Dreams to Die For (57 page)

Mealag Lodge had been boarded and shut since Gordon's death, but the MacLeans still lived in their bungalow and the estate still functioned. Gordon's solicitors had indicated to them that that they would be well provided for when the will was finally proved and the estate was properly safeguarded to ensure its continuance. Much to Cindy's surprise, she had received a phone call saying she would become a very wealthy woman. She hadn't appreciated just how meticulous a man Gordon was until the solicitors contacted her, and it was a surprise that Gordon should have altered his will when he had known Cindy for only a short while. It was only later when speaking with Dean that she learned of Gordon's intention to propose to her. Although overjoyed at what Assiter had said, his comment had really upset Cindy. It reminded her of what might have been; what she had hoped and wished for.
God, how she missed Gordon.
Even now, months later, she could almost imagine he was still there in the room with her, talking together, laughing, kissing. Christmas was nearing and all around her people were getting ready for the festive season. It was the most poignant reminder of the excitement, joy and love she and Gordon had shared twelve months previously, when they talked of a fantastic life together. Now, she was unable to foresee her future, and desperately unhappy. She realised she had to visit the dam and Mealag once more, one last time – she had outstanding business there. She owed it to Gordon, to herself and the MacLeans. It was the only way she would obtain closure.

The journey to Scotland was so unpleasant and heartbreaking she failed to notice the scenery in the early winter sun. The tops of the hills were showing the first heavy snows of winter and the brackens were still retaining their pigments of burnt gold, brown and red. It was probably the most colourful of all seasons in the Highlands but she drove on without a glance. She had reached and passed Corach when her frayed nerves shuddered involuntarily as the dam came into view. All her previous experiences came flooding back, but one particularly was etched on her mind, that first morning Gordon met her. She stopped on the rough ground next to the switchgear building and cried for several minutes.

She had not contacted the MacLeans, deliberately, as she was not sure she wanted to meet anyone but she had written them a letter which she posted en route. She needed time alone, here at the dam and around Mealag. She put on a thick waxed jacket to keep out the chill air and the drizzle away, and walked across the dam wall. In her hand she held a tiny engraved brass urn, and at the gate where Gordon had so often waited she knelt down and laid it on the damp grass. From her pocket she produced a small trowel and, with tears running down her cheeks, she buried the casket. She stood up, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and walked to the shore, picking up a collection of large stones to place upon the sepulture. She did this several times until she had erected a small cairn.

She stood over it and whispered, “Goodbye my love, my Gordon. Thank you for the dream. I will always love you.”

She stood for a few more minutes reflecting on the joys they had shared together and started to cry again. She wandered along the shore, past the peat bog where Donaldson had drowned, and stood on the jetty looking at the empty Mealag Lodge and the deserted chalets. The silence overwhelmed her. She turned, retraced her steps, climbed back over the gate and walked slowly over the dam wall. At the car, she raised the tail gate and put on her gum boots. She climbed the hill where Dean and Gordon had been attacked and passed the grilled entrance to the tunnel where the assailants had hidden, a shiny new padlock securing the same rusting chain. There was no reminder of the four murders that took place here, no markings to indicate the grenade attack, and Cindy did not stop. She climbed onwards and reached the surge shaft protected by the forty-six feet diameter circular fence of nearly three hundred close spaced steel stakes, each one having a sharpened trisection at its top. She stood at the railings and looked into the vastness of the expansion chamber. The autumn rains had swelled the level of the loch and deep below her she could clearly see the rushing water as it sped across the surge shaft and into the start of the high pressure tunnel. Cindy took off her thick jacket and placed it over several of the protective stakes. Holding onto the horizontal bars that held the stanchions in place, she levered herself up and over and stood on the narrow concrete apron inside the barrier. She closed her eyes and stepped forward.

It is normal procedure after the activation of the command centres, indeed any large police or prison operation, to hold an initial debrief as soon as practicable afterwards. Everyone, from secretaries in the command office to the Bronze commander himself, has to give their initial thoughts, reactions and comments on the day. The truth is sought and constructive criticism, even if it is about a colleague or superior, is encouraged. These early recollections are followed up later, in depth, but statements made whilst events are still vivid in the mind tend to reveal the most important aspects and are a vital component of any post-operation analysis. Those who took part, whether at the frontline or not, would be tired but none complained. Those who were still on active deployment, at the scene for instance, would have their initial debriefing as soon as they were off-duty. Debriefing is part of the job, however painful some of the facts to emerge might be, and this debriefing was not going to be pleasant for anyone. It never is when fatalities have occurred. Gold and Silver Command went through the same process of winding down, and also their own debriefing. In due course all the debriefing reports would be merged and cross-referenced with an in-depth, subsequent, debrief. An exhaustive set of further questions is asked about the interfaces between the command structures to ensure that they always operate smoothly and effectively. Finally, after several weeks or even months, the full internal report will be made available to the Home Secretary and COBR, and if necessary further detailed reviews will take place involving all the principal agencies in order to determine and implement improvements.

The debriefing of the command and operational personnel had highlighted several major weaknesses in the initial investigations, liaison and the cross-discipline sharing of information plus serious errors in tactical and deployment when bringing the kidnap to an end. All would be actioned; lessons learnt; and the new measures incorporated into the next revised procedural manual. Computer access codes were overhauled and updated. Sharing of information was deemed essential. No one was disciplined; no one was commended. The twenty-four hour TV news stations had exhausted the story within two days and then it was supplanted in their bulletins with news of major floods and landslides in China that had caused significant devastation and loss of life. The serious Sunday papers examined and scrutinised such facts as they had gleaned or had been made available to them, but they too ceased making any further investigations after a couple of weeks. Unsurprisingly, the tabloids had sensationalised the success of the police in defusing the bomb inside the abandoned Land Rover and several alleged eyewitnesses filled more column inches with stories of their lucky escape. The factual aspects of the plot itself were only barely mentioned and nothing of Cindy's and Paulette's ordeal with Donaldson became public. Several years later, due to other factors, the various Scottish constabularies were amalgamated into one unitary force – Police Scotland – though still retaining regional commanders, one of which has responsibility for the Highlands.

GCHQ had spent hours trolling through all the data available to it and after several weeks had found what they were looking for, a lead as to who leaked the holiday plans of the US Secretary of State. Any euphoria was short lived. Sadly for the British, it was not the Americans who slipped up. GCHQ had traced past intercept messages made from a mobile phone user in the Islington area of London to a known organisation long suspected of terrorist sympathies. The information was relayed to the ATU who made the subsequent investigations and enquiries that ultimately led to Detective Chief Superintendent Bill Ritson to be given the job of interviewing Stephen Baker, the boyfriend of Peter Knowles. Baker confessed almost immediately.

It transpired that a couple of years previously he had embarked on a sordid assignation on Hampstead Heath with a young Middle-Eastern teenage boy. Baker became obsessed with the lad and a steamy relationship ensued with both going back to the flat owned by the teenager's wealthy absentee parents. Unknown to Baker, he had been specifically targeted due to his close relationship with Peter Knowles, and when intimate photographs of him and the boy were pushed under the windscreen wipers of his car one day he realised he was in serious trouble. His blackmailers pressured him to obtain information about the British Government's foreign policy towards Middle-Eastern affairs but Baker knew of none, Peter Knowles never revealing state secrets. Baker had to resort to paying the blackmailers considerable sums of cash. Deeply worried and ever more in debt, Baker had reached desperation point when one day Knowles and he were discussing who to invite to their next party.

“We must of course get Cindy along, she simply makes the whole thing go with such a swing. I suppose we shall also have to invite her rather boring husband.” Baker remarked to Knowles.

Without a moment's thought, Knowles replied, “Oh, of course you don't know do you? Well, I think our lovely Cindy is being a rather naughty little girl. I met her the other week and she confirmed to me that she is madly in love with… guess who? My dear, none other than that dishy Gordon Truscott, you know the bachelor millionaire who lives in Scotland.”

“Well, shall we invite Cindy and Truscott to our little do in September? It could be fun if she brings her handsome new man!” Baker mischievously laughed.

“Oh they won't be able to. What a pity. Dean Assiter has already agreed to holiday with them in September. Aren't you just so thrilled for her, Stephen? Truscott must be so much better than the banker.”

It was Baker's opportunity to get back the negatives of the photos and be rid of the blackmailers, and he took it. It was easy for him to ascertain the precise dates. Assiter's public movements were published well in advance and he therefore knew he would be in the UK on official business until September 11th. It was pretty certain where he would be on the 12
^th
and he had to attend a Presidential Address in Washington on the 25
^th
. Baker fully cooperated with Ritson. He supplied the police with all the names, addresses and phone numbers of those he knew. Peter Knowles retired early without receiving the MBE that was customary for his civil service Foreign Office rank. Baker spent several years in jail, but those whom he had implicated had fled the country.

Several families from Birmingham were interrogated for hours in various police stations, but after careful consideration all were released without charge. The same was true of the friends of the three British-based terrorists; none had any inkling of their acquaintances' radical fundamentalist beliefs. The French police had to endure a similar frustration when they eventually identified Claude Carron and other members of his network. Several simultaneous dawn raids across Paris and the suburbs captured no one. The quarry had fled, appearing to have done so immediately prior to Assiter's visit to Mealag.

When Dean Assiter arrived back in Washington DC, the first instruction he gave was to order an internal inquiry into the September 2004 attacks in Haifa Street which had led to many civilian deaths, among which were the parents of Yasmin Hasan. It was a month before the military issued the report and it said little more than the original notes taken at the time.

“Bullshit! This is bullshit,” Assiter shouted down the phone. “I want you to find that goddam soldier Briggs and whoever was his platoon commander in Haifa, the one who signed the papers that said it was a bomb blast. When you find them, you haul their asses in and phone me. I wanna see them face-to-face.”

The general at the end of the line was not going to argue with the Secretary of State, though why there was all this fuss over what happened several years ago baffled him. Two days later, Assiter got the call.

“We have them both at Maryland. Now what are we to do with them?”

“Hold them. Behind bars if you have to. I'm on my way.”

Assiter marched into the detention block of the military base accompanied by two generals, one a four-star and the other a five-star. He had already fully briefed both on the part they should play. Briggs, and his then platoon leader Jacobson were still fortunately in the army. Jacobson had risen to sergeant but Briggs still languished in the rank of private. Both were very nervous about being detained and interrogated by such high-ranking generals. Initially, Jacobson denied that anything but a bomb blast had caused the deaths of Yasmin's parents. The five-star general started to get tough.

“Well you see son, I just don't fuckin' believe you and I take great exception to being lied to. Now, unless you start by telling me how it really was, I'm going to send you to Guantanamo on an extended tour of duty looking after some of the most dangerous bastards God ever placed on this earth. And, you see son, I might just let it be known why I have sent you there.”

He let the words sink in. A nervous twitch appeared over the Sergeant's left eyebrow which he tried unsuccessfully to swat away. A trickle of sweat ran down his forehead and onto his cheek. The general continued, “If I do that you ain't coming back son, ‘cept draped in the Stars and Stripes and I wouldn't want your mama and papa to see your face. They are a real mean bunch of nutters over there.”

The mention of the notorious detention centre made an already nervous Jacobson even more ill at ease but he summoned enough courage to suggest that the general could not do as he threatened. The general walked close up to him and putting his face almost against that of the soldier snarled menacingly, “Sonny boy, don't try and get clever with me. I can do what the fuck I want with you. You are in my army and you signed up to go where I fucking tell you to go. Now stop the crap and tell me like it was, not how it's written on this arse wipe paper.”

He waved the official report. Jacobson remained silent.

The general left for the cell down the corridor where Briggs was huddled in a corner. He stood to attention as the general walked in.

“Seems you're being hung out to dry, boy. Your platoon leader says you just lost it and he had to cover for you with the story of the bomb blasts,” drawled the general.

“It wasn't like that, Sir.” The private stated loudly.

“Then what was it like, soldier boy?”

“Well, there were lots of bombs going off and we didn't know who was shooting at us, so we had to be very careful. We couldn't take risks, Sir.”

The General laughed, “Where'd ya dream that load of crap up, Private Briggs? If you didn't know who the fuck was shooting at you, or where they were, you'd all be fuckin' dead. No, I'll tell you what happened and you tell me if I'm wrong. Haifa Street was a bomb alley and you were all pissed off by it. Day after day the same bloody carnage: insurgents fighting insurgents; natives fighting natives; bombing each other, blaming each other – and all of ‘em fighting us. Day after fuckin' day. You were understandably pissin' your pants when you walked down it. No shame in that ‘cos someone has to go in, at some time. That's our job, see. The army goes where no one else will; to clean up the crap; to sweep up the blood and guts; to reopen the road. Then someone – not you, Private – gave the order to totally clear out the place. Friend or foe, no distinction, just fuckin' wipe ‘em out. And you, boy, went in firing your weapon even at innocent people, people who actually might have helped us. Think carefully boy, ‘cos your mate up the corridor says you acted alone and he had to cover for you, but I don't believe him.”

“OK. OK. It wasn't Jacobsen either. The order came from higher up than him. We were told to go in and it would all be put down as bomb blasts or some such. Anyway, covered up; only enemy in there; no survivors. We were told, totally clear the street. We were green lighted, Sir. Told.”

Assiter had heard enough on the relayed speaker system. He went in to the cell, shaking with rage, “Do you know what you did, you mother fucker? You didn't just kill innocent people. You made a terrorist out of one of their children, someone who saw you kill her parents who had nothing to do with the insurgency against us. You made her into a terrorist. That woman has subsequently been responsible for the deaths of several more innocent people and she also captured and could have killed me. That she didn't is down to her ultimate humanity. You make me sick. If I could, I would put you on trial. As it is I shall have to leave that to the army but I hope you remember all your life just what you have done.”

Assiter left the room, disgusted. He heard three months later that Briggs and Jacobson were but two of twelve soldiers of varying rank who were charged with dishonourable conduct, found guilty and discharged from the army without benefits. When Assiter learnt that the army hierarchy decided not to prosecute them on more serious charges he picked up the phone and spoke to the generals who had interviewed the soldiers.

“It wasn't us, Secretary of State. The order not to prosecute came from the President's Office.”

Assiter was furious and dismayed. In his position within the Administration, the Secretary of State is entitled to ask for an immediate meeting with the President, who customarily never refuses. As the situation was not one of impending national security it was the following morning when Assiter made his way to the West Wing and to the Oval Office, where the President was standing looking out over the magnificent South Lawn. An aide brought in refreshments just after the pleasant introductions had been exchanged. Assiter and the President had a regular schedule of meetings already planned in their diary, and so the request for a further meeting implied something serious. The President gestured Assiter to sit alongside him on one of the easy chairs at the opposite end of the room from the famous Resolute desk, given to the presidency by Queen Victoria.

“What's up, Dean? Something happened?”

“More accurately not happened, Mr President. You will recall my kidnap and the suicide of the terrorist leader. I investigated her story and found that in fact her parents were murdered, exactly as she said, by our troops. The army eventually conducted a proper investigation and twelve of our guys were found culpable. General Stanway and I were firmly of the view that those involved would be prosecuted for these war crimes. In the event, I learn that all they received was a rap on the knuckles. Those that were still serving were kicked out with a dishonourable conduct charge, those that had left have lost their army benefits.”

“What are you suggesting should have happened to these soldiers, Dean?” the President asked.

I believe they should have been put on trial for war crimes or murder. That is what they committed.”

“That's a little over the top, Dean, surely? These boys were serving their country, things happen in a war. Collateral is always regretted, but it happens.” The President's deep voice was soft, even toned.

“What actually occurred Mr President was not collateral, not some by-product of an operation that went bad. It was deliberate and planned. We have the facts, we know they are guilty,” Assiter was becoming exasperated.

“Dean. What good would a murder prosecution serve? Can you imagine the mileage that would give our enemies? And think of the impact back here with our own folks. It will be a long time before we get out of Iraq and we are already fighting another damned conflict in Afghanistan. It would not be good for public morale, you know, to see their heroes being prosecuted by their own side. Look at the numbers of our war dead. The American people want to believe, Dean – no, they have to believe – that ours is a just cause, and that our boys act properly and honourably. We are trying to bring peace and democracy to troubled lands, all a trial would do is undermine our efforts and sap the army's and the nation's confidence. God, that's shaky enough as it is. No, Dean. A trial is out of the question.”

“If that is your view Mr President there is nothing more I can say.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

As Assiter rose and turned to go out of the door, the President added, “Dean, you have been outstanding in the service of this great nation and to me, personally. I value your wise counsel and your contribution to this administration and I do understand how you feel, especially given the circumstances of your horrific ordeal and the comments made to you by the woman that held you hostage. Believe me, Dean, I studied this case very carefully, and I sincerely wish I could have done as you ask.”

* * *

A month later Assiter, to the delight of his wife, resigned his post citing health reasons and shortly after retired from public life disillusioned with politics. He was a fairly wealthy man having made his money from oil, and used a large slice of it to start a foundation to help finance Iraqi and Middle-Eastern students through American colleges and universities. At the White House farewell dinner in his honour the President gave his Secretary of State a personal thank you letter for his services and presented him with a gift, a copy of the Gettysburg Address enclosed in a silver and gold case.

As he relaxed at home later that evening, and although familiar with the words, Assiter unfurled the scroll and read:

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Assiter carefully replaced the scroll inside its casing, walked over to a cabinet and placed it in a drawer before returning to his chair.

“Paulette. I need a large whisky”.