Where the Wolf Lies

by Tyler Flynn

  “Look, I didn’t do anything wrong. I was doing what I was told and—” Hart started before Pierre-Emmanuel left the wall and sat down at the table, drumming his fingers.

  “I think that, after reviewing some of the information you provided to both myself and Mr. Palmer, further investigation is required. Some of these things you’d like us to look into, such as the Borough Market wine shop, the chartered plane, the ballistics of the shooting in Clara’s apartment—they are going to take time.” Pierre-Emmanuel spread his arms out to his sides: It cannot be helped. “It seems we need more time, and unfortunately for you and Mademoiselle Nouvelle, it is not a luxury we have. But I think there is a way that everyone can be slightly appeased. Care to hear my idea?”

  “Yes,” Hart responded curtly without breaking eye contact.

  “Well, as I said, there are things that don’t add up. Both Mr. Palmer and I agree that there is much more to the story than you can offer. On one hand, it is entirely possible that someone of your background and resources could have an active role in financial crimes that somehow spun off into excessive violence, maybe a deal gone bad.” He pushed his bottom lip up into his top in a pout and shrugged. “On the other hand, maybe a guy such as yourself, willing to please and follow your superiors’ directions, got involved in a dangerous game well beyond your understanding and you simply were curious or naïve enough to play along. Either way, there is some negligence on your part and your company’s, but that is for Mr. Palmer to deal with.

  “However, this is highly concerning to both our countries, particularly France, where you have had shoot-outs and car chases. The illogical notion that only one person, this Igor, who currently resides on a medical examiner’s table, did all of this on his own—I am not sure I believe this. Where there is one there are many, and perhaps even your safety could still be at risk—if you are telling us the truth, that is.”

  The room was silent for a moment. Pierre-Emmanuel picked at a bit of lint on his right sleeve and looked at his watch.

  Hart scoffed. “Of course, I am telling you the truth!” He gripped the cold steel of the table, his knuckles turning white.

  Pierre-Emmanuel glanced at Hart’s hands and looked back up towards him.

  “Potentially, you could be in danger. If Igor and/or Monsieur Renard made attempts on your life and went to all of this trouble to frame you, there’s something grander at play. Of course, we don’t know what that is, but for all parties concerned—your government, the Republic of France, Mr. Palmer, myself, and you...” His voice trailed off for a moment as his eyes found the floor. It was as if he was searching for words. Hart saw a flicker of inspiration behind the man’s steel eyes. “We think it is best if you’re placed under a certain form of house arrest. You cannot leave the country until we’ve completed the investigation, and for your protection, you’ll be placed with armed guards in a discreet location while we get to the bottom of all of this.” A toothless smile: This is the best deal you’ll get, and I didn’t want to give it to you.

  Hart sat still, his mouth slightly ajar, as he processed the news. His initial reaction was joy at leaving this cramped room, but then the reality of house arrest set in. He chewed on the subject for a while as he tried to work out what exactly that arrangement entailed.

  “So, house arrest with armed guards. Is that for my protection, or to make sure I can’t leave?” His tone was flat and dry; he knew the answer.

  “Think of this arrangement as a mutual insurance policy. You are protected and have some liberties, while we rest easy knowing you’re safe under our guard. It also gives us time to complete an investigation in a judicious manner. It was not my original idea, but your government persuaded me when they produced a staggering amount of evidence just this evening supporting you. Regardless, Paul, this is your only option besides staying in the French prison system for the foreseeable future. I’d like an answer as to what you’d like.”

  “Where would I stay?”

  “Well, I suspect you have a limited knowledge of our country, but we’d provide you a location. It won’t be the Ritz in Paris, but I’m sure you’ll be able to make do. I’ll have someone pick a location, and we’ll go from there. It would have to be somewhere discreet and remote.” He stood and produced paper from the envelope and a pen, sliding them across the table to Hart. “If you’ll sign this, we can begin the process of moving you.”

  Hart spoke as if on reflex. “I know where I want to go.”

  Pierre-Emmanuel suppressed a smile and folded his arms across his chest. He leaned forward in skepticism. “Please do tell.”

  “I’d like to go to an island, Noirmoutier. I think it’s near Nantes.”

  Pierre-Emmanuel gave a small nod, allowing only the slightest bit of satisfaction for Hart. He pushed the paper towards him on the table with a pen. “I’ll see what can be done. No promises.”

  Hart read the paper quickly and signed the acknowledgment that he was subject to certain laws he had nonverbally agreed to when he cleared customs more than a week ago. Pierre-Emmanuel took the paper, and left without another word, only the sound of his shoes clicking determinedly down the hallway.

  44

  Noirmoutier

  The white Peugeot SUV took up most of the narrow road that floated through the low-lying countryside. The route was framed by tall wispy grass, drawing a distinction between the neglected asphalt and the salt farm fields. There was a dark-brown donkey with gray, old eyes meandering through the narrow strips of grass between the salt pools, as it’d presumably done its whole life, nibbling away. The road curved and fell towards tall old oak trees that stretched into a dark-green tunnel that one had to travel through to reach a coastal town full of white stucco homes with bright-blue shutters.

  Hart stared out the passenger-side window, recognizing a hair salon and a pizza parlor, the only businesses in the quaint town. Everyone deserved a chance to look good and eat well, he reasoned. The Peugeot navigated the town’s roundabout with ease, merging into the sparse traffic.

  Hart had met the two agents that sat in the front seats only earlier that day. He’d been told by a guard to put on the new clothes provided and be ready to travel. Hart finally left the building he’d been imprisoned in. He was fitted with a microchip in his right wrist for added insurance. The doctor had told Hart “not to dig around looking for it with a sharp object, as it would most assuredly lead to death.” He’d been taken to the basement of the building and escorted out the rear service entrance to an awaiting van, where he’d met the guards who were currently driving him.

  Before climbing into the van, with no idea where he was being taken, Hart had glanced up at his former prison. The building looked serene from the outside, its white façade beaming on another sunny fall day in Paris, a far cry from the silent torment he would remember it for. He thought he’d seen a figure in the third-story glass window, perhaps the long dark hair and hawkish eyes of Pierre-Emmanuel, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Hart’s new acquaintances had been cordial and professional for the several hours they’d known each other. The navigator, Antoine, was dark skinned and stout, with thick black stubble, short, dark, wiry hair, brown eyes, and a large crooked smile. He had been talkative to Hart on their ride from Paris to Nantes via the TGV. He started asking about American sport, namely the NBA, and listed his favorite players. Antoine, apparently capitalizing on an opportunity to practice his English, carried the conversation. He came from Toulouse, a city in the southwest of France where rugby, relaxing, and partying were the cornerstones of life. His mother was Spanish, hence his darker skin, and his father was a police officer. Antoine followed in the family business, ultimately landing in the DGSI. His eyes were sharp and vigilant, and, Hart assumed, Antoine’s casual nature towards him was intended to make Hart’s guard come down.

  The driver of the Peugeot, who’d been receiving a fair amount of directions from Antoine, sometimes well past the needed exit or road, did his best to keep his temper in
check. He’d introduced himself as Lucas. He was tall with a neatly trimmed beard, and his dark hair was shaved short. He had a quiet assertiveness about him and was the senior DGSI agent, often scolding Antoine during their ride. He was distant and reserved with Hart.

  The day had been tiresome—the travel, the new people—but the distress for Clara remained with him through it all, like a loyal companion born out of familiarity. His thoughts stayed with her, what was to become of him, and what his life would end up becoming without her. He would make a deal with the devil, anything to be able to hold her close once again, even if it was to say goodbye. He shook his head absentmindedly as he thought of her saving his life, Igor squeezing the breath from him, the numbness, the thuds of the shots, her last act. No, Damn that, he thought; not her last act. Far from it, he told himself sternly. He would see her again.

  Wouldn’t he?

  Hart forced himself to stare out the window as Antoine and Lucas had an animated discussion. The road opened, flanked by restaurants and parking lots, before straight ahead of them was a wide-open expanse with a narrow cobble road: Passage du Gois.

  Hart sat on the edge of his seat and gazed out the windshield. The dark-grayish plain was sprinkled with jutting coarse gray rocks and seaweed left behind by the ocean. The openness stretched as far as he could see to the left and the right, with four wooden lookout posts sitting stoically next to the road, which was lined with parked SUVs and cars. People climbed out of the cars, equipped with yellow rubber boots, and waded onto the wet sand and stone, searching for seashells or other lost treasures left behind by the receding tide.

  Lucas wrestled the car over the slick stones of the passage that only hours earlier had been covered with ocean water. Hart cracked the back window, and a cold sea breeze rushed into the car, bringing with it the taste of salt and the sharp smell of the sea. The wind stung his face, forcing him to close his eyes. He focused on the seagulls’ cries of delight from the fresh buffet the ocean had left when the tide rolled back out to sea.

  They crossed the divide between the continent and the island, forgoing the Pont de Noirmoutier, built in 1970, when the island became more frequently visited. The island would be his home for an indefinite amount of time, he a prisoner to its beauty and his own thoughts.

  Once over the Passage du Gois, they took a narrow road to the north end of the island, near the Château de Noirmoutier. Lucas swerved, honked, and gestured at the leisurely pace of the local drivers.

  Oyster farms and sea salt fields flanked the road until Lucas finally turned down what seemed more like a walkway, which ran parallel to a canal. The canal was subject to the massive tides of the island, too, evident by the fishing boats and sailboats lying on the hard-caked mud at the bottom of the empty waterway.

  Lucas parked at the end of the road in front of a gray, stucco, two-story building with white-painted window frames displaying France’s ministry of tourism’s four-star rating under the name “Le Général d’Elbée.” Antoine waved Hart out of the car, and the three headed inside, each of them carrying a piece of luggage. Pierre-Emmanuel had been kind enough to allow some of Hart’s belongings from his Paris hotel to be returned—a few articles of clothing and his toiletries. His passport and computer were not amongst them.

  Inside the hotel, the men were greeted with a cheery, “Bonjour,” from the young receptionist, who led them up a marble flight of stairs to their adjoining rooms. She said they were the only guests for the first few nights of their stay because it was the low season. But their rooms were the best the hotel had to offer, overlooking the château on one side and the canal on the other.

  Hart was given the room that overlooked the château, because, he figured, that room had large, expansive windows but no balcony to escape from, or was it to not let anyone climb through? Hart’s apartment was spacious, comprising of a bedroom and a separate sitting room with a couch and flat-screen TV, compared to the previous French government hospitality. Lucas checked the room over, looking at the windows and peering down at the two-story drop.

  “This will work,” Lucas said as he continued combing Hart’s room.

  “It’s great. How long do you think—?”

  Lucas put up his hands and shook his head. “I don’t know these things, so don’t ask. But if you want to leave the hotel, ask. If you want food or need to buy something, ask. Otherwise, don’t bother, because we don’t have the answers.”

  Silence filled the room as the appeal of house arrest suddenly seemed to wear off, seemingly for everyone.

  There was a light tap on the door, then several seconds’ later two more, followed by a forceful third. Hart rose from his couch and opened the door to find Lucas and Antoine in the hallway.

  “You have a visitor downstairs in the dining room,” Antoine said with a smile, while Lucas scowled.

  Hart was escorted down the marble stairs and through the foyer. He had been at the hotel for five days, and outside of Lucas and Antoine allowing him a few walks along the canal towards beaches facing the continent, he hadn’t eaten or done much. The island was a tourist destination during summer, but during winter it slowed down considerably. There was CNN International to watch on the TV, but there were no longer the constant updates about the investigation into the London attack; the news cycle had moved on. He had anxiously watched the news to learn about Igor and Renard and the mayhem he left behind in Paris, but it was never mentioned.

  Hart didn’t know who he expected to see, but when he turned the corner and saw Stephen Palmer, his heart sunk. Palmer sat in the corner of the empty dining room, close to the windows overlooking the covered pool. He stood to greet Hart with a firm handshake and a soft pat on the shoulder. The same receptionist who showed Hart to his room the first day brought over another cup for the silver pitcher of coffee that sat on the table. Palmer waved at Lucas and Antoine, who took a table several yards away.

  “How are you holding up?” Palmer asked, sipping his coffee, his glasses fogging from the steam. He wore a dark-brown turtleneck and a gruff face.

  Hart shrugged and said nothing. Palmer paused for a moment, pulled out his leather portfolio, and looked out to the covered pool. The sky was gray, thick clouds covered the island, and a chilly sea breeze whisked leaves around the courtyard. Palmer licked his fingers and flipped a few pages over as he looked for some specific note.

  “Ah, here we are.” Palmer tilted the portfolio away from Hart and placed it on his lap, reading intently.

  Hart poured himself coffee and scratched his week-old beard. Patient—or perhaps indifferent—he waited for his visitor to speak. Finally, Palmer sat upright, closed the notebook, and leaned forward, glancing over Hart’s shoulder at his chaperones.

  “I’m glad we’ve gotten to speak where there’s more privacy than Paris. I am sorry you’ve been dragged into this.”

  “Into what exactly?” Hart asked.

  “There have been concerns with regards to Renard’s companies for quite a while, to be frank. A source told us a little over a year ago that DGSI had stumbled across someone in the organization being mischievous, and an undercover investigation was launched into the practices of the company, along with anyone doing business with them.”

  Hart shook his head. “I assume this is standard stuff for, what did you call yourself? An embassy delegate?”

  Palmer smiled and spread out his hands. “Unfortunately, while I can’t get much into specifics, know that you were never seriously considered a suspect by the United States with regard to any of these allegations of money laundering or tax evasion. I even talked our friend Pierre-Emmanuel into letting us help with the investigation. We talked to your boss, Hutchens. The guy is scared shitless, let me tell you.” Palmer laughed and took a bite of a croissant, the flaky pastry getting stuck in his beard. “He broke like a leaky dam when agents started questioning him. Said he sent you because he thought it was a meaningless trip, and he didn’t like having you in the office. Something about screwing his daughte
r’s life up, and Renard asked him for a yes-man. Hutchens said he was promised money if Renard was appeased by the associate he was sent. So, Hutchens thought to feed you to the wolves. I don’t think that speaks well about your career prospects. But apparently he is eager to work out a monetary settlement for your troubles.”

  Palmer shrugged and took another sip of coffee before continuing. Hart cast a glance at Lucas and Antoine, who were drinking some orange juice and reading the newspaper.

  “But anyway, as far as the United States is concerned, and our good friend and ally France, you are no longer considered a subject of interest for illicit monetary transactions.”

  Hart felt his spirits rise, but it seemed too good to be true. He waited for the bad news.

  Palmer winced before adding, “But the relationship you had with the agent has complicated—”

  “Her name is Clara.”

  Palmer huffed. “Yes, Clara.” He cleared his throat. “Has complicated things, because now there’s motive to some of the crimes, namely Maxim’s death, and it seems plausible you both tried to cover things up. I am sorry to tell you, but this is just the way it is. The police are still investigating, looking at cameras from all over the neighborhood of the shooting, the hotel, and the car chase. Jesus, Paul, you’re a glorified accountant, not James Bond. What were you thinking? The French will not take your word alone. You’ll need Clara to either come to and back your story up, or you could think about pinning this on her.” Palmer shook his head, as if saddened by the thought. “The investigation will be thorough. For instance, the woman who helped you hide out and lent you her car isn’t saying anything until she speaks with Clara, I’m afraid to say, but who knows when that could or would even be? They haven’t charged”—Palmer opened his notebook and scanned the page—“a Justine Bruel yet with aiding and abetting, but it’s only a matter of time until they threaten or do that. You need to start thinking about making a deal. There’s a dead cop, and they’ll want blood, you have to understand that.”