Where the Wolf Lies

by Tyler Flynn

  The West would be furious that a refugee bit the hand that fed him, and Igor would watch the further destabilization of foreign policy while making his client richer. Renard had canceled his appearance in London for the charity gala, sending Hart in his place. He’d told Igor that Hart would bring tickets to the match and requested that both Hart and Clara be invited. Igor had to admit it did seem a bit strange bringing them so close to the operation. The move was perplexing, but Renard was cunning, and Igor assumed there was a good reason.

  It was later than he realized, nearly 4 p.m., when Igor climbed the narrow staircase to his South Kensington flat. He must have been enjoying his walk, a clandestine victory march through the streets of a conquered city. He grabbed his computer to browse the news. The headlines told of the devastation in London. The police said the investigation was “being treated as a terrorist incident.” Yet it was so much more to Igor. Small attacks festered in people’s minds, creating hatred, and from it, isolation blossomed. Countries would close borders, seizing on the fear of their citizens, dividing and weakening the same powers that once murdered his mother. Divided they would fall; he would see to that.

  Igor leaned back in his chair, and Clara’s green eyes floated across his mind. He wondered what happened to her, imagining her death, presumably along with the American Hart’s—although he didn’t have any specific instructions for him. From behind the pillar, he hadn’t seen either of them, but he was sure they’d been there, as was requested.

  Clara seemed like collateral damage, perhaps a love affair gone wrong or she knew too much, while the American was harder to figure out. Igor had reasoned that she was bait to lure Hart; at least, that was what he would have used her for. She was a beautiful damsel for Hart to latch on to and be eager to impress. While Renard’s circle of confidants wasn’t endless, Clara certainly wasn’t the only person who could have held Hart’s hand while he was in Europe. Igor couldn’t solve the mystery of why she needed to be bait. His mind hopped around, trying to make connections. He knew he was pumped full of adrenaline and told himself he was thinking too hard.

  His cell phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. The number came up as private. He answered, expecting a familiar voice.

  “Yes?” Igor said, having sunk into the large couch in his living room.

  “Sad day,” Renard said purposefully.

  “Incredibly sad.” Igor checked his watch.

  “I need you to come for a visit.”

  “I don’t know if that is a good idea,” Igor retorted, confused by the timing of the request. Normally, days if not weeks would go by after a plan before they connected again.

  He heard a huff. “Cannot wait. We have a problem.”

  “What problem?” Igor could feel his temples pound.

  “Our house is still in need of cleaning, and I need you for the job. There’s a rat.”

  Igor dropped his head onto his chest and closed his eyes, trying to slow down his breathing. “I understand.”

  Igor hung up and checked his watch to make sure the call didn’t exceed more than twenty seconds. He dropped the phone and stepped on it. His nostrils flared and his chest rose as he sat still for a moment, before rising and smashing his fists into the living room wall.

  33

  Paris

  Maxim raced through the traffic in the Mercedes on Rue La Fayette towards Gare du Nord. He cut the wheel hard to the right, the bi-turbo V8 engine swallowing air as it roared, passing a truck and going into the taxi lane. He cut off a dark-blue Volkswagen Passat cab that came within inches of where Hart sat in the rear passenger seat. Hart watched through the windshield as they passed a parked bus with little room to spare while running a red light, leaving cars scattered about in the intersection.

  The Mercedes skid to a stop at the three-way intersection a hundred yards in front of Gare du Nord.

  Maxim turned around to Hart and pointed at the street corner. “I’ll wait there. It’s platform number four.”

  It had been only fifteen minutes since Hart had been sitting in the hotel bar, nursing his third Dalmore scotch and feeling sorry for himself, when Maxim had grabbed him by the shoulder. “She’s on a train.” Hart processed the words sluggishly; not on account of the alcohol, although it didn’t help, but because he’d been expecting the worst, lost in a daze of self-pity, tortured by the thought that he left her in danger. He felt he should have been there to protect her after the day at the market when she protected him.

  It had been nine hours since the attack, and he hadn’t heard anything from or about her. The British authorities leaked information, and news outlets reported upwards of thirty dead and dozens wounded, but instead of thumbing through the news on his phone, Hart had been rolling the scotch around in his glass, watching it swirl, numbing his mind from the uncertainty of her fate.

  His first instinct was to ask Maxim if she was dead or alive, but he could tell from the look in the man’s eyes. They’d run from the bar as the barman yelled for a room number, to which Hart didn’t bother to respond.

  Inside the train terminal, Hart could sense the fear and anger in the air, with travelers on edge. Armed French commandos stood outside the glass doors at the front of the station, their camouflage battlefield gear, black berets, and submachine guns in stark contrast to the City of Light. It was only normal that the rest of Europe, if not the world for that matter, would be on alert after the attack. Inside, travelers hurriedly brushed past Hart, seeking the shelter of the next hotel or heading home to warm beds and the comfort of family or friends.

  Hart ran to the screens showing arrivals. He squinted to find the London St. Pancras train and read “Arrived at 8:17 p.m. on Platform 4.” He hurried towards the platform, where passengers were exiting. Hart strained to see over the crowd of comatose passengers, their faces blank with exhaustion, but couldn’t find her. He was desperate to see her, to hold her again. He’d told himself that just the sight of her would be enough, but he realized he needed more. Whatever was to happen between them didn’t matter; the only thing he hoped for was that she was safe.

  He thought he made out her dark-colored hair, tied up in a bun, in the distance. His chest began to pound as shock swept over him, numbing his hands and drying out his mouth. The numbness lingered; it was the only feeling he had apart from the need to run to her. He didn’t care what happened next; she was safe and back home. He’d be damned if he was going to let the moment pass.

  She exited the platform, passed the throngs of people, and lifted her head up at him. She made no move towards him; rather, her pace slowed and she stopped a few yards short of where he stood. Her face was not how he’d remembered it when he’d last seen her that morning. She had a two-inch scratch above her left cheek, a bruise on her chin, and a vertical cut in the middle of her forehead near her eyebrows. Her green eyes appeared more honey colored, like dark-golden pools, as if she’d been crying. Her somber mood contrasted with her chic khaki raincoat, with the collar turned up, but her burgundy leather tote bag slung over her shoulder was ruined by black soot. Clara played with the straps as she stood staring at Hart.

  Hart was the first to move, stepping towards her and putting out his arms. “I’m so happy you’re all right.”

  She recoiled slightly, tucked her chin to her chest, and tightened the hold on her purse. He could feel her body tense as he held her. The perfume she’d put on, with notes of citrus and lavender, clung to her. Hart breathed her in, the taste of his scotch gone, made sober by the adrenaline rush of holding her once more.

  Suddenly, Clara pushed away, her eyes swollen and her lips quivering at the corners of her mouth. He didn’t know what to do or say. She had had one hell of a terrible day. She looked down for a moment to compose herself, showing the strength of a woman who had no interest in being felt sorry for.

  “Tell me it wasn’t you.” She looked up, her eyes narrowed with anguish.

  “What?” Hart said.

  She spoke again before he could ask what
she meant. “Non, Paul, tell me it wasn’t you. You know what I am talking about. Tell me!”

  Her voice rose as she demanded answers to questions Hart didn’t know. More than one passerby turned to watch.

  “Clara, I don’t know what you’re asking me.”

  His patience was slipping; this was not the reunion he had expected.

  She shook her head, as if the question wasn’t worth asking anymore. “Where is Maxim?” Her gaze drifted past Hart and she picked out Maxim from the crowd.

  “He’s parked out front.”

  He turned, holding his hand out. She brushed past him and his hand, moving towards the exit, but craned her neck over her shoulder. “Come on, we have work to do.”

  They walked out of the quieting terminal and sought the embrace of the Parisian night sky.

  34

  Paris

  The Mercedes crawled past Place de Vosges, through the narrow streets of Le Marais. Maxim pulled onto Rue de Turenne, perpendicular to the Seine, a few blocks away. The sedan straddled the curb; Maxim put it in park, peering up and down the street. He and Clara spoke in rushed French, the words coming too fast for Hart to distinguish what was said.

  Clara opened her door. “Come upstairs please. We have a lot to discuss,” she said to no one in particular as she got out.

  Both Maxim and Hart exited at the same time. Hart was momentarily confused by the fact that Maxim was getting out, but the day had been too long to question anything. Maybe they were getting some of Clara’s things so she could stay the night at his hotel. An appetizing possibility, he thought.

  Hart followed her through the large steel gate, which led into an expansive concrete courtyard with a small bench and potted evergreen plants. They passed through two thick wood doors, to a spiral staircase that echoed as they climbed the four flights to Clara’s apartment.

  Her apartment was on the corner, looking down the rue towards the Seine, represented at night by a gap of darkness between the buildings. Across the river, lights from the Fifth Arrondissement flickered like fireflies in the sky. The apartment was bigger than he’d expected, judging by the surrounding neighborhood, its walls pristinely white, with a tufted yellow couch framed by two leather chairs. The wood flooring was oak, worn smooth by age and occupants. The building was quite old but refined, tuned by time, like a vintage Bordeaux. The label might be a bit tired looking, the wine a dark-plum color, but you knew it was expensive, and it would, with time, grow on you to become something loved.

  Clara threw her tote on the small butcher block that doubled as her center island. A half-empty bottle of Burgundy sat on the counter near the sink. Hart could tell she hadn’t had company drinking it; there was only one dirty glass, with lipstick stains, next to the bottle, the pinot noir crusted and clinging to the bottom of the glass.

  He was about to take a closer look at several pictures on the fridge when Clara told him to sit down, pointing to the couch. There was a certain authority to her voice, not the welcoming tone of a host offering their guest a comfortable place. Without a word, he went over to where Maxim sat on one of the leather chairs. Hart chose the middle of the yellow couch. It was plush and sturdy, so much so that he felt he could lie down and be asleep within minutes.

  The room was silent except for the faint hum of the fluorescent light in the kitchen and the zip of scooters buzzing down the streets below. He awkwardly fiddled with his pant leg. The suspicion that something was out of the ordinary was confirmed when Clara came back into the room, sat on the chair opposite, and Maxim returned her quick glance with a nod of approval.

  “Paul,” Clara started, her hands folded in her lap, her blue cable-knit sweater hanging loosely from her shoulder after traveling all day. “We need to be honest with you, and you need to be honest with us. You’re being given this chance because—well we...” Clara stopped looking at Hart and found Maxim, who nodded again at the acknowledgment. “Well, we think you have gotten caught up in something that has escaped you. And we really must get to the bottom of it, because there is more to this than just money.” Her eyes narrowed, as if she were peering into the mind of Hart.

  Hart sat upright and cleared his suddenly tight throat. His gaze shifted to Clara in confusion before he turned to stare at the coffee table. He focused on the hardcover book of Van Gogh paintings, the cover, The Starry Night, turned at an angle decoratively in the middle of the walnut table. What was she on about? His mind fought for answers, but nothing connected.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  His hands were outstretched in innocence. He shrugged to add conviction but couldn’t help the feeling of guilt, even though he’d done nothing wrong. He turned to look at Maxim. What was he doing in Clara’s apartment and as a part of this conversation? It didn’t make sense. Maybe she was mad he left her that morning, but he was too.

  “Paul, don’t make this complicated. The situation is understandable. I may disagree with it, but I can understand why you do it. But it has spiraled out of control. Now it’s gone too far.” Clara brushed her hair behind her ear before continuing. “But Maxim and I can help. We can make things better for you.” Clara stopped and let out a sigh as Hart’s face remained blank with confusion.

  Her tactic of getting him to confess to something he was completely unaware of was not working. Before he could ask what exactly he had done, Maxim spoke.

  “Paul, I saw how much you care for Clara today. I find it hard to believe you would put her knowingly in danger. Help us find out who is behind these things, and we can help you before this goes too far and you’re beyond help.”

  His accent was thick, but he spoke confidently, more like a businessman than the carefree limousine driver. Hart felt confused and knew he was becoming agitated. What was it that they thought he was involved it?

  “Stop. Please stop for one moment. What the hell is going on?” He could hear his voice shaking.

  Clara puffed some more air through her lips, a sign of annoyance, as she shook her head and brushed another unruly strand of hair back behind her ear. “Paul, your involvement with Renard extends beyond just managing some accounts in the US. You’ve been helping him here, and there, moving money behind the scenes, laundering, avoiding detection. We know he is doing it, and now with you in town, the way things have gone”—she paused for a moment to look away, her face strained and her glossy eyes betraying her true emotion—“it’s evident that you have a role.”

  Hart felt like he’d been punched in the gut. “A role in what exactly? I am so confused. What makes you suspicious of me?”

  He looked at Maxim for an ally. Maxim looked away towards the humming light of the kitchen and then at Clara, and Hart realized he was on his own.

  “Paul, do you remember the story about how I got my job?” Clara had her eyebrow raised in anticipation of his recollection. “My boss—”

  Hart cut her off, anxious to show he listened and had a memory to match.

  “Jean Luc Bichot...” He paused, his eyebrows jutting in puzzlement, his mind quickly recalling Borough Market, the shops, Igor, the foolish pursuit, and the still-tender bruises.

  She bobbed her head in response. “Very good. Yes, well, he didn’t actually run away with someone and leave the job by way of stealing money. But I think you already know this. After all, that is why you asked to go to Borough Market, isn’t it? Maybe you had a nice thing going with Monsieur Bichot, and next thing you knew, Igor got cut in on it. And you didn’t like a piece of your pie being taken—am I close?” She turned her head ever so slightly with contempt and curiosity. The unruly strand of hair fell from behind her ear once again, and she brushed it into place and leaned back in her chair, folded her arms, and held Hart’s gaze.

  Things were starting to line up for Hart. The Bichot connection was puzzling, and the fact that Clara and Maxim, whatever role he played, were pressing him was because they didn’t know the full truth. But what truth were they after? His patience was wearing thin, his
curiosity the only thing keeping him from walking out.

  “I’m not into playing games. Tell me what it is you think I’ve done.” He pinched the bridge of his nose to compose himself. “Furthermore, I don’t have to stay here and be accused of things. I’m okay finding my way back to the hotel. It isn’t enjoyable being accused of something I don’t understand.” His face felt hot, his ears burned, and he spoke to no one in particular, looking at Clara, Maxim, and the coffee table in front of him.

  “Should we tell him?” Clara asked Maxim, who gave a dismissive wave and glared at the ceiling.

  Maxim stood and began pacing, the heels of his polished dress shoes thudding on the floor. He walked back and forth between the chairs and said nothing apart from making a single plea: “Please be honest with us.”

  Clara pulled her legs up off the floor and sat further back in her chair.

  Maxim stopped and looked over Hart, seemingly less intense, shaped into a person with heavy eyes and sharp creases of fatigue along his cheeks and forehead. He loosened his black tie and undid the top button of his dress shirt, letting out a sigh of relief.

  “Paul, where’d you grow up?” he asked, surprising Hart with the change of subject.

  “Connecticut.”

  “There any farms there? In Connecticut?” He sounded out the state’s name slowly, repeating how Hart had pronounced it.

  “Small ones. But I didn’t live on one, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Maxim nodded in appreciation of Hart’s answer. He took a pack of Gitanes from inside his jacket pocket and held them up for Clara to see. She shrugged in half-hearted confirmation that he could smoke. Hart was surprised by the exchange. It seemed as though Clara was resigned to Maxim’s wishes. The small flicker of annoyance in her eyes, the same look he’d seen from her at Musée D’Orsay when he confessed he didn’t know what he was doing in Paris, gave it away.