by Tyler Flynn
He closed the book, locked it away once again in his desk drawer, and leaned back in his chair. Igor took a deep breath. He was closer to the chaos he planned for and craved, but first he had an urgent appointment to schedule.
7
Paris
The Mercedes S550 sailed up the gradual climb of the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, past the heavy traffic as Parisians hurried out of town for the weekend. Horns blared and motorbikes weaved in and out of the congestion, their engines whining as they passed the slower traffic.
Halfway up the avenue, and comfortably in the back seat, Hart watched tourists pack the sidewalks, marching up to the Arc de Triomphe. He sat next to Clara, who since leaving the restaurant had only paid attention to her cell. The ride was quite the opposite sensation from the one lunch provided, but Hart figured it was because there wasn’t any wine in the car to aid conversation. Perhaps Clara had enjoyed her lunch and, more specifically, his company. He hoped she did. She was engaging, even with a hint of playfulness. She was well spoken, with a sexiness that came with her Parisienne devil-may-care attitude. Her French birthright of being a world-class flirt certainly made her even more desirable.
The car navigated past the Arc de Triomphe roundabout, while Hart stopped himself from fantasizing further. It’s purely business, Paul. She is not interested, you idiot.
He absentmindedly twirled his cell between his thumb and index finger with a flick of his wrist. Clara was still on her own device, and he felt compelled to work as well, so he sent a quick update to Hutchens.
“We’ll be heading to the offices to meet with Monsieur Renard. He only has about twenty minutes to say hello,” Clara said as she looked up from her phone. “That will be okay?”
That was not okay. Hart could feel his temples pound. He had flown over the Atlantic on short notice, and while he did get a delicious lunch with an attractive woman, giving him only twenty minutes to win business worth hundreds of millions of dollars was not okay.
“That’s great. I can appreciate how busy he is.” Hart smiled and looked out the window to mask his disappointment. He saw a café covered by a red awning and full of chic Parisians lounging with books, watching the world go by. What would the café crowd think of his predicament? Certainly there would be no sympathy for him. He watched the rest of the street pass, taking in the wealthy neighborhood of Neuilly-sur-Seine, its buildings sparkling white from steam cleaning.
There was no time to feel sorry, and he was certainly not trying to pout, so he turned back towards Clara.
“You know, my father used to tell me a meeting should take no longer than thirty minutes. And if you need more time than that, you’re not ready to have that meeting.” He paused while Clara laid her phone down on her lap and studied him with a child’s curiosity. “He also said that lunch can never be too long with a beautiful lady.” He felt his cheeks warming with the unsubtle and clumsy attempt at flattery.
The car was silent for a brief moment. Hart could have sworn he heard the driver suppress a laugh as the air seemed sucked out of the car. Clara appeared to process the words as her eyes narrowed. She smiled hesitantly, but the smile disappeared as quickly as it showed.
Hart thought the squint of her eyes revealed that she enjoyed the flattery. Was that a smile?
“Yes, I think that you and Monsieur Renard will get along very well.”
Hart felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, like his terrine and monkfish at lunch had taken the shape of a brick. He silently cursed himself. Had he gone too far? After all, she had ignored the comment, but who didn’t appreciate a harmless compliment? She smiled, though, right? He thought so.
He tried to change the subject. “So, what can you tell me about Monsieur Renard? What is he like?”
This question produced a huff that said, Where do I begin? Clara brushed a strand of her dark hair behind her ear as she searched out the window for her words. “Firstly, he is always curious. He must know everything about everyone and then wants to know more. An example is once we had a visitor from a Formula One team seeking marketing partnerships with agricultural companies. It was a project designed around the potential of using sustainable fuels. Keep in mind this was several years ago—technology has changed—but anyway, the individual meeting with Renard was more scientist than salesman. The two of them ended up spending the better part of the meeting talking about the differences in fuel consumption between a V12 engine and the theoretical future technology.
“The meeting was mostly staring at charts and hearing chemical formulas spelled out—not exactly Monsieur Renard’s forte. Well, needless to say, he was not happy at all, the level of scientific discussion making him feel belittled. He was in a foul mood for the rest of that day, but he asked the man for a follow-up meeting in three months’ time.
“Those three months, Monsieur Renard poured resources into identifying alternative engine technology. When the man came back to see if Monsieur Renard was interested in a partnership, he told him no, because Renard had created his own alternative idea. And thus, Formula Electric was born. The new Grand Prix grade fuel was built almost entirely out of spite and curiosity. That is who Monsieur Claude Renard is.”
Hart’s eyes widened. Renard was ferociously competitive. He took a deep breath and blew it out between his lips, causing them to flap slightly, the French way of expressing bewilderment, drawing a giggle from Clara.
The conversation started to flow again as it had during lunch. They spoke about how long he had been at Calhoun Capital, what he did on a daily basis, and the clients his company kept. Traffic eased as they made their way over the Seine and through the business district of La Défense, with its tall office buildings stretching before them, seeming foreign in the City of Light. It was like entering a different world. Gone were the romantic landscapes and vintage feel of Paris, replaced by corporations and ambition.
The chauffeur stopped the Mercedes and raced out of the car to open Clara’s door.
“Thank you, Maxim,” she said to the tall driver, who smiled courteously.
Hart appreciated the chivalry, but more so, the driver clearly knew who paid the bills.
Hart and Clara walked towards the modernist design of the new Arc de Triomphe, known as La Grande Arche, an iconic office building built in honor of the original landmark. As they walked, Clara spoke while transfixed by the massive structure.
“This building was finished in 1989 to commemorate the two-hundred-year anniversary of the French Revolution. It mostly houses governmental offices, with a few purposefully chosen companies, real estate agencies, investment banks, and us.”
They made their way up the white steps towards the arch that stretched thirty-five stories into the sky. Glass revolving doors led the way into the whitewashed lobby, filled with natural light filtering in through high windows.
Clara and Hart passed through the vacant lobby and made for the elevator bank. Two policemen were on patrol, strolling casually in their blue uniforms with gold belt buckles and white holsters. Their black-soled boots echoed softly off the polished floor. The pair politely nodded and gave a tip of the cap to the beautiful lady escorting the gentleman into the elevator.
There was a chime as they reached the sixteenth floor, and the elevator doors opened to a marble lobby with an acrylic sign that read, “Renard Industries.” Hart followed Clara through the maze of offices and conference rooms separated by glass walls until they came to a short hallway with a vast dark-wood door at the end. Clara approached the door and opened it inwards, revealing a smaller room containing a vacant teak assistant’s desk in front of an expansive view of the skyline of La Défense. Across the room was another door, on which Clara knocked three times.
A strong and loud, “Oui,” boomed from behind the door.
As she opened it, Clara swiveled her head slightly towards Hart, her chin over her shoulder, and whispered, “Bon courage,” giving him a wry smile.
Hart narrowed his eyes playfully at Clara and entere
d the room. Renard stood up and extended his hand as he walked around the desk, breaking into a broad smile. The office was dark, lit only by dim fluorescent track lighting, but before Hart could take in the rest of his surroundings, Renard firmly shook his hand.
“Paul. Pleasure to meet you, and thank you for coming. Please have a seat. Let us get to know one another.”
He looked the same from the photo Hutchens had shown, his beard silver with spots of dark stubble but neatly trimmed, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back.
Renard gestured to the sitting area, where a tufted leather couch and two matching chairs sat facing each other adjacent to Renard’s dark steel-framed desk. Before Hart had managed to say a word, the CEO in Renard had established the control and pace of the meeting.
Clara, who remained by the door, excused herself, discreetly raising her eyebrows at Hart as she closed the door.
The two men sat facing each other, Renard casually dressed in a blue blazer over a baby-blue shirt, light chinos, and brown suede loafers, his right leg crossed over his left knee, hands resting comfortably in his lap.
“So, did you have a nice lunch?” His face was animated and his smile revealed pearl-white teeth.
“I loved it. Not only did the French food live up to its reputation as the best in the world, but my company was tremendous. You’re quite lucky to have Clara.”
This drew a soft chuckle from Renard. “You’re too kind flattering us. True that we have probably the best food in the world, but nonetheless. Also, Clara works with me, not for me. But I am pleased you enjoyed yourself.”
Hart nodded. “Like I said, she was great company, and I hope she enjoyed it as much as I did.”
Renard took his hands from his lap and ran them through his hair, brushing the sides back. “I must admit, Paul, I have this understanding with Clara. You see, as I’m a successful businessman, many people wish for my time. If I were to be gracious and take any meeting, my days would be filled. But she is my gatekeeper, and anyone who is going to get my attention, or business, needs to impress her first.”
Hart’s eyes searched the floor before meeting Renard’s. “And what was the verdict on me?”
Renard turned his head and smirked. “Well, you are here talking to me now, aren’t you?” He uncrossed his legs and jockeyed himself to the edge of the couch. “So, tell me about yourself.”
Hart swallowed hard. “Well, we are a wealth management firm. We pride ourselves on being extremely discreet with our clients. We choose clients at our discretion rather than taking on anyone. There’s an effort to provide access to every investment vehicle you can think of, everything from traditional equities, fixed income, government bonds, commercial real estate, to investing in local pizza-chain franchises. If there are returns to be made, we will find them. Of course, we also provide consultation on a variety of mergers and acquisitions, should they be of any interest for our clients.”
“That’s very nice. But I meant about you.”
“What would you like to know?”
Renard stood and walked behind his desk to the bar cart in the corner. “Can I offer you a drink, Paul? I have Dalmore scotch, or Perrier, the only two beverages I keep.” He stood in front of a panoramic view overlooking the Eiffel Tower.
“I’ll have whatever you’ll have, please.” Hart occupied the silence by taking in the large but dark office. The walls had built-in bookshelves filled with pictures, small die-cast cars, trucks, planes, and books.
“How do you take your scotch?”
“Neat, s’il vous plaît.”
Renard muffled a laugh as he set the glass bottle back on the tray, making a loud clink. “I am glad to see you have a respect for the way things are. Any man who drinks a scotch this pure on ice dilutes a naturally beautiful thing. It’s important to respect tradition.” Renard held his glass up for a toast. “Santé. To respecting tradition.”
The men clinked glasses, the golden-hued scotch swirling in the glasses. They both sat down and were silent for a moment, enjoying the first sip.
“Paul, I must be honest with you. I do not care what your company has to offer me. Mais oui, preserving wealth, or acquiring it, is undoubtedly important. However, it’s always the same at any company or bank. Holding someone else’s money isn’t hard. Growing it isn’t rocket science. No, the hardest part in the wealth management business is actually getting the money in the first place. Which is why you’re here, I take it.”
Hart looked into his glass, confused by the shift in tone of the conversation. Renard watched him for a moment before he continued. Hart could feel his heart pound. Was he being let down gently by Renard? Was this it, time for him to head back to NYC to meet with Hutchens with his tail between his legs? He could always get a start on his job search on the flight home.
Renard scratched his beard and drew a deep breath. “No, what I want is to know the man and the people whom I will work with. That is the most critical aspect. Yes, I am a client of Calhoun, but I only have pennies with you. So, when James called to tell me he was sending someone to take a closer look at what businesses I own, I got curious. That is why you had lunch with Clara. Her job is to find out who you are and what you represent. Because after all, every employee of every company is a spokesperson, are they not? So, if you did not impress, I could wash my hands of you.” Renard raised his arms to his sides and looked about the dark room. “And the small annoyance of looking closer at our books. But Clara sent me a message after lunch. Said you barely brought up work, which shows you’re considerate, gentlemanly, and you respect the age-old tango of business. You listened, answered questions, and did not complain I wasn’t there. This tells me something.” Renard gestured with his hands as he squinted at Hart. Hart hadn’t felt his jaw clenching or the strained look spreading across his face. Did the lunch with Clara actually save his career?
“With all due respect, Monsieur Renard, I am glad I’ve passed the test. But you were the one that came to us looking for business. So, I apologize if I seem a bit confused by the cat-and-mouse games we’re playing.” Hart took a long sip from his scotch before continuing, unsure of his train of thought. “I appreciate your thoroughness, but please understand we also have our own vetting process. My firm doesn’t like to just take any clients. We choose who we would like to work with, and we want to work more with you. Since you’re already a client, we can naturally skip the vetting process, but I will still need some documents on ownership structures and—”
Renard’s brown eyes lit up, and his eyebrows rose with delight. “Well, then, let us get started with that.”
“Well, first, I’d love to see a breakdown of your holdings. The various holding companies and subsidiaries, which I’m sure are vast. Then I’d like to get an understanding of them before I send things back to New York for review.”
As Hart spoke, Renard rose from his chair and went over to his desk. He turned on his computer with a delicate press on the keyboard before looking back at Hart.
“Oui, of course, Paul, this is simple!”
“I’m curious, though. Why the United States? Why now? You are largely a French company, with a few other countries sprinkled here and there, but nothing in the US.”
Hart felt it necessary to press Renard. There was something about his demeanor he couldn’t quite place, but it just felt out of the ordinary.
Renard walked back to his chair and ran his hands through his hair. “When you drove here from lunch, did you happen to go through Place Vendôme? Down to Place de la Concorde just before the Arc de Triomphe?”
“Yes, I think so. It was quite busy.”
“Then you drove through the Place de la Concorde, then, just after, the Jardin Tuileries at the foot of the Champs-Élysées. Are you familiar with this famous square?”
“I’ve crossed it many times.” Hart took the final sip from his scotch.
Renard nodded as if agreeing with himself to divulge a secret. “Did you know that the tall pillar in the center of the
place comes from Egypt? It is more than three thousand years old. Surprising that in Paris there is an Egyptian pillar not in a museum, but hardly anyone notices. The Eiffel Tower gets its picture taken, but for me, a true Parisian, my favorite landmark in the city is this pillar. Place de la Concorde is the center of Paris. It is the point where east meets west, and this was the actual thinking in the 1800s, when the pillar was originally installed.”
Renard took a sip of scotch and placed the half-drunk glass on the desk. He looked at Hart with confiding soft eyes.
“You see, this square is the living, beating heart of Paris. It is as much a museum as it is a crucial route to get from one side of Paris to the other. This very place was where guillotines were set up in the French Revolution, where kings’ heads fell onto the street. Where commerce passed from Europe to America, where the Germans occupied, marched, and headquartered during the Second World War, right in the Hotel Carillon on the place.” Renard stood and began to pace. “So how fitting that Paris, the most artful, cultured and first forward-thinking, modern Western city, should have a testament to the past in the form an Egyptian pillar from thousands of years ago. Because you see, Paul, the world is much smaller and more connected than we think. I am French, but my tastes and hobbies are international. I wear Italian clothes, I drive German cars, I love sushi, and my women are mostly Spanish.” Renard gave a wink and a proud smile. “But I do not have nearly any connection to the United States other than my love of America’s bourbons. That is why I sought your company out, and that is why I want to do business with you. I want my legacy to be international, not just European. There are good and bad things, in my opinion, about globalization, but I wish to take advantage of the good parts. You are to be my Place de la Concorde, and you will become my pillar, out on display for the world to see.” He finally sat back down on the sofa, and grinned.