Dreams to Die For (36 page)

Ritson was impatient for information, spending much of his time walking around his team checking on their progress but learning nothing of consequence. He had put out a bulletin asking all UK police forces to look out for the foreign registered blue Peugeot 205, but that had so far yielded nothing.

In mid-afternoon his telephone rang and it was once again Pierre Dervisais, his French counterpart. “Some more news, my friend. Fadyar Masri travelled to the UK on Saturday 9
^th
September on the 8:20am ferry to Dover and has a return ticket for 23
^rd
September departing Dover 2:30pm local time. Her car registration number is 969-PX-75. No passengers.”

“That's terrific, Pierre. Thanks.”

“Don't get too excited, Chief Superintendent. The car registration actually belongs to a Citroen and is certainly false for the Peugeot. The plate properly belongs to someone whom we have checked out. It will not provide any more leads for us.”

“Pierre, it's the most I've got. So thanks.”

Ritson gathered his team. “Circulate this number, absolute priority. If the vehicle is spotted, do not apprehend but report to us immediately. Also, get hold of all the near motorway and garage CCTV films to see if we can pick this vehicle up anywhere. We need to know where it went.”

He updated the board. Half an hour later Dongle came to see him. “I've got something, boss. That car. On the 3rd May 2005 it went through a Gatso speed camera coming into Woodstock, Oxfordshire at about 6pm. It's recorded in the untraced driver file.”

“Dongle, you are a bloody marvel. How on earth did you think to look there?”

“Well, everyone else can poke around into the main databases – I look where others don't.”

Ritson hurried to his desk. May 2005. Two months before 7/7. Two months before the bank account. He pulled the Crossland file from the grey, steel sliding drawer, slamming it back into the cabinet so hard that the sound temporarily silenced the room and caused his colleagues to turn around.

“Sorry”.

The general murmur resumed.

He read the notes again. Crossland had consistently denied meeting anyone in connection with the Chalthoum file, but it must have been very close to May when some sort of initial contact was made.

“Someone get me a road map of the UK,” he shouted across the room and within a few seconds one was handed to him. He quickly leafed through the pages and found Woodstock. Following the A44 road, he quickly came to Stillwood. He got up quickly, gathering the file under his arm and ordering a car to take him immediately to the Hannet-Mar bank. He bounded up the steps and, flashing his warrant card, demanded to speak to Crossland immediately. Within a minute, he was seated opposite a rather nervous looking bank manager.

“I am going to be very blunt, Mr Crossland. You could be in a great deal of trouble and for reasons I cannot disclose I do not have much time, so I want some straight answers to some straight questions.”

Crossland's heart pounded. He had become rapidly fearful of what lay ahead for him, but he knew he did not have to be bullied.

“Chief Superintendent, please! You cannot just barge in here and demand answers. Am I suspected of something? If so please tell me, as I shall obviously wish to ring my solicitor.”

“Sir, I can and will arrest you if you do not cooperate. I have the powers invested in me under the Prevention of Terrorism legislation, but actually I do not suspect you of being a terrorist. If I did, you would already be behind bars. I would however like some answers.”

“I will see how this goes,” said Crossland. “I have nothing to hide, so ask away.”

“When did you first have any contact with Halima Chalthoum?”

Crossland called his secretary to locate the paper file, while he himself tapped away at the keyboard. As he studied the screen, the file was brought in brought in by Kelly Palmer.

“Well, the computer does not give an exact date,” Crossland then read a few of the paper documents, “and neither does the paper file. From memory I think it was around April last year.”

“I put it to you, Sir, that you did meet this woman – or someone who claimed to be her – and I have good reason to believe that you met her at your home Red Gables in Stillwood at about 7pm on the 3rd May last year.”

Crossland was shaken. He had denied seeing Halima several times and if he backtracked now it would finish him. At the very least Ritson would certainly press charges of wasting police time and in all probability would add aiding and abetting terrorists, if that indeed was what Halima was. He resolved to brazen it out.

“Good God, man. You cannot go around accusing people like that. Have you witnesses? I strongly suspect not.”

Ritson studied the file before him and froze. He stared for several seconds at the Styles photographs of the conference delegates. Listed half way down was the name of Fadyar Masri.
SHIT,
he said to himself, cursing silently at not remembering the name earlier. Without doubt there was now a connection that might be just sufficient to get his superiors really interested. Regaining his composure, he put the photograph of Fadyar Masri in front of Crossland.

“What about this woman, Sir. Have you ever met her?”

“Chief Superintendent Ritson, you asked me the very same question months ago. The answer is still the same. No.”

“What about Mrs Crossland, Sir. Is it possible she could have met with either of these women?” Although quietly spoken, the question exploded into the room setting off alarm bells in Alan Crossland. Crossland reeled from its impact.

“Er, no, I doubt that. No. How could she?”

“Perhaps you could ask her to give me a ring Sir, just for the record.”

“I'm sorry. We are divorced and I no longer have any contact with her. I cannot even tell you where she is living.” Crossland replied.

“I'm sorry to learn that, Sir. We can probably trace her quite quickly, but perhaps you could write down the name of the solicitor she used.”

Crossland obliged, passing Ritson the note.

“Thank you. My enquiries into the true identities of Halima Chalthoum and Fadyar Masri will be continuing. In the meantime, I must ask that you hand your passport in at any police station within twenty-four hours, and that you give me an undertaking not to leave the country. Indeed, I strongly urge you not to try. When my enquiries are concluded you will be informed.”

“What! Chief Superintendent, please go now before I lose my patience. I have done nothing wrong and I shall seek to have your conduct thoroughly investigated. I shall not be leaving the country anyway, and my solicitor will be in touch with you regarding the passport and this whole matter. I think you have behaved quite disgracefully.”

Crossland rang through to his secretary saying Ritson was leaving. Neither shook hands.

After Ritson left, Crossland poured himself a stiff whisky. He was sweating. Ritson's enquiries could be ruinous for him and he wished he had never taken Styles' advice and opened an account for Chalthoum Universal, but it was too late for regrets. His nerves steadied by the swift intake of alcohol, he began to think more rationally. Ritson could not have much on him as he was not under arrest, but he was being leaned on very hard indeed. The police were still very active on the case and that meant that Halima, or Fadyar as he knew her, was linked to some sort of terrorism. Crossland recalled that his friend Styles had died in rather mysterious circumstances, but he still found it difficult to believe that terrorists would be involved in staging a road traffic accident, and he dismissed it as absurd that the gentle, attractive woman that visited him and Cindy could in any way be implicated in his death. That idea was fanciful. There was, however, one very worrying aspect to Ritson's interview and Crossland left the office early, determined to speak to the only man whom he thought might be able to help him, Jack Donaldson.

Ritson stormed back into his office shouting for his team to gather round. “Why didn't one of you lot link Fadyar Masri with the delegate photographs of Kenneth Styles? Her soddin' name is on them for Christ's sake.”

The faces at the desk looked up at him, much as a naughty children look at parents when they know they have done something wrong. Someone said, “We didn't put every bloody one of those names on the computer, because we had no reason to. Remember?”

“We fucked up. I'm as much to blame as you, I didn't remember either but we have lost valuable time. From here on in, everyone must sharpen up.”

Ritson was angry with himself more than with the team and what he said was merely the product of his frustration. He gave instructions for Cindy Crossland to be traced and went over to the incident board that had brief details of what was known about the persons forming the subject of the investigation. On it were the names of Halima Chalthoum, Fadyar Masri, Yasmin Hasan, and Alan Crossland. As he studied it, he realised that very few details were present under the names of Chalthoum and Hasan, but there was good deal of information under Crossland and, particularly, Masri. Ritson stroked his chin, thinking hard.

“Are we certain that the photograph of Chalthoum is not also that of Masri?”

“Affirmative. The labs boys ruled it out.” An unknown voice somewhere behind him called out. Ritson had studied them himself in Crossland's office that afternoon and it was pretty obvious they were of two different people.

“Of course, it doesn't mean they
are
different people, just that one used a different photograph,” contributed one of his bright female officers.

“Well, it cannot be Masri's. Her photo must be genuine as it was taken by the conference photographer, so if there is a false one it has to be that of Chalthoum.” Another, different voice spoke.

“That's assuming that the person claiming to be Masri at the conference was actually Masri.” The female officer again.

“Bloody hell, just get me some answers!” Ritson's brain was swimming in a thick fog of confusion, “Not more bloody ifs and maybe's. Look, work on the assumption that the conference picture is actually that of Fadyar Masri.”

Ritson returned to his desk, thinking. He had some clues, some detail, but he was really struggling to put it together. He went to see Manders, but returned disappointed. Certainly Manders was pleased with the results they had obtained and he agreed that something was in the offing, but he had nothing specific which he or the commissioner could use to seek an emergency meeting of the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre (JTAC), and raise the national threat alert. Ritson also doubted that Manders could convene an emergency meeting of the newly formed Counter Terrorism Command (CTC) SO15, that had resulted from the merger of the previous anti-terrorism agencies, and which Manders himself now headed, without the approval of the JTAC. Ritson had to be satisfied with Manders' promise that he would have an off the record chat with the security agencies about using their resources regarding Fadyar Masri, but he would not ask for a hunt across a wide list of names until he was more certain of their actual involvement.

After taking breakfast in their room at the Eagles Rest Hotel, Mattar drove to Glenelg. Khan and Fadyar were standing at the memorial as he drew up alongside the camper. The three made a deliberate effort to be noticed as they loaded Mattar's Land Rover, and as they left the car park Fadyar ebulliently waved to Morag. The single track road climbed steadily around Mount Ratagan until, near the summit, Mattar pulled into the view point car park where Bagheri was waiting in the Vauxhall. Fadyar and Khan gathered their belongings and took over the Vauxhall as Bagheri jumped into the Land Rover. Khan, in the Vauxhall, drove away first followed fifteen minutes later by Mattar. It took them an hour and a half to reach the dam and both vehicles were parked facing the loch. Fadyar raised her telescope to her right eye and surveyed the far shore. It was a little after midday.

“No sign of any security forces,” she reported, factually. “We'll go on. See you at the cottage.”

Mattar and Bagheri stayed at the dam five minutes longer than their fellow conspirators in the Vauxhall, then they also set off for Kinloch Hourn. Fadyar and Khan collected the keys to their rented cottage which was situated near to the end of the road, and set back from the tiny harbour that sheltered a few small boats. They unloaded their bags and walked to the boat house where a few months earlier they had hired the clinker built boat and outboard, ostensibly for fishing on Loch Quoich. A burly, ruddy-faced man, with an unruly mop of white curly hair answered the door. He vaguely recognised Khan who was able to negotiate a small discount on the daily rate for booking the boat for ten days, delighting the owner. As the man closed the door, he chuckled loudly at the stupidity of tourists wasting all their holiday time fishing for a few measly trout. Kinloch Hourn was literally many miles from anywhere, tourists were few. Those who did venture to the end of the road faced a long drive back and so there was seldom any demand for a fishing boat at that end of Loch Quoich. Any that did would only want to hire it for a few hours, not several days, and he would gladly have rented the boat out at half price for a ten day period had he been asked. They rejoined the others at the cottage and as they ate a sandwich they heard the unmistakeable repetitive drumming as a helicopter's rotors thumped away huge swathes of air.

“Merlin,” said Fadyar. She had heard hundreds of Merlin helicopters in Iraq and the sound sent a quiver of excitement through her. “His protection is arriving.”

As is to be expected, information about the British Government Communication Headquarters (GCHQ) is limited. Over the years, its precise activities of intelligence monitoring of communications and other electronic signals, intercepted at listening stations in the UK and overseas, has given rise to more speculation than fact. The listening stations themselves are believed to include GCHQ Cheltenham, Composite Signals Organisation (CSO) Morwenstow, CSO Ascension Island and Ayios Nikolaous on Cyprus. RAF Menwith Hill, situated just outside Harrogate, North Yorkshire is one of the world's largest communications monitoring stations and, despite its name, is operated by the National Security Agency (NSA) of the United States. In return for allowing the US use of its old RAF base, Britain receives and shares communications intelligence with its US partner under a formal UKUSA agreement. CSO Morwenstow and RAF Menwith Hill work closely together and are probably the most important communication monitoring stations in the world. CSO Morwenstow, based near Bude, North Cornwall, comprises twenty-one satellite ground antennas of various sizes (three have a diameter in excess of thirty metres), and can cover the frequency bands used by orbiting satellites. CSO Morwenstow can monitor communications across the Atlantic Ocean, the African and Indian Oceans as well as over the Middle East and mainland Europe. RAF Menwith Hill, along with smaller stations based in Australasia, covers the South Americas and Pacific Ocean. It occupies a 560 acre site on which is a vast variety of satellite dishes, masts and radomes, often likened to large golf balls, which are constructed in the mass polygon shapes to disguise the direction of the satellite dish within. Both locations employ American NSA and British GCHQ staff and their operations are so secret that the British and American governments refuse to release information about virtually anything of the sites' activities.

The Anti-Terrorist Unit liaison officer's first request for information, in 2005, on the names of Halima Chalthoum, Chalthoum Universal Holdings and Corniche Consortium was sent to GCHQ Cheltenham who checked their databases and reported back in the negative. The second request did not make it as far as an operator's terminal. Communications monitoring was a twenty-four hour, seven day a week operation and the hugely expensive computers, not to mention the optical storage data costs, were manned by equally costly personnel who had specific priorities. In short, ATU liaison could ask once; next time, it had to be prioritised by the Joint Analysis Committee. Despite Ritson and Manders both sensing that some plot or atrocity was being planned, there was little they could do. Manders' off the record chat with GCHQ had got nowhere and he was discussing with Ritson what to do next.

“You and I both know something is in the wind. We have to do something,” Ritson implored the assistant commissioner.

“I agree Bill, but… I just don't know what.” Manders sounded deflated.

“I've an idea, boss, but it's a bit of a stretch. Crossland's wife has left him and moved. She had been renting a cottage, but she's gone, we don't know for how long. It may only be a day or so. The local lads have been round, all looks OK, but the neighbours say she has been away quite a while – whatever that means – ‘weeks' is the best they could come up with. One of the neighbours said she disappeared at about the same time that someone in a car parked up the road a few times. The neighbour thought it was a bit suspicious, but didn't report it. No vehicle make or identity of course, never is, but it appears that this person, whoever he or she was, has not returned since. Suppose we surmise that Crossland and his wife did entertain Chalthoum, or at least that his wife knew he did and could testify to it. The last acquaintance of Masri, whom we suspect is also Chalthoum, was Styles and he was killed or had a suspicious accident. Maybe, we could get people interested if we thought a murder or kidnap might have been committed. It would be a bit of a flyer, but it might attract interest especially given the Crossland woman's security clearance.”

Manders thought about it. This was not for the commissioner as he would quickly see through this charade and rule it out, but it was worth a try elsewhere. He would modify Ritson's idea but the basis was the same. He picked up the phone.

“John. Phil of ATU. Sorry to bother you, but I need your guys help. The liaison officers have already been in touch, but when they first made the approach last year it was, frankly, premature and understandably they were shown the door when they came knocking yesterday with more names. Unfortunately, I don't have quite enough, yet, to convene the CTC, but my experience as head of the ATU leaves me in no doubt that something big is about to go down. However, it appears that a totally innocent woman has gone missing. She may be in serious threat of her life as she can identify one of our principal suspects in this plot, which I stress I am sure exists. I want to avoid her death and for that I need your help to give me all you can on a couple of names. Will you do it?”

John Walters was command head of Middle East section at GCHQ, which had replaced the Russian section many years previously as being the busiest and largest department within the secret establishment. He also sat on the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre. He knew that Manders did not have enough to justify a formal approach, but he also respected Manders and had been impressed by how accurate his hunches had been in the past.

“I'll do it, but I can't do it as a special request. The best I can do is to put the names into the schedule for tomorrow. If something more urgent crops up it will be put down the pecking order, but I will make sure it is at least on the routine list. Now, Phil, give me the details.”

“Fadyar Masri is one name, believed to live outside of Paris, but almost certainly now in the UK and also a Yasmin Hasan. She may have a Dubai connection as she has a bank account there. That's it”. There was little point in repeating all the names, which could well be counter-productive. A routine request was far less likely to get actioned if it contained numerous names.

* * *

Alan Crossland was frightened. After Ritson's interrogation he had called Chloe saying he would be home late, and then summoned Donaldson to drive him to his London flat, which – like Red Gables – was still stubbornly refusing to sell despite the booming property market.

“What am I to do, Jack? What the bloody hell do I do now?” Crossland had spent the previous twenty minutes explaining about the Chalthoum account and now looked to his driver for help. Donaldson didn't answer him. Still smarting from not getting a substantial salary rise, and being fobbed off with a second-hand car that fetched only just over seven thousand measly quid, he was in no mood to bring solace to his employer. He decided to let Crossland suffer a little longer.

“The cops haven't interviewed you under caution and not arrested you. So they can't have much.”

“Not yet, no. But they are bloody persistent, and I know they don't believe I never met the woman.” A slight note of exasperation was creeping into his voice.

“Did you ever meet up with this Chalthoum woman at any other time? You didn't screw her did you?” Donaldson smirked as he looked towards Crossland.

“Oh for pity's sake, Jack, we're not all like you. No, I never met her again.”

“So only the ex Mrs Crossland knows you met her and only she can state that?”

“As far as I am aware, yes. I certainly did not tell anyone and Cindy would have no reason to. I sometimes used to bring home prospective clients of the bank, so it wasn't something unusual, though not common.” Crossland was becoming impatient at the questioning but Donaldson wasn't ready to end it.

“Do you think the ex Mrs Crossland would lie to protect you? Suppose you contacted her and asked her to deny that Chalthoum came to the house? I should have thought she owed you a favour,” Donaldson went for the jugular. He knew that repeatedly referring to Cindy as his ex-wife, plus the oblique reference of her deception over the divorce settlement and the link that made to the new love of her life, would inflame Crossland.

“Bloody bitch. I am not asking her anything. Besides, she two-timed me acting all sweetness and light and then shafted me good and proper. She repeatedly deceived and lied to me Jack. Why should I believe anything she says now? It's just too risky. I could go to jail here, probably for several years if it turns out there is some criminal or terrorist connection. Even if I get charged with a minor offence I would be ruined at the bank, probably serve a prison sentence – and I can't see Chloe waiting around for long. She is young and attractive. She won't have any trouble replacing me.”

“I thought you said the police asked where the ex Mrs Crossland was?”

“Jack, just call her Mrs Crossland or Cindy, please. You're beginning to sound as though she's dead.”

Crossland's words hung in the air, Donaldson cleverly remaining silent for nearly a minute. Then, slowly, he spoke in a quiet soft voice.

“That's looking to be your only hope, isn't it? If Mrs Crossland couldn't give evidence, the police do not have a case against you, at least not a terrorist one.”

“Some hope of that Jack! But I wish the bloody cow was dead, no more than she deserves for the way she has treated and used me. Bloody bitch.”

“Well, it isn't going to happen naturally is it? Staging an accident or a professional hit will cost many thousands,” Donaldson took full advantage of his chance.

“What? What are you saying Jack? That Cindy could suffer some sort of fatal accident as you put it? Are you saying have her killed?” Alan Crossland was shocked at his own words.

“I'm not saying anything. All I am doing is pointing out is that the police will trace her and if she is alive, she will testify that this Chalthoum woman came to your house. Mrs Crossland is flush with money, so one couldn't bribe her to keep her mouth shut, and anyway you say she wouldn't lie for you for old-time sake. I am simply stating the hard facts.”

Donaldson was pleased at the way he had worked in the provocation that Cindy no longer needed money, it would again remind Crossland with whom she was now living and he suspected that still angered him every bit as the divorce settlement itself. Crossland held his head in his hands and closed his eyes. His brain was reeling, trying to make sense of it all.

‘How did I get here?' He asked himself over and over.

Several minutes passed and slowly Crossland lifted his head and looked straight at Donaldson and in a soft voice muttered, “I wouldn't know where to start looking for someone who does that kind of thing.”

Donaldson had a quick response ready. “I'm still in touch with a few blokes from the old days that might be interested, army types. They were pretty good at that sort of thing in Iraq and Africa.”

Crossland let the words swirl around his brain. After a minute he spoke again to Donaldson, “Who? Can you introduce them to me?”

“You do not want to meet them, do you? You're in enough shit. I might be able to arrange it so that nothing can be traced back to you, so the less you know the better. The guys I'm thinking of will want about a hundred grand with fifty up front, they won't do it for less.”

“A hundred grand! You must be joking.”

Donaldson decided it was time to reel in his played-out fish. “In that case, come up with another solution. Is your career and a future life with Chloe not worth 100K? I thought you said you'd recently struck it rich?”