The Cornmarket Conspiracy

by Sharon Hoisager

  “So sorry Jenn. I was working on another matter. Couldn’t be helped. I just heard from our post who was stationed at de Gaulle. He’s in a cab following Craig, and she has just been dropped off at a restaurant in the 19th Arrondissement. It’s called Le Rond Parc, near the Bassin de la Villette.”

  Jennifer stared down at the text. Weird. The 19th Arrondissement? Why in the hell would Annelise be headed way over there? Far from the more glamorous shopping and tourist areas, it was more known for its high rise public housing projects and 19th century former slaughterhouses. It seemed an odd place for Annelise Craig to be meeting anyone for business, pleasure, or anything else for that matter.

  She googled the restaurant and gave the address to her driver. At this point, she figured, she had about twenty minutes to figure out just what she was going to do with Ms. Annelise Craig when she found her. Just follow her? She hadn’t done anything like this in years, and she realized her skills at espionage were probably a bit subpar at this point. But right now, she was the only asset Her Majesty’s Government had working this lead, so she had to get it right. She unzipped her little overnight bag and pulled out the short dark wig. She pulled it on her head and used the driver’s rear view mirror to adjust the hair piece and smooth out the bangs. Checking the mirror, she was satisfied that Annelise Craig would never recognize her.

  The driver shot her a puzzled look back in the mirror.

  “Just meeting an old boyfriend,” she smiled back. “He always used to prefer my hair short and dark.”

  The driver gave her an even more puzzled look, gave a short laugh, and averted his eyes. He had seen stranger things in his taxi. No big deal.

  As the taxi turned onto Avenue Jean Jaures, Jennifer could see the little restaurant Le Rond Parc perched among the buildings and shops at the edge of the road. Across the street, she could make out the glistening water of the beautiful Bassin de la Villette, the narrow artificial lake that had been providing water to Parisians since the early 1800s. Just eight hundred meters in length, and seventy meters wide, it was originally used for drinking water, but over time had transitioned into being used for everything from commercial purposes, to now harboring little boats and other recreational uses in recent years. Tonight, on this chilly winter evening, it was beautifully lined with vacant boat docks and taverns. The setting sun was starting to disappear behind the buildings lining the little reservoir, and the last rays of sunlight glistened as they bounced off of the thin layer of ice that was beginning to form on its surface.

  Jennifer payed the taxi driver and departed the taxi. Stepping out onto the Avenue Jean Jaures, she fired off another text to Sam back at the office, “I’m here.” She wrapped her long red coat even tighter around her body and readjusted the awkward wig on her head. People were bustling by, pulling their jackets up around their ears as the evening breeze and disappearing sun made the cold air even more frigid. Jennifer had always loved Paris, but this trip was growing worse by the minute.

  Above the little brasserie, red neon letters spelled out the name Le Rond Parc. Outside on the pavement in front, four little metal tables with two chairs each sat vacant on the sidewalk. Nobody in their right mind would be sitting outside in this frigid air. Jennifer opened the door and went in, happy to see most of the tables occupied, which would take the attention off of her. She found her way to a little table along the far brick wall, and quickly took a seat, avoiding eye contact with any of the other customers. She didn’t want to draw any undue attention to herself at this point. She grabbed a menu and buried her face in it, searching for something to order that she could easily pronounce without advertising her Britishness in this decidedly non-touristy part of town.

  In a few moments the waitress stopped by her table and raised her eyebrows with a half-smile. Jennifer understood that this was her attempt to take her order.

  “Um, just a croissant and coffee please,” Jennifer said with a smile. The waitress gave a smirk, turned and left. Jennifer’s smile turned into a frown. The waitress obviously wasn’t happy with Jennifer’s meager order. She never got used to the French.

  Why hadn’t she heard from Sam again? she thought to herself. What in the hell was going on back at HQ?

  After waiting a couple of minutes, Jennifer decided it was safe to scan the room and see if her target, Annelise Craig happened to be one of the customers surrounding her. She glanced quickly around the room, and noticed two older couples, a couple of French students, two men arguing over a couple of pints at the bar, and a young woman trying to feed cheese sandwiches to two small blonde children. No Annelise Craig.

  Two minutes later, the waitress returned and slid the small plate with a croissant and two small packets of butter onto the table. She set down a steaming cup of coffee Americano and a tiny pitcher of cream and motioned toward the packets of sugar already on the table. After laying down the paper ticket, she turned and disappeared into the kitchen again.

  With nowhere to go and no one to watch, Jennifer decided her only option at this point was to sip her coffee slowly and wait for Sam to deliver further instructions. She had no idea why everything was dragging out like this.

  In a few moments, the door to the little dining room opened, and a new customer entered. Large build, with a dark bushy beard and little knit cap on his head, he took a seat at the counter facing away from Jennifer. He picked up a menu off the counter and began studying his options for dinner. Jennifer took out her phone and fired off another text to Sam:

  “Sam, I’m waiting on instructions. What’s the hold up? Do we have a current location on AC? No sign of her here at Le Rond Parc.”

  Glancing up from her phone, she took a quick look around the room again. Just as her eyes were rounding the room, her stomach flipped as she caught the gaze of the new man at the counter. He was staring at her in the reflection of the mirror mounted just above the counter. Involuntarily, she did a double take to confirm he was actually looking directly at her. And there again, in the mirror, his steely brown eyes met hers, and then looked away. Her stomach felt like a pit, as she realized this strange man had been staring intently at her.

  Her gut was telling her to get the hell out of there, but she pretended to study the picture on the wall next to her table and stalled for a full two minutes, so as not to appear to bolt out of the room. She willed herself to take her time, studying the bill the waitress had left. Realizing she didn’t have any Euros on her, she fished a five Pound bill out of her purse and laid it on the table. The waitress would be annoyed, but what else was new? Dabbing her mouth with the napkin, she took every pain to appear unrushed and unconcerned. She grabbed her purse and made her way out the door and into the cold evening. It was dark outside now, a light snow had begun to fall, and the street was now devoid of pedestrians along the waterfront.

  As she walked quickly away from Le Rond Parc, behind her she heard the soft jingle of the bell on the restaurant door as another patron exited the building. Too afraid to turn around, Jennifer hurried away down the sidewalk, walking quickly into the dark Parisian night.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Jennifer quickened her step as she made her way up the Avenue Jean Jaures. It was growing darker now, and the streets were largely deserted. A frigid winter blast had driven most Parisians indoors, leaving her essentially alone walking the street. Sam Sagar was being inexplicably slow with instructions and giving her scant information, and her uneasiness with the situation was growing more acute. Her anxiety was increased exponentially by the echo of footsteps ricocheting behind her as she made her way up the street.

  She had walked two blocks, and yet the footsteps steadily remained a hundred meters or so behind her. On one occasion she stopped and pretended to inspect the heel of her shoe, using the occasion to look under the crook of her arm and behind her at the figure trailing her down the dark street. Unable to make out any discernable features other than the general size of her anonymous companion on the street, she straightened up and continued dow
n the block. She was pretty sure the dark figure was a large man, and her instincts told her it was the stranger from the counter at Le Rond Parc. She began to walk faster. She decided that it was high time she needed to lose this guy.

  Crossing the Avenue Jean Jaures, she made a hard left onto the Rue de la Moselle and headed toward the Bassin de la Villete. As she approached the man-made lake she turned right and headed north east, skirting along the park-like banks of the long narrow canal. Taking advantage of the wide open spaces, she swung around to take in the view, and took the occasion to search the landscape for her stalker. With a sigh of relief, she saw no one, and decided she had inflated the whole situation in her head, making a big deal out of nothing.

  The inexplicable situation with Sam was a different matter. He was being blatantly reckless with the lack of information and directives for the entire assignment — yet it was her neck on the line with this operation. She didn’t really know Sam that well, he’d only been with the agency a few months, and she had little experience working with him. Why O’Leary put him in charge of this part of the assignment was beyond her. She was going to talk to her boss about Sam’s incompetent handling of the operation as soon as she got back to London. If they lost Annelise Craig in Paris completely, it would be squarely Sam Sagar’s fault.

  She texted him again: “Sam, what the hell? I’ve had to leave Le Rond Parc. Now heading northeast along the Bassin de la Villete. Concerned I may be being followed. Please advise AC’s location. I need to move.”

  As Jennifer continued to walk along the canal, the air was frigid, and she was growing colder and more uncomfortable by the minute. She could not stop the gut-level feeling that she was in danger, although currently she seemed to be out of harm’s way. With the wind gusts whipping at her red coat, Jennifer decided that she really had to get out of the cold weather. A light snow had turned heavier now, and the night was now pitch black with little light around the artificial lake. Somewhere along the way, she realized she’d lost her short dark wig, and her long auburn hair swung freely, and was soon covered in a dusting of snow.

  Across the canal, a hundred yards or so beyond the banks of the reservoir, she spotted a small pub that looked welcoming enough. The lights were still on and she could make out a glowing red “open” sign glowing in the window. She decided to make her way to the pub, and then she would text John O’Leary directly for further directions. This whole operation had spun out of control and she needed to apprise her boss of how Sam Sagar was incommunicado and putting the whole mission at risk.

  She looked up and down the canal for a place she could cross to the other side, and spotted a sign that she was approaching Pont de Flandre, with its beautiful high arching bridge, a few hundred meters up the canal. The sign said that the bridge had spanned the canal since it was built in 1808. As she approached the historical structure, she marveled in the dim moonlight at its beauty, and the fact that it had been standing here, allowing Parisians to cross this reservoir for over two hundred years. Running parallel alongside the beautiful metal arch bridge, she noticed an antique and antiquated lifting bridge on Rue de Crimee, the last of its kind in Paris. Another marker noted that the lifting bridge still rises more than two dozen times a day to allow barges and large boats on the canal to pass beneath it. The lifting bridge, and the fixed arching foot bridge next to it, both had ice crystals beginning to form on their metal architecture that sparkled in the night air. Together they made a stunning site over the canal on this cold winter night. While she admired the beauty, Jennifer was distracted by her strong desire to get across the canal and away from whomever she feared might be following her in the night.

  As Jennifer hurried toward the steps leading up and over the bridge, she heard the muffled sounds of a cough behind her. Instinctively, she spun around, and this time, trailing her by just twenty meters or so, was a large man with the hood of his jacket pulled up over his head, and a black scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, presumably to shield him from the wind. Above the scarf, she recognized the same menacing brown eyes that had watched her so intently from the mirror above the counter.

  Jennifer’s stomach dropped, and adrenaline raced through her body. In an instant, she realized she was in danger. She rushed toward the bridge as her heart beat out of her chest, and then realizing the man behind her was gaining on her, she broke into a dead run toward the arch bridge. Her eyes desperately searching the landscape around the bridge for someone walking the banks of the reservoir in the cold night, she saw no one, and so fixed her eyes intently toward the only place in that moment where she thought she might find refuge — the little bar across the canal.

  Reaching the bridge, she mounted the metal steps two at a time. In her peripheral vision, she could see the man’s black scarf waving in the wind as he advanced toward the bridge behind her. She could hear his guttural cough as he trailed her, and for a moment, she thought she might be widening the distance between them. Another moment passed, and then she could hear his heavy breathing over her shoulder as she realized he was almost upon her.

  As she reached the top of the arched bridge, she was suddenly yanked backward as the man grabbed a handful of her long auburn hair and pulled her backwards toward his enormous chest. She was able to emit one high-pitched short scream before the man’s other arm circled around her head and clamped down across her mouth. As the man seized her, she felt herself being pulled down onto the top of the metal bridge, and as she desperately fought to escape the man’s tight grip on her body, she frantically wondered if someone might be watching all of this — watching as she struggled for her life. She fought with everything in her, but his arms felt like iron clamps on her small frame. Fighting with all of her might to free herself, she realized in horror that his massive hands were moving up across her chest, until they finally locked in around her throat. Desperately trying to scream for help, she realized quickly that with every sound she made, she was releasing air that could not reenter her body. He was strangling her, and no amount of struggling or wrenching could free her from his tightening grip. His chest was heaving for air from chasing her. She could feel his hot breath hitting her face, and smell putrid coffee with each exhale. His eyes bugged out as he squeezed her thin neck with all of his might.

  Frantically looking up at him, her eyes begging for mercy, she could still see his raging brown eyes, fixed in a cold stare on her face as the last gasps of breath escaped from her lungs. She grabbed the metal rails of the bridge and tried with all of her might to wrench her body up, but the man pushed her head back, hard against the metal rails. As her head dropped back over the top railing, she was staring at a crazy upside down view of the city and the canal below. As her last breathe escaped her body, her eyes fixed on the moon glistening off of the ice on the canal below.

  Once he was sure she was dead, the brazen killer lifted Jennifer up over the railing of the bridge, and dropped her lifeless body twenty-five feet to the thin sheets of ice below. The weight of her body easily broke through the surface, and her slim frame disappeared beneath the thin veneer of black ice. Her heavy coat quickly saturated with cold water and the weight tugged her body down below the surface. As she descended, the man watched the outline of her vibrant red coat as it faded from view under the dark water. The ice would certainly refreeze by morning, and no trace of Jennifer Hawthorne’s body, trapped in the cold canal below the ice would remain. It would be weeks before the ice would begin to thaw, and only then would Jennifer Hawthorne and her red coat float to the surface.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  At 6:30 p.m., John O’Leary burst into Sam Sagar’s office at MI6.

  “So what’s going on? Where are we at? Has our post picked up Annelise Craig at Charles de Gaulle? And where is Jennifer? I told you to keep me updated on this!” O’Leary was firing off questions rapid fire at Sam, who could only hold his breath and wait for him to finish before attempting to answer.

  “Yes sir, I just got off the phone with Ha
rry Jasper, I put him on post at de Gaulle. I’m sorry to report that he wasn’t able to locate Annelise Craig, and I think he’s failed to rendezvous with Hawthorne as well, he said with feigned exasperation. “I have no clue how he missed them both. We need to fire his ass.”

  “Well damnit.” O’Leary had no patience for incompetence. Harry Jasper would be fired immediately. There was no room in his organization for this kind of lazy stupidity. People’s lives were on the line.

  “Are you in contact with Jennifer? Has she made contact with Craig? Where do we stand right now?”

  “Yes, I’m in constant contact with Jenn. We caught a lucky break. She spotted Craig in the airport concourse. She’s trailing her in a taxi right now into Paris. Last report was they were headed for the Champs Elysees. Who knows, maybe she’s just there for some shopping!”

  Sam Sagar was delighted that his little plan was working so beautifully.

  Sam gave O’Leary a weak smile, doing his best bit to act deferential, but O’Leary just scowled at him. Sam Sagar had only been with the agency for a short time, but he was now testing O’Leary’s patience. Jennifer had razor sharp instincts and she’d already planted some doubt in O’Leary’s mind about Sagar’s trustworthiness. O’Leary was quickly deciding she might be right.

  O’Leary turned to leave, unhappy with what he’d been told. “Tell Hawthorne I want to talk to her personally as soon as she is able. Tell her to call me on my direct line, it doesn’t matter what time. I want to talk to her myself.”

  “Certainly John. I’ll let her know right away.”

  O’Leary slammed the door behind him, as he often did when he wasn’t happy. Sam Sagar smirked and turned back to the papers in front of him. Pulling out the bogus headshot he’d pulled from the files and sent to Harry Jasper, he laughed to himself at the thought of poor Harry Jasper running all over the airport looking for the woman in the picture who he’d never find. He slid the photograph into his shredder, and checked his watch. The text messages from Jennifer were mounting up, but he’d wait another half hour or so before responding. It didn’t matter, she’d be dead soon enough, and knowing how the boys on his team worked, no one would find her body for a few weeks yet.