Dreams to Die For (38 page)

Despite his coloured skin, Khan still flushed and feeling very foolish, apologised.

“No matter my brave soldier, you caught a fish! No two!”

Fadyar had not meant to humiliate him especially in front of the others. She had grown to like all her colleagues, but she seemed to have more in common with Khan and she valued his company. Fadyar then briefed the others on her findings from the visit to Arkaig.

“To sum up: We have at least two CIA one named Chuck who seems to be the senior agent, another named Josh. We know of one British officer sited near the south gate on the dam wall. There will be others. Almost certainly one will now be posted near or at the Arkaig entrance. We also know that in addition to the estate owner, Truscott, there are two others, Mr and Mrs MacLean, whom we can now safely assume are employees of Truscott as they went shopping today. Mrs MacLean will be the housekeeper and cook; her husband will help on the estate and manage the boats and things like that. We should look out for him and Truscott. Both will be used to rifles and shotguns, and there will be some at the lodge, further ruling out an assault on the house itself.” Fadyar paused to finish her coffee before pouring everyone another. “We didn't see the larger boat earlier in the year so it is new to us, but I am not concerned as it is essentially a pleasure craft. Also, at the dam, there were no sounds of the shots from the clay pigeon shoot, a fact which pleasantly surprised me – though the wind may have been a factor, as it was blowing towards the hotel from Kinloch Hourn, not towards the dam.”

The three males seated at the table marvelled at Fadyar's attention to detail, their eyes wide in admiration as she reeled off specifics they had either not noticed or forgotten. It inspired them and they had the greatest confidence in their leader and their mission. They were determined not to fail her.

“Tomorrow morning we will meet at the cottage and load our boat. At 10:30am Sharid and Mattar will drive along the Corach road and also on the Coille Mhorgil track that ends about half a mile from the surge shaft and access tunnel. I want you to drive anywhere on those roads, at random, as I want us to test out our two-way radios so have them on at all times. Walk up and around the hills. Have the scrambler on for our talk and the scanning channel open to see if we can detect the British and CIA communications. Keep as much talk as you can to meaningless numbers – 1, 2, 3 and so on – but answer my questions properly if I ask. Nasra and I will be in the boat, ostensibly fishing, but really we need to test out the range of the equipment and find out where any blind spots are. We shall use channel 12 for the first hour and if we have not made contact we shall then switch to channel 1 at 11:30am. I believe the equipment will function properly, but if we have not made contact by mid-day we shall make our way back to the cottage and find out what is wrong. Finally on the radios introduce yourselves by a fruit. I shall be an Apple; Sharid a fig; Nasra an orange and Mawdud a melon. Understood?

They nodded. It had been a busy day and Fadyar did not feel like a meal at Fort Augustus or at the hotel. In fact, she offered to cook the trout for her and Khan leaving Bagheri and Mattar to return to their more sumptuous dinner at the hotel.

The trout was delicious, wrapped in foil with a little added salt it had been cooked simply in its own juices and was surprisingly satisfying for their hungry appetites when served with a few vegetables. Nasra and Fadyar spent the remainder of the evening watching television – the satellite channels offering a multiplicity of choice that neither was used to – and they joyously flicked from one programme to another, anxious not to miss anything before finally retiring to bed shortly after 10:30pm. The two had shared a bedroom for many nights earlier in the year and now more in September, but Khan had never made any suggestion to Fadyar that they join the two single beds. In fact he had been meticulous in covering himself whenever he entered or left the bathroom and always changed out of sight of Fadyar, gaining her respect.

Fadyar lay in bed, trying to sleep, but kept thinking of the day's events, and her mind inevitably wandered onto the mission itself. She wished she had more detailed information, more facts, less uncertainty. She recalled the calmness and beauty of the heron flying effortlessly upward, oblivious of the defilement that was about to unleash on the tranquil lochs and impressive mountains. The enormity of what lay ahead for them filled her thoughts and she shook involuntarily. She wasn't frightened, but leadership could be so lonely and there were times when she needed reassurance just as much as did her brave soldiers. She remembered how her father's calm, encouraging but authoritative words “You can do it, Fadyar; you
can
do it” gradually instilled in her the confidence to succeed as a young, bright schoolgirl. She had often recalled his words in times of stress and she was convinced they helped her through the difficult times as she studied at university. She would never forget his tears of pride as he watched her graduation ceremony and the look of joy in both his and her mother's face as she set out for Britain on a postgraduate course.

“Britain will be good for you, my daughter. Enjoy.” Her father's parting words. And she did. She made many friends, had a couple of relationships and thought how fortunate the British were to live in a country without fear – a place where it was possible to mix freely with others of a different race or religion, if she wished to.
No longer,
she thought.
The British threw it all away when they invaded my homeland, cruelly and without mercy.
She shuddered again.
This is why I am here,
she said to herself,
to avenge my mother and father and to give to their murderers the justice they deserve.

Her feelings of loneliness and isolation returned. She turned on her small bedside lamp and sat upright to try and quell the shaking, but to no avail.

“Nasra. Nasra are you awake?” she called out.

“Yes Fadyar, what's wrong?” Khan replied.

“Nasra, come here. Please. I need you.” She slipped off her night dress and pulled back the sheets. For too long she had devoted herself totally to the cause of the Holy War, even spurning the advances of one of the most handsome instructors at the Pakistan training camp. Now she was putting that training into effect, and the mission – her destiny – was underway. The harsh years of self-denial were over, but Assiter was now consuming every minute of her day and occupying her dreams at night such that she had become saturated with a heady mix of emotion and responsibility. She was thrilled yet nervous; excited yet worried; focused yet uncertain and the trembling that rose from deep within her body was now in need of urgent physical release.

Khan slowly walked across the room and lay on the bed next to her.

“Are you sure you want this, Fadyar? Really sure?”

“Yes,” she whispered softly. “Come here.”

It was nearing 9pm when Donaldson arrived at the southern shore of Loch Ness, stopped in the small town of Fort Augustus and booked a room for three nights at one of the cheaper bed and breakfast guest-houses. Unlike some of his overseas campaigns, which had proved fraught and dangerous, he viewed the killing of Cindy Crossland, and if necessary her boyfriend, as a relatively simple task. The few shops were still open for tourists and at the newsagents he was able to purchase a detailed Ordnance Survey map of the area.

Returning to his lodgings, he spread out the map to finally check the location and surroundings of Mealag Lodge. Hitherto he relied upon only his motoring atlas and a small print out of the area he downloaded from the internet, and was anxious to check the entry points. He studied the map for several minutes before he saw a cluster of small grey areas and the words ‘Mealag Lodge' printed by them. He looked again, disbelievingly. He put his face nearer to the map thinking his eyes were deceiving him and recoiled in shock when he still could not find any road or track marked on the map that led to the lodge. He rubbed his hands through his spiky red hair and mopped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. He studied the map again, noting that the dam offered a form of access provided it had a pathway along the top of the wall, however he knew from experience that dams varied significantly in design and it was by no means certain that entry could be gained that way. Such setbacks might have made less confident men a little apprehensive, but Donaldson was not like other men. This was a man who had trekked through the wilds of Africa, pursued by savages and hungry animals; a man who had crossed the enemy ridden desert sands of the Middle-East, only surviving in that hostile and arid environment by eating the insects that crawled over him; a man who has never countenanced failure in the face of adversity. Yes, easy access to a target was a bonus but difficulties would not stop him. The Donaldsons of the world thrived on challenges and of overcoming the odds. Cindy Crossland was still a soft target. Where she was shacked up did not alter that and Donaldson resolved to go up to the dam early the following morning so that he could see for himself just what the location was really like.

* * *

John Walters of GCHQ personally inserted the names of Yasmin Hasan and Fadyar Masri on the Tuesday list, knowing that they would soon appear on one of the dozens of analysts' specialist computer screens deep inside the Cheltenham complex. These were not mere keyboard operatives, punching in a name and waiting for something to happen. These highly paid experts had at their disposal millions of pounds worth of hardware and software and were trained in when and how to use it. Sophisticated data mining tools scoured the databases of the intelligence and security services, transport organisations, and even personnel records from selected companies, creating links between supposedly unrelated items. The size of the stored intercepts from Morwenstow and Menwith listening stations was enormous, with even seemingly innocent messages that contained a key word, phrase or name being logged and retained for years. Further software tools could be used to drill down further into the relationships between the data items and the links that bound them, yielding still more information for even deeper analysis. Complex algorithms were used to score the results and to indicate either fresh lines of enquiry or to suggest alternative actions. If any results linked to other data or messages, the detail of those could similarly be summoned and examined. Shortly after 10am, the chess game screensaver cleared in front of the operator seated at desk 17, Unit 5, and the name of Fadyar Masri appeared, followed by the initial results of trawling the numerous databases.

The options screen then appeared and the operator chose ‘internet'

The screen saver came on and the operator resumed his game of chess until a while later it cleared and the following appeared:

Then another option:
Search for suspect internet traffic?
The operator clicked on
YES.

During the next hour, the operator had completed his game of chess, which he won, and commenced another. The millions of suspect internet transactions, clandestinely copied and retained by GCHQ, were searched to see if they contained within them the name of either Fadyar or Masri. As it appeared this particular enquiry would take a long time, he turned to an adjacent computer and started his initial searches on the next item on the list before him. Eventually the internet traffic screen appeared.

He declined to seek authority for the bank details. He knew how long the authority took to obtain and that was multiplied a hundred fold for the actual search time. Instead, he continued accessing various menu options and undertaking more enquiries, until early afternoon when he selected the
Telephone
option. Again, the screensaver appeared and he had another lengthy wait before some words appeared on the monitor.

The operator accessed the file given by the reference number, but it contained no other information except the coded message which was the only reason it was still on file. It had been classified as low priority by a reviewing intelligence officer who made the decision to file it pending other potentially dubious intercept traffic from the same source being received, but as none had been forthcoming it remained stored away amongst the millions of other intercepts that are not pursued. The operator then turned his attention to Yasmin Hasan and went through the same laborious processes, again punctuated by lengthy delays. Despite the analyst's efforts, the hugely expensive computers at his disposal could only reveal the following.

He filed the details, compiled his report and sent it to Waters, who in turn forwarded it to the ATU. Ritson quickly copied it to his staff before addressing a meeting of his entire team.

“Our first priority must be to decipher the message, leave that to me. I will go back to GCHQ on it. Then let's get some detail on that phone number. Johnson, get onto Unifone and ask them to run a check against all the names and see if that phone was replaced and if so its number. If you come up with anything, let me know and we'll see if we can't get our intelligence friends to tell us where it is. Kramer, I want you to check out both universities. Get dates, photos, as much detail as you can. Laycock, see if you can get the military to give us the names of the dead parents and some more detail on what happened on September 9. Do a check on the parents in case they were known militants etc.” Ritson barked out his orders in quick succession to his Heads of Section and within minutes the office was buzzing with activity after a relatively peaceful afternoon.

It was Dongle who first came to Ritson with some information. “That IP number on the GCHQ stuff, Sir, it's the same computer as that of Halima Chalthoum.”

“Are you sure, Dongle?” Ritson was puzzled.

“Absolutely. I obtained the IP address – that's different from an IP number – from Crossland's bank. By means of an algorithm, an IP number is turned into an IP address. The simplest piece of software can read another computer's IP address and retain it. That's one of the ways these paedophiles get caught out, plus of course they don't know how to delete data from their hard drive properly. Using the algorithm, the IP number from GCHQ matches the IP address obtained from the bank.”

“Yes, quite Dongle. Thanks,” Ritson spoke rapidly to his subordinate trying to mask his lack of understanding. “That's a great help. So Chalthoum and Masri are definitely the same person?” He asked the question but was really thinking aloud.

“Well Sir, probably, but all I can say for sure is that they use the same computer.”

“Chalthoum, Masri, Hasan… three names, but almost certainly the same person; with Hasan being the real one.” Ritson once more spoke audibly to himself.

“Probably, Sir, but not definite. We still need more proof. Computers are often used by more than one person.”

Dongle brought Ritson's racing thoughts to a sharp and unwelcome end, and two hours later the two weary policemen went home along with most of the day teams. The night staff would work on with the tasks and Ritson hoped that when he returned to the office the following morning something more positive may have been learnt. He spent a restless night. The weather was warm and intermittent thunder rumbled across the sky keeping him awake. His brain was still actively going over and over the facts of what he now firmly believed was some sort of plot, but he knew he was missing the really vital details he needed before setting into action the entire resources of Counter Terrorism Command. He was also aware of the fact that time was running out. The intercept message from GCHQ had really alarmed him as he did not know what it contained, but the fact that it was in code was ominous.

Six hundred miles away, Fadyar Masri had fallen asleep, her head resting on the chest of her new lover, his powerful arms gently entwined around her smooth, supple frame. For once her dreams were not of martyrdom, not Assiter, not even of her parents. She slept deeply and contentedly whilst the Anti-Terrorist Unit slowly but steadily worked through the night to hunt her down.