Heads You Win

by Jeffrey Archer

  “A Chloé bag, from Bonwit Teller.”

  “OK, I’ll pick one up this afternoon. What color?”

  “Gray. It’s already been gift-wrapped and was delivered to my office yesterday. All you need to do is sign this.” She placed an anniversary card on his desk.

  “I sometimes think, Pamela, that you’d make a far better chairman than me.”

  “If you say so, chairman. But in the meantime, can you make sure you sign all the letters in your correspondence file before Mr. Woods arrives?”

  Getting Pamela to return to her old job was the wisest decision he’d ever made, thought Alex as he opened his correspondence file. He read each letter carefully, making the occasional emendation and sometimes adding a handwritten postscript. He was considering a letter from the president of the Harvard Business School inviting him to address the final-year students in the fall, when there was a tap on the door.

  “Mr. Woods,” said Miss Robbins.

  “Sheldon,” said Alex, jumping up from behind his desk. “Has it really been a year already? Can I offer you some coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” said Woods.

  “Now, before you say anything, yes, I am aware it’s an election year, and I’ve already decided to double our contribution to the party, in Lawrence’s memory.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Alex. He would have made a fine congressman.”

  “He would indeed,” said Alex. “In fact not a day goes by when I don’t mourn his death. That man quite literally changed my life, and I never had a real chance to thank him.”

  “If Lawrence were alive, it would be him who was thanking you,” said Woods. “Everyone in Boston knew the bank was in serious trouble before you took over. What a turnaround. I hear you’re to be named as banker of the year.”

  “A lot of credit for that must go to Jake Coleman, who couldn’t be more different from his predecessor.”

  “Yes, that was quite a coup. I assume you’ve heard that Ackroyd was released from prison last week?”

  “I did, and I wouldn’t have given it a second thought if he hadn’t been seen boarding a plane to Nice the following day.”

  “I’m lost,” said Woods.

  “And it’s better you stay that way,” said Alex, as he signed a check for one hundred thousand dollars and handed it to Woods.

  “I’m most grateful,” he said. “But that wasn’t the reason I came to see you.”

  “Isn’t a hundred thousand enough?”

  “More than enough. It’s just that we, that is to say my committee, hoped you would allow your name to go forward as the next Democratic candidate for junior senator here in Massachusetts.”

  Alex couldn’t hide his surprise. “When you asked me to stand for Congress after Lawrence’s death,” he eventually managed, “I reluctantly turned the offer down so I could take on the chairmanship of Lowell’s. However, I confess I’ve often wondered if it was the right decision and whether politics was my real calling.”

  “Then perhaps it’s time for you to take on an even bigger challenge.”

  “Sadly not,” said Alex. “Although the bank is finally back on its feet, I now want to take it to the next level and join the major leagues. How much do you expect the Bank of America to contribute to the Democratic cause?”

  “They’ve already given a quarter of a million toward the campaign.”

  “Then I’ll know we’ve arrived when you ask me for the same amount, and more important, when I don’t give it a second thought.”

  “I’d rather have a hundred thousand, and you as the candidate.”

  “I’m flattered, Sheldon, but the answer is still no. However, thank you for asking.” Alex touched a button under his desk.

  “Pity. You’d have made an outstanding senator.”

  “That’s a great compliment, Sheldon. Perhaps in another life.” They shook hands as Miss Robbins entered the room to escort Mr. Woods to the elevator.

  Alex sat back down and thought about how different life might have been if Lawrence hadn’t died—or even if he and his mother had climbed into the other crate. But he soon snapped out of “what might have been” and returned to the real world, putting a tick on the top of the letter from the president of the Harvard Business School.

  Miss Robbins had just closed the door behind her when the phone rang. Alex picked it up and immediately recognized the voice on the other end of the line.

  “Hi, Dimitri,” he said. “It’s been too long. How are you?”

  “Well, thank you, Alex,” said Dimitri. “And you?”

  “Never better.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Alex, but I thought you ought to know that Ivan Donokov has been released from prison and is on his way back to Moscow.”

  “How can that be possible?” asked Alex, turning ice cold. “I thought he was sentenced to ninety-nine years without parole.”

  “The CIA exchanged him for two of our agents who’d been languishing in a Moscow hellhole for over a decade.”

  “Let’s hope they don’t come to regret it. But thank you for letting me know.”

  “I only hope you don’t live to regret it,” said Dimitri, but not until after he’d put the phone down.

  Alex tried to get Donokov out of his mind while he continued signing letters. His thoughts were interrupted when Miss Robbins reentered the room to pick up the correspondence file. “Before I forget, Pamela, there’s a man who’s been sitting in reception for the past three days. Do you have any idea who he is?”

  “A Mr. Pushkin. He’s flown over from Leningrad in the hope that you would agree to see him. Claims he was at school with you.”

  “Pushkin,” he repeated. “A great writer, but I don’t recall anyone from my school by that name. But as he’s so determined to see me, perhaps I ought to give him a few minutes.”

  “He says he needs a couple of hours. I tried to explain that you don’t have a couple of hours before Christmas, but it didn’t deter him, which made me wonder if he worked for the KGB.”

  “The KGB don’t sit around cooling their heels in reception for three days, especially when everyone can see them. So let’s see the rabbit before we shoot it. But make sure you rescue me after fifteen minutes—tell him I have another meeting.”

  “Yes, chairman,” said Miss Robbins, not looking at all convinced.

  Alex was still signing letters when there was a gentle knock on the door. Miss Robbins entered the room followed by a man he thought looked familiar, and then he remembered.

  “How nice to see you again, Misha, after all this time,” said Alex, as Miss Robbins left the room.

  “It’s good to see you too, Alexander. I’m only surprised you remember me.”

  “Captain of the junior chess team. Do you still play?”

  “Occasionally, but I never reached your dizzy heights, so don’t bother to challenge me.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I played,” admitted Alex, which only brought back memories of Donokov. “Before you tell me what brings you to Boston, how is the city of my birth?”

  “Leningrad is always beautiful at this time of year, as you will remember,” said Pushkin, in Alex’s native tongue. “There are even rumors that it won’t be too long before its name will be changed back to Saint Petersburg. Another symbol to perpetuate the myth that the old regime has been replaced.”

  Hearing Pushkin speaking Russian made Alex suddenly feel sad, even a little guilty, that he’d lost his accent, and now sounded like any other Boston WASP. He looked at his visitor more closely. Pushkin was around five foot eight, with a thick brown mustache that reminded Alex of his father. He wore a heavy tweed suit with wide lapels, which suggested either that he had no interest in fashion, or this was the first time he’d traveled outside of the Soviet Union.

  “My father worked in the docks when your father was chief supervisor,” said Pushkin. “Many of the lads still remember him with respect and affection.”

  “And my uncle Kolya?�
�

  “He’s now the docks’ supervisor. He asked to be remembered to you and your mother.”

  I owe him my life, Alex was about to say, but stopped himself when he remembered that if Major Polyakov was still alive, that wasn’t a risk worth taking.

  “Please give him my best wishes, and tell him I hope it won’t be too long before we meet again.”

  “I’m hoping it will be sooner than you think,” said Pushkin. “I see him from time to time, usually at the football every other Saturday.”

  “The two of you standing on the terraces cheering on Zenit F.C., no doubt.”

  “There are no terraces nowadays. Everyone has a seat.”

  “Can I assume my old friend Vladimir has found his way into the chairman’s box?”

  “I haven’t seen him for years,” said Pushkin. “When I last heard, he was a KGB colonel stationed somewhere in East Germany.”

  “I can’t imagine that’s part of his long-term plan,” said Alex. “However, I’m sure you didn’t travel all the way to Boston to reminisce. What did you mean when you said you hoped I might see my uncle sooner than I thought?”

  “You will be well aware that the new Soviet regime is very different from the old. The hammer and sickle have been run down the flagpole to be replaced with a dollar sign. The only problem is that after so many centuries of oppression, first by the tsars and then the communists, we Russians have no tradition of free enterprise.” Alex nodded, but didn’t interrupt. “So nothing has really changed on that front. When the government decided to sell off some of the state’s more profitable companies, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that no one was qualified to handle such a dramatic upheaval. And dramatic is what it turned out to be, which I found out when my own company was put up for sale,” said Pushkin as he handed over his card.

  “The Leningrad Petroleum and Gas Company,” said Alex.

  “Whoever the new owners of LGP turn out to be, they’re going to become billionaires overnight.”

  “And you’d like to be one of them?”

  “No. Like your father, I believe that wealth should be shared among those who have made the company a success, not just handed to someone who happens to be a friend of a friend of the president.”

  “What’s the asking price?” asked Alex, trying to find out if the meeting would be lasting more than fifteen minutes.

  “Twenty-five million dollars.”

  “And what was LGP’s turnover last year?”

  Pushkin unzipped an old plastic bag, took out some papers, and placed them on the desk. “Just over four hundred million dollars,” he said, without needing to refer to them.

  “And the profit?”

  “Thirty-eight million six hundred forty thousand dollars.”

  “Am I missing something here?” said Alex. “With that profit margin, the company must be worth over four or five hundred million.”

  “You’re not missing a thing, chairman. It’s just that you can’t expect to replace Communism with capitalism overnight simply by exchanging a boiler suit for a Brooks Brothers tuxedo. The Soviet Union may have some of the finest universities in the world if you want to study philosophy, even Sanskrit, but very few offer a serious business course.”

  “Surely any major Russian bank would lend you the money if you can guarantee those sort of returns,” said Alex, looking intently at his fellow countryman.

  “The truth is,” said Pushkin, “the banks are just as much out of their depth as everyone else. But they’re still not going to lend twenty-five million dollars to someone who earns the equivalent of five thousand dollars a year, and has less than a thousand dollars in his savings account.”

  “How long have you got before I need to make a decision?” asked Alex.

  “The deadline for the deal is October thirty-first. After that, it’s open to anyone who can put up the money.”

  “But that’s only a month away,” said Alex as Miss Robbins entered the room prepared to escort Mr. Pushkin to the elevator.

  “Which suits the KGB, who I know already have their eyes on it.”

  “Cancel my lunch, Pamela, and then contact every senior member of the management and investment team and tell them to drop everything and report to my office immediately.”

  “Certainly, chairman,” said Miss Robbins, as if there was nothing unusual about the request.

  “I’ll also need half a dozen pizzas for delivery at one o’clock. And before you ask, that’s a decision my mother can make.”

  Miss Robbins didn’t enter the chairman’s office again until the meeting had finally broken up some five hours later.

  “You missed your afternoon gym session again, chairman.”

  “I know. The meeting overran.”

  “Will you still be taking your wife to dinner?” asked Miss Robbins, placing the anniversary gift on his desk.

  “Damn,” said Alex. “Tell Jake that I won’t be able to join him and Mr. Pushkin for dinner after all. Explain to them that something even more important has come up.”

  39

  ALEX

  Boston

  Evelyn picked up the phone to hear a familiar voice, which she hadn’t spoken to for some time.

  “I need to see you.”

  “Why would I want to see you?” she asked.

  “Because you know damn well I didn’t steal the Warhol,” said Ackroyd.

  “Is this conversation being taped?”

  “No, because I certainly wouldn’t want anyone else to hear what I’m about to tell you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I didn’t waste my time when I was in prison, and I’ve come up with a way for you to make half a billion dollars, and embarrass Karpenko at the same time.”

  There was a brief pause before Evelyn said, “What would I have to do?”

  “Just confirm that I’ll get ten percent of the deal if we pull it off.”

  “I’m still listening.”

  “I’m not saying another word, Evelyn, until I have your signature on the bottom line. I haven’t forgotten that the last time we made a deal, I ended up in jail.”

  “In which case, Douglas, you’ll have to fly down to the south of France, and bring the contract with you.”

  * * *

  Alex arrived at Marliave ten minutes early, and was making some calculations on the back of his menu when Anna arrived.

  “Happy anniversary, darling,” he said as he rose to kiss her.

  “Thank you. And here’s your trick question,” said Anna, sitting down at their favorite corner table. “How many years have we been married, or was that what you were trying to work out on the back of your menu?” Fortunately Miss Robbins had reminded him just before he left.

  “Thirteen, but it would have been fourteen if Lawrence hadn’t left me his fifty percent of the bank.”

  “You live to fight another year. What’s this?” Anna asked coyly.

  “Open it and you’ll find out.”

  “I suspect it will be more of a surprise for you than me.”

  Alex laughed. “I’ll pretend I’ve seen it before.”

  Anna slowly removed the red ribbon, unwrapped the parcel, and lifted the lid to reveal a small, elegant light gray Chloé bag that was both practical and stylish.

  “It’s so you, I thought, the moment I saw it,” said Alex.

  “Which was just now,” said Anna, leaning across and kissing him again. “Perhaps you could remember to thank Pamela for me,” she added as the maître d’ appeared by their side.

  “I know exactly what I want, François,” she said. “Salade niçoise and the Dover sole.”

  “I’ll have the same,” said Alex. “I’ve made quite enough decisions for one day.”

  “Dare I ask?”

  “I can’t say too much at the moment, because it could turn out to be either a complete waste of time or the biggest deal that’s ever crossed my desk.”

  “When will you know which?”

  “By this ti
me next week, would be my bet. By which time I should be back from Leningrad.”

  “But haven’t you always said you’d never go back to Russia in any circumstances, and Leningrad in particular?”

  “It’s a calculated risk,” said Alex. “However, I think it’s safe to assume that after all these years, Polyakov will have retired.”

  “Your mother once told me that KGB officers never retire, so what does she think?”

  “She won’t relax until she’s attended his funeral. But when I promised to see her brother, Kolya, find out how the rest of the family are, and visit my father’s grave, she reluctantly came around.”

  “I don’t want you to go,” said Anna quietly. “Let Jake Coleman take your place. He’s just as good a dealmaker as you are.”

  “Maybe, but the Russians always expect to deal with the chairman. By the way, there’s a spare seat on the plane if you’d like to come.”

  “No, thank you. Not least because I’ve got an opening on Wednesday.”

  “Anyone I know?” asked Alex, pleased to change the subject.

  “Robert Indiana.”

  “Oh yes, I like his work. I’ll be sorry to miss the opening.”

  “The show will still be on when you get back. If you get back.”

  “It’s not that bad, my darling. So am I allowed to know what my anniversary gift is?” asked Alex, hoping to lighten the mood. “Because I don’t see a package.”

  “It was too big to bring with me,” said Anna. “It’s a six-foot-square bronze by Indiana called LOVE.” She drew an image on the back of the menu.

  L O

  V E

  “How much is that going to cost me?”

  “With the usual discount, around sixty thousand. And if you were to gift it to Konstantin, he can avoid estate tax.”

  “So let me try and understand this, one I love,” said Alex. “My anniversary present is going to cost me sixty thousand dollars, but it’s Konstantin who will actually own it?”

  “Yes, my darling. I think you’ve grasped the idea. But the good news is, there’s now an outside chance you’ll go to heaven.” Anna paused. “Not that you’ll enjoy it.”

  “Why not?” demanded Alex.

  “Because you won’t know anyone,” she said as the waiter returned with their first course.