by Tyler Flynn
“So, you lied to me.” She let the words hang in the air for a moment. “You just said you wanted to visit the market at breakfast. Do you have any idea the danger you could have...” She stopped and corrected herself. “That you did put us in today? You can’t go around pretending to be some American cowboy and chasing things you don’t understand!” Her voice cracked with emotion, taking Hart by surprise.
“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you because it was stupid. Now that stupidity has caused me to get smacked around and us to have more problems than we need. Let’s just pretend we didn’t see anything, all right?”
“That is not a possibility.” She slid off the edge of the bed and stood looking at the floor as she shook her head.
Hart held up his hands. “What? I apologize for not telling you, but I didn’t want you to think I had some crazy vendetta. And it was your old boss whose name I recognized. I figured it would be a sensitive subject.”
“You don’t understand: this isn’t as simple as that.”
“Then tell me what is going on. I stumbled across some information that led to me nearly getting killed. I wasn’t quite expecting that to happen today.” He stood with his arms held out at his sides.
“Don’t be dramatic, Paul. You were never in real danger.” She rolled her eyes and continued. “My old boss, Jean Luc Bichot. He didn’t just run away with his mistress. He embezzled over two million euros of Monsieur Renard’s money and fled.”
Hart rubbed his face in shock as the words sunk in. He tried to digest the new information, his stomach tightening. “Why didn’t you tell me about that type of money?”
Clara paced around the room, barefoot. “Renard never found out. He believed the story I told him about his mistress, because Bichot was a womanizer. But I found out, because Bichot confided in me. I was forced to keep quiet so Renard wouldn’t find out or even suspect me of anything. I needed this job.”
Hart shook his head and looked back out the window. What the hell have I gotten myself into?
Clara continued. “We probably shouldn’t speak here. It’s getting late, anyway. Let’s go for a walk and get dinner.”
Hart nodded, happy to end their spat. He put his head in his hands. Really, what in the hell have I gotten myself into?
They spent the late afternoon and early evening walking west across London towards Chelsea under a Savoy Hotel umbrella. Hyde Park was quiet in the early twilight as they made their way along the coarse gravel next to the Serpentine lake. Green-and-white-striped lawn chairs lined the path, but their usual guests were taking cover against the stormy day. The sky slowly darkened to night; the sun, not seen since morning, snuck a few last rays of daylight over the buildings.
Since leaving the hotel, Clara had been more amenable than earlier in the day. Hart had noticed she would occasionally grab for his hand and hold it for several paces, as if she were reminding herself he was there.
The walk allowed his mind to dance around thoughts that he could not get rid of. The heightened silence and ambience of the park would have set others at ease, a casual stroll with a new lover, but it made matters worse for Hart. Instead, his mind raced back to Hutchens’ offer of the trip that had him running in circles to save his job, and since then his life had only been clouded by confusion and mystery.
Things were supposed to become better with new opportunity, not worse. With the difficulty of his past week, thrust into a new life he thought he wanted, the idea of complacency wasn’t so terrible after all. With compliancy came routine, and with routine came consistency. Choices would rarely lead to anything exciting or terrible, but perhaps that was the appeal of it. He was too deep into the dilemma that he found himself in, caught between the expectations of both Hutchens and Renard. But perhaps more importantly, he was keenly aware of his feelings for Clara and the challenges they would bring.
Hart realized he’d made things worse; his own foolish need to prove himself right had only led to a hurt shoulder that screamed with every deep breath. The pain and the distress could be worth it, though, he reasoned. The feelings he had for Clara, while not yet a week old, certainly were there. The relationship’s foundation—excitement, intrigue, and novelty—gave him hope that it could work out. That meant something to him, the hope that it could carry on.
The affair earlier in the morning, the childish idea of following someone, had led to danger and fear but had also been oddly exciting. He couldn’t overlook that, could he? The situation was bathed in happenstance that couldn’t be chalked up to coincidence—Clara’s former boss connected to the shop, seeing Igor loading boxes, of what exactly he didn’t know. The mischievous and seemingly deliberate route that Igor took them on; the young man on a street with several different exits, and their subsequent ambush were all too much to ignore.
He felt Clara stop and lean in front of his line of sight. “You are deep in thought.” Her face was inquisitive, a combination of amusement and deep curiosity. “Where were you exactly?”
Hart shrugged and offered a half smile.
Clara grabbed his hand. “Are you hungry? There’s a delicious little restaurant not far from here. I think it’s quite cozy. Any interest?”
Hart responded with a smile. “I am always up for dinner with you.”
He pushed the concerns he felt, like a pack of wolves circling around weakened prey, from his mind.
Their dinner was smooth, full of light conversation, as if both of them had erased the events of earlier in the day from their memories. They ate at a spot called Burger & Lobster, in Mayfair, a neighborhood with white townhomes and Ferraris and Range Rovers parallel-parked on the street. They split a burger and steamed lobster tail, “classed up,” as Hart put it, by ordering a bottle of Laurent-Perrier champagne.
Once back at the hotel, Hart and Clara made their way to their rooms but came to a stop outside Hart’s door. Clara held both his hands near his waist and kissed him softly good night, her lips salty from the french fries. She unwound herself from his arms and stepped a few feet back, letting go of his hands.
“I was worried about you today,” she said.
Hart tried to laugh. “I’m fine.”
“Yes, because I was there to protect you.”
“I don’t know if that’s how it is supposed to go.”
Clara hummed. “Why not?” Her green eyes lingered on him as she turned to head down the hall to her room.
He stepped forward, reached for her hand, and gently implored her to stay. She paused and looked back up to his eyes, not staying nor leaving. He brushed the back of his hand down her cheek.
“I might have some trouble getting to sleep. Maybe you could come in,” Hart said.
Clara smirked and shook her head. He lifted her chin and kissed her once again while his hand opened the door and they both slipped inside.
29
Paris
Renard woke early and slid himself across the violet silk sheets to the end of the bed. His bedroom was dark, made so by the blackout curtains blocking the windows overlooking the Seventh Arrondissement and, most vividly, the Eiffel Tower. The room was quiet, which was to be expected so high up above the street. Early-morning commuters zipping across the city on their Vespas could not be heard, although he could hear soft breathing. That came from his prize won the night before, an aspiring model from the Besançon region of France. She had soft skin the color of cream, and her curled blond hair spilled out from the covers as she rolled over onto her back, her breasts swaying as Renard left the thousand-thread-count silk sheets.
He looked over his shoulder at her, the makeup she wore from the night before still clinging to her full face, her large eyes the most radiant blue he’d ever seen. She was something he had needed to clear his mind for the day that lay ahead, and she had done her job quite well - twice. He caught himself reminiscing about their evening and reprimanded himself; there were things to do today. He crept across the dark oak floors opposite the windows towards his closet, which was
larger than most studio apartments in Paris. He put on a crimson silk robe and his favorite smoking slippers, and shuffled sleepily into the hallway and towards his private office.
The two-thousand-five-hundred-square-foot penthouse was modest for Paris elites, but it served his purposes. There were other homes to boast about, like the hunting estate he’d bought for several million euros, a reasonable price after staunch negotiations. The grounds and home had once been a family estate in some aristocratic family for generations and were about one hour southwest of Paris. It was perfect for chasing birds while wearing expensive Barbour coats and leather boots, only he secretly preferred quiet evenings with a glass of cognac by the large old redbrick fireplace. It was in stark contrast to his ninety-four-foot Pershing yacht, which he kept in Nice, although for tax purposes it was registered out of the Bahamas, where he’d purchased it. The yacht was usually taken with a few younger women, keen on experiencing the white-glove service of the four-man crew, which not only scrubbed the deck but cooked freshly caught seafood or scurried ashore to fetch foie gras and freshly baked baguettes.
The office in his penthouse was smaller than his office at the company headquarters, which was a fifteen-minute drive away with no traffic when he left his home at 7 a.m. every morning. He always found himself motivated by work, led by the desire to make money. The money served its purpose, bought the yachts, the homes, chauffeurs, and made women twenty years his junior fall over themselves to spend the night with him, but money itself had become less fulfilling.
There had come a point over the past years of his life when he’d reached the Mount Olympus of financial success, when it had dawned on him that he wanted more power, not wealth. Unlike most men his age and of the same net worth, he didn’t want another few million, or another challenge of building another company; he wanted to leave his mark on the world, as his father had when he’d built Renard Industries. It was around that time that he met Igor.
The relationship between the two men was nefarious from the start. Renard had always been sly, playing the fool in order to put people at ease, but under the surface lurked a cunning fox. It was the trait that helped him notice discrepancies in an account allotted for entertaining clients that was operated by one of his most trusted employees, a Monsieur Jean Luc Bichot.
Renard had invited Bichot and other government officials in the agricultural finance department to a working vacation. Renard had footed most of the bill, extensively planning the event for French bureaucratic officials. They could be quite dense and stubborn behind their desks and regimented schedules, but get them out into the fresh air with the finer things in life—great food, drinks, and women—and they were much easier to conduct business with. It was always good to have friends in high places, and they certainly made Renard’s life easier, with tax breaks and less oversight. The long weekend had gone well, and after the subtle twisting of arms, Renard Industries was the winner of a government contract to facilitate the cultivation of new agricultural equipment that would be heavily subsidized.
Many weeks later, a business partner had an ethical dilemma and demanded that he pay his own way for the trip, asking how much he owed to cover his costs. Renard normally would have remained uninterested in the cost, but when a number came back much higher than he expected, his curiosity was piqued.
Renard had personally requested to look at the invoices and ensuing payments to make sure they weren’t doubled. But the accountants had added up the payments and numbers correctly. Renard scrutinized the names of the payees, finding three payments of just over fifty thousand euros made to a holding company based out of the United Kingdom. A quick search on the internet identified the company as the parent company of a liquor distributor. Renard had wondered if a few too many bottles of Romanée-Conti had been purchased. Thus, started the secret inquiry into Bichot, who oversaw the entertainment expenses account.
Renard, with his suspicions stirred, set about keeping a watchful eye on the approver on the account, Bichot, who signed off on every expense. He enlisted the help of a younger assistant in the department, a beautiful creature by the name of Clara Nouvelle. She was ambitious and in close proximity to Bichot, which made for the perfect insurance policy. Her weekly reports on her boss’ meetings, initiatives, and habits were compelling reading for Renard. It seemed that his chief government consultant had a penchant for visiting London.
Renard summoned an audit team to his office and gave them strict rules, zero context, and specific instructions to verify every transaction out of Bichot’s expense account for the year, particularly transactions made in and around London.
What they discovered was staggering and nearly unexplainable.
Bichot had been traveling to London regularly, under the guise of attending dozens of meetings with agricultural ministers and trade representative to look at different ways of conducting business post-Brexit. However, Renard learned, only a few meetings were actually attended, and the rest of Bichot’s time was evidently used to embezzle funds.
Renard asked that a quiet internal audit be conducted, and he found nine hundred and twenty thousand euros missing from the account. Further research found the transactions were related to different banks, paid to different accounts under similar names, companies related to wine and other holding companies, giving Renard the impression that something sinister was going on.
However, Renard had a plan. He traveled with Bichot to London and watched his treacherous colleague firsthand before confronting him. He felt confident that Bichot had no idea his scheme had been uncovered, so the activity continued and provided Renard an opportunity.
A discussion took place over cocktails at Duke’s Hotel bar, where, fittingly, Ian Fleming, the creator of James Bond, found inspiration for the Vesper Martini. Renard fancied himself a fan of the books, more so than the films, but nevertheless decided to take Bichot there, perhaps for the theatrics. The irony of the clandestine operation was not lost on Renard as he sat at a small table in the corner of the well-lit bar as a barman in a gray vest made a tableside Polish vodka Martini.
Renard had always seen himself as smooth, deliberate, and precise, but the sheer magnetism of learning why Bichot stole from him overpowered his better nature. He barely made it past two sips of his Martini before confronting his subordinate.
The response from Bichot was apathetic, as if he had been waiting to be asked. He let out a huff, took a pull from his silver-colored liquid Martini, and looked at Renard.
“You’ve finally seen. Now there is someone you should meet.”
It was later that same night that Renard met Igor. When Igor arrived, Bichot stood up, to the confusion of Renard, and left, leaving the two alone. Renard’s confusion was only replaced by anxiety when the square-jawed, well-dressed man sat down across from him.
Renard had broken the silence first.
“So, you’re the connard who is stealing my money.”
Igor had ignored the comment with a coy smile and wave of his hand as he leaned forward so to speak softly. “Now you know, which means you can’t do anything about it, because it would only damage your company. What we have done is frowned upon, but the good news for you is that this is only a taste of what I am capable of.”
The audacity of the man was what Renard remembered most, blatantly admitting his transgressions and assuming he would blackmail Renard into approval. Renard bluffed, telling Igor he had already tipped off the police, but Igor just smiled and shook his head.
“Bichot was right about you. He said you were a man who would have to see for himself.”
Left without much recourse, Renard went along apprehensively, if only at first to gain understanding of the operations so he could eventually spin his way out of the mess Bichot made. He realized he was putting all those years of his father’s hard work building the empire at risk. Was Igor planning a setup or simply extortion? Renard’s anger subsided into rationalization as Igor steadily produced profits, which made Renard feel indifferen
t, corroding every fiber of his being, until he no longer recognized himself. Igor had turned Jean Luc Bichot’s small-time embezzling into a full-fledged fraud scheme that utilized the same vehicles of deception, amassing millions over several years.
It wasn’t until after a year of working with Igor, requiring frequent weekend trips to London, or Igor visiting Paris, that Renard finally understood Igor’s goal: to change the current state of affairs in Europe. The ambitious goal made sense to Renard, and he was far enough removed from Igor that there was deniability. In fact, he felt himself becoming intrigued with the idea of the sort of peace Igor pursued. But peace wasn’t to be sought after but rather won, as Igor had explained. Oftentimes, with blood. Their task wouldn’t be easy, and life would become trying, but Renard saw that victory could be his legacy. That was what Renard realized he wanted, and he never knew it until he was shown the possibility. He didn’t need the world to know what he did, but he needed to know he affected the world.
Europe had grown inclusive, as Igor saw it, blurring the lines of cultures and markets and, worst of all as far as he was concerned, borders. The global marketplace had been profitable for Renard, but Igor fed the ideology of isolationism to him, making the case that the United Kingdom had recognized the pitfalls of globalism. Brexit was birthed from a country swelling with immigrants, driving out the good tax-paying citizens and replacing them with, according to Igor, people that survived by crime, violence, and above all else had a lack of interest in integrating. For years, the UK had bled opportunity, as countrymen fled for the tax haven of Switzerland, the leisure of Spain, or the opportunity of Germany. Renard saw France as the sufferer of this same disease, and Igor had only shown him the symptoms. The rising production costs of his equipment, the endless need to be paying the government millions in taxes, which were used to make ends meet for people who weren’t born in France. Igor had played to Renard’s ego and appetite for money, but more importantly to Renard, Igor believed the two of them could change Europe’s path by driving divisiveness and isolationism.