The Banker Who Died

by Matthew A Carter

  “And that’s her whole problem,” Lagrange went on. “Gagarin can’t satisfy this bitch, and then you turn up—don’t even try to tell me there’s nothing going on between you, I won’t believe you—but you don’t fuck her very often, and she’s started to drink more and more. When you get back from St. Petersburg, I’ll give you a couple days off, and you can go get Mila out of that clinic, fuck her right, and everything will be okay. You still there, Stanley?”

  The Swiss authorities would be happy to make a scapegoat out of him, Stanley thought. An American, an outsider who colluded with Russians. We Swiss are upright and honest. It’s those people who only care about money and don’t give a damn about reputation. So be it, thought Stanley.

  “Can you hear me, McKnight.?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. I’ll get someone to find a ticket for you from Madrid to St. Petersburg. And you think about that trip to Mila. Maybe it’s fate, eh?”

  “Could be,” said Stanley. “Goodbye, Lagrange!”

  “Bye, Stanley!”

  Stanley switched back to the other call. Christine appeared onscreen, now wearing nothing at all. She lay in the pose from Goya’s “Nude Maja.”

  “Beautiful, damn it, so beautiful!” said Stanley.

  “I knew you’d like it.” Christine covered her naked breasts. “This is even more seductive, no?”

  “Yes, much more! But I have very unpleasant news, love.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing much yet, but I’m flying to St. Petersburg instead of Zurich. If your visa’s still valid…”

  “It is!”

  “Then I’ll show you the white nights.”

  “The what? Did you watch an adult movie and come up with a new name for it?”

  “Ha ha. No, there really are white nights in the summer there, daytime at night. I’ve never seen it myself, but I’ve heard about it.”

  “I can’t wait to spend those nights with you!”

  “Me neither! I’ll see you soon, love you!”

  “Me too! Bye!”

  It only took him ten minutes to exchange his ticket to Zurich for one to St. Petersburg. Moreover, the girl working at the Helvetic counter was kind enough to take him over to her friend at Iberia, where it turned out that Stanley’s new flight was leaving Barajas a half hour earlier than the flight that he was supposed to take to Zurich. He would be arriving in St. Petersburg’s Pulkovo airport at 12:30 AM.

  “Have a good flight,” said the girl at the counter after checking Stanley in, shooting him a wide smile.

  The border guard at passport control smiled just as much, but he pressed a button under his table, anyway, and man in civilian clothes appeared, asking Stanley to follow him.

  They went through a door that the man opened with a combination and walked down a narrow corridor to another door. He pushed it open and ushered Stanley in. Dillon and Monti were sitting at the table.

  Dillon was looking at some papers, and he gave some to Monti, who put them in a folder.

  “Thank you, Garcia,” said Dillon, rising, and held out a hand to Stanley.

  “Please accept my condolences on the loss of your colleague.”

  “Thank you, but the best thing you could do for me would be to hurry—my plane is about to start boarding.”

  “You’ll make it,” said Marco, waving his hand. “We’re in touch with Helvetic. We can hold the flight.”

  “What the hell does Helvetic have to do with anything!” Stanley sat on the hard chair. “I’m flying on Iberia.”

  “On Iberia?” Marco whistled. “They changed your flight?”

  “And destination. On the way from Pamplona. I’m flying to Russia, St. Petersburg.”

  “What?” Dillon sat down. “We had an agreement! You have to get that flash drive in ASAP!”

  “My dear Frank,” Stanley said, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He glanced at the sign banning smoking in this room, then lit one. “When my boss, Pierre Lagrange, called and said that I had to take his place at the St. Petersburg Economic Forum, what was I supposed to do? Tell him I couldn’t go because I have instructions from the CIA to steal all of Laville & Cie’s information? He wouldn’t get it.”

  Marco opened his laptop.

  “Flight 383?” he asked.

  McKnight nodded.

  “Okay, you don’t have much time. We can’t hold Iberia.”

  “So,” began Dillon.

  “My plans changed on Lagrange’s orders,” McKnight interrupted. “And I don’t like it at all. Not because of your flash drive, but because he was speaking to me very strangely. As if he suspected something, or something happened that he doesn’t want to tell me about. And I got the feeling that he doesn’t want me in Zurich right now.”

  “Details, please,” said Dillon. “What was strange about it? And what do you think he might suspect? What might have happened?”

  “Anything could have happened, Frank! He could have left his girlfriend and be sleeping on the couch in his office, which is why he’s tired and out of sorts, or he could have learned about my contact with you. Maybe there’s trouble related to sanctions against our Russian clients. I don’t know, Frank! To be honest, I’m exhausted. The bulls, Bernard’s death, all this travel. And the insane amount of alcohol.” Stanley ground out his cigarette with his heel. “I’m sorry for making a mess, but there’s no ashtray, and I have to catch my plane.”

  “This is all very strange,” said Dillon. “As far as we know, Lagrange was supposed to speak at the forum. He has meetings planned. Did he tell you?”

  “No.”

  “And he didn’t promise to send you the text of his speeches? Ask you to give the talks in his place? Very strange. So what are you going to do there?”

  “Drink. And try to fight off the girls they’ll be throwing at me.”

  “Do you know that Gagarin’s wife Mila checked out of the clinic early, and is on her way to Russia?” asked Marco.

  “No, I didn’t. So I’ll be fighting her off as well. My wife will be coming tomorrow or the day after, though.”

  Dillon and Monti exchanged glances.

  “A visit from your wife there is suboptimal,” said Dillon. “Any chance you could cancel?”

  Stanley shook his head.

  “Okay, just be careful. Lagrange’s behavior lately has us worried. He’s been having some suspicious phone calls to a number in Cuba, using a protected line. Encoded. As soon as our specialists figure out the code, he or the person he’s talking to change the code.”

  “What was he talking about?” asked Stanley.

  “Very suspicious stuff—spicy sauce for chicken, based on red pepper, ginger, and certain herbs.”

  “Certain herbs?”

  “Our specialists worked it out. They use those herbs in Caribbean cooking. Why did they need a code?”

  Stanley felt a chill go down his spine. He thought he was close to the answer, why Lagrange was using protected lines and talking about herbs, but then he waved the thought, or the start of a thought, away. It was too unbelievable.

  “Maybe he’s planning to open a Caribbean restaurant in Zurich? There aren’t any yet.”

  “Really? Well, you know better. Okay…” Dillon slapped his hand on the table. “You have to go. You’ll be back in Zurich in a couple of days, get some sleep, and put that flash drive in a computer. Meanwhile, I’m going to ask you to stick as close to Lagrange as you can. Call him all the time, ask his advice on the most minor questions. Most of the Russia’s top leadership will probably be at the forum. So—here you go.”

  Dillon handed Stanley a package with several packs of cigarettes.

  “Please don’t tell me those are more bugs,” said Stanley. “I feel like an idiot with these bugs.”

  “They are, Stanley, but what’s the bi
g deal? Just do what you can. You see an important oligarch or official at the forum, shake his hand, give him a pat, and you’re good to go. Take them, Stanley, go on. This is part of our agreement.”

  “Go to hell, Frank!” Stanley said. But took the package anyway and left the room.

  Chapter 42

  Every seat was occupied in business class. Two tall blondes were raising their voices at a stewardess, who nodded along deferentially to their narrative.

  The blondes were demanding that their friend, who had by some accident ended up in economy, be moved up to business class. The stewardess replied that she would have to ask a current business-class passenger to give up his or her seat to make that happen, and she couldn’t do that. One of the blondes, scanning the cabin, met Stanley’s eyes before he could turn away.

  “Hey, mister,” she drawled. “Would you be a gentleman and switch places for us? We would be so grateful. We were on a shopping trip—do you know how hard it is for an honest girl to get a Kelly purse? We’re completely exhausted; our friend just won’t survive this entire flight in economy.”

  McKnight, listening carefully to her accent as she spoke, was certain she was Russian.

  “My sympathies, of course, I’m a regular at Hermès, myself,” replied Stanley in Russian. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to make peace with the current situation. I, for one, won’t be switching seats for you. Make peace with it, my child. Accept the strong hand of God.” And he made the sign of the cross over the blonde just as Father Vsevolod had to him.

  The astonished girl whispered something to her companion, and they both glanced warily back at McKnight before giving up their tirade and going back to their seats.

  The stewardess brought a flute of champagne over to Stanley.

  “Thank you, sir!” she said.

  “Not a problem! If you have any other Russian problems, don’t hesitate to call on me—that’s what I do for living.”

  “I certainly will, sir! Another glass?”

  “Absolutely.”

  After three glasses of champagne, Stanley fell into such a deep, sweet sleep that he had trouble waking up for lunch. He asked for a shot of vodka and then had five double bourbons after lunch. He was staggering a bit by the time he got off the plane.

  He got through customs and exited the green corridor to find a familiar face—Gala was waiting for him, dressed in slacks, a light jacket, and a white shirt.

  “Hello, Mr. McKnight! I was sent by—”

  “I’ll stop you there, Gala, I know who sent you.”

  “Excellent, then let’s go! They’re waiting for us.”

  McKnight waited until Gala was maneuvering out of the parking lot and onto the highway before asking,

  “They’re waiting in the office?”

  “Of course!”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gala, my dear. I’m completely worn out. I can barely keep my eyes open. There’s no way I can do any business right now. Can you help me?”

  Gala examined Stanley’s face carefully in the rearview mirror.

  “Yeah, you look like crap. Okay, I’ll try…Shamil!” She pressed a button on the dashboard to call her boss, and a blue light went on in the headphone over her elegant ear. “Yes, I picked him up, but he’s not doing so good. Hm? No, he seems sober, but he said his blood pressure is high, and he looks pale and sweaty. The doctor? I suggested it, but he just wants to go to bed. To sleep, what do you think? Of course…you’ll tell the boss? Okay, I’ll wait!”

  Gala put the conversation on hold.

  “He’s gone to tell Gagarin. It’s a good idea, really—Viktor’s been drinking since the flight back from Spain. You had a terrible time there, didn’t you? They said that young guy gored by the bulls was the one who came with you to Moscow?”

  “That’s right, Gala. He passed away.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible! That’s how it always is with bulls, the weak…”

  But Stanley never got the chance to hear how it always was; they lost the thread of that conversation when Shamil came back to tell them that Viktor had agreed to move their meeting to the next morning. Gala promised to pick him up beforehand.

  The car flew down Mitrofanevskoye Highway, and Gala turned at the Baltic Gardens to cross the Obvodny Canal, then down Izmailovskoye Avenue to cross the Fontanka. She described the sights of the city to Stanley as they went along, and Stanley fought his drowsiness to watch St. Petersburg at night pass by his window. The city looked enormous, gloomy, full of mystery and danger.

  They drove down Voznesensky Avenue and through the square where St. Isaac’s Cathedral stood before pulling up to the hotel.

  “This is one of the best hotels in the city,” Gala told him. “Get a good night’s sleep, and then you have to try Cococo for breakfast. The owner is a country girl named Elena, who goes by Brunhilde now. She’s the girlfriend of a local rock star, and she’s big on the scene here.”

  “Thank you, Gala,” said McKnight as he got out. “I’ll definitely stop in.”

  One porter was already carrying his bag over to the glass doors, and another closed the door of the Mercedes behind him.

  Stanley took a deep breath. The air was humid and full of the scents of the old city, car exhaust, and the smell of either algae or rotting trash on the breeze from the gulf.

  “Mr. McKnight? Thank you for choosing our hotel! Here’s your card. Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all?”

  “I’d like to have a whole night of dreamless sleep,” said McKnight, picking up his key card from the counter and sticking his passport in his pocket.

  “We can guarantee you that, sir!”

  But despite the clerk’s assurances, McKnight slept restlessly.

  He dreamed that the two blondes from the plane were chasing him through St. Petersburg’s narrow streets, dressed in little black dresses and Louboutin shoes. Even in high heels, they were faster than Stanley, who was moving as though underwater. Sometimes he managed to pull a little ahead, but then the clack of their heels on the pavement would grow louder, and the furious girls would be right behind him again, reaching out to snatch him and tear him to pieces.

  People were throwing dishwater and trash out of the windows above him, and Stanley just managed to dodge. Then he ended up in a small square with a fountain and gulped down the rusty, hydrogen sulfide-scented water, and got into an old, bright-red Volvo. But he hadn’t lost the blondes—now they were behind him on a mountain road in a white car, revving its engine constantly, not overtaking him, but maintaining the same distance behind him.

  Swerving wildly, he flew into the wall bordering the road. The hood of his car crumpled, and white steam poured out of it as he was thrown forward through the windscreen. He opened his eyes; it was morning.

  He ate breakfast: a cup of chicken broth, which the waiter assured him would be an excellent hangover cure, an omelet, and coffee.

  McKnight had just returned to his room and was thinking about lying down again for a nap when Gala called. He sighed and pulled his jacket back on. “I’ll be right down!”

  Gagarin, his face pale and haggard, was seated at an enormous desk populated only with a closed laptop, pack of cigarettes, telephone, lighter, and an overflowing ashtray, despite the early hour.

  His eyes were half closed, and he was slowly massaging his temples when Stanley entered. Biryuza sat in a chair by the wall, searching for something on his phone.

  “Ah, McKnight! It’s been a long time!” Gagarin said, without looking up. “We were expecting Lagrange, actually. He’s on the list of presenters. He’s even supposed to take part in some talks with our bankers from VTB and Sberbank. Did you rearrange everything over there in Zurich? Are you going to present, then?”

  “No, Viktor, I’m not planning on presenting,” said McKnight, nodding to Biry
uza and sitting down across from Gagarin. “I’m not the best public speaker, to tell the truth. Maybe if Pierre had sent me with some notes for his presentations, but as it is…”

  “Yeah, screw this economic forum, anyway.” Gagarin emptied the ashtray into the trash bin and lit a fresh cigarette. “We wanted to discuss something with your boss, but I think you’ll be able to answer our questions better.” Gagarin took a deep drag on his cigarette, paused, then let out a stream of smoke toward Stanley. “Are you after his job, by the way?”

  “Not just now, no. Lagrange isn’t planning on retiring anytime soon.”

  “Sorry to be so blunt. How are you settled in? Hotel okay?”

  “Yes, I slept well, thanks.”

  “Well, that’s the most important thing. So you’re not gunning for your boss’s job? You should be! You should always be striving to move up. There’s nothing sweeter than maneuvering your boss out of a job. I’ve done it a couple times in my life, and it’s a pure delight. And satisfaction. So here’s the thing…”

  “The Americans, that is, you,” put in Biryuza, “are going to put Viktor on the sanctions list.”

  “You see what’s going on here, McKnight? Well, not here, but there. Sanctions! Fuck them! Fuck their sanctions! Did you hear about this shit?”

  Stanley nodded.

  “Of course, you have! And those fucking Swiss bastards have opened a money-laundering investigation against me.”

  “And we got a summons from the UK,” Biryuza interrupted. “They’re asking Viktor to come in for questioning about our latest real estate acquisitions in London. And not just there. Viktor thinks…”

  “Shut your mouth, Biryuza!” barked Gagarin. “I’ll say what I think, what I want, and what I’m worried about!”

  “Sorry, boss, I just wanted to update the banker,” said Biryuza, so startled by his boss’s outburst that he almost dropped his phone.

  “I know what you wanted,” Gagarin said, switching instantaneously from rage to magnanimity. “But let me speak for myself…ok, forget about the details. The main thing is that they’ve started to roll the barrel on me!”