by Tyler Flynn
Hart listened intently, only using his wine as a cover to break eye contact, and it also kept his hands busy. The way Clara spoke with poise and a certain nostalgia, proud of her story, made Hart uneasy, because he realized how attracted he was to her. He had forgotten that he’d been upset Renard hadn’t joined him, but now he wouldn’t have it any other way. The little surprises in life.
“However, a terrible thing happened that morning. The meeting was starting, but my boss was late. I led the government officials to the conference room, where there were breakfast pastries to keep their attention. But Monsieur Bichot was nowhere to be found. I desperately tried to find him, calling his cell phone, his home—nothing. In fact, I spoke with his wife, who seemed rather uninterested and simply offered that her husband had never come home the night before. Perhaps this was not a rare occurrence. Nonetheless, Monsieur Renard arrived and expected Bichot to lead the meeting. I shared the bad news that Bichot was missing. Monsieur Renard could not consider rescheduling, not wanting to appear untrustworthy. He sat fuming at my desk.”
Her eyes lit up as the second course arrived. Two waiters placed the monkfish plates and refilled the wineglasses. With a quick, “Bon appétit,” they headed off once again. The plate had steamed carrots, potatoes, and rich butter at the base of the creamy sauce.
“I hope there was a good reason for Monsieur Bichot’s lack of attendance.” Hart pronounced the name well, dropping the t sound at the end.
Clara, appearing appreciative of the effort, gave a slight bow of her head. She delicately cut the fish and took a bite. She hummed with pleasure. Hart tried his fish and had a similar reaction; the buttery white fish melted in his mouth.
“I hope I am not speaking too much. I find this story helpful to understand my role with Monsieur Renard.” She glanced at Hart, then back to her monkfish, which she cut with the delicate hands of a surgeon.
Hart dabbed his face with his napkin. “Not at all. I am enjoying this. Might I add your English is perfect—I could listen to you all day?”
Clara seemed to ignore the compliment and the attempt at flattery, turning it back to Hart.
“You speak rather well for an American, or at least can order wine better than most. Did you order Merlot with white fish on purpose, or were you simply following my lead of ordering a red?” She laughed.
“I happen to think anything is great with Merlot.”
Clara waved a hand. “Anyway, your French is decent. Not like what they teach in schools. Did you learn when you visited in college?”
“Yes, I was lucky enough to travel quite a bit, fell in love with the culture, and learned some of the language, amongst other things.”
He did not fight the urge to smile. Clara offered a bemused face, her eyes searching Hart’s.
“Well, I must get to the end of my story before we finish lunch, or you shall need to take me to dinner to hear the rest.” She had been speaking for the majority of the lunch and mentioned it several times, but Hart had in fact enjoyed it immensely.
He rubbed his chin playfully. “Unfortunately for you, that may end up being the case regardless. I do have a few more days in Paris. But please continue. I am captivated.”
He picked up his wineglass and took a long sip. Contentment swirled inside him. Was he feeling the effects of the wine or the company? He reminded himself to breathe.
“Very well. So, Monsieur Renard had quite the problem because my boss, Bichot, was indisposed. So, for reasons perhaps unknown to even myself, I told Monsieur Renard that I was comfortable with the topic of the meeting. I had actually done all the research and planning in the first place.” She shrugged as if she couldn’t understand her own thinking. “I still remember the look on Monsieur Renard’s face. He blew air out through his lips, a classic French expression for Why the hell not? We won the business that day. I think the government officials appreciated my presence more than Monsieur Renard’s. But they liked what we were saying even more.”
Hart nodded approvingly. “That’s extraordinary. You’ve clearly taken the opportunity and run with it.” He raised the remnants of his wine. “To taking advantage of great opportunities.”
Clara blushed and they clinked glasses.
“Well, I was fortunate Monsieur Renard found a place for me that is near to him. I know he appreciated me helping him when it was needed.”
Hart could relate to good fortune in one’s career. Fate had played a similar role in his, but he was envious of how far Clara had taken her opportunity. “Whatever came of your boss, Monsieur Bichot? Did he miss the Metro that morning?”
Clara looked at her lap and shook her head. “Funny you should ask, he actually, uh”—she searched for her words and distractedly looked across the restaurant—“well, he, uh, ran away with his mistress. I tell you this in confidence by the way; after all, we’ve dined together. She was a beautiful redhead from Normandy, but she wasn’t all he ran away with, I’m afraid. We think he embezzled a few euros, too, before he vanished. Haven’t heard from him since. Probably off on some secluded island.”
Clara flicked her green eyes from him and pursed her lips. Hart recognized it was a subject to steer clear of.
The waiter glided over, as if he could sense a lull in the conversation. He cleaned the tablecloth of crumbs and asked if they were ready for the dessert course and turned to retrieve the cheese. When he returned, he brought a small wooden cutting board adorned with Comté cheese—the salty not fruity type, which, he explained, was a sign of longer aging—cherry jam, honey, a small slice of Brie, and Roquefort.
Clara cut a slice of the Comté. “Paul, you must try Comté first because it is the least strong of these fromages. If you have it last, you will not truly taste it. Which would be a shame, because the salty type is my favorite.”
The murmur of the restaurant grew softer as their lunch outlasted those of the other diners, who had made for the exit in the early afternoon. Hart was looking for the bill well after dessert but reminded himself that in France the bill was not given but asked for. Why rush such an art as eating? Clara had been polite enough and, he assumed, engaged enough that she did not mind the time spent lingering. He certainly didn’t.
Clara maneuvered in her seat to get the attention of a passing waiter, for to raise one’s arms to summon a server in a Parisian restaurant was akin to treason. Hart had learned this the hard way during his college trip, waving wildly at a server, who ignored him with the grace of a proud dog who’d been scolded, adding another half hour to his lunch as punishment.
The waiter brought the bill, along with two wrapped caramels, to their table. Hart insisted on getting the check, and after a back and forth between the two of them that had no end in sight, he handed his card to the waiter and pleaded for him to take it. The waiter raised his eyebrows and dutifully put Hart out of his misery.
“Clara, I have to say I really enjoyed our lunch. The food was incredible, but your company was even better.” Hart smiled as his voice trailed off, suddenly unsure of himself.
Clara folded her napkin and laid it neatly on the table before casting her sea-green eyes at him as she waited patiently for him to finish.
“But will I have an opportunity to meet Monsieur Renard?”
She looked at the door, then at him with a subtle smile. “I will take you to him now.”
6
London
Riverbed Capital Bank moved slower towards the end of any Friday. The grind of the job—managing risk and studying international events that affected the markets—was difficult any day of the week, let alone on a busy Friday.
Igor sat at his desk and watched the Nasdaq market in the United States on one monitor while reading the Guardian online newspaper on another. The newspaper’s main webpage showed a series of articles chronicling the changing lifestyles of Brits who had backed the failed “remain” campaign in the Brexit referendum. There was coverage of a terror attack on the streets of Berlin; a refugee had stolen a taxi and plowed int
o a group of tourists, injuring a dozen. Igor read the article with interest, coming across the line, “Perhaps the UK has done well to separate herself from the migrant dilemmas sweeping Europe, otherwise that cab could have been in Leicester Square.”
Igor felt content for the moment, picturing the further fracturing of the European Union. The attacks would drive hatred and bigotry towards the migrants flooding Europe, and governments would stumble in response, the effects of which you could already begin to seen.
On top of the webpage, a red banner highlighted coverage of European elections that had been the victims of the wave of nationalism scorching the globe, sparked by the Brexit vote. The United States elected a protectionist president, and suddenly Europe was next in line to battle isolationism.
Igor’s job required him to have fundamental knowledge of, and insight into, political and economic events shaping the world. He endlessly watched the world’s markets. The interconnectedness of the economic system meant there was always something to observe and glean. Whether it was the Nikkei in Japan, or the Dow Jones in the United States, any market where his clients had invested demanded his attention, especially geopolitical events.
While his daily responsibilities could become burdensome, the access to different companies and people was priceless. He was in charge of more money than he could ever dream of, and because of the power that came with money, he could execute his master plan. His career provided perfect cover to lure unsuspecting prey, or clients, into a trap by merely mentioning profit.
There were certainly times when Igor could not believe his good fortune that he worked at Riverbed Capital Bank, located conveniently in London’s Canary Wharf. The number of financial services jobs in London was over three hundred and fifty thousand, in more than forty thousand companies. He blended in as just another ambitious blue suit with black oxfords, the unofficial dress uniform of London, but that fit him quite well.
He clicked away at his computer, the Friday suddenly going by too fast. He had a meeting scheduled for 4:30 p.m. with his team of associates about client investments for the upcoming year. He knew it was important that he keep up appearances, regardless of the fact he wouldn’t be at the company next year. The thought had crossed his mind years ago of working well into his sixties, retiring, and playing golf when he wasn’t at the pub, but he knew this wasn’t to be his fate. Neither was becoming too comfortable and confident, ultimately letting his guard down. Igor needed to be sharp. He was the grandmaster of his game, moving players about with well-thought-out moves until the ultimate goal was in sight.
The latest pawn he’d moved into place was an American, whose eyes lit up after Igor mentioned there was a client looking to expand into the US. The man had begged for an introduction, and Igor played on the American lust for profits. Oh, this client will only want to work with someone who can nearly guarantee exuberant returns. Surely, you wouldn’t want them.
From the comfort of his glass office, Igor smiled as he recalled the con: tell someone what he or she can’t have, and it is all they will desire. He had placed Calhoun Capital right where he wanted them, another pawn on the chessboard that would be sacrificed without hesitation.
Igor’s email pinged with a note from Mitch Clarkson; the subject line simply “transfer rumor.” The email read like one between friends discussing the potential transfer of an expensive football player to West Ham United, a club based in the East End of London, but in reality was far more nefarious than that. Apart from the coverage in the Guardian of the World Cup–qualifying match that was to take place in London the next week, which had been built up for months, football didn’t interest him.
Igor read the email once more, deleted it, and stood from his desk. He looked out his glass office door that oversaw the “Stables,” the name affectionately given to the gray, drab cubicle maze spread across the floor. The company could be excused for the tight working conditions of the offices; after all, it was London, with some of the most expensive square footage in the world. The expensive marketplace and cramped conditions didn’t affect Igor in his private office, or the two hundred fifty thousand pounds per year, plus commission, he made; at least, that was the official figure he filed for taxes. The actual amount was considerably higher, thanks to his off-the-books arrangements.
With no one on his floor paying him any attention, Igor slipped down the hallway and down the several flights of stairs to the basement offices, where the company’s support staff sat. The Single Euro Payment Area (SEPA) function of the bank was tucked away in a dark corner of the building. Igor wasn’t a man who feared much, but the thought of being trapped in a dark, windowless room sent a chill down his spine.
The SEPA function was a system designed so that individuals located in the European Union could conduct transfers across country lines without any additional hassle or fees, a cornerstone of the open market system. Every financial institution that operated in the EU had a department committed solely to monitoring SEPA transactions to ensure that laws were followed and no suspicious activity was conducted.
The man at Riverbed Capital Bank who oversaw the monitoring of such transactions was Mitch Clarkson. Igor found that Mitch happened to be someone in the department who didn’t mind cutting corners. He barely took home forty thousand pounds a year managing the SEPA transfers from his windowless basement.
Igor was happy to provide the incentive for the corner cutting, an extra two thousand pounds a month for Mitch, which went far living in London. Igor kept their arrangement simple, offering money and a vague excuse in exchange for Mitch’s monitoring and deletion of specific transfers. Igor, for added insurance, gave Mitch a late-night visit at his East End apartment: I know where you live.
The payoffs and transfers went smoothly. Mitch happily provided Igor the cover for his client from France who needed to send money to England but simply didn’t want any record of it—You know, taxes are the devil. Mitch looked the other way because he was well compensated and had grown tired of monitoring the money of richer people. The arrangement for Mitch was low risk; after all, he was the only person in the firm who could catch this type of activity. Transfers would be deposited into an account, and Mitch would simply delete the record of the transfer so that if someone were to look at the account, the money would appear to have always been there.
There was risk, but Mitch felt there were enough SEPA transfers canceled every day by banks or customers that nothing would ever look out of place. The only difference was those canceled transfers would see the money taken out of the account and sent back to its original account, unlike what Mitch did for Igor. After months of success, Mitch had worked up the courage to ask for more than two thousand pounds a month from Igor, who begrudgingly agreed. He’d originally budgeted five thousand a month and expected a change of heart eventually.
While the requests were certainly a bit odd and perhaps mischievous, the amounts were not indicative of some massive scheme to launder money into Great Britain. The amounts over the past months ranged from seven hundred pounds to just over five thousand, totaling several hundred thousand, but they all came from various farming companies, with the memo lines indicating they were proceeds from sales.
What Mitch didn’t dare ask was, what happened to the money after it arrived? Igor knew because he would take the bank card associated with the account that the money came into under a fake name and head to the wine shop in Borough Market and pour the money right back in through a phony sale of wine. The sale would be for an exorbitant amount but served the purpose of moving the money to a different bank. It was laundering money, hiding the proverbial bread crumbs through legitimate businesses transactions.
Igor sauntered into Mitch Clarkson’s cube, tucked away under a harsh fluorescent light, and surveyed the floor for people nearby.
An exuberant Mitch nearly shouted while taking off his headphones as he saw Igor approach. “Hey, mate!”
Mitch immediately recognized his mistake, as Igor’s face tu
rned a darker shade of red and his eyes narrowed, before he composed his somber demeanor.
“Thanks for the email,” Igor said.
Mitch, enthralled by the excitement of a momentary departure from his mindless job, tried to control his eagerness with little luck. He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms over his slightly faded T-shirt, a subtle revolt against the Canary Wharf business uniform, and grinned.
“Yeah, glad I can help. I’ll always let you know when a good transfer comes through.” He leaned forward in his chair and giggled, before rolling it closer to the several computer screens on his desk. He clicked away at the keyboard. Every few keystrokes, he would stop, frozen in place, listening intently to see if anyone was coming.
Igor shifted his weight from foot to foot and leaned slightly against the five-foot-high cubicle wall.
“There,” Mitch said with a final click. “As if the transfer never happened.”
“Brilliant.” Igor lowered his voice. “The amount?”
Mitch wheeled his chair across his cube and plucked a sticky note from under the desk. “Already had it written out and hidden under the desk. I know the drill.”
Igor grabbed the sticky note and flashed an insincere smile as he turned to leave. “Cheers.”
“Hey, Igor, um...” Mitch said as he jumped to his feet. “Do you think, since this arrangement is going so well, we could reach an amount per transfer? Maybe instead of a flat rate you could give me a percentage of whatever it is you’re doing. Because—”
Igor jabbed his hand into Mitch’s chest. “I am not a guy you want to negotiate with. Do your job. I’ll pay you, or I’ll find someone else.”
Mitch grabbed his chest, rubbed it for a moment, and looked down. “Yeah, course. I...” But when Mitch looked up, he only saw Igor’s back as he slipped away down the dark hallway.
Back in his office, Igor took off his jacket and threw it onto his chair. With a key he kept in his wallet, he unlocked his top desk drawer and grabbed his black leather-bound notebook, which had “The Devil is in the Details” written on it in gold foil. He found the red silk bookmark that marked the page of handwritten notes and numbers. Tracking down the left-hand side of the page, he found an empty space and marked down the amount from the note Mitch had given him. He scanned up and down the page, impressed with the progress that had been made nearly a year on, and realized he had reached the goal he’d aimed for. The notebook contained the dates and amounts of incoming transfers that were deleted to the account he managed for his most important client. Better to manually track the money than have electronic records on his computer.