“Please excuse me,” the minister said, bowing to Stanley, and followed the anxious young man out of the room.
“What happened?” Stanley asked Zaitsev.
“Oh, nothing! The US just kicked out another group of our diplomats,” he replied.
“Yes, I saw that on the morning news,” Biryuza said with a chuckle.
“Ah, apparently our minister doesn’t watch the news.”
“His television is broken!” said Biryuza, and all three broke into laughter.
“Okay, I think it’s time for us to get going,” Zaitsev said. All laughed out.
“Gala will be here for us in half an hour,” agreed Biryuza.
“Let’s go!”
Under the puzzled glances of the other diners, they headed toward the exit. Stanley turned back, picked his glass of juice up from the table, said, “Cheers!” loudly to the room at large, and drained it in one gulp.
Zaitsev walked Stanley and Biryuza to their car. Gala was at the wheel as before, but this time, Shamil sat next to her in the passenger seat, wearing narrow, mirrored sunglasses, a short haircut, and a week’s beard. His lips were compressed into a thin line, the traditional Russian shirt he was wearing, this one with a gold embroidered collar, was buttoned all the way up, and a holster was visible against the red-silk lining of his jacket.
Shamil jumped out of the car and opened the rear door. Alexey said his goodbyes as soon as he saw Shamil, quickly handing Stanley his business card as he left.
“You’re fucking late,” rasped Shamil.
“We were having lunch with the minister,” Biryuza replied.
“Don’t lie!” Shamil’s entire appearance and voice inspired terror; he didn’t even need to curse at you. He could have spoken in Old English, quoted Chaucer, and any rational person would still want to run or hide as soon as they saw him. “What the fuck would the minister want with you? Get in. Gagarin’s been expecting Anton for a while.”
Stanley wanted to put this thug in his place, but then just laughed and got into the back next to Biryuza. His tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth after the sweet juice.
He was going to ask Gala if she happened to have any cold water, but then he discovered a bottle of mineral water in the bar. He twisted the cap off and tossed it onto the floor. Shamil’s rudeness made him want to respond in kind. It’s too bad I’m not sick to my stomach, thought Stanley. I’d puke all over his expensive leather. He took a few sips and handed the bottle to Biryuza.
“Thank you,” murmured Biryuza.
Gala was less bold and independent with Shamil next to her. She didn’t turn on the quacking siren, but she did pull quickly away from the ministry and move over into the left lane. A Jeep escort followed her. They passed through the tunnel under Novy Arbat.
“That’s your consulate, Stanley. Did you know?” Shamil rasped, pointing out the building.
Stanley didn’t answer. He was studying the contents of the bar. There was another bottle of mineral water, an orange juice, and small bottles of vodka. Stanley took two out, kept the juice for himself, and gave Biryuza the mineral water. They twisted open their vodkas simultaneously, clinked the rims, and drank, chasing it with juice and water.
Gala had to go down Brestskaya and take the first right to get onto Tverskaya, which was empty, but they only managed to go about three hundred feet: the street was closed off by a row of closely parked police trucks. Gala hit the brakes. A police officer accompanied by two riot police approached the car.
“Road’s closed,” the first man said.
Shamil rolled down his window. “We’ve got a VIP, captain, a guest of the minister of foreign affairs. He’s going to the Four Seasons.”
“You can try from Volkhonka. No, it’s closed off everywhere. There’s unrest. I’d advise against it.”
“Okay, I’ll get there myself!” said Stanley, throwing open his door. “This way? Down this street? Bye-bye!”
And he walked quickly away from the car without looking back.
After a dozen steps Stanley found himself in a dense crowd, then was pulled along by the flow of foot traffic moving along the sidewalk.
They were mostly young people, many girls, some of whom were carrying rubber ducks on the ends of plastic sticks. Stanley guessed it was a symbol of the fight against corruption.
“A house for ducks!” he said to one of the girls, a pretty blonde. “Corruption is evil!”
“Are you an American?” she replied, smiling.
“Yep!” Stanley nodded.
They passed several side streets together, all of which, like the street they were on, were bordered by heavy trucks.
A group of grim-looking young people next to McKnight were carrying an enormous tape recorder, which was playing “Children of the Revolution.”
The T. Rex song was drowned out by the rotors of the helicopters flying low overhead.
When they reached the square with a statue of a famous Russian poet, they heard shouting ahead.
Police, in helmets with visors down and raised shields, were attacking the marchers. They cut through the crowd, and used their batons on those who were separated from the main group.
Marchers to the right and left of Stanley were roughly grabbed by other police officers without helmets and shields, and dragged to police buses parked along the boulevard. Two approached Stanley, but he pulled his American passport out of his pocket.
“I’m a diplomat!”
They exchanged glances, and then grabbed the girl with the duck. Stanley didn’t have time to think. He stuffed his passport back in his pocket, and whacked the nearest policeman across the head. The officer let the girl go, Stanley dodged his hands, and gave the other one a good kick. The second policeman released his hold on her as well, and now they were both coming after Stanley.
“Run!” he shouted to the girl, raising his hands to get into a fighting stance.
But he didn’t have a chance. The policeman rushing him got him with the baton across his back and then slammed his shield into Stanley’s face.
Stanley thought his nose might be broken. He could barely see through his tears.
Stanley threw his right hand forward, hitting something. But that “something” turned out to be a police helmet, and he heard his joints crunch against the metal. The second blow of the baton caught Stanley on the back of the head, and two other police officers got him into a stranglehold. He tried to twist out of their grip, but they pulled his arms back tighter, and more police rushed up to help drag him into the bus for detained marchers.
They literally threw him inside. It was a small, rickety bus with curtains over its windows, a dirty floor, torn upholstery on the seats, and an abrasive odor of chlorine permeating the interior. He hit his shoulder painfully on the chrome handrail as he fell in, and slammed his knee into the steps. The doors shut behind him.
Everyone inside had seen Stanley’s fight with the policemen and greeted him with shouts of praise and applause.
Stanley struggled to stand and looked around for an empty seat. He found one next to a tall, blue-eyed, fair-haired man in jeans and a colorful shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
“I’m Alexey,” said the man, offering Stanley a firm handshake. “You’re a hero. But what you did, that’s resisting the police. You hit two of them. There might be some serious trouble. If you don’t have a lawyer, our foundation can help you.”
“Alexey is the director of an anticorruption foundation,” explained another man with a neat black beard.
“Thanks, I’m represented by a firm from Zurich,” replied Stanley, “Raphael, Raphael und Raphael. One of the oldest firms in Europe. The first Raphael founded it back in the sixteenth century.” Stanley couldn’t shake his narcotic high.
“So you’re Swiss?” Alexey asked enthusiastically. “You’re with us?”
> “No, American,” said Stanley, examining his throbbing nose and the thick bump on the back of his head. “Do you need foreigners that badly?”
“No, I’m sure we’ll manage on our own. The main thing for you is not to do business with our corrupt officials.”
Stanley snorted.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to agree to disagree on that one—I am, actually.”
“So then why did you…”
“I don’t like watching girls get their arms broken. Or anyone else, for that matter. But I may have gone a little far.”
“Russia will be free!” Alexey said in a quiet voice, but everyone in the bus, which was already moving, making frequent turns, repeated after him:
“Russia will be free!”
“Who has the power?” the fair-haired leader shouted.
“We have the power!” the rest of the detainees responded.
“What do you do?” Alexey asked him.
“Private banking.” Stanley imagined the results if he were to tell the other passengers about the plan to send billions of dollars out of Russia via diplomatic mail. The idea was so funny that he forgot all about his nose, his head, and his bruised knee.
“What’s funny?” asked Alexey. “You don’t believe that Russia will be free?”
“The thing is,” Stanley began, settling into his seat, “freedom is a constant value. It’s just the number of people who have access to it that changes. In Russia, the US, Burkina Faso, even the Hebrides, wherever the hell they are. The measurement of freedom is the same. Not many people have freedom in Russia at the moment, and I doubt something will change to dramatically increase the number that possess it. Maybe there’s not enough freedom for everyone, and I’m afraid that may only get worse.”
“I don’t agree with you!” Alexey was close to outrage. “And I’m prepared to argue that—”
But he didn’t have the chance. The bus stopped at a police station, the doors opened, and they were ordered to get out.
“Where are we?” Stanley asked Alexey in a whisper.
“The Basmanny District police station. They usually bring protesters here. If they have room. They can take you anywhere, as far up as Khoroshevo-Mnevniki.”
Stanley pulled out his smartphone, and Biryuza answered his call right away. Stanley told him that he would be in a common cell with the rest of the temporary detainees, and told him the name of the police station.
“Stop messing around, Stanley!” Biryuza exclaimed, taking it for a joke. “Are you still high or something? Do you want more coke? I’ll have it sent over!”
“I’m going to get some more cops in a minute,” said Stanley. “I got into a fight with them. I might…”
The duty officer saw Stanley talking on the phone.
“Put that one in a separate cell!” he ordered. “Resisting arrest, violence against law enforcement officers. You’re doing time for this!” and the officer told him to surrender his phone.
Stanley complied without any resistance. He was led down a hallway and locked in a narrow, high-ceilinged cell. Stanley lowered himself onto the hard boards of the trestle bed, then lay down, and closed his eyes.
The world spun continuously, and he was desperately thirsty. On top of everything else, the pain in the hand he’d smashed into the policeman’s helmet grew worse by the minute.
Stanley thought that this was an excellent chance for Biryuza, who didn’t like him very much, and thought he was too soft for serious business, to get rid of Stanley for good. All he’d have to do is wait for them to type up their report—policemen work the same all over the world—and at that point, it would be very difficult to undo.
But Biryuza didn’t use his chance. No more than fifteen minutes later, the door to his cell opened wide. A police colonel stood on the threshold, holding Stanley’s smartphone, an ingratiating smile on his face.
“Mr. McKnight!” said the colonel. “There has been a terrible mistake! A misunderstanding. Please accept our deepest apologies. You’re free to go. Officers will take you to your hotel. I hope you don’t have any complaints.”
“No, no,” Stanley said, standing. “Not at all! On the contrary, I’m happy to pass on my recommendation of your department as an example of courteous and proper police officers.”
The colonel’s smile turned sour.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “We’ll get along, somehow, on our own, without recommendations.”
“As you say!”
Stanley got his smartphone back, and when he passed the bars of the common cell, he saw Alexey again. The other man waved to him, and the rest of the detainees joined in.
“Come again!” said Alexey. “You may not believe it, but soon all the crooks and thieves in Russia will end up in jail. Not us, but them!”
“I believe it!” Stanley waved goodbye and thought that he could give this activist, right here in this police station, the names of several crooks that would take his breath away. “I’m sure of it!”
He walked out of the police station and lit a cigarette. A police car was parked in front of him, its lights flashing. He got in, the car switched into drive, the gates opened, and the car drove onto the street. On that side of the gate, he saw a shiny Gelendvagen SUV. Shamil was sitting next to the driver, and saluted Stanley when their gazes met.
Chapter 27
McKnight didn’t realize just how tired he was until he reached his room.
When he walked in he kicked off his shoes, threw his jacket onto the banquette, and unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt. He opened the minibar in the living room.
The first thing he saw was a small bottle of Russian vodka. Stanley unscrewed the top and sniffed the contents, but his broken, cocaine-ravaged nose failed to distinguish any scents.
He tossed a couple cubes of ice into a glass, poured three fingers of vodka, shook the ice around, and took a healthy sip.
Blood from his split lip dripped into the glass while he drank. Stanley twirled the glass in the light, watching the blood mix slowly with the vodka. “Not bad. A real Bloody Mary.”
Just then, he sensed the presence of someone else in his room. He looked around and picked up a tall, heavy vase by the neck, dumping out a whimsical bouquet of wildflowers.
Walking quietly, Stanley moved toward the bedroom, but something stopped him. It was the sound of running water from the bathroom.
Was he in the wrong room? Had someone broken in here to take a shower? Stanley had heard of hot water being turned off in Moscow for infrastructure repairs. Maybe they were doing that in expensive hotels now too?
After the day he’d had, nothing would surprise him, but it wouldn’t make sense for his room to have water, if another room didn’t.
He gripped the vase tighter, and pushed the bathroom door open. In the white tub with clawed lion’s paws for feet, a woman sat in a mound of bubbles.
A beautiful woman. Her hair was gathered into a bun, and she held a wine glass in one hand, a long, thin cigarette in the other.
“Don’t just stand there staring, Stanley!” the woman said, taking a sip of wine. “I’ve been waiting an hour for someone to come and give me a towel. Yes, it’s me, your wife, Christine.”
Stanley couldn’t believe his own eyes. Was this still an effect of the drugs, from the blow to the head he’d taken? Christine? Here? How?
Christine seemed to read his mind.
“I got a check from you. You’re so old-fashioned. A check! But it was a bit larger than the previous one. So, you’re moving up in the world. I called you at the bank to thank you, but your secretary Barbara, she has such a raspy voice, said that you were on a business trip in Moscow. I bought a ticket and got a visa the same day with the help of your bank, and then I was on the plane.”
“That simple?”
“Well, yes, I am your wife,
if you recall? Hand me a towel!”
Stanley’s hands felt clumsy as he picked a towel from the top of the stack.
“That’s too little, my love. But it’ll do! I got a taxi, and they checked my passport at reception. They were hesitant at first. They were worried that I would make a scene if you brought some Russian hooker home. Were you planning on bringing a Russian hooker here? Admit it, Stan!”
Christine rose from the foam. Stanley had always found his wife’s figure amazing. How could she stay in such fantastic shape without ever going to the gym or doing any sports? Christine got out of the tub and came close to him, leaving a wet trail on the dark-blue floor.
“So, were you planning on bringing back a hooker, after all? Or are you involved in a serious affair with some Russia banker? I saw a beautiful Russian woman on the news, a member of parliament, with a slender neck and full lips.”
“No, I had no such plans.”
“Oh, Stan, you’ve always been such a nerd! ‘I had no such plans.’” Christine mimicked his voice very well. “I wouldn’t have caused a scene. I would just have knocked her teeth out; that’s all.”
The towel’s knot loosened, and it slipped to the floor. His wife’s stiff pink nipples pressed into Stanley’s chest. Christine wrapped her arm around his neck, running her hands through his hair. Her other hand went to the zipper of his pants.
“What’s this on your head?”
“That’s from a police baton.”
“And is that what’s got you so turned on?” Christine kissed him, her tongue slipping into his mouth.
Stanley felt Christine’s hand reach its goal. He was full of desire.
“Stan! I need you!”
“Wait,” he said. “Let me take a shower, I got so sweaty today.”
“You’ve always been an idiot, Stan! There’s nothing a woman likes better than the smell of her man.”
Christine pulled down his underwear with his pants.
“Oh my! As if I’d let any Russian whores get their hands on this! Come here!”
The ringing phone woke him the next morning. The caller was tenacious. Stanley opened his eyes and looked around. He was in bed alone—the night before, Christine, her appearance in the bath, their night—it must all have been a dream.
The Banker Who Died Page 25