by Tyler Flynn
Hart was struck by the fruity musk lingering in the air, mixed with liquors—gin, bourbon, whiskey—which gave a strong but sweet smell. The conversations of the packed bar provided a hushed but constant buzz. A group of women, dressed suggestively in low-cut tops and heavy jewelry, were laughing the night away, sipping pink drinks from goblet-style glasses.
Clara took Justine’s hand and led her towards the back of the room, elegantly elbowing people out of their way to find two couches facing each other and a reservation sign. A waiter in a chic uniform—buttoned-up white oxford, leather apron, where he kept a notepad and numerous pens, over dark jeans, rolled up at the ankles, exposing large, clunky brown boots—offered that while there were no menus for cocktails, the barmen would be happy to make any drink.
Justine sat on a leather couch close to Julien. Hart found his place at a professional distance on the leather couch with Clara. Clara gave an, “Oh là là,” taking the room in, and spoke excitedly to Hart about what to order. A small wooden cutting board was delivered, with nuts, pretzel mix, and what appeared to be Cheetos, and set on the table between them.
“I love this place! What do you think?” Clara beamed with delight as she looked at Hart and Justine.
Justine glanced over her shoulder at the crowded bar. “It has been so busy since it opened. You have to put your name on a list; then they send you directions how to find the entrance. Glad we got in!”
Hart nodded. “This place is great. I just hope they have enough Cheetos.” His eyes met Clara’s, which lingered on his just a beat too long, before they both broke into laughter.
Once they had ordered and finished their first drinks, the conversation found a natural flow between the four of them. The topics included Justine’s current career as a social marketing manager for a Parisian clothing company, where her boss had an odd obsession with not allowing shoes in the office. Then Julien, inspired by Justine’s story, told an adventurous one of his own about the time he brought a group of his friends to his yacht in Saint Tropez. As they cruised out to sea, one of his friends, who was wearing boat shoes, walked across the bow, slipped due to his shoes, and found himself hanging on to the railing of the starboard side for five minutes, since no one noticed he was gone. Julien burst into laughter, while everyone supplied him with thinly veiled smiles and grunts of forced amusement.
Julien pulled his phone out to start showing pictures, but exclusively to a stoic- looking Justine, who’d realized she had invited along a terrible drinking partner. Clara leaned close to Hart so as not to be overheard. He could feel her warm breath, smell her perfume—white flowers and orange peel—and almost taste the champagne from the French 75s she’d been sipping.
“I just met him. More Justine’s type than mine. I’m sorry he’s so bobo.”
He scrunched his face in playful confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what bobo means.”
She slapped Hart playfully on the knee. “French slang. Means he carries himself with his chin up in the air.”
Hart squinted and tried to piece together the translation in his mind. “Ah, like he is quite proud of himself.”
“Yes, you got it. I hope he doesn’t ruin your evening. You’re having fun?”
Hart chuckled. “A great time. But I must say, your company is actually a bit boring. I think I prefer Julien and his yachting stories.” He gave a wink to make sure his sarcasm was not lost in translation.
Clara leaned into Hart’s shoulder to muffle her laugh. “You are funny. I imagine your girlfriend back in New York is missing you and your jokes tonight.” Clara’s eyebrows rose, letting the question that came in the form of a compliment hang in the air.
He took a sip from his Sazerac cocktail—cognac with an absinthe rinse, mixed with orange liquor, sugar, and lemon—and savored the bite of the drink.
“Well, she probably doesn’t miss me very much.” He took another sip, enjoying the tension for a moment. “Because I don’t have a girlfriend. My career is all I have to keep me company.”
“Oh please, no business talk tonight, but—”
Clara was interrupted by Justine asking them about their drinks. She gave Clara a concerned look, nodding towards Julien, who was slamming them down. Clara laughed and paid her no attention. The night seemed light and cheery, strangers getting to know one another better as the drinks did their job.
The lounge became busier, with the crowd becoming at least four people deep at the bar, shouting for service.
Clara moved towards Hart on the couch, grabbing his shoulder, and leaned close to his ear. He was not surprised that she touched him—the liquor and atmosphere lent themselves to it—but it still made his heart race. “Sorry, it is a bit noisy in here for me. I want to make sure I can hear you.” She continued on as Hart took another sip of his drink. “Now we can both spy on Justine’s conversation and whisper to each other what we find hilarious, although I may have to translate some for you. Julien is discussing his favorite ski runs in Switzerland.”
Hart could see Clara’s green eyes sparkle at him before she turned to watch her friend continue to flirt. Julien became more interested in getting the waiters’ attention than keeping Justine’s and ordered several more rounds for the group. Hart noticed Julien begin to sway on the couch, his eyes drooping and glassy. Justine attempted to cut him off, taking the new drink he’d ordered from his hand to a look of rage from Julien that Hart had seen building. Julien let loose a spew of profanities as Justine sat, disbelieving, her lips beginning to tremble.
Julien suddenly stood and towered over Justine, whose only defense against the unhinged man was a look of utter shock. Hart heard Clara gasp as Julien swayed back and forth, cursing. Hart realized that this portion of the evening was over and stood, grabbing him by the shoulders.
Years ago, he had taken a self-defense class in college to impress a girl he wanted to spend more time with. The relationship failed miserably, with the girl falling for the course teacher, but along with four credits, Hart picked up a few tips on how to deal with physical conflict.
Julien turned and shoved Hart. “Don’t touch me, you fucking American.”
Then came a barrage of angry French from Julien, in which Hart only caught various names he’d been called. Again, he tried to grab the drunken Julien, but he shrugged his shoulders and threw them forward to be free of Hart’s grip.
“I think you’ve had enough fun for one evening. Let’s get you a cab. Sound good?” Hart looked at Clara apologetically.
Julien swung around, his eyes menacing and a far departure from the rest of his wobbly appearance. Justine stood and said she would take him home, offering an apology to Clara.
“Ta gueule, salope.”
Clara’s eyes went wide as she realized what Julien had called her friend. Justine tried to lead him by his arm towards the door, but Julien protested with a shove that caused Justine to lose her balance and fall back onto the couch.
Hart sprung and grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and turned it clockwise, tightening Julien’s sweater so his arms were immobilized. “All right, pal, we’re done here.”
He started Julien on a controlled march towards the door, careful to not attract any more attention than was already earned around the bar. Julien spun and attempted a head-butt, which drew an audible gasp from Clara and Justine, but it was slow and lethargic. Hart grabbed Julien’s head where it landed and held it on his shoulder. He gave a fake laugh and patted Julien on the back, as if two drinking buddies were having a great evening. A female bartender had stopped mixing a drink to watch them and motioned to the doormen.
Hart grabbed Julien’s sweater and pulled tighter, bunching it further, rendering his arms useless. Julien became a marionette puppet as Hart casually walked him towards the heavy drapes at the exit. Julien’s energy had gone, his battle fought for the evening. Hart strained under the deadweight as he trudged towards the door. He got Julien outside with the help of the bouncers, who weren’t too pleased with the pros
pect of a drunk sitting outside their establishment or having to clean up any mess he made, so they called a cab.
Justine had followed them outside, but Hart told her to head back inside with Clara and that he’d be fine. The cab came, and Hart paid the driver as Julien spluttered out the address in the Sixth Arrondissement. Julien kept saying in English to Hart as he plopped him in the back seat, “My apartment’s got a fucking beautiful view of the Seine.” The cab took off, and with it, Hart’s unforeseen problem for the night.
Back at the table, he ordered himself another drink to combat the rush of adrenaline. Clara consoled Justine, caringly rubbing her back. They whispered for a few moments before Justine was back smiling and enjoying herself. The resolve of Frenchwomen, Hart thought. Nothing will stand in the way of a fun Friday night.
Clara praised Hart’s actions, and she teasingly called him the “American badass.” The two women pretended to reenact the scene, much to the amusement of Hart. A few minutes later, a tall, dark-haired, well-dressed Parisian, complete with a jet-black leather jacket, came over to make sure Justine was doing all right. He’d seen the scuffle break out but couldn’t make his way over in time to help. He offered her a drink at the bar, an invitation she accepted with a conspiratorial wink to Clara.
Both Hart and Clara stared at their drinks, which had done their part earlier in the evening, and now their chaperones had left them alone.
“You doing all right?” Hart asked a tired-looking Clara.
Clara said through the end of a yawn, “I am quite tired. It has been a long day. Pardon me, I am not normally this tired.”
Hart chucked softly; it was he who had had a long day. He had barely slept in twenty-four hours. He made eye contact with the server and asked for l’addition before turning back to Clara. “Well, I should be the tired one. I had no idea I’d end up in Paris tonight, but hopefully you won’t have to deal with me much longer.”
“Really, you didn’t know? Anyway, I am kind of enjoying your company, actually.”
Hart feigned disappointment. “Well, something should be done immediately to stop that. Let’s go.”
They worked their way through the crowd, finally stumbling across Justine. She was finishing her drink and grabbed Clara’s arms as they swept towards the door. Hart heard Justine yell a goodbye to her new friend, who’d bought her a drink.
The heavy velour red curtains parted as they stepped through to the street. Clara momentarily lost her balance. After several drinks, walking and decision-making could be dangerous. Hart offered Clara his hand to help her through the doorway and out into the night, and the three of them made their way onto the darkened streets.
Cigarette smoke swirled inside the car parked several blocks away from where he’d watched them. The three figures could barely be seen down the narrow, cobbled street by the naked eye. The man appeared to offer a hand to help the women down the steps onto the street. A perfect gentleman, it seemed, but looks could be deceiving. The group turned left and right, talking amongst themselves, as if deciding which way to go. It was the perfect opportunity to see the two faces that were of interest.
The shutter of the Nikon D810 professional camera, specializing in long-range, low-visibility conditions, fired away, clicking softly. He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray because complete focus on the subjects was required. One woman walked off by herself, and the pair went in the opposite direction, she holding on to his arm, his hands deep in his coat pockets. It seemed the night had been a success. Now there was a picture to go with the name of the visiting American banker and his newfound French interest.
10
London
The pub was crowded, as any pub in London would be on a weekend evening.
Presiding over a pint of London Pride, standing alone at The Sussex pub, Igor planned the next steps. He stood amongst the sea of people filling the diamond-shaped bar area. The door funneled the patrons back towards the expanse of the bar, and whoever didn’t fit, or chose to smoke, spilled out onto the sidewalk.
He leaned against a pillar, one of many, and watched the door. People came and went, providing the perfect cover for discreet meetings. A musty smell wafted through the pub, spilled beer mixed with smoke from outside finding its way in through the opening of the door. The pub was classically decorated, like most pubs in London, with wooden floors and green wallpaper. A large mirror hung behind the bar, a Fuller’s London Pride advertisement sketched across it.
The English were a proud people, Igor thought while sipping his beer. They were quick to point to history to prove their worth. The world was getting faster and the past was being forgotten; those hanging on to tradition soon found themselves overtaken. His need to change the way the world worked, no longer just the allure of his ideals, was his call to action, and he had all the pieces now.
The pub was in Covent Garden, a tourist paradise with narrow redbrick roads lined with shops. Igor took another sip from the same beer he’d been nursing for twenty minutes. He would make it last until he made contact. He didn’t mind the wait; in fact, he planned for it. Better to get accustomed to a space, blend in, and be a man with nowhere to be. There was a certain comfort one learned to have in pubs while living in London. But it wasn’t always this way for Igor—far from it.
Circumstance saw Igor move from Russia to Maidenhead, just outside London, when he was only a young boy. The move was a necessity brought on by his father, who had been a member of the former Soviet Union government. Vladimir Romanski worked on a research and development team that supported the KGB. He was more scientist than spy. Nonetheless, Igor liked to believe his father made a profound impact on the Cold War.
His father’s career was put to considerable test when he was coerced by a Western agent and left with a choice to betray his country or face certain death. Vladimir’s lack of foresight shaped Igor’s childhood and, for that matter, his life. His father had made a choice, even if he never realized it.
In the early 1980s, the Cold War raged on, the grand game fought by recruiting intelligence assets to outmaneuver the other side. Vladimir had been working on upper-atmospheric radar projects, which everyone at that time thought would be the next frontier. Ronald Reagan, the American president in the mid-1980s, had even started the second space race by declaring in 1983 that the “Star Wars” program would be implemented. The program was designed to bring military capabilities to space, swatting Soviet missiles from the sky. This created a massive reaction from the Kremlin; the mere notion, no matter how plausible, of losing their capability to ensure mutual and mass destruction was unacceptable. Resources poured into Soviet space programs and high-atmospheric research. Vladimir, a smart and promising radar technician, was selected to lend his expertise to crafting the Soviet response.
Vladimir joined the program and was befriended by Ivanov Kolosvo, an affable middle-aged man. They often met up at bars after work, and Ivanov would buy Vladimir vodka and they chatted about work in hushed tones. Ivanov decided they should start going out in the evenings more often to let off steam from their stressful jobs, and their friendship blossomed.
They went out often, which meant Vladimir wasn’t spending nights at home with his young wife, Karlina, and newborn baby boy, Igor. This routine went on for months and grew from a few drinks at a bar to a few visits to nightclubs and plenty of nights away from home. Moscow’s finest young women kept them entertained, with dancing in dark clubs and mischief in smoky backrooms. Ivanov’s extravagant spending at the clubs never struck Vladimir as odd, but it should have. The West managed to deceive Vladimir into believing he had a true friend in Ivanov; the classic tactics of befriend, build rapport, trust, and then ask for commitment. Vladimir recognized he had compromised his life, but by the time he understood, it was too late.
Compromising photos from nights that were too rough to remember laid the trap and Vladimir was presented with a choice. Either start working for the West as an agent, passing along information, or face the scen
ario of the Soviets finding out that he had been colluding with a Western spy. Perhaps worse for the young father, the photos would be shown to his wife, who had been sitting dutifully at home raising their young son while Vladimir committed treason.
Doing what he thought best for his family, Vladimir Romanski played the hand he was dealt. The meetings occurred in a variety of places—park benches, buses, in the back of clothing stores, and at their old bar hangouts. Each time, as Vladimir saw it, he betrayed his country.
The practice continued for nearly two years. Vladimir provided information that by itself did not represent an intelligence treasure trove, but combined with other information, the pieces fit together like a large puzzle. However, towards the end of the Soviet Union, paranoia ruled as the KGB sought out traitorous spies, and Vladimir’s luck ran out. As was commonplace in hunting what were called “enemies of the people,” the KGB planted false information in his department and watched to see where, if anywhere, it came out. Vladimir unknowingly passed the information on, exposing himself and putting his family’s lives at stake.
The key to being a great spy, he was often told by Ivanov, was to be a master at persuasion. Influencing people without them realizing—that was the key. But even more important was finding everyone’s weakness and exploiting it. Vladimir was not an anomaly, Igor often told himself, but rather a young father with misplaced trust who became a victim of circumstance and paid the price.
The Western intelligence services washed their hands of him, pulling their asset Ivanov out of the country. Vladimir, to his credit, fought for the survival of his family, begging Ivanov for help. He was passed off to a British agent with little more than a pat on the back. Betraying his country left him friendless and out of options, faced with the certain death of his family if he stayed, until finally he caught a break, but at great cost.
Vladimir was to meet an agent at a park to plan the getaway to a safe house before sneaking the family off to England. He took Igor as cover, a father out for an evening stroll with his son, but their lives would never be the same. The meeting was smooth and a course of action set upon. Vladimir was to return home and tell Karlina they’d be leaving the next day, but he never had a chance to tell her. When Vladimir returned home, they saw KGB agents taking Karlina away. It was Igor’s last and most painful memory of his mother.