Where the Wolf Lies

by Tyler Flynn

  He took his suit jacket off, hung it on a hook, and unwrapped the blue dress shirt from its tissue paper. The shirt fit perfectly—soft material, and trim cut. The shirt would do, but there was still a bit more shopping left, and perhaps he’d head up towards Galeries Lafayette. Hart took the shirt off and fumbled around in the small room. He was reaching for his suit coat when it fell off the hook and clunked onto the floor. He paused momentarily out of frustration; he did not need a dirty jacket. Hart picked his crumpled jacket off the floor and gave it two good shakes to rid it of dust and dirt.

  Hart’s vision caught a small object, perhaps a button flying from the jacket. He heard a soft click of something that fell to the floor. Curious, he looked around for what had danced across his vision. Hart moved around slowly, searching the spotless wooden floors. What exactly had come out from his jacket? Maybe his mind played a trick on him; maybe it was just a bit of lint or a button.

  He checked his coat pockets, found his hotel key, wallet, and phone, and turned to leave the curtained-off stall. He pulled back the curtain slightly and found a gold coin on the wooden floor. He bent down to pick it up. It was one-euro coin, one of the new ones in his possession since his exchange with the British couple. Holding the runaway coin in his hand, he noticed that it appeared cracked across the top, and he immediately felt duped. Evidently, they had traded him fake currency. Quite the theft for five euros.

  He studied the small coin. He was baffled. How would a coin crack? The weight didn’t feel odd, but the top appeared to be coming away from the bottom. Hart grabbed both sides as best he could with his lack of fingernails and pulled the two sides apart like splitting open an Oreo.

  “Are you alright?” the saleswoman asked. “Can I get you another size?”

  “Ça va, merci,” Hart said absentmindedly. He was focused on the fake coin.

  The coin had fractured when it hit the floor, but he pried it apart, revealing a tiny cylindrical green part about a fourth the size of his thumbnail. The inside of the coin appeared to be a microchip. He flipped the coin over. A small green device fell out into his palm, and Hart held it up close to his eye. It took him a moment to place it, but it was similar to something he’d seen when he had a dog during his childhood. The veterinarian had showed Hart the small microchip he would surgically implant in his dog, a wheaten terrier, so that if it ever ran away from the yard, they could find the dog via GPS.

  What the hell was this doing in a coin? He stood still. Everything slowed. He could feel his blood pumping to his head, and his mind began to race. His ears became hot and his throat tightened. Maybe the coin was a security device to track the movements of currency. Maybe it was a forgery. Whatever it was, the coin had broken apart to reveal its secret.

  He reasoned he couldn’t ask the store workers, because they may confiscate it or question his ability to pay. It couldn’t be what he assumed, a GPS tracking chip. Who would want to track him? Did the British couple know what the coin was when they asked for change? Was someone tracking them? Or him? Why not just leave the coin somewhere? He didn’t believe in coincidences. He forced himself to breathe.

  Hart went ahead and bought the shirt, all the while reassuring himself there was nothing to worry about. His mind was playing tricks. He set off on the easy walk to Galeries Lafayette and tossed the coin and its hidden contents in a garbage bin. But he still felt vulnerable with every step he took. Every look cast his way caused him anxiety. He pushed the thoughts from his mind and finally decided that jet lag had set in, hitting him hard.

  He’d been successful shopping at Galeries Lafayette and walked back to his hotel, down Avenue de l’Opéra, in the afternoon. The sun was warm on his face, and an early-evening breeze began to make its way into the city from off the Seine. He now could go back to the hotel, relax, and order room service. Clara had told him the night before that the croque madame and house salad were a specialty. It never occurred to him to ask how she would know. Had she stayed there? She lived so close to the hotel, maybe she had a rendezvous there with a lover once. Hart caught himself before he spiraled into anxious thoughts about Clara. He knew the hotel bar would be a welcome sight.

  As he walked along the busy avenue, Hart had the strong urge to keep checking over his shoulder. He carried on, willing the thought from his mind. It’s the jet lag, he told himself. That’s all.

  13

  Paris

  Hart sat at his desk, having finished his omelet, reading the online version of the Wall Street Journal, when his phone buzzed. It was before 9 a.m. on a Sunday—2 a.m. in New York. He shuffled across the room, wearing his hotel embroidered terry-cloth bathrobe and room slippers, baffled about who would be texting him.

  It was Clara.

  Meet me at the Museum D’Orsay at 1pm?

  He smiled and waited a few moments, enjoying the euphoria, his jet-lagged mind reenergized. Of course, he would go.

  Hart spent the morning relaxing and watching the French news, where he only caught every fifth word, before changing into his new blue mélange sweater, a white T-shirt, and dark-gray chinos he’d picked up from Officine Générale, at Galeries Lafayette.

  The walk to the museum was fifteen minutes at the leisurely pace of a Sunday afternoon in Paris. The thick plane trees lining the rues and avenues of Saint-Germain were shedding their leaves, and as Hart made his way down the sidewalk, he crunched them under his feet.

  Hart waited by the ticket booth, until he caught sight of Clara across the courtyard, nearly skipping towards him. She wore dark-brown ankle boots and dark-colored jeans, with a gray cashmere shawl that hung at her sides. Her hair was relaxed and bounced along happily as she approached.

  “Bonjour, Paul!” she said as they kissed cheeks. “I am happy to see you.” She smiled, her lips soft with glossy, rose-colored lipstick.

  Hart took in the old façade of the museum that had once been a train station. “This will be fun. I can’t remember the last time I was here.”

  “I hope my invitation was appreciated.” Her eyes danced around the courtyard, swelling with tourists. “I assumed, since you were in Paris on short notice, you wouldn’t have any plans. And any excuse to go to a museum is fine by me.”

  Hart laughed. “Well, I am happy to be your excuse.”

  They wandered both floors of the main hall, dipping into the adjacent hallways to view the galleries of different time periods. Hart lingered the longest in the hall of Van Gogh, where a simple painting of the artist’s room captured his attention. Cheerful colors—yellows, oranges, and greens—characterized the painter’s Bedroom in Arles. It was a small bedroom that Van Gogh had stayed in during his time in France.

  Hart knew Clara had been watching him intently, with her head tilted slightly as she studied him. Perhaps she felt there was something contrived about Hart being captivated by the painting, but he hoped she would be impressed. The truth was the painting affected him. It was a masterpiece, turning the routine into something extraordinary.

  Clara appeared by his side, looking back and forth between the painter’s work and Hart’s mesmerized stare. She lingered for a moment as tourists buzzed in and out of the room, the old wooden floors creaking as if whispering soft hellos and goodbyes.

  “Did you know Van Gogh drew three of those?” she asked, her eyes not leaving the painting.

  “Why three?”

  “He liked the original quite a bit, but it got damaged. So, he made copies. Amsterdam and Chicago have the other two.”

  “Well, you can never have too much of a good thing, I suppose.”

  Clara scoffed. “Says the banker.”

  Hart didn’t look at her directly, but he would have sworn he saw her lift the corner of her mouth in a smirk.

  They walked down marble steps and across the steel walkway that connected the right and left sides of the old train terminal, suspended above the main hall’s marbled and bronzed statues.

  “I’m sure you’ve been looking forward to this trip for quite a wh
ile,” Clara said.

  Hart laughed softly. He turned to face her, recognizing a mixture of intrigue and concern, her eyes narrowed as if she were gazing at the sun. He shrugged and put his hands deep into his pockets.

  “I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you. But like I mentioned the other night, I didn’t know I was coming. I was told about five hours before my flight.”

  “Really?” Clara paused and angled away from Hart. She muttered to herself in disbelief before turning back to him. “I don’t understand. Why send you without being notified in advance? What was the point of the trip being so urgent?”

  Hart nodded in agreement. “I’ve been confused about that as well. Almost embarrassed, to be candid.” Hart stared at his shoes for a moment before he had the courage to meet her now seemingly hesitant green eyes. “I was reluctant to tell you but...” Hart trailed off and rubbed his stubble. “Honestly, I don’t know why I was sent here, but I’m trying to use the opportunity as best I can, because it’s all new to me.”

  Clara pondered the revelation, chewing her rosy lip in confusion. She took a few steps and peered over the edge to the main hall below. Hart cursed himself for being truthful. Clara would think of him as some unprepared moron who didn’t ask questions but rather just did what he was told. So much for the confident man who ordered well at restaurants, dealt with unruly drunks, and acted a perfect gentleman, even after a bit too much to drink. That façade was gone, and his true feelings were now known.

  Clara spun back to him on her toes, suddenly lit with energy. “Renard likes you, and I gave him my support for you, which of course didn’t hurt, because I am his gatekeeper.”

  Hart nodded. “Yeah, you did mention that.” He felt guilty, as if he had deceived her, but Clara appeared to be optimistic about his usefulness.

  “Now you’re here. Your company sent you for a reason. Plus, Renard isn’t difficult to work with. In fact, half the battle is won—getting in the door. He likes you, and you’re American, which means opportunity and more money for him. But I must say it’s curious that you were sent without advance notice, don’t you think?” Hart could see her mind racing, thousands of thoughts forming. “Maybe your company doesn’t value us much and didn’t put thought into this.”

  Danger! a voice in Hart’s head screamed and a small trickle of sweat rolled down his side. He didn’t think that revealing his travel plans to Clara would result in her taking offense. Her voice was different, almost accusatory.

  Hart, fighting off panic, smiled to reassure her. “We value our relationship with Renard, there is no doubting that. I have made it seem worse than it really is. I am sure my boss trusts me, so please don’t think too much about this.” He turned to face her, but her arms were crossed as she stood sideways to him, staring over her shoulder.

  After a moment’s pause, she seemed to dismiss a thought and motioned for them to walk. They entered a desolate, high-ceilinged room. A painting hung on the far wall depicting Romans sprawled across a courtyard in a drunken slumber. Hart read the title, Romans During the Decadence, and studied it.

  “So, I am curious.” Clara turned, ignoring the painting. “What are your thoughts on Monsieur Renard’s dealings with Calhoun Capital? Do you think they make sense?”

  She stood with her head at an angle, ready to study his reaction and not his words.

  “Monsieur Renard’s holdings with us are minimal, deposits only as of now, with no real investments. In fact, we haven’t invested anything since the money came to us about a year ago.” He shrugged and studied the painting, hoping the conversation would end.

  Clara pressed on. “Do you find that”—she pursued her lips to search for her next word—“odd?”

  Hart shook his head. “No.” Clara gave him a skeptical look. “I guess I could see the appeal of being able to say you have business in the United States, but maybe it is a little odd.”

  Clara picked lint off her shawl for a moment before continuing. “I’m sorry about talking so much business on a Sunday, but my curiosity will not go away. Do you have any specific suggestions for Renard to conduct business with your company?”

  Hart turned to study the painting of Romans stretched out, envious of their carefree postures. He certainly was more stressed than they were at the moment. He attempted to stall for as much time as he could to come up with an idea, but he found no such brilliance before responding, “There’s a few more things I’d like to learn more about first. Then I’m sure we’ll come up with a great plan.”

  Clara seemed to sense she’d pressed her line of questioning too far but pushed onwards anyway, with a slight frown as if to say, Why not?

  She stepped closer to him, and he could see small freckles on her nose. “I’ve been giving it some thought, you see, and well, I think there’s a way in which we could both benefit here. Forget this notion you don’t know what you are doing here. What if we came up with an idea that would be beneficial for the both of us? You can get credit and look good and earn some business for your company, while I get even further into Renard’s good graces. I think that would certainly help us both out, no?” She raised her eyebrows but narrowed her eyes the way women could when they were looking for a certain answer, daring you to get it wrong.

  He studied her for a moment. Her face was soft and unassuming—trustworthy. Moments ago, he figured she would have moved on from whatever it was he thought they shared. “I’m intrigued. What do you have in mind?”

  She brushed a strand of her hair back. “A penny saved is a penny earned. Taxes these days can be quite burdensome. Does your company have any business in London?”

  Hart shook his head. Why is she asking about London? he thought. It had never been brought up before.

  Clara drew a deep breath and exhaled. “Well, that is enough business talk for today.” She turned and pointed down the hallway.

  “There’s an exhibit titled ‘Renoir’s Women,’ with a wonderful collection. Shall we go?”

  “With pleasure,” Hart replied absentmindedly, still thinking about Clara’s offer and subsequent mention of London.

  Clara had started to walk towards the exhibit, her gray shawl fluttering as she went. Hart watched the long shawl float and reveal her derriere. She glanced over her shoulder, catching him in the act: Were you watching me? Her dark hair danced across her face, and she swept it back behind her ear. Her green eyes flashed as they caught the light coming from the high windows in the hall.

  Hart felt a surge of electricity in his chest. His mind focused completely on Clara’s company for the afternoon, void of responsibility or fear, thinking only of her green eyes and soft smile. What am I getting myself into?

  14

  London

  Igor stepped out of the afternoon drizzle and ducked inside The Ivy. The late-afternoon meeting had made for an awkward crowd—too late for lunch, yet too early for dinner. Instead, the patrons all seemed to have the same idea: grab a strong drink before heading out, or home, for the evening.

  Igor shed his raincoat and tossed it to the overdressed maître d’. The inside of the famous restaurant was not unlike others he’d done business in: refined and elegant, with a certain air of superiority one felt when visiting. The dining room was set with white tablecloths, rose-colored chairs, and green velour booths. The most unusual feature of the restaurant, Igor noticed, was the lack of windows. Instead, stained glass blocked the view of the street, with colored rhombus designs. It reminded Igor of a church, and he hated it. But he didn’t pick the venue; that was chosen by the client he was meeting, whom he saw seated at the end of the bar.

  Igor snuck up behind the man, who appeared to be enjoying at least his second Martini.

  “Josh, have you started without me?”

  Josh Cornwall spun, his silk suit, which hung off his lanky frame, remaining glued to the velour chair. He freed himself and stood to give Igor a hug. The men exchanged quick pleasantries, and then Igor, once he found out there weren’t any chilled bott
les waiting for him, ordered vodka on the rocks.

  “We’ll have to order something a bit more celebratory perhaps the next time we get together if your deal comes through,” Josh said.

  Igor forced a smile. Josh’s personal portfolio had been with Igor for several years, before he’d finally broken into the business side of things. Josh was the CEO of an English construction company that specialized in housing. The company could build houses in a matter of days. Recently, there had been rumors that Josh was either about to land a major contract or be bought out. The company was publicly traded, and the stock price had been rising on speculation that a move was imminent.

  “Yes, well, you better get me that celebratory drink. After all, I am the one who made the introduction!” Igor playfully smacked Josh on the back.

  It was true, Igor thought: he did owe Josh plenty. He, after all, was set to become the pawn that Igor would sacrifice, having set the move up perfectly. Several months prior, Igor had arranged a meeting between Josh and a venture capital firm that specialized in investing in humanitarian causes. It wasn’t important that the deal would never actually go through—Igor wouldn’t allow it—but rather that Josh hit it off with them, detailing the efficient nature of his structural design, which could be used to create mobile hospitals, housing, or even forward military bases. Igor had leaked the news to several friends in the business, and within no time, Josh’s company had quite the reputation on the streets.

  “Well, we’ve seen our stock go up fifteen percent in the last few weeks. Just wait until we announce the merger.”

  Igor downed his vodka. His DNA wouldn’t allow him to sip it, because it was to be taken as a shot. “When will you announce?”