Where the Wolf Lies

by Tyler Flynn

  He put his hand on her back, gently guiding her in front of him and back towards the market. Hart felt Clara’s shoulders relax. Her body felt warm as she led the way out. Hart was looking down while they navigated their way out of the narrow shop and nearly made her topple because she had suddenly stopped near the front of the store.

  Hart figured she had spotted something. Her face was pained with confusion as she stared straight ahead.

  “What’s he doing here?” she said to no one in particular, frozen in place.

  Hart followed her gaze and recognized the man carrying a bulky wooden crate into a wine shop. Hart’s blood ran ice cold. It was Igor. He stood under the sign that read “Vin Merchants,” the same shop that only hours earlier Hart had learned was owned by Jean Luc Bichot, Clara’s former boss.

  His mind tried to momentarily convince him that this was a coincidence, as he stood paralyzed with confusion. But there was no such thing as coincidences as far as Hart was concerned.

  Hart watched Igor for a moment before checking on Clara, who had not moved. He imagined she was thinking the same thing: Why the hell is Igor loading goods like a deliveryman? He wore a black jacket and dark pants; certainly not work attire, and it was a Wednesday morning.

  Clara looked incredulously at Hart. “You knew he was going to be here, didn’t you?”

  Hart, taken aback by the accusation, shook his head defensively.

  “No. How would I know?” He shrugged.

  Clara turned back to look at Igor. Her eyes remained fixed, observing him in the shop talking to the shopkeepers like he knew them. Polite smiles and small talk.

  “Something catch your eye?” The shopkeeper in their cheese shop finally moseyed from behind the counter, inspired by their lethargic departure.

  “No, we’re fine,” Hart threw over his shoulder at her, before moving closer to Clara and whispering, “We should move.”

  Clara’s acceptance came in the form of a nod, her feet still cemented to the floor. Hart softly took her upper arm and moved in front of her, shielding her from the view of the wine shop and Igor. A group of passing tourists blocked most of the view, allowing them to exit the shop and turn a quick right in between two shops down a one-person-wide alley.

  On the other end of the alley, there was another street full of shops, which made for an easy escape, but Hart couldn’t leave without knowing what Igor was doing. Turning around, with Clara behind him, he moved back down the alley they’d come from to ensure they had not been seen. However, the tight angle blocked their view of the wine shop.

  “What are we doing? Why not just go say hello to him?”

  Clara seemed agitated, her harsh tone breaking through her attempts at whispering as she fought to free herself of Hart’s protective hand.

  “There’s more to this. I’ll explain it to you later.”

  “Later? I knew it. You know him somehow. I knew it.”

  Hart let out a huff of frustration. “I told you, I’ve never met him.”

  He swiveled back towards the shop and stuck his head out of the alley to catch another glimpse of Igor.

  “Maybe he is dropping off the wine from the auction last night.” Clara sounded more like she was trying to convince herself than anything else.

  Hart remained focused on Igor, watching him grab the last box off a trolley. The crate seemed heavy, evident from Igor’s backward lean and strained face.

  “This is childish. Why are we avoiding him? Paul, tell me what is going on.” Clara’s voice was tense and demanding.

  “I’m not sure who Igor is, and there’s things about him that don’t add up.”

  Clara scoffed. “So, we hide like schoolchildren? What has gotten into you?”

  “You don’t find it a bit odd that he is here, on a weekday, delivering goods to a wine shop?” Hart asked.

  “Okay, a bit strange, but we don’t know what he is doing until we ask. Let’s go and see him. He is probably just returning unused cases from last night.”

  “No.” Hart felt his face getting warm. He was tired of being second-guessed. His gut told him there was something wrong about Igor, and now he had proof. It didn’t matter how trivial it was. He had proof that he was right in his conviction: Igor wasn’t to be trusted.

  Hart and Clara leaned out, to see Igor walking away from them down past the shops they’d originally come from. His head was down and his hands buried in his coat pockets as he glided away unnoticed.

  Hart craned his neck, imploring Clara to follow. He took off at a steady pace after Igor, with Clara matching him at his side.

  “What are we doing?” she asked as she strained to see Igor, some forty yards ahead of them.

  “Following him to see where he goes,” Hart said, his eyes not leaving Igor’s back.

  “His office is across the river. He’ll probably take London Bridge or catch a taxi.”

  “Then we will see.”

  Igor headed south towards the river but then took a right, back towards the fresh produce area of the market. He walked between stands selling squash and heads of lettuce, navigating towards the middle of the market, where they’d just come from.

  Clara touched Hart’s shoulder. “Do you think he knows we are following him?”

  Hart frowned. “How could he? I haven’t seen him turn around yet.”

  “He seems like he is going in circles,” Clara offered.

  “That may be the idea.”

  Clara paused for a moment. “Well, I’m curious. We can’t afford to lose him, so I’ll go up ahead on the left here and you hang back. This way, if he turns left or right down an alley, I’ll be even with him so that we can see where he is going when he turns. Make sense?”

  Hart was impressed by her unexpected enthusiasm. “That’s not a bad idea. Just don’t be seen, and if you are, act—”

  “Normally, like I’m surprised to see him.” She nodded to herself in affirmation. “Not a problem.”

  “You seem like you know what you are doing...” Hart’s voice trailed off as her green eyes mischievously narrowed.

  Clara flipped her raincoat collar up to shield her face and took off ahead.

  Hart was surprised she was eager to play along in whatever he was doing, and he wasn’t so sure what his own plans were. Maybe Clara was right and there was a simple explanation, but there was only one way to find out.

  Clara weaved in and out of shoppers, many carrying large bags or pushing metal folding carts, further up the street. The sweet smell of fruit hung in the air as Hart passed stands full of strawberry crates, oranges, and golden-red apples, one of which had fallen and been trampled on the ground. Hart sidestepped the destroyed fruit and continued following Clara and Igor under a low bridge that separated one part of the market from the other. The overhang was short but dark, and Hart could barely see Igor, still forty yards ahead of him, zigzagging deeper into the market.

  Igor unexpectedly stopped at a stand and picked over sausages links. Hart, who had hung well back, had no problem slowing down, and slid behind a group of tourists. Clara, however, was nearly ten yards away from Igor, but on the far side of the street. She ducked into a line of people waiting for fresh potpies.

  She looked back at Hart, who deliberately shook his head to signify it was not okay to move. Peering past the group he’d hid behind, Hart saw Igor on the move again. He waited a beat and set off himself, intently watching to see if Igor would turn around again, but he kept going straight ahead, to the pubs and buildings across the street from the edge of the market.

  Clara spun away from the line she hid in with the grace of a ballerina exiting the stage and fell back in stride at Hart’s side. They crossed Stoney Street, buffering the market and the rest of bustling Southwark, and followed Igor south towards the Thames.

  The crowds thinned as they left the market. They kept their distance behind Igor as they came to a stone-arched tunnel. Igor had quickened his pace through the cold and damp tunnel and led them into a series of small
streets and narrow cobbled alleys, a far departure from the shoulder-to-shoulder crowds of the market. Clara and Hart were forced to fall even further behind, but their eyes stayed fixed on him.

  Igor turned right down Winchester Walk, which twisted, and doubled back the way they’d originally came. Casually, he slowed his pace, then stopped at the corner where the road met Winchester Square. He leaned up against a building on the quiet street, while Hart and Clara ducked into a doorway before Igor could turn around. Clara waited a moment and leaned her head out to watch Igor light a cigarette and nonchalantly puff away.

  The street was quiet for several minutes, the only noises the voices of a few lost tourists and waitstaff out back behind a restaurant, enjoying a smoke break.

  Clara spoke softly while peering out from behind the recessed doorway. “What should we do? If he comes back this way, we are in trouble, and we can’t stay here all day.”

  “I know.” Hart sighed. “I don’t know. What do you think? This is so odd.”

  Clara was about to open her mouth to say something but stopped. She leaned closer towards Hart, who had his back against the side of the doorway, and peered around him down the street.

  “A young man just walked past Igor, turned around, and the two are talking. They don’t seem to know each other, but I can’t be sure.” She leaned back out of sight.

  Hart grabbed her gently by the shoulders and maneuvered around her, switching places. The back of Igor’s head was to him. He was leaning against a building, smoking, talking to a dark-skinned man with white sneakers, black jeans, a long raincoat, and a red hat. The younger-looking man was holding his hands in front of him, nodding along. Both men seemed to not quite know each other, but after a few nods, Igor stood straight up and gave the young man his pack of cigarettes. Igor leaned back against the wall as the young man looked down the road in Hart’s general direction. Hart guessed they were some thirty yards from them, but he could still make out the young man’s small beady black eyes.

  The young man in the red hat nodded at Igor and started walking away from Hart and Clara, continuing south towards the river. Igor waited a moment, then peeled off the wall and took a narrow alleyway that was between them back towards the market, and not in the direction of Hart and Clara.

  Hart raised his eyebrows towards Clara. If their adventure being detectives was to continue, they had a choice to make: split up or pick one of them to follow.

  “What do you think?” Hart asked Clara, pointing, signaling the subject for debate.

  “Let’s follow the other one. We can’t follow Igor all day,” she said with conviction, and took off.

  Hart followed closely behind, passing the alley Igor had gone down, but he was nowhere to be seen. Clara’s pace quickened, and her footsteps echoed off the old cobblestone streets as she chased down the man in the red hat, who had rounded a corner out of their vision.

  Continuing towards the Thames, they emerged from the smaller, narrow streets into an open square. The square was a building site. Apartments were being refurbished, and dumpsters and heavy machinery were scattered about, the old brick buildings surrounding them looking in dire need of repair. Clara’s pace kept her ahead, until Hart lengthened his stride to catch up. They crossed the square and, at the corner, found a small underpass, wide enough for a car and some forty yards long. The underpass was dark, with dull fluorescent lights that had long ago lost their luster. At the end of the small tunnel lay a road, where a black Citroën sedan was parked. The area was noisy with the construction on top of the normal rumbles of the city and the distant sounds from the city roadways.

  Hart approached the tunnel cautiously, as did Clara, who stayed a few paces behind him, careful not to tip off their prey. They hung to the right side of the wall, wary of walking in the middle of the road. Hart could see the street where the black Citroën was parked more clearly once in the tunnel. The car had its engine and lights off, and the beige brick buildings towered above the narrow street like a valley coming into view as they moved towards the exit of the tunnel. Hart couldn’t see anyone on the street, the light becoming brighter towards the end, the sun peeking out from behind the clouds and directly into their eyes.

  Hart looked back to see if Clara was still following. He found her close to him, her eyes alert and cautious. He turned back around, and with no one in sight still, he felt his body relax. Their chase seemed over, their game had gotten away, and in a way Hart felt relieved. He stepped out of the tunnel into the sunlight. The warm air felt welcoming after the dark dampness of the tunnel. The light momentarily blinded his vision as his eyes fought to adjust, and Hart raised his forearm to block the sun.

  His world became clearer for a moment, just before he saw sudden darkness as a thick wooden board swung towards him, striking him hard across his head. He fell on his left side, the heavy board splintering over his arm and his head as he heard Clara scream.

  He didn’t have time to react. His body lay twisted sideways on the ground after the first hit, pain screaming from his head. He staggered to his knee before the second blow of the board smashed across his shoulder and back, but not before he saw the flash of a red hat and beady black eyes.

  Hart had just reached the outside end of the tunnel, and the man in the red hat had been waiting for him, hidden from view. Hart’s world was shaking and his ears ringing as he put out his hand, grasping for Clara. He felt Clara’s arms around his head, holding him, as he heard an engine turn over and the howl of tires tearing away.

  28

  London

  The sky in London changed in the midafternoon, the sun giving way to heavy dark clouds that rolled in and blanketed the city. Rain followed, the type that washed down in waves, an unrelenting pounding. The storm had arrived.

  Hart sat on the padded bench in his room by the window overlooking the park. Clara was on the bed, lying on her stomach, her legs intertwined and her chin resting on a pillow. The room was dark, lit up only by the occasional flash of lightning, casting long shadows across the walls. When they’d returned earlier from the market, Hart had taken a shower and ordered room service. He had found out early in life that when stressful situations arose, so did his appetite. He ordered a large pot of coffee and a pastry basket, complete with toast and jam.

  Neither of them had spoken. Clara tended to Hart’s injuries. Nothing serious. He was lucky to have been shielding his head with his arm when he was struck. Hart had felt the board cracking over him, the old wood made softer by time, having presumably lived in the elements until it had opportunistically been used as a weapon. He had a few cuts on his face and body, but nothing that required stitches. His shoulder was aching, and he had a pounding headache, but his biggest injury was simply to his pride.

  He stared out the window to the green courtyard below. The rain left streaks running down the window, but he could see the gravel walkway starting to shift its shape, the stones slowly rising, overwhelmed with the amount of rain washing away onto the grass.

  “I don’t mind the rain,” he said, the first words spoken in quite some time, facing the window. He fleetingly glanced at Clara, because he wasn’t able to look at her; his body and pride were too tender for that.

  Clara raised her chin slightly from her pillow. “You don’t mind the rain?” Her voice was strained, betraying a mixture of cautiousness and confusion.

  Hart continued without looking at her, mesmerized by the window and the sway of the trees against the rain, which began lashing sideways. “I think people curse the rain. They think it ruins their day. It’s different for me. It’s cozy weather. The type that makes you want to lie down with a blanket and read a book. Sleep in, watch a movie.” He stopped, took a sip of his coffee, and put it back on the saucer on his lap. “The rain has always come, and always will. It’s always going to be there. Nothing can change it. Why not just accept it and enjoy it? Allow yourself to actually like it.”

  Clara rested her head back on the pillow; she was still before letting
out a deep breath. “We can’t just ignore today. We need to talk about what happened.”

  “Talk about what?” Hart said tersely. “We walked into something that frankly I don’t want any business with. It was a coincidence and foolish, nothing else to say.”

  Clara scoffed and sat up. “Nothing else to say? You’re clearly not telling me everything.”

  Hart closed his eyes and told himself to focus on what the hell had happened earlier in the day. He argued with himself: How much should he divulge, and how crazy would she think he was if he told her the truth? He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  “I’m going to be blunt with you, because that’s who I am, I tell the truth.” He took a deep breath, trying to savor the last moment of innocence in their relationship before it was taken away by circumstance. “I didn’t like Igor. Something about him didn’t feel right. Everything from Renard asking me to personally deliver the envelope, to his smug black-tie auction, to his manner towards you.”

  “Towards me? What does that have to do with anything?” Clara raised her eyebrows as her eyes widened.

  “It doesn’t. Just let me finish.”

  Their eyes met, and silence reigned for a moment before Hart steadied his courage.

  “I asked a friend for a favor, and it was not exactly an ethical one. I asked for him to look into the guy, to learn about his reputation and associations. Maybe I hid behind the fact that he is in business with Renard. But I felt compelled to do my homework because, simply, I don’t like the guy. It’s why I want to go to the soccer match we were invited to, and why I want to know I was right, that something about him doesn’t add up.”

  “And so what?” Clara’s voice was skeptical, as if the pieces to the puzzle were not all on the table yet.

  “Well, I was given a list of businesses he is associated with and...” He paused, playing the next part of the conversation in his mind—it didn’t go well, but he was already committed. “One of the businesses he was involved with”—he struggled for the words—“it was a wine shop in Borough Market, and the majority owner of that shop was Jean Luc Bichot.” He moved his eyes but not his head to watch Clara’s reaction. She was motionless. The room was silent for a time until Clara spoke.