Where the Wolf Lies

by Tyler Flynn

  Renard didn’t take his decision lightly and considered the consequences, which did give him pause, but not enough to stop Igor from charting the course of redemption to restore nationalism to more European countries. Igor had explained to Renard that there was money to be made while exploiting the fear that swept through Europe and the world. Capitalize on the fear of anything different, and then countries would want to banish it. Renard wasn’t told how Igor would accomplish this, or what dark place birthed his ambitions, but when growth and higher returns were promised, he went along with it. But when he understood Igor was an idealist, not just a greedy businessman, it was too late.

  Igor took it upon himself to conduct operations on behalf of refugees and immigrants who felt their assimilation wasn’t being taken seriously enough by their nation-state. Igor would cultivate young men to carry out attacks, promising safety for their families and financial freedom.

  But Igor started taking things too far, waging a secret war that Renard didn’t have the courage or the foresight to see coming. There was an attack in Brussels, made to appear as if a massive fire swept over a low-income housing block, but really Igor had targeted the building’s owner, a Belgian who ran a small manufacturing company. He was forced to close shop due to the high cost of building repairs, putting him in desperate need for liquidity. Igor managed to buy the man’s company for pennies and merged it with one of Renard’s businesses.

  It was a war fought with violence, but also of perception and false realities. Provide enough propaganda to slander a group, Igor explained to Renard, and soon people would view their worlds through the lens that was provided to them. Their views changed, so that slow economic growth was blamed on immigrants who had taken all the jobs. Along with the immigrants— as Igor planned to demonstrate with Renard’s financing—came violence. Gone was the relative safety of walking your family around a busy tourist city; every person who looked different became a threat. And in the process, he could make money for Renard and pretend everything was for his success, but Renard always felt like he was being used.

  Renard tipped back in his leather office chair and reached to the counter behind his desk, dropping a Nespresso pod into the machine, which rumbled to life, as the display lit up the room. The twenty bars of pressure building up inside the machine grumbled to push espresso into the glass, steam spilling out as Renard marveled at the simple things that could be accomplished by brute force.

  On his Bordeaux-colored, leather-topped desk, a Sony laptop sat closed. Renard grabbed his espresso and, with the carefulness of a child playing with their favorite toy, opened the laptop. Renard blew on his hot espresso while he dimmed the brightness of the screen, punching at the keyboard with one finger.

  The Wi-Fi connected to his secure encrypted network, and he first allowed himself the indulgence to check Le Monde and Le Parisien, finding nothing of interest other than Paris Saint-Germain football news and the president’s poll numbers. Next he clicked his favorites bar and was immediately brought to YouTube. Having memorized the exact title, he carefully typed the video name, ensuring his spelling was correct. A video of Ronald Reagan’s “Tear down this wall” speech popped up on top of the search results. Renard clicked on it, noticing not many people had watched it since the last time he had visited the page. Scrolling down to check the number of comments, 220, he began a scroll from the most recent, looking for the specific name that would signify contact. JawsFan2007, which was Igor’s user name, had left a message.

  Contact made. The guest has been entertained.

  Renard decided he had to do what he had planned.

  He gently opened the long, middle desk drawer by its crystal-jeweled knob and peered inside. On the left-hand side were several glass paperweights, three Montblanc fountain-pen boxes, an old-fashioned accounting calculator, and a small Smythson notebook Igor had recently given him. He scanned the drawer until he found the military-grade encrypted satellite phone, an Iridium Extreme, which had cost him nearly two thousand euros. He had only used it two other times, spending less than forty seconds on the call each time as per the instructions, just in case someone was listening. When a call was placed, via the upgraded software on the phone, thanks to a military contact the signal would bounce off of several satellites before reaching the number it had dialed.

  Renard punched the number he had written down in the inside of his small black notebook with “The Devil Is in the Detail” stamped on the front leather cover in gold lettering. The satellite phone, not built for luxury but practicality, was awkward in his hands as it rang three times before a voice came on the other end of the line, managing a groggy, “Hello.” The voice seemed coarse on account of a late night, or perhaps because of the early wake up. Renard had called at 7 a.m. in the morning on purpose.

  “Bonjour, Paul. I hope you slept well. Sorry to wake you.”

  Renard listened to the static on the other end of the line. He heard the rustling of sheets and imagined Hart was sitting up in bed.

  “Uh.” Renard heard Hart clear his throat. “Good morning. What can I, um...” He coughed. “Do for you?”

  “Ah, Paul, I am terribly sorry, but something urgent has come up in Paris. I must ask you to return immediately. Don’t worry about the game, but I need you to make sure Clara stays for it. Very important, because our clients in London are crucial to us, and I would hate to cancel on them.” Renard paused to gauge his banker’s willingness to follow the directions he’d been given. After a moment of silence, which would have sufficed as Hart’s opportunity to protest, he continued. “And unfortunately, you mustn’t tell her exactly why you’re returning. Just tell her it is for some business issue. Please for the moment don’t tell her that I am the reason for your return. I fear she may become upset, jealous perhaps, that I needed your help and not hers. It will not be a problem, though. Okay?”

  The silence hung in the air on the line. Renard imagined Hart shifting through the reasons for the request to go back to Paris on such short notice and his options, which were none.

  “Okay. I will return to Paris as soon as I can catch a train,” Hart said. “I’ll check the schedule.”

  Renard could hear Hart turn on the tableside lamp. “No need for a train. I need you urgently, so I have sent a plane. There’s a charter waiting for you at London City Airport. It is about fifteen minutes east of the city, much faster and much more convenient than Heathrow. When you land, feel free to come straight to the office. Thank you, Paul. Goodbye. And remember, discretion will be appreciated. One other thing: Would you mind sending the amount I paid at auction last night? There should be Wi-Fi on the plane, and you can send a wire transfer from my account. That would be wonderful. I’ll text you the details. Goodbye.”

  He hung up the phone before Hart could respond and powered it off. He opened his email and wrote to Clara Nouvelle with “Urgent Business” as the subject line. The email was brief, explaining that Paul Hart was going to return to Paris immediately on urgent business. She should, however, stay and enjoy the game, since Igor invited them.

  Renard leaned back in his chair and stared at the wall. The early-morning sunlight was filtering in through the edges of the blackout curtains covering the large windows. With the dull light, Renard could make out the outlines of the ornate gold frame around a dark oil painting. He rose, pressed a button on the wall, and the black shades lifted, exposing the curved architecture and beauty of the Sixteenth Arrondissement.

  He drained his espresso and walked slowly around his desk. The room was submerged in early-morning light, in stark contrast to the dark mahogany wood covering his office. He had always savored the immeasurable stillness of a morning, the serene and peaceful way that moments of privacy met the rising sun, bringing on a new day. He stood in front of the oil painting, its gold frame perfectly framing the valor and bravery of hunters on horseback with swords and spears fighting with lions. It was a Ferdinand Victor Eugène Delacroix painting that had been in his collection for many years
but had been lent out to the Musée D’Orsay. He lingered over the painting, studying the faces of the men, the fear in their eyes as a lion attacked, roaring with fury.

  He’d often pondered the meaning of the painting, and it is why he had to own it. Some days, the lions seemed under attack, thrust into defense by invaders on horseback looking for a kill. But other days, it seemed as though the lions were the aggressors, hunting the men on horseback, the ultimate prey. Perhaps it was all a matter of perspective, but one thing that both the men and lions had in common was the knowledge that victory meant survival, and defeat meant certain death.

  30

  London to Paris

  The Gulfstream G550 climbed higher as sleepy London and the River Thames fell away from Hart’s view. The starboard-side wing tipped downwards as the jet broke through the thin layer of silver clouds that blanketed the city.

  Hart sunk in the plush leather bucket seat and gripped the armrests. His forehead rested on the cool window as he looked towards darkening clouds off to the east. As the plane sped further towards Paris, Hart couldn’t help but think of London and who he was leaving behind.

  His goodbye with Clara had been rushed and awkward. He’d knocked on her door, bag by his side and coat on. She’d answered in her white hotel robe, hair wet, and her face flushed from the hot shower needed after their vigorous evening before. They stood in the doorway of her room, one staying and one leaving, the symbolism not lost on Hart, evident by the sick feeling he had had.

  The two of them hid behind the roles they played, ignoring the feelings they shared. Hart could tell how she felt the moment she needed to look away, if only to compose herself. Leaving Clara had caused his throat to tighten with sadness and uncertainty. Was it goodbye? Would he see her again before he left for New York? Her eyes had betrayed that she knew too well what the casual goodbye could mean. He was burdened by the guilt of giving Clara his vague reason to leave, as per Renard’s request to be discreet, but as he flew away he realized he was more troubled by their unclear future.

  Hart didn’t know what was ahead for them, just that when he was with her, he felt like he was soaring. Was it the same for her? Or maybe Clara would simply forget about him in a few days, remembering him as an amusing fling. He thought back to the end with Veronica, how he saw it coming like a passenger in a car spinning towards a cliff. Did he feel the same? The empty and nauseous feeling in his stomach certainly felt familiar.

  Hart rolled his head back into the leather seat and stared at the beige interior of the plane. The stewardess placed a double espresso on his gold cup holder. Her blond hair was tied neatly up in a bun with a short stick through the middle. The perfume she wore was faint, perhaps left over from the night before. Hart politely nodded, too tired and uneasy for small talk.

  “Would you care for some breakfast?”

  Hart reflected on the comfort of the Savoy dining room and eating with Clara. The heavy porcelain plates, his piled high with scrambled eggs and breakfast sausage, complete with a French press the size of a football. But that seemed far away. Instead he was sentenced to imprisonment by the five-star luxuries that took him away from her.

  “What are my options?” He managed a small smile back.

  “We have a few breakfast cereals, oatmeal, or there are some scones and muffins that were delivered right before we took off. I’m afraid we didn’t have time to completely stock them up at the last minute.”

  “Some pastries please. Thank you.”

  “Just a few moments. I’ll warm them. Again, I’m sorry we didn’t have many more options. You booked so late. We weren’t expecting to fly this morning,” she said in her delicate English accent.

  Hart was about to correct her and say he didn’t book the flight himself but played the conversation in his head and realized questions inevitably would require answers, and he only wanted to think. So instead he turned to take a sip of his espresso. It burned the tip of his tongue, and he clanked the small cup back on its saucer and cursed his impatience. He felt out of sorts, not sure of himself or his current state of affairs. The amusing thing was that no matter what circumstances he found himself in, one thing he could most assuredly count on was his appetite. Hart always welcomed the familiarity that came with one’s meals.

  He dug into the fresh basket of pastries, which were surprisingly tasty, and offered to share the basket with the flight attendant, who politely declined with a soft giggle. He figured it was likely the least harmful invitation she’d had while working on the jet.

  With his morning lethargy combated by coffee and food, he opened his computer and logged into Renard’s client portal. He read Renard’s text with instructions on where to send the wire transfer and dispatched the large amount Clara had bid at auction. He was feeling more and more like Renard’s errand boy.

  The plane prepared for descent before Hart had even settled in. He’d finished his breakfast, had another espresso, and was about to open his iPad to read Alan Furst’s Mission to Paris, which he’d bought because the title seemed too coincidental to pass up.

  The Gulfstream dipped back under the silky cloud layer that sat over the green countryside north of Paris. Hart saw the pine trees and rolling hills with roads cut deep into the forests leading to the capital. Le Bourget Airport was the busiest private airport in all of Europe, but the landing was on time, and the plane touched down with a small squeal of the tires hitting the runway. A quick taxi to the terminal, and the stewardess asked Hart if there was anything else she could do. He couldn’t think of anything other than going back to pick up Clara, but didn’t say. The port-side door opened, and the stairs unfolded. Hart descended, the brisk air hitting his lungs sharply as he fought to catch his breath. He’d realized he might have to go into the terminal and find a car to get him into town, when a black Mercedes pulled up. The driver’s door opened, and Maxim appeared.

  “Bonjour, Paul. Decided the train back wasn’t for you, I see,” Maxim said, stone-faced.

  Hart grunted. If only he knew. “So, where are we off to this morning?” Hart asked, trying to change the subject as he got in the back seat.

  “I am to take you back to your hotel so you can change and await Monsieur Renard.”

  Maxim closed the trunk with a press of a button as the power-lift gate started down.

  Hart scratched his chin. “Are you sure it’s straight to the hotel?”

  “Oui. Straight to the hotel, and I am to wait with you, per my instructions.”

  Hart let out a deep breath. “Well, I guess we better hurry up and wait, then.”

  The black sedan’s large bi-turbo engine stirred to life as Maxim drove off the tarmac and back towards Paris.

  The hotel room was exactly how he’d left it, apart from the freshly made bed. Hart threw his bag on the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, staring out over the Jardin. It was a view he hadn’t gotten tired of, but somehow it felt foreign to him. It was strange, he thought, to be in the city without Clara, as if the only Paris he knew had her in it. A feeling of lethargy came over him, which he shook off by thinking of a way to keep himself busy until whatever crisis Renard had called him back for needed his attention. The wait for Renard could be short or last well into the afternoon; he had no way of knowing. Maxim told him he’d wait in the lobby, having valeted the Mercedes.

  Hart went to his desk and flipped open the laptop. He sent a quick email to Hutchens. The old man didn’t seem to miss him much, but he wanted to keep up appearances. He said he’d returned to Paris after a successful venture to London, leaving out that he’d flown back on a private chartered aircraft, which probably cost more than his annual salary.

  He remembered that he never followed up with Roberts and thanked him for the tip that led to a sore shoulder and bruised ego. Hart logged into his personal email and sent a thank-you, saying the information was appreciated. After sending the emails and sitting in the deafening silence of the room, he decided he needed company. The pastries he had inhaled on the
plane felt like a brick in his stomach, which constantly turned in his angst from being apart from Clara. He cursed himself for the lack of patience on both counts and felt he needed a strong, hot cup of coffee to jolt him back to his senses.

  After taking the elevator to the lobby, he was surprised at how easy it was to pick out Maxim, who was seated in a chair against the wall, facing the revolving front doors. The chauffeur’s uniform—the black suit, white shirt, and black tie—was a stark contrast against the golden-yellow paint of the lobby. He sat with his legs crossed, exposing the rubber soles of his polished shoes. He seemed startled by Hart approaching him.

  “Maxim, I could use some company. Want a coffee?” Hart asked.

  Maxim shrugged. “Why not?”

  They made their way to the bar, which was quiet on a Thursday afternoon, as the hotel guests were shopping on Rue Saint-Honoré or milling about the Mona Lisa.

  Hart sat on the overstuffed red plush bar stool with his elbows on the dark-brown bar top, worn by time and countless guests. The air smelled of citrus from the freshly cut lemon wedges one of the barmen was preparing.

  Maxim ordered two espressos in rapid French. The bartender gave a curt nod, acknowledging the order, but proceeded to finish slicing his last lemon, tossing the neatly cut wedges into a small plastic bin. A subtle French show of force, letting the patrons know who actually was in charge. Maxim’s stare lingered on the man.

  “Has it been a busy few days for you with us gone? Or did you manage to get some time away?” Hart asked.

  Maxim made a phf sound with his lips and shook his head. “I never get days off.”

  The bartender arrived with two small white espresso cups on matching saucers and set down a small tray between the men of packets of sugar and square chocolates. Maxim thoroughly stirred in his cube of white sugar, maneuvering the small spoon with an ease that came after years of practice. The conversation was light and generic. Talk of the weather, the best museums in Paris, the best meal one had ever eaten and where. Maxim went on at great length about a restaurant near the Canal Saint-Martin that served mini-sliders with slices of seared foie gras that melted in your mouth.