by Tyler Flynn
“We are figuring in the next week or so. I still need to present it to my board for approval, but it’s just a formality at this point. In the meantime, our stock will continue to go up.” Josh ate the two olives from his Martini.
Igor felt his heart pound. There wasn’t a lot of time to waste. He flagged the bartender down for another vodka and peered around at the clientele, indulging in their afternoon gossip. The type of warfare he waged, Igor thought, was so different to that of Nasir, the young man he’d met at the pub. Igor’s weapons of choice were polished oxfords, a quick wit, business intelligence, and plush, carpeted restaurants. Nasir operated on a different level, with weapons more straightforward in nature, but Igor considered himself to be just as effective. They were like cats and dogs: they went about the kill in contrary manners. Igor was a cat—slow, methodical, and when primed to strike, like lightning. Nasir, he hoped, was more brutal force and thunder.
The second vodka came, and Igor appeased Josh with more gossip about the markets, current political trends, and football. Igor wanted nothing more than to get back to his flat and begin further preparations, but appearances were to be kept. He politely laughed at Josh’s jokes and patiently listened to outrageous stories. After he’d heard all he could about a recent cruise the Cornwalls took off the coast of Spain, Igor dropped some pound coins on the bar and stood.
“This has been a pleasure, but I am afraid I have urgent business to attend to.”
Josh frowned. “I was just getting started. Seems like I’ll have to keep myself entertained for the rest of the evening. Wife took the kid to the movies.”
Igor saw the perfect opening. “Speaking of your wife, I hope she’s looking forward to the Riverbed Charity Gala this week.”
“Oh yes.” Josh slurped the last of his Martini. “She loves getting dressed up.”
“Well, you can now afford to spend some of your extra earnings on the auction, you know.”
Josh snorted. “I would if I didn’t have a sneaking suspicion you kept all the profits.” Josh smacked the bar and laughed at his joke.
For how stupid the guy was, Igor thought, he wasn’t far from the truth. Another reason he’d have to kill the man—one amongst the many.
“Well, I hope to see you at the party.” Igor stood.
“Of course. We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Igor smirked and threw on his raincoat. “I’m counting on it.”
15
Paris
The early-morning Parisian sunlight crept into the vacant dining room thanks to the tall windows overlooking the street. Hart drank as much coffee—steaming and strong—as he could. He knew he’d need it for the day ahead. He’d gone without much sleep at the weekend and needed to be functional at Renard’s offices.
Hart wore his navy suit and a white shirt with a blue silk tie. His black oxfords were freshly polished, and he was seated in the middle of the room. Hart’s company was a copy of Le Monde that sat on the table. Below the fold, a photo captured the chaos of a small refugee boat washing ashore in Italy. At least fifteen people were crammed together in the boat, mostly women and children. The headline read “Le residus du guerre, le bateau de refugies —The residue of war, a refugee boat.” Next to the article was further coverage of the migrant who stole a taxi in Berlin and mowed down a group of tourists. Hart found it miraculous that no one died. The newspaper quoted EU politicians calling for migration restrictions and questioned the Germans’ perhaps misplaced hospitality.
Hart shook his head. In the US, these events might be talked about briefly on some news-flash update, then forgotten. He thought of the people misplaced and without a home, striving for some semblance of a life, but the reality was it made him uncomfortable. Oftentimes Hart found it best not to think of uncomfortable things, so he flipped the newspaper over.
The hotel café was starting to fill up with men in expensive suits—gray tweeds and blue pinstripes—and women in stockings and silk blouses. A breakfast meeting in Manhattan meant be at the table no later than 7:30 a.m. and was conducted before office hours, not taking up the morning.
Hart considered the difference in culture and toyed with the idea that maybe the French got a bad rap but didn’t defend themselves because they knew the secret. Long, tranquil mornings made life worth living. Why wake up at 6 a.m. to climb the corporate ladder when one could sleep in until 8 a.m. and take a business meeting over croissants and poached eggs? Perhaps in a different life, Hart thought, he had been Parisian.
His morning, however, consisted of black coffee, scrambled eggs with diced peppers and tomatoes, and twenty-seven emails from work. Hutchens had been working while flying back to New York after a weekend golfing in West Palm Beach. The emails were his way of keeping tabs and contained several paragraphs of Hutchens’ usual stream of consciousness. Hutchens requested that Charles Roberts, a financial analyst, compile the original onboarding documentation from Renard. The dreary paperwork consisted of identification and articles-of-incorporation, documents which were stored deep behind the Calhoun Capitals security wall. Hutchens had also requested that Roberts connect with Hart.
Hutchens asked for profiles of the agricultural equipment competitors in the EU. Hart felt for Roberts. He was sure the better part of the young analyst’s evening would be spent at the office compiling a mountain of information. Lastly, Hutchens had requested that Hart spend his day solely focused on expanding Renard’s interests, thus solidifying connections to Calhoun. His boss could be unrealistic with expectations, but Hart learned long ago it was better simply to ignore the scatterbrained thoughts. They would eventually fade away from Hutchens’ memory and were rarely acted upon. Plus, Hart was not one to question orders.
The plan was to head to Renard’s offices and spend the day reading documents. Maybe there would be an opportunity to speak with the man himself, to better grasp how they could make money off each other. But beyond business, Hart was anxious to see Clara, and he wore his best suit for the occasion.
Hart left his table and the gloomy newspaper and headed through the lobby, buzzing with guests. Before he reached the door, a familiar man dressed in a black suit with a matching driving cap jumped in front of him.
“Monsieur Hart?” Maxim beamed. “Monsieur Renard said you would be leaving the hotel to go to the offices, and I am to take you.”
His thick French accent came through a broad smile. Hart realized he hadn’t been formally introduced to the man who drove him around with Clara. He was darker skinned than Hart remembered, and short black hair that peeked out from under his driver’s cap.
Maxim opened the rear door and helped Hart into the back of the Mercedes. Maxim merged with the traffic scurrying about on Rue de Rivoli. Hart observed out of the rear passenger-side widow that the area was filled with chauffeured sedans ferrying guests to and from their nearby luxury hotels. Hart caught Maxim looking at him in the rearview mirror, and his driver seized the opportunity to talk as they rolled along with the traffic.
“The traffic to La Défense will not be bad this morning. Most of the people going there already live on that side of Paris. The arrondissement where you are staying is either hotel guests going shopping at Place Vendôme or the locals that live in Le Marais. But they are all painters or artists and don’t find themselves heading west too often.”
Hart nodded politely, intent on gathering his thoughts for the day. What was he going to ask for at the offices? It made sense to make it appear as though he at least had a plan, which he knew he didn’t.
Maxim was undeterred by the silence and pressed on.
“So, what do you think of Paris, Monsieur Hart?” Maxim’s thick French accent hit the th syllable like a z.
Not wanting to be rude, Hart, against his own desires for a quiet ride, gave more than a one-word answer. “I love the city. I’ve been before, but it is beautiful, and there’s no other city quite like it.” He’d emphasized beautiful to drive home the compliment for Maxim, who appeared to appr
eciate the notion, giving a toothless smile in the rearview mirror. Hart knew the true way to the heart of a Frenchman was to compliment his country, because while the French didn’t need to hear it, they would never tire of it, especially from an American.
Maxim made several clicking sounds with his tongue and his jaw set firmly before he spoke again.
“You are quite right, monsieur. It is one of a kind. Just like our women, eh? Oh, là là, nothing like a Frenchwoman.” Maxim’s eyes narrowed as he strained to look again in the rearview mirror for Hart’s reaction.
Hart chuckled. “That’s the truth, my friend.” He looked out the window as the car veered left through the Place de la Concorde. Hart could make out the top of the United States Embassy, the American flag flapping in the breeze. There were armed French police patrolling the sidewalks, steel fencing in the road, and a large green tent with metal detectors in front of the gated entryway to the embassy. A line of people holding folders, bags, and umbrellas stood across the street.
Again, Maxim caught his eye. “Your embassy. The people across the road aren’t employees but waiting to get through security for their visa appointments. Everyone loves to give America a hard time, but everyone wants to go!”
Maxim laughed, which Hart politely tried to join in with.
Deciding to partake in the conversation, Hart did what he knew worked in any setting: ask someone a question about themselves, and they could carry the entire conversation. There usually wasn’t anything more interesting to someone than speaking about their life.
“So, Maxim, how long have you lived in Paris?”
Maxim’s lips flapped as he simultaneously shrugged his shoulders and slapped the steering wheel, the French equivalent of an indeterminate answer.
“J’sais pas, I’ve lived in Paris for, I guess, the last ten years. I am from Marseille, but my aunt moved up here for a rich man many years ago, and when he died I needed to care for her. I moved to Paris to help her, et voilà.” Maxim smiled and craned his neck so that he could see Hart in the rearview mirror.
“Well, it’s not a bad place to go.” Hart had a sense of déjà vu looking out his window as the car climbed up the gradient of the Champs-Élysées.
Maxim navigated the pedestrians crowding around the arch and weaved his way into the oncoming roundabout traffic. Once the Mercedes straightened out, the tall buildings of La Défense could be seen stretching into the sky before them.
“So, Maxim, do you only drive for Clara?” Hart asked.
“Oh yes, sir, I am busy but happy with this!”
Hart allowed his question to linger, hoping that tying in work wouldn’t make his motive for the line of questioning too obvious. All men knew the game, and each played it their own way.
A knowing and suddenly darkening glare danced across Maxim’s eyes in the rearview mirror as he did a double take at Hart.
“Oui, bien sûr. She is a very beautiful woman.”
Hart ignored the comment, feeling foolish for asking such an obvious question as a silence fell over the car. Maxim let it remain for a moment, the only sounds heard were the high-pitched whines of scooters weaving in and out of the stop-and-go traffic.
“But if I may, sir.” Maxim cleared his throat and spoke, his eyes softer. “Clara is a special woman, quite close to Renard. Nearly untouchable, if you understand...” His voice trailed off. Maxim turned the radio on for a moment, and France Info came to life, then turned the volume down and raised his index finger. “But I happen to know that she is fond of exceptional food. Being that she is from the southwest of France, she must have great food. Should you ever find yourself out to eat with her, where you go and what you order will have an impact on her. This is silly but true. She appreciates men with fine taste, what they wear, what they talk about, what they like. That is merely an observation, but one I’ve learned over the years driving her, and maybe, perhaps, between you and I, overhearing conversations. I do not say this is all she cares about— because she is a woman, we will never know it all—but I think this will help.”
Hart was appreciative of the man’s endearing effort. “Merci, mon ami. Any other helpful ideas for someone, let’s say, to understand Clara?”
Maxim tapped the steering while with his index finger, as if debating how much he should divulge. The car rolled to a stop at a stoplight.
Maxim turned quickly to the back seat and gave Hart a confiding stare. “With women, one never knows.” His finger had stopped tapping. “But Clara is not difficult to understand. She works hard, lives alone in an artsy part of town where businesspeople don’t usually stay. They live in the Sixteenth or Fifth Arrondissements, but I guess she likes it. Monsieur Renard trusts her with his life. But like I said before, the way to this woman’s heart is culture, appreciation, not always speaking of business. It will—how do you say?—go a long way.”
Hart spent the rest of the ride pondering his next move. How many days did he actually have left in Paris? He couldn’t be sure. This idea of a fling with Clara was madness, he told himself. He should remove it from his mind. Whatever possible dreams he had of their future together would be lost to the circumstances of place and time. They were two different people from two different worlds.
But as the large sedan took the sweeping boulevard left towards Renard’s offices, the anticipation of seeing Clara made Hart’s stomach tighten. This had the feeling, he conceded, of being much more than a fling. Just take it one step at a time and see where it goes.
Maxim pulled the car up to the front door and jumped out, racing to the rear door before Hart had his seat belt off. A tip of the cap and a, “Merci, monsieur,” and Maxim was back in the driver’s seat and speeding off before Hart was through the revolving glass doors.
16
Paris
Hart spent the morning in a glass-walled conference room, with his laptop and papers littering the table. He had been utterly alone for the better part of the day, besides an assistant who stopped by every hour to see if Hart needed water or du café. Office types in power suits and sleek dresses meandered by between meetings, peering with curiosity into the fishbowl where he sat. Hart, in turn, appeared to look busy, typing copious notes on his laptop with papers strewn about, but the truth was he wasn’t accomplishing anything.
Hart’s head pounded. He couldn’t shake a feeling of helplessness from being stuck in the conference room. His job was to learn all about Renard’s company so that Calhoun Capital could say it did its due diligence on its foreign client, but he needed assurances in some form that Renard would move more money over. When Renard spoke to him in grandiose terms of the West and the Place de la Concorde, he wasn’t going to stop the conversation; he was ready to take credit for the expanded business. It was Hart’s chance to prove to Hutchens and, for that matter, to his former lover that he belonged.
He found solace in the work, boiling it down in his own mind, so that if Renard were akin to a chef, his business interests would be equivalent to having a role in every aspect of the restaurant business. He was the server, bartender, and busboy, but also the supply chain that provided the food and brought it from the farm to the table.
Renard started in the business of manufacturing and supplying agricultural equipment and over the years expanded Renard Enterprises LLC, which grew exponentially in market share, while expanding into different sectors. In order to cut down on production costs, they’d bought out several manufacturing companies and then a small steel company, then branched out into the agricultural field. He purchased several wine estates in Bordeaux, and although the vineyards used old-fashioned manual labor, the small ventures turned into a solid distribution chain when Renard purchased a freight company, allowing his estates to distribute wine across all of Europe.
It was clear to Hart that Renard had bigger dreams than simply selling farming equipment. There was some unquenchable thirst that drove him, evidenced by the man’s diversified holdings.
Letting out a deep breath, Hart rubbed his
temples and dropped his head. There was an echoing clank as the glass door was thrust opened, the glass walls vibrating and starling Hart.
“I hope I am not interrupting.”
The accent was thick, and Hart knew who it was before he even looked up.
“Monsieur Renard, nice to see you.”
Hart stood and forced a smile as he shook hands. He cursed his luck; he was ill-prepared for their next conversation.
Renard glanced at the messy table and back to Hart. “No need for formalities. I just wanted to stop by to see the sausage being made, as they say.” Renard smirked with pleasure in getting the English expression right.
Hart stood awkwardly, with his hands suddenly hidden in his pockets, desperate for Renard to leave and not ask any questions. If the truth be told, he was overwhelmed.
Renard found a swivel chair and took a seat. “Please sit down. I have a few minutes before my potentially vigorous lunch appointment.” Renard again glanced at the smattering of papers across the table. He undid the top button of his shiny navy suit jacket, showing a purple silk inner lining. He wore no tie but a white pocket square.
“A potential client meeting?” Hart inquired, looking to redirect the attention.
“Non, not a client, a beautiful woman who has the fiercest blue eyes you have ever seen. Some men choose to drive expensive cars, gamble, golf, or have a yacht, but I find solace in beautiful women.” He leaned back in his chair and shrugged, frowning. “That doesn’t mean I don’t have expensive cars or yachts, but I prefer exquisite women.”
Hart let out a nervous laugh and shook his head. A thought crossed his mind for a moment: Did that include Clara?
Renard sat forward, placing his forearms on the table, and folded his hands, revealing a polished silver Cartier wristwatch with a blue-jeweled crown. “You know, when Clara messaged me after your lunch and said I should meet with you, I was curious, because while I’ve been a client of your company, we have never really engaged before. Then out of the blue you appear. Did your boss share with you the specific purpose of the trip?” Renard squinted at Hart as if he were holding the last remaining hand in a high-stakes poker game, waiting for the cards to drop.