Dreams to Die For (3 page)

The communication had been in Crossland's personal mailbox for over a week awaiting his return from Greece, and he decided to action it urgently. He printed off the email and enclosures, and thirty minutes later the account was opened and a reply sent. A small folder to retain the documents was put in his personal filing cabinet and he restricted access to the computer record by placing a special security digit upon it. Code G files were for his attention only and enabled him to have unrestricted rights over any data within the record itself. At this stage he was convinced no dangerous data existed, but using the code now might be useful in the future. His risk assessment was in fact wrong. The limited entries on the computer were already sufficient to place him in jeopardy and had he known he would certainly have exercised considerably more caution before acting on the apparently innocuous email from the professed Halima Chalthoum.

Cindy Crossland slowly became more aware of her surroundings and the strange sounds around her. She blinked her eyes rapidly, trying to rid them of the stinging soreness caused by the smoke. The gloom frightened her. She tried to move, to see where she was and what was holding her down. She attempted to shout, to call to anyone, but the only sound she made was a dry croaking groan. Almost immediately she started to cough, a rasping coarse cough which hurt not just her parched throat but somewhere deep inside her stomach. She, like everyone else, was gradually being coated with more layers of the foul-tasting black soot as the dust and dirt drifted slowly in the dank air. She was getting hot, very hot. She began to panic.
Where is the heat coming from? Why can't I breathe?

“Help me. Can anyone help me please?” she managed to say the words but they were weak and indistinct. She struggled to shout, making more noise but her efforts seemed doomed against the onslaught of the din resounding within the stricken carriage.

“Try and remain still, your legs are trapped” a soft male voice spoke from somewhere to her left. Her eyes were beginning to adjust now to the dimness in the carriage. She noticed a mass of twisted metal by the door – at least she assumed it was the door. Her memory sluggishly struggled to recall what had happened and where she was.
Yes, a door
she recalled
I was standing by the door.

“I must get up”. She lifted her head in readiness to stand up.

“No, stay still. Don't move or you may hurt yourself more.” That voice again, slightly louder now, more earnest.

“Me, do you mean me?” She tried to speak normally but her fear reduced her voice to only a rapid, frightened whisper “Not me, I have to get out. What's happened? I must get out. It's so hot.”

“Yes, you. There has been a large explosion, probably a bomb. It seems you are trapped by your legs. The heat is only because the train is not moving; there is no fire.” His voice was calm but authoritative. Cindy found it reassuring to know that this person, whoever he was, was nearby. She tried to move her legs a little, but it hurt and she screamed in pain.

“Believe me now, will you?” he chuckled. “Look, this isn't good. I don't know when anyone will come for us but for the moment our best option is to wait here and stay still. The rescue services will be here soon.”

Her mind had cleared now. She recalled the horrors of torn limbs and the rivulets of blood she had witnessed before the lights finally went out. She had to get out of this hell.

“I must get out. Get out, get out – do you hear? Please just get me out.”

“If I could, I would, but it's not possible. Please accept that and remain calm. That is the best thing to do for… ” the man hesitated and nearly added ‘for your survival' but stopped himself in time, “… us.”

“The blood” she said. “I remember the blood, the bodies. Am I bleeding too?”

“I really don't know. You may have internal injuries as well as the problems with your legs. That is one reason why you should stay as still as you can.”

She lay back in silence. She suddenly felt very tired and closed her eyes momentarily but she was now suffering increasing levels of pain.

“My bloody legs hurt.” She said, cursing weakly.

“That's probably a good sign but I think you should try to stay awake” said the voice in her ear again. Cindy opened her eyes, but then shut them.

“Please try and stay awake.” The voice was deep and warm, but insistent.

“I'll try” she said, but her thin voice was husky and the stranger was concerned she might lapse into unconsciousness.

“Tell me about yourself then. You must try to keep talking”.

Cindy was not used to being told what to do but she now found reassurance in his voice. She suddenly felt very alone and she didn't want this man to go. She held up her arm and reached out, waving it about until she felt someone grasp her wrist. Relieved at the contact, she pulled her arm downwards until she could firmly clasp her hand around his.

Somewhat breathlessly, due to taking quick, short intakes of air to avoid deeply inhaling the stinging dust, Cindy began to talk. Normally she would have been reticent about revealing information about herself, especially to someone she had not known long, but she sensed this was different. She found his manner reassuringly trustworthy and she had no hesitation in summarising her life.

“I'm Cindy Crossland, aged thirty-five. Married Alan in 2000 but no children. As an infant I was a pupil at a small school near my home village of Fladbury in Worcestershire before attending The Alice Ottley School in Worcester from the age of eleven. I graduated with a degree in history from St Catherine's, Oxford. I joined the world of journalism working on a free local paper and was fortunate that one of the residents who received it happened to be a sub-editor on
The Sunday Times
. He seemed impressed with my writing and features, made contact with me and so I joined him. My father worked in oil exploration, and when he retired my parents moved to Dorset.”

She paused to clear her throat, the stranger helping to steady her as she leaned her head forward.

“Go on Cindy, you're doing great”, he gently encouraged her to prevent her slipping back to semi-consciousness.

“I quickly gained something of a reputation as an investigative reporter on the regular Insight columns which brought me into contact with politics and politicians. After a while I was given my own team and we specialised on the political topic of the moment, provided background, analysis and that sort of stuff. Then, out of the blue, the Blair government approached me – I supposed they had read some of my articles – and I served on a couple of governmental committees on things like freedom of information and media power. That sort of thing.” She stopped. “I'm sorry, I don't think I can go on … I'm so very tired.” Her eyelids started to close and her head slipped sideways.

“Yes you can. Go on. What did Blair want you to do?”

Cindy opened her eyes again and made a thin smile.

“You were listening then?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I worked in the Cabinet Office press team alongside a great bunch of guys until last January, when I left to go freelance and write novels based on my political experience.”

She could have added that she was one of the few insiders to be trusted by both Blair and his Chancellor Gordon Brown, and that whilst others found it difficult to sustain more than a year or so around the two ambitious men, she had no such problem and had greatly enjoyed being admired by both.

“And I'm now talking away about my life to a person I don't know and can hardly see in this darkness.”

The man, still holding her hand, laughed.

* * *

Whilst the physical effort of speaking had been very hard, it had kept her awake and mentally alert. More importantly, it had somehow reassured her to know that someone was actually interested.

“And what of your hobbies? It doesn't sound as though you have much time for any?” He enquired, delicately trying to keep Cindy conscious by getting her to talk.

“Riding and sailing, but I think that's going to be a bit difficult right now”, she rejoined and they both chuckled at the absurdity of it all.

“Where are you? Are you hurt?” She asked anxiously.

“No, I don't think I'm too bad. I seem to be able to move things but I think my face or head is cut and my ribs hurt, but I should be able to stand.”

“Oh, that's good – if you know what I mean. How come you're next to me then?” She was curious why this man hadn't tried to escape from the wrecked carriage if he could stand.

“I got thrown around and ended up somewhere behind you. I heard you cry out, so got down on the floor to find out who it was and if I could help. You know the rest.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much” Cindy blurted out and she started to cry once more.

* * *

Cindy and her companion did not know at the time that perhaps they were fortunate not to have been travelling on the Piccadilly line, which was also bombed that fateful morning. The large twin track tunnel of the Circle line had probably saved Cindy's life, and that of many others, as a significant part of the explosive force of the bomb had been able to dissipate across the wide cavity, thereby lessening its impact. The single track Piccadilly line did not allow the bomb blast to be vented and the force remained concentrated within the tunnel and carriages themselves, resulting in a greater number of casualties. The narrow tunnel also made rescue considerably more difficult but access was easier on the stretch of the Circle line where Cindy's train was attacked. The Emergency Response Unit (ERU) was soon able to set up lighting in the adjoining tunnel that normally transported passengers on the Hammersmith and City line. Some emergency arc lamps started to appear and an amplified voice was saying that rescue was at hand.

“Follow the lights and hold onto the rope” bellowed a loudspeaker.

Most of the passengers that could move with ease clambered cautiously and carefully over the bodies of others as best they could in order to escape, but some were not as considerate where they trod and several of those still lying on the floor groaned in agony as they were stepped on. As they left the stricken train, a small army of rescuers wearing their silver and red protective jackets marshalled the groggy, tottering victims away to the waiting medical staff who had set up an emergency centre at ground level, little more than thirty feet above the wreckage. The stranger shielded Cindy from the exodus and within minutes most of the carriage had emptied.

“Are you OK, mate?” a grimy-faced man with the word “RESCUE” written across his back shouted to Cindy's protector. “If so, get out quickly.”

“I'm alright but this lady can't move and needs urgent attention.”

“All in good time. Medic! One here trapped. One OK and coming out.”

“You're not going are you?” Cindy was suddenly very nervous of being alone.

“Not if you don't want me to.”

“Please stay a bit longer” and she squeezed his hand a little tighter.

“Look mate, there could be another bomb. Just go and follow the lights. We will have the lady out as soon as we can.” The silver rescue jacket again.

“I'm staying, so you just carry on,” said the stranger.

Cindy turned and said, “I am so sorry, you must go. It is obviously still very dangerous here.”

“I'm going nowhere until I know you'll be safe, so let's just change the subject. Tell me about where you went riding. Did you have your own horse?” He encouraged her to think of more pleasant times.

She was just about to reply when the fire service and a doctor arrived and told Cindy they were going to get her out.

“Now you really do have to go, mate. We can't get your wife out with you in the way and holding her hand!”

For the first time Cindy laughed loudly and then instantly regretted it as pain shot through her stomach and chest.

“Quick”, she said, in an urgent and panicked voice, “I don't even know your name. Do you have a pen or something? Please give me your phone number.”

Knowing he didn't have much time he quickly found a felt tip pen in his jacket pocket and wrote the number on her arm. He spotted a scrap of paper on the floor, a blood stain traversing the page almost along its entire length but he tore a clean area and wrote the number down again. He folded the grubby note and gently placed it in the palm of her hand, before closing her fingers around it.

“Good luck, let me know how you get on. My name's Gordon by the way.”

Another man appeared next to her, the word DOCTOR emblazoned on his luminous coat, and said something to Cindy but she wasn't listening. She was intent to watch Gordon leave the train and followed the shadow he made as he passed in front of the temporary lighting. The Doctor then shone a torch into her eyes and strapped something to her wrist. He performed a quick but thorough examination and gave her an injection. As he stepped aside the rescue crew started their work of cutting her free.

* * *

Alan Crossland had finished his emails and cleared his desk of most of the accumulated papers and files. The few folders and letters that remained would need time and care. It was 11am. He was troubled by the noisy clamour surrounding his office and deduced that there must be some kind of major incident happening but he did not investigate further, other than to glance out of his window from time to time. The unruffled working of his office was in stark contrast to the mayhem throughout the rest of the great city. The emergency services, aided by well-trained London Underground staff, were rapidly counting casualties and arranging for the speedy evacuation of the injured to the various hospitals.

Paradoxically, probably the only other calm office was now the control centre for the entire London Underground network. Their large computer indicator boards, colour coded like the original 1933 Harry Beck map that was still in use and imitated throughout the world, recorded that the operational status of all thirteen lines on the network was ‘SUSPENDED', causing more than one manager in the centre to openly weep. Nor was the distress limited to the management. London Underground employees, many of whom had given years of dedicated service to ‘The Tube' as it was affectionately referred to, regarded the outrage as an attack upon their trains, their lines and their passengers. They had never expected to witness the unique and complete shutdown of the entire system, something that even Nazi Germany failed to do during the London Blitz.

* * *

“What time will you and Mrs Crossland require the car, Sir?” Jack Donaldson, Crossland's burly driver, enquired.

Donaldson also held the title of ‘personal security consultant' but in reality that was little more than a bodyguard, though he never carried a firearm. His sheer size made him an intimidating figure. He stood a little over six feet tall and weighed close to 240 pounds. His spiky ginger hair was short-cropped close to his scalp and his cavernous mouth was circumscribed by thick bulbous lips. His pale blue eyes, set in a deeply pockmarked face interrupted only by a crooked nose that had been on the receiving end of too many fists, constantly darted back and forth. His alert and piercing gaze was frightening in its intensity of penetration, and just looking at him made others nervous. He was superbly fit, despite his size, and since leaving the army and subsequent spells as a mercenary, Donaldson had made certain his physique was maintained by regular visits to the gym. Whenever Crossland travelled, the doughty driver at his side was a reassuring and necessary presence for a well-heeled banker of dubious repute and probity.