The Banker's Dilemma: She promised him Paris in the spring

by Roman Klee

  Maybe this guy was right, but Nathan couldn’t help looking at his watch. If he didn’t get some useful information for Cunningham soon, then he wasn’t sure his elevation to partner at the Trust would last much longer. But somehow it seemed more than just rude to bombard the Guru with an endless stream of questions.

  “There is no need to force time, no need to speed the hands of a ticking clock.”

  Oh but there was! Nathan had hired the helicopter for only two hours and the meter was running down fast.

  “In a world searching for answers, we forget that all we need do is remember.”

  Yeah buddy, got to remember the way out of here.

  “Recall, our greatest fear is religion and our greatest consolation death.”

  It was exactly the kind of answer Nathan did not need. What the hell was this holy guy, the enlightened one, talking about?

  “I regret Mr. DeAngelis, I cannot answer your questions today. You came in a modern day flying machine. Your journey took only minutes. But had you walked and slept and eaten along the way, your journey would have lasted two days.”

  Maybe, but that’s time I can’t afford to waste.

  “Remove your shoes and feel the earth beneath your feet. Beware the scorpion’s sting, the crouching tiger and the king cobra with its slithering coils. Sleep on a hanging bed made of coconut leaves and look up at the forest canopy. Observe the fire ant. Forage for berries and go in search of fresh water. Starve yourself of nourishment the rest of the way. Bathe under the waterfall of the Khiri Phet river, lie naked on the stone turtle at the water’s edge and dry your body in the heat of the sun.”

  Nathan had given up expecting an answer to his questions and simply feigned interest.

  “Do all these things, complete the journey and you will be ready to see me again.”

  Finally Nathan sensed his session was coming to an end.

  “Then you can ask every question you desire and I will reply with … silence. For the answer will fall like a ripe mango into the hands of the student who appears asleep but is always alert.”

  Nathan was now convinced he was talking to some kind of madman who enjoyed smoking the contents of a crack pipe.

  “When the day comes to settle old scores, many who have fallen will be restored. And many shall fall who now are held in high esteem.”

  The meeting was over and one of the Great Guru’s disciples appeared from behind a painted silk screen. He led Nathan away from the main hut and back along a smooth pebble path to a clearing where the helicopter was starting up its rotor blades.

  On his way out, Nathan noticed a neat row of Gucci shoes, and assumed they had been left for someone to clean and polish. But their iconic horsebit gold buckles looked weirdly out of place. That was until Nathan realized he was not in some New Age hippie retreat, where people went to lose touch with the material world through a haze of dope, communal singing and hand holding around the camp fire.

  This retreat was the total opposite.

  It was where people with money came to rid themselves of their addictions to drugs, alcohol and sex. If Nathan had stayed a few more hours, there was a good chance he would meet a couple of his former Wall Street colleagues.

  He left Koh Chang, sure about only one thing—he had not found Liz. She was either still on the island and didn’t want to see him or she had left a long time ago.

  Δ = T –27,781,200

  Nathan lay in the sunken marble bathtub of his Shangri-La hotel suite. It had been a hard day. He just wanted to relax and get some sleep before taking the plane back home. After his private jet experience to Zürich, Nathan was preparing himself for the harsh reality of a commercial service, with the first flight due to depart at half-past six the next morning.

  He thought about the phone call with Cunningham, which had gone much better than Nathan anticipated.

  “I don’t know what you did out there, but we got an email from Liz two hours ago. Of course she’s worried and says she’ll meet us next week in New York. We should have a better handle on things from the Swiss search and rescue by then.”

  “Well, I’m pleased we got a result,” replied Nathan realizing there was no point in adding unnecessary details.

  “The message was sent from an internet café in downtown Bangkok. She must be in the area. Don’t bother making contact, we need you to follow up on another lead. I’ll tell you more when you get back to the office. Have a good flight.”

  Nathan decided not to dwell too much on recent events. In a strange way, somehow Liz had been contacted and within a few days they would know for sure which of Nathan’s three scenarios would turn out to be the right one.

  If he was placing a bet, it would be on the kidnapping. It had to be the most likely taking into account all the facts as he knew them. After all, how big a ransom could someone demand for the return of a multi-billionaire investor?

  Before going to bed, he checked his emails and was surprised to discover that he had been copied in to the reply Liz Wright had sent Cunningham. He opened it and the contents were just as his boss said. Except Nathan’s email also included a note that read: Meet me in the Pink Spot tonight, 1am. Liz.

  Nathan checked Liz’s name on the original email. To him at least, it looked like she had sent it. This was his chance, he would finally meet Budd Wright’s eldest daughter in person. He wasn’t sure what he would say, but perhaps he could persuade her to return with him to New York. What a surprise that would be for the partners. Maybe they’d give him a pay raise.

  According to the concierge at the hotel, the Pink Spot was near the Nana Plaza, not the best part of town and he advised caution: Stay away from scam artists.

  Cunningham had helpfully supplied Nathan with the most up to date photo of Liz the Trust could find. She had blond hair in the picture, so she should be easy to spot thought Nathan. But as he sat alone at one of the side tables closest the door, he saw no one who looked like her.

  Then a guy came over and introduced himself as Chet. He claimed to have some important news about Liz. They found a table at the back, ordered a couple of beers and then Chet did his best to reassure Nathan.

  “Liz wanted me to tell you she’s fine.”

  Nathan hoped for nothing less.

  “Sure she’s Wright’s daughter, but did you know she worked for Ted when she was younger?”

  “He told me she hung out with him during her gap year.”

  “That’s true. But not the whole story.”

  “When you say work, what do you mean?”

  “Take a guess … who owns the Scatola Nera?”

  Nathan hadn’t given the matter any thought. He shrugged.

  “The club is Ted’s baby; he calls it one of his diversification projects.”

  Chet required Nathan to do some of the work himself.

  He said no more and Nathan thought he’d learned enough for one evening.

  Nathan had a lot to think over as he settled into his business-class cubicle. Now he was a partner at the Trust, he was entitled to fly first class. But his appointment had been so fast, the Trust’s travel agents had not had time to update his status. And anyway, for Nathan it was not the most important thing on his mind.

  Still, it didn’t stop him wondering what delightful treats were about to be served up for the passengers at the front of the plane. In first, they had their own private cabin space, with sliding doors and in some cases even queen-size beds.

  They were offered vintage Cattier Clos du Moulin champagne in crystal glasses, he’d have to get by with a gassy non-vintage, in a plain glass flute. They ate freshly prepared à la carte meals, served on hand decorated porcelain. He had to make do with plain white china, a limited choice menu, pre-prepared food reheated in a microwave.

  And whatever they said, it all tasted the same.

  In first, they had access
to a library containing thousands of movies (plus the latest theatre releases) music and video games. He had to occupy himself with a few old stale movies he’d seen before and a first generation games console.

  The guys at the front of the plane could get a body massage, performed by a delightful Thai flight attendant—you didn’t get that in business and she didn’t even come with a JetSet card.

  Nathan recalled that whenever the senior partner of Solomon had to suffer the indignity of flying commercial, she always insisted on seat number A1, no matter which airline she was on.

  It was an odd request, to say the least, because it certainly didn’t come with a better view. Maybe Alva Grenelund preferred to be served first, so she could get down to work as quickly as possible once they ended the meal service.

  But at the front of the plane, they let you choose when you wanted to eat. And anyway, it was a well-known fact that Grenelund never ate airline food, drank only bottled water and never stopped working—even when asleep.

  According to one version of events, on a flight from JFK to London, BA made a mistake and gave Grenelund’s coveted seat to a pop star, who coincidentally was a client of Solomon’s wealth management division.

  In the middle of the first class lounge, Grenelund rang up BA’s chief executive and demanded they make a special plane available just for her, so she didn’t have to wait for the next scheduled flight.

  She threatened to never fly on the airline again and would ban all company employees from using it too, unless BA complied with her wishes. But she didn’t have to carry out her threats, because they did as she commanded.

  A flight attendant brought Nathan a glass of non-vintage champagne and he ordered the filet steak, because they couldn’t get that wrong. He wondered what the Great Guru would say now: Pity others who travel economy, maybe.

  Nathan was surprised at how quickly his own luck had turned around. It seemed like a good time to read his complimentary fortune cookie: In paradise, greedy man try wind catching and put in bottle—he no like cooling breeze.

  Nathan smiled to himself; wisdom in an unlikely place, whatever next. Before pressing the button, which converted his seat into a narrow but comfortable flat bed, he had to complete his nightly ritual; checking emails. Luckily, nothing needed his immediate attention.

  He was about to exit his account, when his inbox suddenly displayed one new message.

  The subject line read: We need to talk.

  The sender was Antonio Orofino.

  Δ = T –27,694,800

  “That picture young man, is the rue Montmartre, in Paris. Have you ever been there?”

  Svetlana pointed to a gilt rococo framed painting by Pissarro that hung over the fireplace. The artist had captured the fading light on a winter’s day in the French capital; a bustling crowd going about its business, women in the latest fashions, gentlemen in top hats, stepping aside as horse-drawn carriages rushed by. In the circumstances, Svetlana had done well, even if the picture was actually of the boulevard Montmartre.

  Nathan told his hostess that he had never visited Paris, but suspected it would soon figure on his itinerary, before he attended his daughter’s graduation ceremony at the Sorbonne.

  Svetlana Simanovska’s apartment was once the epitome of Park Avenue elegance. In the yellow salon, antique porcelain from Shanghai, a Louis XVI musical clock, rare black and gold lacquered Chinese furniture—had all been skillfully matched with nineteenth-century Axminsters and deep-pocketed couches upholstered in Chambly damask.

  In the green salon, Adam style mirrors were positioned above couches, covered in cream and jade chintz. An English glass fronted cabinet, contained miniature porcelains of dogs and cats and a silver crystal punch bowl. There were two blank spaces on the wall, where a pair of dancing dogs by Tiepolo had once been.

  In the African mahogany paneled library, oxblood walls provided the backdrop for shelves loaded with gold tooled leather volumes and extravagantly produced art books. Tall wing-chairs provided ideal reading sanctuaries. A half spiral pair of steps was positioned on the Bessarabia antique carpet, just to the side of the room-height drapes—ready for an intrepid book lover to retrieve a dust covered text from the top shelf.

  Svetlana once entertained the great and the good of American society. Born into a vast fortune created by her Russian émigré grandfather, she was the doyenne of New York’s smart set and the first lady of the charity ball. Presidents and ambassadors made regular visits to her stylish duplex.

  Svetlana’s guests used to sit around a long mahogany table, set with English seventeenth-century silver flatware, antique china and crystal. White gloved butlers served nouvelle cuisine dishes, while Svetlana and her friends discussed détente, glasnost, Reaganomics, a new spate of murders in Miami, the latest fashion collections from Paris—and her female guests exchanged their favorite croquis.

  But her days of witty conversation and stylish entertaining were over. She was still affectionately known as the grande-dame of the Park Avenue Bridge Club, it was one way to forget the reality of her changed circumstances.

  Nathan scanned the walls of the yellow salon. Maybe she hadn’t noticed the blank spaces. The faded citron silk wallpaper was scattered with bright patches, evidence that other paintings had once hung in the room. He wondered whether the Pissarro had been left because it was Svetlana’s favorite and she would notice its absence. She seemed to sense what Nathan was thinking and said, “The Canalettos are being cleaned, right Cranston?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Simanovska, they are cleaning them at MoMA. Can I offer you something to drink Mr. DeAngelis?”

  Nathan asked for a Coke, and sat down on one of the couches nearest the fireplace. On closer inspection, he noticed how some of the lacquer on the furniture was chipped, and it looked like an animal had been chewing on the table legs. A large Chinese vase contained dusty, artificial flowers. The pale golden ruched silk drapes needed a good clean, there were dead moths lying around the base of a blackened buffet hurricane and the edges of the throw pillows were badly frayed.

  Nathan also noticed several brown marks in the middle of what he imagined was a priceless Chinese silk carpet. And whenever he breathed in through his nose, he could smell dried dog pee.

  He didn’t have to wait long to discover who was responsible. The culprits were four brown Dachshunds that came running out from the kitchen on the north side of the apartment. Svetlana’s cook had just finished serving them filet de bœuf with a red wine sauce out of silver Tiffany bowls.

  “Ah, there you are my darlings!” cried out Svetlana, as the dogs climbed up on the couch to greet her. She stroked their heads and they licked her fingers.

  “It’s so long since I saw you all,” she cooed. And looking directly at Nathan she added, “We can’t stand being parted. They are so affectionate—unlike children.”

  Nathan hadn’t come to talk about the qualities of filial love. And he was beginning to think that maybe he was making another pointless visit. Cunningham had told him that Svetlana was one of the last people to see Budd Wright in the U.S. before he left for Davos.

  He had flown from the Isla de Ballenas to New York, where he attended one of Svetlana’s bridge parties. Jade stayed behind at the Villa Esmeralda and had her son Jimmy and his wife to keep her company. (She found bridge boring at the best of times.)

  After a couple of days at the New York Marriott, Budd flew directly to Zürich, followed by the two-hour car ride to Davos.

  Svetlana seemed in good spirits for a woman approaching ninety, though Cunningham had warned Nathan that the elderly lady’s memory was no longer very reliable. She easily forgot where she left her purse, or when she last saw her dogs. Though she recalled events that had happened decades ago as if they had taken place yesterday.

  Hopefully a picture of a smiling Budd taken at his annual shareholders’ meeting would help to refresh her memory. Maybe
Nathan could glean a vital piece of information, a comment or two that Budd had made during the evening, which might provide a useful clue about what frame of mind he was in.

  Nathan thought it best to let Svetlana describe her last game of bridge.

  “You know, he was a great leader. We played north-south when he partnered me. I was the dummy.”

  “Did Budd say anything unusual the last time you saw him?”

  “He was a genius at bidding. Two hearts, pass, one club, one diamond, the ace of spades … now count your tricks. One no-trump, two no-trump, three no-trump. We always made our contract, often with a grand slam bonus!”

  Then Svetlana glanced up at the Pissarro again; the city scene appeared to trigger another memory.

  “We had a wonderful time in Paris. It was shortly after they shot the president. We walked along the Seine. Arm in arm—bras dessus, bras dessous as they say in French. It was a lovely evening. Warm with a cool breeze.”

  Nathan’s heart sank. The venerable Svetlana’s mind had clearly slipped into another time frame. He was at a loss to know what to say next for fear of causing embarrassment.

  Cranston showed Nathan out.

  As he stood in the apartment’s private lobby waiting for the elevator, he detected the strong stench of animal poo. Someone had left a refuse sack containing dog poop next to the elevator. Pity the poor guy who had to collect that.

  Nathan hoped the air con never broke down in the summer.

  In the cab on his way back downtown, Nathan looked over the other names Cunningham had given him. According to his sources, four more people were at the bridge party that evening. None of the names was familiar to Nathan, but he had to prepare a report on his findings, so he needed to check them out.

  Nathan started his calls.

  “Wow, this is so out of the blue. I mean, I didn’t speak to Svetlana for five years. Is she still walking around naked?”

  “Hey buddy, someone’s pulling your chain. She’s been out of service for twenty years.”