by Tyler Flynn
Hart smiled. “Absolutely not. To what do I owe the pleasure this morning?”
“James is coming back from Florida this morning and may come in a few minutes late, but I wanted to give you a heads-up. He has a request, but I can’t tell you what. Just be prepared.” She smiled at Hart, looking him over.
Hart nodded. He didn’t know what it was, but Sheryl had seen fit to give him a heads-up, which she never did. “Thanks, Sheryl. I guess I owe you one.”
“No, you don’t.” She reached over the cubicle and handed him a plate with a bagel and a cup of coffee. “You owe me two, actually.” She gave a devilish grin and disappeared before Hart could say thank you.
“How was Florida?” Hart asked as he walked into the office.
“Florida?” Hutchens seemed confused and touched his face. “Oh, the tan. Yes, a quick golf trip with some friends, you observant son of a bitch.” Hutchens cleared his throat and sat up in his chair.
A longtime East-Coaster, Hutchens had become immersed with the financial elites and wore their uniform—generously cut double-breasted suits and shiny loafers—at least three days a week. He had thinning silver hair and stood like a bear, with his six-foot-four frame and habit of tucking his hands into the back of his waistband, leaning backward as if readying himself to burst out in laughter or rage.
“Actually, I just said hi to Sheryl when I was walking in. She mentioned you flew back this morning.” Hart was pleased to have thrown his boss off-balance and proceeded to take a seat in one of the two large red leather chairs facing the desk.
The office was ornately decorated, but its greatest quality was the view, looking west over the Hudson. The office was designed to stun potential clients, and it easily fulfilled its duties. Dark mahogany bookshelves lined the room, the carpet hunter-green with gold flowery specks, and there was a tall credenza filled with pictures of his family and celebrities.
“Paul, this will only take a few minutes, but I wanted to personally bring you up to speed.” Hutchens made his way over to the window. He peered down at the street for a moment. “I have a job for you.”
Hart, who was still absentmindedly writing the date at the top of the notepad on his lap, looked up at his boss with his best poker face. Best to know what is being asked of you before accepting. It had become his policy with his impulsive boss.
“We have a client that is relatively new, been with us for a little under a year.” Hutchens ambled over to his desk and, with his large paw-like hands, lowered himself into his leather chair with a thud. He smacked the space bar to wake up his computer.
As the screen flickered to life, Hart sat back in relief. He’d only been formally called into the office twice. First, when he was hired, and the second time was for a necessary but awkward assurance that his job was safe, which he never quite believed. Hutchens pivoted the monitor on the desk and pointed to a picture, obscuring it with his enormous leather-strapped Breitling watch.
Hart studied the photo of a man who looked to be mid-fifties, with slicked back salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a blue blazer over an oxford shirt and light-khaki pants, and had an amenable smile while walking through a row of vines.
“This man is Claude Renard. I know you don’t recognize him,” Hutchens grunted. “He is CEO of a French agricultural firm specializing in farming equipment. Based out of Paris. All roads lead to Paris.” Hutchens chuckled softly and received the compulsory I work for you smile from Hart. “He is amongst the wealthiest businessmen in France, but thanks to Renard Industries being privately held and operating under a holding company, he is not well known to the public. He has a penchant for privacy.”
Hutchens leaned back in his chair. “His father started this small agricultural equipment company in the late eighties. The international economy wasn’t so great then, let alone Europe’s, but his father invested heavily in technology and tried to corner that market for the long term. He was playing a long ball.” Hutchens smacked his desk and smiled, a businessman recognizing brilliance in another. Hart dutifully nodded in agreement.
“Come the mid-1990s, the world is moving along again. The French government is investing in agriculture, trying to boost the foundation of their economy. Suddenly, farms bought more equipment, and the government subsidized much of it in hopes the agricultural sector across Europe would blossom. Claude and his father happened to be the only game in town that had been developing new equipment. They were in a rare position to name the price and control the market with a constant demand. Well played, don’t you think?”
Hutchens sat forward and tilted his head, as if he were gauging Hart’s interest. He slid gold-framed spectacles out from his shirt pocket and picked up a piece of paper sitting on his desk.
Hart was curious but kept a straight face. “I’ll venture a guess they had a strong lobbyist to push for more government regulation and spending for farmers.”
Hutchens smiled and slurped his coffee from a Yale mug. “Astute of you. Renard played the game from multiple angles and laid the groundwork for the massive company Renard Industries is today.”
Hutchens glanced at the paper in his hand. “We’ll have a great opportunity with him. Like I said, he’s a client but doesn’t have more than some idle cash sitting with us. But we want to ramp up his investments, and I think he could be easily persuaded to bring over millions with the proper incentives.”
Hart digested the information, unsure of what it all meant for him. “I can get started on some background work, have an associate help compile some holdings and statements, but I’ll need to reach out to Renard’s people to get most of that. May take a few days to review it all, but we should be able to start outlining a plan soon. I can probably have something by the end of next week.”
Hutchens grunted but gave no further acknowledgment. He rested his elbows on his chair and clasped his paw-like hands together.
“Well, there is a tricky part to this. The European Union is actually ahead of the United States’ regulators for once.” Hutchens shook his head in disbelief. “It is now law to identify the largest majority shareholder—an actual person—of any company, private or public. It’s called ‘know your client,’ or KYC. This is in response to that shitstorm the Panama Papers created. But now Uncle Sam has decided that instead of waiting a few years, US companies should do their due diligence to the full extent of their capabilities right away. We’re playing catch-up.” He shrugged.
Hart scratched his stubble. “Well, that could be hard if Renard has a complex ownership structure. Holding companies, different countries, regulations, and continents for that matter.” Hart questioned whether this was a problem worth having; it would be a lot of work. “What exactly does Renard want in the US?”
Hutchens waved the question off, but Hart could see a hint of a smile. “Well, maybe Renard would be interested in owning an American company through an acquisition. Setting that up could be really profitable for us. I must say, Paul, this client will make or break your career here. Your goal is to have him bring over more assets.”
Hart swallowed. Winning business wasn’t in his job description. He knew he’d been on thin ice at the firm for a while, but now it seemed he had an ultimatum. He looked about the office and felt a pang of anxiety when his gaze rested on the family photo behind the desk of a smiling blond woman on top of a gray horse. Hutchens caught Hart’s gaze and held his hand out, as if commanding Hart’s attention. Hart pushed the photo and the flood of memories from his mind.
“I know things have seemed unsettled for you lately at the firm, but this is the best deal you’re going to get.”
Hart shook his head. “All I ever wanted was a chance to prove myself.”
Hutchens stood and adjusted his pants by the belt loops. “That’s why I’ll give you a fair shot at keeping your career here. I want you to go to Paris and meet with him. Take a look at what he can bring us, and do a bit of digging so we can cover ourselves on these due-diligence matters with th
is ownership thing.”
Hart’s confusion showed as he hesitated, searching for his words.
“Yes, I said Paris. Interested?” Hutchens glared.
Hart thought he’d misheard his boss. His mind raced. Why would Hutchens send him? Perhaps Hutchens’ sense of urgency revolved around the idea of regulators coming into the office, wearing drab suits and boxy shoes, and requesting documents and customer information, only to find Calhoun Capital had international clients with little to no background information on file. The trip felt like an errand, but Paris and the ultimatum he’d been given made his chest pound.
Hart ran the scenarios. Go to Paris for a few days, collect basic ownership information, and if he connected with the client, he’d make money and save his career. The downside was—worst case—he got a trip to France paid for before needing to start a new career. The trip was a wildly unexpected opportunity, but he also knew he didn’t have a choice.
“When would I leave?”
Hutchens smiled and walked back over to the window. “You’re booked on the 5:30 p.m. to Charles de Gaulle. I hope you can find your passport.”
3
New York City
The town car stopped outside Terminal Two at JFK Airport, and the driver raced around to open the rear passenger door. Hart slid out of the car, grabbed his bags, and threw a, “Thank you,” over his shoulder at the driver.
After leaving Hutchens’ office, he had rushed to his apartment to hunt down his passport and pack. He’d thrown in his best-fitting suit, two white dress shirts, two navy-blue ties, and his Burberry raincoat. His briefcase held his computer, a tablet, and some reading about Claude Renard for his eight-hour flight.
Hart knew he would have extra security before he boarded. There would be a flag on him in the risk algorithms airlines had been using for the past fifteen years for buying a last-minute international ticket. He strolled to his place in the security line, and sure enough, the agent circled his boarding pass for additional screening. Hart took off his shoes and pulled his computer out of the bag, longing to be in the lounge having a drink before he had to board.
He relaxed after he’d cleared security and headed straight to the lounge. Travel was invigorating for him. It meant accepting you were a passenger and not in control of how fast you got to where you were going or what route you were taking. This was why he always felt so comfortable at airports: he didn’t have to make any decisions.
The Centurion Lounge had a queue at the check-in counter, so Hart watched the monitors, to find Flight 617 to Charles de Gaulle was on time. He had an hour before boarding and decided he had enough time to grab a drink. There would also be plenty of options on the flight thanks to Hutchens booking him business class. If one had to travel for work, it was not a bad way to go.
After flashing his passport, boarding pass, and American Express card to the receptionist, he made his way into the lounge. Lime-green chairs, shapely purple sofas, and orange coffee tables sprinkled the lounge as travelers passed the time with a plate of food or a drink.
Hart found a seat at the empty bar. The bartender strode over and smiled. She was tall, with light-blond hair and almond-shaped brown eyes.
“What will it be?”
Hart always enjoyed a flirt, especially while traveling. He smiled and scanned the bar.
“How are you this fine afternoon?” He paused to read her name tag. “Nicole?”
He surprised himself with his bravado. He was in a good mood but immediately regretted sounding like an overeager tourist. But perhaps he could forgive his own enthusiasm; he was traveling to Paris all expenses paid.
“I’m fine. But no one really ever asks me that unless they want to know what time I’m finished here.” She laughed to save Hart the awkwardness. “So, what can I get you to drink?”
His advance had been halted, and he retreated by giving his order. “I’d love a Johnnie Blue, neat, and maybe a strong pour for me. I’ve had quite a day so far.” He shrugged and offered a shy smile.
She turned to grab the bottle off the top shelf; his attention was caught by the tight fit of her dress shirt. He looked up to find her smiling back at him, holding the bottle of scotch. He’d been caught and felt his cheeks warm. She poured his drink, filling nearly half the glass, and left the bottle on the bar.
For the next half hour, Hart enjoyed not one but two glasses while consulting his dossier on Renard and learning little. It dawned on him that the trip was going to be more work and more stressful than he had imagined, but it could be worth it to prove to Hutchens he was capable.
Hart sipped his scotch and watched Nicole hurry back and forth across the bar, which was slowly filling up with weekend commuters. His career might be on the line, but he found a sense of relief in the ultimatum given to him. His current role was limited and his future unknown, but his career could flourish if he earned Renard’s business. He wondered why Hutchens had chosen him but told himself to just enjoy the ride, and pushed the uncertainty from his mind. There was pressure on him, but who didn’t have that in their job? He checked his watch; he needed to be at the gate soon.
“We would like to begin the boarding process for Flight 617 to Paris Charles de Gaulle at Gate 15,” the airport PA called out.
Impeccable timing, he thought as he drained the last of his drink and stood.
He made eye contact with the bartender, gave a small wave, and handed her his credit card. She brought him the bill and set it down in front of him.
“Seems like you’re heading to Paris. Have you been there before?” she asked.
“Yes, I am. How did you know?”
“Your face lit up when they announced the flight.”
Hart laughed. “I’ve been there once. Never for work, though.”
“Oh, and what will you be doing there?”
“Hopefully, proving my worth.” He smiled and tucked his card back into his wallet, leaving the receipt on the bar. “How about you? Ever been?”
Nicole’s eyes widened. “No, but working at the airport has perks. I can fly free on a few airlines thanks to some friends I’ve made. Just have to pay taxes on international flights. Maybe I’ll go meet a nice Frenchman over there someday, you never know.” She threw her head back, laughing, her blond hair bouncing as she walked towards the end of the bar.
Hart grabbed his bags and made his way down to where she was. “You know, you don’t have to go all the way to Paris to meet a nice guy.” He shrugged playfully and thought, What the hell? He was leaving the country anyway.
She shook her head in amusement. She walked back to where he’d sat and left his receipt. Folding it, she handed it to him. “Don’t lose this. You can expense your bar bill.” She said with a wink, “Tips of the trade. Bon voyage.” And before he could do any more than smile and raise his arm to give a quick wave goodbye, she was gone through the double doors into the kitchen.
He silently thanked Nicole for the great idea and stuffed the receipt in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He would have to swing by the next time he was at the airport and say thank you.
Ten minutes after leaving the lounge, he was sitting on the left side of the Air France Airbus A330 in seat D1, being served by a tall French brunette in a red pantsuit. She smiled courteously and gave Hart his espresso, with a neatly wrapped salted caramel on the side. After looking over the dinner menu, he placed his order, which was to be served forty minutes into the flight. The usual airline-food stereotype did not apply when it came to Air France. The cuisine was a product of collaboration with one of France’s most distinguished and respected chefs, Joël Robuchon. The starter was a lobster bisque, the main course was stuffed chicken breast with candied foie-gras crumples, and for dessert, chocolate and raspberry crème brûlée; red Burgundy from Beaune complemented the meal. His career was put on the line, but if push came to shove, at least he’d be going out in style.
Hart relaxed in the plush seat as his fellow business-class passengers got settled before the tr
ansatlantic flight; everyone dancing about, putting bags up in the overhead bin, and only a moment later getting back up to take something out. A pompous man in a large pinstriped suit wearing oversized loafers talked loudly on his cell. Hart had a soft chuckle as he imagined the man fitting in to the quiet French café culture.
He took the last sip of his espresso and set it down, and it was whisked away immediately by the flight attendant, who offered a soft smile. Hart gave a deliberate, “Merci beaucoup,” and in return received a, “You’re welcome.” So much for assimilating.
As the Airbus A330 taxied from the gate and made its way down to the end of the runway, his mind wandered back over his unexpected day. When he took his usual commute to the office, he didn’t expect that later that day he’d be sitting in business class on the way to Paris. While the uncertainty of his objectives gnawed at him, he also felt a sense of opportunity, a strange mixture of enthusiasm and anxiety. He wouldn’t let this pass him by.
Hart watched the airport lights slide by as the plane lumbered down the runway, gathering speed; then, as if shot out of a cannon, Hart was pinned to his seat as the Rolls-Royce engines roared to life. New York City fell away to the drone of the engines. He pulled the receipt from his jacket, curious to discover how much two glasses of Johnnie Walker Blue Label had cost, and unfolded it. As the plane pierced the first layer of clouds, Hart found a note on the bottom, Next time you’re in town – Nicole, with her number and a smiley face.
4
Paris
Fall in Paris. The sky was a piercing bright blue, painted with wispy white clouds that stretched over the Jardin des Tuileries. The trees lining the garden had become victim to the fall and changed color to auburns, yellows, and oranges, their leaves rustling in the breeze that lazily swept across the Seine.
From his room at the Hotel Regina, Hart could see the large Ferris wheel that resided on the edge of Place de la Concorde, past Rue de Rivoli. Behind it, the Eiffel Tower, partially obscured by the slanted rooftops of the Left Bank, stood watch over its city. Straight across the Seine, which separated the First Arrondissement from the Seventh, was the Musée D’Orsay, a converted train station that held one of the world’s most prestigious art collections, including works by Monet and Van Gogh. To the left of the garden, the glass pyramid of the Louvre reflected the early-morning sunlight. Hart felt he had gone back in time to when he visited as a wide-eyed teenager. Paris could do that.