‘Honey, I understand you had a busy day, but you can go to the hairdresser first thing tomorrow morning. Please, stay with Ivan tonight,’ he says, making a real effort not to shout. ‘OK, I’ll send Ibrahim now. Wait till he comes … I said, wait till he comes!’ he shouts, before hanging up.
‘My wife has completely forgotten about our son … it’s been like this for a while now,’ he says, giving a sign to Ibrahim, who quickly leaves.
‘That’s not good,’ I comment. ‘I could never imagine doingsuch a thing.’
‘There is nothing more important in my life than my children. Someone must always be with them, and yet she manages to leave our little son with her mom, who beats him up and threatens him if he tells me. It’s only when I see the bruises on his shoulders, elbows, legs …’ he sighs resentfully.
‘How old are your kids, if I may ask?’
‘My daughter is seventeen and my son is six … when my son touches me, I feel like the happiest man in the world. No matter how much money or how many people I’ve lost today, if I can see my son nothing else matters.’ He smiles with what looks like genuine warmth.
‘I’d be really good to my children,’ I say, but he does not seem to listen.
‘I never wanted to be with her … I still don’t understand why she was attracted to me and insisted on getting married. I didn’t even think I was good-looking or confident enough, so to speak. But now we’ve been together for so long, so she says I’ve messed up her entire life - and in a way, I have, so to speak,’ he says, ordering two cognacs as digestives.
‘No one can mess up anyone’s life … she’s only saying it to avoid taking responsibility for her own life,’ I try to comfort him with a Cosmopolitan line.
‘You’re right … I never should’ve married her. She’s just not my type of person. I can’t say I ever really loved her. You know, I always liked history, books, music, art and she’s not interested in any of that …’
‘I like art,’ I say, smiling. ‘And I think you’re a great man … and very interesting, and good-looking,’ I realise I am automatically flirting, and stop myself from going any further.
‘Thank you.’ His large pale face has softened up a lot. It now reflects kindness, integrity and something else I can’t quite place. The ‘something’ is a look one might notice in a puppy’s eyes when it is pining, or in pain; something imploring, childish. Shrewd, cunning people do not have such eyes. His personality is gradually revealing itself to me, and it is turning out to be totally lucid, open and straightforward. If eyes were the mirrors of the soul, I would conclude that this man could not betray anyone.
‘We’d better be going,’ I say decisively. ‘I don’t want to be the one who prevents a dad from seeing his kids.’ I smile politely.
‘Yeah.’ Akbar nods and asks for the bill.
‘I’ll expense it,’ I say, drawing out my red Dior wallet.
‘Katya.’ Akbar looks me directly in the eye with that intimidating expression that gives me the shivers. ‘Let’s agree on one thing – when you’re with me, I pay,’ he says.
‘OK.’ I helplessly obey.
‘Where do you live?’ he asks.
‘Just around the corner, on Leontievsky Lane,’ I say. ‘I can walk there.’
‘I’ll take you home,’ Akbar states.
‘It’s really just a few minutes’ walk from here.’ I try to stand my ground.
‘I will take you home,’ he insists, slamming a handful of cash into the black leather bill holder. ‘Let’s go.’ He moves towards the exit and I tipsily follow him.
A beautiful black Maybach with a smooth, refined shape is waiting for us right at the exit of the building. Akbar walks ahead and, like an old-fashioned gentleman, opens the door for me to the to the luxury beige interior, smelling of new leather and concealed by black tinted windows.
‘To Leontievsky,’ Akbar shouts to the driver, getting into the other passenger seat from the opposite side of the car. He spreads his long legs and puts his big arm close to mine on the armrest. He looks at me somewhat suggestively, leaning towards me as if he was going to say something - but he remains silent. I slowly move my hand down, cross my legs and move back.
‘So who do you think really attacked South Ossetia, Russia or Georgia? The Western media is screaming from every corner that it was Russia.’ I ask the most debatable question of the moment, to break the silence and the tension.
‘Before one can say anything about South Ossetia, he should first find it on the map,’ Akbar says, irritated, pulling back into his seat. ‘Our American friends just spotted an opportunity to weaken Russia and immediately seized it, as they do. Georgia is just a puppet, skillfully guided to attack.’
‘Why would they do that?’ I ask.
‘So we get stuck in a resource-draining war for years, throwing more and more money into it, instead of developing our country. But we push back. One should believe in Russia. It’s a self-sufficient country, an isle of wellness in the sinking global economy,’ he proudly declares, looking into the darkness of the tinted window. ‘In any case, my dear Katyusha, you should think about transferring your savings here.’ He points his massive index finger at me. ‘Someone from VIP services at my bank will call you tomorrow,’ he says after a pause. ‘The way I see it, you’ll buy KazyMak Metallurg bonds with triple leverage, which should get you sixty per cent return pretty much risk-free, so to speak.’
‘Really?’ I ask in disbelief, not really understanding the mechanics but intrigued by the sixty per cent return part.
‘Yes. This is the way it works in this country these days.’
‘I never knew that,’ I say, eager to join the club.
‘Money likes silence, my dear,’ Akbar smirks.
‘I wish I was ten - or better, fifteen - years older, so I could have started earlier in business and had more capital to earn interest on,’ I say, wondering.
‘Many did not survive,’ he tells me. ‘However, some are still trying to prove they are better than others, and need to be told where to get off,’ he says with hostility, slapping the arm of the seat with his massive palm.
We sit in silence for the next couple of minutes until we reach the beautiful façade of my corporate apartment.
As soon as we arrive I open the car door to get out, but catching Akbar’s disapproving gaze, I quickly shut it again and wait for him to open it for me like a gentleman.
‘Let’s have dinner on Saturday. I have business to discuss,’ he says, as we approach my doorstep.
‘That would be nice,’ I say, restraining a huge smile, anticipating Sergey’s reaction when I close a deal directly with the client he just lost.
‘I’ll arrange,’ he says, in his usual authoritative baritone.
‘OK.’ I rise on my tiptoes to wish him goodbye. He gives me one kiss on the cheek and stands still as I move to offer a second, as I’m used to doing in London. His lips almost brush against mine. He slightly pulls me towards him as if to continue, but I instantly get back down on my feet and take a step back towards the front door.
‘Goodnight,’ I say firmly, entering the building,
‘Goodnight,’ he says, following me with his light blue eyes.
At home I make myself a camomile tea to calm my conflicted emotions.
The best I can do is keep him interested. .Alex’s dogma bells in my head: ‘If he likes you, he will do business with you.’ Men are most manageable while they have unfinished business – before you sleep with them …
Out of habit, I check my Facebook. Richard has commented on my picture post from the rooftop of the Ritz. ‘You did well moving to Moscow after all.’
‘Yeah, I can’t complain,’ I reply. In a private message, I add, ‘Just had dinner with Akbar Gromov: D’
‘No way! That’s incredible. You should infiltrate his inner circle!’ he responds.
‘Having dinner with him again on Saturday;-)’
‘I wouldn’t expect anything less from you:) Just
don’t wear your heart on your sleeve straight away.’
‘Oh no, never again! Besides, he’s married to some moody bitch,’ I write back.
Richard continues messaging me, but I barely notice what he says. There is one message I’m reading over and over again, and it’s from Akbar: ‘I’m very impressed by you and your story … I’ve never met a girl like you. You are just unreal. It’s the energy in you. It’s like I’ve charged from a battery. Good we met. Gromov.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE DINNER
It is Saturday morning. My iPhone is still showing nothing but the blue lagoon wallpaper, with no message from Akbar across it. Mikhail from the VIP customer service at Akbar’s bank has already sent me a dozen messages confirming my accounts and deposits at absolutely unreal premium rates.
My mood could not be better. Beauty is everywhere, and once you have it in your heart you attract more of it. Even as I am getting my hair done, I am struck by the fact that the salon is full of flowers - something I’ve never even noticed before. The smell of white roses brings my attention to how beautiful and unique each petal is. Every single one has a distinctive image of its very own, which is a miracle.
I am conscious of an irresistible desire to remind you of my existence, especially you.
On the way back home I leave a thousand-dollar donation at St Katherine’s Church, whirling in my colorful bell-shaped dress, which makes me feel even more like a fairy.
By 2 p.m. the lagoon is still empty … and my stomach starts swirling.
My tune changes from “If you wanna be my lover” to “All by myself” …
Just when I am about to down a shot of vodka, a text arrives: ‘Still up for dinner tonight?’
‘Yes, looking forward to it,’ I text back, pouring myself a glass of cold bubbly, controlling the urge to jump around like a fool and scream with excitement.
‘I’ll pick you up at five. Bring your passport.’
‘OK,’ I respond, guessing we are probably going to an administrative or a government building, maybe even to the Kremlin … those kinds of places always require a passport.
My little DVF dress might be too much for this … or maybe too little? OK, now I don’t know what to wear. The classic black Alexander McQueen is probably a better choice … This baby has never let me down.
‘Do what you have to do,’ I recall Bruno saying when I told him what happened with Akbar.
Just to feel feminine and confident, I choose sexy Agent Provocateur underwear to wear underneath. At the end of the day, nothing gives a bigger boost than beautiful lingerie … not to mention having a Saturday night dinner date with one of the Forbes Richest …
At five sharp the phone rings: ‘Katyusha. It’s Gromov. I’m downstairs,’ he says in a deep, solid voice.
‘Hi, Akbar,’ I exhale, to sound sexy. ‘Give me five minutes. I’ll be right there.’
‘See you in a bit,’ he says calmly.
Gosh, which shoes? I rummage through the pairs and find the ones with the highest heels, so as to be closer to Akbar’s height. After adding the final touches - red lipstick and diamond earrings - I am ready to rock.
Gracefully, I walk out of the building and see a big, tall man, looking more like an oversized teenager in dad-like designer jeans and a slightly-too-small gray T-shirt with large wet stains. He is proudly standing in front of a bright orange Lamborghini.
For a second he freezes, looking at me with a moderate smile. ‘Hi,’ he says radiantly.
‘Hi,’ I say modestly. ‘Why are you all wet?’ I ask under the weight of his mesmerized glare.
‘I went to sanctify my car,’ he says, bored. ‘The damn monks poured gallons of water on it.’
‘The monks?’ I ask, dumbfounded. ‘Why would they sanctify your car?’
‘Oh, don’t ask … it’s just something people do. To protect against accidents, so to speak,’ he smirks.
‘So is there anyone who has been in a crash after a sanctification?’ I ask, curious.
‘Well, Rabinovich was … but apparently he didn’t pay for the whole car to be sanctified, so the parts they skipped got crushed … or so they say.’ Akbar carelessly wipes the passenger seat for me with a rag that looks like an Hermès scarf.
‘So we are protected by God now?’ I ask cheekily.
‘Definitely, for the fifty grand I’ve paid,’ he grins, opening the door and letting me into the still-wet front passenger seat, which smells strongly of incense.
‘So where are we going?’ I ask excitedly, moving my feet away from the dripping dashboard. ‘I’m intrigued. Why do I need my passport?’
‘The fishermen had a very nice catch today,’ he says cryptically, starting the engine, straight away overtaking a couple of lazy cars.
‘OK,’ I say musingly, as we pass the endless red walls along the Moscow River.
‘Do you have a Schengen visa?’ Akbar asks, turning into an uglier industrial site.
‘Sure,’ I say, realising we might be going out of town.
‘Good,’ he says, without giving too much away.
‘So where are we going?’ I ask impatiently as we drive further and further away from the nice parts of Moscow.
‘Monte Carlo,’ he eventually says. ‘My bizjet is ready. Always better than polluted Moscow.’
‘Really?’ I ask in disbelief. ‘You aren’t joking?’
‘Do I look like someone who’s joking?’ he says, driving into the private airport.
‘No, but yeah, but no, but …’ I find myself sounding like Vicky Pollard from Little Britain.
‘Don’t worry about anything,’ he interrupts. ‘We’re only going for dinner. You can fly back anytime you want,’ he says, confidently maneuvering through the endless luggage carts loaded with Louis Vuitton suitcases and Veuve Clicquot boxes, hookers vulgarly exhibiting their silicon-Botox parts in tiny leopardskin outfits, and bodyguards tasked with packing all this into the jets.
‘Thank God they don’t have to sanctify planes yet.’ Akbar pulls over by the biggest private jet.
‘This is huge! Is it yours?’ I exclaim, catching Akbar’s eloquent glare as he stops the car.
‘No, I use a private jet company. They always send me the best they’ve got, so to speak,’ he ambiguously smirks, and walks out of the car to cordially open the door for me, so his enormous groin is the only part of his body I can see from my low passenger seat.
Stepping out of the sports car, I feel like a Hollywood star. Akbar leads me to his plane, which looks bigger and bigger with every step. If it was a commercial aircraft, it could accommodate hundreds of passengers.
The giant cabin shines with luxurious trim, making it look more like a Middle Eastern palace with sumptuous golden leather chairs and sofas.
‘I’m a tall guy, so my legs don’t fit into those small Falcons,’ Akbar says with a satisfied smile, collapsing onto the nearest L-shaped couch and spreading his enormous arms. ‘This baby has one of the widest fuselages in the world,’ he brags.
‘This is stunning,’ I say, modestly perching on the chair in front of him, with no seatbelt to be seen and no mention of health and safety.
As if by magic, a bottle of Cristal, a bottle of whiskey, a jar of black caviar and a tray with fancy appetizers appear on the low arabesque ivory table.
‘Try the lobster carpaccio,’ Akbar says, passing me a small plate with rose-shaped petals of lobster meat.
‘Thank you … but I don’t really get hungry on plane journeys, especially during take-off,’ I say, conscious of my shellfish allergy.
‘It has a very piquant sauce, which makes the flight more enjoyable,’ he says with a wink.
‘Oh really … how’s that?’ I ask, puzzled.
‘Nothing too dramatic … have you ever tried marijuana candies?’
‘Yes,’ I say, recalling my recent Caribbean vacation, which now feels like months ago.
‘Something like that … but very pure, and no side effects,’ he says, soaking
a piece of fresh brown bread into it.
‘OK.’ I do the same.
The familiar smell, together with the tang of sweet and sour seafood, tickles my receptors and almost sends me to sleep in the most comfortable chair ever.
At some point I open my eyes and find Akbar’s hand stroking my lap as he gazes at me intensely, as if about to kiss me. ‘You make me so greedy … for you … that smile … how it teases me,’ he says, closing in on me.
‘So what about the deal you wanted to discuss?’ I ask, instinctively pulling away. It would probably have been a good idea to kiss him. A kiss is just a kiss. But the moment is gone.
‘Pfff,’ he exhales disappointedly, animatedly tossing his left hand like an unhappy Italian. ‘I think something’s going on,’ he says after a long pause. ‘Someone’s doing something against me in the Kremlin.’ He lowers his voice to a whisper, so that I have to lean toward him to hear anything. ‘I need to protect my personal finances, so to speak.’ Akbar scratches his broad cheek, the stress in his voice evident. ‘You - and only you - can help me,’ he continues, studying my unblinking face.
‘I’d love to,’ I kindly smile. ‘But what would you like me to do?’
‘There will be various cash flows to be directed via Swiss Bank, and I want you to arrange the settlement into various accounts … anonymous accounts, so to speak,’ he says, scratching his cheek again.
‘Well, I don’t know … it depends on the nature of the cash flows,’ I mumble, confused.
‘The anonymous accounts have already been opened within your bank,’ he says, pulling a fancy black glass board out of the mosaic drawer on the table, and dumping some white powder on it from a plastic pocket. ‘All you have to do is to transfer money to the accounts when booking a transaction … You can always blame it on human error,’ he says, shuffling a few grams of charlie with a golden card.
‘Blame?’ I ask, shocked, as I watch him making lines.
‘It’s all legal, don’t worry,’ he says. Is he talking about the transactions, or the cocaine in the air?
‘I’m not sure,’ I say, declining the right to the first line. He hungrily snorts a fair amount of blow with a five hundred euro bill.
Snow Job Page 10
