The Cornmarket Conspiracy

by Sharon Hoisager

  Rasul closed his eyes and pondered the information. He’d been shot. The guy was aiming for his heart, trying to take him out with one fatal bullet. The fact that he’d missed by mere centimeters made Rasul shudder. Obviously, the fact that he had jerked away from what he thought was a pickpocket attempt had in reality, saved his life. He let the information wash over him as Melissa, the lighthearted nurse took his pulse.

  “I think the police want to talk to you first thing in the morning, sir. This was obviously some sort of robbery, and the police want to know if you have any idea who did this. Maybe you got a good look at the guy...” The nurse gave him a sideways glance. “Oh, and the lady from Admitting will be here shortly to get all your information. We didn’t find any identification on you, so right now, you’re just a number, unfortunately, Mr. . . . ?”

  “Oh yes, certainly.” Rasul gave a forced smile. “And I’m Joe. What time is it right now?”

  “Um, 4:35 a.m.” she said, checking her watch. “I get off in a little less than an hour, but Margot will be here with you when the police come. I expect they’ll be here early, probably before 8 to see if you’re awake. Margot is really sweet. She’ll help you with anything you need.”

  “OK. Thank you, Melissa.” Rasul gave her a weak smile, and wished she would go away already.

  Melissa gave him a quick smile in return and another pat on the arm. She made a few more quick notations on her clipboard, and then placed it back in the plastic bin hanging on the wall near the doorway.

  “OK, I’m back on shift tonight, so I will see you then. In the meantime, get some rest. You’re going to be here a couple of days at the very least, so you might as well enjoy it. It was nice meeting you Mr. . . . Joe.” With that, she was out of the room, and Rasul could hear her rubber soles squeaking on the linoleum as she made her way down the hall.

  Rasul looked again at the ceiling, and listened to the clock on the wall ticking off the seconds. His side was throbbing, and he felt woozy from the painkillers, but he knew he had to get out of there by whatever means possible. Right now, the hospital staff thought he was the victim of an attempted robbery. Little did they know that the man lying in their emergency room was actually the target of a global manhunt for the largest terrorist hit ever on the British homeland. On top of that, he was being hunted by his own accomplices, who wanted him eliminated.

  Gritting his teeth under the pain, he gently peeled off the surgical tape on his forearm and extracted the IV needle that connected him to a bag of painkillers and antibiotics. He slowly slung his legs off the bed and stood up. His head was swimming from a blend of pain, blood loss, and the fog of painkillers. Struggling to put one foot in front of the other, he made his way to the supply cabinet in the room. He pulled out a drawer with his good left hand and found a spool of large surgical tape. He methodically wrapped it around and around his chest, securing the surgical dressing into place. He grabbed a handful of sterile bandages and stuffed them into his pockets, along with more tape and a bottle of antiseptic solution.

  He found his pants hanging in the small closet, along with his shoes, and pulled them on to his body as best he could. He realized his shirt, covered in blood and cut off of his body, was stuffed into a plastic trash can in the corner. His bag, carrying his passport and other belongings was nowhere to be seen. Shirtless, he stumbled over to the door and glanced down the corridor. It was still pre-dawn, so most of the hospital was quiet with few signs of human activity. Aside from a light at the end of the hall illuminating what was probably a nurses’ station, the halls were dim and vacant.

  Outside his hospital room door, he found another larger supply closet, and helped himself to a nurses’ large blue scrub top. Someone’s brown sweater was hanging on the hook inside the closet, so he grabbed that too and pulled it on over the scrubs.

  Giving one more check down the hallway, he hobbled down the hall and out the side exit. Cold early morning air still enveloped the small city, but the area around the hospital was brightly lit up with night lighting. There was a large sign in front of the parking lot welcoming people to Churchill Regional Hospital. Wrapping the sweater tightly around his chest, he staggered away from the building toward a dark grove of trees that lined the hospital property. He was going to need to find a place to lay low until daylight. Then he would need to figure out a way to get back to Paris.

  The sun would be up in an hour or so, and Raz knew he needed to find someplace to stay warm and hide out until he could move about the city without attracting too much attention. Reaching the trees, he looked back toward the hospital exit. No one seemed to be following him. The overnight nursing staff was scarce, and since they’d just checked on him, he probably had an hour or so before anyone noticed his absence. With any luck, he would be long gone before anyone grew suspicious about the Middle Eastern guy with no identification.

  Hiding in the trees, he noticed a faint light coming from a small building a few hundred feet away in the opposite direction from the hospital. Edging out of the trees, he realized he was standing on the edge of a golf course, and the small building with the light appeared to be a groundskeeper’s hut. Raz recognized he must be standing on the edge of the greens of the Oxford Golf Club, a place he’d heard about, but never actually laid eyes on. He’d never been in this part of Oxford before; he certainly never had reason to be. But right now, the groundskeeper’s building was exactly what he needed.

  Hobbling across the well-manicured lawn, he saw no one around, except for a lone red fox keeping a close eye on him from along the edge of the fairway. He reached the groundskeeper’s building and peered through the small dirty window. Inside, the small hut was entirely black except for one small desk lamp that provided the warm glow he had seen through the window. The Oxford Golf Club was deserted except for him and the little fox.

  Making his way around to the door, he tried the handle. It was locked, but he could tell from the flimsy way the doorknob rotated back and forth that it was a simple push lock standing between himself and the hideout he so desperately needed. Taking a step back, he winced as he raised his right leg and gave the door one heavy roundhouse kick. The door swung open.

  Once inside, Raz pushed the door back into closed position and secured it in place with a brick that had obviously served as a doorstop before. His eyes took a moment to adjust as he stood back to survey the room.

  Instantly he could tell that his new little hideout wasn’t inhabited too frequently. No telling how many hours that little lamp had been shining away, lighting the room for no one. No wonder its bulb was growing dim. It could blink off at any moment, he imagined.

  Rummaging around the room, he found a lawn mower, maintenance tools, and no less than seven ancient golf bags, replete with irons that were laced together with spider webs. On the desk he found a calendar from two years ago, a can of short pencils, and a rusty stapler. Then he spotted it — unbelievably — on the file cabinet next to the desk was an old black desk telephone that looked like it hadn’t been receiving any calls in a while.

  Holding his breath, Raz lifted the receiver to his ear, and as clear as crystal heard the loud dial tone, as if it had been sitting there for ages waiting for someone to make a call. Looking out the window, Raz could see the darkness starting to recede as morning was growing near. He knew he had no time to waste, and there was only one person he could call right now.

  Dialing the international toll free number he knew by heart, he felt a little like an idiot. He knew this was a ridiculous way to make contact for such an important call, but without his wallet, his cell phone, or any way to charge the call, it was his only choice. What’s more, it would be the middle of the night in New York at this hour, but right now, he had few options.

  After three rings, a recorded voice came on the line.

  “Hello, and thank you for calling Hazelwood Investment Services. At this time, all of our New York offices are closed. If you know the extension of the party you are trying to reach, and would
like to leave a message, please enter that extension number now. Otherwise, please call back within our normal business operating hours. If you do not know your party’s extension, simply enter the first three letters of the last name of the party you are trying to reach.”

  The buttons on the phone were dingy and faded, but Raz firmly punched in T-U-R. In a moment the familiar voice recording came on the line:

  “Hello, this is Charles Turner of Hazelwood Investment Services. I’m not in the office at the moment. If you would like to leave a message, please do so at the tone.”

  After a long buzz, Raz almost hissed into the phone, “Charlie, I’ve got to talk to you. I’m in . . . uh . . . outside of London and in trouble. I need your help. I’ll call you at 8 a.m. your time. Be available.” He clicked the phone off. Looking out the dingy little window again, he noticed the first rays of sunlight out the window peeping up over the horizon. It would be dawn soon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  At 4:05 p.m., Annie emerged from the EasyJet terminal at Charles De Gaulle. She had spent the short flight from London’s Luton airport to Paris mostly staring out the window, examining the little French hamlets below and wondering about the simple lives of the people who made their lives in the little towns that dotted the French countryside. Somewhere down there, just a few nights ago, her beloved Andrew had crossed the French landscape in a speeding train, probably reading the Sunday Times, thinking about work, and staring out the window. And she liked to imagine that he had been thinking of her. She already missed him terribly. The idea that she could not talk to him, that she couldn’t touch him, that she couldn’t ask him about the file, and this whole mess almost drove her crazy. She couldn’t help but wonder, was he involved in this somehow, even unintentionally? She knew Andrew. There was simply no way he was overtly involved in anything immoral, unethical, and certainly not anything criminal. But how did his private notes, outlining the terrorist strikes of the past few years, seemingly predict a train bombing? Had he somehow been working to thwart the attack?

  Her only idea at this point was that maybe the last person to see him might somehow provide some clues. Maybe one of his oldest friends, Rasul Aziz. might offer some information; some inside knowledge that could help her make sense of all of this. Not quite as altruistically, she also hoped that maybe he had spoken about her to Rasul, and she could glean some comfort from the words and thoughts that he had shared about her with his old friend. At this point, she felt she was losing her mind a bit, and was willing to grasp at anything to bring some solace and peace to her heart.

  Annie exited the terminal and made her way through the main corridor, past the kiosks and counters selling I Love Paris T-shirts, umbrellas, books, and every imaginable incarnation of the Eiffel Tower. The concourse was crowded with travelers of every conceivable variety: businessmen and women, mothers with small children, old people, students, and the ubiquitous tourists. The American tourists were always the easiest to spot with their loud clothes and even louder voices. She made a special effort to avoid all of them.

  Making her way down the long corridor toward the main exits, she still wasn’t sure where she was headed. She had Rasul Aziz’s phone number programmed into her cell phone, but she had not attempted to make contact yet. She wasn’t sure that Andrew would have even told him about her, and so she hadn’t yet figured out how to introduce herself — or how to explain her presence here in Paris for that matter. Even if Andrew had told his old friend everything, he likely would not have approved of Andrew having an affair with a married woman. And now Andrew was dead, and the married woman was showing up on his doorstep. It suddenly dawned on Annie that this all might be a very bad idea. Yet here she was, in Paris, headed for the taxi stand. Her desperate need for information about Andrew was overriding her better judgement, and she began to walk even faster down the corridor.

  As Annie hurried down the main airport corridor, just twenty paces behind her, a lone man had fallen in lockstep behind her. Young, dark headed and handsome, his designer jeans, expensive belt, and white shirt with a casual jacket over his shoulder made him appear like every other young professional landing at Charles de Gaulle that afternoon. He tucked a copy of today’s Le Figaro under his arm and carried a small leather bag and briefcase to complete the look. As they walked in tandem down the long hall leading to the exits, he never took his eyes off of the back of Annie’s head.

  The cold winter air slapped Annie in the face as she stepped outside the airport terminal. Always much colder than London, she cursed as she realized she had not thought to grab a coat before she bolted out of London. It was freezing, much colder than normal in Paris, and Annie clenched her small jacket around her neck as she searched for the taxi line.

  As Annie entered the taxi que, Akeem, the man who had been trailing her eased up behind her and snapped open his newspaper. Pretending to read the cover stories, he watched Annie carefully out of his peripheral vision. She wasn’t noticing anyone around her right now. Annie was lost in thought as she spun through her contacts on her cell phone, oblivious to anyone around her.

  Akeem’s handsome face did not divulge his mix of Eastern and Western European background. Born in Istanbul to educated, but very poor Muslim parents, he had worked his way west and found himself mixed up in a variety of low-grade criminal activities, just to keep food in his stomach and a roof over his head. His current gig as a part-time errand boy to one of the largest criminal networks in France kept him very busy. They provided nice clothes, pocket money, and often excellent meals in exchange for a variety of tasks that he usually didn’t understand, and didn’t question. Today was no different.

  Positioned beside Annelise, he made a big show of checking his watch, and shuffling his feet, as if he were agitated and in a hurry.

  “These taxis are always late and ridiculously expensive!” He said under his breath.

  Annelise continued to stare at her phone.

  After a minute, he opened his fingers and let the newspaper slide to the ground, on top of Annie’s foot.

  “Oh, I am so sorry. Please forgive me.”

  “Oh no, no problem.” Annie gave him a quick smile and bent down to help him gather up the newspaper that had fallen past his grasp. She gave the handsome man a quick smile and went back to her phone.

  “This your first time in Paris?” A stupid question given the fact that she obviously had no luggage, but Akeem could think of nothing else.

  “Oh no, no. I’m just here from London for a couple of days, visiting a friend.” For the first time, Annie noticed the man’s good looks and expensive clothes. Obviously, a well-heeled businessman here for quick trip in the city, she thought, noticing his leather bag and briefcase.

  Annie turned back toward the taxi stand, and wondered how much longer she’d have to wait. She contemplated calling Rasul, or maybe texting him first, just to break the ice.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m in a terrible hurry to get to a late afternoon meeting. Would you be interested in sharing a taxi into the city?” The young man smiled and seemed harmless enough. Besides, she didn’t mind splitting the fifty plus Euros fare it would cost to get into the city center.

  Annie smiled back at him again. “Sure, that sounds fine.”

  For the next five minutes they made small talk about Paris weather, Paris traffic, and the constant bother of tourists clogging the streets around Christmas and in the summer. Soon they were loaded into a yellow taxi and travelling the forty-five minutes toward the center of Paris.

  “Where you going?” the driver said after they exited the airport.

  Akeem motioned to Annie to speak first. Annie realized she still hadn’t decided.

  “Um, Boulevard Saint-Germain, please.” Caught off guard, Annie called out the name of a favorite street in her favorite Arrondissement, near the Sorbonne where she had studied the summer after her junior year in college.

  “Awe, what a coincidence! I am going to the Sorbonne.” Akeem gave her a big smil
e.

  Annie again returned his smile, and pretended to study the buildings along the highway as they sped down the motorway. He was a nice enough man, but Annie had no need of new friends right now. Heck, she didn’t need anyone who could place her in the city today anyway.

  Akeem pulled out his own phone and fired off a brief text to Sam Sagar back at MI6: “In the taxi with AC, headed toward Paris.”

  “Perfect. Keep me posted,” came Sam’s quick response.

  Akeem gave Annie another quick smile and gazed out the window as well, working hard to appear nonchalant and lost in thought.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  5:10 p.m. and Jennifer Hawthorne’s plane was finally pulling up to the gate at Charles de Gaulle.

  Damn, why doesn’t Sam text me back? Jennifer was preoccupied with her cell phone, wondering if there was a problem with its ability to connect to a signal in the French network.

  As soon as the plane’s wheels had touched the ground, Jennifer had fired off the text to Sam back at HQ. That had been eight minutes ago, and still no response. She didn’t have time for this kind of nonsense, she thought to herself.

  As soon as she was off the plane and in the terminal, she stepped into a quiet corner, behind a row of waiting area chairs, and dialed Sam’s office number. No response.

  What am I supposed to do now? Annelise Craig has already been on the ground more than an hour and I have no idea where she’s gone. What in the hell is going on?

  Jennifer decided that Annie had to be headed into the city, there was no other explanation for which way she could have headed. Proceeding in that direction was the only thing that made sense… she would deal with Sam Sagar and his irresponsibility soon enough.

  Jennifer was halfway through her forty-five minute ride into Paris before Sam finally responded to her text.