Moving behind his desk, Annie was overwhelmed to see one of his suit jackets lying across the credenza behind his desk. Picking it up, she held it up to her face and breathed in deeply. Oh, so faintly, she could still smell him on the jacket. Musky and sweet, the smell rushed over her and gave her an immediate sense of calm. For a moment, her body told her that he was alive. But her mind and heart knew the truth.
Annie sat down in his chair and laid her hands across the desktop. It was then that the tears started streaming down her face again. Allowing them to fall, she put her head into her hands and let the grief wash over her like a wave. She didn’t know how she was going to survive this.
Laying her head on the desk, she sat there for what seemed like an eternity, although it was probably not more than ten minutes or so. When she had composed herself, she methodically started pulling the drawers open, one at a time, and examining their contents. She knew that she probably shouldn’t disturb the items in his desk too much -- the police would be in here soon enough and if she was found to have rifled through the desk, it could spark a scandal. But for now, she just wanted to gaze at his belongings. She wanted to see if there was anything left of him in these otherwise innocuous office drawers.
Opening each drawer, she had to smile to herself. Each drawer was meticulously organized, as Andrew was about everything in his life. Files, legal pads, a stapler, old calendars, everything a typical office desk holds. She smiled as she found a tin box of mints in his top drawer, pried it open and popped one into her mouth. He went through these mints like candy, and his breath always smelled like cinnamon as a result. He could be such a kid.
Opening the last drawer, she saw the usual hanging files and fanned her fingers across the tops noticing his perfect print on the labels. Policy Briefs, Monetary Analysis, Economic Growth Charts — just the usual boring economic data. She wondered how he found such tedious information so fascinating.
Oddly, she noticed the last file did not have his usual fine lettering on the label. In fact, it was blank. Lifting the file out of the drawer, she noticed it wasn’t bulging with data like all the others, it just contained a single sheet of lined paper torn off of one of his legal pads, with his neat handwriting covering one side of the yellow paper.
Across the top line in all caps, were the words CM TRADES INTO & OUT OF POUND.
Below was a neat chart, hand drawn with columns across the top, and half a dozen rows of numbers down the page. Across the tops of the columns were the labels: dates and times, currency valuations into and out of the English Pound and American Dollar markets, and percent profits. And there was a final column that caught her attention: Events.
In the events column were six incidents from the last four years that Annie recognized immediately: Bus bombing at Leicester Square, Assassination attempt on French P.M., Car bomb at Parliament, IED at Piccadilly Circus, Explosion at Stade de France, and at the bottom, Train? The last entry had no date attached.
Annie stared at the list. Each event on the list was an incident she was familiar with and which the Prime Minister’s office had been integral in coordinating the investigation. But this wasn’t just a simple list of terrorist attacks. Each one was referenced with a value of the British Pound and the Dollar immediately before and after the event — usually not more than a twenty-four or thirty-six hours spread, and an indication of what enormous percent profit had been realized.
What the hell? Annie thought to herself. Andrew was the Prime Minister’s chief monetary advisor, but this was something far different than ordinary monetary analysis. This was the value of the British Pound and Dollar in direct correlation with a series of as yet unsolved terrorist attacks here in London, and one in France. The net profits recorded down the page were startling: 47%, 84%, 23%, 104%, 77%. Annie wasn’t a financial expert, but she knew these net profit numbers were astounding.
Yet why was a train incident noted on the list, but without a date, or reference to the value of the pound? Whatever it was, Annie didn’t like the looks of it one bit. Why was Andrew tracking the value of two key currencies against a series of random tragedies? Andrew’s job was methodical and analytical, but it was also stealthy and highly sensitive. And she instantly knew the Police would be all over this. As she sat staring at the list, her mind trying to make sense of the information, she heard voices in the hall. Instinctively, she closed all the drawers, pushed the chair back into position, and grabbed her coat and purse. Sliding the file into her purse, she waited until the voices had subsided. She waited another moment and then quietly exited the door, noting that no one looked up as she turned down the hall and made her way toward the exit. She just wanted out of there, and fast.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
London’s Paddington Station was bustling with tourists trying to find their way among the myriad of parallel tracks, students weighted down with backpacks, and British senior citizens shuffling to their trains. Rasul punched the buttons on the ticket machine to purchase his train fare as he had so many times before. His puddle jumper plane from Paris had landed at London’s Luton airport early this morning, and he’d called an Uber to deliver him to Paddington Station. Security was tighter than he had ever seen it in the cavernous, drafty train station. London Police were everywhere, posted at the entrance to the station, several along the corridor leading to the trains, and a dozen or more were positioned along the boarding platform along each train. The air was tense, with everyone keeping a close eye on everyone else.
Once his train left the station, in just fifty-six minutes, Rasul would be delivered to the little village that he knew so well. With nothing other than his leather bag, he boarded his train at 9:21 a.m. on Tuesday morning and would be arriving at exactly 10:17. He usually loved this journey — the quaint houses and crumbling storefronts lining the tracks as the train rolled through the outskirts of London, the gentle rocking of the train as it traversed the farms and small villages of Slough and Reading. But today was different. London was different now, and so was Rasul.
Rasul had made this trip at least a hundred times. Back and forth during college: Oxford to London, London back to Oxford. Those trips had been fun and carefree. But not today. Today was all business and Rasul concentrated on the meeting at hand.
As the train pulled into the little station at Oxford, Rasul made his way off the train, through the tangle of students loitering in the station, and out into the brisk cold air and sunshine. He had some time to kill before his meeting, so he strolled down New Road, and onto Queen Street, which transitioned into High Street, with its medieval buildings, churches, and store fronts lining the cobblestone streets. The University was wrapping up its Fall session, so university students and tourists converged on the sidewalks, blocking the path of people like Rasul, who had places to go. He weaved his way down the sidewalk until he found what he was looking for at 131 High Street.
Oxford had always been a magical place for Rasul, just as it was now for all of the thousands of students who lived and studied in its ancient halls and classrooms. Perched on the banks of the Thames, most of its buildings date back to medieval times, and Rasul had always been fascinated by its almost mythical mixture of classic architecture. For centuries, the world’s best and brightest had walked the feudal streets of this small village. Future Kings, Queens, Prime Ministers, politicians, actors, poets, scientists, and philosophers had been educated and shaped within the walls of these ancient buildings. As Rasul had felt on his first day at Oxford over twenty years ago, he was still in awe of the history and gravitas of the streets, churches, buildings, classrooms, and even the pubs of this distinguished city.
Rasul had first walked into Chequers Pub as a freshman at Oxford. The pub, housed in a former tenement building dating back to the 1500s, was one of his favorite haunts in college. Its white stone walls and heavy timber rafters were like a haven from the stresses of everyday academic life. He’d spent many an evening at the long wooden tables in the back room, debating political theori
es and downing pints of the ale and gin. He usually drank so much with his buddies that they typically took turns propping each other up on their way back to their flats at closing time. Most good Muslims would never partake of alcohol. But lucky for Raz, his personal religious practices were a little more flexible, so he ordered a plate of salmon fishcakes and a pint of Pale Ale. It wasn’t noon yet, but he had long ago developed a taste for craft beer, regardless of the time of day.
Rasul finished off his fishcakes and drained his pint. He would normally order another, but he needed to keep his head straight today. He pretended to read the London Times, and kept a close eye on the students filing in for an early lunch. Asian, American, European and Indian undergraduates mixed easily with British students who were fortunate enough — or rich enough — to attend the most prestigious university in the world. The elite student body, mixed with the gorgeous architecture combined to produce an almost mythical atmosphere. Oxford is truly a magical place, Rasul thought to himself. But he had changed a lot since he was a student here. Yet he missed the innocence and hope that had inhabited his thoughts when he walked these streets as a student.
At twenty minutes before noon, Raz paid his tab and walked back out onto High Street. Walking briskly back up the street, he turned right onto Cornmarket Street. Cornmarket, once one of the busiest thoroughfares in Oxford, had been converted into a pedestrian walkway just a few years after Rasul and his buddies left this college town. Still lined with six and seven-hundred-year-old buildings, it had been ground zero for so much of his college life, and most of his memories. Raz wound his way along Cornmarket, through the pedestrians and shoppers for three blocks until he reached George Street, passing his old college flat where it still sat perched on the second floor of a 16th Century building. The apartment used to sit positioned above a quaint woolens shop where he would pick up socks and sweaters when the winter snow hit. Today his old flat was situated above a Pret A Manger sandwich shop and a Starbucks. From the looks of things, the building was still offering apartments to let for some fortunate Oxford students.
That apartment held so many memories, Raz thought to himself as he stood below its windows, gazing up at the wavy glass and weathered shutters. Those rooms held happy memories of simpler times and good friends. Raz let his mind wander back for a moment; what had happened to him? He let his mind drift for a moment, and then quickly banished the nostalgia from his mind.
Rasul moved with the crowd down Cornmarket Street, until gradually the shoppers started to thin out. As Raz approached George Street, he could see the back of the building he was looking for at the corner of George and Cornmarket. Circling around the building, he wanted to give it a good once-over before venturing inside. It had been eighteen months since his last visit to this town and this building, and he wanted to scope out the immediate vicinity before going in.
The Oxford Center for Islamic Studies, standing imposingly at the corner of Cornmarket and George streets, was constructed of honey colored stones with gothic spires and pointed arches on the roofline. It wasn’t a large building, but had probably been standing alone on this corner for hundreds of years. Circling around to the front, Raz could see that as usual, the building looked dark and quiet. To anyone’s glance, they would assume it was closed, devoid of human occupation. Raz made his way to the door, knocked twice, and knowing the routine, stood staring up at the camera that was posted a foot above the door, trained on Raz’s face.
After thirty seconds, the door opened, and Raz was greeted by a man dressed head to toe in a white linen tunic and loose fitting pants, his head enshrouded in a white cotton skullcap that fit down around his head. A white beard flowed down across his chest. Raz had never seen this man before, and thought to himself that he might as well have been a ghost. The man said nothing, and Raz quickly realized that his eyes stared blankly toward him. Finally noticing the man’s white cane, Rasul quickly realized the obvious. The man was blind.
Following the ghost-like man down the dark, dank hallway, Raz could hear a faint tap, tap, tap, as the man’s cane gently hit first the left wall and then the right wall as they moved down the dark corridor. The hallway was very dim, but Raz could see a faint light emanating from a room in the back of the building. He had been in this place before, and he determined that the light was coming from the library at the back of the house. He followed the man in white silently down the corridor, wondering who it was he would be meeting with this time.
Moving into the library, the ghost man waved his cane in the direction of a black leather wing chair in the corner, and Rasul took his seat. The man waited until he heard the sound of the leather creaking as Rasul lowered himself into the chair, and he turned and disappeared back out the door through which they’d just entered. Raz sat and took in the room, not knowing how long he would be kept waiting.
The room had dark oak floors and wide bookshelves lined the circumference. In the opposite corner, several old Islamic manuscripts were framed on the wall, alluding to their importance. Raz had no clue what they said, or meant, and frankly didn’t care. Every book and flat surface in the room had a fine layer of dust, and Raz wondered if anyone ever took the time to dust the shelves, or open a window for that matter. The place could use some fresh air.
After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably not more than twenty minutes, a man with black glasses and gray hair whisked into the room and took a chair opposite Rasul. He wasn’t wearing any of the garb of a traditional Muslim man, just a simple gray pin-striped suit with a maroon tie. This man was all business. His clothes matched his demeanor, very western and very modern. This wasn’t anyone associated with the Islamic Center at all. Rasul was not surprised.
“You did a good job, Rasul. Very professional.” The man in the gray suit trained his gaze on Raz.
“Thank you.” Rasul copied his serious posture.
“Did you have any problems? How did you manage to get the package on board?”
“It was easy. My old friend Andrew trusted me. I just wrapped it up like a Christmas gift, and he took it with him. I told him it was a clock, but to wait and unwrap it when he was in his home in London. He put it in his overnight bag and boarded the train with it. Of course, I was counting on the fact that being a high ranking official, he would be waved past security.”
“And you don’t suffer any guilt in killing your friend?”
“A little. But everyone has to die sometime. He had no wife or children depending on him, so it really isn’t so bad.”
“Excellent. And you have the key?”
“I do.”
“Very good. The key fits locker C101 at the train station. You can pick up your package there tomorrow morning before you board your return train for London.”
“Good. So, everything worked out as planned for our friends in New York?” Rasul raised his eyebrows, hoping to garner some detail to exactly how well their little plan had worked out for everyone.
“Yes, the plan worked extraordinarily well. You will enjoy your little package tomorrow. We will be in touch.” The gray suited man rose from his chair opposite Rasul, shook Rasul’s hand, and the man left the room. As usual, Rasul did not know the man’s name or how he figured into the big picture, but what did he care? The plan had worked, and he would reap the benefits very soon. Yes, he had to lose a friend in the process, but sometimes people have to die. Rasul refused to think any more about Andrew. It was water under the bridge at this point anyway.
Rasul did not wait for the ghost man to appear again. He hated this place, and he was eager to get out. He made his own way back down the corridor, out the front door, and into the bright afternoon air. There was a chill to the air, and Rasul buttoned up his coat and wrapped his scarf snugly around his throat. So, he would have to spend the day in Oxford after all. But Rasul did not mind. He welcomed having a day to himself in the little city he loved so much.
He hurried down the sidewalk, eager to put distance between the Islamic Center and himsel
f. He thought about what the man had said ... What did he mean about enjoying the little package that would be left for him at the train station? It wouldn’t be his money, that was always handled electronically. Maybe a little cash bonus? More than likely the package would contain some information about their next project. It would be several weeks away, months probably, no doubt, but he had an inkling their next job would involve something closer to home in Paris. The prospect sounded good to him.
Rasul turned back onto Cornmarket, and decided to visit some of his old haunts in Oxford. He wanted to see if the little town that had changed him so much, had changed itself at all. Jabbing his hands in his pockets, he moved down Cornmarket, feeling once again like the young student who’d arrived over twenty years ago. The sun was warm on his face, and he pushed thoughts of Andrew Bolling far from his conscious.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Eight o’clock Tuesday morning and John O’Leary had already been at his desk for two hours, rifling through the information that had poured in overnight. Two hundred and thirty bodies had been pulled from the train wreckage at this point, and sadly, the remainder would probably never be accounted for. O’Leary massaged his temples with his fingertips. It was so much death and destruction. In his twenty-seven years in Her Majesty’s service, he’d never worked such a devastating crime. But with over two hundred investigators working the investigation, he was certain they would uncover who, or what group, was responsible for the explosion of the Chunnel Train, but in the meantime, it was a horrific job that had to be done.
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