Dreams to Die For (29 page)

Claude Carron lived alone and in a shadowy world. He was known to only a few people and had independent means. Those that had contact with him never asked him questions about himself and they did not stay long in his company. Meetings were short, conversation sparse. He possessed a small list of telephone numbers and names, against each of which was a description of their specialism. These contacts would have been amazed to learn that he was controlling all the Western European operations for Abu al-Mazan, a terrorist group with links to Al Qaeda, but which had nothing to do with the London atrocity. Whilst he was always careful to give the impression that he was but a small cog in a big wheel, even to those like Fadyar, it was in fact a well-concealed lie. His was the authority Fadyar had unwittingly sought and Carron was not going to deny her.

He had virtually recommended her when he met with the intelligence courier in the restaurant and he felt his own reputation was now on the line. Having left Fadyar, he had swiftly set up a series of brief meetings and also commenced the procurement of her requirements. Equipment should not be problem and, as everyone had a price, there should be no difficulty either in obtaining a pilot and small, fast plane to be on standby for ten days. He then spent a rather nervous week before receiving the contact numbers for Fadyar to use when she was in the UK, and confirmation that all her needs would be satisfied.

One evening, well after dark, the bell at Fadyar's flat gave three short rings followed by one longer ring. She went to the door, put the safety chain into position and turned the handle. The door swung open a few inches. Fadyar was passed two aluminium cases; one square, the other large and oblong. She closed the door and took her parcels into the lounge where she carefully opened the clasps. One was a box of ammunition; the other held the jacketed weapon which she had specifically asked for, the British made AWSM. She thought it ironic that most of the weapons used against the British and Americans were either captured or bought on the black market to be used against the very people that manufactured them. It was true of the AWSM and Barrett, used in Iraq and Afghanistan, and also true of the Israeli-made Galatz used in their ongoing battle for survival. Even Fadyar was astonished at the amount of discarded military hardware in Middle and Far Eastern conflicts that provided ever increasing numbers of insurgents to be supplied with high-spec, accurate fire power. Fadyar wasted no time in testing her rifle.

The next day, driving into the French countryside, she went deep into the Forlesques Forestière, many miles out of sight and earshot of anyone, and set about familiarising herself again with the bolt action rifle. She liked the AWSM and fully understood why the British military liked it too. It had originally been designed as a long range sniper rifle that combined high manoeuvrability and low weight when using 0.338 calibre Lapua Magnum ammunition, but had even greater power and range when used with 0.50 BMG bullets. In addition to less weight, the AWSM had less recoil, muzzle flash, smoke and report than some comparable rifles. Its twenty-seven inch fluted stainless steel barrel offered a superb compromise between velocity and precision on the one hand, and weight and length on the other. She suspended a few targets from some low-hanging branches, carefully ensuring that the trees behind were of sufficient girth to withstand the shock of a bullet's impact, and placed some others on the ground. Fadyar found it comfortable and easy to handle and three hours later she was back in her flat, having fully tested and calibrated the rifle and its accessories.

The following morning she rose late (for her) at 9:30am showered, and wearing only a thin nightdress to cover her body, slowly made her way to the small, bright kitchen. On the wall hanging above the refrigerator was a monthly calendar and she placed a large cross over the previous day, the 10
^th
August.

“Another day gone, another day nearer”, she muttered to herself. Subsequent days were not marked except for items such as reminders to pay bills or renew her car licence, being careful not to identify any date to do with her assignment. She wondered how she would spend the next thirty days before she made the trip to Scotland.

Fadyar had deliberately decided to make the ferry crossing on Saturday 9
^th
September. The ferries would be laden with tourists, the car decks fully filled with vehicles bulging to their rooftops with the paraphernalia of family holidays. The port authorities, customs and immigration would be tired, overworked and under pressure to keep the exit lanes open and to clear the traffic before the next ship arrived. Examination of people, cars and their contents would be cursory at worst; in all probability everyone would simply be waved through. The officials would use what time they had to check the contents of heavy goods vehicles and commercial vans, not cars.

She only had one remaining task to carry out from France; to take out the funds necessary to finance the mission, or rather to reimburse those who had financed it to date. She did not know, nor want to know, quite why the group of which she was a dedicated member operated on this basis of refunding, rather than simply outright purchase, but it certainly obscured the money trail. It meant that in the event of a compromised or aborted mission where equipment had to be jettisoned, it was unlikely that the finance for it could be traced back to all members of the cell, like hers, who were appointed to carry it out, or to those like Carron and his superiors who had authorised it. She studied the calendar carefully, flicking the sheets between August and September whilst calculating timescales for the money to move in and out of accounts in different banks across the world. She put a small circle in the top left corner of Thursday 7
^th
September. As she did so, some muscles deep inside her stomach fluttered uncontrollably and for the first time the adrenalin within her body reached a level that made her feel slightly sick.

There was little for her to do until the time came to pass the instructions to the banks and she decided that a trip to Languedoc Roussillon, to enjoy the hot weather, warm sea and generally chill out, was what she needed. It should take her mind off things, at least a little. She finished her breakfast, packed a small suitcase and by midday had cleared the Paris suburbs and was travelling at a steady 100kmh on the A71 motorway heading south. Fadyar stopped overnight at a small, cheap pension and the next day travelled to Port-Leucate. There she found a reasonable hotel that provided a comfortable, though basic room, with a balcony from which she could view the coastline a few kilometres away, and which served surprisingly excellent breakfasts. As she unpacked her small case, she carefully took from it a small photograph of her parents, taken in 2003 standing in front of their shop, kissed it lightly on the glass and placed it next to a day calendar on the table beside her bed. At the resort itself, she went rollerblading along the superb promenade, sailed, and even visited the fun park and mini golf course. She took in the local culture with a visit to the 15
^th
century fort at Salses-le-Chateau but the majority of her days were spent, at least in considerable part, sunbathing in her white bikini, fully aware of how attractively it contrasted against her dark olive skin and long black hair.

A quarter of a kilometre from the bustling centre she was able park her car easily on the road that ran for many miles alongside the glorious beach. A short, ten minute stroll on the golden, fine sand always enabled her to escape from the crowds and noisy families to a place where she could enjoy peace and relative privacy, occasionally seeking the shade of her own parasol or taking a short, lazy swim in the warm blue waters of the Mediterranean. During her stay, she frequented many of the resort's excellent restaurants and bars and found that she did not lack for company if she did not wish to dine alone, often being joined at the table by a hopeful, young buck who at the end of the evening left disappointed as they went their separate ways. Every night, as she switched off her light she turned over the calendar counting down the days and fell asleep dreaming of her mission.

Alan Crossland was sitting in the lounge at Red Gables. He picked up the telephone and quickly punched in the numbers on the keypad. He rarely came back to the house nowadays, even at weekends, preferring to stay with Chloe at her flat in Coulsdon. He had never suggested to her that she come to Stillwood out of respect for Cindy and, anyway, Chloe had not been at ease with staying overnight in Alan's flat in London for the same reason. Whenever it was necessary for him to stay in town in order to be in the office very early the next morning, Alan did so alone and he was seriously thinking that he would shortly sell Red Gables and move to Surrey, or at least somewhere a lot nearer to Chloe, to a house that held no memories. He was just about to replace the receiver thinking no one would answer when Cindy came on the line.

“Cindy, how are you? It's Alan.” He was cautious. It was months since they had spoken and he wasn't confident that she would be pleased to talk to him.

“Alan! Good to hear from you. To what do I owe this call? No problems I hope?” Cindy sounded quite pleased which encouraged him.

“Well, I expect you've received the final papers, and bill through, from your solicitors. God! Don't those sharks make a fortune doing nothing! I wish I'd done law instead of accountancy. Anyhow, what I'm trying to say is… er, can we meet or can you come round to Red Gables sometime? I know this is out of the blue and all that, but I really would appreciate it. I shan't go funny on you, or anything like that. It's just that, well, um, I've got a few things I really would like to tell you.”

Cindy was surprised in more ways than one. Despite the rather rambling sentences, Alan sounded a lot more relaxed than when they last spoke and he also sounded very sincere. It also happened that Alan had phoned at quite a convenient time. She would shortly be going to Mealag for several weeks and so if she was to meet up with Alan it had to be soon. She glanced at her watch; it was just past 7pm.

“No time like the present, what are you doing at the moment, Alan?”

“Now? Nothing at all, apart from sitting on the sofa at the house. Can we meet up now then?” It was Alan's turn to be taken aback.

“I'll do better than that. I'll grab a coat and come over. I've eaten, so if you haven't I suggest you grab a bite whilst I'm on my way. OK?”

“Um, yes. That's wonderful, see you soon then. Bye – and thanks.”

Cindy did a little more than just taking a coat. She had a quick wash, changed into a pair of smart white shorts and sneakers, donned a bright orange tee shirt, applied a little make-up, combed her hair and was in her car fifteen minutes later, arriving at Red Gables just as the hall clock struck eight-thirty. As Alan opened the door, Cindy couldn't believe the change in Alan's appearance. His hairstyle was totally different and had clearly been very professionally styled, his skin was more toned and he was wearing a multi-coloured shirt, tan slacks and brown moccasin type shoes.

“My God Alan, you look fantastic. What a transformation! I can't believe it's really you. The new hairstyle has taken years off you and you look so well. Good for you.” She leant forward and kissed him on the cheek as she went inside.

Making her way to the lounge, she sat on the armchair opposite the sofa. Alan poured her a drink of her favourite Pinot Grigio and himself a red Merlot, and they settled back to a few minutes of meaningless pleasantries and superficial conversation before Alan started telling Cindy what was on his mind.

“As you know the divorce is all but through, and I have been giving some thought to what I now need to do with my life. I was hoping to remain here at Red Gables, but for a number of reasons I think I really would like to sell it. I wouldn't do that without telling you, no matter what has happened in the past, as I know this house meant a lot to you.”

Cindy appreciated his frankness.

“You always have been kind, Alan. Thank you for the thought but I shan't need it. You sell it as it must be difficult for you here. I'm not surprised you want somewhere else.” Cindy deliberately did not ask where he might live as she did not wish to pry, and anyway it was now none of her business.

“Yes, I do find it difficult here. Too many memories of you, I'm afraid.” He tried to smile and chuckle, but Cindy could tell it was a strain for him. “I have no particular place in mind at the moment, but I think I'll move away from this area – probably to the south-east. After all, it was you that persuaded me to come to the Cotswolds, remember?”

“Yes, all that seems a long time ago now but we both have some good memories,” Cindy wistfully replied.

Alan poured himself another large glass of the wine and several minutes later, buoyed a little by the alcohol, started to tell Cindy all about Chloe.

“That's marvellous Alan, good for you. She sounds a lovely person, and she has certainly succeeded in improving your looks!”

They both laughed as they relaxed more in each other's company and, having such a lot in common, chatted easily together. They caught up on the news of past friends, a few of whom had either continued seeing only Cindy whilst others remained in contact solely with Alan, and brought each other up to date on a host of matters in which they had shared an interest.

Cindy did not mention Gordon but after Alan had finished his third large glass of the Merlot and Cindy her second Pinot, Alan said, “And what about you, Cindy? I've told you about me, anything happening in your life?”

Cindy knew he would ask the question at some time, and had spent some time thinking of how she should respond. “Well, as you ask, yes Alan. There is a new person in my life. However, I absolutely promise you he was not in my life prior to my feelings changing towards you. To this day I genuinely do not know why I changed, it was totally my fault not yours, but I had anguished for over a year before I met anyone else. That is the truth, and it is important you understand that, for your sake more than mine.”

“Does this friend have a name, Cindy?”

“Oh, that's not important. What is important is that you accept that I first met him on the day of the tube bombing. I was trapped, as you know, for quite a while and he stayed with me until the rescue services cut me out of the wreckage. He was a complete stranger at that time.”

“So… so… you did start the affair whilst we were together… living here? That story you made up at Christmas… ”, he paused, “and Easter. All a lie I suppose.” Alan was clearly upset and Cindy did not want to hurt him further.

“No, we just kept in touch by phone occasionally, but when I left I did start seeing him a bit then. Even now, I don't see him often.” She lied and it was not convincing. Even though she had succeeded in telling Alan what he wanted to hear, he didn't believe it.

“Oh well. I wish you the best and hope something works out. You are still very attractive, Cindy, you won't have any problem getting fixed up with someone. Just make sure they look after you. Whatever my faults, I have always tried to be kind and to treat you well.”

Cindy felt the tears welling up behind her eyes. What Alan said was true, he
had
always been kind. Cindy tried to laugh off her mixed feelings of sentimentality and angst at how she had treated him.

“Stop it, Alan. All this nostalgia is too much for me. How about we have another drink and a change of subject?”

“OK, I'll get them, but while I'm doing that just take a last look around the house – if there is anything that you want take it now, or I'll arrange for it to be stored or delivered, whatever you decide. I've got everything out of the attic, its upstairs in the fourth bedroom.”

Cindy went around the house. There was nothing she had seen upstairs that she particularly wanted, but as she entered the dining room two china ornaments of working breed springer spaniels caught her eye – a present from Alan when he was trying so hard to please her.

“Can I take these Alan? You gave them to me, remember? I always loved them.”

“Of course. They're yours anyway.” Alan was pleased she had taken them, for they reminded him of unhappier times. “Are you still involved with the dogs? Don't tell me you have got your own!” he chuckled.

“Yes I still enjoy the club but no, I haven't got a dog.”

As soon as they had finished their drinks, Cindy said it was time for her to go and Alan rose from his chair. Not long ago he probably would have asked her to stay, but now the thought did not enter his head. He accompanied her to the door.

“No goodbye's Cindy, please. Just au revoir. And thank you. We did have a lot of good times, shared some laughs and for me you will always be the girl in the coffee shop!” Alan softly wrapped both arms around her waist and kissed her briefly on the lips. She didn't object and the kiss was fleeting.

“OK then; au revoir it is. Good luck Alan. I really hope things work out for you.”

She got into her car, pressed the switch to wind down the electric window and waved as she drove around the large semi-circular driveway. Alan remained standing in the porch, waving back. He was surprised at how much his feelings had changed towards Cindy. She could no longer hurt him, his emotions were controlled and calm – almost, but not quite, indifferent. It was obvious to him that she had lied over the affair, though somewhat perversely he did believe her story that it had started after the fateful journey to London. He was sure she had told the truth over that, but she had still not provided any explanation of her indifferent attitude to him that started way before 7/7. Her confession to the affair made him somewhat angry. He wished she could have been honest sooner and saved him the hurt and torment of wondering whilst they were still living together, but maybe, he said to himself, that's what people do in these situations – lie until they are either found out or they themselves can't stand the strain. He shrugged his shoulders. He considered it a little odd that she did not wish to reveal her boyfriend's name, though in all other respects it had been a pleasant, cordial evening. He was glad he had suggested that they meet for a last time, but he was already looking forward to seeing Chloe tomorrow.

A few days later, Donaldson was driving Alan to a banking conference in Leeds. Alan was simply a delegate, going more for reasons of finding an excuse to have a day out of the office than in the expectation of learning anything useful and certainly not with a view to contributing to the discussions. He was seated in the ample, comfortable front passenger seat and had been chatting to his driver for quite a while when Crossland said, “Cindy came round the other night to Red Gables, we had a very pleasant evening. She seems pretty relaxed now the divorce and everything is wrapped up.”

“Really, that's good. What brought that about?” Donaldson enquired.

“Oh, I'm thinking of selling Red Gables and moving to the southeast. Thought I would ask her if there was anything she wanted etc and really to say goodbye. Of course, if I do move, I'll make it worthwhile for you to come too.”

Before Donaldson had time to reply Crossland quickly added, “Don't get the wrong idea Jack, nothing happened between us. It wasn't one of those final fucks for old-times type of things!”

“Well it wouldn't be, would it? Now she's getting laid by this Truscott bloke.” The words came out before Donaldson had given them any thought, and he instantly regretted saying them.

“What? What did you say? Truscott? The millionaire who has that property company that owns the cottage at Grimley?” Crossland paused slightly before shouting,
“Him?”

Crossland was dumfounded and Donaldson spent the next quarter of an hour providing some excuse as to how he didn't think his boss would want to know given Chloe and his divorce. He explained he had seen the two of them together in Cindy's car and, out of curiosity, had followed them back to Grimley where Truscott stayed the weekend. It was several minutes before Crossland spoke, his mind trying to unscramble the plethora of recollections along with dates to try and make sense of what he had just been told. Once he had recovered from the initial shock, he became angry; very angry indeed.

“She bloody deceived me. Not just about him, but she even got me to pay her three quarters of a million plus half the flat! Bloody money-grabbing bitch.”

His ire came from the deep hurt he felt. He could scarcely believe that Cindy could be so duplicitous towards him. She appeared so pleasant and friendly the evening they spent together, whilst all the time she was hiding this enormous secret from him. She should have been honest with him. He deserved to be told. He had a right to know when he was her husband and they were living together, and he certainly should have been told before he agreed the financial settlement. He felt deceived, betrayed, tricked.

“Turn the car round, Jack. Fuck the conference. I'm going home”