Stanley didn’t come down for lunch, ordering beer and a decanter of Zvenigorod whiskey to his room. The fingers of his left hand would occasionally clench together frantically of their own volition.
He took a shower and didn’t bother getting dressed afterward. Instead, he sat down in an armchair, naked, and poured himself a full glass from the decanter. He drank the whiskey and ate olives and jamón. He felt like he’d been born again.
McKnight drank all the beer and finished the decanter of whiskey without feeling the slightest bit of intoxication.
When he entered the dining room for dinner, everyone acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Lagrange gave him a wave, and Gagarin didn’t even look his way.
Stanley snagged a dish with black caviar and scooped a big spoonful onto his plate. The waiter asked what he would like.
“Steak,” said Stanley. “Bison steak, bloody, and French fries, make them like McDonald’s fries. And beer. But first, pour me some vodka.”
“What kind of vodka, sir?”
“Your preference.”
He had to wait a bit for the steak; he had time for more than one vodka.
Everyone else finished eating. The women went out onto an enclosed veranda to watch skiers descend the slopes of Oberlech with flashlights, and the men went into the cigar room.
Stanley worked his way through the steak, slowly and thoroughly, and mopped up the juices with a piece of bread, then washed it down with a swig from his second bottle of beer.
The cigar room smelled of cognac and coffee, and smoke clung to the candelabra by the fireplace.
Gagarin was, as usual, talking about democracy and how democracy in Russia was a path to fascism. Krapiva objected without much energy. Then Krapiva got tired of arguing, put his cigar in a silver ashtray, and left to join the women.
“He’s afraid that Polina is going to lose her patience and slap Yulia across her face,” said Gagarin. “Or that Yulia is going to scratch out Polina’s eyes. Women are a curse! Right, Durand?”
“Of course. A woman is a failed man.”
“Agreed!” shouted Biryuza.
“And you, Stanley?”
“A curse. Most definitely,” said Stanley, sitting down and accepting a cigar from the specially trained cigar room attendant, wearing a tailcoat.
“A curse!” he repeated, lighting a cigar and gesturing at the waiter to pour him a drink as well.
The room swam before his eyes, and the buzz in his head grew from the cigar smoke.
“Why with such conviction?” asked Durand, and Gagarin stared at Stanley with open interest.
“I’ve always believed in the power of banal truths,” Stanley said, blowing out a series of smoke rings. He didn’t like cigars; they always made his mouth fill with viscous saliva.
“The banal truth is that it’s become difficult to work with Swiss banks. Everything else is not banal,” said Gagarin, shifting the conversation back to business. “They’re always throwing a spoke in the wheel, want to be holier than the Pope, always asking for new confirmations about the cleanliness of your money, refusing to take cash.”
“Yes,” said Durand, pursing his lips thoughtfully, “that’s true. Compliance is going after the Russians more and more all the time. It’s politics. It’s a prejudice that is only growing stronger.”
“UBS and Credit Suisse don’t know how to work individually with VIP clients. Well, they never did; that’s not why they were founded,” said Lagrange. “They’re like those French fries that Stanley gobbled up tonight.”
Stanley wanted to say that he actually liked those fries, but decided against it.
“There won’t be any such problems with Laville & Cie,” Lagrange said.
“I’m thinking about transferring additional funds to Laville & Cie. But you’ve got compliance as well,” said Gagarin.
“The head of that department reports to the owner of the bank,” said Lagrange, taking a drink of cognac, “and I’ll take care of it.”
“That makes working with you an even more attractive proposition,” Gagarin said with a wide smile. “I could increase my portfolio in your bank to four billion. Stanley, how much of my money do you have now?”
“You have about 600 million in your investment portfolio in trust management, and a credit line for the yacht which is currently at 400 million,” said Stanley, spitting out a stray piece of tobacco. “If your portfolio goes over four billion, your discounts for our services will rise significantly.”
“Is that so?” Gagarin asked Lagrange.
The latter nodded in reply.
“So we have another reason to be grateful to Stanley,” laughed Gagarin. “Thanks, Stanley!”
Stanley lay awake for a long time that night, kept up by all the alcohol and the tension of the day. When he heard a knock at the door, he opened without hesitation.
Mila slipped into his room. She took his hand silently, led him over to the bed, and fell back onto it. Stanley wondered what was more dangerous: the avalanche or the woman lying beneath him with her legs spread. He frowned, pushing the thought away, and settled heavily on top of her.
“Why did you save him?” she asked, after their sex ended in intense simultaneous orgasms and they lay there, smoking cigarettes.
“Did he tell you all the details?”
“He said that he owes you now. That’s very bad. No one he feels obligated to, in any way, even the smallest thing, lives very long.”
“Then so be it.” Stanley put out his cigarette and poured himself a splash of whiskey. He rinsed his mouth with it and swallowed.
“There, now I believe you have Russian roots. You want to trust in fate?” Mila kissed Stanley’s neck. “Try it. It won’t go well for you. I asked him to leave you alone.”
“And what did he say?”
“He smacked me. He knows how to hit you in the face without leaving any marks, with an open palm. Not that painful, but I hate it so much. I want to leave him.”
Stanley took out a new cigarette and lit it.
“Is that possible? Will he let you?”
“If there’s no threat to him. He sometimes likes to do things for those he loves. But that doesn’t really apply to me! Do you know that his name’s not really Gagarin?”
“What? But I saw a scan of his passport. Viktor Pavlovich Gagarin…”
“He changed his patronymic and his last name. He was born Viktor Kaganovich, in a modest Jewish family. His father was an engineer, and his mother was a doctor. He was a bright child, but nothing extraordinary. He wanted to go to college, to study physics, but there was a quota for how many Jews they would take per year. His father died, and someone fixed up all their documents for them. I don’t know how much they paid him, but I do know he was one of the first to whom Viktor owed a debt. Back before computers were widespread, in the Soviet Union, when I was in seventh grade, Viktor came up with a data processing system for some kind of classified research. Then some other programs. He did that himself, his ideas. He’s smart. Very smart. And I hate him! Come here, handsome.”
Lagrange and Stanley left Oberlech in the morning. Everyone came out to see them off. Gagarin was the soul of courtesy, presenting them each with a bottle of some kind of unique liquor and walking them to the ski lift himself.
Yulia embraced Stanley, slipping a card with her number into his pocket as she let go. Polina and Mila gave him air kisses on both sides of his face. Even Shamil came out of the chalet and gave him a thumbs-up.
Stanley and Lagrange came down the mountain and found the Tesla waiting for them in good shape. Lagrange was excited about their new business prospects, saying that he’d never have expected this in his wildest dreams.
If Gagarin made Laville & Cie his main bank—which Pierre believed to be his intention—it would bring in even more Russian clients. They took the
B197 and turned left at the Langen-Klosterle exit.
“At the moment, we’re all in your debt, Stanley,” said Lagrange. “Try not to ruin it.”
“And how could I ruin it, Pierre?” asked Stanley, fiddling with the defrost button on the dash.
“There’s something going on with you and the wife. If I’ve noticed, others will too. If you don’t cut it out.”
“There’s nothing going on between us!” Stanley said, all the while remembering when he had bent to kiss Mila’s breasts. “Where did you get that idea? When? How?”
“Of course, you’ll deny it.” Lagrange lit up a cigarette, but then immediately tossed it out the window. “I would do the same in your place. But it would be better to tell me the truth—we can discuss how to get you out of this without any lasting damage. To you or to the bank.”
“Believe me: there’s nothing between us!” said Stanley. “She’s not even my type; I liked Yulia, look—she gave me her number. We’re planning to meet up.”
“It’s too bad you don’t trust me, McKnight. Too bad you’re denying everything. Yulia crawled into bed with me after you didn’t let her into your room. She’s an insatiable nymphomaniac, totally nuts. Don’t lie, Stan! You have to end it with her. You already saved his life; sleeping with his wife will be your death sentence!”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” It seemed to Stanley that a shadow had fallen over them, despite the sunny day. “What is this, the Middle Ages?”
“It’s too dangerous. Think about what I told you, McKnight, really think about it.”
Part Three:
Russian Desk
Chapter 20
The Russian desk held weekly meetings at 8:00 AM on Monday mornings. Stanley had always been an early bird, so it wouldn’t, in theory, have been painful for him to start his working week so early, even if he had spent the weekend at parties or patronizing some of Zurich’s many watering holes. But it was one thing to simply sit down at his desk and accept a cup of coffee from Barbara, invite her to pour a cup for herself, and have a nice chat about the latest news in the world of finance. Then they would gradually move on to politics, international relations, and end with sports—Barbara was a serious soccer fan who adored Messi. She’d even gone to Barcelona one weekend to visit Camp Nou to see them play a home game. They’d get back to finance after their third cup. But it was quite another thing entirely to come in on Monday morning knowing that you were expected shortly in the meeting room, where Lagrange had assembled the entire team.
He had to spend the entire second half of his Fridays preparing for the meeting, and ask Barbara to be at work no later than 7:00 AM Monday to enter any significant edits and additions into the already prepared material.
Stanley himself showed up at about seven forty, and they managed to gulp down some coffee while he reviewed the materials. His contributions at these meetings were always detailed, precise, and well-founded. This had made a big impression on his colleagues from the very start. But when Lagrange asked him where he got his information from and how he prepared for these meetings, he asked Stanley to take it down a notch.
“This is not a weekly report, my dear Stanley,” he said. “You report only to me, one-on-one. If you show off like this, your colleagues might start thinking that you’re an American striver only interested in making an impression on the bosses. Our meetings are just a general get-together after the weekend, to bolster team spirit. If someone comes in acting like a super banker, king of investment and prince of derivatives, he might get a dagger in the back. Don’t stress out. I’m joking. But, you know, keep it simple, Stanley. Our Russian bankers like to say that. Total stupidity, but there is a grain of truth in it.”
Their meetings were held in the main room on the first floor. Actually, not quite a room, more of a small, gloomy hall that reminded Stanley of a medieval knight’s castle.
The room had a low ceiling, the dim light of matte lamps, oak paneling on the walls, bronze figures, a long table, and enormous, high-backed leather chairs. The walls were hung with paintings by the Old Masters, each of which was illuminated by its own small lamp. One painting depicted one of Laville’s paternal ancestors.
One table usually held a coffeepot, teapot, and croissants. There were notebooks and vases with pencils arranged around the main table. They were expected to leave their mobile phones with Lagrange’s secretary, who came to the meeting along with her boss, but remained just outside the door on a low sofa with her laptop on her knees.
Stanley asked Lagrange once if the paintings on the walls were authentic, and his boss raised one eyebrow meaningfully.
“What do you think, Stan?”
“To be honest, I doubt they are. Bruegel the Elder, Rogier van der Weyden. This collection would be the envy of any museum.”
“Well, well, I didn’t know you were knowledgeable about art, my American friend. Bruegel! How about that! Everything in this bank is authentic. Laville’s family has been investing in items of lasting value for a long time now. If you only knew what Jean-Michel has hanging in the guest bathroom of his country house, across the wall from the sink. If you only knew!”
“So what is it?”
“If you ever get an invitation, you can go wash your hands there and see for yourself. They keep their most valuable items in a safe in some other bank—nobody knows which one, except Jean-Michel himself, naturally. I’ve heard that it’s either in New York or in Singapore.”
It had, indeed, caused some tension with Stanley’s colleagues initially when he had performed so well at their first meetings. But they’d gradually gotten used to him, seeming to make some allowances for his American ways.
Eight people total attended the meeting, including Lagrange and Stanley. There were two men named Muller—Gustav and Mario, as well as Frank Adler, Dino Bernasconi, Theo Schneider, and the only woman, Andrea Kovalevich, who spoke decent Russian.
There wasn’t a single Russian working for the Russian desk. Lagrange didn’t care for Russian specialists; he thought their education too superficial for the job, for one. But his main objection was that a Russian bank manager, regardless of his education, position, or knowledge would, even if subconsciously, kowtow to wealthy Russian clients.
“Russians are simply in awe of serious wealth. They immediately fall over for the rich or crawl over like dogs to lick their hands,” Lagrange would say.
Both Mullers were blond, but Mario was the youngest member of Lagrange’s team, and Gustav, the oldest; Mario was balding and rosy-cheeked, while Gustav sported a lush head of hair that Stanley suspected might have been aided by expensive hair implants and dye. He liked to peer critically at his colleagues through a lock of hair that had fallen over his eye.
Adler was low to the ground and bug-eyed, and when it was his turn to report on the week, he drew an enormous, monogrammed handkerchief out of his pocket and continuously wiped the perspiration from his prominent forehead as he talked.
Bernasconi, in contrast, was very tall, and held his Russian clients in even greater contempt than Lagrange did, but still managed sell their investment products aggressively, and had the best numbers.
Schneider joined Laville & Cie after Stanley, also adhered to the practice of the hard sell, and was the most envious, particularly of Stanley. When Lagrange joked about how Stanley was drinking buddies with a top client and how he’d even saved Gagarin’s life during a descent down an untouched ski slope, Schneider’s envy grew to previously unseen proportions.
Andrea had a narrow, cold face and disproportionately large, gray eyes. She always sat at an angle to the table, crossing and uncrossing her long legs.
She had once seen Stanley and Elise in a small bar, around Christmas time, and watched them for a long time, unaware that Stanley had already noticed her. She had been there with a tall black guy with the walk of a professional dancer. Her companion, Stanley saw f
rom the corner of his eye, took advantage of her distraction and slipped a hand beneath her blouse to passionately stroke her flat chest. So as not to disappoint Andrea, Stanley leaned across the table and kissed the shocked Elise on the mouth. Andrea now watched Stanley from time to time at their meetings with greater interest.
Everyone spoke in turn, Lagrange directing them to go around the table clockwise, starting with Gustav Muller.
On this occasion, Stanley entered the room a little behind schedule, just as Lagrange was saying, “Let’s get started!” and sat where Lagrange pointed, making him the last to speak.
The subject was the same as always—how much client money they had each brought in the previous week, which investment products they had sold, and what sales they were expecting in the coming week.
As the reports went on, Lagrange’s expression grew increasingly displeased.
He made indecipherable notes as they each talked, broke off his pencil lead, and tossed the pencil down with such force that it rolled onto the floor.
“This won’t do!” he finally said. “This. Will. Not. Do. Where has all your aggression gone? Where is your fire? You’ve got to keep your hands wrapped around your client’s necks. That’s what our clients need. Russians admire strength. They like to obey. Remember: I’m going to calculate the annual results this week and work out your bonuses. I’m afraid that there are going to be some sad members of this team walking around the office. So…ah! Stanley! We’ll wait for Stanley to finish his croissant. Ready? The floor is yours!”
Stanley wiped his mouth.
“Please excuse me,” he said, looking around the room. “I was hoping you’d forget about me. By the way, these croissants are fabulous! How do they get them so crisp?”
“McKnight, this is a bank, not The Martha Stewart Show,” Lagrange said, tapping his new pencil on the table. “Please go on!”
The Banker Who Died Page 18
