Dreams to Die For (54 page)

Moments later, a sombre voice crackled onto the speakers in the command centres.

“Van secured, no occupants. One target down. We have three deceased uniformed casualties being evacuated now.”

Slowly, inexorably, the police ringed the plane. An officer made an attempt to move closer to the Cessna, but withdrew as a female face at the window appeared. She shook her head and held up her gun in a gesture that was unmistakeable, indicating she would shoot her hostage unless he left. That message was passed onto the command centres who recalled all officers from anywhere near the aircraft. The targets had been isolated, the area ringed. Escape would be impossible. Bronze Commander Curry, being taken by light helicopter, was less than ten minutes flying time away. He had no qualms about leaving Ritson to man the Bronze room, inwardly relieved Ritson was there to provide a second opinion if needed. It had taken a long time, but Curry and Ritson now had the terrorists contained and the resources needed to end this Scottish outrage.

The first priority in the management of any hostage situation is to do nothing that would exacerbate the danger facing the hapless captive. Usually, the captors will make demands and discussions will ensue, sometimes lasting only a few minutes but on occasions may continue for several hours or even days. The declared policy of successive British governments of never conceding to the hostage takers' demands is known throughout the world, but a theoretical stated objective will never be 100% absolute. In practice, there will always be negotiations. The skill is ensuring that any concession appears not to be one, or to be so trivial as to be inconsequential. The task facing the law enforcement agencies is to gain as much intelligence as they can, whilst satisfying their first priority of not endangering the hostage; and it is the intelligence gathering aspect that necessitates deploying the ESU with its electronic wizardry. It is also important to have specially trained hostage negotiators whose task is not just to establish a relationship with the hostage taker, but also to note every detail that might be useful in the event that the police decide to use force.

Fadyar now accepted that her prime mission had failed, but the reasons for it almost incomprehensible as she had been so certain that she had planned properly for all the aspects crucial for a triumphant outcome. She was bitterly upset, blaming her own shortcomings for its lack of success and was deeply affected by the loss of her friends, particularly Nasra Khan. She wept as she saw his torn and crumpled body, reddened with blood, his lifeless eyes gazing unseeing towards her face at the window. She was suddenly very tired. She needed to rest and consider her secondary mission of killing Assiter, but she was in no hurry to carry that out. Fadyar could afford to wait. The person in charge of the swarm of police outside the plane would make an approach soon enough. Until the negotiators arrived, little would happen and Fadyar sat on the floor of the plane, out of sight of those on the ground but in a position where she was able to get a reasonable view of the landing strip through the large windows. She was in contemplative and reflective mood. After several minutes silence, Dean Assiter spoke. What he said amazed her.

“Your brave colleagues, had you known them long?” he inquired gently.

She found herself replying, doing exactly the opposite of what her camp training had tried to drill into her and which she had practised many times in mock situations.

“Not really, several months, but they accepted the risks. We all did.” She replied somewhat sombrely.

“The driver was very good. I was more nervous on that mountain than now.” He chuckled and Fadyar smiled.

For a few moments neither spoke, then Fadyar said slowly, “They were all good people”.

A small tear ran down the side of her cheek and she turned away from Assiter in order to hide her uncontrollable emotion as she thought of Nasra and her expressing their love for each other a few hours earlier at the cottage. The noise of a helicopter overhead drowned out any further exchanges as it hovered only feet above their plane. Assiter looked scared, expecting something to happen but Fadyar was calm. She got closer to him and shouted in his ear.

“Do not worry. They will not attack. This is to prevent us hearing them plant microphones on the plane. They may even be drilling through somewhere to put a camera in.”

“You know a lot more about this sort of thing than me, and I'm the goddam US Secretary of State!”

Fadyar nodded, but she was slightly wrong in her assumptions. Three ultra-sensitive microphones had indeed been fitted along the plane's fuselage, but there had been no drilling as the detailed design specification of the plane had not been faxed through to ESU and the precise layout of the fuel tanks and pipes was unknown to the scene of crime officers. Until it was, the enablement of a miniature camera via fibre optics had been postponed. Silver and Bronze had authorised the microphones to be installed not only to overhear any conversations within the plane from which mood swings could, and would, be analysed by the psychological team, but also an accurate placement of the personnel on board could be mapped by analysis of the outputs from all three listening devices.

Fadyar was aware of all of this, and contemplated the counter measures she should be taking, such as frequently changing where she and Assiter sat, turning on the Cessna audio equipment and playing some loud music, or even insisting that she and Assiter communicate only by writing messages to each other. These, and other simple counter actions she had been taught, but she did none of them, indifferent to her plight. Her tiredness was close to overwhelming her and she felt as if her body and mind could work no more. She needed rest, but the last few hours had been so momentous and confusing she knew she must force her brain to keep active. The events of the day spun wildly about in her head, in no order. Haphazard and unrelated to each other, her recollections were both confused and confusing. Her mind kept going back over aspects that troubled her.
Why was the man Donaldson at the lodge and who had sent him?
Fadyar was not convinced the man would act on his own, travelling all the way to the lodge and overcome and kill the police, solely to rape the banker's wife. Fadyar knew men could satisfy their desires easier than that. Donaldson was just a sadistic opportunist who took advantage of the situation when he found himself in the house alone with the two attractive, defenceless women. It was similar with the schoolgirls in Baghdad. No, Mrs Crossland had to be wrong. For Donaldson to take on the risks, and potential consequences of murdering the police, had to mean his agenda was a lot more important than sex. Fadyar quickly reached the conclusion that his prime purpose had to be to murder, probably killing Assiter when he returned, or whilst he was crossing the water by boat. The women needed to be neutralised, but why should he not enjoy himself first?

She kept thinking, worrying and trying to recall events.
Everything at first seemed to be going so well. Truscott and Assiter had started out in the morning accompanied as usual by the two CIA agents and followed by Sharid and Mawdud, but then the two British police appeared – why had they both gone on the hill? Had they spotted her two compatriots or had they received some sort of alert? Whatever, the security forces had been overcome, and Assiter had been captured essentially to plan. The journey across the mountain, the pick-up of the camper van, everything went so smoothly. Even the police went by them going the wrong way! Surely if the police presence on the hill was an indication that the security forces had received some advance knowledge or alert they would have been much better prepared and co-ordinated? They would have had time to completely seal off every conceivable route and that didn't happen. In fact the reverse was true and no police arrived at the airstrip for nearly a quarter of an hour. Yet, within a minute of arriving at the plane we came under attack from accurate submachine gunfire. It didn't make sense, unless… unless.

The eruption of her thoughts started to calm and Fadyar felt that the fragmented pieces were falling into place, albeit with certain details unknown. The more she thought of it, the more convinced she became.
Treachery! We must have been betrayed by our own people, someone who knew the mission but who was not interested in a kidnap, someone who wanted to guarantee only an assassination, and whose agents had very nearly succeeded a few moments earlier as we boarded the plane.

Her eyes watered at the thought of it. Her companions were dead. Good, young lives just thrown away. She wished she had been on the ground when the shots started. She and her three brothers might have succeeded in eliminating the initial few attackers, or at least she could have helped her brave brothers get to safety. Her mind kept going over what had happened
. Her plan had worked, but the traitor had known sufficient detail to devise an even more cunning dénouement. Those who attacked the aircraft when we arrived were expendable. They would either succeed in killing Assiter by shooting up the plane or, even if they failed to kill Assiter, they would prevent it from taking off. In all probability they would subsequently be overpowered and killed by the police in a shoot-out. Once the kidnap attempt had to be aborted, our instructions were to assassinate Assiter and as soon as we did that the police would be there to storm the plane and we would also be killed. It was clever, very clever. No one would ever know the truth or the identity of the real killers, those faceless people who only ever planned for an assassination. Which left the mysterious Donaldson – how did he fit into it?

She sub-consciously shook her head and then it struck her.
Of course! If we had failed on the hill to kidnap Assiter, Donaldson needed to be there as a back-up assassin at the dam or lodge. He had simply taken advantage of the women whilst he waited to see the outcome of our own mission. He worked for the apparently respectable Crossland who, it was obvious now, must also be part of Claude Carron's network, and why she had been told to contact him regarding the Chalthoum account.

It all fitted – or so it seemed to Fadyar. The more thought she gave it the more convinced she became of her theory that they had been cruelly betrayed. Whatever transpired during or after the kidnap, her masters had planned all along that Assiter would be killed. There was one remaining question she needed to answer in order to be certain: Why was Mrs Crossland also at Mealag? Fadyar desperately hoped that Cindy was not involved somehow, too.

Curry was passed a note saying the two hostage negotiators were at the scene. He spoke with them for a full fifteen minutes, briefing them on salient facts which the two noted down on small, wire-spiral, bound notebooks. He listened to their questions, gave the answers and issued the order for officer Christine Fellows to be the first to speak to the terrorist onboard the plane. Fadyar noticed a white flag held aloft in an unarmed officer's right hand as he walked next to another unarmed officer, a female and one dressed in civilian clothing. She held up a large board on which in thick black marker ink was written a phone number. Fadyar picked up her mobile, dialled and listened.

“I'm Christine. How are you?”

“I do not need anything. If any officer attacks the plane, I shall blow it up along with Mr Assiter. Explosives are wired throughout the cabin and I have grenades and automatic weapons.” Fadyar assertively replied.

“I understand. What can I call you?”

Fadyar did not reply and several moments passed before Officer Fellows spoke again in a calm, unhurried, reassuring voice. “Is Mr Assiter well?”

“Yes.”

“Is it possible for you to give me some certainty of that, please? I should like to sure.”

Fadyar beckoned Assiter to stand up by raising her hand gun up and down. He did so and then sat down. Fadyar passed him the phone. Say “Hello,” she told him.

“Hello,” said a nervous Assiter.

“Are you alright?” Christine asked quickly.

“Fine. Do as she says.” Assiter replied, quickly handing the phone back.

“Thank you,” said Christine.

“Please go away. If you all stay away and do nothing, Mr Assiter will remain safe and well. I will phone you if I need anything.” Fadyar said.

“Can I call you, Fadyar. It is Fadyar isn't it?”

The question temporarily stunned Fadyar, although after a moment's reflection she realised that of course the negotiator would know, either from Mrs Crossland or from the intelligence gathering process. There was nothing sinister in the question, but she gave considerable thought to her reply. She could not get the idea of betrayal out of her mind; it was almost choking her. People she trusted, or had probably met. Thoughts of their duplicity, their cowardice, their ruthlessness burned inside her.

“No, not Fadyar. My name is Yasmin Hasan.”

“OK, Yasmin. But I should like to talk to you about how we might resolve this situation. Can we do that?” Christine gently enquired, but Fadyar shouted back.

“Go away, now, please” and brandished her automatic.

“Yasmin, if you or Mr Assiter want anything just give me a call.” Christine and the officer returned to the perimeter and waited. The initial contact had been made, carried out by the book. Its brevity was not at all unusual. If this incident followed the norm everyone could now be in for a long wait.

Silver was struggling to keep only one person at a time from talking in the ensuing discussion. Everyone seemed agreed that what had transpired was unexpected. The hostage taker was calm and allowed her victim the phone without making any demands. There was the usual threat which had to be taken seriously, but it appeared Assiter was in no immediate danger.

A small panel of vetted medical experts, notably of psychiatrists and psychologists, will be quickly established as part of the support services the Gold and Silver command can call upon in hostage or similar type situations where knowledge of the mental condition of the suspect is important. The small team is often housed in a specially equipped room that enables secure communication to the various command centres. If it can be arranged a trained psychologist will also be present near to the scene, but not at the face of a hostage negotiation. Within the hastily convened room at a Glasgow hospital, real excitement had been caused by Fadyar Masri giving her real name and the psychologists were considering why she had done so. They were also trying to absorb what information the police had passed onto them about the terrorist and what the appropriate response should be in the light of the threat to the hostage himself and his mental condition.

“We wait” Maythorp said. The command rooms at Gold, Silver and Bronze were now all quiet, activated only by routine messages and updates. An exhaustive weather report for the area was received detailing the anticipated rainfall, wind speed and so on in half-hourly intervals for the next twenty four hours. It would be revised hourly. Coffee, tea and sandwiches were taken. There were no changeovers, even of the more junior personnel. Many decided to walk around the room and stretch their legs. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, forty minutes elapsed before one of the telephones on Maythorp's desk rang. It was from the head of the psychological team.