The Capitalist

by Peter Steiner

  No, no. St. John wanted to take the money out of Charter Island.

  Richard wondered whether St. John might want to lighten his Charter Island account. He hoped not.

  St. John assured Richard everything was fine. He was pleased with things as they were.

  The trouble for Richard was that, for several years now, he had been siphoning money from St. John’s account. Before St. John could transfer the money from Charter Island, Richard would have to replenish the account with money from elsewhere. It wasn’t a problem, but anyone watching the transfer would be able to see several very large transactions—money going out of St. John’s account, and other monies going into it. There would be a moment when an alert auditor would at least be able to see the finagling going on and would, at worst, figure out what was happening.

  “I’ll give you plenty of notice to arrange the transfer,” said St. John.

  XLIV

  BRUNO GRAMICCI WAS AT HIS desk in the office he shared with two other housing department lawyers when the receptionist called to say there was a Mr. Smith to see him. “Send him in,” said Bruno, even though he didn’t think he knew any Mr. Smith. It was the Russian; Bruno recognized him from Lorraine’s description.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Smith?”

  “We can talk outside?” said Dimitri.

  “I don’t see why not,” said Bruno. “Follow me.” They went out to the parking lot.

  “Where is Lorraine Usher?” said Dimitri. He stood facing Bruno with his feet apart and his huge fists planted on his hips.

  “She left,” said Bruno.

  “I know she left,” said Dimitri. “Where she go?”

  “How do you know she left?”

  “I knock on her door many times. I call. She was not there. Where did she go?”

  “She didn’t say,” said Bruno.

  “Where did she go?” Dimitri demanded. “Is important.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is important,” said Dimitri. He let his jacket slide open so Bruno could see the gun in the holster under his arm.

  Bruno thought for a moment. “Mr. Smith, you realize—don’t you?—that this parking lot where we are standing belongs to the United States Post Office over there.” Bruno pointed, and Dimitri turned to look. “Which means this is federal property. Do you see that camera up there?”

  Dimitri raised his hands. “Not to get excited,” he said. He showed a smile that he meant to be reassuring. “I only want to talk with her.”

  Bruno smiled back. “If you give me your telephone number…”

  Dimitri took out his wallet and withdrew a business card. “She can call me here. It is important.”

  Bruno watched him leave the parking lot and went back inside. He found the slip of paper in his wallet with Louis’s phone number.

  “Mr. Morgon? This is Bruno Gramicci.”

  “Yes, Bruno. Is everything all right?”

  “I think so,” said Bruno. “Lorraine’s fine. But I just had a visit at work from the Russian. He said he wanted to talk to her. He gave me a card with his number. The card actually says Mr. Smith.”

  “And the number?”

  “It’s the Odessa Grill.”

  “And she’s safe in Newark?”

  “Yes. She seems pretty happy down there, but I’m worried.”

  * * *

  Lorraine was not happy. That very afternoon, after three weeks in Newark, she had decided it was time to go home. “Are you sure, sugar?” said Lillian. “You think it over. Maybe you should check with Louis.”

  “You have both been very kind to me,” said Lorraine. “You’ve made me feel really welcome. But I want to be in my own house.” She had enjoyed her time with Bobby and Lillian more than she would ever have thought possible. Even the cat and the dog, Arthur and Junior, had reached a reasonable accommodation. They were not exactly pals, but they happily shared things—even Bobby. Arthur slept on Bobby’s lap when he watched television, and Junior lay at his feet. Sometimes Junior stuck his nose up wistfully. Then Bobby patted him and he sighed a doggy sigh and lay back down.

  As for Bobby, he had learned to enjoy a variety of exotic dishes he would never have looked at if Lillian had made them. “Have you got all her recipes?” said Bobby.

  “I’ve got them,” said Lillian.

  “That artichoke pie?” He couldn’t quite bring himself to pronounce the word, quiche.

  “I’ve got them all,” she said.

  “That sausage–sweet potato thing?”

  “I’ve got every single one, Bobby.” She waved the sheets of paper in front of his face. He still felt compelled to go down the list of his favorites one by one.

  On Sunday afternoon, Bruno pulled up out front and got out of his car. Junior rushed out to greet him. Bobby came out carrying Arthur’s carrier, and the two men shook hands. Then Lorraine came out. She embraced Lillian and then Bobby. She scratched Junior behind the ears, and he let out a tremendous bark. Then she and Bruno got in the car and drove away.

  “Do you think this is a good idea?”

  “We’ve been over this, Bruno. I need to be in my own home. I can’t live like this. I just can’t.”

  “Have you talked with Louis Morgon?”

  “No. But he can’t change my mind.”

  “That Russian Adropov is looking for you.”

  “What am I supposed to do, Bruno? I can’t keep hiding forever.”

  “He knows where you live. He’ll show up one day. You’re alone there. Who knows what he’ll do.”

  Lorraine thought about that for a moment. “What if I weren’t alone when we met?”

  “Lorraine, I love you, but I can’t be with you all the time—”

  “I’m not talking about you, Bruno, and I’m not talking about at home. What if I met him somewhere where there are other people around?”

  “Where?

  “In his office? I don’t know—wherever he spends his days.”

  Even though they had just come off the bridge and the emergency lane was especially narrow, Bruno pulled the car over and stopped. Trucks roared past shaking the pavement, their wash rocking the car from side to side. “Lorraine.” Bruno tried to stay calm. “His office is a club in Brighton Beach, a Russian mob hangout. You can’t just walk in there like that.”

  “He won’t expect it,” she said.

  “He certainly won’t. You’re right about that. But where would you even get an idea like that?”

  “What if I give him everything I’ve got, everything he wants—Mr. Larrimer’s address, old bank account numbers, everything.”

  “He’s still going to want to … You’re still a witness to what he’s doing.”

  “But what if I become an accomplice? That would change things, wouldn’t it?”

  Bruno gripped the steering wheel and leaned his head on his hands. Lorraine reached over and touched his arm. “I can take care of myself, Bruno. Really, I can.”

  Bruno turned his head and looked at Lorraine—small, pear-shaped, gray-haired, her wide eyes peering at him through overlarge glasses. She clutched her purse with both hands. “How? Lorraine. Jesus, how? You can’t just go meet him. Will you take your little baseball bat? What are you thinking?”

  Lorraine held her purse toward Bruno and opened it. Bruno looked down into the purse. Despite having a nodding relationship with some members of the Italian mob, thanks to his brother Emilio and the Guido Ristorante, Bruno had seen very few firearms in his life. Which is why it seemed to him that the pistol in Lorraine’s purse—squared off, cold blue steel, a Glock .45 in fact—was the largest gun he had ever seen.

  “Don’t tell Louis Morgon about this until after I meet the Russian, okay? And don’t tell Renee. It would make her crazy.”

  XLV

  THE ODESSA GRILL WAS ONE of those places that never look open. No fixed hours were displayed outside. The small, white neon sign announcing the name of the place flickered off and on, apparently at will. There was a makeshif
t bench that was never used outside the entrance. The entrance itself was a heavy wooden door with a small, diamond-shaped window that revealed only the darkness inside. Lorraine looked up and down the street. Bruno had wanted to come along. “I’ll stay out of sight,” he promised.

  “No,” she had said. Now she regretted having been so insistent. She hoped he had come anyway, that he was somewhere nearby. Just in case. But in case of what? What could Bruno do, or anyone she might have brought along, for that matter? Lorraine took a deep breath, and just as the Odessa Grill sign flickered off, she pushed hard on the door and stepped inside. She held the door open to allow her eyes to get used to the darkness. A man walked toward her out of the shadows. “Yes, ma’am?” he said. Lorraine let go of the door, and it closed behind her.

  When Lorraine emerged from the Odessa Grill a half hour later, Bruno waited impatiently while she walked down the block. Finally he stepped out of the doorway where he had been waiting. He tried to hurry her away.

  “Calm down, Bruno. It’s all right. Mr. Smith and I have an arrangement.”

  Dimitri Adropov had been there, just as Bruno had suggested he would be. And, knowing he was on a surveillance camera, he had mostly been on his best behavior. He was extremely solicitous and polite. He called her Miss Usher. He offered her a chair at one of the tables nearest the door. He brought her tea with lemon. “I want,” he said, “like everyone, to recover what belongs to me, what was taken from me.”

  Lorraine offered to tell Adropov what she knew in exchange for being left alone. Adropov interrupted her before she could finish, saying there was no need to exchange anything. He wanted nothing from her. He suggested they had to wait for the authorities to find Larrimer, impound his ill-gotten gains, and return the money to its rightful owners. Lorraine agreed and said she had lost money too. She assured him that they would all recover their money in time.

  “It went on like that for a while,” she explained to Louis. It was the next afternoon and she had called him with the news of her departure from Newark and her meeting with Adropov.

  “It went on like what?” said Louis.

  “The back and forth for the cameras and microphones.”

  “You knew about the cameras?”

  “Not at first, but then I could tell he was playing to an audience that wasn’t there. So he’d insist that we abide by the law, and I’d agree that that was what we should do. There had to be cameras.

  “There was one tricky moment when he said—rather insistently—that he’d like to see me elsewhere. I said that might be possible. I suggested my house. ‘Do you know it?’ I said. I said the address. When I did that, he backed off right away. He didn’t like it that I gave my address. Who’s watching him? Whose cameras and microphones are they?”

  “I’m guessing the FBI,” said Louis. “They’ll probably rush to plant cameras in your house now, if they haven’t already. In any case, that was clever of you. It’s no longer safe for him to go there. But he still doesn’t know where Larrimer is.”

  “He didn’t like my playing to the cameras that way. I think he knew where they were exactly. Anyway, at one point he leaned forward a bit and opened his jacket so that I saw his gun.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “Well, I looked astonished, I’m sure. I wasn’t expecting that. Then I remembered my purse was on my lap and, I’m pretty sure, out of sight of the camera too. So I opened it and took out an envelope with Larrimer’s address and all the other information in it and I passed it to him.”

  “Under the table?”

  “No. Right across the tabletop. It made him nervous, and he grabbed it and slid it into his jacket pocket. I scared him, I think.”

  “You think you scared him.”

  “No, no. Not with the envelope. I left my purse open, and he saw my gun.”

  “Your gun?”

  “Bruno didn’t tell you? A Glock. I know you probably don’t like me having a gun. I don’t like it either. When this is over … But for now—”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “I admit it, Louis. I am.”

  XLVI

  LORRAINE WAS MORE OR LESS correct in her assessment of her Russian adventure. She had not exactly scared Dimitri, but she had momentarily stymied him. He hadn’t broken into her house and so had missed the false trail—the notes by the phone—that she had left. And he was certainly not about to break into her house now. The FBI, however, had been inside to place cameras and, while doing so, had found the notes she had left with St. John’s Guadeloupe address and phone number, as well as airline information.

  “Hey, Sal, look at this.”

  “What is it?” said Agent Morconi.

  “Airline information and a phone number.”

  “I knew it. And I’ll bet you anything that’s a flight to Guadeloupe. And the number will be Larrimer’s.” They put the slip of paper in a plastic bag and labeled it. A quick search back at the office proved Agent Morconi correct. “Now we’ve got her,” he said.

  Lorraine was radioactive; Dimitri had judged correctly. And Louis, with his CIA connections, whatever they might be, wasn’t much better. They were both to be avoided for the moment. All Dimitri needed was another run-in with the American law. And Feather, the accountant, was dead, which left only Larrimer himself and Gutentag, the vanished trader.

  “I save Larrimer for last,” said Dimitri. Mixed in with his volatile murderous inclinations, Dimitri also had a sense of order that was almost aesthetic. He arranged his various tasks, murder included, like flowers in a bouquet, like the courses of a meal. Killing Larrimer would be the rose among lesser flowers, a big piece of Sacher torte after a sumptuous meal.

  There was also a secret, tender aspect to Dimitri’s personality that gave the hunt for Jeremy Gutentag its own enticements. Dimitri was not married, and no one ever saw him with a woman. “Dimitri is all business,” said his associates. “He is married to business.” But Dimitri was not all business. Whenever he had the time, he flew to Vienna to be with his lover, a pastry chef named Jürgen. Given the way Dimitri conducted business, one could be forgiven for assuming that he would be a brutish and demanding lover. But with Jürgen, Dimitri was as if transformed. His eyes glowed, he smiled, and his entire countenance softened into angelic sweetness. With Jürgen, Dimitri was tender and patient, generous and kind.

  Jürgen, for his part, a handsome dark-skinned boy of thirty-four, adored Dimitri right back, but as a younger man will, with a lingering yearning for the next adventure. Jürgen oversaw pastry production in one of Vienna’s most celebrated coffee house/bakeries. While Jürgen was at work, Dimitri shopped for groceries with which Jürgen produced exquisite meals each evening. Of course every meal ended with the most sumptuous cream-filled pastries or sometimes a Linzer torte or a Sacher torte or some other Viennese confection. Jürgen had recently opened a pastry shop in Paris with Dimitri’s generous support. A New York branch was in the offing. Dimitri and Jürgen were happy together.

  Until they weren’t. Dimitri’s work kept him away from Vienna for longer and longer periods. And Jürgen found someone else. Dimitri was heartbroken, but oddly enough, he was not bitter. He had loved Jürgen unreservedly, and now he wished him well. Instead of vengeance and recrimination toward Jürgen, Dimitri turned his attention to Jeremy Gutentag. He had never met or seen Jeremy. He knew nothing about him. But he had managed to find his picture on the Internet on a site devoted to publicizing the crimes and misdemeanors of Larrimer, Ltd., and on seeing the photo, had been struck dumb. Jeremy, standing with some of his trading room colleagues and smiling at the camera, bore such a striking resemblance to his beloved Jürgen that they might have been twins. Jürgen, whose grandparents had indeed come from Pakistan, assured Dimitri that there was no connection between them.

  Dimitri was now more determined than ever to find Jeremy. Whether to kill him or love him, he did not yet know. Dimitri tried the London School of Economics. The school records were onlin
e, and though they were confidential and password protected, that did not pose a problem. He found Jeremy’s application for admissions, his progress reports and grades, his graduation certificate and letters of recommendation and reference. Of course none of these documents revealed anything about his present whereabouts. They were strangely opaque about his past as well, which Dimitri found noteworthy.

  There was also a personal history with the names of Jeremy’s parents, James and Sophie Gutentag, and the dates of their deaths. Sophie’s maiden name was given as Parker. The reference to their home and shop was vague. No name or street address was given for either. The original application had been made from the Trinity School in Tronklin and that address was given as Jeremy’s home address. An academic counselor, James Wyatt Cheswich, had signed the application alongside the signature of Jeremy Gutentag.

  Armed with only that information, Dimitri set off for London and from London by rental car for Tronklin-on-Wye. It was a rainy day. Fog rose from the fields and woods and cast the Vale of Leadon in silver shrouds. The first thing you saw when you entered the village of Tronklin from the south was the arrangement of timbered buildings that made up the Trinity School. Normally the school would have been crowded with students and teachers, but it was a holiday weekend and the place was mostly deserted.

  The school offices were closed. But Dimitri rang the bell anyway, and when no one came to the door, he rang it again and again. He had come this far, and he was not going away without answers to his many questions. Finally he managed to raise a watchman who, at Dimitri’s insistence, summoned the headmaster.

  It turned out that James Wyatt Cheswich, the counselor who had signed Jeremy’s application, was now the Trinity headmaster. He greeted the visitor who called himself Mr. Smith with some trepidation. Mr. Smith was a powerfully built man with cold, narrow eyes and a chilly smile. He seemed indifferent to the rain soaking through his expensive suit. Sensing the headmaster’s discomfort, Dimitri smiled harder and assured Mr. Chasswick, as he pronounced it, that his purpose in coming was entirely benevolent. He was there, he said, to establish a scholarship fund so that two deserving underprivileged boys might be able to attend the Trinity School every year. Mr. Cheswich had no choice but to invite him inside.