Dreams to Die For (39 page)

An experienced observer of the Corach road might have been slightly querulous at the amount of traffic upon it so early on a Wednesday September morning. Tourists are not normally seen on the road until well after 10am but an hour earlier several vehicles were travelling along the unclassified highway. Donaldson was the first on the road. He had breakfasted at 7:30am and was out of the guest-house in less than thirty minutes. He drove quickly towards the dam, noticing in his rear view mirror a Land Rover pulling out from the Eagles Rest Hotel car park and also heading in the direction of the dam. At 9am, a brightly coloured blue and yellow checked 4x4 took the Kinloch Hourn turn just outside Fort Augustus and was several miles behind Donaldson, and Mattar who was driving the Land Rover. Senior Firearms Officer Greaves was in the front passenger seat of the Police 4x4, his automatic weapon close to hand. The vehicle was being driven by another officer, armed only with a hand gun holstered at his side. Donaldson pulled up at the dam and looked for Mealag Lodge. He saw nothing and drove on, stopping in a designated passing place when he glimpsed the Mealag Lodge complex. Such passing places were frequent along the narrow Kinloch Hourn road, not only to allow following traffic overtake safely but also to permit motorists coming towards each other from opposite directions to pass. Donaldson was always cautious and he was fully aware the Land Rover would not be far behind. He quickly got out of the car, crossed over the road and pretended to relieve himself against the rocky outcrop that ran along that side of the road.

The Land Rover passed, and Mattar and Bagheri chuckled as they saw Donaldson. He started to return to the car but on looking left he noticed the flash of the chequered police vehicle rounding a bend in the distance. He waited until he could hear from the noise of the engine that it was near and he then repeated his deception as Greaves and his colleague passed. The two officers, like the two terrorists, took no interest in Donaldson and drove on. Once they were clear, Donaldson returned to his car and looked through his field glasses. He could see a couple of people moving about but could not make them out properly. He waited until the reason for the activity became clear from the loading of one of the smaller boats with rods and nets. He remained in his car, watching, for a further five minutes and then decided that he should move the car lest the police vehicle make a return trip and wonder why he was still parked in the passing place.

He drove to Kinloch Hourn, passing the police coming towards him. At the harbour he turned his car round and started to return to the dam. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the Land Rover that had pulled out behind him at the hotel and watched four people loading their fishing gear into a boat. He had never fished, but he noticed how similar some of the tubular fishing rod holders being put in the boat were to some rifle carriers he had seen used, but the thought was fleeting. He arrived back and deliberately decided not to use the passing place, instead pulling off the road where he had an excellent view of the loch. On the water were two boats, not far from each other and he assumed both were from Mealag Lodge. He peered through his binoculars and instantly recognised Gordon Truscott, but he had no idea who the other three men were. They were all dressed in fishing anoraks or waistcoats and to Donaldson they simply looked like four guys out for a day's sport.

Donaldson cursed. All his assumptions had been based on Cindy and Truscott being alone, apart from a cleaner or home help, but more people was without doubt a complication. He knew from his map that Truscott's home was within an assortment of buildings and he wondered if the people fishing were staying or whether they were just local friends out with the millionaire for the day. Donaldson weighed whether to abort his plans now, but two thoughts made him continue. Firstly, Crossland had paid him well and the honour amongst mercenaries was that you did the job, no matter what the difficulties, once you had the money. Secondly, he really wanted Cindy Crossland. He had fancied her for years and after she teased and humiliated him he was going to make her finally deliver what she owed him. There would be no going back, no change of plan until the fire raging within him consumed Mrs ex bloody Crossland. Donaldson quickly re-focussed his mind on Mealag and the problem of its access. The OS map was certainly correct. There were no roads to it and a car would certainly not be able to cross the dam wall, indeed he needed to check out whether even a person could. He started his car and drove the short distance to the dam, parking on the waste ground. He began to walk the fifty or so yards towards the gate but as he approached he saw the railings were wrapped with blue and white plastic tape with the words “POLICE – DO NOT CROSS” repeated along its entire length. Donaldson assumed this was merely to stop tourists crossing the top of the dam and was about to ignore the tape and climb over when a voice, amplified from some sort of speaker, called out from the far side of the wall.

“Can't you read? Do not cross. If you do you will be arrested.”

Donaldson shot back from the gate like a startled rabbit. He was dumbfounded. What on earth was going on? He strained to see who had called out but could see no one, an aspect that caused him to be even more curious. He returned to the car and decided it would be prudent to drive a short distance away before deciding what action to take next. He could not understand why a guard was placed at the far entrance to the dam and not at the road entrance. It didn't seem logical to Donaldson, though the guard obviously had a very clear view along the length of the wall to the roadside gate. He also puzzled over the events of the morning: The police 4x4; the guard at the dam; the unexpectedly large number of people at Mealag. He deduced these meant only one thing: Truscott was entertaining some very important people – but who, and for how long, and was Cindy Crossland even with them or was she perhaps somewhere else? He had to know. It was obvious there had to be another way into Mealag. He once again studied his Ordnance Survey map but he could find no markings indicating even a track but he worked out that vehicular access had somehow to come via the Loch Arkaig road which went within a few miles of the rear of the Mealag Estate. He decided to drive there and see for himself.

* * *

Fadyar finished loading the boat with the fishing gear and jackets she and Khan needed and bade a brief farewell to Mattar and Bagheri as they left the cottage and climbed into the Land Rover. Each wore a miniature headset linked to a two-way radio, the earphones and microphone so small they were barely noticeable. A short distance from the shore Fadyar spoke.

“Apple calling. One, two, three, … ”

“Fig receiving, level 10.”

“Apple here. OK out”

Fadyar looked at the time and then calculated the distance to the dam. The outboard was only small and it was going to take at least another hour before they would get close to Mealag. The loch was calm and the weather mild, though not warm enough for them to remove their sweaters, and Fadyar leant back and looked at the hills. Several minutes had passed when she had a call on her radio.

“Melon here. One, two… ”

“Apple, receiving level 6. Where are you?”

“Melon. Just past the garage.”

Fadyar was impressed with Mattar for not saying a word like “Dam” or “Mealag”, which would have blown their location.

“Apple. OK, out”

After signing off, Fadyar estimated the distance between her and Mattar to be at least seven miles. That was an excellent range for a radio, albeit across open water. A voice on the radio talked to her again.

“Fig. Two friends ahead of you.”

“Apple. OK. Out”

“Did you hear that?” Fadyar asked Khan.

“Yes, I guess there's a boat out somewhere.”

Eventually the Mealag boats came into view and Khan slowed his outboard.

“Perhaps we should do some fishing,” he suggested calmly, “time to put our jackets on and get the rods out.”

They stopped the engine and lowered the anchor before unpacking the rods. It took several minutes for them to attach the lines and reels, during which time the CIA agents moved their position to that of directly in line between Fadyar's boat and Assiter's.

“They're good,” said Fadyar. “We must be at least a mile away but they've blocked off Assiter from any possible threat we might pose.”

Fadyar and Khan continued to fish, casting their short lines gently onto the rippled surface of the loch but all the while observing the boat ahead of them, hoping it would move away just sufficiently for her to get a good view of her quarry – but it continued to mask the boat ahead of it. After a quarter of an hour, satisfied that she and Khan would be regarded as tourists, Fadyar bent down in the boat and retrieved her telescope. Still in a crouched position, she rose just enough for her to look through the small lens.

“Raise the anchor and quickly move to our left. I want to take them off guard,” she commanded. A few moments later, before the agents' boat had been able to respond, she said to Khan, “Well done, Nasra. Truscott and Assiter are definitely in the far boat, the security guys are in the other. I am amazed he is not better protected. If I had my scope attached to the rifle I could probably kill him from here, if that were our mission. Why do they allow him to be so vulnerable?”

Khan did not answer straightaway, thinking of what Fadyar had just said. Suddenly the answer occurred to him, “Because he has forbidden it. Think of it Fadyar. He is up here on holiday. What sort of holiday could he have in this mountainous wilderness if he was completely surrounded by special forces and confined to the house. Surely, the pleasure of holidaying here is to get out and about to fish, shoot, walk. Enjoy the peace and quiet, away from the high life and politics of Washington. Even a ring of twenty guards around him on the water wouldn't protect him from a sniper on the hill.”

Not for the first time, Fadyar was impressed by Khan.

“Then he is either very brave or very foolish, Nasra. Given his position in the US government, I doubt he is the latter.”

They fished for a while longer but Fadyar remained thoughtful. She had planned for an assault on Assiter away from Mealag, but a kidnap by boat was seemingly impossible. Even if she could get off two rounds from her rifle, she would have to fire at long range. She might, with luck, kill the first agent she fired at, but the second would almost certainly have time to take cover and send an immediate radio message for help. Assiter and Truscott, in the other boat, would make haste for the safety of Mealag or the garages, both about fifteen minutes away with the outboard at full throttle, and from there trigger an alarm. There would simply not be enough time to overcome the second agent who would have a sub-machine gun and also catch up with Assiter and kidnap him. Any attack of Assiter on the loch would mean first positioning her boat between him and either Mealag lodge or the garages, at least blocking one line of escape, but it still would be impracticable to capture him on the water. His protection would always place themselves between him and Fadyar giving Assiter time to race away in whichever direction was safest.

“Today has confirmed what I anticipated” she said. “We need to take Assiter on land, where we can get much closer to him and his protectors. That way there will be no easy escape for him.”

Khan raised his dark eyebrows, expecting Fadyar to explain precisely how she expected to achieve her ambition but his leader did not enlighten him. Instead she issued further instructions, “Steer over to the lodge side of the loch. Give them a very wide berth, I don't want them getting suspicious and, as we go, resume the radio testing.”

Half an hour later, Khan had manoeuvred close to the far shore and was keeping parallel to it, leaving a distance of no more than ten metres between it and the boat.

“Stop now and drop the anchor” said Fadyar “We should start fishing. After half an hour we will move slowly towards the lodge, stop again and so on.” Fadyar's orders were now rapid and succinct. Gradually the two spoof anglers edged nearer the dam, eventually passing Assiter. As the distance between them lengthened, and the potential risk to Assiter diminished, even his guards stopped repositioning their boat, satisfied that the occupants on the far shore were simply out for a day's fishing and, anyway, at nearly two miles away and almost out of sight, represented no threat. Once Fadyar was certain the agents could not easily see her through high powered lenses, she told Khan to quickly pull the boat into the shore. The boat scraped on the small rocky pebbles making a sound like the breaking of wooden boxes but apart from a little less paint the boat was quite undamaged. Fadyar jumped out and quickly pushed the boat back into deeper water.

“Come back when you see me,” she shouted before she quickly disappeared into the trees, leaving Khan to resume going up and down the loch for short distances, pretending to be fishing over a good spot.

Fadyar walked carefully through the rows of tall conifers that were almost ready for logging and onward transportation to the nearby pulp and paper mill outside Fort William. Her feet sank into the thick, soft, bed of rotting pine needles that had built up on the forest floor over many years, muffling any sound from her cautious steps. At the boundary fence of Mealag Lodge she crouched low, straining her eyes through the natural gloom for signs of any patrolling guards but saw none. She was on high alert, her senses taut. She listened. No sound. Where were the other guards? She considered going past the fence but as that would entail her being in full view of anyone in the lodge she decided that was a risk she could not take. Suddenly she heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path, ahead of her, just inside the fence. She waited, tense, hardly daring to breathe. Slowly she slid herself backwards further into the forest and stood up behind a tree, concealing herself from whoever was walking the path. She realised that her green fishing anorak was not a good camouflage against the brown trunk and quickly laid it out on the ground, burying it in a thin layer of dead leaves and needles. A few moments later, a guard walked by, upright and rather formally, along the inside of the fence.
Definitely not CIA
, she thought.
British. Had to be. There was none of the swagger that would mark out the American enforcers.
The officer stopped at the shore and switched on his radio. A small flashing orange light immediately appeared next to the Channel 4 selector button on Fadyar's radio indicating another communication in the vicinity. She had no reason to listen in, knowing full well where it was emanating from.