The Banker Who Died

by Matthew A Carter

  “By the way, Polina, where has Mila gone off to? Our Viktor is going to get out of hand now, and who will calm him down?” Krapiva asked his wife with a strained smile.

  McKnight tensed. That Mila was somewhere nearby. He imagined it and broke out into a cold sweat. He downed another glass of vodka. This would be worse than any bullet from Shamil.

  Polina looked up at her husband, barely concealed contempt in her gaze.

  An awkward pause fell over the table. They could hear the Pekinese grumbling and the crackling of melting ice in the champagne buckets. Biryuza bit his lip and watched his boss, ready to come to his aid, to stop this risky conversation from going any further.

  Polina got up and walked over to the table, picking a piece of cheese off a plate and giving it to her dog. She began speaking, but to Gagarin, not to her husband.

  “We were already on our way back from Viareggio. Of course, everything those people promised us over the phone, they didn’t deliver. No vintage, just ordinary modern stuff. We were coming back, and then of course, just like always.”

  “What happened?” mumbled Gagarin.

  For the second time, it seemed to Stanley that for the fraction of a second there was something hard, mocking, and absolutely sober, in his gaze—it wasn’t an expression, exactly, not a feeling, but a shadow, or a flash of light. And then his face went slack again, his mouth parted slightly, and his eyes dimmed.

  “Mila left her purse in that stupid salon. I said, let’s send Shamil. He can get it. No, she said, I’ll go myself. And she went. And there’s traffic. So she’s on her way. And there’s no mobile connection here.”

  All Stanley understood from this confusing tale was that there was some kind of complicated family fight going on here.

  But Gagarin put it all to rest.

  “She’s a big girl. She’ll figure it out,” he said.

  Everyone sighed in relief, and Viktor went on sharing his thoughts.

  “So they go…”

  “Who goes, Viktor?” sighed Polina.

  “The Russian people!” Gagarin barked irritably. “Damned zombies go, heads held high, to their voting booths and vote for our president, the scumbag. What’s the point? We need a monarch. Most Russians are too stupid to know how stupid they are. That’s what holds our society together.”

  Stanley wanted to interject that he had recently wanted the guy he was now calling a scumbag to be an absolute monarch, but he refrained.

  “Here’s what you need to do with these people, to make them more obedient. I’ll tell you what you need.” Gagarin looked around the table again. “Russians are slaves at heart. And it is the nature of a slave to always test others, for example, his superior—is he a slave too? The first thing a Russian will do is try to hurt you, humiliate you, and if you manage to stop him, if you show strength, he’ll immediately grow docile. There are only two possible realities in his head: either you’re a slave, or I’m a slave.”

  “And what are you, Viktor?” Krapiva asked indifferently, smoking a cigar.

  “I’m somewhere in the middle. Me and you, Krapiva, need a kind and just master, but one who shows the rest”—Gagarin waved in the direction of the outside world—“the crude, worthless, and lazy people, that he’s keeping everyone in check. Chekhov put the pathos on a bit thick here.”

  At that, Gagarin shook his head, as shaking off unwanted thoughts, and commanded, “All of you look too sober. Everybody have a drink!”

  The waiters hurried around the table bringing small plates, and bottles of vodka and cognac appeared.

  “Stan!” called Gagarin. “Come with me. There’s a little balcony over here, I’ll show you the harbor. My yacht’s there as well, but I’m sick of it, to be honest. I’ll build a new one with your help. The size of a football field. Or bigger. Wouldn’t be a bad idea to get a football team to go with it.”

  Gagarin got up, stumbling a bit, and waved McKnight along. There was, indeed, a small balcony in a corner of the veranda with a view of the sea. Gagarin leaned heavily on the railing, took out a pack of Rodina cigarettes, and offered one to Stanley.

  “Have a smoke!”

  Stanley hesitated, but didn’t want to refuse, seeing the condition his client was in. He lit up the filterless cigarette and felt his head spin as he pulled the minty smoke into his lungs.

  “Don’t mind the fact that I’ve had a bit to drink,” Viktor said, drawing out the word. “The situation is under control. I just like to wake them up, keep everyone on their toes. You’re on your toes, I can see.” He smiled. “You’re always focused, like the sights of a gun. But Biryuza is also focused. On something else, though. He’s building a career. He’ll follow me through fire and water, no questions. The only thing is, at the end of the tunnel, he sees himself in my position. I won’t live forever, and all that. You’re different. You’re more interested in the process than the goal. That’s an entirely different characteristic. That’s why I like you. But business is for tomorrow. Now let’s finish our cigarettes, have another drink, and relax. Just don’t drive after drinking. They’re strict about that here. One of the guards will take you back.”

  But Stanley wasn’t listening closely to the drunk oligarch. He had one thought running through his mind—would he still be here when Mila returned?

  “You’re a little distracted, McKnight!” Viktor said. “Are you worried about the contract? No need. Tomorrow, ten AM, it’ll be right here,” he said, pointing at the table. “Signed and confirmed by me personally. Biryuza!”

  Anton approached.

  “Yes, boss?”

  “Get a driver to take our guest to his hotel.”

  “Done.”

  Biryuza led Stanley to his car, where a young man was already sitting behind the wheel, a local Italian from the restaurant staff.

  “Come to the villa tomorrow, you know the time,” Biryuza told Stanley. “You’ll get your papers and go back to Zurich. And try not to come around again. I don’t know why he likes to talk to you. Not my business. But I know something else. If he doesn’t meet you tomorrow morning, there’ll be one less reason to continue drinking. Got it?”

  McKnight tiredly nodded and mumbled in Russian.

  “Didn’t really want to.”

  “What was that?” Biryuza snapped.

  “Why won’t you all just let me be!” asked Stanley. “I’m here for work. And I hope this is the last time I ever see your crooked face. Have a nice life! Let’s go, guidatore!”

  Biryuza spit on the ground, turned on his heel like a soldier in a parade march, and headed back.

  On the road heading into the center of town, the driver slowed down and said to Stanley in broken English,

  “A woman named Polina came to me. She gives you words of her amica Emila.”

  “Mila?” cried Stanley.

  “Si!” the Italian smiled broadly. “She said that tomorrow at the villa she wants her first wish.”

  “God damn it!” Stanley swore in Russian.

  He was in trouble. And the harder he tried to avoid dangerous adventures, the faster they came at him. As if a current had picked him up and was taking him, against his will, out into the open sea.

  The Italian driver saw the expression on his passenger’s face, and his smile slowly disappeared. He whispered quietly, “Oh mio Dio.”

  Chapter 15

  The next morning, McKnight was just about to run down to the beach and have a swim to clear his head when the telephone calls began.

  A worried Lagrange called first, asking him in detail about his meeting with Gagarin. Biryuza was next; he was expected at the villa at noon. He apologized on behalf of Gagarin, explaining that he had been called away on an urgent matter, and it wasn’t clear when he’d be back. Stanley was happy to hear it. Things would be straightforward with Biryuza—he could go, get the briefcase, and goodbye.


  He decided then that he would make no attempt to see Mila. No sense in risking his entire career, which was just starting to take an upward trajectory. He would let his fantasies remain just that.

  If he was expected at noon, Mila was probably aware of the appointment, McKnight thought. If he arrived half an hour early, she would, like any other woman, be busy getting her appearance “combat ready.” In her absence, he would get the documents, apologize for being so unforgivably early, and leave Milan as soon as possible for the airport. It would be nice to take advantage of the trip and go on a leisurely drive up the coast in his Ferrari, but no matter. Life was long, and there would be another time.

  There was still plenty of time before noon, and McKnight took a slow drive all around the resort town to plan his exit after visiting the villa.

  Despite it’s being peak tourist season, and yesterday’s talk of traffic jams, Forte dei Marmi looked deserted to Stanley. Waiters loitered on the verandas of restaurants, waving hopefully as the Ferrari motored by. There were few guests.

  Only after parking at one of the cafés did Stanley realize why the streets were so empty—the sun beat down on him mercilessly when he emerged from his car. He felt the asphalt gently spring beneath his feet, and the cicadas made a deafening chorus in the pines and fir trees all around.

  He had a double espresso in the café and devoured a plate of scrambled eggs, two sausages, and crisp bacon. He checked his watch: time to go.

  As planned, Stanley pulled up to the villa half an hour before noon.

  Past the automatic gate, he was met by a guard, who glanced at his license plate, said something into his radio, and directed Stanley toward the parking area, where several cars were already lined up under a tent.

  McKnight parked and got out of the Ferrari to see an electric car approaching. Yet another guard was behind the wheel of the toy-sized vehicle. Stanley recognized this one from Moscow, from his first meeting with Gagarin.

  “It’s good you’re here early,” the guard said, deftly turning the small wheel. “Biryuza’s in a rush to get somewhere. Everybody’s been stressed all morning. Our boss’s wife, Mila, you’ve probably met her, she got into some kind of fight with the police. We went there to figure it out, and there were already a crowd of reporters by the time we got there. So there’s a scandal for the TV today. They watch the Russians closely here; the political situation is complicated,” the guard said officiously, raising his finger. “Get in. Let’s get going.”

  “We can’t walk there?” Stanley asked out of curiosity.

  “That’s not how we do things here,” the guard answered. “And Biryuza’s waiting.”

  The electric car turned soundlessly into the park, down a lane lined with palm trees, made a wide circle around a rose garden, and stopped in front of a pool, past which, behind a screen of tall pines, stood the villa.

  “We’re here,” said the guard, pointing. “See those tables under the tent? I’ll tell Anton you’re here.”

  Stanley walked the length of the pool to the villa. A dog was barking somewhere inside.

  The main building was almost entirely hidden behind trees. The only visible part was a second-floor balcony, with elaborately decorative stucco. He could make out statues on the parapet of the roof. It was hard to guess at the age of the building; for one thing, he saw a blue glass cube behind the statues, which could have been the roof of a winter garden or greenhouse, or an indoor pool. When he grew closer, Stanley saw, through an opening in one of the tree-lined lanes, another building, or a continuation of the first, with interweaving staircases in front of its façade. Then, suddenly, the mountains behind both buildings came into view in the distance, rising above the low clouds.

  McKnight realized that the sea was now behind him. A quiet rushing sound accompanied his progress as sprays of water arced over the green grass around the pool—someone had turned on the sprinkler system. Dozens of streams of water poured from a fountain just over a hedge of azaleas to his right, and a cool breeze washed over him. A rainbow flashed and trembled over the pool.

  And there was Biryuza, walking right through the rainbow toward Stanley. Despite the heat, he was dressed in a dark business suit and a pink tie with a gold pin. His hair was carefully arranged. He was clearly not planning an afternoon of lounging by the pool; he was carrying the briefcase with documents, and he looked exceedingly concerned.

  “My apologies again. For my rudeness yesterday as well. Sometimes the stress gets the better of me. The boss just called again—it’s not clear when he’ll be free. He just took a helicopter to Monaco.” Anton held out the briefcase to McKnight. “All signed, everyone is notified. So you’re free to get back to your regular affairs. Congratulation.”

  Biryuza was in such a rush that he slipped on the poolside tile, nearly falling.

  While he caught his balance, briefcase in his outstretched hand, the sound of women’s voices carried to them from the pavilion concealing the entrance to the villa.

  Stanley recognized one of those voices immediately. And realized that now he would be able to recognize that voice in any crowd without hesitation.

  “Looks like I didn’t make it,” sighed Anton, seeming to go limp. “Bad timing,” he added under his breath. “I meant to catch you right at the entrance.”

  “Biryuza!” Mila’s voice called. “I just saw him? Where did he get off to?”

  “I’m over here,” said the secretary quietly, handing the briefcase to Stanley. “Take this. Go. Meeting’s over.”

  But Mila’s voice seemed to have a hypnotic effect on McKnight, and he made no move to leave.

  Mila came into view and clapped her hands.

  “There you are!”

  Biryuza straightened his shoulders, pasted a smile on his face, and turned around.

  “And where was I supposed to be?” he asked

  “What do you mean?” Mila said, approaching Stanley and Anton. “The plan was quite clear: a bike ride before lunch. Were you planning to ride in your suit and tie? An original choice.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” answered Biryuza. “I’m afraid that I won’t be able to join you. I have a conference call with Credit Suisse that I can’t put off.”

  “Well, good,” Mila sad and laughed, “I’ll get a little break from you.” She looked over to Stanley. “I hope the financial genius doesn’t have any calls he needs to get to?”

  McKnight was scrambling for an excuse he could give, but didn’t manage to get a word out.

  “My spies tell me, Stanley, that you spend all your free time in Zurich on a bike. That you even ride to work on your bike. Is that true?”

  McKnight nodded.

  “Excellent. My fitness instructor, a boring character like our Anton, here, recommended bike riding. And I haven’t been on a bike since I was a child. So you can be my trainer today.” She turned to Anton again. “Anton, go arrange for some bikes. And get someone to find clothes and sneakers for Stanley. He’ll tell you his size.”

  “But I have a plane to catch,” Stanley protested, seeing that he was on the verge of that very adventure he had been trying to avoid. The road to hell, paved with his good intentions. He pointed to the watch on his wrist.

  “Don’t worry about it!” Mila interrupted, “It won’t take long. We won’t want to go for a long ride in this heat. I want to ride down Michelangelo Street.” She added a meaningful glance. “It’s not Botticelli, of course, but it’s something. That’s my first wish.”

  Biryuza turned back to the villa. McKnight lifted the briefcase in his hand.

  “Someone will bring you clothes and take your case with all its treasures,” said Mila, adding confidentially, “Relax, Stanley! You see my word is good—your bank got its golden fish, and now you owe me three wishes.”

  They left the villa through the main gates. The guard with the radio smiled, recognizing
the man in tight bicycle shorts, mirrored glasses, and helmet as the one who had just come by car.

  Mila had clearly been playing games with her claim of inexperience; she switched gears and rounded the curves of the road with easy skill, and her calves (Stanley remembered the feel of their smooth skin beneath his fingers) were perfectly muscled.

  They rode for a short time on the bicycle path beside the highway, and then Mila turned sharply onto a narrow asphalt road going downhill and picked up speed. Stanley could barely keep up. The road went through a field, then turned, and a railway embankment appeared before them.

  They traveled through a narrow tunnel under the railroad, which smelled of cats and bore the inscription Francesco Totti forever on its brick wall, and emerged on the other side into the shade of wide chestnut trees. Mila stopped, turned to Stanley, and said, “I can just about smell the smoke from the hole your eyes have been burning in my shorts.”

  Stanley could only lift his shoulders in helpless acknowledgement. He picked up the bottle of water from its holder in the bicycle’s frame and took a few swallows. Yes, he’d been watching the whole ride, entranced by the way her body moved under those spandex shorts.

  He felt almost as if he had stepped onto the set of a porn film. His imagination ran wild, and he began to picture her naked body with perfect clarity. And now, when she spoke, half-turned toward him, he couldn’t take his eyes from the small, raised point her nipple made in her T-shirt.

  Mila followed his gaze and beckoned Stanley over. He pedaled closer, so that the front wheel of his bike rested against her leg.

  She glanced around quickly, then tore off her shirt with her right hand, while her left unsnapped the helmet and let it drop. She grabbed the back of Stanley’s head and brought it to her chest, and he wrapped his lips around her nipple, his tongue circling the tender red circle around it.