The Cornmarket Conspiracy

by Sharon Hoisager

  In his vast experience, he had always found that in the end, the crime scene evidence would either confirm or obliterate the soft evidence — his own personal strategy for unraveling the motives and the actions of the suspects surrounding the case. And in his experience, the two almost always dovetailed into a very solid case. And this time was no different.

  O’Leary’s office was located on the sixth floor of Vauxhall, with a wide window and an enviable view of the Thames below. Outside, a light December snow was falling, and a long cargo barge was slowly making its way up the river, weighted down with crates carrying everything from toys to car parts into Central London. A river boat packed with tourists was also cruising past, with a hundred-plus tourists snapping pictures of the spy agency as they moved up the river. Movies had made his building — and not to mention his job — the stuff of Hollywood legend. But O’Leary didn’t care about any of the myths surrounding his job at MI6. He cared about one thing only; he wanted to keep London safe, and secure the British Homeland against its enemies and would-be terrorists — there was nothing glamorous about it as far as he was concerned.

  Seated around O’Leary’s large conference table were most of the agencies’ best and brightest. He had also called in three men from the Home Office with expertise in Counter-Terrorism. He knew he was going to need the expertise of a broad range of government agencies, and getting them on board early on was important.

  O’Leary called the meeting to order at exactly 1 p.m. He wasn’t used to wasting time.

  “Okay, let’s get down to business. We’ve got a lot to discuss this afternoon.”

  The room grew quiet and all attention was focused on the red headed man at the head of the table.

  “As you know, the first responders are still working the site. At this point, we have two survivors and we’ve recovered 235 bodies. The recovery teams are still working but we really don’t anticipate pulling any more bodies out of the wreckage at this point. That leaves 160 men, women and children unaccounted for at this time, and probably will never be recovered. The fire that broke out after the explosion made recovery almost impossible. We’re lucky we recovered as many as we did.”

  Jennifer Hawthorne, O’Leary’s protégé was sitting immediately to his right. With auburn hair and green eyes that matched those of her boss, there was a long-standing joke around the agency that O’Leary was her long lost dad. Given their friendly and almost affectionate relationship, the joke wasn’t too far off base. Jennifer was smart, intuitive, and hard working. Her boss relied on her for her innate discernment and sharp eye for incongruities. She was one of his best investigators, and John O’Leary trusted her implicitly.

  Without hesitation, she jumped in. “John, I know they’re there to recover bodies at this point, but have they found any evidence of the explosive device, or any chemical residue we can work with? Can we pinpoint a source of the explosion yet — or at least a workable theory from the investigators at the site? Have they found anything we can work with?”

  “No, Jenn, I just got the latest report an hour ago. We don’t have anything at this point that definitely identifies a source for the detonation. They’ve pretty much wrapped up the recovery operation, and they’re still in the final stages of documenting the crime scene. But as soon as we have all the data in, we’ll send the evidence team in tomorrow morning and start turning over everything to forensics. I hope to have a workable theory on the source of the explosion within a couple of days. This situation is exponentially more difficult of course, given the depth and length of the tunnel. They’re working as fast and efficiently as they can.”

  Jennifer’s mind had already moved far beyond what was being discussed in the meeting at hand. Like most meetings, it was just a formality to disseminate information and formalize the real work being done behind the scenes. She would leave the science and the details to the forensic teams who would scavenge every trace and remnant from the blast in search of evidence that would lead them back to a suspect. They would likely bring in explosive experts from around the world with expertise in terrorist bombings. This was a British and French tragedy, but it was a global problem, and experts from around the world would be on hand to help solve it.

  “For the present moment, we’re focusing on just a hand full of leads that we have so far.” O’Leary turned around to the large white board on the wall behind him, and in all capital letters wrote ANDREW BOLLING on the board behind him. In small letters just below, he scrawled Annelise Craig.

  “As most of you are aware, right now we’re focusing on Andrew Bolling, Special Advisor to the P.M., who was killed in the bombing. An anonymous call connected his name to the attack, and with the limited amount of digging we’ve done so far, we’re finding vague links to a suspected terrorist cell operating out of Paris. We don’t know right now what his involvement might be, if any. But it is the focus of our investigation at the moment. Right now, it’s all we’ve got.”

  A junior investigator standing behind the table, and eager to join in, piped up, “And who is Annelise Craig?”

  O’Leary was his usual gruff self, “She’s a staffer at the P.M.’s office. Worked closely with Bolling, and we have several phone calls between she and Bolling in the days leading up to the attack. We interviewed her briefly this morning, but her story seems weak. We think there’s a lot more that Ms. Craig may know. We’re not done with her yet.”

  Jennifer Hawthorne was already devising a plan in her head to get more out of Annelise Craig. The two had never formally met, but Jennifer had seen Annelise at several government functions that involved Wellington’s office in the past few months, including a reception for some MI6 top brass just a couple of months ago. Jennifer had noticed Annelise’s striking appearance with her strawberry blonde hair and hazel eyes and had taken special note of the friendly way Annelise moved in and around the Prime Minister and other members of his top staff. She was obviously a trusted member of their team.

  Jennifer had also already figured out that she and Ms. Craig must live in the same neighborhood. A few weeks ago she looked up in a Pilates class to notice Annelise entering a workout studio in London that they both frequented. Jennifer remembered noticing how quiet, yet intense, she seemed. She had always stood out to Jennifer because she wasn’t the normal type-A personality who usually served on the P.M.’s top staff and seemed a bit out of place in the rough and tumble world of British politics. She remembered thinking that they probably had a lot in common. Both of them young women who didn’t fit the mold in their respective high intensity careers, but who were both obviously incredibly good at those jobs. And like Jennifer, Annelise probably used that misperception to her advantage.

  Jennifer was hatching a plan to get a little more out of Annelise Craig, and she thought she might know just how to find her. While the meeting droned on with O’Leary outlining possible links to the known terrorist cells in Britain and Paris, Jennifer popped open her laptop and punched in the search bar: “Sloane Square Fitness Pilates schedule”. The Sloane Square gym’s bright blue website popped up on Jennifer’s screen. No one seemed to notice, except for the new guy on Jennifer’s right.

  Sam Sagar, the handsome male investigator who had just joined the team four months prior glanced over her shoulder and watched her type in the words with a puzzled expression. When the evening’s Pilates class schedule popped up on the screen, he gave Jennifer an annoyed look. Jennifer noticed his expression and shot back a look of equal irritation. She didn’t have time to explain herself, nor did she care to.

  As soon as the meeting broke up, Jennifer waited for the room to clear and then grabbed O’Leary’s arm as they exited the room.

  “I’m going to take a crack at Annelise Craig.”

  “I don’t think she’ll talk to you. After our little visit this morning, I’m fully expecting her to be accompanied by a lawyer next time we see her. She agreed to talk to us this morning on an informal basis, but she wasn’t giving us the full and complete st
ory. I’m quite sure she won’t make that mistake again.”

  “But she might open up to a friend over drinks. Women like to talk, especially to other women. Right now, she’s not a suspect, just a woman possibly needing a friend. And I’m very friendly.” Jennifer gave O’Leary a cunning smile as she exited the conference room.

  Jennifer stopped by her desk and picked up her purse and shoved it into her black leather tote bag along with her thick government issue laptop. She grabbed her long red coat and headed for the elevator.

  “Where you going?” O’Leary gave her a confused look.

  “Pilates. I’ve got work to do,” Jennifer shot back, along with a smirk directed toward O’Leary as she stepped onto the elevator.

  O’Leary just laughed and turned back toward his desk. He knew she was up to something, and he knew better than to doubt her methods.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Speeding down Kings Road, a thousand thoughts were flying through Annie’s mind. Was someone really after her? Had she somehow become a target? But why? How was all this related to Andrew and to the train bombing? Why was Andrew even on the train that night when he had specifically told her he was taking a plane? Was all of this somehow linked together? What in the hell was going on and how did all of this have anything to do with that file?

  The questions swirled around in her head as she pulled to a stop half a mile from the office. Sitting at the red light, she realized she had no idea what was going on, and worse than that, she really had no idea who she could trust. O’Leary’s office was already sniffing around, and chances were, they would probably discover the truth about her relationship with Andrew at any time. There were probably clues everywhere — receipts, text messages, office gossip — and the more they focused on Andrew, the likelier they were to start uncovering the clues to their relationship. She knew they would be back again to talk to her, and at some point, they were going to press her against the wall about her relationship with Andrew. She knew she couldn’t deflect their questions for long.

  Once that happened, the truth about their relationship would become public knowledge. She would likely lose her job, at a very minimum – and she would surely lose Richard. And if someone was after her because of her relationship with Andrew, she could become an open target. Right now, she didn’t know where she was even safe. She needed information, and she needed advice from someone she could trust.

  Without thinking, before the light could turn green, she made a quick right into the Belgravia neighborhood, and then another left onto Ebury Street. She had always loved this street, with its quaint rows of genteel homes and offices. She had grown up near here, and she had often walked these streets with her dad. Many of the old row homes had been converted into hotels, and the area still held an air of old London sophistication.

  Pulling into a small spot, she turned off the engine and tried to think what to do. Who would know what might have happened to Andrew that weekend? Why was he not on the plane as he had told her but was instead on a late train back to London? A train that blew up far below the English channel, killing Andrew and more than four hundred other innocent victims? And who could she trust at this point? With no one to trust, and no one to talk to, she got out of the car and began walking toward Victoria Station, the hub of so much of the transportation into and out of London. She knew Victoria like the back of her hand, and she knew from this vantage point she could get to almost anywhere in England in a few hours’ time. Heck, she could be anywhere in Western Europe within twenty-four hours from here.

  With no forethought or plan, Annelise Craig entered Victoria Station. She entered the main ticket hall and then disappeared into the pedestrian tunnel leading down to the Tube Station below the historic train station. Without even a glance at the diagram on the wall that laid out London’s spider web-like underground transportation system, she stepped onto an underground subway headed for King’s Cross. With each step her situation became clearer to her and a plan began to emerge. She knew now exactly where she needed to go.

  In just a few minutes, Annelise Craig emerged at King’s Cross station, and zigzagged past the hordes of students and tourists who seemed to constantly crowd the old station twenty-four hours a day. Businessmen and women were bustling around trying to get back to their offices after lunch, and a parade of university students headed for the McDonalds on the corner were crowding the turnstiles headed for the exits.

  Annie crossed Pancras Road, dodging the long line of taxis, and entered directly into St. Pancras Railway Station. As she entered the building, she glanced into her purse and felt the interior pocket lining for the familiar outline of her passport. Like every staffer at #10 Downing, she carried her passport with her at all times. Working for the Prime Minister of Britain carried with it an important responsibility to be ready for every eventuality at all times. She had only ever used her passport once under such circumstances, when an important meeting in Frankfurt was moved up a day to accommodate the German Chancellor’s last-minute schedule change. She, along with Jeffrey, Andrew, and a small cadre of top-level staff had accompanied the P.M. for the daylong meeting, with no prior warning. She carried the passport now as routinely as she did her driver’s license or credit cards. Today she was extremely glad she did.

  Security around the train concourse was tighter than she’d ever seen. Large signs posted in front of the ticket counter warned of increased security measures, along with a long list of prohibited items on the train. Since she carried no luggage, she breezed past the signs without concern. She stopped at the ticket machine and inserted her debit card into the slot, punching the button for Luton Airport, a short twenty-two minute ride out of London.

  Ticket in hand, she boarded the commuter train for the short trek out to Luton. Annie had been through the airport dozens of times, and like many Londoners, used the airport as easily as she jumped on a train. As the shuttle train pulled out of the station, she pulled out her phone and dialed Richard’s cell number.

  As expected, her call went straight to voicemail, as it usually did. Richard was notorious for not picking up his calls, and sometimes she wondered if he ignored her calls in particular. After the short beep, Annie left her carefully crafted message for him to pick up later:

  “Honey, everything at the office is crazy with the investigation, and the search and recovery teams are working around the clock at the tunnel site. They’re sending me out of town on an emergency trip, and I probably won’t be back until tomorrow. I know you’re working late and probably won’t get this message until tonight, so I’ll call you later and give you more details. Love you.”

  She clicked off the phone. Richard would be home later tonight, and he would find the break-in at their home. She would never let on that she had already discovered the burglary first. She would have to just let him handle it for now, because she simply couldn’t entangle herself further. She couldn’t become part of another police investigation and involve herself in everything else that was going on. Richard would call the police, and it would be handled like a routine robbery, at least for now. Maybe someday she would explain everything to him.

  With Richard handled, for the present, she moved onto Jeffrey. Punching the green Messages icon on her phone, she composed a text message for Jeffrey:

  “Jeffrey, I’ve got a family emergency. I’m so sorry, but I’ve got to leave town. I should be back tomorrow. I’ll be in touch.”

  She pressed send. Pretty vague and unprofessional, she knew, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. Everyone was just going to have to understand, and give her some space and time to get herself out of this mess.

  In just a few minutes, she arrived at Luton Airport, a small airfield outside London used for quick flights to nearby European cities. She loved this airport because it allowed her to bypass the hordes of international travelers at Heathrow and Gatwick. Without even checking the flight schedule, she laid her debit card and passport on the EasyJet counter.

>   “Hello, I need a one-way ticket on your next flight to Paris.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  It was 2:30 p.m. and Jeffrey Hunter was pissed. After their awkward conversation, his usually professional and diligent assistant had disappeared. She’d texted that she was leaving for lunch, but that was hours ago and since then he’d heard nothing. He had a press briefing to prepare for and Annie Craig was nowhere to be found.

  Picking up his cell, he was about to text her when Annie’s text arrived, telling him she was called out of town by a family emergency and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.

  What the hell? First of all, there is her shocking admission that something had been going on between her and Andrew, and now she’s leaving town without warning or adequate explanation. The train bombing was enough to shake him to his core, but with the realization that two of the people closest to him where having an affair, and might somehow be linked to the terrorist attack, it was all more than even he could handle. Andrew and Annie had been two of his closest associates and confidants. Without either of them right now, he was losing focus. And right now, that was the last thing he could afford to lose.

  He texted back:

  “Annie, what the hell is going on? Are you OK? Let me help you.”

  He pressed send, and waited, staring down at the little screen, but there was no reply.

  Jeffrey grew more agitated. He had a country to help run, damn it. He didn’t have the time or energy to waste worrying about his assistant, or how one of his oldest friends might be somehow linked to this horrific act of terrorism.

  Everything was spinning out of control, and he needed perspective. Sadly, the two people he usually relied on weren’t available now. Surely there was someone else he could talk to about this. Get their input, their opinion. With that, he suddenly remembered that he’d asked Annelise a couple of days ago to find Rasul Aziz’s number in Paris. Surely, he must have it somewhere.