The Banker Who Died

by Matthew A Carter

  The bartender nodded approvingly.

  “Are we going to ride in the café car?” Stanley asked, looking around. Aside from him and Pierre, there was a large group of Asian tourists. The neatly dressed, elderly Japanese crowd looked at their tablets and out the windows as directed by their guide. The leader of the group was a young woman with European features, and McKnight was impressed at her command of the Japanese language. He had looked into studying an Asian language in college, but hadn’t had the patience.

  “No,” answered Lagrange. “We’ll go to the car once you get your coffee. We don’t have far to go, but the scenery along the way is unique.” He smiled at the bartender, and added in a whisper, “I’m already sick to death of it, myself. I prefer a clear maritime horizon…and the Caribbean Sea…preferably without yachts, which are going to ruin our whole day today.”

  The conversation naturally turned to their upcoming meeting.

  They headed to one of the first-class cars, where no tourist groups were to be found, and McKnight and Lagrange sat down to continue their conversation. The train began to pick up speed, and the promised scenery merged into a flickering, multicolored blur.

  “I’ll tell you what distinguishes Swiss banks from other banks,” began Pierre, filling his glass of mineral water with ice. The attentive bartender had given him a separate glass of ice cubes to take along. “Despite their many similarities. Privacy, for example.”

  “Isn’t privacy good in our business?” asked McKnight.

  “Privacy is great,” confirmed Lagrange, and looked down at his glass in surprise. It was clear he had expected, out of habit, to find an entirely different liquid there. “I wanted to say something else. Each bank has their own specialty. What do you think Laville & Cie’s is?”

  Laundering dirty money, thought Stanley to himself, but instead said, “Confidentiality and a special relationship with clients.”

  “Hm, let’s say a certain flexibility of thought in our leadership. What has made Swiss banks so famous?”

  “Bank secrecy, of course.”

  “Right. But there are many other banking institutions that will hide your money and keep your secrets. In Latin America, for example, or the Caribbean islands, particularly the Caymans and Belize.”

  “Perhaps, but it’s more difficult these days. I think the Chinese banks are gaining power, and they don’t care about the US Department of Justice!”

  “You’re thinking along the right lines, my cunning American friend. Switzerland’s uniqueness lies in the fact that while they operate like every other offshore jurisdiction, the country has a stable economy. Where else in the world can you hide your money in the twenty-first century, and be completely confident that your bank won’t go bankrupt one fine day? Plus, the Swiss are good marketers—they know how to create a national brand. Although I have to say that the talk about Swiss quality is highly exaggerated. Their chocolate is shit, and their watches break!” Lagrange said, angrily tapping at his wristwatch.

  “I do agree that Sprüngli has the worst chocolate I’ve ever had.”

  “Excellent, Stanley, you see where I’m going. PR is more important than anything else. The truth is, Swiss banks ceased to be of interest when they lost the right to bank secrecy. Look around you—all these countries have signed an agreement to exchange information about bank deposits. The world is growing ever more transparent, so where is the advantage of Swiss banks? There isn’t one!”

  “But our bank is still going strong, no?”

  “Answer me one question, Stanley: What advantage does a Swiss bank have, if clients don’t have a reliable way to hide their money from prying eyes? Why bother depositing your money in Zurich, where bankers take two-hour lunches and write letters in German full of typos? A potential client from Germany could cross the street from his house in his home country and open an account in Deutsche Bank there; it would be a lot simpler and at half the cost. The gnomes of Zurich are just going along, thinking that their century-long banking party will just continue forever. But no! The party has been over for a long time, and nobody wants Switzerland without bank secrecy.”

  “So maybe I made a bad move, joining this bank?” Stanley said with a laugh.

  “I think this fairy tale of the mighty Swiss banks has about ten years left to live. Twenty, maximum. By the way, it’s clients from Russia and the former USSR who believe in this lovely fairy tale most of all. To them, the name of Laville is a symbol of the right kind of European life. A synonym of capitalism. The roots of that idea probably go back to the Soviet Union, when they told everybody that the Rothschilds, Rockefellers, and Lavilles were the main enemies of communism, about the same as Coca-Cola,” Lagrange said with a laugh. “Well, that kind of propaganda is the best advertising! It’s embedded deep in the Russian brain that Laville equals capitalism, equals money. Imagine a slow-witted, fat bureaucrat in Moscow or a high-ranking manager from Gazprom who stole a billion dollars from the Russian state budget—where is he going to take that money? Where will he hide it? Only with Laville.”

  “But according to your pessimistic outlook, Swiss banks are doomed.”

  Lagrange paused and loosened his tie a touch.

  “Of course, they’re doomed. Sooner or later, the clients will realize that either American, German, or Singaporean banks, or, like you suggested, Chinese banks, are no worse than the Swiss. But as I said, my friend, we have time to squeeze as much money as possible from these stupid wooden Pinocchios.”

  “And how much time do we have?”

  “At least five years; time to earn enough for retirement.” Lagrange smiled and tightened his tie back into place.

  “Not that much time.”

  “Enough to put together a nice little nest egg and enjoy life. You just have to listen to everything I tell you. So says Lagrange!”

  McKnight shrugged and nodded his head in acceptance.

  “You’re going to meet Laville today. It just so happened that you were hired while he was recovering after a series of surgeries. It may have looked like I was the one who hired you, but I think you know that isn’t so. Laville chose you and approved you.”

  And blessed me on his way down to the grave, thought Stanley, remembering a stray line from some Russian poem.

  “Sure,” he said aloud, “I know that.”

  “Hush! Laville, you understand, knows more about you than you do. And he could tell you a great many of our bank’s dirty secrets. But the average citizen, i.e., client, doesn’t doubt for a second that our financial specialists are the purest and most law-abiding bankers in the world. Purer than a child’s tears.” Lagrange squared his shoulders and smiled. “But I’m not particularly outraged about this large-scale hypocrisy. I’m the same. I didn’t make up the rules of this game, and it’s not for me to change them. Not that anyone else is trying to, either. For what? The current situation suits everyone just fine. It’s like the Swiss railways. Everything operates in accordance with a timetable, which everyone can read up on the board. Everything is clean and smells good. The staff smile at you and are ready to help. Even if you’re a brainless idiot who can’t figure out what track your train is leaving from, they’ll take you by the arm and lead you to the right window. I’m talking about our clients, our average, everyday clients.”

  At that, Lagrange paused, pressing his mouth into a thin line. He clearly had more to say on this topic, but it looked like he wasn’t going to share those thoughts.

  “Pierre,” began McKnight cautiously, “that’s all clear. But why are you telling me all this? The less you know, the better you sleep. I stay within my sphere, doing the job I am assigned. And I’m just as aware of my career prospects as you are. I don’t believe in lotteries or lucky tickets. I’m a gloomy realist.”

  Lagrange didn’t answer right away. As if just noticing the bright sunshine outside, he pulled the curtain across the window. The fe
atures of his face, now in shadow, looked rougher, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced. He opened his briefcase and dug around, pulling out a pair of sunglasses. He put them on and asked McKnight, “Do you think it looks foolish when aging playboys try to dress young?”

  “Only if they feel that way themselves. But if they’re confident, it works fine.”

  “You’re wise, Stanley,” Pierre smiled broadly, and his face looked younger again. “And that can’t be taught. So thank God that he gave you the talent of perception. But not everybody likes that. Gagarin does, because you see the person behind all of his masks. While Biryuza, as far as I could tell, would cheerfully murder you. Just because you saw him for who he is, a hypocrite and opportunist. After all of ten minutes. That’s a valuable skill. So my advice to you—do a better job hiding your emotions. Keep a modest, reserved smile on your face and an eye on the sleeping dog.”

  Stanley had been listening to Pierre’s thoughts on life with half an ear, but the last phrase brought him up short.

  “What dog?”

  “It’s a psychological trick. Popular with poker players. If you want to maintain a calm facial expression, watch a sleeping dog in your head while you’re playing. Observe carefully whether it is getting ready to wake up. It doesn’t have to be a dog, though. You can come up with something else”

  “The corpse of an enemy floating past me down the river?” McKnight suggested gloomily. “But I don’t have any enemies.”

  “You’re living a boring life, friend!” replied Lagrange. “It’s high time you got some. The world will come alive for you. As a matter of fact, if we talk Gagarin into choosing us today, you’ll be in disfavor with a couple of people right away. And they’ll be easy to turn into enemies. They’ll do it on their own.”

  A voice announced in French over the loudspeaker that they were approaching Geneva.

  “That’s the main benefit of living in a tiny country,” said Pierre, taking off his glasses and examining his face carefully in the glass of the window. “You get to where you’re going before a pleasant and meaningful conversation has time to descend into dull, empty chatter.”

  McKnight nodded. He didn’t find his boss’s quips funny; he was sure this wasn’t the first time they’d been told.

  Chapter 12

  The headquarters of the bank were situated in a mansion in a quiet, respectable district of Geneva, on the Rue de la Corraterie.

  On the way, Lagrange asked the taxi driver to make a short loop around so that he could show McKnight the Cathedral of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, a Russian Orthodox church.

  “Do you see that Mercedes escort out front? That’s Gagarin and his retinue buying candles,” said Lagrange. “Our client is a very pious man, has his own personal confessor, donates millions of dollars to Orthodox churches. I’ve noticed that the more people steal from Russia, the more they pray. You’re not Russian Orthodox, are you?”

  “No. My father’s side of the family was all Presbyterian, but I’m not very religious.”

  “You’ve got the right idea! Our religion is money,” Lagrange said with a laugh and folded his hands into a gesture of prayer. “That place of worship there”—Lagrange pointed out the window—“is St. Peter’s Cathedral. The locals like to listen to the chimes playing the anthem of Geneva at midnight. At least they don’t play at six in the morning.”

  When Pierre and Stanley arrived, they had half an hour before lunch. Both Laville and Gagarin were expected to arrive on time.

  Laville & Cie was tucked away inside the neighborhood, next to fashionable shops and famous watch workshops. The bank sat a bit back from the street itself, hidden behind a large front garden. There were no plaques or signs, just a grand mansion, concealed from prying eyes by the leaves of plane trees, a colonnade, and a pediment with a bas-relief depicting the rape of the Sabine women. Stanley recognized the scene immediately.

  “Don’t tell me you studied art history? And classical mythology?” asked Lagrange in surprise. “You’re the first educated American I’ve ever met.”

  “I did. My head is full of all kinds of information, Pierre, if you can believe it.”

  “And so?”

  “I’ll tell you, without false modesty, I can even sort through it and apply it as needed.”

  “I could give you a little tour of our headquarters, Stan,” said Lagrange. “It’s both an office and something of a museum. Pretty much nothing has changed since the end of the nineteenth century. But we’d be dying of boredom before we even got off the second floor. And I have to admit that I got all these endless architects, sculptors, and artists mixed up in my head a long time ago. However, I can tell you about the casino fire on Lake Geneva in December 1971 in Montreux. Yes, that fire. The one they wrote that great song about. I was there at that crazy guy’s concert. So let’s go into the garden. There’s a rose garden, a bunch of gazebos. A good place to have a quiet cigarette. I could use a drink, of course. But we’ll have to wait on that.”

  The garden was, indeed, lovely. The sounds of the city were muted here, and unseen birds sang in the honeysuckle bushes. They found wicker chairs in a gazebo so covered with climbing roses that it was indistinguishable from a distance. Holding out his pack of cigarettes to Stanley, Pierre said, “It’s good that no one passing by can see this little paradise. It would be one more reason for people to envy ‘those shady bankers.’ And they don’t have much love for us as it is.”

  McKnight pondered for a moment, taking the proffered cigarette automatically. The upcoming negotiations didn’t worry him too much. He was sure that he was perfectly prepared. Moreover, he and Barbara had put together two backup proposals to regulate interest on the loan, so they had room to maneuver if Gagarin dug in his heels.

  Lagrange flicked his lighter, and Stanley drew in the aromatic smoke, feeling briefly dizzy. He hadn’t smoked since Moscow.

  “Won’t they be wondering where we are?” he asked.

  “With the staff they have here? They know every move you make.”

  As if in confirmation of his words, a young blond woman in a severe pantsuit appeared on the threshold of the gazebo. Murmuring an apology in barely audible French, she put two crystal ashtrays bearing the bank’s logo on the table in front of them.

  “Can I bring you anything?” she asked. Then, turning to McKnight, she repeated the question in English. “They will be expecting you in twelve minutes in the main reception room on the top floor.”

  “No, thank you, we’re fine,” Lagrange said.

  When she was gone, he went on, “Your last name threw her off, so she spoke to you in English just to make sure. They earn good money here and value their jobs. But every couple of years someone gets tempted into spying for our competitors. Which, you understand, is completely pointless with our current methods of electronic security.”

  A young man came out onto a third-floor balcony and rang a bell.

  “Hear that, Stan? That’s our invitation to join the meeting. How do you feel? Ready for battle?”

  “Are we expecting a battle?” asked McKnight. “I was expecting a nice lunch.”

  “In these kinds of meetings, the situation can turn on a dime, and you’ll be left choking on the bite you just took,” said Pierre as they ascended the stairs. “But for now, I’ll acquaint you with another of our local attractions. We’re going to the fifth floor, and we’ll be taking the elevator, which is almost a hundred years old. I think it’s the only thing in the building that’s been modernized at all. It was initially hand-operated—so they say.”

  The first person Stanley and Pierre saw when they got off the elevator on the fifth floor was Jean-Michel Laville, owner of Laville & Cie.

  No clue as to his identity was needed. Lagrange cut quite an impressive and dignified figure, it was true, but Laville far outstripped him in respectability and stateliness.


  He stood in the hall, adjusting his bow tie in front of a mirror. Even his gray hair and elegant mustache seemed to possess a special silver sheen. The outer corners of his blue eyes were significantly lower than the inner ones, giving a slightly melancholy cast to his long, noble face. Stanley wondered what illness could be troubling this aristocrat, whose family had founded Laville & Cie nearly a hundred and forty years ago. Cancer? He recalled Barbara telling him that the sixty-five-year-old Laville had recently left his former wife, twenty-five years his junior, and married a nineteen-year-old beauty. She wasn’t a model or pop singer, however, but an archaeology student. Jean-Michel Laville received rejuvenating treatments from the best doctors—he wanted to make his young wife a mother, and probably more than once (he had at least two children with each of his former wives). This time, however, things apparently hadn’t worked out for him, and the archaeology student hadn’t yet managed to conceive. But the bank owner had an athletic figure, and certainly didn’t look his age, with his broad shoulders and straight back. He saw Stanley and Pierre in the mirror and turned, greeting them with a barely perceptible nod. With another, similar nod, he invited them to follow.

  “I’ve heard good things about you, young man,” he said to McKnight. “Let us see how you do in action. I would like you to handle the business part of the conversation with our Russian client. Pierre is an excellent negotiator, but for some reason he and Gagarin seem to get sidetracked on irrelevant topics, and then it seems like we’re on a golf course instead of at a business meeting.” He looked over to Lagrange. “No offense, Pierre. You know how much I value you. But I want to let our colleague try his hand today.”

  They entered a high-ceilinged room, where waiters moved soundlessly around a table laid out for lunch. The moment they came in, another set of doors at the other end of the room swung open, and their guests entered the room.