Where the Wolf Lies

by Tyler Flynn

  Hart was daydreaming about a classic American cheeseburger and decided he would have to swing by the Shake Shack near his office when he got back. When will that be exactly? The thought was pushed abruptly from his mind as his cell phone rang. It was a New York area code: Hutchens.

  “Hey, boss.”

  “Don’t ‘Hey, boss’ me. We have some serious shit to talk about here,” Hutchens barked. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing? I think it’s time you came back here. You put a short on some small company, bought a luxury box for forty-five thousand dollars for a soccer match, and just cleared a wire transfer from the account? The concept is for our clients to bring us money, not go around spending it!”

  Hart felt his throat tighten. “I can explain. But I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding.”

  “The hell it is. There’s no misunderstanding here, Paul. You were sent to do a simple job, and instead you’ve been running all over Europe wasting time and money! I want you back here immediately so I can fire you in person.”

  Hart was about to protest when loud murmuring in the bar caught his attention. Hart heard Maxim curse and turned to face him. He had put his open palm on his forehead, his face stricken like he was going to be sick. “Mon Dieu.”

  The murmuring in the hotel grew as several phones from around the bar and the hotel lobby rang, buzzing and chiming at the same moment. Maxim grabbed Hart by the shoulder and stood staring at the phone, which shook in his unsteady hand.

  “I’m going to have to call you later.” Hart hung up on a screaming Hutchens.

  “What is it?” he asked Maxim.

  “There has been an attack in London,” Maxim whispered, as if saying it out loud would bring its evil to where they stood.

  “An attack? What kind? Where?” Hart felt his stomach turning, the black espresso mixed with fear and regret at leaving Clara.

  31

  London

  The streets of North London were overcrowded by midmorning. The air around Wembley Stadium was filled with football fans’ exuberance. England supporters, wearing the Three Lions kit, marched towards Wembley like a conquering army. The Thursday afternoon World Cup qualifier between England and Italy had woken London with gusto.

  There was a soft fall breeze that carried the smell of beer and fish and chips as Josh Cornwall and his nine-year-old son, Eric, made their way past the hotels and pubs lining the closed-off streets towards the west gate of Wembley Stadium.

  Josh had taken Eric at the imploring of Anna, who had been with Josh at the Riverbed Charity Gala when Igor, their wealth manager, had given them two tickets for the match—a perk of being a client. Anna told Josh to take their son, Eric, even if it meant a day off school. As she put it, “He can always learn. He can’t always spend time with his father.”

  Being the CEO of a company on the brink of a sizable and lucrative merger required Josh to travel often and be away from his family, but he worked hard so he could provide for them. The irony was that his work allowed his family an upper-class lifestyle, living in the west of the city, but his career cost him his presence at the family dinner table—and breakfast table, for that matter.

  The start of the match was approaching—there was less than forty minutes until kickoff—but Igor had requested that all his invited guests meet outside the gate twenty minutes before kickoff so they could enter together. Josh didn’t know the other couples attending; he had met an American and a Frenchwoman who worked for Renard at the gala—they seemed nice enough and fairly fond of each other—but as for the guests for the match, he hoped they wouldn’t mind he brought his son.

  But before he worried about the attendees, there was a bit of business to attend to. Josh, still holding his son Eric’s hand, scanned the surrounding area, searching. There, about thirty yards before the west gate, down the boulevard, lined with supporters, he saw what he was looking for and smiled. Eric looked up at his dad and gave a quizzical tug on his hand.

  “Dad, there are so many people!” Eric said, an astonished look on his face.

  “Son, we English always come out to support our boys.” Josh looked down, noticing his son had no England gear on. “What do you say we go over there?” He pointed to a merchandise tent. “It isn’t right that you don’t have any England gear on for your first game!”

  Eric’s face lit up. “Dad, the scarf, that is what I want! Can I have it please?”

  The excitement in his young son’s voice melted Josh’s heart.

  They patiently waited in line. Eric bounced up and down with excitement. Josh tried to soak in the moment; it would be one of the last days of quiet before work became even more demanding. He’d been working on a deal, with the help of Igor’s introductions, that would merge his company, Cornwall Limited, with several others across Northern Europe. The deal would boost the company’s value tenfold, opening new markets in Russia and China, some of the hardest to break into. The deal was coming together, and he was to take it to the board of directors the following week. The merger would be the finest achievement of his career.

  They made it to the cashier in fifteen minutes, and Josh had checked his watch every other minute to ensure they weren’t late to meet Igor. He’d also used the time to try and remember if his son had a winter scarf and decided he didn’t know. He played the scenario of coming home after the game in his head. Darling, I bought him a scarf. You can never have too many for winter. It was worth a shot.

  “That’ll be thirty pounds,” said a young cashier hurriedly, sweat beading off his dark-skinned forehead as he looked past Josh, seemingly towards the long line of people.

  Josh reached for his billfold, found a fifty-pound note, and handed it over. His son beamed with happiness and wrapped himself in his souvenir.

  “Quite a bargain, eh?” Josh smirked, showing only the best of British sarcasm, passed down from generation to generation.

  “Your twenty quid.” The young cashier held out the change, ignoring the comment as he gazed past him at the line of supporters standing in long queues. Josh figured the young man was worried about the long queue of customers before the match and felt sorry for him. He squinted and read his name tag. It was a name he wasn’t familiar with.

  “Cheers, Nasir. Have a nice day,” Josh muttered as he grabbed Eric’s hand and headed for the west gate.

  Nasir stared back with beady black eyes and a blank face.

  It was time to find Igor before heading into the match. Josh strained his neck to see over the crowds towards the gate and lifted Eric up onto his shoulders, allowing his son a better vantage point.

  Igor didn’t mind the crowd but despised the drunks stumbling around. He took solace in knowing they wouldn’t be missed, but he needed to focus on what was to be done. Having arrived at Wembley by Tube, as did almost everyone else that morning, he had flashed his VIP ticket and headed towards a merchandise tent. Nasir was working, looking like a fool in the bright-blue oversized jacket worn by the event staff. All staff members were screened and vouched for by their company, and he never caused a whiff of suspicion. He was, to his employer, a quiet young man making a few pounds here and there, as he had been for the past year.

  Igor had gone to the tent about forty-five minutes before he was set to meet with the rest of the group and waited in line until he got to Nasir. As Igor had instructed him the day before when they met on the street outside Borough Market, he greeted him in the tent with no acknowledgment. Igor asked to purchase a sweatshirt, and Nasir grabbed the bag that sat wrapped under his cashier stand. Inside the bag were some of the contents of the wine shipment, including a 9mm Beretta and a carbon-fiber Karambit knife that reminded him of a raptor’s claw. Igor had dropped off the boxes at Borough Market the day prior and instructed Nasir to go back to the market later that evening. Igor mentioned his suspicions that he was being followed that day, and after losing the couple Nasir had identified were indeed following him, he headed back to Vin Merchants and picked up his package. The shop gave Nasir th
e wooden crate marked “For Pick-up Only,” and he took it back to his apartment to view the contents, ready to smuggle them into the event.

  Igor stood by the west gate, per his instructions to Josh Cornwall and Clara Nouvelle, amongst other unimportant guests he’d invited. He wasn’t concerned with the others; he only had his instructions from Renard to worry about. Igor heard the man’s voice repeating in his head “Make sure Clara and Josh are both there.”

  He saw Josh, with his son on top of his shoulders, walking towards the gate and gave a small wave, barely raising his arm. A casualty of their plan; Igor thought nothing more of it. He had alerted Renard to the possibility of the merger, the same one he helped create. The merger gave Igor another excuse to cause terror and mayhem while making Renard money, and somewhere along the line he had started enjoying himself. It was addition by subtraction, or, in Josh’s case, elimination. He wasn’t Igor’s first, and he wouldn’t be the last.

  Igor leaned against a thick cement pillar, where he could shield himself, protected from the storm that was about to be unleashed. From his position, he couldn’t see Clara or the American, but he was sure they’d be on time. Nonetheless, Igor couldn’t miss his chance to take out Josh, who was the main focus. In operations one has to adapt or die, and Igor didn’t plan on dying just yet; the plan would proceed.

  It only took a few minutes of waiting before Igor started to hear panic in the air. He peered around from his vantage point and saw police running into a crowd that had gathered around. He closed his eyes and braced for the eruption, but none came. Igor quickly scanned the crowd, his eyes searching for Josh, the specific target. Nasir wouldn’t know who he was, but the attack would create enough chaos and damage that Igor could always silently finish the job.

  He thought back to his late-night walk with Nasir, the terror in the young man’s black eyes about giving his life to a cause he didn’t truly believe in. Igor shook his head and grabbed the burner cell from inside his coat pocket. He hurriedly typed the number and without hesitation pressed “Send.”

  The first yells hadn’t warranted Josh’s attention. His subconscious slowly tried sorting out what exactly it heard and had deemed them unimportant. But it was the bloodcurdling, piercing scream that caused him to instinctively turn. Josh caught but a glimpse of the commotion in the merchandise tent where they had just been. He was uncertain as to what he was seeing. Did someone fall? Was there a fight? His attention pivoted to his right when he heard several police whistles piercing the air.

  It was after the fourth whistle, when the crowd, quieted by the confusion, allowed Josh to focus on the abundant stillness. As if a veil was pulled over the crowd, time seemingly ticked slower. Josh heard a loud shout that jolted him and made his blood run cold, and people began to scream. His adrenaline kicked in, and he picked up Eric.

  He watched several uniformed police officers run towards the tent. “Halt!” he heard an officer say, a mix of terror and anger in his voice. There were several gunshots. People began to run, moving in every direction to get away from the gunfire, but it was too late.

  The blast was as instantaneous as it was powerful, with a blinding flash and a shock wave that smashed through the crowds. The explosion obliterated everything within a fifteen-yard radius, sending its shock wave another twenty yards, knocking over everything in its path. Several police cars and trailers parked near the gate that were blocking the road flipped over, landing on bystanders.

  Shards of glass and brick fell from the stadium; the frayed and burned merchandise tent flapped in the soft breeze. Police sirens wailed across the city. Screams could be heard from both victims and the first responders, cries of fright and action. The air was smudged with thick smoke as small fires burned.

  Josh Cornwall’s eyes fluttered open to bright light and a piercing ringing in his ears, flooding all of his senses. Everything hurt as he tried to move from his prone position, his mind trying to make sense of what just happened. He looked over to his left, where an England scarf lay tattered and torn, no longer white. It was now stained crimson with blood. He rolled onto his back and felt the crunching of broken glass and pain as it cut through his tattered clothes. His breathing was shallow; his ribs felt like a truck had crushed them. He blinked to try to clear his vision.

  He saw Igor standing above him, and Josh put out his hand to the man he knew, begging for help. He felt his eyes swell as his world flooded with pain and fear. Where was his son? Was Eric okay? He opened his mouth to speak as Igor knelt down and jabbed a sinister-looking knife into his throat. The last thing that went through Josh Cornwall’s mind was, Why?

  Igor turned under the cover of the thick smoke and headed into the stadium, ignoring the cries from the victims for help. His ears rung and his pulse raced but he wasn’t hurt. The pillar he hid behind had protected him.

  Nasir had been weak, Igor thought. He was glad he saw it coming. He’d only rigged up the cell phone detonator after it appeared Nasir had gotten cold feet. The triacetone triperoxide, or TATP, had been perfect and did its job. The peroxide-based explosive had the capability to be 80 percent as deadly at TNT but was much easier to smuggle in, fitting perfectly into a wine bottle. The unstable material had been packed gingerly, so that Nasir, a quiet loner, could transport it easily into the event under the cover of his job.

  Terror swept over the stadium as Igor fled towards the north side to make his escape. He had hoped Josh would have been killed during the explosion, but in the end the backup plan of Nasir smuggling weapons to him did the job. He wondered about Clara. Such a shame to waste such beauty, but Renard had requested her death for reasons Igor didn’t know or care about.

  He found a staircase with people running for their lives and strolled out of the stadium and into the chaos on the street. The news crews would focus on the carnage, the people killed, and the police would investigate the explosives, the young man, and his motives, and Igor would be free. No one would consider why Josh was killed, his body close to the blast and so disfigured that it would take days to sort out what happened.

  Igor tucked his chin into his chest and went down the street.

  32

  London

  There were news reports about the attack within minutes of the smoke clearing. The skies over the stadium were closed, so no news helicopters flew, nor did any journalists in the immediate aftermath have their camera feeds up and running; only essential personnel had communication privileges. The Tube stations were shut down, and terrorist assault teams scrambled from their nearby, undisclosed locations.

  Within a short time—sooner than veteran journalists were accustomed to—intelligence on the attack was leaked. The blast had claimed many lives, and it had been captured on many of the CCTV cameras placed around the stadium. Soon the name of the attacker spread on social media, and shortly thereafter photos circulated. One of the pictures had the caption, “If you knew this monster, please contact the tip line listed.”

  Pundits, eager to capitalize on their platform, took to the airwaves to denounce the European Union’s immigration policies and their subsequent effects. Later that same day, demonstrations took place in Trafalgar Square, where students in support of migrants had violent clashes with the angry opposition. Some politicians called for peace, others resuscitated their calls for further immigration restrictions across Europe.

  Law enforcement in the United Kingdom, namely MI5, called for every resource available as they began to pore over camera footage and evidence from the scene, and collect background information on the attacker—whom he knew, what he liked, where he went. Their investigation would produce results quickly: Nasir had been smuggled into England via a migrant camp, where he originally was detained. Days would elapse before any picture of his life in London could be put together.

  The London Stock Exchange trended downwards. Some stocks were hit harder than others, while a select few, namely defense-related industries, rose. The veterans on the floor had seen worse. Usually, after a t
errorist attack markets would drop 2 percent but would rebound in a relatively short amount of time.

  In Paris, the police increased their presence across the city, with several vans of gendarmes parked along the Champs-Élysées. Commuters cast glances at their fellow passengers on the Metro to gauge their safety.

  Igor he made his way back to his office in Canary Wharf, the streets quieter than usual. A strong breeze blew off the Thames, through the old buildings of the somber city, urging people off the already desolate streets. His mission had ostensibly ended. Only time could tell what the benefits would be, but Igor was confident that his planning would pay dividends, both literally and figuratively.

  Security had been a concern at the stadium, but Igor had seen past that. There had been security sweeps, security men and women in bright-orange jackets waving wands over the incoming patrons, not knowing that the real danger was already behind them. Nasir had been working on the stadium grounds as a trusted employee with access to and from the merchandise area for almost a year. No one from security thought to look for the fox already inside the henhouse.

  The damage from the explosion would not be catastrophic, nor would it warrant any immediate political changes, but it was yet another wound inflicted upon an already mangled country. When Nasir’s name appeared in the papers, the general public and boisterous lawmakers would be one step closer to calling for a retreat into further isolation.

  Eventually, authorities would trace the simple reason for Nasir’s escape from the migrant camp; he’d lost his mother and sister, and sought to find them. Little did he know they had been dead a long time, but Igor didn’t mind the lie; he exploited feelings for a living.