Where the Wolf Lies

by Tyler Flynn

  The West interfered in his father’s life, and like a stone tossed into the middle of a glass-surfaced pond, the ripples were vast and carried away Igor’s mother to a gruesome end. Igor’s father lived his life in sadness and shame, only putting on a brave face for the sake of his child. His only hope was that Igor would be worth the sacrifices and mistakes he had made, but Igor had been seeing to that for many years. The West had ruined his family, and worse, his own country had murdered his mother. He was filled with hate, vowing to strike back for his mother and to erase the sins of his father. Her only sin was being too kind; his father’s was that he was too foolish; those were both mistakes he wouldn’t make. He needed help, though, and there were only so many enemies of both the West and his former homeland in the world.

  The door to the pub opened, and with it a flood of light filled the dark room. Igor strained to see over the people crowding near the door to catch who entered the bar, until he felt the presence of someone beside him. He turned slowly and faced a young man—skinny, with dark skin, black eyes, wearing a red Nike hat—leaning against the counter.

  A loud cheer echoed from the corner of the pub as a goal was scored, the London derby between Arsenal and Spurs on the televisions. The Arsenal supporters clinked glasses as the pub grew louder with replays of the goal.

  “Are you a Gunners fan?” the man said in severely broken English.

  “Only when they’re wearing red. You?” Igor paused for a moment, listening out for the code that there was something amiss, but the man, who Igor came to know as Nasir, only nodded and stayed quiet.

  Igor finished his beer. He set it back on the wooden countertop next to the coaster he was using and slid a stack of banknotes he’d procured from the bottle he picked up at the market. He pushed the coaster over to the young man, who was still next to him. The young man stood there, thumbing through the newsfeed on his mobile phone, and grabbed the coaster and cash, slipping them smoothly into his pocket without looking up.

  “It’s to happen next week. Prepare yourself,” Igor whispered in a soft growl.

  He could tell Nasir was about to speak, but he turned before anything could be said. Without another word, Igor made for the side exit, working his way through the crowd in the pub out onto the street and into the night.

  11

  Paris

  A soft streak of golden sunlight crept into the room, breaking through the edges of the drapes, bringing forth a new day. But the sounds of scooters zipping by and lorries rumbling past woke Hart from his deep, dreamless sleep long before the sun did. The room was still as he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He rolled across the bed and found his watch: 9:37 a.m. He’d slept in, alone.

  After walking Clara to her apartment near the Place des Vosges, in Le Marais, he acted the perfect gentleman. He said goodbye with a soft kiss on the cheek—just one so it was not to be confused with the customary goodbye. Clara had rewarded him with knowing eyes before she slipped behind the vast red doors that protected the courtyard of her building.

  What was he thinking, foolishly mixing business with pleasure? How the hell had he developed feelings for this woman? He scolded himself; it was juvenile and bound to be a mistake. It had not even been twenty-four hours, but she reigned supreme in his mind. Hart could almost feel the soft kiss on her cheek from the night before. Of course, she was smart and gorgeous, but what did he really know about her? Against his better judgment, he realized, he intended to find out.

  The last trip into these turbulent waters did not work out well. A lesson he would do well to remember was that a river, like a relationship, no matter how beautiful or inviting, could turn into rapids, where you live or die at the mercy of what lies under the surface. But he knew the heart is not rational; he’d learned that lesson before, painfully.

  Veronica was gorgeous and ambitious. She had invigorated his life from the moment they’d met a few years after college at a bar in Manhattan. Hart, with a few associates from work, was blowing off steam from another week of dealing with narcissistic clients and myopic bosses. Veronica was at the Stanton Social as well, just off Houston Street,, in the frenzied bar on the second floor with several friends.

  He’d been at the bar ordering a fourth round of Yuenglings when he turned too quickly and smacked into her, spilling the beers. She happened to be wearing a white cashmere sweater, dark-gray jeans, and caramel suede knee-high boots, which did not mix well with beer. Before he could even apologize, she slapped him hard. The sting stayed with him that whole night. She had glared at him and then stormed away. The bar was captivated and went silent.

  Hart held up both hands as if to accept his guilt and punishment. He asked the barman for another round and apologized profusely for the mess before leaving a generous tip. He set off into the crowded, dark bar to find the woman. Perhaps he was a glutton for punishment, but he did eventually find her, surrounded by friends who were blotting the stains and trying to dry her off. Sheepishly, he approached them, receiving dumbfounded glares, and perhaps there was a bit of fear in the eyes of the woman who had slapped him.

  “I’m sorry I slapped you. This was my favorite sweater,” she said before he could open his mouth.

  “Well, I think it was perfectly deserved,” Hart said, barely able to look at her, like a reprimanded puppy that just soiled an expensive carpet. “Can I buy you all a round to make up for it?”

  While he hadn’t had the chance to really look at her before, he realized she was exquisite. She had long dirty-blond hair, a small birthmark on the lower left part of her chin, porcelain skin, and golden-brown eyes, which grew softer with his apology. The days of chivalry were over as far as Veronica had been concerned, but Hart seemed different.

  After he’d paid for the drinks, Hart left her group but stopped to apologize again on his way out of the bar.

  He said with confiding eyes, “I hope you’ll find solace in the fact my friends will never let me forget this. So, in a way you’ll stay with me forever.” He smiled and turned to leave.

  She replied, as Hart started for the door, “Hey, you. It is a good thing you’re cute, because otherwise this would have been a big problem.”

  “Would you do me a favor, actually?” he said while throwing on his winter coat.

  Veronica raised an eyebrow in confusion. Do him a favor?

  “You see, I will still feel sick to my stomach if I don’t ensure that I’ve set things right with you. Let me take you out to dinner. Just to make sure there’s no lingering hard feelings?”

  Once he got her number, he’d realized they hadn’t been introduced and with humor shook her hand, introducing himself as “the dumbass Paul that spilled drinks on you.”

  She introduced herself as Veronica Hutchens, smiled, and waved goodbye.

  They had been dating for several months, but Hart felt as if she was hiding something. He began putting the pieces together. She was well informed and savvy about financials whenever he’d bring his work up, but wasn’t in the industry. She knew Hart worked on Wall Street for a small wealth management firm that only had one big client, in the form of a pension fund for the Wisconsin teachers' union, but always implored him to see the benefits of ambition.

  The pieces to the puzzle didn’t fit together until they had a dinner with her parents at a quaint sushi joint on East Side, in Murray Hill, with radiantly colored walls and fluorescent lights, so she could introduce the man she’d been with for over six months.

  The four of them were tucked away at a corner table. Veronica’s mother was named Beatrice. She was beautiful and looked just like her daughter. Her father, James Hutchens, had a handshake like a bear trap and a politician’s smile. The dinner provided Hart with ample opportunity to show off his ability to pivot and deflect the barrage of questions. What was his upbringing like? Family? Career plans? How did he plan on managing a career and relationship? After a bombardment of what felt like Senate investigation panel–style questions and an embarrassed Veronica, it appeared he h
ad won them over.

  A few weeks after the dinner, Hart received a curious invitation for a lunch. James Hutchens had requested a meeting and had his assistant set it up with all of the formality one would expect of a business rendezvous—Outlook invite, finite amount of time scheduled, and the address of the restaurant. It was to be at a French café tucked away in the Brookfield Place shops near World Trade.

  The conversation was all business, with a clear set of objectives to reach before their time was over. The discussion’s crescendo was that Hart needed tremendous ambition if he was to keep Veronica. This advice was given more as coming from a father who knew his daughter than a man trying to scold another for a lack of success. The message seemed genuine, but had felt uneasy. Was he even ready to become this committed? Once the family was involved, things could become precarious.

  As they had left the restaurant, Hutchens turned to Hart. “I have an interview for you lined up next week. I don’t want an answer now, but give it some thought and think of what you want for yourself. If you want this opportunity, that’s great, and if not...” His voice had trailed off, and he had taken Hart’s shoulder and held it firmly for a moment, then smacked him on the back and walked off.

  The decision was easy: leave the small firm he was at and trade up for an opportunity it would have otherwise taken him years to earn. The complications that lay ahead were evident, but it was an easy choice nonetheless. Hutchens seemed kind to him, and he would try to work tirelessly to prove himself worthy.

  But the fact that he never really had a choice hurt him. He could either take the job for the girl or say no and give the parents the excuse he wasn’t the man for their daughter. Forced into a decision, he’d chosen the path that offered him more, not less.

  A cloud of doubt hung over him for months after taking the promotion, and in the end Veronica despised him for it. The crossroads came when she found an upgrade in the form of a client of her father’s. The young, rich kind of guy that wore impossibly well-cut suits, trendy Italian loafers, and copious amounts of hair gel. He carried himself with a certain disdain for everyone and had little time for small talk. Travis Curtis. Educated at Yale, he owned a venture capital firm that sparkled with angel investor dust.

  Hart had first noticed the flirtation at the annual Christmas party, where he spotted the two being introduced and jovially chatting until he came over. The end was in sight for them, even if neither of them believed it. The adventure they had once shared slowly morphed into reality, culminating in a life they didn’t recognize or ever think they would have.

  In the weeks following the party, Veronica’s poorly veiled attempts to learn more about Travis came in the form of questions related to Hart’s work. He felt abandoned in the passenger seat of a car spinning out of control towards a cliff, with no choice but to close his eyes. He was in an indefensible position, surrounded by mistakes. Be the first to cause the messy breakup, and he’d risk alienating the man who had gifted him a chance, or he could say nothing, play the fool, and wait for her to put him out of his misery.

  In the end, she was swift about it. They both knew the game and what was to be won and lost. Hart had gotten a great career and plenty of fun along the way. In the end, he realized her spontaneous and adventurous nature meant she could never be in one place; what had brought them together eventually tore them apart.

  Hutchens, for his part, was professional. He’d seen Hart work for the better part of a year and did not make a big deal of the news but rather had an impromptu discussion with him in his office, away from prying eyes.

  “Listen,” Hutchens had said as he clamped his paw on Hart’s shoulder. “This could be an awkward place for you now, but know you’re on solid footing with me. As far as I’m concerned, your life is separate from your career. I won’t speak a word of it. Deal?”

  Hart responded with an appreciative head bob and a simple “Thank you, sir.”

  True to his word, Hutchens never seemed to hold it against Hart, but he’d been given the ultimatum to go to Paris. Hart thought maybe he did hold a grudge after all.

  Hart shook his head from the memories, rose from bed, and walked to the window to view the Parisian morning. It wouldn’t rain today, he thought, because when life is good the weather stays sunny. He’d always found it curious how when one is melancholy, the weather seems gloomy and gray, with a constant chance of rain. But perhaps it came down to perspective; the mind saw what it wanted to see. He felt his stomach growl in anxiousness for his day, or perhaps he was just hungry.

  He brushed his hand through his wild morning hair, his head throbbing slightly. Hart had figured that the drinks would have worn off, just like the connection he had with Clara, except neither had. The feelings still loitered somewhere deep in his mind, and he couldn’t resist exploring them. The smell of her perfume clung to him from when she’d leaned in close to whisper jokes; the kiss that lingered a moment too long on his cheek before she left him for the night. The long walk back to his hotel, wandering through Le Marais as locals spilled onto the sidewalks, drinks in one hand, lovers in the other, was a slow, torturous journey that part of him enjoyed. Having hope was invigorating, yet dangerous.

  Come now, Paul, he steadied himself. Don’t go down a road where you can’t turn back. She was a client, a colleague, and business was meant to be separate from personal life. Where it should stay this time. He’d crossed the line once before, but he was the lucky one, the exception to the rule. He tried to shake the thought from his head. But maybe lightning can strike twice.

  He looked back over to the bed, his dirty clothes scattered across the comforter. He looked at the desk, where his computer sat. One could spend a glamorous time in Paris, but instead he was stuck in a hotel room. But work could wait. As Renard had told him, weekends were for pleasure. He showered, changed into a fresh suit, and headed outside.

  12

  Paris

  A few blocks from the hotel, off the Rue Saint-Honoré, Hart found an open table at a small café. Instead of immediately checking his phone or attempting to look busy, he sat and watched the morning pass by, the official pastime of Paris. He sipped an espresso and felt awakened by hope, a dangerous drug.

  The café was lively, filled by people taking breaks from sightseeing. The First was a tourist arrondissement, after all, and the locals would be somewhere else. A few tables over to his left, he watched a middle-aged couple poring over a map of the city, large Nikon camera set on the table. They were arguing with each other—well, it seemed like they were arguing, Hart thought. It could be tough to tell with the thick British accents and dry humor.

  Amongst his favorite hobbies, people watching usually gave way to inspiration. The idea that came to him this time, however, was more necessary than brilliant. He needed to do some shopping, since he was going to stay a few more days. Perhaps more importantly, he wanted to be looking his best the next time he saw Clara. Even a well-dressed American could feel helplessly unfashionable in Paris, never mind one without a change of clothes.

  Hart recognized he was going shopping to impress her, but he conceded there was nothing wrong with a little bit of effort. He strained to gain the waiter’s attention, because he needed change, and once he caught the passing waiter, he apologized for only having a large bill. The waiter counted out the change and threw it onto the table before turning on his heel and vanishing off once again.

  As Hart counted out the coins, he felt the presence of someone near his table. He expected the waiter returning for the bill but was surprised to see the British woman who had been sitting a few tables over.

  “Excuse me, sir. I’m sorry to interrupt, but we overheard your English when you ordered.”

  She had a square, frumpy haircut framing her pinkish face. Her husband sat looking down, staring at the map.

  “What can I do for you?” Hart said with impatience.

  “Well, you see, my husband hates the coins here, and well, it’s difficult to ask anyone in French to
exchange coins for notes, so I was hoping actually that you may have a spare five-euro note that you could give us. We have eight euros’ worth of coins in exchange. Would that be all right with you?”

  Her head turned like a dog’s would as it begged an owner for a table scrap. Hart was anxious to be done with this interaction, and there was a profit to be swung. He pulled his wallet out and thumbed through his bills, confused but indifferent.

  “Here’s a five.”

  “Oh, bless you!” Her face had become a shade of red with excitement. “Bless you, dear. Here’s the eight. Thank you!”

  She wiggled her way through the minefield of chairs on the terrace back to her husband, and before Hart had risen from the table, the two of them were long gone around the corner.

  Hart walked north along the same route he took only the day before, down a street parallel to the Jardin du Palais-Royal, Rue de Richelieu. The necessity for new clothes had brought him out for the most part, but he also needed fresh air and to explore the city.

  The street was narrow, and Hart hugged the wall to let strangers by. He paused as he found a boutique with chic mannequins in the windows. A quick look inside revealed stylish employees in the exuberant showroom, with the colors orange, red, and blue cascading off the walls. Since it couldn’t hurt to have a different look than a suit, the store seemed a smart choice.

  Hart received a warm, “Bonjour,” from the shop-floor attendants as he entered; he smiled and began browsing as the old wooden floors creaked under him. Fine cotton dress shirts, colorful sweaters, leather jackets, and drawstring suit trousers were hung, stacked, and folded artistically around the store. He picked out a shirt, asked to try it on, and was politely shown the way to one of two curtained-off areas by a tall, smiling associate.