“Mister McKnight!” a young woman’s voice called from the door. “Your colleague said that you needed your shirt and suit ironed before you leave. He’s expecting you in the rooftop bar O2 in half an hour.”
“One minute!” Stanley muttered, pulling on the hotel bathrobe.
His suit and shirt came back pressed before he’d even finished drinking a can of soda from the minibar.
“You see—that’s the efficiency you get in a country advanced enough to compete in the space race! Here, this is for moving so quickly,” Stanley said as he handed her a dollar.
He found Lagrange in his usual state; sprawled on a sofa by the bar, sipping Scotch and discussing the morning’s murder with the bartender. This seemed to be the major news of the day in Russia. Judging from the bartender’s expression of polite boredom, he didn’t give a damn about either the deceased champion of a better, democratic future for Russia or this talkative Frenchman.
Pierre saw McKnight and waved him over, pulling himself out of the sofa’s embrace.
“You look great, Stan!” bellowed Lagrange. Everyone in the bar turned to see what the fuss was about. Even the bartender woke up a little and gave Stanley a thumbs-up as if to say—looking good.
“Where’s Bernard?”
“He’s staying here. He needs to finish the presentation on structured products by tomorrow morning.”
Chapter 3
The bankers left the hotel and turned onto Tverskaya Street, walking a couple blocks before they hit Tverskoy Boulevard. They found the restaurant, Hannibal, tucked away down a side street, in a building that looked like a big white cake. On the way, Lagrange, bolstered by the several whiskies that he had chased with a pint of unfiltered beer, told the story of how he and Durand had studied together at the Panthéon-Sorbonne University, also known as Paris I.
“He was the only one of our friends who wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth. His father was a simple postal worker. His dad went to work every morning, came back home, and drank his wine in front of the television, and all of a sudden it turned out that Robert had gotten the highest grade out of any high school student that year in the entire department of Rhône! His dad had thought his boy would follow in his footsteps, become the head of the post office maybe. But people had already taken notice of Robert; he received personalized letters of admission and guaranteed stipends. His dad couldn’t take it. Became a drunk. Imagine: a father jealous of his own son! And Robert became the top student in our class.”
Lagrange was eyeing a pretty girl. Sensing something, she turned around, and he winked at her, throwing her a fingertip kiss.
“The law firm Langer & Schwartz took an interest in Robert when he was still at university, and now he’s a managing partner. He could have gone further, but he moved to Moscow in the mid-nineties and started learning Russian.”
“Just like that?” asked Stanley.
“What, the move?”
“The interest in Russian.”
“Well, I’m telling you: he came from a dreary provincial family. A game of ball every Sunday. He wanted more. As for why he started learning Russian, no one knows. Maybe he fell in love with a Russian girl. In any case, he became indispensable to some Russian oligarchs, managing their mergers and acquisitions, their initial public offerings in London and New York. Basically, he helped the Russians neatly package up their stolen—pardon me, privatized—assets at home for sale abroad.” He paused again. “Or maybe we should say for legalization by hungry foreign investors.” Lagrange chuckled. “Durand consults for us, attracting Russian clients. For example, a rich businessman from Moscow wants to sell his oil business to some Americans, and Durand gives him advice on where to stash the money from the sale. Why not put it in the safest bank in the world at the recommendation of your smart lawyer? Have you guessed that bank, Stanley?”
“I may have an idea.”
“Very good. You’re a quick one, for an American! We pay Durand fifty percent of the bank’s revenue for each client.”
“Not bad!” Stanley whistled.
“Not bad at all! My annual bonus is half that. Ah, here we are!”
Robert Durand was waiting for them on the second floor of the restaurant. He was a tall, slightly stooped man of about fifty, with a large, hooked nose. He looks like a scholarly crow, thought Stanley as he extended his hand to shake. The kind that wouldn’t hesitate to peck my eyes out.
He introduced himself to McKnight and then waved his hands like an orchestra conductor, sending off the two waiters standing nearby. He leaned over to his guests and said, “I always reserve the table between the globe and the two bookshelves. It makes me feel like a well-read traveler.”
Lagrange let out a loud, forced laughed.
“Robert is quite the comedian,” he told Stanley. “But he actually needs the globe to figure out where he is after he drinks his favorite vodka here.”
Just then, the waiters set down vodka in potbellied decanters, beaded with perspiration, along with special faceted shot glasses that Durand called lafitniks. They were covered with a layer of frost.
“It’s a Russian tradition,” said Durand. “You have to drink vodka out of frozen glasses. That’s the only way!”
Lagrange snorted.
“Don’t argue with him, Stanley! He’s been hanging around Moscow for over twenty years; he knows all the local ways and customs. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have such a stream of Russian clients.”
“I hope you’re not trying to be sarcastic, old man?” Robert donned a pair of rimless glasses and examined Lagrange through the thin lenses, raising an eyebrow.
“What are you talking about? You’re always in our prayers. And so, I propose we drink the first toast to my friend Robert Durand, thanks to whom our bank consistently has one of the largest collections of Russian billionaires.” Lagrange raised his glass.
Robert smiled at Stanley, and nodded to Lagrange.
“You can tell right away when someone doesn’t spend much time in Russia, right, Stanley? We clink our glasses here. Cli-i-nk!” Robert trilled.
“Not just clink glasses, but give long toasts too,” Stanley added.
“I’ll pass on that, thanks,” Durand replied. “That’s an art known only to native Russians. I just can’t do it. If worse comes to worse, I can retell a fable by La Fontaine. They have their own favorite writer of fables here, but I can’t remember his name…but!” Robert raised his long, knobby finger. “I have a surprise for you! We’ve got some real Russians coming, and they’ll teach us anything we want to know.”
“Oh la la! Robert, I’ve got the feeling you’re up to no good,” laughed Lagrange.
“What do you mean, dear fellow? I’m not what I used to be. Even if I get up to mischief, I do it quietly and calmly, without scenes or police involvement. Especially since this is a restaurant where you’re supposed to be on your best behavior. The Russians consider it a respectable place. They come here to feel like aristocrats.” Durand couldn’t hold back a smirk, and leaned in for a whispered exchange in French with Lagrange.
Stanley looked around the room. The interior was decorated in a nineteenth-century style: heavy oak furniture, wooden paneling on the walls, cabinets of walnut and rosewood. The faded gold lettering on the spines of old books glittered from bookshelves. Tripods with telescopes and brass navigational instruments stood here and there throughout the room.
He wondered what message the interior decorators had been trying to send with all this.
Durand patted Lagrange on the shoulder, then he seemed to recall something and switched into English, nodding toward Stanley.
“So, my friends, let us raise our glasses to a toast the Russians love—to your health!”
He said the last sentence in Russian, attracting the attention of the waiters, who smiled understandingly. Robert was turning out to be more of a ha
ndful than Lagrange. The vodka was spreading pleasantly throughout Stanley’s body, and he was laughing a little, watching this duo.
“I always said that Russian vodka is the best drink in the world,” pronounced Lagrange, biting into a small pickle.
“Shame on you, Pierre. What about your own Swiss kirsch? Cherry, pear, apple kirsch? Aren’t you a true Swiss patriot these days?”
“I don’t like the fruity flavors,” Lagrange replied.
“And you, young man?” Robert turned to Stanley. “Are you also a fan of Russian vodka?”
“I prefer whiskey.”
“That’s because he’s an American,” Lagrange cut in, already quite drunk. “You know how they only drink that bourbon.”
“I prefer Scottish malts, actually,” said Stanley with a laugh, recalling how much Scotch Lagrange had downed on their journey from Zurich to Moscow.
“How could you spend a semester here in college without anybody teaching you how to drink Russian vodka, Stan?”
“They tried. But not successfully.” Stanley gave an apologetic smile. “Vodka can be hard on a man.”
He reached for the decanter, but the waiter got there first, filling Stanley’s glass with a quick turn of the wrist. He set the decanter down and took a step back from the table, where he froze in place, ready for whatever his foreign guests should require.
“Sorry, what is this vodka?” Stanley turned to ask him.
“Traditional Russian vodka, sir,” the waiter said, inclining his head. “We’ve got two sorts of vodka: rectified and distilled, that is, made according to time-tested Russian techniques.”
“And we’re drinking…”
“Distilled, of course. You’re drinking classic Russian vodka, sir. I recommend it with this beluga sturgeon. Can I serve you some?”
“Please.”
After his sixth glass, which Stanley paired with Caspian herring and cold new potatoes, turnovers with viziga, the dried spinal cords of fish, and the traditional Olivier salad, they were served hot appetizers—mushroom julienne and large plates with hot baked potatoes split in half and covered with mounds of beluga caviar.
“I’ve never seen this much caviar in my life,” Stanley admitted and nodded his approval at the hovering waiter, who filled his glass, while the second waiter did the same for Lagrange and Durand. “Do our Russian clients eat like this every day?” Stanley asked Lagrange.
“Ask him,” said Lagrange, pointing with his fork at Durand. “He knows them better. We know their banking histories, but he knows their secret lives.”
“Not every day, no,” Durand replied. “Many of them suffer from some kind of illness, take medication for high cholesterol, get liver or kidney transplants. The majority are in poor health. Making big money in Russia is bad for you. Exciting, though!”
“It requires every ounce of your energy. Emotional and physical.” Lagrange relaxed against the high back of his chair. “Our new client…”
“Gagarin.” Durand picked up the conversational baton. “Our new client is named Viktor Gagarin. Shares a last name with the first cosmonaut. But the space-traveling Gagarin was from the working class, and this Viktor likes to hint that he is descended from an aristocratic lineage. He adores meat, very rare, very spicy. I have it from trusted sources that if you add vodka to a meal like that, Gagarin often ends up hooked to an IV. The doctors work miracles on him.”
“But his wealth grows by the day,” said Lagrange, popping a potato half topped with caviar into his mouth.
“Forbes estimates his worth at $12 billion.” Durand swallowed a spoonful of the julienne, and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“I think it’s more than that,” Lagrange said. “A lot more. I heard that he’s got over six billion in UBS alone.”
“But how!” Stanley poured himself a glass of the cranberry drink and took a sip, savoring the delicious mix of caviar and cranberry seeds on his tongue. “How do you acquire that kind of wealth?”
Durand and Lagrange exchanged a look.
“Only a private banker who’s had a lot of Russian vodka to drink could ask that,” Lagrange replied. “A forgivable, one-time mistake.”
“He started out like everyone. At a ‘scientific-and-technical creative youth association,’ I think that’s what they were calling them in the late eighties.” Durand signaled the waiter to bring the main course. “Under the wing of the Komsomol, the Soviet youth organization under the control of the KGB. Gagarin started out small, grew, developed. He told me about his big business after the fall of the USSR—setting up the delivery of Soviet machine tools to Denmark through Estonia. And he had little trouble getting permission, of course. The people who approved it just couldn’t understand what the Danes wanted with old Soviet machine tools? It turns out he wasn’t delivering machine tools, but the metal chips filling the containers for the machine tools.”
“So, what did the Danes need with metal chips?” asked Stanley.
“Well, first of all, neither the machine tools nor the metal chips reached the Danes. The machine tools were sent off to be scrapped as soon as they crossed the border, but the chips were actually from expensive nonferrous metals. He made his first million on that.”
“It’s a dangerous business as well,” Lagrange added. “Someone once tried to blow Gagarin up, along with his limousine.”
“Damn, really?” Stanley drank his vodka, no longer feeling its strength.
“A sniper’s shot at him, he almost got stabbed in a resort in Spain, and someone set up a car accident in Italy,” Durand listed. “He lost three fingers on his right hand. How it happened, we don’t know. Rumor has it that he ran into some trouble while vacationing in Como.”
“Our client has a definite tendency towards violence,” Lagrange went on. “There was a story in the media that he had been accused of kidnapping two underage models in the early nineties. Allegedly, he kept them locked up in his country house, where he and his buddies spent several days sexually assaulting them.”
“I don’t believe it!” Stanley exclaimed. “No way is our compliance department going to approve an account for him!”
“They already have,” said Lagrange, casting a thoughtful gaze up to the ceiling. “They spent all of one day on KYC.”
“Pierre, your new banker is too naive for Russia.”
“Give him time, Robert. He’ll learn,” Lagrange said with a laugh.
“This story never attracted the attention of the police? How did he escape arrest?” Stanley couldn’t let it go.
“He who has enough money cannot be punished!” Lagrange was now completely drunk. He raised his pointer finger in the air and began swinging it back and forth in front of Stanley’s face. “That’s what they said in ancient Rome! And it’s even truer in Russia.”
“And anyway,” Durand interrupted, “it’s impossible to live an honest life in Russia. You can’t earn money honestly—their damned system of laws is arranged so that you can’t avoid breaking them. As a lawyer, trust me. In Russia, where everyone is guilty, the only real crime is getting caught. And a select few don’t even have to worry about that!”
“In the world of Russian thieves…” Lagrange paused. “Sorry—in the world of Russian oligarchs, the only mortal sin is stupidity.”
“What does stupidity look like to them?” asked Stanley.
“Simple.” Lagrange cut off a slice of venison, slathered it with horseradish, and stuffed it into his mouth. “Stupidity is not being a loyal servant to the state or not being ready to give everything up as soon as you’re asked. Everything else is permitted.”
“That’s it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Gagarin’s first wife, the winner of a national beauty pageant, disappeared without a trace in 1995. She left their son behind; he’s now a student in London. Viktor just might have had something to do with her
disappearance. His second wife died of a heart attack. At the age of twenty-five. Strange, no?”
“A drug overdose?”
“Possibly. He’s a fickle lover. But nothing was ever proven. Speaking of which, a journalist who was investigating Gagarin’s personal life also disappeared in the nineties.”
“You don’t think he could have just gotten tired of his wife?” Durand smiled and peered at Lagrange over the top of his glasses. “Happens to the best of us!”
“La Barbe Bleue.” Lagrange shrugged. “His third wife is the daughter of a high-ranking official with close ties to the former prime minister of Russia—a good match. He launched from the planet of millionaires into the orbit of billionaires! All thanks to his marriage.”
“And where has the new wife gone? Also to the grave?”
“I told you she has a serious family. If he hurt her, he’s the one who could end up in a coffin,” Durand said, lighting up a cigarette.
“Get used to it, Stanley. Business is so closely connected with the state here that it can be hard to tell where private interests end and where state interests begin.”
“What’s hard about it?” Lagrange snorted. “Don’t confuse the naive American! Everything in Russia is about private interest. It’s just disguised by the state. Very poorly disguised, I have to say.”
Chapter 4
Dishes began to cover the table before them: rabbit with mushrooms, breaded chicken cutlets, baked grouse, sturgeon, a braised side of lamb. Durand asked the waiters to leave them, and poured the vodka himself.
“I ordered all this ahead of time,” he said, looking over the table. “You have to discuss your meal with the chef first, except for the cutlets. They assured me that this rabbit was running through the fields just yesterday.”
“Game should hang for a while,” Stanley noted.
“That’s right,” agreed Lagrange. “How do you know that, Stan?”
“I used to hunt with my grandfather. I was a pretty good shot.”
The Banker Who Died Page 3
