O’Leary picked up Andrew Bolling’s cell phone records and poured over them once again. Right now, the phone call naming Bolling was his best lead, although he couldn’t figure out how a number cruncher from the Prime Minister’s office could be linked to a terrorist bombing. What on earth would that accomplish? The guy’s life seemed as clean as a whistle, but O’Leary’s gut was telling him something else. Was this a coincidence that one of the Prime Minister’s top advisors was on the train that night? It easily could be. Top officials were always zipping back and forth to Paris, along with a good chunk of the British population. The Chunnel Train had made Paris an easy visit. With just under two hours connecting the two great European cities, the train ran dozens of times a day, and it was almost always full. No unusual situation there.
But the phone call to Jeffrey Hunter’s cell phone raised the specter that there could possibly be a link. And right now, it was still O’Leary’s best lead. No one, or no group, had claimed responsibility as of yet for the bombing. The phone call to Hunter’s phone was his only solid lead for the time being. He would have to take Bolling’s life apart and examine it piece by piece before he could eliminate his involvement in this tragic nightmare.
Returning to the cell phone records, he studied the list. He would eventually turn the list over to his investigators for a thorough analysis, but for now, he wanted to take a look himself. Right now, he could only review the list of phone numbers associated with texts and phone calls. He would have to wait a few days for the warrants to be executed for the actual transcripts of the text messages, and of course he would probably never know what was said in the phone conversations, but for now, he had a little to go on.
Reviewing the list, O’Leary noted that on Friday, December 9, there were 147 text messages and seven phone calls from Bolling’s cell. Most of the text messages appeared to be sent to members of the Prime Minister’s staff, including Jeffrey Hunter; Rex Smythe, Brittan’s Home Secretary; Annelise Craig, Jeffrey Hunter’s assistant; and the Prime Minister himself. The remaining nine texts went to his mother and his brother in London. The seven phone calls were to most of the same people, plus one extra call to a phone number that was as of yet, unidentified. It appeared to be connected to a French cell phone company.
Saturday, December 10: just eleven texts and two phone calls. The text messages were to the unidentified French number, as well as work associates again, as expected. The two phone calls went to Annelise Craig, the assistant, again.
Sunday, December 11: seven text messages to the unidentified French number and two phone calls to Annelise Craig, again.
Strange, O’Leary thought. The French number would be tracked down in a matter of time. Probably belonged to whomever he was meeting up with in Paris. And the contact with Annelise Craig wasn’t too unusual, although a bit. She was probably working on a project for him, chasing down numbers or something. He would need to question her about their ongoing work projects, O’Leary made a mental note.
As O’Leary scanned the list again, his desk phone rang.
“O’Leary . . . ,” he said, picking up the receiver.
“John, the preliminary report from the lead investigating team just came in.” It was the chief investigator from the Weapons & Explosives Laboratory on the south end of the building.
“Looks like it was an IED, as we guessed, probably homemade,” he continued. “Nothing too sophisticated, just explosive material, ball bearings, metal fragments, the usual crap. It looks like a circuit board was attached and probably set off by a timer. The fact that it detonated inside the tunnel at a structurally vulnerable location probably set off a chain reaction, ultimately derailing the train, which resulted in the crash and the ensuing fire and tunnel collapse. It was a relatively simple bomb, but when detonated in just the right circumstances, produced immense damage. Not to mention death.”
O’Leary stared down at his desk, letting the information sink in. It was just as he had suspected, damn it, some lunatic extremist. As usual, he thought to himself, the world was being destroyed by maniacs, intent on destroying other people’s lives and property. It was madness, and yet it was taking over the world like wildfire. People, and those whose jobs it was to defend them, were increasingly having their lives and their peace shattered by a bunch of madmen. When and how would it ever end? John O’Leary had a few good years left in him, and he was determined to do his best to stop as much of it as he possibly could.
“Do we have any idea how it got on the train?”
“I’m afraid not, not yet,” came the investigator’s predictable response.
“Does the bomb lend any clues as to who made it . . . where it came from? Do we have anything to go on for suspects at this point?” John already knew what the answer would be to his question.
“I’m afraid not yet. I’ve got twenty-seven people working on it around the clock. We should have a pretty good idea in a matter of hours.”
“OK, thank you. Just send me the preliminary report on the bomb when you have it.” John hung up the phone.
Returning to Bolling’s cell phone report, he picked up his phone again and called Dennis Fischer, his second in command for the overall investigation. “Dennis, I’ve got Bolling’s cell phone report here. Bring your entire team in here and let’s go over this report. There are a couple of red flags we’re going to need to chase down. It all looks innocent enough, but I’ve got a hunch there’s more here than meets the eye.”
O’Leary put down his phone and studied the report once again. Picking his phone back up, he called the Prime Minister’s office on Downing Street. “Jeffrey Hunter’s office please, John O’Leary here.”
After a few moments, “Good morning, John, how can I help you?” came Hunter’s stock greeting.
“Good morning, Jeffrey. I’m going to need a couple of things this morning. First, I’m going to need access to Andrew Bolling’s office. I can get a warrant if you like, or you can just assist me with access. Secondly, I need to visit with your assistant Annelise Craig — this morning, if it is convenient.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Access to Andrew’s office? Today? Jeffrey Hunter was taken aback. From the moment Andrew’s name had been mentioned on that ridiculous cryptic phone call he received, Jeffrey knew that Andrew would be dragged into this ugly mess somehow. But the fact that they seemed to be focusing on Andrew at this early stage seemed like a colossal waste of time and manpower at this critical point. There were terrorists that had just committed one of the worst mass killings in history, and yet the chief investigative team wanted to waste time looking through Andrew’s desk.
“Of course we want to cooperate with the investigation in any way we can, Agent O’Leary, but it just seems to me to be an enormous waste of time at this point to be chasing down a trusted government servant who was unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.” The fact that Jeffrey had reverted to using John O’Leary’s formal title revealed his apparent irritation with the way the investigation was focusing on his friend and work associate.
“Mr. Hunter, we’ve narrowed down the actual origin of your phone call to within a few blocks’ radius in Paris. The fact that it originated in an area with several known potential terrorist cells is a fact of utmost concern to us at this point. We’re going to start with your Mr. Bolling until we can rule him out. But as it stands, this is our best lead at the moment.” O’Leary was now matching Jeffrey’s annoyed tone.
“Now, will I need to seek a search warrant, or will you make his office available?” O’Leary was growing increasingly impatient with Hunter’s government-standard lack of cooperation.
“No, no, of course… it’s yours. I’m sure Andrew had nothing to hide. Just let me know what time you’ll be here, and we will make sure you have access to whatever you need.”
Jeffrey Hunter pinched the top of his nose between his eyes, the usual signal that he was nearing the end of his rope. The fact that MI6’s investigation was curr
ently centered on one of the top people in the Prime Minister’s administration was not what he wanted to deal with right now. Let alone the fact that the man at the focus of the attention was also one of his closest friends. He wanted to give O’Leary whatever he wanted, and then get him the hell out of his office. This was nonsense.
“And, Ms. Craig? Is she available this morning as well?” O’Leary was used to getting his way.
“Of course. I’ll have her clear her schedule when you arrive.” Hunter glanced out toward Annelise’s desk and saw her empty chair pushed under her desk. Where in the hell was she?
It was 8:35 a.m. and Annelise was just pulling into her usual parking space behind #10 Downing. It was a full thirty-five minutes past her normal arrival time, but she was doing the best she could. In spite of the fact that she was operating on almost no sleep, she’d spent most of last night lying awake, going over the hand-written chart she’d found in Andrew’s desk in her head. What could Andrew have possibly been recording on this hand-scrawled chart that seemed to record all the major terrorist hits in Britain and France over the last several years? Other than the normal concern of any British government official who was involved with global affairs, he had never mentioned any particular apprehension about terrorism on British soil, and certainly not French soil. Perhaps this was some routine analysis to do with his job. But why the cryptic mention of a train at the bottom of the list? This was the tell-tale fact that bothered her the most, the detail for which she had no plausible explanation.
Arriving at her desk a few moments later, she saw Jeffrey give her an exasperated look. Arriving late on a day with so much going on in the office did not look good. But at this point, just putting one foot in front of the other was an accomplishment. She mustered up a slight smile and wave for Jeffrey and mouthed “Sorry” with a slight grimace. She had been Jeffrey Hunter’s right hand person for far too long for him to hold this slight indiscretion against her.
Annie slid her purse in her bottom drawer and hung her coat in the small closet opposite her desk. Turning around, she saw Jeffrey Hunter headed her way.
“Annie, John O’Leary was just on the phone. They’re chasing down some of the early leads on this bombing, and for whatever reason, they’re focusing on that ridiculous phone call I received yesterday morning. They want access to Andrew’s office, and for some reason they want to talk to you as well, probably because of how closely you worked with him.”
Annie could feel the blood draining from her face, but she managed to keep a tight smile in place as she took in Jeffrey’s words. “No problem. When do they want to talk to me?”
“Actually, I think they’re on their way over here now. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. When they arrive, will you show them back to Andrew’s office and make sure the door is open and everything is available for their review? He told me they will not be removing any items at this point. They just want a quick look through. I want you to stay with them as well, to confirm they don’t stick their noses where they shouldn’t and to make sure they don’t remove anything from his office. If they decide they’re keenly interested in anything, they’re going to have to come back with a warrant.”
“Absolutely, no problem,” Annie managed to say.
It most certainly was a problem. Damn, this is bad, Annie thought. It now dawned on her that the act of removing that file had now been elevated to removing evidence in an investigation. If she had the file with her, she could quietly and easily go back and slide it back into position. But right now, the file was carefully positioned on the dusty shelf above her television, behind a stack of books. It was too late for retrieving and replacing the file. She had tampered with evidence from a national security investigation into a terrorist plot. Not to mention, she also happened to be having an affair with the man currently at the center of the investigation.
Annie’s head was spinning. Somehow, she had done wrong, and she wasn’t sure at what point she had crossed the line. She sat down at her desk and pretended to be busy as the minutes ticked by, just waiting for an investigation team from the country’s top foreign intelligence service to arrive and question her. She didn’t have to wait long.
At 10:25 a.m., the front doors of #10 opened, and she could clearly hear the clicking of news reporters’ cameras as they snapped away shots of Agent John O’Leary arriving at the Prime Minister’s office. O’Leary was all business, and didn’t even pause to look in the direction of the cameras. Right behind him, his usual entourage of investigators walked in synch. Today, for the first time, they carried cameras of their own, along with thick file boxes. Obviously, they were not here to simply chat.
“Mrs. Craig, it’s good to see you again, would you mind letting Mr. Hunter know we are here?”
“Yes, of course,” Annie said breezily, and moved across the floor to tap on Jeffrey’s door. “Mr. Hunter, Officer O’Leary is here to see you.”
“I actually think they’re here to see you, Annelise,” Hunter said as he emerged from his office and crossed the floor to shake hands with the officer. “Good morning gentlemen.”
“Annie, if you’ll please take these men back to Andrew’s office and make sure they have whatever they need,” Hunter said with a businesslike demeanor. “You will also have privacy to talk there as well. Please let me know if you need anything else from me while you’re here. We are at your service, as usual.” Hunter’s deadpan glare made his irritation evident. But with all of the European press just steps outside his door, he could not risk appearing to be uncooperative with MI6’s lead terrorism investigator. It was politics as usual.
CHAPTER TWENTY
To Annie’s surprise, the investigative team was not in Andrew’s office for long. They rifled through his desk, took photographs of the desktop, his credenza, his bookshelves and even the pictures on his desk. After a cursory glance through his files, O’Leary ordered the men to collect the files and other government-owned file storage. They removed all of his files, along with his calendar and schedule book, and stuffed them into a large square leather briefcase that looked more like a suitcase. Annie was too stunned to remember Hunter’s words about alerting him if they tried to remove anything from the office. She simply stared at the officers as they worked, while her mind worked to assemble a plausible narrative of exactly what her relationship with Andrew entailed. What could she say that would reveal nothing, yet not put her in jeopardy of lying to a government investigator? They unplugged his desktop computer and placed it in a large cardboard box marked evidence, keyboard and all. For a moment her mind raced … was there anything that linked her to an office affair on that computer?
She and Andrew had always been extraordinarily careful to not email or communicate via the office communications system or email about anything other than ordinary office business. Andrew’s office computer should be clean of any incriminating evidence that would link Annie to an elicit office affair. Now, Andrew’s cell phone was an entirely different matter, but right now, that cell phone would be buried seventy-five meters below the seafloor in a collapsed tunnel.
But even as she told herself this over and over, her heart raced at the thought that some tiny incriminating piece of information might be hidden within the guts of that computer that would blow her whole world wide open — as if it hadn’t been already. Her breathing grew shallow and she knew her face must be pale as she watched the team gather up most of the remaining pieces of Andrew’s life and haul them out of the office.
As the team wrapped up its work, O’Leary asked Annelise to take a seat. As she lowered herself into the blue suede wingback chair across from Andrew’s desk, O’Leary pulled out Andrew’s desk chair and rolled it around the desk so that he could face Annie without any obstacles between them. Annie hated seeing O’Leary in that chair. She hated seeing anyone in that chair except for her beloved Andrew. She felt her jaws tighten as she worked to appear at ease and casual about the whole scenario playing out in front of her.
&
nbsp; As O’Leary began pulling out his notes to begin the questioning, his team of investigators gathered behind him. Half a dozen men positioned themselves along the wall behind their chief. One man in a long gray coat pulled up another side chair, took out a laptop computer, placed it carefully on his knees, and appeared to be taking notes. Annie suddenly felt like a dying animal with a flock of vultures looking on, just waiting on her to give up or die. She suddenly wondered if she should have insisted on having an attorney there with her, but she knew that would make her look guilty as hell. She was just going to have to play the part of naïve assistant, and do it well. She crossed her legs, trying to appear casual, and leaned back in the chair. She pasted a small smile on her face and tried to appear helpful and cooperative, although in reality she felt anything but.
O’Leary began, “Ms. Craig, I know that everyone in this office is intensely busy right now, but we appreciate you taking time out of your schedule to talk with us this morning. As you know, this is not a formal investigation of any type. We are here simply trying to piece together some loose ends after Mr. Bolling’s name was mentioned in a suspicious phone call that was received by Mr. Hunter on the morning after the terrorist bombing.”
“Yes, I’m aware of all of that. I’m not sure I can be of any help,” Annie gave the officer her best blank look.
“Perhaps not, but you probably know as much about Andrew Bolling’s official work here at the Prime Minister’s office as anyone,” O’Leary forged ahead. Annie nodded with a polite smile.
“Can you tell us what the nature of Mr. Bolling’s work was with the P.M.’s office, and any special projects he might have been currently working on?”
“He’s an Economic Analyst and advisor for Mr. Wellington’s administration. Their friendship goes back to their time at Oxford. Mr. Bolling was a key architect of the P.M.’s economic policy and advised him on all things related to the British economy, and the strength of the British pound overseas. Basically, he was a number cruncher. Always studying charts and analyzing trends. Real boring stuff, but I guess very important.”
The Cornmarket Conspiracy Page 8