Where the Wolf Lies

by Tyler Flynn

  Maxim’s brow furrowed in disgust before he feigned surprise. “Oh, I guess this American is okay because the woman he is screwing says so.” He mockingly pouted as he shrugged. “Okay, we can forget the last-minute business trip Paul took to meet with Renard with no known purpose other than gaining complete access to review all of Renard’s accounts, the mysterious envelope brought to the banker in London, and the auction, which was so clearly a front, they might as well have a sign on the door. Shall I continue?”

  Clara shook her head. “If his meeting with Renard was so secret, why did Renard insist he meet me beforehand?” she retorted. “Paul said that Renard gave him the envelope without any further instructions, and I was the one bidding at the auction, with the help of Igor, not Paul.”

  Hart could see her chest heaving with her labored breathing and for a moment felt she was protecting him, unlike she had when she lied to him.

  “Well”—Maxim wagged his finger and made a tsk-tsk-tsk noise with his tongue—“you don’t get to decide what is worth investigating. Maybe Renard was losing money somewhere and needed the mastermind to come help. Shake a few trees and see what falls out. Or maybe you and he decided to take some off the top for yourselves and run away.” Maxim pointed at both Hart and Clara. “He has access to the money, and Clara, you clearly don’t see his guilt, because you’ve accepted it and moved on. Je sais pas.”

  Hart’s fight-or-flight instinct had never been truly tested, but he felt compelled to defend not only himself but also Clara. He’d known he had always erred on the side of taking direction from others, but the injustice of seeing Clara’s work and personal life being questioned fueled him with rage.

  Hart stood and faced Maxim. “You better be damn careful about what the hell it is you’re going to accuse us of doing. Because as far as I’m concerned”—Hart jabbed at his own chest and then towards Clara—“you’re accusing both of us of some pretty bad shit. And on top of that, you’ve got no concrete evidence.”

  Clara sat still, her eyes wide, and a small trace of a smile spread across her lips as she anxiously studied Maxim.

  Maxim nodded before smirking. “Bon, you seem to be getting a bit defensive here, so I will tell you what it is we know for certain. One, we saw you two exiting a bar quite intimately, and rather tipsy I might add, on your first evening here. I have photos that were taken from my car down the street. And your movements the following day, when you mysteriously had the day to yourself, spending lots of money shopping. We had an agent slip you a tracking device in a small euro coin, and my goodness you sure got around. It was almost as if you figured you were being tailed and tried to lose us, because you even dumped the coin in a garbage bin.” Maxim rolled his eyes. “Then you spent the entire day in Renard’s office poring over accounts and statements. What was that about? Not to mention your curious departure from London just before a terror attack. Odd timing? Or are you that lucky? Perhaps, but it was you who booked a private charter late last night and lied to Clara, saying Renard requested your return for urgent business, and you who delivered the tickets to the match, no? We might not have the whole picture, but we have pieces to the puzzle.”

  Hart finally recognized the further betrayal. Instinctively, he realized that he was a pawn in a much grander game—a real and dangerous one. So, the odd device he’d found was a clue—one that could have prevented him from being involved in the mess completely, that he missed. So much for smooth French security services, Hart thought, but then he remembered they had actually found their way into his bed, quite literally.

  Hart began to panic, searching for a way out. “I think my government would love to know you had surveillance on an American citizen, because I’m assuming this wasn’t something you asked permission for.” Hart’s eyes were intense, like a hawk that had spotted a field mouse.

  Maxim shrugged. “You Americans always try to hide behind your flag, like the big, bad papa who will protect his children from mean people.” He laughed.

  Hart was running out of ideas. What was he missing? His anger had begun to trump logic, his thoughts made murky by confusion and anger. The connection he found between Bichot and Igor was distressing, and he’d hidden it out of fear that it would expose his unethical behavior, but it could be the card to play to prove his innocence.

  He calculated the risk. If he told them of his suspicions of Igor, it could heighten their suspicions of him, as though he was passing the blame. But it also could prove he wasn’t unaware of Bichot’s actions, since he wanted to check out the small wine shop in Borough Market. He was, after all, assaulted, and evidently Clara had left that out of her debriefing, or they hadn’t covered it yet.

  Maxim continued. “You see, Monsieur Hart, you either help me, and in return I can save your girlfriend’s career, and maybe even save both of you jail time, or we destroy you, Renard, and your company in a dramatic way. Would you like to cooperate? Or shall we do this the difficult way?”

  “It’s Igor.” Hart’s eyes were moving about the room as his head remained frozen in place. His eyes darted back and forth between Clara and Maxim, who had begun pacing. “And I can prove his involvement with Bichot. I have documents on my computer, but not because of my involvement. I was suspicious of Igor when Renard asked me to bring him some letter, and not Clara. Didn’t like the guy and wanted to find out more. That’s all.”

  A wide grin spread across Maxim’s taut face. “Well, finally we have some cooperation. You see, Clara, I knew he was involved.” His dark eyes glimmered with pride. “But you two shouldn’t worry. I’ve already sent the report of my suspicions to the head of the DGSI financial crimes unit. I figured Hart would come around like a good old American cowboy and save the girl in deep trouble. Clara, your indiscretions have been left out of my report. But you should be ashamed, and I suggest you look for another line of work immediately.”

  Clara dropped her head onto her chest, unable to look at Hart or Maxim.

  Hart stared at Maxim with fire in his eyes. “Clara has done nothing wrong, you arrogant prick.”

  “Yes, Paul, you’ve gotten your way with that. She’ll be spared much hardship.” Maxim shook his head. “But I’m afraid that you’re under arrest by order of the Republic of France on conspiracy to commit tax evasion, wire fraud, and money laundering.”

  37

  Paris

  The orange lights from adjacent buildings and streetlamps spilled across the wooden floors of the apartment, giving off a fiery glow. A cool breeze entered through the open French shutters, cooling the sweat on Hart’s forehead. He had only begun processing what was happening, his mind shutting down to save him the pain, the words, “You’re under arrest,” going off in his head as if shot out of a cannon.

  He was jolted upright by someone seizing his forearm and twisting it behind his back. Maxim smirked while he clasped the cold steel handcuffs on Hart’s wrists.

  “You can’t! You promised me you wouldn’t.”

  Clara’s body shook with a volatile mix of anger and fear. She was several feet from Hart, unable to look at him, but instead glared daggers at Maxim. Her eyes were watery, without tears, but swelled with emotion, looking at a man whom she’d clearly trusted and who’d betrayed her.

  Maxim growled. “He isn’t cooperating! I have the authority to hold him for further questioning. Perhaps being inside an interrogation room will restart his memory,” he said, shaking Hart.

  Hart swayed momentarily, but his legs gave out. He flopped back onto the couch. An inner voice pleaded his innocence, but Hart’s mouth was prisoner to his confusion and fear.

  Maxim lifted Hart back up. Clara stormed across the creaky old floors and stopped between Maxim and the door. She crossed her arms and spread her feet, fire in her eyes.

  “Clara, out of the way. He isn’t going to talk here. Look at him.” Maxim pointed to Hart, who wobbled in a daze. “This is the man you’re so fond of protecting? He looks like he is going to be sick. Hardly an impressive man, wouldn’t y
ou say?” Maxim scoffed and gave a quizzical look at Clara: This is the man you’re risking everything for?

  “I’ll go with him,” Clara said, stepping towards Hart and grabbing his arm. “You’re hurting him. I’ll take him.”

  Hart watched the two of them fighting over who got to lead him downstairs and, presumably, into the police station, where he figured there was a long night ahead of him. Paralyzed by the surreal world he found himself in, he retreated inwards, resigned to the fact that Maxim wasn’t interested in the truth. He only wanted what fit his agenda, to pin everything on the profit-seeking American.

  Clara threw her arms around Hart, pulling him from Maxim, who finally relented. Hart found himself looking at her lips, which were swollen with emotion. She looked even more beautiful when passionate and, curiously, made him want her at that very moment. The anger he’d felt about her lying to him was exchanged for appreciation of her refusal to believe in his absolute guilt. Clara caught him gazing at her as they stood near the door. With a soft glance they expressed what only their eyes could. I’m sorry. Yes, I know.

  Clara grabbed her trench coat and bag off the coat hanger next to the door and stood to the left of Hart, who was directly in front of the door, with Maxim on his other arm. Clara pivoted forward as she reached for the handle and looked across at Maxim before she opened the door, silently pleading for one last chance, but Maxim turned away from her with an exasperated huff. Clara opened the door, and the stairwell motion detector caused a bright flash as harsh light spilled into the darkened apartment.

  Hart took half a step forward with a nudge from Maxim as Clara held the door. He stepped onto the small landing with his chin on his chest, defeated. He was barely halfway out of the doorway when he felt the violent force of a boot kicking him in the chest. The shock of it barely had time to register in his brain as he was thrust backward into the apartment, landing hard on his shoulder. His head bounced off the floor as he skidded back into the room. The door flew open, smacking into Clara, who fell behind it and under the fallen coatrack. Hart saw a massive figure in the entryway, his face familiar and tense. Igor calmly raised a black pistol and took aim at Maxim.

  Maxim had lost his balance when Hart was sent sprawling. Hart watched as a staggered Maxim fought to regain his footing and draw his weapon. His face was ashen with shock when he saw he wasn’t going to be quick enough. Igor’s pistol boomed three times, hitting Maxim in the stomach, then twice in the upper chest. He landed with a heavy thud on the floor several feet from Hart, his eyes wide, crystallized in shock.

  Hart rolled hard to his left, kicking off the ground as bullets ripped into the floorboards where he’d lain. He scrambled to his knees and dove for the kitchen opening awkwardly. With his back against the kitchen wall, he tried to see Clara, who had remained hidden behind the open front door. He watched her give the door a kick, slamming it into the side of Igor, who let out a muffled grunt. The door bounced hard off him, swinging back towards Clara, who gave it another kick. She pushed herself backward on the floor, sliding away from the door. As she slid, she pulled a small handgun from her bag and fired at Igor. Four loud rounds hit the doorframe as Igor dove to avoid the gunfire.

  Clara rolled onto her stomach and crawled into the kitchen as two more shots smacked into the other side of the wall, where Hart had propped himself. His hands were still cuffed behind his back, and he lunged awkwardly further into the kitchen to make space for Clara.

  “You got to get these cuffs off me!”

  “The keys are on Maxim.” Clara’s voice was calm, her breathing smooth as she swept her gun across the apartment. They stayed silent for a moment; Hart’s ears were ringing from the deafening noise of Clara’s gun.

  Clara poked her pistol around the doorframe, her head following, searching low under the chairs and coffee table. The apartment was still, apart from the sound of brass casings rolling across the floor. She waited a moment and crossed the room, opening the bedroom door, and then ran towards the front door, stepping over Maxim and out into the hallway. She leaned over the iron railing, listening, before spinning back into the apartment.

  “He’s gone.”

  She knelt down at Maxim’s side. His eyes were void of life, his hands empty and spread out at his sides.

  Clara dropped her head onto her chest and covered her mouth and whispered, “So is Maxim.”

  She reached into the inside jacket pocket of the dead man. She found the small key and undid Hart’s restraints.

  “What are you doing? Where did Igor go? What are we going to do?” Hart mumbled as he rubbed his wrists and fought the urge to vomit.

  “Merde.” She stood and held her head as she searched the floor around Maxim.

  “What?” Hart could hear the high and low pitch of police sirens from a distance, fast approaching.

  “We have to go now.” She made it over to Hart in three strides and yanked him towards the door.

  Hart dug his heels into the ground, confused. He was startled by the fury in Clara’s eyes.

  “Paul, we have to go now. There’s no time to explain!”

  She tried to pull him into the hallway, but Hart held on to the splintered doorframe and looked down at Maxim, dark-red blood pooling around his body.

  “We can’t just leave him. They’ll think we did this!” Hart could feel himself slipping back into shock.

  “Paul!” Clara shook him by the shoulders. “They are going to think we did this. There’s one way we get out of this, and it’s by leaving right now. Igor took Maxim’s gun. He is going to frame us.”

  The police sirens grew closer.

  Hart nodded to appease her angry tone and followed her up the stairs before glancing one last time at Maxim. They bounded up two flights before Hart could hear heavy footsteps running up the stairs from the lobby. The iron railing shook from the police, who were shouting orders, running up to Clara’s apartment.

  Clara smacked Hart on the shoulder, and he stopped to peer over the railing down the spiral staircase below. She placed a finger over her lips: Be quiet. They reached the top of the staircase and a door with Sortie de Secours in red letters. Clara carefully opened the door, paused for a split second as if waiting for the alarm to sound, and then they climbed through, up onto the roof.

  It was nearly midnight, but Paris lay awake with her lights on. Hart could see Place des Vosges ahead of him, surrounded by the orange glow of streetlamps, and across the slanted rooftops to Notre-Dame, its white towers bright from spotlights. The curved, dark rooftops stretched until he could see the red blinking light atop the Eiffel Tower. Blue police lights danced off the buildings from the street below.

  He realized he’d just nearly been killed and saw a man gunned down. Perhaps worse was knowing he was on the run. But to where? And for how long? He wasn’t an expert at this, whatever this was.

  Clara tugged at his arm again and pointed out where to carefully walk across the narrow wooden planks that spanned the top of the building. She took his cell phone and dropped it, along with her own, down a storm pipe. He could hear voices below, shouts of “Allez!” and the crackle of radio transmissions. He wondered if they’d caught Igor, but he doubted it.

  Clara crossed first, jumping a three-foot gap that connected her building with another. She stepped off the ledge and dropped the last two feet onto the gravel of the building’s roof before motioning for Hart to follow.

  They crossed two more buildings on the same side of the street and ducked into an emergency exit door that led down five flights of stairs, crossed a courtyard, and headed out onto the street through a service entrance. They walked four blocks, heading in a staircase pattern south towards Bastille, where crowds of people spilling from the restaurants and bars provided cover. Once south of Bastille, they headed east, on a quiet march along the river.

  Clara led Hart to a white stone building with wide maroon-colored doors fitted with brass knockers in the shape of a lion. She punched in a four-digit code, and the keypad l
it up cobalt blue as the doors opened. They took the back staircase and proceeded up three levels. Clara gave a tepid knock on apartment number 312. There was stirring inside before the door was cracked open. Hart could make out a single brown eye, protected by the door chain, inspecting him and Clara. The door shut and reopened.

  Justine stood in a blue terry-cloth robe, her hair pulled back. She wore a worried look, but before Clara could say anything, she waved them inside and shut the door.

  The caller had dialed the emergency services number, 17, while walking west, further into the heart of Le Marais. The French operator answered halfway into the first ring.

  “There’s been several gunshots in the building. I heard an American shouting, definitely English, and I think he was shooting too,” he’d said in rusty French.

  The operator asked for the building number, at which Igor supplied the apartment floor as well.

  Was there anyone hurt? How many did he think? Was anything still happening? Please stay in a safe place. Authorities will be there soon. Your name and address, please? Hello? Hello?

  Igor ended the call, took out the battery, and dropped it in a gutter on Rue de Escouffes, then tucked the sim card into his front pocket. He took the plastic burner phone, dropped it on the street, and broke it in half with the heel of his boot, partly out of anger, partly out of necessity.

  He had timed his entrance poorly, hoping to have the element of surprise. But instead he was the one caught off guard. The handcuffs were surprising, and the man he’d killed wasn’t the American. Perhaps it was the chauffeur. He seemed to be the driver, but why the handcuffs and gun? He didn’t expect anyone else to have a gun there, but two people did. Clara had decent aim, her shots tightly clustered around the door, the mark of a pro.

  It wasn’t in his best interests to stick around, and when he’d seen the dead man’s gun lying on the floor after dodging Clara’s fire, he’d taken it and improvised. Thinking creatively, he’d decided to try and set them up. With the dead man’s gun gone, it might look like a murder. A messy murder, ill thought out and poorly covered up, but a murder that could take a day or two to figure out. Plenty of time to get out of the country and go somewhere new—London was too rainy, anyway. There were several banks in Europe where he had accounts, all outside the United Kingdom, so what did he care if he never returned there again?