Dreams to Die For

by Alan G Boyes

  “Him. It was him, had to be”, she muttered to herself as she continued her rational analysis of the events she had just witnessed.

  The intruder had somehow come through the gate, therefore making it highly probable that the guard positioned there must almost certainly now be dead. Her mind reeled with questions. What brought this man and his accomplices, if there were any, to Mealag on this day at this time, if not Assiter? Was it perhaps a man with a personal grudge against Truscott or a fanatic against the wealthy? She kept thinking and trying to make sense of it all. The man was clinical and bold. She had spent many months in training camp and only the best graduates could have done what she had just witnessed. He was unhurried, certain of himself and what he was about to do. Completely detached, unemotional, focused and accomplished; the man was a ruthless killer.

  “That’s it,” she said to herself, “A hit man, professionally hired. Cold, calculating, fearless and deadly.” She knew the job demanded that virtually all professional assassins work alone and in secrecy, and as some time had now passed with no one else appearing, she was becoming more confident that this was a lone killer. She now weighed up the risks the unwelcome visitor presented to her own mission, slowly but inexorably nearing its finale a thousand metres away across the loch. She thought, momentarily, about aborting it entirely for the day but dismissed that almost as instantly. The deaths of the two police would hardly go unnoticed and by tomorrow Mealag Lodge would be cordoned off and sealed tight by numerous other officers. More pertinently, and assuming he was still alive, Assiter would immediately be on his way home to the US surrounded by an armed guard. His kidnap now had to take place today; there would be no other opportunity. Fadyar subconsciously placed her hand on her rifle at the grim realisation that she would quickly have to neutralise the threat to the mission of the red-headed man inside the house.

  Red Head. The man had a red head. Her recollections were becoming clearer and she suddenly remembered his short red hair. There was something about him that seemed vaguely familiar and it was the red hair. Where had she seen red hair? It had to be in England as no one in Iraq or Pakistan had red hair… except… except… She strained to remember. Somewhere she had seen a person with red hair but where? And when? She shook her head, angry with herself for not remembering and, failing to recall any details, she returned to the topic of her mission. That was the most important thing.

  “Concentrate. Concentrate,” she told herself.

  As she was starting to analyse her options, she heard Bagheri call on the radio. “Fadyar. Are you there? Over.” She switched to speak and as she did several loud, terrified screams from the house punctured the still air, followed immediately by an eerie silence.

  66

  Assistant Commissioner Manders had for the first time in his life run to the commissioner’s office, but he had already left for the emergency Joint Intelligence Committee’s meeting scheduled, according to the Commissioner’s secretary, for 11:30am. Manders glanced at his watch. 11:20am. He tried to raise the Commissioner on the emergency mobile number but, as was mandatory at all JIC meetings, no mobile was even allowed into the room, all of them were switched off and safely placed under lock and key. The only telephone allowed in the large oval room was placed immediately in front of the Chairman, in this instance the Home Secretary, who had just arrived having had to cut short a meeting with representatives from the Bar Council. The meeting started a little early as all were present and the factual evidence was being outlined by Rosalind Craglis seated beside her boss, the Director General of the Intelligence Service. She gave an impressive report, brief and well-delivered. The room listened intently. The Home Secretary had made some jottings on a note beside him, but before referring to them he asked for input from any others who might wish to add information. He had stressed he wanted any speaker to provide additional fact, not supposition and certainly not opinion, at least not yet. There were no additions.

  “Then I have one point to add which I believe may be highly pertinent” the Home Secretary referred to his notes. “The Assistant Director has just informed us that repeated sweeps of the various computer databases and other information sources have revealed no person of significant standing who may represent a potential terrorist target other than our own governmental and political personnel, but I should inform you that in this country at the moment is the United States Secretary of State, Mr Dean Assiter.”

  There were several audible gasps from various attendees. Some others, including Rosalind Craglis and her boss, simply shook their heads in disbelief. The Director General of the Intelligence Service hastily scribbled a pencilled note, ‘Another government cock up on the way? Mind our backs!’ and pushed it in front of his female Deputy, who sniggered slightly just as an Assistant Secretary at the Foreign Office spoke.

  “With respect Home Secretary, I believe Mr Assiter flew home last weekend.”

  “That is where you are wrong, Assistant Secretary. That news was disinformation – I believe that is what it is technically called is it not, Director General?” He looked at the man beside Rosalind Craglis, but continued without waiting for an answer. “It was his specific wish to have only limited protection. We didn’t like it, of course, and neither did the Americans, but the Secretary of State was insistent – so to aid his protection, we restricted information on his movements to only a very few people. Very, very few people in fact, and we were meticulous in ensuring that nothing even remotely connected to his visit appeared on any file or computer record.”

  He smiled thinly, almost seeming appreciative of how clever he and his department had been, before continuing, “That is why his name did not appear on your searches, though the Foreign Secretary and your Permanent Secretary were informed.”

  The room filled with noise as persons started murmuring to those near to them. The Home Secretary turned to the Commissioner for Police.

  “Commissioner, you will of course wish to take immediate measures to reinforce the protection of Mr Assiter now we are aware of an imminent threat, and I also believe the JIC should now officially categorise this threat as our Level One, a threat against an individual. I am sure I have no need to remind you all that although this is our committee’s lowest ranking, it represent a most serious and actual threat. As such, I shall be convening COBR immediately and acquainting the Prime Minister. I anticipate he will wish me to chair COBR and given what we know COBR will also issue its own threat level. Any questions?”

  The Commissioner spoke, “Does the Home Secretary recollect where Mr Assiter is staying and for how long. Also what protection, if any, does he currently have?”

  “I am sorry I cannot recall all the details which were agreed many months ago… I think he was planning to stay with some tycoon or other. The Foreign Secretary and a small planning group with the Foreign Office dealt with most of the detail. To keep it in house, the FO was going to use some of its own operatives and the Americans were going to have a couple of CIA in tow. You, of course, wouldn’t know would you Assistant Secretary?”

  The fatuous remark, designed as much to demonstrate his superior position as it was to denigrate a subordinate within the department which the Home Secretary was clearly lining up to take the blame if any harm befell Assiter, was typical of the man. Nicknamed The Teflon Kid, since nothing bad ever seemed to stick to him, he could also have been called a number of more colourful epithets. The Assistant Secretary at the Foreign Office reddened, “Regrettably, I, like others here Home Secretary, appear to have been kept very much in the dark. However, if the security on Assiter’s whereabouts was so restricted and if, and I stress if, he is the target, then either we or the Americans also have a major breach of security to worry about. The latter could turn out to be more significant even than Mr Assiter.”

  “Quite so, quite so. We will start an internal investigation at the appropriate time but the commissioner now has to be released to contact the Foreign Secretary.”

  Sir Neil Roberts rose fr
om his chair and walked to the door.

  “Commissioner!” The Home Secretary was shouting. “The people who Assiter was staying with… can’t recall much but I remember the wealthy chap had a new girl-friend. She was married and used to work in the Cabinet Office. Maybe that’s the leak.”

  “Crossland,” sighed Roberts. “Her name is Crossland. My ATU people came to me months ago with her name, though not as a suspect. Simply that it had come up as part of a routine investigation but her file was so highly classified my staff were unable to access it. Perhaps you could minute my request that any future inquiry on this incident should include in its Terms of Reference file access levels and protocols. We have to get away from turf issues. The government of the day must trust the ATU with everything. It is also now obvious that an attack is underway, rather than probable, and I need to leave immediately.”

  Roberts was as highly-skilled a political operator as anyone around the table, and he saw no harm in laying down an early marker that might serve to muddy waters or even deflect criticism when the inevitable review of the events took place.

  “Quite so. Agreed.”

  Commissioner Roberts left and collected his phone. Almost immediately it was switched on he saw had an urgent message to phone Manders, but did so from a secretary’s desk that had a scrambler built into the land line.

  “We think we know where the attack is to take place, the bloody Highlands.” Manders was excited and forgot all forms of deference.

  “I can equal that, Phillip. I know the target. It’s Assiter, the US Secretary of State guy, principal adviser to the President. He never left the UK. See you soon.”

  Manders replaced the receiver and called in Ritson.

  “Everything is falling into place, Bill. We know from Dongle’s lead that it’s this lodge place in the Highlands and the commissioner thinks the target is Assiter, the US Secretary. Evidently he never left the UK. The lodge is owned by Gordon Truscott, whom Five now confirm is having or had an affair with Cindy Crossland, wife of Alan Crossland of the bank. What a bloody fiasco. Cock up after cock up. We could have stopped all this if that prick Roberts had the balls to access that secret file. Now we have JIC and COBR meetings, plus a probable assassination. Oh, and by the way, the phone line at the Scottish lodge is dead. What would you say were the odds that it’s been cut? Don’t answer.”

  “Bloody Hell!” Ritson exclaimed, but Manders was in full flow.

  “The Scottish mob are saying that they need confirmation from their executive that they are to take operational instructions from me! Bloody Scottish Nationalism. Anyway, they haven’t any option now it’s a Level One JIC and COBR is sitting. They have an automatic seat on the JIC so they are in it up to their arses from here on in, like we are.”

  Ritson stared opened-mouthed at Manders. “Shit”.

  “Didn’t I just say that?” retorted Manders, but his quick wit was lost on Ritson.

  It was thirty-four minutes past midday and the forces of law and order had a lot of catching up to do.

  67

  Dean Assiter and Gordon Truscott were making a slow climb across Gleoraich headed in a broadly Easterly direction. The main part of the mountain reared its huge head to the west but its long eastern flank, also impressively tall, was a lot easier to traverse. The two CIA agents were maintaining a distance of no more than fifteen metres behind the stalkers. Three hundred metres behind them were the two kidnappers, and the two British police were a similar distance behind Bagheri and Mattar. As the flank gradually became less steep, Gordon and Dean changed direction and headed north before doubling back behind the hill in order to continue the climb. The two British protection officers had barely started their walk along the eastern flank as Dean and Gordon disappeared behind the mountain. Bagheri and Mattar, alerted by Fadyar that the two officers behind them represented a threat that had to be dealt with, were also steadily making their way across the hill, but they did not turn behind the mountain.

  At the Eastern end of Gleoraich, just slightly away from the path taken by the walkers ahead of them, was the entrance to the surge shaft access tunnel that Gordon had pointed out to Cindy on her first visit to the dam. It was still protected by a padlocked wrought iron grille door and the large DANGER safety notice swayed slightly in the gentle breeze. The entrance was small, permitting only one person to enter at a time and the interior of the tunnel was pitch-black. Being cut deep into the hill, no sunlight ever entered it and daylight only penetrated a few yards into the dank interior. It was an ideal spot from which to spring an ambush, provided Mattar and Bagheri could quickly remove the padlock. Carrying no tools and not wishing to risk the noise their silenced weapons might make, they would have to improvise. Fortunately, as with the dam, cost constraints at the time of construction were severe and there was no money available for clearing the detritus and unwanted or broken machinery. A lot was buried within the massive works but considerable amounts were either submerged by the rising water in the loch as the dam took effect or just left to rot at the shoreline. Similarly, the excavations for the surge access tunnel had not been removed and an ample supply of broken and torn metal, mostly iron and steel, littered the immediate surroundings. Mattar picked up a deformed and twisted iron bar about 2cm thick. It was crusted with bright orange flakes of rust, which fluttered to the ground like sprinkling tea leaves as he wedged it firmly into the padlock’s hoop. He twisted the bar round and asked Bagheri to lend his weight and their combined strength soon overcame the lock’s resistance. It snapped open and fell to the grass. They opened the door slowly, which much to Bagheri’s dismay squeaked and squealed as it moved on the rusted hinges.

  “Stop,” cried Mattar. “Wait.”

  He then walked a short distance and started picking the berries, full and ripe, from a nearby large rowan tree. When he had gathered two handfuls he brought them over to the gate and squeezed his hands together, letting the sticky liquid drip over the rusted mounts. He moved the grille very slowly back and forth and it was soon operating silently, much to his partner’s admiration.

  “Good trick that Mawdud, well done” remarked Bagheri. “Let’s get in.”

  They entered the long, narrow tunnel, pulled the grating closed and waited. Several minutes later, from their secret hideaway they saw the officers come into view, their upright posture indicating that the climb was not demanding much effort from their fit bodies. It was time for Mattar and Bagheri to ready their weapons.

  The CAR-15 is a highly versatile submachine gun. Not only is it short barrelled, light and easy to use, but it can also be switched easily from a machine gun to a fast firing single shot repeating rifle, the setting now chosen by both terrorists.

  “You take the one on our left, I will take the one on the right. Remember, they have body armour. Go for the head.” whispered Bagheri.

  A moving target is clearly more difficult to hit than a static one. Normally, any trained killer will aim at the body as it presents a larger target area and does not move quickly in unpredictable directions as does a person’s head, but the Kevlar protective vests altered the odds. The officers passed in front of them.

  Mattar gave a quick nod to his companion and silently opened the gate. The two stepped out and lay flat on the coarse grass and took aim. The officers were no more than fifteen metres away and Bagheri and Mattar could not miss. Two silenced shots were fired and two bodies fell, both dead before they hit the ground. The sound of the shots, like that of young child trying to imitate the sound of a steam engine, although muffled, was still loud enough to alarm Bagheri.

  “Will the CIA hear that?” he asked, but Mattar reassured him.

  “No, my friend. They are the other side of this high mountain. We heard it, sure, but it will pass well over their heads. We are safe.”

  He was right. The two stalkers and the two Agents ahead of them carried on walking and chatting with only the squawk of an occasional buzzard catching its prey to distract them. Bagheri switched on his radio
to report to his leader.

  “Fadyar, are you there? Over.” he whispered into the microphone.

  The radio clicked, but instead of hearing Fadyar’s calm and reassuring voice, he heard the panicked screams of Cindy and Paulette.

  “Fadyar, is that you? Are you alright?”

  “Mawdud, I’m fine, but something really odd is going on here. Someone else has arrived and he isn’t friendly. I am investigating. Meanwhile, just continue with our mission. If you cannot raise me, remember there is Nasra waiting in reserve.”

  “OK, if you are sure.” For the first time some nervousness crept into Bagheri’s voice. “I called to say those following us are now eliminated.”

  “Well done, my brothers. Keep to our plan. We shall succeed. Out.”

  Fadyar could not waste more time nor risk exposure from the sound of the radio. She needed to quickly investigate what was happening at the lodge as she had to ensure that the alarm systems were neutralised and the communications severed. The red head now posed a significant risk to her mission. Her hopes that he might be soon gone faded when she heard those awful screams. She tried to remain calm and rational, but she sensed that the terrified women’s screams meant only one thing. If she was right, the red head would not be leaving for quite some time – time she didn’t have.