or three times a day, driving back to Stillwood to collect clothes and generally showing great concern for her well-being. Whilst she was hospitalised, she knew he had tried really hard to positively demonstrate his love and support for her, yet she disliked herself for finding his attentions irritating. She had even refused to be transferred to the private hospital Alan had proposed, not because she would not have welcomed a room to herself – she would – but she could not bring herself to agree with her husband's suggestion. It was yet another example of how much she had drifted away from him.

As Jacqui helped her back into her bedside chair, she whispered to Cindy, “Would you like the phone again?”

Jacqui had been marvellous
, thought Cindy. She had never asked prying questions about the telephone number but intuitively knew that it represented something deeply personal and important to her patient.

“Please,” said Cindy. “Thank you.”

Cindy had been going over and over in her head just what she was actually going to say to Gordon if ever she did make contact and she was no nearer resolving that dilemma as she punched out the numbers. Her heart was beating noticeably hard and her mouth had gone dry. The ring tone seemed to her slower than usual, or perhaps it was just her imagination. One ring, two rings, three rings… Cindy let it ring on when suddenly a voice answered.

“Truscott,” the voice was soft but firm. “Who's calling?”

“Is that… is that… Gordon?” Cindy found difficulty uttering the words through her parched mouth.

“Yes. Hello. Who is that?”

“Cindy Crossland. Do you remember? The woman on the train.”

“How could I forget” Gordon laughed. “How are you, where are you speaking from?”

“I'm getting along fine, but still in hospital.”

“Did you know I found out which hospital you were in and looked by, but you had someone with you so I left. I had to be in Scotland by Sunday so there wasn't much time to come round again. I'm so sorry to have missed you.”

So much information and delivered so quickly that Cindy thought Gordon sounded really pleased that she had telephoned.

“That would have been Alan, my husband. I've got a busted leg, but its been reset and in plaster and I'm out of hospital tomorrow. I would really like us to meet up sometime so that I can thank you personally.” Cindy blurted out the words she had so wanted to say ever since they were forced to part by the medics. She couldn't help herself even though it was quite out of character for her to be so open, especially with someone she hardly knew.

There was a slight pause before Gordon said, “That would be great, I'll look forward to it. How about you give me your mobile number now and I will catch up with you next week.”

Cindy duly obliged. Almost as an afterthought she enquired whether Gordon was injured by the bombing, and was relieved that he had only suffered a couple of minor cuts and had some superficial bruising.

“Speak soon, then.” and with that Gordon wished Cindy well and said goodbye.

As she put the receiver back into its cradle, Cindy's mind was in whirl, already excited that the stranger on the train had agreed to a meeting. She desperately hoped he meant it.