Where the Wolf Lies

by Tyler Flynn

  “‘Maneuvering,’ c’est manoeuvre. It is the same word! English came from French. Remember that.”

  Hart laughed. “And here I thought the French had only contributed democracy, croissants, galette, and the French kiss. All fantastic things, I might add.”

  Clara let out an exasperated breath before laughing.

  “So why this, manoeuvre? Was it a happy move?”

  He was pleased by her questions and the fact she seemed to care to get to know him.

  “Well, I was put in a compromising position and ultimately paid the price. But I think things have turned around.”

  “So, I’m curious. What was it about?” Clara asked.

  “I don’t want you to have any misconceptions about me or my professionalism.” He looked off to his right, at a Pizza Hut that looked more like an American diner, complete with ketchup and mustard bottles atop the tables. For a brief moment, he longed to just be sitting at a restaurant, Coke in hand, not worrying about careers, clients, or money, but it was a daydream, not his reality.

  “Alors, Paul? What happened?” Her voice became more serious, even in tone.

  Hart winced. “I had a girlfriend, and her father got me this job, and she ended up leaving me for a client. Her father is still my boss, actually.”

  Clara was quiet for a moment. “I see. You’re still working there?”

  “Like I said, it was a compromising position, but I don’t want you to think I didn’t earn or deserve it. It’s a job I never could have gotten so soon otherwise—and voilà, as you’d say.” Hart risked a glance at her walking next to him. Her face revealed more confusion than anger. Hart continued on. “I think my boss likes me. This whole thing was over a year ago, but since then I’ve been mainly relegated to grunt work, except for this trip. I just do as I’m told.” He paused a beat and took notice of her silence. What if now Clara would view him as damaged goods? It wasn’t the first time he’d confessed to something that left him looking foolish.

  Clara scoffed as she looked at him. “Sometimes things happen for reasons we can’t understand until it’s passed. I suppose the true importance is that things will reveal themselves with time. And you were sent here. He wouldn’t send you on a trip unless he liked you.”

  Hart welcomed her words, and his anxiety melted away. “That is nice of you to say. But you don’t know me that well yet.” He was hoping his sarcasm would find its way through the awkward conversation to elicit a laugh, but Clara only gave him a crooked-mouth smile. But the thought nagged at him: Hutchens did like him, right?

  They made plans to meet in the lobby at seven before taking a car over to the Shard. As they passed through the revolving doors and through the lobby, Clara arched an eyebrow and grabbed his arm.

  “Maybe I actually know you better than you think I do. Because I think you always mean well and want to please people. Clearly bad at packing for business trips, but a good man.”

  Hart took a long shower, letting the hot water run over his face as he imagined the night to come. He was anxious to meet Igor, to put a face to the name he’d heard several times, from Renard, Clara, and even Hutchens.

  He shaved and then answered the soft knock on the door to find his pressed tuxedo delivered by a bellhop. He threw it on, tucking Renard’s envelope into the inside pocket, and made his way down to the lobby, where he parked himself on a plush chair. It was, however, difficult to sit, because the envelope inside his jacket was digging into his ribs. He guessed there was thick-stacked paper inside, but it was sealed, and he wasn’t about to open it. He hoped the awkward delivery that he had been recruited for would soon be over. Finding Igor and giving him whatever Renard so casually asked of him was the evening’s first priority.

  He was about to check his watch when he sensed the hush that had fallen over the lobby. He glanced across the expansive space and felt his heart skip a beat. Her hourglass silhouette glided across the tiled floor, the click of her heels echoing across the lobby as time stood still and hotel guests watched with intrigue. She wore a silk emerald-green dress with a V-neckline that elegantly plunged to display a silver necklace with a lone diamond heart. The floor-length dress had a slit that ran midway up her left thigh, showing off her smooth skin. Hart’s eyes followed the slit down her legs to her black patent leather shoes. She was wrapped in a black cashmere shawl that fell across her shoulders, and she held a silver clutch, with her dark hair held back by a silver brooch with a green jewel that matched her dress.

  Hart stood as a cloud of silence remained over the lobby, all attention given to his company for the evening, who stared at him as she made her way.

  “Bonsoir.” Hart buttoned his tuxedo, momentarily at a loss for words as he met her eyes, shaded a dark green. “You look.. Tu es très belle.” The words were all he could muster, spoken slowly and deliberately in her native tongue.

  Clara had a temptress’ smile. Her perfume was sweet, the smell of vanilla, peach, and a hint of cinnamon. She was everything he wished for at that moment. Everything he desired. He had no idea which way the evening would go, but he knew he would have difficulty taking his eyes off her.

  “May I say that your perfume is absolutely fantastic?”

  Hart saw a hint of color in her face, hidden beneath her smooth and glowing olive skin.

  “Merci,” she said. “It’s called Bouquet de la Reine.”

  He offered his arm. “Certainly, fit for a queen.”

  They made their way outside, where Clara requested the doorman hail a taxi. Hart and Clara exchanged looks.

  “We are going to a charity event where they want to raise as much money as they can. If we show up in a limousine or Mercedes, the vultures will be out, knowing we have money to spend, but if we arrive in a taxi, then we are much more discreet. Trust me, this is a necessity. Otherwise, people will try and get money out of us all night —and not only for charity.” She winked at Hart.

  The taxi cruised to London Bridge, heading across the Thames, watched by the towering presence of the Shard. Night had descended on London, a darkness that was short-lived, its streets made bright by light flooding from restaurants, hotels, apartments, and streetlights, giving the city an eternal glow.

  At Clara’s request, the taxi pulled to a stop a block short of the hotel.

  “Why show up in a taxi if you can show up walking?” she said in a conspiratorial tone as Hart paid the driver.

  They entered the expansive lobby of the Shard, a smattering of tuxedos and long dresses breezing up a small set of stairs towards the elevators. Clara and Hart trekked up the maroon-carpeted stairs, Clara’s high heels and tight dress impeding their quick progress. Hart offered his hand, but Clara ignored it, instead insisting on navigating the stairs alone. He was about to comment on her stubbornness when he felt a thick hand clamp onto his shoulder. The large, meaty hand firmly moved him away, and a man made his way past, reaching his hand out in front of Clara.

  The man was stocky and square-faced, with jet-black hair brushed straight back, shining as much as his patent leather dress shoes.

  “Miss, could I lend you a hand?” He wore a black, double-breasted tuxedo with a silver bow tie, a thick watch, and a big grin.

  Clara looked up, startled for a moment, and looked at Hart, before turning her attention to the man.

  “Oh, Igor. Bonsoir.” Clara grabbed his hand as he helped her up the steps. “Merci. Such a gentleman.”

  Hart stood rigid. This was Igor. The man in Clara’s planner; the man whom the envelope was for; the man who’d introduced Renard to Hutchens.

  Hart looked him over. He was wearing a dapper suit, had a broad smile, and friendly hands on Clara as he said hello. Hart’s fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, and immediately he didn’t like him. He is a threat, so treat him as such.

  “Igor, this is Paul. I’ve brought him along for the evening,” Clara said, registering Hart’s apprehension. “Igor manages some of our assets here in London.” She smiled awkwardly as she saw both men
facing off. Hart had not finished climbing the stairs and stood well below Igor.

  Hart thought about taking the last two stairs, but Igor held out his hand.

  “Paul. Pleasure to meet you,” he said as he bent down slightly and gave Hart three firm pumps of his handshake, nearly pulling him up the last stairs.

  “Pleasure.” Hart attempted to equal the brute strength of the grip, his jaw grinding with effort as he strained to stand his ground.

  “Paul is in Europe for a few days and he—”

  “I’m familiar,” Igor interrupted. “He’s American. And I do believe that he has something for me.”

  Igor calmly clasped his hands in front of his body, waiting like a teacher for an unruly classroom to quiet down.

  Hart stole a glance at Clara. Her eyes darted at him with a mix of anger and betrayal. Hart shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he reached into his coat pocket. He pulled the letter-sized envelope from his tuxedo and handed it over. Igor approvingly nodded with a grin and stuck it inside his coat pocket without opening it. Clara’s eyes were still transfixed by Hart, as if she was waiting for an explanation.

  Igor clapped his hands. “Thank you, Paul. It was nice of you to bring that all this way. Shall we go upstairs? There are plenty of cocktails, and then after dinner the real fun starts with the auction.”

  Igor once again held out his hand for Clara, an invitation to escort her the short distance to the elevator. Clara and Igor discussed the weather in Paris, Renard, and the train ride, while Hart felt his stomach tighten, realizing he’d have this man to contend with. Was it a task he was up for? He started thinking of possible ways to get out of the evening. After dinner, a bit tired, he could call a cab and return to the hotel—after all, they were in different rooms—or he could say he had to make an important phone call. He thought of several more reasons to leave on the thirty-second elevator ride up to the Shangri-La ballroom, but he’d made his mind up.

  Damn it, Hart thought. He certainly had his work cut out, but he’d stay.

  22

  London

  The elevator doors opened to the thirty-fourth floor. A golden carpet with blue textile patterns stretched down the hallway, and the walls were lined with colorful abstract paintings. The thirty-fourth floor was actually two stories combined, taking up the thirty-fifth level of the building as well. The two-storied windows stretched from floor to ceiling, framing the buildings of Canary Wharf, its lights sparkling from across the river. The grand room was populated with more than a hundred attendees. Men were dressed in black tuxedos, a few bold enough to wear white jackets, while the women wore dresses that flirtatiously revealed a bit of skin and expensive taste.

  Hart found the view across the Thames of London mesmerizing as the beautiful people mingled. Every shade of red evening dress was being worn—crimsons, clarets, cinnamons, and scarlets sprinkled the room. There were yellows, midnight blues, and timeless black dresses. The guests were all nursing a flute of champagne or whiskey tumblers—necessary social lubricants in Hart’s experience.

  Igor pointed to bartenders in vests and bow ties mixing drinks with vigor. “There is a bar located on that wall. If you could excuse me, I must leave for a moment, but grab a drink and I will come find you. Thank you again for coming.”

  And with that, Igor bowed his head and blended into the sea of tuxedos and loud conversation.

  Hart watched him leave. The man’s stride was assured as he squeezed through the crowd towards the other side of the room. Clara, not wasting any time, gave Hart a look to explain himself. Out of anything to say, he merely avoided her eyes.

  “Alors, what was in the envelope?” she demanded, turning to face him squarely.

  Hart shrugged. “Renard asked me to give it to Igor. I thought he might have told you.”

  He offered a weak defense, but it was simply the unexciting truth. Clara appeared satisfied by his answer for the moment, and they started navigating their way through the partygoers towards the bar. Hart offered his elbow to Clara, who seemed not to notice, while swiveling her hips to avoid bumping anyone in the crowded room.

  Clara ordered a freshly poured glass of Veuve Clicquot Yellow Label champagne, pointing to an unopened bottle sitting in an ice bucket. This was to the bemusement of the barman, who passive-aggressively eyed the several glasses sitting on the bar for the guests to take.

  Hart surveyed the bar as Clara watched the barman open the fresh bottle. Drinking at social business events was a tightrope: have too many drinks, and something embarrassing was bound to happen. Don’t have enough to drink, and you appeared too conservative and not nearly as fun to your companions for the evening. Hart knew he had the rest of the night and next day to think about as well. The dinner was to be served with wine, and of course champagne would come later. The problem wasn’t the amount he’d drink but rather that he would be drinking several types of alcohol on an empty stomach. He hadn’t eaten since the train ride. Seemingly lost in a daze, the barman attempted to ask him what he’d like a second time and moved directly into Hart’s vision.

  “Johnnie Platinum, please.”

  “On the rocks, sir?” The tone of English condescension from the barman was delivered with the smoothness of a compliment.

  “Neat. Of course.”

  Hart smiled politely, victorious in his second small battle of the evening. His first one, the handshake with Igor, did not go so well. Something about him—the charm, the touching of Clara, the bravado he showed leading them into the party and taking off to attend to others—left him feeling uneasy. Perhaps even jealous.

  Clara sipped her champagne and surveyed the room, the air filled with a mixture of strong perfume and chatter.

  Hart leaned against the bar and turned to Clara. “So, I never asked. How did we get invited to this?”

  He felt Clara watching the guests as well; they were like two wolves eyeing their prey from a safe distance.

  “I thought by now you would have surely known. He is your good friend, after all.” Her voice was dry with disdain.

  Hart scoffed. “Igor? This was the first time I met him.”

  “But Renard gave you the envelope to deliver.”

  Her eyebrow raised, and she stared contemptuously before taking a sip from her flute. Hart was taken aback by her sudden directness and consulted his glass of scotch for a moment to play out the forthcoming conversation in his mind. He had always found it necessary to have something in a conversation to offer as a distraction. Whether it was a water bottle or pen and paper, it usually came in handy. He was glad this time it was something as strong as scotch.

  “I am sorry. I was just doing what Renard asked. I didn’t think anything of it.” Hart took a swig. “I hope I haven’t upset you, because trust me, that wasn’t my intention.” He delivered his apology as genuinely as he could, anticipating that would be the end of it.

  Clara had become cold since his interaction with Igor. Was she upset that Renard hadn’t asked her to deliver the envelope? Or was it simply that she was upset with Hart for not telling her? Regardless of what he was missing, he thought it best to apologize.

  Her face was pensive for a moment. “Did you know what was in the envelope? Asked Renard perhaps?” Her voice was calm once again, with the tone of casual cocktail conversation, while her eyes were trying to read an answer from his.

  “I didn’t. He just called me before we left and requested I take it. I didn’t stop to think about it.” His stomach tightened at the prospect of upsetting Clara more than she already was.

  “I need to go to the ladies’ room. I will be back in a few minutes.” Hart watched her weave through the crowd and out of sight. He pushed from against the bar, looking for a private spot to drink his scotch in peace until Clara returned. The prospect of networking with the other guests wasn’t appealing. He made to hide by the far window. He wasn’t sure how he messed up but was certain he’d done something to upset her. He swayed away his nerves and gazed across the
river at the view of London, notably St. Paul’s Cathedral.

  Sipping his scotch, Hart meant to plan out his next steps. Soon he’d be leaving Europe, heading back to New York City, away from Clara and the privileged career he never thought he’d have—the travel, the elegance, the high stakes. He felt optimistic for the first time in a long while; the trip could turn it all around with the right partnership between Calhoun and Renard, but at the same time he wasn’t motivated by them; rather, it was her.

  “Beautiful view, isn’t it?” The voice came from over Hart’s shoulder. He turned around to face Igor.

  “Certainly is.” Hart took another sip to add a touch of frost and turned back towards the window.

  “The view is so good, the hotel can charge whatever they’d like for the space, and no one in London would blink.”

  “It’s fortuitous we’re both in banking, isn’t it?” Hart remarked, and took another sip.

  Igor raised his glass of champagne to toast. After a sip, Igor grunted with pleasure, then marveled at the glass in his hand as both men stared at the London skyline.

  “You know, when my firm booked this hotel for tonight’s gala, I was put in charge of budgeting. But if you have to ask the price at a place like this, you definitely can’t afford it.” Igor waved his hands around and continued. “But I don’t think like that. I’m a banker. I know the importance of the real cost of things. After all, only a few hundred dollars can change the world!”

  Igor stopped to take another sip, and so did Hart, anxious not to continue the small talk. What if Clara was watching him? Hart searched around, but her dark hair and emerald dress were nowhere to be seen.