Authors: Alan G Boyes
Alan Crossland was also really enjoying life and had returned to the office after a hectic weekend with Chloe. He actually disliked the fact that the divorce with Cindy might take some months to finalise, but it no longer played on his mind as it once did. Sure, he was still sad that he had lost Cindy, particularly as he did not know the reason why she had changed so much from the woman he married. It had caused him to seriously reflect upon their life together and wondered if he might somehow, however unwittingly, be partly to blame. He had always thought that Cindy enjoyed their marriage. He had given her freedom to work where and when she pleased, and never sought to control either her career or her hobbies. They had mutual interests, such as sailing and riding, and Cindy had always said how much she loved Red Gables and living in the Cotswolds. He wasn't a gregarious man, had no expensive tastes and also looked forward at the weekend to joining Cindy, even when she insisted on having the local crowd round. He had tried, in every way possible he thought, to be a loyal, hardworking, supportive husband. The only thing he wondered that might perhaps be levelled against him was that he wasn't adventurous or exciting enough for her, but she had never given the slightest hint that was true. It was, though, the only aspect of their lives where he felt he could be criticised. There had been a couple of occasions when Cindy had wanted to come to the London flat and spend the weekend in town, going to the opera or a West End show, and he had preferred to get out of London and away from all its noise and people to the calm and tranquillity of their home. He was determined not to make the same mistake in his new relationship with Chloe.
“Cindy was past, forget her and move on. Change your life, don't repeat it” he kept saying to himself.
There was little chance of an easy going life when he spent time with Chloe. He had almost forgotten just how active a twenty-eight year old woman could be, and Alan was often reminded all too painfully of the thirteen year age gap between them. In early May, soon after they had returned from the hotel, they were talking one evening about their hobbies and interests and Chloe revealed she enjoyed the occasional game of tennis. Alan, keen to impress his young conquest, mentioned that he had played it quite a bit at university â whereas the truth was that one drunken evening he and several others decided to hit a few balls at each other on the College all weather court.
Chloe immediately arranged for a game at a local club and Alan, desperate to look the part, had made a special trip to the shops to purchase white shirts and tennis shoes, plus a very expensive racket which differed considerably in size, shape and construction from any he had previously used. Chloe started gently enough and Alan was quite pleased how hard he seemed to be hitting the ball with his new racket. Slowly however, Alan was beginning to realise that the rallies were getting longer and that it was he, not Chloe, doing the running. His new shoes were beginning to cause a painful blister on each foot and his wrist and arm was starting to ache. Sweat began to trickle into his eyes as he threw the ball and looked up to serve, adding to the already considerable difficulty he had at mastering that aspect of the game.
Chloe by contrast, was able to accurately aim what Alan considered to be rather ferocious serves. If by some good fortune he managed to hit a return over the net to start a rally, it was he, and not Chloe, who watched the ball bounce speedily into an empty part of the court. Try as he might to place a shot in a position that she could not reach, Chloe seemed able to have plenty of time to reach the ball and hit it back venomously. After forty minutes, Chloe suggested they stop.
“If only because I don't want you worn out for tonight!” she teased.
It wasn't just on the tennis court where Alan found himself wishing he was at least a stone lighter and ten years younger. Chloe, seemed to live life at breakneck speed. She had a full-time job working as a history teacher at a public school for girls and seemed to enjoy a host of activities. She was definitely not a stay at home person, and both she and Alan rarely spent an evening either in his flat or hers. She loved going to the cinema at least once a week, the theatre or a show once a month. In addition to tennis she loved swimming, horse riding and badminton and wished she lived in the country as she liked trekking. Alan was thoroughly happy in her company. She was enlivening and he walked tall with pride whenever he accompanied her. Whilst his physical age and lack of fitness would sometimes become apparent, mentally he felt young again. Chloe had suggested he needed a new wardrobe and she came with him to ensure that he chose wisely. He found himself wearing brighter coloured clothes, in modern styles that he would never have considered when he was living with Cindy. His new bespoke office suits, too, were slightly more flamboyant in design and the size of the pin stripe. âFirenze' was how his obsequious tailor described the Italian style, but his standard of dress still reflected the correct image of an executive city banker. Chloe had made suggestions about his hair styling and suggested he might try out a place she knew of in Chelsea. Much to his surprise he enjoyed the new look created for him, though was aghast at its cost.
Alan Crossland had become very much aware that Chloe was now an intrinsic part of his life and he was pretty certain the feelings he felt towards her were mutual. In fact, Chloe was very much in love, but was trying hard not to show it too much. She had been very badly hurt once and had vowed never again to go out with a married man so she was initially apprehensive when Alan had said at the hotel he was not yet divorced, lest it lead to another heartbreak or betrayal. Alan had quickly put those fears to rest when he showed her the papers from his solicitor and she relaxed more as they grew closer. She found Alan a welcome change from going out with young, single twenty-year-olds whose idea of a good time seemed limited to going to a pub, having a few drinks and then expecting to bed her. They lacked manners, grace and kindness, and she found them remarkably immature. It was for those reasons she had put aside her reservations when Tom, older than her by seven years and married, had first asked her out. Tom, like Alan, did treat a woman properly. He knew how to listen and be interested. He showed kindness and consideration, and was particularly sensitive to her needs of exactly when and how to make love to her, not just a rapid fumbling and quick bang. Their relationship had not worked out, not because Tom had deceived her, he hadn't, but just as she and Tom were seriously talking of living together, his wife was involved in a head-on collision whilst driving her car. At that moment, Chloe sensed the accident would end her relationship with Tom, and so it proved. His wife had a long period of hospitalisation and subsequent convalescence, and Chloe and Tom's liaisons became fewer and fewer. When Tom's wife came home, still limping and suffering some permanent disability in her right arm, Tom told Chloe that he had to remain and look after his wife. She suspected he would, but it had hurt. She now felt that with Alan there was really something good happening for her, for them both, and that she could put the pain behind her.
The change Chloe brought about in Alan's life gave him new-found assurance which permeated into his banking business. He became more proactive at work, suggesting to the board new plans and fresh initiatives. He wanted the bank to be modern, progressive and ambitious, not dull, dour and stolid. He was consumed by the idea of change, at home and office, and where better to start than a review of his own personal portfolio. His clients had served him well over the years, but perhaps this was now the time when he should write to the account holders notifying them of his intention to delegate their day-to-day control to others. Some of the investments might appear a little risky but none involved any criminal activity to his knowledge, and the initial up-front fees that he had received personally had long since been dwarfed by the returns they had provided to the bank and the clients. The only personal case that troubled him was that of the Chalthoum Universal Holdings account.
When he had met Fadyar at his home, she had led him to believe that the consortium or Chalthoum would be investing significant sums as had been the case with other Dubai based organisations. As it was, only a paltry £300,000 had been lodged at the bank and that, he reasoned, did not merit his personal attention; for a discreet but important commercial bank for wealthy Middle Eastern clients, probably not that of his staff either. He realised, however, he must be careful. The police were certainly suspicious of the account, and indeed he himself had serious misgivings once he had been shown Fadyar's photograph and learnt of Styles' death. The two were probably not related but it worried him nonetheless. He was also fully aware that somehow he had got into a position with the ATU whereby he had denied any knowledge of Fadyar and he could really do with the police getting off his back. He asked his secretary to get Detective Chief Superintendent Ritson on the phone.
“Ritson,” a barking voice rasped into the earpiece. The officer sounded impatient before Alan Crossland had uttered a word.
“Good morning Chief Superintendent, how are you?” Crossland thought he should be pleasant and duplicate the introductions his secretary would have already made on his behalf.
“Well, thank you Sir. But busy.” Ritson had moderated his tone but not the speed of his delivery. Crossland was not going to be rushed, what he had to say had to be carefully put.
“The bank will soon be undertaking a review of its activities, and one purpose will be to identify inactive or non-profitable accounts. I know you were interested a while back in Halima Chalthoum of Chalthoum Universal Holdings and the Dubai based Consortium she represents. I feel that account may not pass our review. As you are aware, there is only a modest sum by our standards in the account and it certainly has been disappointing to us that it has not been⦠” he paused slightly, “⦠more heavily subscribed, shall we say. The bank is still waiting to learn the specifics of quite how we can assist the account holder with regard to the proposed investment, and after this length of time I am not optimistic that it is ever likely to be an attractive proposition for us.”
“In simple terms, Sir, what does âmay not pass your review' actually mean in plain English? Ritson asked, his voice having slowed considerably.
“Well, er, we might well decide to inform the client of our intention to close the account, and that unless we hear to the contrary within a specified period we would return the final settlement balance to the Egyptian bank that sent the funds to us. I am informing you out of courtesy of what the bank is likely to propose, as I thought you might like to know.” Crossland could be smooth when it was required of him.
“Wasn't this account marked only for your attention, Mr Crossland? I seem to remember that it was for some reason though I can't recall quite what that reason was.”
Crossland knew that Ritson was probing to see if he gave the same answer as he had done several months before when Ritson interviewed him.
“It was and is still. However, as I believe I said to you when you visited us, it was only marked for my personal attention as it was a new account and, having not met with the account holder, I wished to keep it under review especially as I was hoping it would be a highly profitable account for us. Perhaps you would like more time, Chief Superintendent? We can put off the review for a week or so if it helps.” Crossland began to rather enjoy the exchange with Ritson buoyed by his newly acquired general confidence.
“That's very kind of you, Sir, but I shall not need more time. I must advise that we would very much prefer you to take absolutely no action on that account, none whatsoever.”
“Well, I can imagine there is no point in my asking you to explain your reasons, but I do have the bank's interests to consider. I trust I can remove my own personal code on it?”
“I understand that Sir, but I have the nation's security to consider. I am requesting you do nothing with that account, but if you disagree I can insist upon it and legally force you to comply. I am not concerned if it remains marked for your attention only, provided no one takes any action upon it.”
“Chief Superintendent, there will be no need for legal measures or anything like that. The whole purpose of this call was to ask your opinion. Now I have it, you have my word we will not take any action on the account.” Crossland remained pleasant and calm despite Ritson's rather high-handed threat.
“Thank you, Sir, I appreciate your co-operation.”
Crossland smiled as he put down the phone, satisfied with the outcome of his call. He would have been delighted had he known of Ritson's reaction once the conversation had ended. The detective stormed into Manders' office and explained what had transpired.
“I actually had to say thank you to the bastard,” Ritson exclaimed to his boss. “But he's no bloody terrorist. He's a typically smooth wanker banker. That's what he is!”
Manders laughed loudly, “Crossland has really got to you, hasn't he? Clever though, he's turned the tables on us in a way. Yep. Clever⦠very neat. He now knows we are continuing to monitor the account, and by implication the persons associated with it, but has distanced himself from the enquiry. I tend to agree with your assessment of him Bill, but if he were to be involved with these fanatics or was being used by them, albeit unwittingly, he's someone we must keep on our radar. Was that telephone call really just out of courtesy, or was it to find out if we are still watching him and his bank? I have a feeling that the Chalthoum account is causing him more angst than we know. Why? That's what I want to find out. Why?”
In Paris, the morning June sunshine was causing the city temperature to rise rapidly, and a thin layer of smog from the emissions of thousands of vehicle exhausts hung languidly over the streets in the still air. Having eaten a simple breakfast of half a grapefruit and a slice of toast washed down with two mugs of very sweet black coffee, Fadyar Masri was ready once more to use her apartment as a planning centre. She pushed all her lounge chairs and occasional tables to the walls, clearing the largest area she could of her carpeted floor. Spread out were photographs, maps, notes and various diagrams. Before she contemplated even starting to draft out the detail, she wanted to know exactly what information she had. The most trivial piece of data could be vital and she needed to ensure that her plan would not omit something of importance that had lain unread on the floor. One by one she examined the photographs and placed them so it was possible to get a full panoramic view of all sides of the loch near to Mealag Lodge. When she had absorbed one set of photographs, she would remove them to be replaced by another. She moved other pictures in position to show areas such as Kinloch Hourn and the dam itself. There were nearly two dozen photographs of the latter, taken at every angle from both sides of the dam plus others that members of her group had taken as they walked across the dam towards Mealag. There were photographs of tracks and paths including several of the large garages, the padlock and chains that held them, and the external bell of the alarm system that guarded them. All the access points to Mealag had been photographed whether from Loch Quoich or Loch Arkaig. It surprised her that there were fifteen pictures just of Mealag Lodge and the complex, as she hadn't realised they had been able to take so many, and she was also impressed with the clarity and detail of all the pictures. Her initial fears at the dam of not being able to get close enough to the lodge had been unfounded as the sharp images before her proved.
Three hours had elapsed and Fadyar was suddenly very aware of the scorching sun searing through her cotton blouse and onto her shoulders. She stood up, her back painful and stiff from being bent over for so long, and stretched her arms upwards to relieve the pressure. She fully closed the window blinds and the room darkened, but was still bright enough for her to see everything clearly. She reached into the fridge and pulled the ring on a cola can. Holding it to her lips, she poured the cold liquid into her mouth swallowing quickly. Refreshed, she returned to the assortment of information strewn across the floor and took hold of the pile of maps. She had purchased some additional maps when in Scotland, two each of numbers 413 and 414 of the Ordnance Survey Explorer series. Scaled at 1:25000, these were twice as detailed as the Landranger maps. From her needlework basket, she cut a length of strong black cotton and spent the next hour and half carefully laying the thread along roads and tracks before measuring its length against the scale imprinted on the map. She compared the distances calculated in this way with those she and her compatriots had taken in the car or estimated by foot. She made a definitive note of the longer of the two measurements, thereby never underestimating journey times nor distances. Fadyar Masri was determined that this mission was going to succeed. The death of her parents had left her with a burning ambition for revenge, the flames of which could only be quenched by a retaliatory act of such daring that it would shock those who sent their soldiers to kill innocent Iraqi citizens like her mother and father. Failure was not an option and she was quite prepared to die proving it. She therefore needed to anticipate and understand every foreseeable difficulty that might arise, and find a way of neutralising any threat to the mission. She worked the next three days carefully compiling options and strategies until she was satisfied she had as near-perfect plan as she could devise.
The following day was spent building in options at key points in the plan, and the day after Fadyar worked on producing the list of equipment she would need. She was exhausted. Her brain was aching and her body was rebelling against having received only very spasmodic and totally inadequate replenishment of vital nutrients. The strain of such intense reading had reddened the white sclera surrounding her soft brown eyes and her heart continually thumped hard into the wall of her chest. She knew she needed to rest and spent two days trying to relax, not touching any of the material gathered from the reconnaissance trip, but she had no control over her mind which whirred incessantly with details of the plan. The following week she meticulously checked and reviewed every aspect about her plan, making certain that everything that could be thought of had been. Satisfied, she left a coded message for Carron to visit her at the flat after dark, giving him a choice of three dates.