Jorge met Charlie Turner in high school algebra his freshman year at Jesuit. Charlie was on the baseball team as well, but other than having a rich dad who supplied a hefty donation to the booster club every year, Charlie contributed little to the team. Charlie was a popular guy, blonde, good looking, and blue eyes that made all the girls at the nearby equally prestigious Hockaday School go crazy. Charlie’s house in Highland Park was financed by his father’s high flying job at Merrill Lynch in Downtown, where he had ridden Texas’s boom economy to a tidy fortune over the last thirty-five years. Charlie and Jorge became fast friends, mostly due to their shared common interests in baseball and girls.
After graduation from Jesuit, Charlie was destined for Texas Christian University in neighboring Fort Worth where he could follow in his dad’s footsteps as Fraternity President and overall popular party guy. Coincidentally, TCU’s baseball team was one of the most competitive in the country, and Jorge saw the perfect opportunity to continue to develop the twin rails of his road to success: his strong pitching arm and his friendship with Charlie.
So now here they sat twenty-two years later, across the table from each other in a Deli booth in Manhattan, reveling with each other in the realization that they’d each just cleared more than ten million dollars apiece in the biggest gamble of their lives. They both had self-satisfied grins on their faces as the realization of the success of their latest venture sunk in.
“You know we’ve got to lay low now for a while.” Charlie’s face grew more serious. “Don’t buy anything, not even a new suit, for at least six months. Just business as usual. I shorted Jenkins’ position as well, just to keep him happy, keep my numbers up, and to generate a little pocket change.”
“How much you going to net off of that one?” Jorge was annoyed that he hadn’t thought to get a couple of his own clients in on the action too, just to keep his own performance numbers comfortably above average as well.
“Not much… maybe $40K,” Charlie was dismissive.
“When do we make our next move?” Jorge was growing slightly irritated that he had missed out on a nice little profit to tide him over until the big money became available.
“Not for a while, Jorge. British Intelligence is going to be all over this for a while, and the CIA will likely be involved. We’ve got to go about business as usual and not create any unnecessary attention. We can’t touch a penny of this money for months. You’ll just have to cool your jets for a while. We both do.”
Charlie was finished with lunch and ready to leave. He could tell Jorge was mad that he’d missed out on lining his pockets with a few extra dollars, but Charlie had not given him a head’s up on purpose. Two co-workers profiting wildly off of the same seemingly random global tragedy would garner attention. The fact that they were good friends from the same hometown would definitely raise eyebrows. Jorge was smart, but sometimes he missed the big picture. Charlie benefitted from having Jorge around for his little schemes, but he had to keep him a little in the dark most of the time, or things would even get riskier. It’s just the way things had to work.
Charlie wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and dropped it on the table. “Let’s go.”
Before he could stand up, Jorge grabbed him on the forearm, pressing his arm to the table.
“What now?” Charlie gave him an incredulous look.
“Sorry,” Jorge released his arm. “Look, I’m short on cash. I was planning to have that money sooner rather than later. If we’re not going to touch the money for several months, then you’re probably going to have to float me a small loan for the short term.”
“How much?”
“At least ten-grand. I’ve got some expenses I need to cover.” Charlie averted his eyes, and looked out the window at the tourists hurriedly making their way up Broadway.
“OK, no problem. We can work something out — for the short term.” Charlie rose to leave.
“Then we’re good. You take off first, and I’ll wait a few minutes before heading back. I’ll see you later.” Jorge forced a grin and offered his right hand.
Charlie gave a tight smile, and shook Jorge’s hand, doing his best to appear casual. He grabbed his black phone off of the table and exited the diner turning back toward Hazelwood Tower. As he walked, he mindlessly clenched his jaw, thinking about Jorge’s remarks at the end of their conversation. Wasn’t it enough that they were both about to pocket a sizable cache of money that would make both of them filthy rich? Charlie thought about Jorge and his loose cannon ways as he made his way back down Wall Street. And then the light bulb went off, bringing the entire conversation into focus. He clenched his jaw again as he walked, attempting to appear at ease strolling back toward the office.
Great. He thought to himself. I’m a millionaire co-conspirator to one of the biggest crimes in history, and I’ve got a drug addict for a partner.
Charlie knew the signs; he’d known Jorge for far too long. A serious elbow injury in spring of Jorge’s sophomore year at TCU had ended his pitching career and had launched his life-long addiction to painkillers. Jorge had fought the addiction for more than twenty years, having been through rehab twice before, the last stint being eight years ago. Since then, he’d been clean for eight perfect years — or so Charlie had thought.
And now they were in the middle of the biggest, most dangerous scheme of their lives, and Jorge was worried about drug money. He probably owed money to some back street opioid dealer punk with a long rap sheet and dangerous friends. He would loan him the money. He really didn’t have any choice. If he didn’t, he would find Jorge beaten up badly in some back alley, or worse yet, dead.
This was not the kind of problem Charlie needed right now. There was far too much on the line to be worrying about two-bit drug dealers and addicted friends. He would have to forget about the money for the time being, and figure out what to do about his business partner right now.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
At 5:20 p.m., Jeffrey entered Wellington’s office to update the Prime Minister on the current status of the recovery operation deep in the tunnel. Fletcher LaForge was already there, but his boss Trawick was nowhere in sight. Jeffrey rattled off the current facts as he knew them: As of 5 p.m. sharp, Jeffrey had been notified that 225 victims’ bodies had now been recovered, and the police would be working throughout the night to identify the dead. The two survivors had been airlifted to London Royal Hospital, and though suffering intense smoke inhalation, they were expected to live.
Echoing Jeffrey’s thoughts, Wellington was incredulous that Andrew Bolling could be in any way involved in the attack on the EuroStar train. Jeffrey assured the P.M. of what they both already knew: that Andrew Bolling was far too ordinary and too much of a straight arrow to have had any part in the attack, either as an instigator or even as a target. There was just no way Andrew Bolling would be of any benefit to a terrorist, dead or alive. Certainly, he worked for the Prime Minister of England, but his chief responsibilities were just routine domestic concerns: economic policy, financial research, tracking the British Pound’s value against the global markets. It was a dream job for an economics major from Oxford, but nothing that would be of any interest to a foreign terrorist cell or even a homegrown terrorist. After all, Wellington and Jeffrey had both known Andrew Bolling most of their adult lives as well. It was inconceivable he could be a target or a threat. He simply wasn’t a factor as far as either of them was concerned.
“Hunter, there’s no way Bolling was a target in this attack. There’s just no way that makes any sense,” Wellington said to Hunter after he shut the office door.
“No, I’m sure it’s all just a very tragic coincidence. That phone call was a hoax by some nut who gets his jollies from mucking up the water,” Hunter said. “But I still have no idea who would have called me this morning with that ridiculous threat. Dozens of people have my private cell number, but like all of our private cell numbers, it’s never been published in any government directory or document.”
&
nbsp; “I think I have a pretty good idea who would stoop that low Jeffrey, although if it’s true, it’s pretty disgusting,” Fletcher LaForge had been characteristically quiet since Jeffrey entered the office, but suddenly perked up with his new theory.
“Who?” said Hunter, with a look of skepticism on his face.
“Kane, or more likely one of his goons, of course,” said LaForge, referencing the current opposition leader of the Labour Party. “They’ve been trying to bring Wellington down since this administration took office four years ago. They saw their opportunity to smear this office with scandal, and they’re doing their damn level-best to connect this administration to the worst terrorist attack in U.K. history. Whether there’s any truth to it or not, it will bring suspicion on this office and they’ll do all they can to tarnish this administration with innuendo and dubious connections to this horrible disaster.”
“Surely not,” Hunter shot back. “I can’t believe even Kane and his crew would stoop to something so malicious. They’re low, but I cannot believe they would try and capitalize on a national tragedy and the death of hundreds of innocent British citizens like that. No one is going to try and draw even the faintest connection between this tragedy and this administration. If they do it, it will be over my dead body,” Hunter was jabbing his finger on the Prime Minister’s desk as he spoke for emphasis. “Even so,” he continued, “I’ll mention your thoughts to O’Leary… without mentioning your name of course. We’ll let him run down the theory, without linking this administration to the investigation.”
“Look, tracking down the bastards that did this — whoever they are — and bringing them to justice are our chief priorities,” Wellington was pacing the room now. “We’re going to track down and find whoever the asshole is that put that bomb on that train, along with every last member of their wretched terrorist cell, no matter where they are or how long it takes. If it’s the last thing I do in this job, we’re going to get it done.”
“Yes sir,” Jeffrey said readily, and LaForge echoed his response.
“Can we trust O’Leary?” Wellington asked.
“Yeah, he’s a straight-shooter.” Hunter was still tapping his finger on the P.M.’s desk. “He’s the best MI6 has got, and I’ve known him for years. He doesn’t care a damn about people’s politics or agendas. He’s like a dog on the hunt . . . and he won’t stop until he tracks down who is behind this. MI6 has put over two hundred agents on this investigation under O’Leary’s command. He’s not going to be thrown off track by a random name being thrown into the investigation to get us off course. He’ll find the bastards who did this. And once he does, we’ll put their heads on spikes up at the Tower of London for the world to see.”
Wellington clenched his jaw as the stress of the last eighteen hours started to take its toll on him. He had weathered plenty of power struggles in Parliament, an economic recession, half a dozen weather-related catastrophes, a handful of smaller terrorist hits, and a brief insurrection within his own party within the last four years as Prime Minister. This terrorist attack, however, might be what would finally do him in.
For a moment he wondered if he still had it in him to lead the nation through a national emergency of this scale. The job he had set out before him would take up most of his time and attention over the next many months: He’d have to oversee the search and investigation to find the depraved terrorists who killed so many innocent people, manage the political firestorm that would no doubt be unleashed, inform and direct the international response, and most difficult of all, rally the British people to prevail over this national tragedy. There would be plenty of finger pointing all around, with every politician from MP on up trying to put the blame for the tragedy on someone or some group they don’t like. There went his list of agenda items he had hoped to get through Parliament. The new course for Britain he had been working on for four years, putting it on track for a seat at the global leadership table for the next century, was now out the window. Certainly, he knew this hour of national disaster would define his administration, but it would take all that was in him to help the country emerge from this national horror. Getting reelected to his position as Prime Minister was now completely uncertain. He turned and looked out the window, and for a brief moment, he just wanted to escape it all.
Turning back to Hunter, he refastened the top button on his white shirt and readjusted his red tie, the one he kept at the office for moments when he needed to look commanding. Outside in the cold December air, ninety-seven news cameras from every top news agency on the planet were trained on the front door of #10 Downing waiting for a news conference with the British Prime Minister. Running his fingers through his dark hair, Wellington grabbed his blue suit jacket and walked steadfastly through the door and down the hall toward the waiting media contingent. Just on his heels, as he had been every step of the last twenty years, Jeffrey Hunter walked lock-step behind the Prime Minister.
These bastards aren’t going to succeed in this, Hunter thought to himself as he and Wellington pushed through the front door to face the cameras. We’re going to find every last murderer that had anything to do with this. We owe it to the more than four hundred people who died on that train, and I owe it to Andrew.
As Wellington and Hunter stepped in front of the camera, the bright television lights clicked on, and for a brief moment all Hunter could see was the white spots in front of his eyes. Wellington, cool and professional as always, stared directly into the bank of international cameras as he addressed the nation.
“Good evening Citizens of the United Kingdom and to our friends around the world. This morning, a heinous attack was levied not just on the citizens of one country, but against the citizens of all peaceful nations . . . . ”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Annelise Craig managed to stay in the background as the press conference wound down. The last thing she needed was any extra attention on her this afternoon. She was barely holding it together as it was.
Thankfully, her boss Jeffrey Hunter was too distracted by the weight of responsibilities on his shoulders and managing the crisis to notice her obvious anguish and anxiety. The world was falling apart around her, but Annie was too busy trying to keep herself from collapsing on the floor to deal emotionally with the broader tragedy. She went through the motions of doing everything that was asked of her in her usual professional manner, but inside she was barely keeping her emotions from total meltdown. Now that the press conference was over, she just wanted to finish up anything Jeffrey needed her to do and get the hell out of the office for the evening. She just needed a few minutes to herself to compose her thoughts, deal with the waves of grief, and figure out a way to get through the next few days. Hell, how to get through the rest of her life without him.
Once the television cameras were off and the lights had been loaded back into the trucks, Annie made the rounds through the tenacious newspaper reporters and television correspondents to make sure they had everything they needed, at least for now. Like most members of the political class, Annie had long thought that the press corps was like a pack of dogs. They would chase their prey until you threw them some scraps. They didn’t need a lot, just enough to give them something to discuss on their next news clip, to make it look like they were doing their jobs. Once they had their scraps, they would leave you alone, at least for a little while. Annie knew that they were just performing their duties, and that the public had a right to know what was going on, but their tenacity and hunger for details and scraps of news could be exhausting, and she always felt on the defensive with them, as if she’d already done something wrong. The British press were famously intrusive, and Annie did her best to keep them at arm’s length.
As soon as the news crews were loaded up and off to update their reports for the wall to wall coverage of the crisis, Annie saw her opportunity to disappear, at least for the night. She looked down at her watch, 8:10 p.m.. She had been at the office for almost fourteen hours straight and had had no sleep for th
irty-six hours. Surely, she could leave now. She knocked on Jeffrey’s office door and cracked it open. As expected, he was on the phone with the police or one of the other governmental agencies tied up with the investigation, so she gave him a little quizzical look and gesture signaling him that she was planning to leave and wondered if he needed anything else. Jeffrey waved her off, and she was satisfied that it was OK to go.
Gathering up her purse and coat, Annie made her way toward the back of the office suite. The office was still busy with phones ringing and government officials doing their best to help coordinate the recovery operation, but Annie could not function anymore. She had to get out. She would text Jeffrey later and make sure he didn’t need her for anything, but for now, she needed to be alone.
Moving down the corridor toward the back exit, she passed Andrew’s office door on the left, with the door still shut. With the office in crisis mode, his office had been forgotten for the moment, and no one had probably been in it all day. The investigation was still focused on the rescue and recovery operation, so no one was overly focused on Andrew’s death yet. Annie stopped short in front of his door. Turning the handle, she was surprised to find it open.
At this point, all she could think was that she wanted to be with Andrew, the only way she knew how. She opened the door and entered the room quickly, shutting the door quietly behind her. She resisted the urge to lock the door behind her, thinking that would look really bad if someone else tried the door behind her. Her mind always working strategically, she quickly decided that if anyone popped in behind her, she would say that she was looking for any clues to the tragedy that she could turn over to the police. It was a weak but conceivable excuse. In reality, she wanted to be in the only place where she knew she could feel near to him. She wanted to sit in his chair, touch his belongings, look at the framed pictures on his walls and credenza, anything to feel nearer to him right now.
The Cornmarket Conspiracy Page 6