The Cornmarket Conspiracy

by Sharon Hoisager

  “It’s not business… well, sort of, but not really.”

  “OK tell me what’s going on.”

  “It’s Annie… Annelise Craig. She disappeared yesterday afternoon. Well, I mean she told me she had a family emergency, but it’s a lot more than that, I know.”

  LaForge made sure his facial expression looked concerned, yet helpful. “What do you mean? Is she OK? Do you know where she might have gone?”

  “No, not really. She said she’d be back in a couple of days, but I’m afraid it’s rather complicated. Fletch, I know this goes without saying, but this needs to be completely just between us. I think she may be in some kind of trouble.”

  “Absolutely,” Fletcher LaForge was nodding his head, making sure that the proper concerned look was affixed to his face.

  “Before she left, she told me that she and Andrew Bolling — he paused, searching for the right words — had a thing going on. She claimed it wasn’t sexual, but I’m doubting that. A few weeks ago, Andrew had hinted that he had a new girlfriend that he cared for a lot, but he would never divulge her name. I’m betting his new girlfriend was my married assistant.”

  Fletcher changed his facial expression to appear mildly shocked.

  Jeffrey continued, “On Tuesday morning, MI6 was here, questioning her. They know she had been in frequent communication with Andrew the weekend before the explosion. And as you know, MI6 is looking into Andrew’s death as part of its investigation into the terrorist attack. They think Andrew might be involved, all because of that phone call I received Monday morning. They think it’s all related somehow.”

  “Damn it, Jeffrey, this isn’t good.” Fletcher shook his head.

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve told John O’Leary at MI6 everything I know, so I’m not withholding any information. Well, except for the part about their relationship, but Annie has told me the bare minimum about that, so most of that is just conjecture on my part anyway.”

  Jeffrey stopped pacing and stared at Fletcher LaForge. “Anyway, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that this whole thing has the potential to explode into a mushroom cloud of scandal. If Andrew was a target or involved somehow, this entire administration is going to be scrutinized for blame. The British people want someone to bear responsibility and if a member of this administration can be linked to the person, or people who did this, if they can be held even just partially responsible for hundreds of people dying, they’ll do it…. And then they’ll take down Wellington, this administration, and our whole ship will go down with him. Everything we’ve worked for the past several years, and everything we had hoped to accomplish will be destroyed.”

  Jeffrey was pacing again, “And then there’s Annie’s immediate situation… I’m just concerned about her, where she is, and her safety. She’s been out of touch for almost twenty-four hours. She sent me a text right before she disappeared, but I haven’t heard from her since. I don’t have to tell you that this is completely out of character for her. If this train explosion was in fact a terrorist attack, which I firmly believe it was, and if Andrew was targeted for some reason, then maybe Annie really is in danger.”

  LaForge pressed his hands together in a steeple formation and held them in front of his chin like he always did when he was thinking. “I agree Jeffrey, this could be potentially catastrophic for the administration, not to mention incredibly dangerous for Annie. Any idea where she could have gone?”

  “O’Leary says they traced her movement using her passport to Paris. Annie studied at the Sorbonne back in college, so I’m betting she’s staying somewhere around there. They had a female agent on her tail, one of their best, but they’ve lost contact with her too. I have no idea why she would go there unless it has something to do with Andrew’s activities the weekend before he was killed. She must know something. The more I think about it, the more I believe she must be in trouble. Of course, I’ve tried to reach her, but she’s not responding to any of my texts or phone calls.”

  “You’re not in contact with her at all?”

  “No, but I’ll keep trying.”

  “I think you’re right to be concerned Jeffrey. I’d like to help. I think it’s in all of our best interest to find her and get her back here and sort this all out before MI6 finds her first and brings her in for more questioning. They can talk to her after we know what we’re dealing with so that we can control the damage politically. I have some people on the ground in Paris, people who I work with on occasion who might be able to track her down and talk some sense into her, but I would need a lead on where she’s at.”

  “I’ll let you know when and if I hear from her, Fletch. I knew you would be able to see how important it is that we protect the Prime Minister’s office from any links to this disaster, and of course do all we can to protect Annie. I appreciate your help more than you know.”

  Fletcher LaForge walked around his desk and Jeffrey Hunter gave him a slap on the back like he would have if he’d run into him in a pub back at Oxford. LaForge stuck out his hand, they shook hands like old college mates, and Jeffrey hurried out the door.

  The investigation of the crash scene was still evolving, and there was still much to do. Without his assistant, he was pivoting in a thousand directions to respond to the crisis: every hour brought news as he monitored the recovery process, assembled updates and channeled information to the Prime Minister, and spent hours communicating with the media and fielding questions from the press. The Prime Minister’s office was in turmoil, and somehow one of their own seemed to be at the epicenter of it all. As usual, Jeffrey Hunter buried himself in his work.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The sound of police sirens woke Annie from a deep sleep. For a full ten seconds she did not know where she was, or how she had gotten there. Staring at the peeling wallpaper on the ceiling of the cramped hotel room, she gasped and sat straight up when the memories of the preceding day came flooding over her.

  Flashbacks of running through the streets of Paris the previous evening came rushing back. Her mind went back to yesterday late afternoon, peering out the window at Les Deux Magots, and watching the man from the cab hurry toward the restaurant. Once she had seen the man emerge from the crowd, step off the sidewalk and walk directly toward Les Deux Magots, she knew she was being pursued. And she had no doubt that just like Andrew, whoever this man was who had worked his way into her taxi, or whoever he was associated with, wanted her dead. She fled the restaurant through a back door and didn’t stop running until she ran directly into the low walls along the Seine River. Stopping to catch her breath, she had searched the streets behind her for the man from the cab.

  She waited there next to the Seine for what seemed like an hour, and only when she was absolutely certain that no one might be following her, she had allowed herself to relax a little. She was fairly certain that she had escaped the area without him realizing that his target had spotted him, and had escaped out the back door. Annie thought that he probably waited outside that restaurant for hours before realizing she had escaped somehow undetected.

  After she was certain she was no longer being followed, she made her way through back streets and alleys, and circled back around the Sorbonne neighborhood to this small, non-descript, little two-star hotel, the Hotel Venue, on Boulevard Saint Michel. It was cramped and shabby, but the front door was guarded by a rather large twenty-four hour night manager, the hotel took cash, and her room had a lock on it. Right now, that’s all she needed.

  Looking around at the garish room, all four walls, and much of the ceiling was covered in faded floral wallpaper. The little room had obviously been cut out of the attic space, as the sloped vaulted ceiling and dormer windows provided little space. The bed was small, and the only other items in the room were a tiny velvet chair and an old trunk that served as a table at the foot of the bed.

  Her purse was on the trunk where she had left it, and her clothes were lying across the chair undisturbed. For a few minutes, she allowed herself to drift in and ou
t of sleep, relishing the safety of the attic room.

  Another siren soon passed outside her hotel on the Boulevard Saint Michel, rousing her at last from her sleep. Getting up, she took a quick shower in the tiny pink tiled bathroom, and redressed in the same clothes she’d had on the day before, the only clothes she had with her. Glancing at her watch, she realized it was already 9:30 on Wednesday morning. The office back in London would already be in full swing, and Jeffrey was most probably very angry at her by now. But she couldn’t think about that now. There was a man somewhere outside this hotel in the streets of Paris hunting her, and undoubtedly planned to kill her if he found her.

  Annie’s stomach growled and tightened from hunger and she faced the fact that she couldn’t stay holed up in this hotel room forever. She knew she needed to find something to eat, and then try to make contact with Rasul Aziz. Whether she was being followed or not, she knew that she must talk to the man who was probably the last person to see and talk with Andrew. She had to find out what he knew, if anything, about what happened to the man she so desperately loved. Maybe he could provide some clue as to why Andrew was on that train, and if he had some knowledge, some bit of a warning, that a train attack might be imminent.

  Picking up her cell phone from the table where it had been charging all night, she scrolled back to the email where she had sent Jeffrey Rasul’s contact number. She added Rasul to her list of contacts, and then punched the call button on her phone. As the phone began to ring, she realized she had no idea what she was going to say. Would he even know who she was?

  After the fourth ring, she heard the recorded deep voice of a man with a slight French accent, but it was laced with something else — Arabic? She knew nothing about Rasul except that his nickname was Raz, the name that Andrew always called him by. She realized that other than that, she knew almost nothing about him. She had no idea where he was from, or what his background was. Andrew had friends from all over the world; Raz was just one name from his distant past. But right now, he was the only possible key she had to uncovering what or who may have wanted Andrew dead. The beep on the recording prompted Annie to speak.

  “Um, hello . . . Hi, this is Annelise Craig, I’m a, work associate of Andrew’s . . . Andrew Bolling. I’m in Paris and was hoping I could talk with you about Andrew and his, death. I’m so sorry to be calling like this out of the blue. If you could just give me a phone call back when you have a moment, I would really like to meet you. Thank you so much.”

  She punched ‘end’ and stared at her phone. Well that was awkward. What do you say to someone whom you’ve never met, when your only connection is someone who has been tragically killed? She pushed the phone into her purse, and decided it was time to find something to eat and figure out where she was going next.

  Out on the street, she immediately spotted a Patisserie across the street, and darted in for coffee and something substantial to eat. She ordered a Ham and Swiss croissant sandwich and a large black coffee. She found a place to stand at a counter near the window, where she could keep a watch on the front door and outside as well, as she figured out her next move. Keeping her eyes on the street, she knew she would not feel safe again for a very long time. What if she did not hear back from Rasul? What if he never even checked his messages?

  She suddenly remembered her conversation with Jeffrey on Monday afternoon about Rasul. Something about where he worked. Where was it? A library? Jeffrey had said something about how surprised he was about where Rasul worked. It’s a bookstore! Annie’s sharp mind quickly recalled the information she’d found when she hunted down Rasul’s number for Jeffrey. It was a shop with a funny name… Paramount? Paradox? What was it? She knew herself well enough to know that the correct name would come to her eventually. The name was stored somewhere in the memory folds of her brain and it would surface soon enough. In the meantime, she needed to make contact with Jeffrey. If she didn’t try to get in touch with him soon in some way, she was certain she would have no job to return to in London anyway. Dialing his direct number, Annie was startled when Jeffrey Hunter picked up on the second ring.

  “Annie, where in the hell are you? Are you OK?”

  “Jeffrey, I’m so sorry. Yes, I’m OK. I’m in Paris, on Rue Saint Michel, near the Sorbonne actually. I flew here last night and checked into a little hotel.”

  “Thank God you’re OK. Listen, Annie, whatever all this is about, let me help you. I know Andrew must have had some involvement with this, either voluntarily, or involuntarily, but this situation involves dangerous people. Your life might be at risk. You need to get back here to London where we can protect you and help you unravel this mess.”

  “Yes, Jeffrey I realize that. I came here to try and help uncover the truth, but I’ve realized that Andrew’s involvement must be bigger than I’d realized.”

  “Annie, I’ve known Andrew for over twenty years. I know he would never get involved in anything criminal or illegal, or certainly anything that would hurt anyone. I just think he got mixed up in this somehow, and now you are getting dragged into this mess as well. We need to figure this out, but you’ve got to come back here, where we have the resources to solve this together and protect you.”

  “Jeffrey, I think I’m already much more involved than I realized. I wasn’t planning to tell you this, but . . . I think someone’s following me here in Paris. Actually, I know they are, for a fact. He followed me from the airport. I’ve managed to get away from him, but I’m not sure where to go next. I’ve made contact with Andrew’s old friend Rasul Aziz … the one we talked about on Monday, but he hasn’t returned my call. My plan is to meet with him and . . . ”

  Looking up, through the windows of the little bakery, Annie’s eyes fixed on a man coming down the street, walking toward her little hotel. She could only see him from the distance, but his walk, his clothes, his scruffy shoes; she immediately realized he looked very much like the man from the cab. How could he be here? How did he find her?

  “Jeffrey, I’ve got to go . . . someone is . . . here.”

  Annie clicked End on her phone, disconnecting the call with Jeffrey. Outside, through the window, the man was still a couple of hundred meters or more down the street, but getting closer. Then her eyes fell on the man’s leather bag, and she knew in an instant it was him. She stood transfixed as she watched him hunt for the front door of the hotel. She realized he wasn’t sure where he was going. He seemed uncertain. He must not know for sure where she was, or if she was even at that location. When he spotted her hotel, his pace quickened, and he made his way for the door. She waited, and as soon as he disappeared into the hotel, she was out the door of the little Patisserie, and made a quick left and disappeared down an adjacent alley within seconds. She didn’t look back or even pause to see where he might be headed next. Once again, she was running, as fast as she could go.

  This man obviously was tracking her somehow. How in the hell did he know where she was? Had he been checking every hotel and boarding house in the area since last night? Paris wasn’t safe. Hell, no place was safe if he was somehow tracking her every move. She needed to get back to London. She needed to find a cab, or a bus, or something headed away from here.

  And then as she ran, her mind delivered the name, Paradigm! It popped into her head just as she knew it would. Paradigm Books — that was it! That was Rasul’s bookstore. Now that she knew the name, she knew she couldn’t leave Paris without at least trying to talk to Rasul Aziz, Andrew’s friend. If Andrew trusted him then she knew that she could trust him too. Maybe he could help her.

  She punched the name of the bookstore into her Google Maps, and quickly pinned down the location. It was a quite a distance from where she was, halfway across Paris, but she could be there within the hour. She would find Rasul, talk to him, and find out anything he knew about Andrew or what happened to him, and then get the hell out of Paris. She could be back on a plane by late afternoon, if she played her cards right. With that, she emerged onto a wide boulevard a bloc
k away from the Hotel Venue, and raised her arm to signal a taxi. Within moments, she was safely ensconced in the cab and headed to Paradigm Books across town. Surely, she thought, Rasul Aziz would help her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Rasul Aziz was walking up steps leading to a great white stone building on the Oxford campus. At the top of the steps he could see his old friend Andy Bolling standing, gazing down at him with tears in his eyes. Rasul felt sudden and instant sorrow that his good friend Andy was dead, and wanted to tell him how sorry he was for everything that had happened. But somehow, with his each step, Andy got further and further away from Rasul until he had all but disappeared. Rasul looked everywhere in and around the building for his friend, and he felt a wave of extreme sadness at the realization that he could not find him anywhere.

  Rasul’s mind was in a fog as he awoke from the dream, but a vague feeling of deep sadness still hovered over him as he opened his eyes. Hearing footsteps approaching from outside, his dream faded from consciousness as the steps grew louder. In an instant, his brain snapped awake, and he realized that the footsteps he was hearing were not part of some hazy dream, but the sound of real footsteps ascending the stairs outside his old college apartment where he was still lying on the broken down couch.

  Jumping to his feet, he suddenly felt a shot of pain rip through his right shoulder. Grabbing the incision on his right side of his chest where the fresh stitches still stung, he stumbled into the second bedroom, pulling the dingy cover along with him. He stepped into the empty closet and stood motionless as the listened to the sound of the Indian student enter the apartment.

  “Tatti,” the Indian distinctly said under his breath, just loud enough for Rasul to hear him in the second bedroom. Rasul recognized the Indian swear word and realized that the young man must have found the broken door lock and was thinking that he’d been robbed. Rasul listened as he moved around the room, opening drawers, inspecting this apartment for anything missing. Rasul’s mind raced, trying to think of any evidence he’d left that there had indeed been someone in the apartment, or that he was still there.