by Tyler Flynn
He held Charlie’s wide-eyed gaze and he could feel the old man’s fear. Igor collected the crate as best he could, holding the splintered sides together, and marched towards the car. He put the crate on the ground as Charlie followed like a scolded puppy.
Igor took a look around the wharf. It was still early enough that no one was out, the sun not yet fully risen behind the skyline of London. Igor noticed there were no lights on in the windows of the apartments surrounding the wharf.
“Could you lean in the trunk and just make sure that crate is pushed to the side? Need to make sure these three all fit.” Igor pointed in the trunk as Charlie nodded and shuffled his feet across the asphalt. He bent at the waist and leaned into the trunk.
Igor pulled his coat up and grabbed the Walther PPK tucked into his jeans. It required one long motion thanks to the extra four inches the silencer added to the short-nosed pistol. He raised it to the back of the old man’s head. The gun spat.
Charlie would have never known what happened to him. It would have been as if someone switched off the lights as the bullet entered the back of his head and left a small dot on his forehead. He lay slumped on his stomach, his legs sagging on the ground, as he hung from the back of the trunk.
The legs were heavier than Igor imagined they’d be, partly due to Charlie’s waterproof boots. Igor lifted him into the trunk and closed the lid. There were several things he needed to do to buy time. Charlie had been a casualty of trying too hard. No good deed goes unpunished.
His main thought now was hiding the boat and the body well enough so that they would not be found until the next day at the earliest. He needed that time or the entire plan would be spoiled, just like it would have been if he let the old man live; he had seen too much.
Igor tucked the PPK back into his waistband and made his way towards the boat, where the last crate was. It would be an easy drop-off at the market, and he’d make contact with Nasir later to explain how to pick the crates up. He would need them, or their plan wouldn’t work.
The seagulls had woken with the first break of daylight, their chorus of shrieks announcing to the world a new day had begun as they flew above the bay. The wind picked up, carrying water from off the river, hitting Igor in the face as he marched to the boat. He pulled his jacket collar up tight and put his head down; there was going to be a storm.
26
London
Hart woke up to the sound of heavy rain beating on the windows. His eyes fluttered open to watch the old glass take the pounding rain without a problem, as it had for decades, protecting guests from the English weather.
He rolled over and was greeted by an empty bed, covers halfway down. For a moment, he thought he’d dreamed the night before, a passionate and unbelievable dream, but then he saw the Savoy Hotel stationery on the pillow.
Breakfast when you wake. Bisou, Clara
Hart held the thick notepaper and smiled, replaying the night before in his mind, content to let the memory float around and grow more vivid. He lay still for a time, a strange concoction of contentment and anxiety washing over him.
He showered, put on a pair of chinos and a sweater, then checked his emails. It wasn’t until he had read the reply from Roberts that he remembered the football tickets. He shook his head in disbelief. His trip was more of a vacation every day. No auditors or government regulatory agencies watching everything he did, or boss barking orders with the self-confidence of a man who knew he was in charge and liked it.
Hart studied Roberts’ email, a lengthy response to his Igor inquiry with two documents attached. Roberts had evidently done a tremendous amount of research on the mysterious Igor.
Paul, hope that you’re working hard in London. I’m sure you are... at a pub. Did some research for you and didn’t find much, which made me curious. All I found were the documents attached, but this is pretty unusual for a banker. Exposure is usually a good thing.
Anyway, I hope you don’t mind, but I had a friend who can be helpful in delicate situations take a look. Turns out Igor is well connected socially as well as financially around London. His company has stakes in numerous companies operating across different countries in the European Union. I’ve added a list of a few companies that my contact suggested looking further into. Happy hunting.
Hart opened the first attachment and read the small Riverbed Capital description copied from its website. There was Igor’s name with no picture, and a short biography, detailing his time at Oxford and how he went through the ranks of firms in London, then became a partner at Riverbed.
Hart had hoped his suspicions would subside, countered by information, but Roberts’ email only left him feeling alarmed. He knew Roberts had reached out to a good friend at an international bank, the type where everyone who was someone had money parked there.
He paced the room and rubbed his face. He found himself rationalizing that Igor had to be vetted to protect his own client, Renard. Hart didn’t want Calhoun’s client, the one he earned more business from, thus saving his career, to be in bed with the wrong people. But maybe, Hart thought, it was just personal.
Hart bent over the desk and opened the second email attachment and saw a list of company names that Igor was associated with via Riverbed Capital or his personal dealings. The names of the majority shareholder, addresses, and business types were listed in neat columns. He scanned the list for no reason other than to look. What for? He didn’t know.
He was anxious to head out the door to see Clara for breakfast and began to shut the laptop when he saw a familiar name that rang a distant bell. Whatever he had seen disappeared as quickly as it had flashed before his eyes.
He put his finger on the screen, going line by line, until his memory sparked again. Jean Luc Bichot, Paris, France. Could this be the same Jean Luc that Clara had worked for? He felt his pulse race.
The company listed to his name was Vin Merchants LLC, with an address in London. Hart Google-Mapped it to find that Vin Merchants conducted business in Borough Market. He took a photo of the address as he heard a knock on his door. Hart closed his laptop and made his way to the door, where he paused a moment to brush a hand through his hair. He opened it. The smile Clara gave him as soon as he saw her conveyed everything he needed to know. Her eyes sparkled with the look of a woman who was content and confident, causing his heart to skip a beat. He knew the night before hadn’t been a mistake, because they both had wanted it, and there were no regrets the next day.
She had on a dark-blue cardigan over a bright-white oxford shirt, complete with small oval-hooped red earrings that matched her penny loafers.
She kissed him gently on the lips. “On y va?”
“Yes. Let’s go.” His hand found the small of her back as they made towards the elevator and breakfast.
They were seated in the hotel dining room, with black-and-white-checkered tile surrounding the oval bar. A few guests ate quietly, the atmosphere subdued on the rainy morning.
Hart stole a glance at Clara every few moments, looking up from his plate to be greeted by a knowing smile and flirtatious wink. He felt full of energy, unlike before. He had found what he wanted and was content, until he remembered the tickets.
“I meant to bring this up earlier,” he began between small bites of toast as he pecked away at his breakfast. “That last night with all the, uh, commotion.” He looked up at Clara, who gave a soft smile. Hart cleared his throat. “I forgot to mention that a package was delivered. There were two tickets for us from Igor. We’ve been invited to the match tomorrow afternoon.” He looked up at Clara. Her face gave nothing away.
She spooned up a bite of her yogurt parfait. “I thought you bought those tickets.”
Hart was quiet for a moment and set his fork down. “I think it’s a miscommunication. I did bring them, as per Renard’s request, but I never bought them. I don’t know. We might as well go.”
Clara nodded. “Mais pourquoi pas? Why not? We could use today to relax and tell your boss we’re working. T
hen tomorrow we go back to Paris after the match.” She shrugged.
Hart nodded happily, since she’d been keen to stay. However, he silently cursed as his thoughts swirled around Igor and the information about Clara’s former boss. Did she know? Was there something more unsaid about Jean Luc? He remembered their first lunch conversation, Clara telling him the story of her boss running away with his mistress and money. Did Clara know more than she let on? Perhaps she didn’t even know he had a business in London, or that Igor was even somehow connected with it. Maybe it was bad information; after all, he wasn’t a foolproof source but rather a friend of a friend doing research off the books.
Hart’s mind was alert and fresh, but his face betrayed consternation as he caught Clara studying him. She knew when something was amiss. Women always know, Hart reminded himself.
He bought himself a moment to regroup as Clara watched him. He began to cut his sunny-side-up eggs into more manageable bites. He figured that if he were to tell her about his baseless suspicions about Jean Luc, a man he’d never met before, he’d come off as paranoid. On the other hand, if he were to say nothing, the gap between them would widen, with both people knowing something was being left unsaid.
They ate in silence for a time. Hart consulted his coffee often to match the slower eating pace of Clara. He looked around the room and desperately tried to think of a way to stop his mind from focusing on Igor. On the table was a half-folded copy of the Guardian. Small print at the corner read “Perfect winter getaways—See Section G2.”
“So, I’m curious,” he started, aware of Clara’s tension. “Outside of work travel, where do you like to go on holiday?”
Clara wore a puzzled look. She glanced at the newspaper on the table.
“I don’t get to travel as much as I’d like—too many cities and not enough beaches. But there are a few places I love to go.”
“Such as?” Hart asked.
She grinned. “Well, when I was a young girl, my grandfather had a small fishing home on the Noirmoutier, a small island off the coast of France in the Atlantic.”
As she spoke, her eyes grew softer. “This is not an ordinary island. In fact, when I was a young girl there wasn’t even a bridge to cross the water. The only way to get there was by boat or to wait for low tide, which revealed a cobbled road called Passage du Gois.
“I loved waiting with my grandfather in his old Renault to cross. Families would drive onto the road that was still covered with shallow water and hunt for seashells amongst other things left behind in the sand by the moving tides.” She stopped for a moment and took a sip of her orange juice. She cleared her throat; her voice was straining with emotion. “My grandfather was a fisherman, but only in retirement. He lived on the island all year. Even in the winters, when all the tourists left, he would stay. He was never an artist, but as true Frenchmen do, maybe all people, he grew more philosophical with the passing of time. I still remember what he’d say to me crossing the passage for the last time.”
She had become melancholy, and Hart regretted asking a simple question about holidays, although he realized he was learning about something dear to her. The emotion in her eyes, her swollen lips, the fondness for days gone past made her all the more attractive.
She pressed on. “He used to say, ‘Clara, belle, the tide changes with the coming and going of the water, and it will always reveal what we need with time, like the passage to cross. Water is like time, and all things will be revealed with it. Water may rise high and seek different channels, changing directions, but eventually it will find its way out to sea. That is just like the truth; eventually, who we really are in life will be revealed. Like a path that water takes to the ocean, twisting and turning, but in the end the truth will always find its way out. Time is the ultimate truth teller.’”
Hart stared at her a moment, absorbing the enormity of her story, which held deep personal meaning to Clara. Somehow it felt like more than just a memory, as if Clara were speaking directly to him.
“Your grandfather was a wise man. A poet as well.”
He smiled softly at her. She smiled back, then lowered her eyes to the table.
“When was the last time you visited there?” he asked.
She spoke with her head down towards her plate. “I haven’t been back since my grandfather passed.”
“It’s a place I’d like to visit with you. Just hearing about it, it seems special.” He reached across the table and put his hand on top of hers.
“I’ve found that in life, when you find something special, you do well to hold on to it.”
Other than a quick twitch of her lips resembling a smile, Clara ignored the comment. “So, what are the plans, then, for today?”
Hart leaned back in his chair for a moment. “Have you ever been to Borough Market?”
27
London
Clara and Hart took a cab east towards the Shard, where they had been the previous evening. The ride was quiet, both passengers lost in their thoughts as they watched the scenery pass by. The rain had subsided late in the morning, the sun breaking through the thick gray clouds.
Clara turned towards Hart. “Any interest in walking?”
He responded with a nod.
She asked the driver to pull over just past Blackfriars Bridge, and they walked east, on the south side of the river, passing Shakespeare’s Globe theater, built to look like it had been centuries ago, with fake hay-and-mud walls.
Clara walked next to Hart, hands deep in her overcoat pockets. The sun was bright, but a chill could be felt when the wind blew off the river. Hart’s head swirled with the information about Jean Luc Bichot, Clara’s former boss. The connection between Igor and a former employee of Renard, who left suddenly under mysterious circumstances, was too much to overlook. That, added to the newfound romance with Clara, and everything had gotten quite murky. He decided to focus on the one matter he could address immediately.
He turned towards Clara as they were passed by a group of midmorning joggers in bright neon. “Are you enjoying your morning?”
“Oui,” she said, her face stern.
Hart nodded, but mostly to himself. He sensed she was not happy.
“Could I ask you if something was wrong?” He raised an eyebrow in anticipation of the response.
“You could.”
Hart felt his chest tighten; his questioning could lead to an awkward and unpleasant day.
“So, what is wrong?” he asked as they passed a steady stream of people walking off the Millennium Bridge, a steel walking bridge.
Clara let out a deep breath. “Do you ever start something or do something that before you even begin, you know how it will end?” She looked at Hart for a moment. “Like there’s no way it can be different, but then suddenly it is. Without warning, your plans are gone, and instead of things being easy they become painfully difficult.”
Hart grunted in affirmation. He knew the feeling. “Specifically, you’re talking about...?” His voice trailed off as his mind told him, Us.
“The need to change.” Her words hung in the air.
He decided to let it rest rather than press her. Clara had mixed feelings over something, or maybe him, and that was a good thing, he reasoned.
They walked in silence for a time, the seagulls cawing and swooping down for bits of breakfast pastries that had been blown away from Zizzi’s terrace, which looked over the waterfront. They found themselves off the river and passing through narrow cobbled alleyways until they enjoyed the intoxicating smell of Borough Market before it came into view. The voices from the market carried far, as shopkeepers peddled their goods, with aromas of strong cheese, pies, and fruits mixed with a strong mineral smell from the water used to wash away the previous day’s activities. The shops spread as far as they could see, and they stood for a moment, planning where to venture first.
They entered by a Turkish stand selling kebabs and pistachio baklava that caught Clara’s attention. Slowly, they strolled from booth to bo
oth, down the rows of shops, occasionally stopping for Clara to pick or point at lavender candles and macaroons, then proceed to explain to Hart how they were French and wonderful. Hart listened carefully. He was glad the market had energized her, but he was uneasy. He constantly looked over his shoulder, just like he had days earlier when he’d found the tracking coin in his pocket. The market seemed eerie, and he half expected to see someone he recognized.
They came to a cheese shop that enticed Clara with its salty musk of Gruyère. The shop was dark and narrow, and it stretched far back to where a glass-case refrigerator protected the more delicate, softer cheeses.
Clara walked further into the store. Her shoes made thuds as she walked across the wooden floorboards until she reached the back wall. Hart followed her across the floor, which groaned under his weight.
He stood watching as Clara pointed to the middle shelf, which housed different products—lavender candles, each wrapped in purple ribbons, bottles of hand lotion, creams, and scent sticks—and picked out a small package.
“Look at what I’ve found,” she said, holding up a bag of salt. “This is sea salt from Noirmoutier! Sel de mer. The best in France.” Her face beamed with pride.
Hart was handed the small bag complete with a small teal ribbon tied neatly on top. There was a blue label, a picture of a small boy wearing a straw hat and holding a rake while standing in a shallow pool of water, with a sailboat behind him. Reading the label, he remembered this was the place Clara had told him about over breakfast.
“Your grandfather’s home. I might have to be a tourist and buy some.” He smiled as he took the bag.
Clara took the bag back and studied the label. The shopkeeper looked on from behind the counter to their left, facing the market, uninterested by her patrons.
“Oui, it’s nice, but expensive. You could find it cheaper in France. We will look when we return?” Her imploring face left him little choice.
“Of course.”