Dreams to Die For (45 page)

Donaldson, in hiding by the pool, had also overheard the conversation between the officers and he, too, had watched the two disappear from sight only to emerge several minutes later beginning their ascent of the hill. His pleasure at knowing that two of the enemy (a term he used for anyone in opposition to his objectives) had removed themselves from the zone, was only slightly dimmed by his concern at what he had learned. He now understood for the first time that someone named Assiter, an American, was being guarded not Truscott. The name was familiar to him, but he was not interested in politics – so exactly who Assiter was, or what he did, failed to arouse any interest or curiosity. He also realised, like Fadyar, that there were in total six guards of which four were climbing up a mountain half a mile away. That left two at the lodge and one of those had been woken up so presumably would be tired. Donaldson started to get excited, the odds were moving quickly in his favour to achieve all his ambitions. He needed to strike very soon as he might never get a better chance.

Officer Simon Willison joined his colleague on the lawn in front of the lodge. Donaldson started to subconsciously stroke the handle of his knife with his stubby fingers. His blue eyes were wide, clear and alert. His short cropped hair began to stiffen as did the hairs on the nape of his neck, all signs that he was ready for action.

“I'll do the patrol, you take the gate Simon. You can continue to rest up a bit there.”

The words were music to Donaldson's ears.
Things just get better and better
he thought. In his lifetime, Donaldson had effected entry at numerous establishments allegedly well protected and guarded, many of them via the main gate. In his experience, it was often the most vulnerable area and where security measures could be at their most lax. The guard or guards were usually tired, bored, drunk or all three. The gatehouse, if there was one, was overstuffed with electronic gadgets and monitors so numerous that the guards didn't bother to look at them, let alone reposition the cameras at frequent intervals, thereby allowing attackers to creep up unseen using the blind spots. The same folly was being repeated here. Instead of putting the freshest, most alert officer at the gate, there was going to be some poor guy named Simon who had not fully rested and would be only half awake. Manning the entrance, he would not have long to wait before he was asleep again. Permanently.

Donaldson now knew exactly how he was going to get inside Mealag Lodge. He just hoped that the two women would still be there when he knocked on the door. For some while, he had concentrated upon the officers and their conversations at the lodge and as he prepared to leave his hideaway he took a quick glance back at the pool building. To his amazement he saw Cindy and Paulette swimming leisurely up and down its length. Any other time such a sight would have delayed him, but not now. He licked his lips, whispered an obscenity under his breath and left. When he reached his hidden vehicle he climbed into the driver's seat, changed out of his new camouflage jacket into his normal one, and started the engine. He leant across the passenger seat, collected up the hire papers from the glove compartment and placed them in his inside pocket. He then drove straight to the gate at Mealag Lodge. As he approached, Police Constable Willison stood more erect. Donaldson gave a brief press of the horn button and waved at the officer to open the gate. The officer responded by an exaggerated wave of his hands clearly indicating “No”. Donaldson got out of the car and went up to the gate.

“You're new here, haven't seen you before. Open up mate,” said Donaldson pleasantly.

“I'm sorry. No one is allowed in today” replied Willison.

“Don't be bloody daft. It's Friday. I come every Friday to clean and maintain Mr Truscott's pool. Sam Dickens is the name, it's bound to be on that list of yours – if that's what's in your hand.” Donaldson had pulled this ruse so many times, most people at gates held lists, another means of their undoing. The officer did indeed hold such a list in his hands that showed the names of authorised, prearranged visitors. He scanned the list carefully but before he reached the end and looked up, Donaldson spoke again.

“Look, here is the authorisation and order signed by Mr Truscott personally”. Donaldson moved closer to the wire mesh, producing the papers from his jacket inside pocket and proffered them in his left hand, just far enough from the gate for Willison to have to take a step towards the fence in order to view them. As he neared, Donaldson slightly lowered the papers, and unthinkingly the police officer automatically leant forward to study them. Donaldson instantly pulled his knife from its sheath with his right hand and in one movement plunged it through the large gap in the mesh, deep into the side of the officer's neck. Blood spurted in great profusion as the officer fought for his breath, whilst Donaldson grasped hold of his tunic and held him firm against the wire. As Willison went limp, Donaldson withdrew his knife and wiped it on the nearby grass before calmly replacing the papers in his pocket. The officer fell to the ground, vainly trying to stop the massive flow of blood with his hands. Donaldson had never wasted time watching a man in his death throes, and before Willison died Donaldson had taken out a crowbar from the tool box of the 4x4 and prized open the padlocked chain. He flung back the gate and dragged the almost lifeless body into the nearest undergrowth, out of sight. He used his considerable strength to pull out by the roots a couple of medium-sized bushes and swept them back and forth across the blood that had spilled onto the track. As quickly as the earth dropped from the impromptu brooms, the blood disappeared until none could be seen. Any observer arriving at the gate would notice only the soil.

Donaldson resumed his position behind the wheel of the Ford. Collecting his semi-automatic pistol from his rucksack, he screwed on the silencer before placing the gun on the seat beside him. He pressed the starter and drove into the lodge complex. Officer Nigel Probert was seated at the bench just above the jetty, but he was not taking in the view. He was watching the mountain opposite through high-powered binoculars, straining to see if anything untoward was happening. Assiter and his party were out of his sight, having walked around the hill a little below the summit, but the other two stalkers were still following. Probert heard Donaldson's approaching vehicle, but, thinking it to be the MacLeans returning early for some reason, he didn't trouble to turn around. Anyway he had no reason to investigate who had arrived, as his colleague Simon Willison was manning the gate. Donaldson now knew for certain this was going to be his lucky day. He had overheard all that he needed to plan an easy assault on the house. The two women were still indoors, oblivious to their plight. The guard at the gate was tired and stupid and now the one on the bench was too busy sightseeing to even look round. Donaldson picked up his gun and held it out in front of him as he walked silently on the grass. He stopped, took careful aim and fired. The bullet smashed into the back of Officer Probert's head, blowing half of it away. Donaldson ran forward, roughly grabbed hold of the lifeless body and pulled it into the trees only a few metres from where a shocked and alarmed Fadyar was laying as flat as she possibly could, her own hand gun held rock steady in her right hand, the safety catch off. She need not have been concerned for her own well-being. Donaldson was in triumphant mood. He had successfully stormed Mealag and he thought his ex-army mates would have been proud of him. He recalled their own arrant motto that was embroidered onto the sleeve of his army jacket in Africa:
adepto tantum victorem praemio
– ‘only the winner will get the reward'. It was time to collect his.

Fadyar held her breath as Donaldson walked past her, the crunching sound of his heavy boots on the stone pathway gradually fading as he neared the lodge. She hardly dared move and had only managed a fleeting glimpse of the man who alighted from the 4x4. Initially thinking him to be additional security from the army she had laid low anxious not to be detected, but the cold-blooded killing of the British police officer had completely unnerved her. She had pressed herself so hard into the ground, not risking lifting her head, that all she could see was Donaldson taking his final steps before he entered the kitchen door. Her mind was in turmoil.
Who was this man and what was his connection with those at the lodge? Were there others involved? How had he got past the gate? Was he in collusion with one of the guards?
Surely not
, she thought, but in those few brief moments nothing made much sense to her.

Yes
,
there must be others as how else had he got past the gate?
She asked herself any number of questions but found no answers.

Was the man after Assiter, too, and would he now lie in wait for him?
Again more questions.

She gradually regained her composure and started to think about what had happened more logically, more calmly. She reasoned that the man could not be after Assiter.
Why risk being killed at the gate, or even in the grounds several hours before the American returned. Surely the man, whoever he is, would have been surveying the lodge and watching Assiter's movements so would know he had left earlier to go shooting?
The fact that this intruder must also have been undertaking surveillance was a concern. She had not noticed anyone else near the house and she had spent many hours keeping it under observation. Then she remembered the brief flash of reflected light, across the path and from within the trees behind the building, the day before.

“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.

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 from 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.