Where the Wolf Lies

by Tyler Flynn

  “James asked me to go for some due-diligence work and get to know you better.”

  Renard scratched his stubble. “That is all? Bon, the good news for you is that I like you—or should I say Clara likes you? And I trust her. So, I like you. And I know that it takes time to build relationships.” Renard studied Hart, who nodded in agreement.

  “But once I form a bond, this is not easily broken. For example, I have been going for the same massage at the Mandarin Oriental on the last Friday of every month for the past twelve years. The masseuse is named Yvette, and she knows my body like the back of her hand.” Renard drifted from the conversation for a moment, as if he were recalling her in his mind. “When I think of her, a story comes to mind. I had gone on a hunting trip to Scotland. I’d never been hunting, but a friend of a friend had this castle with dogs and invited people for a hunt on his property. I had to carry this heavy hundred-year-old shotgun all week. Of course, you need to carry it a certain way, and by the time I was back in Paris a few days later, my back was absolutely killing me. So painful, I could barely walk or breathe. So, I had an appointment with Yvette and told her my left side hurt, but she simply said lie down. She took maybe two, three minutes just going over my back muscles, and next thing you know, she is massaging my right side!” He held his hands up in the air, palms to the sky, dramatic confusion spread across his face.

  “So, I say, Yvette, non, it’s my left side that hurts! She stops, leans in close to my ear, and in her soft voice tells me she knows best. Oh, mon ami, I didn’t exactly care about my back at that point, you know? But after she was done, no pain. Absolutely none. I felt brand-new. She told me that my left side hurt because I had compensated for my right side. It made sense. I didn’t even know my own body. So, Yvette tells me, because she can see in my face I am stunned, that it is her job to know me better than I know myself. She has an ability to get to know my muscles, the weak spots, the parts needing extra attention, and those that need minor maintenance. She says that this is her mission, to leave me in better shape than when she found me every time. She does not even need to be told where to go looking for issues. She just finds them and fixes them, because that is her job. And you know what this reminded me of?”

  Hart was startled by the question, because he was busy fantasizing about having his own masseuse. “No.”

  “Well, it is quite simple—”

  Renard was interrupted by knocking on the glass door as a woman wearing a dark-cherry-red safari dress with black high heels peeked her head in to let Renard know his car was downstairs waiting.

  “D’accord. Merci, Iris.” He spun back around and looked at his watch for a moment before shrugging and continuing. “As I was saying, it’s simple. I thought that Yvette was profoundly insightful in that in every relationship there needs to be an intimate understanding of each other, especially in business. Paul, this is what I see you as.” Leaning forward once again, with his elbows on the table, Renard made direct eye contact with Hart as if he were willing an understanding between the two men. “I know that going to clients and pretending to be interested can be tedious. But you are to be like the masseuse I spoke of, only your client is my company, my future, our ventures together. Study everything you’d like to. You’ll have access to anything, everywhere, anyone, at any time. I want you to be able to find my weaknesses and take care of them without me even having to point to them.”

  Renard stood slowly and buttoned his suit jacket. Hart continue to sit, as he felt the discussion was not yet over.

  “I know Hutchens is eager for more capital. So, I’ve arranged for a two-million-euro transfer to my account at Calhoun Capital. It’s a little thank-you for being so accommodating. Because I know how the game is played—you want to take care of me, and in return look good yourself—so I’d like you to also short a specific company for me at half their current price. It’s based out of England and is somewhat of a competitor. I have the cash resources to take a short position in them; put a million on it. Think of it as icing on the cake.”

  Hart scratched his stubble. “You want me to short a company that is a competitor of yours because you think you’ll put them out of business soon?”

  “Yes, well, something like that. I have strong convictions the position will have booming returns.”

  Hart nodded. There was nothing illegal about taking a position in a competitor— most companies couldn’t do it because they didn’t have the capital—but he was beginning to understand Renard was unlike anyone he’d worked with.

  “Just give me the name of the company and I’ll look into it.”

  Renard smiled. “Good. I am glad, Paul. Because the best relationships are where things do not need to be spoken but are simply understood intuitively. I’m also happy that you don’t need to run back to the United States, because now that I have you here, I have your boss’ attention, and I quite like that.” Turning for the door to leave, Renard dug a slip of paper from his coat pocket and threw it on the table. “This is the company name. You have my permission to do as we discussed.”

  Hart glanced down at the neatly folded, cream-colored paper that lay on the glass table. It seemed Renard was offering a goodwill gesture, a deal that would make everyone happy.

  “Oh, and one more thing.” Renard held his hand up. “Clara is out of the office today on business, but tomorrow I think it would be nice for you two to catch up.”

  With a wink and a smile, Renard walked down the glass hallway and playfully tapped on the window as he strolled away.

  17

  Paris

  Hart confined himself to the conference room as the day dragged on. He anticipated hearing from his office, so he’d decided to skip lunch, opting instead for a bottle of Badoit sparkling water and some sea salt cookies that had been kindly brought in.

  An email notification finally pinged at half past one, from Charles Roberts, with a smartass subject line: “Thanks for ruining my weekend.” Attached was a report on the agriculture sector in the EU by country, and the second file was the original client application and documentation from Renard’s account opening.

  Diving into the first report, Hart read about the EU’s strong agricultural economy but determined it best to call Roberts, who, as he’d politely reminded Hart, spent the weekend writing the report.

  Roberts answered on the first ring, with the soundtrack of New York City—honking, sirens, and general pandemonium—in the background.

  Roberts scoffed. “Hey, man, thank you for ruining my weekend. I hope Hutchens will pick up this international call bill too.” Roberts sounded his usual gruff self.

  Hart pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort stay patient. “I read it over, but I am curious to know your thoughts on everything.”

  The line was silent for a moment, other than NYC in the background.

  “You want my opinion?” Roberts’ voice rose in confusion.

  “Yes, related to our client. I’m sure you formed some opinions while preparing your research.” Hart paused for a moment. He knew he could trust Roberts, and honesty was a currency in which Hart liked to deal. He was looking for feedback or any ideas he could craft into his own.

  Hart knew Roberts was an analyst and only accustomed to research, but he never gave an unvarnished opinion. His career was constricted, and he toed the line so that if something broke one way or the other, his analysis would seem fair.

  Roberts huffed. “Paul, I’m assuming this stays between us.”

  “Of course,” Hart replied.

  “Well, I am confused as to why Renard wants to work with us. There are plenty of other firms that could manage him, but maybe it’s lucky for you. Hutchens sends you on a compliance field trip, and Renard sees his chance to get more attention from us. But as far as his holdings in Europe go, the guy’s company does pretty well. He has the market nearly cornered in France, from manufacturing, distributing, and to selling his agriculture equipment. If anything, maybe there should be stronger diversificati
ons into other spaces, but why expand into the United States?” Roberts paused. “That confuses me.”

  Hart nodded to himself. He’d felt the same, and when he heard Roberts echo the sentiment, it was as if a loose thread had been pulled in his mind.

  Roberts carried on. “I think he should start investing more while business is good. Their organic growth will stay capped unless Renard Industries invests further.”

  Hart jumped in. “You are thinking Renard has to spend more money in order to earn more?”

  “Exactly. You know, it’s what Hutchens is always talking about. At a certain point, you’re not going to earn any more unless you get better at what you do, or there’s a significant event that changes the outlook—something like Brexit or disruptive technology for that matter. But if you don’t have a large catalyst like that, the only real option left is investment.”

  Hart was glad he asked for Roberts’ opinion. He had good ideas, some that Hart might even make his own. “Spend more money—original idea. But what about shorting a competitor? If you’re convinced your outlook is superior, don’t you think it’s an interesting play?”

  Roberts laughed. “Where did you get that crazy idea? If there is cash to burn, you’re better off investing in the markets. That to me makes more sense than earning pennies shorting a stock of a competitor.”

  Hart was flustered and chose to ignore the answer. “I appreciate the hard work on this, Roberts. Try and leave the office early tonight, huh?”

  “Anything for you, boss.”

  Roberts’ reply dripped with disdain, but Hart heard a chuckle before the call ended.

  Hart leaned back in his chair and rubbed his stubble absentmindedly. Roberts had been cynical about Renard’s requested trade, although Hart left that part out, offering the idea as his own. He considered his options. Defy Renard and suggest something different, or continue with the request and have Calhoun second-guess his own value. He played out the two options in his mind, finding little conviction. He had an obligation to appease his client, and more importantly, the trade could further bolster his standing with Hutchens. The downside, Hart thought, was minimal, and after all, he’d set out to win Renard’s business, and it certainly appeared he had.

  Suddenly, Hart felt anxious to get out of the conference room he’d been in all day. He had a visitor pass but was reluctant to venture further than the bathroom for fear of getting lost. The glass table was littered with papers, but Hart knew he had only gained a general understanding of Renard’s company structure and personal holdings. But even a team of auditors would have a difficult time deciphering it all with only a few days. Hart glossed over the hundreds of accounts and various holdings companies and legal entities operating all across Europe. The enormity of the research slowly eroded his patience and soon his ambition to finish looking over every document. Hart reasoned he’d done the job as best he could, making copies of documents to ensure that Calhoun Capital could say it had done its KYC work. The prospect of reviewing more documentation was too daunting, and it was late in the day. Hart had seen fewer people making their way back and forth, peering into his fishbowl, and decided it was time to leave.

  He thought of Clara and was disheartened he didn’t see her. He still felt foolish for having confided in her at the museum about his uncertainty. She’d been more confused than concerned, but he felt the shining amour of his American banker façade had been stripped.

  Renard had reassured him with his trust, and a seemingly lucrative transaction request, and he wanted to make him happy. Hart recognized the only person who didn’t seem stressed or worried about that plan was Renard. The irony was not lost on Hart that Renard seemingly had the most to lose: his money.

  Hart’s phone buzzed, upsetting some papers, and he scrambled to find it. He saw the caller ID, and his stomach tightened.

  “This is Hart.”

  “So, how’s it going out there? Had enough croissants yet?”

  Hutchens’ booming laugh caused Hart to hold the phone away from his ear. Hart solemnly dropped his head, resigned to having to play along.

  “Yeah, thanks for the vacation. Almost feel bad expensing things.”

  Hutchens sneered, and Hart could hear the ruffling of papers on the other end of the line.

  “How is Mr. Renard? Are you two getting along? Bringing over more money?”

  “He’s ambitious, that’s for sure. I know he’s eager to expand into the States and sees us as the key to that doorway.”

  Hutchens grunted in approval. “We’ve been in casual talks for months, but things seem to be coming together now. I saw he sent over a few million. Good work, Hart. I should have known he’d want to talk shop. Looks like there’s still a place for you in our firm, after all.” Hutchens drew out the last phrase, daring Hart to tell him the truth that he felt overwhelmed.

  “I’m glad I got to help.”

  Hart heard Hutchens smack his desk. “Good. Remember I have eight associates, but I chose you. I didn’t realize this would turn into an extended trip, but as long as he brings us cash, I don’t care. Keep me informed. Use my cell.”

  “I will, thanks.” Hart debated whether to ask something that had been lingering in the back of his mind. He decided to go for it. “Just curious, but how did we end up with Renard as a client?”

  Hutchens cleared his throat, seemingly pleased by the question. “Well, a few months back I took a trip to London to finalize a deal. I worked with a banker from some firm for almost a week before it was finalized, but once the week was over, this banker, a guy with a funny name—Igor, I think—recommended I get in touch with Renard. He said he was a client who was looking for an American firm to work with. Said we would be perfect together. So, Renard is with us, but I still want more capital from him. Like I always say, you have to spend money to make money.”

  The call ended abruptly, with Hutchens telling Hart to charge everything on his company card and hanging up without saying goodbye.

  While Hart cleaned up the conference room, he longed to be back at the hotel, but there was one bit of business to do first. Logging into the client portal for Renard, he found that indeed the two million euros had been transferred, like the man said. Hart pulled the piece of paper from his pocket and placed a short position, on Cornwall Public Limited Company, the million-dollar position Renard had requested. Hart snapped the laptop shut without a second thought.

  Just past the front desk, Hart caught Iris, the assistant who had taken care of him all day, as she entered the elevator. Hart followed her inside.

  “Ah, Monsieur Hart. Heading out for the evening?” she said.

  Her demeanor was slightly less warm after the official working hours had ended.

  “Yes. I think I’ll grab a taxi or the Metro. Any ideas how to get back to the Louvre area? Or where to go for dinner?”

  He put his briefcase down on the floor and buttoned his raincoat as the elevator descended. He was intrigued by what fate had to offer, and he expected a detailed suggestion or an entirely different idea from Iris.

  Her eyes narrowed, and he thought the corners of her full lips turned into a smile briefly before she spoke. “There’s a car outside for you—same driver, Maxim, as this morning. Good night.”

  The elevator reached the first floor, and Iris slid out sideways before the doors were fully open. So much for what fate had to offer, Hart thought.

  Maxim hurried over to Hart in the lobby and peppered him with questions about anticipated plans, and offered suggestions. Hart simply asked to be taken back to his hotel.

  It wasn’t until just past the Arc de Triomphe that Hart realized he hadn’t heard from Clara about their plans for Tuesday, as Renard had mentioned. It was after 6:30 p.m., but since she’d texted him on a Sunday morning, he figured that professional protocols were abandoned and sent her a text.

  Hope you had a nice day. I understand we are scheduled for a dinner tomorrow?

  She responded well after Maxim had dropped him off. Cl
ara said she’d meet him for breakfast at the hotel at 8 a.m. Hart grinned and thought, I am eager to see you too.

  18

  London

  The ring pierced the silence of the apartment. Igor scowled with disgust. He glared at his phone, as if daring it to continue ringing. It was unbelievable to him that the phone actually was ringing, because it meant there was an emergency. On the sixth ring, he reluctantly answered, pinching the bridge of his nose and silently cursing this luck.

  On the other end of the line, there was only a faint white noise. Straining for a moment to focus on the background, Igor could just about make out labored breathing. He told himself to be calm, but his temples pounded like an angry war drum.

  “I would like to place an order for delivery,” a meek voice mumbled in a thick guttural accent—Middle Eastern.

  Igor took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He lit a cigarette before responding; the hiss of the butane cigar lighter filled the empty silence. He snapped the lighter case shut and threw it on the table with a clank.

  “We are closed,” he said, spitting the words out.

  The caller sounded worried, not desperate. The call was a waste of time. The burner phone was meant for emergencies, the type where the police were about to break down the door, not simply for cold feet.

  “I was really hoping to—I mean I need...” The voice trailed off. “I need to eat.”

  Taking a long pull from his cigarette, Igor let the smoke settle deep in his lungs to steady his nerves before blowing it from his nostrils. This was not the type of emergency he wanted, but duty called.

  “Try the shop on the south side of Covent Garden. Tourists keep things open all night. Goodbye.”

  He snapped the flip phone shut, then, in a rage, tore the device in half. Holding the phone pieces in both hands, he began to shake. Why did things have to be so difficult? Why were people so weak? There wasn’t time for this. That phone call could jeopardize years of work.