“Scared, McKnight?” Lagrange asked, eyes alight.
“Is that real or fake?”
“Real, of course. Everything in Russia is real!” Lagrange bumped into Stanley with his shoulder, nudging him closer to the chest. “That’s the skull of a banker from UBS who sold Gagarin an unprofitable structured note. Do a bad job, and your skull will end up next to his!” Lagrange gave a loud, guffawing laugh.
Stanley failed to appreciate the joke. He continued to stare at the skull, fascinated, and it seemed to him that the empty eye sockets were drawing him in.
“That, my dear friends, is a skull. The skull of a hero,” a hoarse voice said from behind Lagrange and McKnight.
Stanley jumped and turned to see a short, stocky man with a mobile, intelligent face and mocking blue eyes. He looked to be about fifty and was wearing a gray suit over a black turtleneck.
It was a mystery where the master of the house had appeared from. He came right up to them for a handshake, watching their faces intently all the while. He offered his hand to Stanley first, and looked inquiringly at Lagrange. Stanley saw the fine lines at the corners of his elongated, impenetrable eyes.
“Viktor, this is Stanley McKnight, who I’ve told you about. Stanley, this is Viktor Gagarin, our favorite and most valued client,” said Lagrange.
“And the owner of this over here,” said Gagarin, still gripping Stanley’s hand as he picked up the skull to examine it.
“It came to me by chance. I’m not an adventurer or a treasure hunter,” Gagarin said with a slight lisp in heavily accented English. “Have a seat. We’ll have drinks.”
As Stanley and Pierre sat down in the armchairs, the bookshelf behind their backs soundlessly rotated to reveal a bar on the other side.
“Anton, please help our guests,” Gagarin said, explaining, “We do without servants here. Security first. Here, we can do our work, completely cut off from the world.” He gestured at the high ceiling, and Stanley saw where three fingers were missing on his right hand.
“So who does the vacuuming and changes out the flowers?” asked Pierre. “You do it as your daily workout?”
“Well, and why not? We have a schedule. Today, it’s Anton, tomorrow Shamil, and the day after that, me. That kind of work helps put your thoughts in order. And it saves money!”
Gagarin spoke quickly, occasionally switching into Russian, forcing Stanley to focus closely on his words. It was also impossible to tell whether Gagarin was joking or serious.
“Cutting costs is key.” Gagarin went on. “I remember one night in 1985, walking outside after another unlucky card game—we were playing in an apartment in Moscow, right by the central telegraph office—and finding one ruble in my pocket. It was a coin with Lenin’s face, what we called a lobanchik at the time, and I was planning to take it to the only all-night café in Moscow open at that time of night, mostly a hangout for taxi drivers. But I decided to save money on the meal and went back to the card table with my solitary ruble, and I took them for all they were worth!”
Gagarin looked at them proudly and chuckled to himself.
“You were talking about the skull…,” began Stanley, still dying of curiosity.
“Oh yes, the skull! This is the skull of a Civil War hero. Vasily Chapayev. A Red Army commander! Have you heard of him? No? There’s even a movie about him. A famous Soviet film, directed by the Vasilyev brothers.”
“What will you have, gentlemen?” asked Biryuza.
“I’ll have a whiskey,” said Lagrange, pointing to a Macallan Lalique crystal decanter on the bar.
“Scottish whiskey is old news!” Gagarin declared. “We’re going to put Scotland out of business soon! We should be in first place for liquor production. Anton, pour us all Zvenigorod! Russian whiskey. Aged fifteen years. I’m the only who has it, everyone else has ten years maximum.”
“Really?” Lagrange said doubtfully. “Is there such a thing as Russian whiskey?”
“Twenty years ago, one Russian investment banker decided to set up a business. Now his business is my business, and he’s in jail, but that’s beside the point.” Gagarin smiled dreamily as if remembering something pleasant. “Anyway, he decided to follow the path of the Japanese Suntory whiskey. He gave up his career as a banker, built a distillery here, near Moscow, in a mystical place—it’s like the Switzerland of the Moscow region, it’s surrounded by churches and monasteries, and the water is pristine, excellent conditions for producing whiskey. Ah, thank you, Anton!”
Gagarin raised his glass.
“To your health!”
Stanley clinked his glass against Gagarin’s and, with some trepidation, raised his for a sip. The Russian whiskey was tart, with a distinct taste of vanilla and fruity notes. It made him want to suck his tongue to prolong the pleasure. Stanley immediately tipped his glass for another, deeper mouthful.
“Not bad!” said Lagrange. “Not bad at all! Would you give us a bottle or two, Viktor?”
“Anton, pack up a case of Zvenigorod for our friend Lagrange,” said Gagarin.
Lagrange took out a pack of Gitanes and offered them around. Gagarin declined, taking out a pack of unfiltered Rodina cigarettes from his breast pocket.
“After these, every other cigarette tastes weak,” said Gagarin. He turned and spat through his teeth, right at the marble pedestal holding the skull.
“Now, what was I saying?” Gagarin took a deep drag and exhaled a stream of foul-smelling smoke upward. “Right, everyone still thinks that Chapayev was shot in the stomach by monarchists in 1919 and that he drowned in the Ural River. But that’s not how it happened! Not at all! Red Army soldiers fished his body out and informed Stalin, who was the commissar there, and Stalin had the body of the hero transported to Moscow. But it was very hot, and the body began to decompose, so they removed the head, but even that was too far gone for burial by the Kremlin’s walls, and Stalin forbade burning it, so KGB decided to preserve the skull in a museum. Long story short, I ended up with the skull. I’ve had it since the nineties. You could get anything from the archives then if you had a couple thousand bucks. And I liked the skull. Anton! Show our guests the slice of brain!”
Stanley, who had been listening to Gagarin’s story in amazement, thought for a second that the ever-loyal Biryuza was about to show them a slice of his own brain, but it turned out to be a much simpler affair.
Anton opened a drawer and pulled out two small pieces of glass, with an object pressed between them; it resembled a piece of paper, grayish, with curving white lines.
“The brain!” Gagarin held up the glass, inserted into a sturdy steel frame. “This is a slice of Lenin’s brain. Yes, the very same founder of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. The greatest of men, and the greatest of syphilitics.” Gagarin chuckled nervously again. “I got it from the Soviet Brain Institute. Do you remember how much it cost us, Anton?”
“It was a gift,” said Biryuza with a smile.
“Of course! A gift! From the Minister of Culture on my birthday. In thanks for my support of the Bolshoi Theater…what was I talking about? Oh yes: Lenin’s brain has mystical powers. It’s a scientific fact. Hitler, when he occupied Moscow during the war…”
Stanley flinched and glanced over at Lagrange, who was listening to Gagarin with his eyes half closed, sipping his whiskey, unperturbed.
“…the first thing he did was order them to find Lenin’s brain,” Gagarin went on. “Hitler was sure that all the power of Russia was contained in Lenin’s brain. He didn’t know that it was sent out of Moscow at the start of October in 1941 under the guard of a special division of the NKVD, beyond the Urals to a hiding place in secret salt caves. Hitler was a syphilitic too, you know. But while Lenin got the disease in a Zurich bordello, Hitler got it at about the same time from a Jewish prostitute in Vienna. Syphilis changes a person’s outlook. It brings those cannibals, Lenin and Hitler, c
loser, and explains their bloodlust. You see? After they invented antibiotics, those kinds of maniacs didn’t come to power—”
“And what’s that old rifle hanging to the right of the bar?” Lagrange waved his glass of whiskey toward the wall.
“That is a Carcano Model 91/38 rifle, 6.5 mm caliber. One of three. Just don’t ask me where I got it from.”
“But what’s so odd about this rifle?” asked the perplexed Lagrange.
“Don’t talk about it with an American in the room.” Gagarin tossed the rest of his whiskey back and exclaimed, “Hoo! Excellent! By the way, I have a decent collection of rare books. Come take a look.”
They all got up and followed Gagarin to one of the large bookcases. The spines of expensive-looking books were visible behind matte glass doors. Stanley saw a book that he had studied at Berkeley, Daily Life of the Western Wall by Savvaty Sharkunov.
“Anton!” Gagarin commanded, and Biryuza opened the glass door.
Gagarin pulled on white cotton gloves and selected a large folio. “This is the rarest of the collection, a Torah, the Bologna Pentateuch, including incunabula, from the end of the fifteenth century.”
“It probably cost a fortune?” Lagrange asked, shaking his head.
“My mother said that everything you can buy for money is already cheap. This Torah cost me a case of cognac. A bribe, of course.” Gagarin spread out his hands apologetically. “From the state archives as well. They had no place to keep such books, you see. The damp, the rot. I signed a pledge to treat it with care, gave the cognac to a certain staff member, and now the book is mine. Why do they need the Torah in their archives? I, meanwhile, read it sometimes when I have a free moment.”
“You read Hebrew?” Stanley asked.
“I studied it for just this type of thing,” Gagarin said casually and tossed back another glass of whiskey.
Gagarin took a breath and looked at his guests. It was clear that he was prepared to go on talking. Stanley glanced at Lagrange again; his boss was in an excellent mood after his second Zvenigorod and looked as though he could happily go on listening to their client.
Gagarin’s mood, however, shifted suddenly. He put the folio back in place and began in a calm, businesslike manner, “I have a suggestion. Let’s discuss one matter here, have another drink or two, and get to know each other. Otherwise, it’s just me talking. You’re already tired of listening to me.”
“Oh no, Viktor, of course, we’re not!” protested Lagrange. “Not at all!”
“Of course, you are,” Gagarin continued. “And I don’t want to be a bore. So let’s talk, and then I’ll invite you to my home. My wife is having a party for Russian Independence Day.”
Lagrange and McKnight spent the next half hour discussing Gagarin’s plan to buy his new mega-yacht. Laville & Cie wanted to conduct this deal, and provide the loan, and the main issues were keeping the purchaser—i.e. Gagarin—anonymous, and the corresponding legal formalities and details.
It fell to Stanley to explain their plan for minimizing taxes. And it was here that his lack of fluency in Russian began to bother him. Several times, Gagarin couldn’t hide a smile at Stanley’s clumsy phrasing, which he initially found quite irritating, as he could have had a laugh or two at some of the oligarch’s peculiarities of speech in English. But when Gagarin apologized sincerely and tactfully for laughing, he actually began to develop a liking for this unusual person.
From the outside, Gagarin seemed like a devil of demagogy and casuistry. But a completely different man sat before him now, discussing a business matter. Intelligent, and also somehow comfortable to be around, ordinary. As if they had stopped in to see a friend just for fun, to have a couple of drinks and talk about nothing.
It had been a long time since someone had been so happy to listen to Stanley. But their conversation ended as abruptly as it had begun. Biryuza, who had stood like an immobile shadow behind his boss this whole time, shuddered as if chilled by a draft, and lifted his wrist to check his watch. It must have been an understood signal between them; when Gagarin saw the motion over his shoulder and the shadow of the arm before him, he interrupted Stanley’s enthusiastic speech midsentence with a gentle motion of his hand.
“Sorry, McKnight! But I’ve got the main idea. I like you. We’ll work with you. But not today. Now it’s time to have some fun. You haven’t forgotten the party? Pierre, na pososhok? Pierre!”
Lagrange had gone into a state of deep relaxation in the comfortable chair, and was nearly sleeping with his eyes open. He startled, hearing his name, and addressed Gagarin, pointing at McKnight.
“This one, Viktor, is going to buy and sell both of us. But I hope I don’t live to see that day.” He raised his eyebrows. “What’s that Russian expression you’re using?”
“One for the road,” Stanley translated.
He hoped that his voice didn’t betray his frustration that Gagarin hadn’t let him explain his financing plan all the way through.
While they exchanged pleasantries and toasts, Biryuza was giving orders into his radio handset. They all went to the main hall a few minutes later, where Shamil waited with an entire team of security guards.
Gagarin underwent an instant transformation. Even his walk changed. He moved like ex-boxers and fighters do, rocking a bit from side to side, shoulders forward, arms held out from his body. And when he spoke, his voice was curt and hard.
“Shamil! Biryuza and Mr. McKnight are in your car. Monsieur Lagrange is with me.”
The G-wagen they put Stanley in pulled out onto Ostozhenka and blocked traffic, making way for the Mercedes, siren blaring, containing Gagarin and Lagrange. A second G-wagen pulled up in front of them and a little to the right, flipped on its sirens as well, and the convoy took off toward the Church of Christ the Savior, blue lights flashing.
Chapter 8
Stanley sat next to a guard in the back seat, and examined the large-bore, short automatic weapon the latter held upright. He knew a thing or two about guns; not because he was truly interested, but for the sake of being generally well-rounded. It was useful knowledge to have for conversations in serious company, particularly in Switzerland with its cult of weaponry. But he couldn’t determine the brand of this particular gun. It was clear that Gagarin’s guards had not only the last word in weapons but also tomorrow’s news as well.
The G-wagen was making sharp turns right and left, pressing the flow of traffic away from the Mercedes in which Gagarin rode. Stanley was getting tossed from side to side with the motion of the car, despite being belted in. But Shamil, who was behind the wheel, was clearly having a great time. When some hapless driver tried to amble into their path, Shamil hit the loudspeaker and growled out, “To the right!” Biryuza grinned in appreciation.
When the convoy sped onto Bolshoy Kamneny Bridge, leaving the worst of the traffic behind them to wait for a green light, Biryuza pressed some buttons on the panel in front of him. A harsh guitar riff rang through the speakers, followed by a heavy drumbeat. Next came the bass, sometimes overpowering the guitar, sometimes fading to the background. Keyboards backed up the guitar, and on a powerful sonic wave over them, Stanley heard the singer’s voice, high but stressed, cracking. He had a vague recollection of this voice from his time at Moscow University, singing something about blood on a sleeve.
“Wish me luck in battle!” Biryuza sang along in a thin voice against the beat and melody.
“Who’s that singing?” asked Stanley. “I know that voice.”
“That’s the Soviet rock group, Garin and the Hyperboloids.”
“I didn’t know that the USSR had rock music,” Stanley said. “He’s a good singer; did he die a long time ago?”
“He’s alive! He lives.” Biryuza turned toward him and said in a tone of sudden malice, “You’re the one who’s already dead.”
“Leave our American guest alone,” Shamil said a
nd laughed, giving Stanley a wink in the rearview mirror.
Stanley shrugged and turned his gaze out the window. He didn’t understand what the haughty Biryuza was talking about, and decided not to pay him any mind.
From Lenin Avenue, their motorcade turned on Kosygin. To the right, Luzhniki Stadium rose past the Sparrow Hills and the Moscow River. The cars slowed down and took a sharp left off the road under a barrier gate. The Mercedes in front of them flashed its rear lights. Then they went through yet another barrier gate, this one with a checkpoint booth, staffed by men in camouflage carrying automatic weapons. Shamil leaned out of the window and shouted something to them in an unfamiliar language. They greeted him, flashing a peace sign.
The first G-wagen had already passed through a larger gate beyond. McKnight saw the enormous iron gates and whistled in surprise. It bore a family coat of arms, also forged in iron, made of the interweaving initials of the owner.
“Are you imagining what those gates weigh!” said Shamil with a laugh, seeing Stanley’s expression in the rearview mirror.
Stanley wasn’t, because he was more struck by what he saw past those gates. The parking space in front of the house was filled with rare Italian and German cars from the ’60s and ’70s.
Stanley leaned toward Shamil and asked, “Do those all belong to your boss?”
“Of course not,” said Shamil in surprise. “He’s got all his cars in the garage. And he doesn’t like old cars. He likes the latest models. Ones that no one else has but him. And ones that other people get—he wants the next one. He calls Jeremy Clarkson right up, from Top Gear, you know the show about cars? You seen it?”
McKnight nodded.
“Clarkson gives Gagarin advice on what new Ferrari models to buy, and our boss sends him the best Russian models to show his gratitude. Our international cultural exchange.”
After driving past the rows of parked cars, the G-wagen braked by the porch of a palatial three-story building, parking right behind the Mercedes, from which Gagarin and Lagrange had already emerged. Two young women were approaching, dressed in light cover-ups and straw hats and carrying glasses of champagne. But Stanley didn’t have the chance to get a good look at them, because they had already entered the house with Gagarin and Lagrange by the time he was out of the car.
The Banker Who Died Page 7