Rasul had often thought that looking through these gates was a lot like how he felt going through life. He could always look at the pristine world of the British high society around him, almost touch it in fact, but he could never really be a part of it. He had done everything he was supposed to in life, and he had the impressive academic resume to prove it. He was smart enough to be admitted to Oxford on a full scholarship, allowed to have a small taste of what life was like on the inside of British aristocracy, but he was always an outsider, never truly a part of this world. It was an inaccessible dream. He knew he would never have the connections or networks to truly gain entrance to this upper crust British life, but his fascination with the place was something more. Something he had never been able to put his finger on. So just as he had as an undergraduate, he stood at the gates and peered through at the unattainable world beyond.
Raz spent most of the rest of the day trolling the streets of Oxford, eating dinner in another pub, and watching football in a sports bar over several more pints of local beer. Growing tired, he knew he would need to find a cheap place to sleep for the night before his early departure and return train to London and then back home tomorrow. Before finding a hotel, Raz decided to stop by the train station and check out locker C101. He knew it would be empty tonight, but was confident that sometime in the wee hours of the morning, a package would be left for him, contents still unknown. He would just find the locker tonight, check his key, and then find a place to lay his head for the night.
Fifteen minutes later, he entered the busy train station and looked around for the locker area. Enquiring at the information desk, he was directed down the staircase and into a damp basement area that smelled of mold and dirty clothes. As he made his way down into the smelly basement space, he thought to himself that it seemed no one had been down here in months, maybe years. Why would they choose this rat hole of a space to drop his package? Why not just hand it to him this morning or deliver it to his bookshop? The methods of those in his group were getting strange indeed.
Once in the dingy basement, he found rows of rusty lockers, and a cement floor lined with trash, dirty solitary socks, and empty food bags. Looking around, he spotted C101 and tried his key. Weirdly, the key wouldn’t slide into the lock. Turning it upside down, he tried it again, only this time to have it stick in the lock. He tried to force it out, but no luck. Banging on the lock, and pulling with all of his might did nothing. It was stuck as if it were soldered awkwardly into place. It wasn’t budging. He went back upstairs and complained at the information desk, but was told they would report the problem to maintenance. Irritated and tired, Raz determined he had no choice but to return to the Islamic Center for instructions. He was frustrated at the incompetence of his liaisons, but realized he had no alternatives. Leaving the train station, he turned north, determined to cut through the more modern neighborhoods of Oxford, taking a short cut to the Islamic Center.
It was growing dark as Rasul descended the stairs in front of the modern station, and the evening crowd closed in around him. Suddenly, he felt the jostle of someone right behind him, moving against him at the foot of the stairs. Always on guard against pickpockets, Rasul shifted quickly away as he glanced back over his right shoulder at the man bearing down on him.
Rasul heard the quiet “Whusssshhhh” of the silencer before he felt the hot ripping of the bullet as it entered his body. In an instant, he realized he’d been hit. Sinking to his knees, he felt the intense deep pain in his right side as the bullet wedged between his ribs. With horror, he looked down at his white shirt as a bright red circle of blood spread across the cloth, the shirt soaking up his blood in an almost perfect circle, just below his right shoulder. His head hit the ground with a thud as pain ripped through his body.
Laying flat on the ground, with his head at an unnatural angle, Rasul looked up overhead at the dim Oxford sky as he hit the ground, and caught sight of the face of the Ghost Man’s white robes billowing in the winter breeze as he darted quickly away. His eyes no longer appearing blank, the Ghost Man glared directly at Rasul, confirming he had hit his target. Darkness closed in around him, and the sound of the crowd’s shrieks and murmurs grew faint. His head cocked awkwardly on the pavement, Rasul’s eyes were transfixed on the site of Oxford’s ancient street. A panic broke out among those in front of the station, and he could see the crowd separate around him, moving back, away from him as he lay gasping on the pavement. He heard a lady scream and then a man’s voice as he yelled for someone to call the police. As he hovered on the edge of blackness, Rasul could hear the bells of Tom’s Tower ringing out in the distance — 101 strikes of the bell, just as it did every night at exactly this time, 21:05 sharp, Oxford time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Annie stood motionless as the sound of Jeffrey’s office door slamming reverberated through the offices of #10 Downing. Her head pounding, she realized that she had just made a huge mistake. Jeffrey Hunter was the epitome of professionalism and decorum. He was her friend, but was not necessarily her close friend, and she didn’t really know how far she could trust him to protect her. And now she had just told him the biggest secret of her life. Had she said too much? Would he be able to read into her words and see the reality of the situation? Had Andrew ever told him anything? Her legs were weakening from the pain of everything that had happened, and she thought she might just collapse right there on Andrew’s office floor.
Annie had to get some air. She had to get out of the building, at least for a while. The grief of losing Andrew, and now the knowledge that she’d just let the truth slip out to her boss was just too much for her to bear at the moment. She needed space and time to think. Glancing down at her watch, it was now 11:40, close enough to lunch. She bolted for the back door.
In ten minutes, she was speeding down Victoria Road in her red Volvo. At a stoplight, she decided she’d better text Jeffrey and cover for her hasty exit. With everything still going crazy at the office, this was a terrible time to be gone, but some things just could not be helped. She had to get out of there.
Pulling up Jeffrey’s name on her phone, she typed out a quick message. “Took an early lunch to take care of an important errand. Be back soon.” She pressed send.
Driving east along Victoria Drive, she passed by Victoria Station and had to swerve to avoid hitting some self-absorbed Americans standing in the middle of the intersection snapping selfies. Damn tourists. Turning right onto Grosvenor Place, she decided to head toward Hyde Park. She would park and walk for a few minutes, get some air, and give herself some time to think. Everything was crashing down in her mind, and she didn’t know how much more she could take.
Her phone dinged, and she looked down to see a text from her husband, Richard.
“Hey, honey, how’s your day? Don’t forget I have that meeting tonight. Be home about 9. Love you.”
Annie cringed at the text, and a wave of guilt washed over her. For a brief moment she actually let her thoughts focus on Richard, as she so rarely did. She loved Richard, she did. Just not in the same way she had loved Andrew. She hated lying to him, cheating on him. It would crush him to know that she had fallen in love with another man, and yet she never wanted to hurt Richard. She didn’t want any of this. And now Andrew was gone. He would no longer be a factor in her life. Maybe she could fix it . . . . Fix her marriage, and her whole life. She just didn’t know how. Maybe she could put all of this behind her, put Andrew behind her. She would repair the damage to her marriage and focus her future on Richard. Maybe she should get pregnant….
At that moment, she suddenly felt a tremendous jolt to her car. Now traveling down Knightsbridge, she was driving only about 40 mph, but suddenly her car lurched forward, and for a moment she struggled to regain control of the steering wheel. Swerving left and right, she barely missed a row of compact cars parked at the entrance to Hyde Park, and heard her tires squeal as she fought to get back in her narrow lane.
At that moment, she felt another hard
bump from the rear of the vehicle. Again, she momentarily lost control and realized for the first time that someone had somehow bumped into the back of her car as she motored along Knightsbridge.
“What the hell?” she said out loud as she once again brought the car under control. Angrily glaring through her rearview mirror, she searched for the drunk or hapless idiot who was driving like a lunatic. She could see nothing but a teenage girl in a little yellow Volkswagen just ahead in the lane beside her as she slowed to a stop at the red light at Knightsbridge and Queen’s Gate. Surely that little blonde girl wasn’t the culprit. One glance had told her that the girl seemed more interested in her radio than anything around her, and besides, Annie doubted the little Volkswagen could have hit her that hard.
As she waited for the light to turn green at the next intersection, suddenly Annie felt a third hard blow from behind. Her car skidded forward again, this time a good ten feet into the intersection. Her head hit the steering wheel hard and she was dazed as she noticed the little yellow Volkswagen speed away in her peripheral vision. And then she saw him.
In the rearview mirror, she realized in shock what had hit her. A large black BMW sedan loomed large in her mirror. She could see the little BMW hood ornament was hanging loose from its wired footing, now dangling from the repeated hits. As she sat stunned, staring at the BMW in her rearview mirror and trying to make sense of what had happened, a large, bald man wearing a long black coat emerged from the driver’s door, and was moving quickly into the intersection toward her car. Her first thought was that he was coming to talk to her about their collision, maybe to check on her and exchange insurance information if necessary. But the look on his face was menacing, which didn’t add up. As she stared in her rearview mirror in confusion trying to figure out what was going on, she saw the flash of metal in the bald man’s hand. She studied the hard black outline against his tan gloves, and in a moment, realized he was holding a black handgun. The bald man was looking right and left as he darted through the intersection, moving quickly toward her driver’s side of the car.
Instinctively, Annie pressed the gas pedal to the floor, and her Volvo almost lifted off the ground. She raced away from the intersection and drove as fast as she could, too afraid to even check the rearview mirror. Speeding past Hyde Park, she reached the A4204 and took a hard right, disappearing into traffic. She had to get the hell out of the area.
After a few minutes, and with her heart still racing, she made a quick left onto Notting Hill Gate and another quick right onto Pembridge Road then Annie drove into the small, quaint residential streets of Notting Hill. She slowed her speed, and it was not until then that she dared look into the rearview mirror. No one was in sight. She pulled to the side of the street and waited to see if any cars turned down the narrow lane lined with parked cars. No one came. She had lost the bald man in the BMW. But she was scared to death.
As she sat on the side of Pembridge Road, her car parked against the curb between a white Audi and a black Mercedes, she could no longer hold everything in. She sat with her face in her hands, tears washing down her face and her mascara streaming down her cheeks, as the sobs came in waves. First the horrible terrorist attack where hundreds of people had died, then realizing she’d lost Andrew, MI6 questioning her, and now this. Who was the bald man and why was he after her — first hitting her car, and then coming after her with a gun? Was it another case of random road rage or what? Why would someone attempt to shoot her? What the hell was going on?
Annie thought about the file she’d taken from Andrew’s desk, and a cold chill went down her spine. The chart on the paper had been so succinct: The list of terrorist attacks, and then the words “Train” printed out so neatly on the list. How could Andrew have known there was going to be a train bombing? How could anyone have known? Could Andrew have been involved somehow? Was someone now after her as well? Annie realized she was holding her breath. She let out a long sigh, and dabbed her face with an old Kleenex she found in the glove box. She realized she had to do something. This was getting all too scary and complicated. Even though she hated that she had told Jeffrey as much as she had, she simply had to tell someone what had just happened, and about the file, and the truth about Andrew. Someone had to help her make sense of it all, and right now the only person that could be was Jeffrey Hunter.
But first, she had to get the file. Jeffrey would want to see it, and if she was going to come clean about everything, she was going to have to show it to him sooner or later anyway. She decided to stop by her flat in Chelsea on her way back to work to pick up the file and give it to Jeffrey.
Pulling onto Elm Park Gardens Road, she pulled around to the back of her flat to the tiny car park behind the house. Her small neighborhood was inhabited by young, dual career couples, so it was usually deserted this time of day. With everything that had happened, she had an eerie feeling getting out of her car. There was no sound except the faint sound of traffic on Kings Road further down the Lane.
Approaching the back door, she was surprised to see the screen door ajar. She usually left before Richard most mornings, and today had been no different. He left it unlocked from time to time, usually on the days when he had to put out the trash, and would forget to secure the lock on this exterior door. But today wasn’t a trash day. She pulled open the screen door, and realized that not only was the screen door ajar, but the door to the house was standing wide open. Someone had broken into the house. Stunned, and before thinking better of it, she rushed inside to see what had been taken.
The front room had been ransacked. The cushions on the couch were thrown aside, several chairs were turned over, and the drawers on the entertainment center had been pulled out and dumped on the floor. Running into her and Richard’s bedroom, everything had been scoured and searched. Drawers had been pulled open, and half of her lingerie lay strewn across the floor. Her jewelry box was gone, as was her television, and the camera bag that always sat on the side table. Returning to the living room, she realized their personal laptop had been taken from the desk, and Richard’s antique coin collection was gone from the display case on the wall. Their house had been broken into and robbed, and Annie felt an overwhelming sense of invasion sweep over her, as if she’d been personally assaulted.
And then she remembered the file. Before she even looked up, she knew it was gone. Of course, it was gone.
“That’s what they came for in the first place,” she said aloud to herself, before she realized what she was doing.
Then the idea that had been lying low in the background of her mind came roaring to the foreground; she was truly in danger. She didn’t understand why, or who was after her, but it suddenly dawned on her that the man with the gun was no random case of road rage. Someone was after her, and they knew where she worked. And now they knew where she lived. She was in danger, just like Andrew’s life had been in danger. And now he was dead, she shuddered at the thought.
Bolting from the house, she jumped back in her car and spun out of the driveway before she could think what to do next. She knew only one thing at this point, that someone was after her, and it had something to do with that file — Andrew’s file. She had to get away. She had to figure out what to do. She sped toward King’s Road, not sure where she was going to go next.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The MI6 building at Vauxhall Cross is a white monolith, perched on a low hill overlooking the River Thames. Built to house Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service, its Modernist facade is both loved and reviled by Londoners. John O’Leary had been working in this building since he joined MI6 in 1997, three years after the building was opened. After a dozen years as a Detective with London’s Metropolitan Police Force’s Counter Terrorism Command, his reputation for extraordinary investigative talents was almost legendary. After being heavily recruited by the top brass at MI6, he moved across town to Vauxhall Cross as a Special Officer in the Foreign Intelligence Division. In twenty years, he’d steadily moved up in the ranks, a
nd had led investigations that detected and averted numerous impending attacks on London and the British Aisles. He had saved hundreds — perhaps thousands of British lives in his tenure — and every investigator at MI6 knew it and wanted to work alongside him.
At one o’clock, O’Leary called a special meeting of his top staffers to discuss the investigation into the EuroStar bombing and the agency’s strategy for moving forward. Crime scene investigators were still on the scene deep in the tunnel looking for bodies, gathering evidence and documenting the crime. They would be there for weeks, but O’Leary wasn’t about to await their findings before figuring out who was behind the biggest terrorist hit in British history. He would follow the leads — and his instinct — to their natural conclusion. The physical evidence was important of course, but following his gut was always his initial course of action in the beginning of an investigation. Everything else was just secondary in his opinion. In most regular cases O’Leary knew to follow the money, that was usually the most direct line to figuring out who the chief suspects were in any crime. But in cases of radical terrorism like this that had swept the world in recent years, money usually had nothing to do with it, which made the motives and suspects in cases more difficult and obscure to decipher. These people weren’t normal criminals, they were zealots, radicals, extremists whose motives and tactics were based on a twisted worldview based on hate and fanaticism. In investigating acts of terrorism, O’Leary had had to revise and modify everything he knew about investigative work. When it came to terrorists, he had to throw out the old rulebooks of investigative work and go with his gut.
The Cornmarket Conspiracy Page 10