by Tyler Flynn
The paradox of his life demanded he work hard to get where he was, but it was just a means to an end, because eventually he needed to destroy the career he built. Without the ambitious life he pretended to live, his secret life would be impossible. All he wanted to do was come home after work and have a strong drink, relax in front of a dirty movie, and go to bed, but it was not his fate this evening.
He grabbed his dark-blue Burberry raincoat and left his flat. The night air was damp, and it felt like it would rain the next day, like it seemed to do every day in London. He drew a sharp breath and cursed out loud. The last thing he wanted to do was travel halfway across London. He took pity on himself for a moment, cursing the hand dealt him for the evening once more. It would be a long night, doing standard surveillance direction routes, or SDRs, across London. It seemed that anyone could execute them, because of Jason Bourne movies. But Igor was not like anyone else; it was in his blood, and he was a savant at being two steps ahead.
He was devoted to his cause, and the role of ambitious banker was perfect. He took on the role so effortlessly that he himself believed it was the truth from time to time, although he would never allow himself to admit it out loud. A lucrative new client signed, the perfectly executed trade, the large quarterly bonuses, and the business trips entertaining clients all over Europe brought their own moments of bliss. But it was all a means to an end. The irony was his career gave him the access to the money and people he would use to destroy them. He was a villain shielded by the greed he preyed upon.
He took a stairway-shaped SDR to South Kensington Underground station and caught a Tube to Piccadilly Circus. Igor was not surprised there were people still milling about late on a Sunday evening. Most of the shops had closed, but a city like London was never truly still; there was always something to do. Walking on the west side of Regent Street heading north, Igor did his best to glance across the street into shop windows, where he could see his reflection. While Regent Street was quite wide, the shop windows were large enough that one could use the opposite side like a mirror. Satisfied no one was following him, Igor crossed the street, heading east past the Nike store, with flashes of light from enormous screens inside showing Premier League highlights.
Continuing east, Igor finally entered Covent Garden from its north side, the streets busy with foot traffic from the nearby bars. Patrons stood outside having a smoke and a pint, clogging the sidewalks, but it was what made Covent Garden the perfect meeting ground. The storefronts provided continuous reflections, and the urban maze of streets and hidden alleys made it easy to disappear.
Doubling back through several streets, pretending to window-shop on the left side and returning the way he came down the right side of a tight, dimly lit cobbled road, Igor felt confident he hadn’t been tailed. He knew he was paranoid, but that was how one stayed alive in a game of cat and mouse.
In the office at Riverbed Capital, where he was a portfolio manager, Igor could relax and be the consummate professional. He attended meetings with clients, managed their money—or, as his company’s marketing material said, “Increased one’s legacy”—by investing in stocks, real estate, and bonds. His firm’s mission statement: “To provide timely, sound, and dynamic advice so that our clients, and future generations, are secured.” But the actual company motto was “Make money at all costs.”
The more money under management, the larger the expectations were. Igor had labored away at Riverbed for years before realizing his parents’ dream of living in the Soviet Union under communism was preferable. He’d felt firsthand the deterioration of people’s morals and their corrupt actions, which caused harm and broke a country. Every day, he watched Europe become weaker, chasing profits, leaving behind countless people and third-world countries. Thanks to the greed of others, opportunities formed from the ashes of forgotten peoples in need of help. For Igor the victims were the migrants who struggled to make a life for their families, as Western culture stripped their desolate countries bare of resources and infrastructure. Igor knew he would make the West pay, with help from those forgotten. They were innocent like his mother, killed by his father’s ignorance and the greed of the Western allies to win their so-called Cold War. His revenge was calculated; he would further inflame tensions across Europe by funding terrorist attacks by migrants, turning a profit on their specific actions.
Igor knew his course of action wasn’t easy, but he believed that the foundation for his offensive was already laid, but more importantly to him, worthwhile. While there were strict laws pertaining to high finance, he had found ways around them. His company was perfect cover: small enough that he knew everything that went on, but big enough that things could be hidden in plain sight. He could manage money, create returns, and meet the wealthy upper-class citizens of Europe while operating with a great deal of freedom. It also meant he had time to meet with his other, secretive, resources. Like the evening encounter he was waiting on.
Igor gazed at the large market, its slanted roof housing boutiques, such as Ladurée chocolatiers, Shake Shack, and a plethora of other small shops. The expansive paved walkway leading up to large doors doubled as a delivery dock afterhours for the Covent Garden boutique houses. He watched as late-night drinkers came and went, couples holding hands, a few well-dressed Londoners hurriedly walking in overcoats and scarves scattered about. The area still smelled of cooking oil from fish-and-chip carts that had been there earlier in the day.
He watched the passersby with interest. He’d always found it imperative to understand people—who they were and what they did. It was intuitive, a gift he liked to believe he got from his mother; certainly, his father didn’t have it. Igor could read anyone, and he was rarely wrong. Understanding someone, what they were driven by, what made them happy, what their weaknesses were, was like a sixth sense to him. It was how he found and approved Nasir for the job in his operation.
Wearing bright-white Nikes, dark skinny jeans, a camel parka, and his red Nike hat, Nasir looked like any other trendy urban Londoner. He made his way under the overhang of the building and leaned against the brick wall. From a distance, Igor watched the surrounding area for several minutes. No one seemed interested in Nasir or loitered conspicuously. When Nasir looked at his phone, the screen lit his face, and Igor could make out the young man’s thin beard. After ten minutes of waiting, Nasir shook his head and headed south towards the River Thames.
Igor let Nasir slip ahead of him as he took a small alley towards The Strand. The alley gently sloped downhill, and Igor walked carefully on his heels to make sure he didn’t alert Nasir. Having waited for ten minutes, Nasir would think that Igor stood him up and would go back to wherever it was he came from, but Igor didn’t know where, as planned, due to the operational security they’d both agreed to.
Once Nasir reached The Strand, he turned east, heading towards Trafalgar Square. Igor quickened his pace and closed the distance and, in front of Charing Cross station, pulled alongside Nasir. Igor felt the young man tense as they fell into step.
Igor spoke first without looking at him.
“This meeting protocol is for emergencies only. This better be something that’s an emergency,” he spat out through clenched teeth. He’d been irritated since the moment his phone rang. Not even the hours in between or the long evening walk did anything to calm his rage.
“It is. I mean, I think it is—an emergency. For you. I mean, us too.” Nasir spoke softly like a scolded child.
“Well, let’s have it.”
“I’m not sure that I’m ready. I don’t feel ready, and I think it’s best if we delay this a few more weeks. To prepare more.”
Igor cut him off with an annoyed grunt somewhere between a growl and a bark. They were silent as they walked into Trafalgar Square under the cover of darkness. Swiveling his head around in both directions to ensure no one was close enough to overhear their conversation, Igor spoke firmly.
“You knew the game would play out this way when you agreed to this arrang
ement. You’re doing this in the name of Allah, for the security of your family, for future generations of your family, so that they know you not only served Allah but also struck at the core of the West.”
Nasir dropped his head, letting his chin bounce softly against his chest as he walked, pouting like a teenager. “Maybe I don’t even know what you want. Where your loyalties lie, or even if you believe in Allah or our cause,” he quipped as they continued to walk along, crossing the square and continuing west towards Hyde Park and Mayfair.
Igor closed his eyes momentarily; the frustration of dealing with Nasir would soon be over. He reminded himself just what he needed to get from him, the crucial role he’d play.
“Listen to me,” Igor started as he pulled out a cigarette and took his time lighting it. “I am supporting you and the cause. Who gives a damn whether I bow my head five times a day? What you need to know is your enemy is my enemy, and that makes us allies. Together we’ll bring them to their knees. The people I work for chose me because they knew I could deliver.”
Nasir was getting cold feet, or maybe attempting to make a better deal for his family, but Igor didn’t care. He took two long pulls from his cigarette, flicked the butt onto the wet pavement, and watched the dying glow of the tobacco for a moment. Littering a cigarette butt was now against the law in England and punishable by a fine of up to eighty pounds. It was just another reminder of how weak the West had become.
Igor was fed up with Nasir and wanted to go home.
“I am not speaking of this anymore. You’ve been chosen, your family will be well taken care of, and you agreed to this.” Igor stopped, his anger getting the better of his composure, and turned to glare at Nasir. The Ritz Hotel sign behind them lit up the street. “However, you, of course, have two options left.”
Nasir met Igor’s dark eyes. “And those are?”
“You can continue as planned and fight in this war and strike, as has been asked of you, or you can decide this isn’t what you wanted, after all, and you can walk away.”
Igor pulled out another cigarette and put it in his mouth unlit. “But if you choose the second option, you should know it will not be pleasant for you.” He lit his cigarette. “No, let me rephrase that: considerably unpleasant. Because we have found your mother and little sister in a refugee camp in Stockholm.” Igor turned to see Nasir’s eyes flicker with fear. “So, if you should decide your services are no longer available, we won’t make any effort to protect your family anymore. We will move them out of the apartment we’ve gotten for them. Your beautiful little sister—what could become of her? Maybe she gets left in the rough part of the refugee camp—the one we rescued them from; the part with the men who have grown tired of not having women around. Maybe your mother will be there, too, and they’ll make her watch. When they beg for mercy and cry out, ‘Why us?’ The last thing they will know before they die is that their pain and ill fortune are because of your cowardice. They were part of the deal, and if you don’t fulfill your end of the deal, well...” Igor let the words linger in the air.
Nasir was silent except for heavy breathing. Igor knew firsthand that no matter how deranged, manipulated, or evil someone could be, their family was everything, and it could cripple them.
“They are safe and out of the camp? Praise Allah. I have not known this. You only said they were protected.”
Igor scoffed. “We’re done here. Carry out your mission, and only communicate to me if it is an emergency. If you call me again for a bullshit stunt like this, I will not be kind to your family. That is a promise. We will make contact in a few days’ time.”
They reached the corner of The Strand, with Hyde Park to their right, a wide roundabout directing traffic. There were signs pointing the way down to the underground walkway below the busy roundabout. Nasir turned to ask Igor more about his family, but when he looked left, he saw Igor calmly crossing the road as cabs and a double-decker bus went by, and when they had passed, Igor was gone.
19
Paris
The morning of Tuesday, October 11 was accompanied by waves of dark and relentless clouds slowly passing over northern France. The storm, picking up cold water from the English Channel and unexpectedly warm air from the day before, grew angry as it unleashed its fury on Paris. The skies remained dark well into the morning, long after the sun was supposed to rise; instead sheets of rain, fierce winds, and bellowing thunder blanketed the day.
The windows of Hart’s room shook, causing him to wake well before his alarm. He lay still, his body heavy, sinking deeper into the mattress as he fought to keep from falling back asleep. The jet lag had finally caught up with him, albeit a few days late. Once the adrenaline from his whirlwind travels left him, he felt exhausted and sore, like he’d been hit by a truck.
He rolled out of bed and trudged to the bathroom, showered, trimmed his beard, and put on khaki chinos from Officine Générale and a gray cashmere sweater from Maison Kitsuné with a tasteful little French flag embroidered on the front in the shape of a fox. The woman at the shop had told him that kitsune was Japanese for “fox,” and maison was French—a brand of different nationalities. He figured playing upon French nationalism could only help his chances of seducing Clara.
Combing his unruly hair, he couldn’t help but think of her. Why did she want to meet at the hotel? Perhaps she wanted a change of scenery from the office to an informal setting, but what for? There was only one way of finding out. He couldn’t prepare for a meeting, Hart thought, where he didn’t know the topic.
The dining room was busy, since no guests were brave enough to face the morning weather. The clinking of coffee cups being set back on their porcelain saucers, soft murmuring, and the smell of freshly baked pastries put Hart at ease. It was certainly a better setting than the conference room he’d been confined in. He was sat at the table nearest the window and immediately requested black coffee.
The waiter returned with a large French press, the steam slowly rising out of the spout. Hart was informed that he should wait several minutes before serving himself. Not wanting to appear rude when Clara arrived, he requested a double espresso for her, but only to be brought out once she was seated.
The waiter bowed his head. “Of course, monsieur.”
Hart was patient enough to wait for several minutes to float by before pouring the coffee. He pondered the last week of his career—and life, for that matter—hard-pressed to find another time when things had been so spontaneous. The irony was he hadn’t made any of the decisions. It was Hutchens who sent him to Paris, Renard who asked him to stay. It was as if he were on a rudderless ship, tossed about on a tumultuous sea, the direction not up to him, but rather at the mercy of the seas and tides, being taken in whatever direction he was pulled.
Hart, over the rim of his coffee cup, caught sight of Clara making her way through the dining room. She wore a khaki Burberry raincoat, its collar turned up against the morning rain. She handed it to the maître d’, who had kindly offered to relieve her of her jacket. Hart rose and watched her saunter across the room. Her espresso hair was in a tight bun, with a gold clip holding it in place. She wore a clementine-colored dress that draped across her shoulders that flowed down to her knees, complemented by a gold necklace and patent nude-colored high heels. She made her leisurely way to Hart, who like most of the men in the restaurant, happened to be admiring Clara as well.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle.”
“Good morning, Paul. I see you’ve started without me.” Her lipstick, the color of grapefruit, framed her sideways smile.
Hart pulled out her chair while the waiter brought out Clara’s double espresso and gave Hart a quick wink before walking away.
“That was quite sweet of you, thank you,” she said to Hart as she grabbed the menu from the white tablecloth and studied it closely.
Hart was quiet for a moment before his curiosity got the better of him. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of breakfast with you this morning? Or maybe it’s the de
licious pastries here.”
She didn’t stop looking at the menu, but her eyes darted up conspiratorially at Hart: Be patient. He folded his hands. Clara sipped her espresso, finished browsing the menu, and found the waiter, who was eager to reappear.
“We have a busy day ahead, I’m afraid.” She spoke in English for Hart’s benefit and ordered the small fresh pastry basket, along with a breakfast smoothie with mango, orange, strawberry, and kiwi. Hart requested an omelet with red pepper, potato, and Gruyère, along with a side of toast.
“So, what were you planning on doing today?” inquired Clara as she sipped her espresso.
“I don’t really have any plans.” Hart drummed the side of his coffee mug while he spoke, a nervous tic he didn’t realize he had until Clara gave his fidgeting hand a quick glance.
“I was hoping that you’ll be flexible with your scheduling. You see, I have to be in London tonight.” She playfully bit her lip.
Hart hid his disappointment by grabbing another sip of coffee. “Probably off to some beautiful hotel for an extravagant dinner.” He smiled but was sure Clara could see the truth in his eyes.
“Actually”—her face softened—“it is exactly that. Nice hotel, extravagant dinner, but there is one thing you’re missing.”
“Oh? Please do tell.”
Clara smirked. “The event is a black-tie charity auction with lots of big spenders. There will also be copious amounts of champagne. So, you’re correct, but the problem is I happen to need someone to accompany me. Monsieur Renard canceled on me yesterday.”
“I see.” Hart could feel his pulse quicken. She’s going to ask you. No, don’t be a fool. It’s too good to be true.
Clara paused as her smoothie arrived, a deep-claret color with an arrangement of sliced strawberry and banana decorating the glass. She grabbed the straw slowly with her fingers and moved it up and down to test the consistency. She then bent down to the straw and took a sip, looking up at Hart, who needed to clear his tightening throat. She stopped and seemed to nod in approval of the drink before turning her attention back to Hart.