Lagrange finally calmed down and forgot his irritation, and got out a bottle of Zvenigorod. He filled two glasses, and told Stanley to open a letter on the desk containing the amount of his bonus.
Stanley had barely touched it when Lagrange began telling him its contents.
It turned out that Stanley had the new title of executive director, and his annual bonus was two million francs.
“Are you happy?” asked Lagrange.
“Do you even need to ask?”
“Just don’t start crying out of gratitude, my friend. Everyone is very pleased with you. You are the best acquisition we’ve made in many years. And your bonus is at least double everyone else’s. And that’s just the start. I think your bonus will be much bigger next year.”
“Thank you, Pierre.”
“Don’t thank me just yet. You’ll only get 50,000 in Zurich. In taxable income. The rest will go to your account at a branch of our bank in the Bahamas. Bonuses like yours, for the select few, get sent there, where they’re not taxed.
“I’m one of the select few?”
“What do you think?” Lagrange smiled widely. “Welcome to the club!”
Chapter 22
It was as if someone had flipped a switch in the opposite direction, and everything changed in an instant. Even the colors of the world around him looked different.
If it hadn’t been for the flip of that switch, he would be passing Hardturmstrasse and turning onto the A1H in his Tesla, the car that he had loved so much so recently. Instead, Stanley moved into the left lane, cutting off a gray Mercedes, heading toward Basel. And he did that in a black Porsche 911 S Turbo convertible.
It all started after lunch on Thursday. McKnight stepped out of his office to make coffee and noticed the screensaver on Barbara’s computer: a winding mountain road, and on it, a car he recognized by its familiar soft contours and large headlights. He asked her what model Porsche that was.
Barbara chuckled, thinking that her boss was just joking around. But Stanley repeated the question. Barbara apologized for not knowing exactly—all she knew was that it was a Porsche, the legendary car of her dreams that she knew would never come true.
Stanley went back into his office without listening to the rest of Barbara’s revelations about her automotive dreams. He hadn’t been joking; sipping his coffee, he sat down and googled “Porsche, buy.” He remembered how long he had waited for his Tesla, and added, “In Zurich.” And then, “Today.”
Stanley clicked on the company website and read: Efficiency is the ratio of results to expenditures. High efficiency keeps expenditure low while maximizing results. This principle applies to any Porsche 911 when taking into account that Porsche spared no expense in the development of this magnificent automobile.
“A bit banal, but it makes its point,” Stanley muttered to himself.
Barbara was a bit surprised to see Stanley leaving his office soon thereafter in his jacket, with his tie already loosened, his soft leather briefcase tucked loosely under his arm.
“I’ll be out for the rest of the day,” he said as he walked away.
“Okay, boss,” said Barbara. “But you have a meeting at three forty-five with…”
Stanley didn’t hear the rest—who? Didn’t matter! As he stepped into the elevator, he called out: “Cancel it.”
The salesman at the Porsche dealership in Dufourstrasse saw Stanley approaching the glass doors of the entrance, and realized immediately that his day was about to improve dramatically.
Everything about Stanley radiated determination. The salesman’s assistant snorted, asking his boss if he’d seen what car that guy was driving. A Tesla!
“So he has money,” said the salesman, and got his best smile ready.
The salesman had some trouble talking his customer out of buying a car with a manual transmission.
The client insisted, until the salesman introduced two convincing points: he would have to wait at least a week, if not longer, for a totally manual car, and he would really have to spend some time driving a new manual car on a racetrack, until driver and car fully adjust to each other.
Stanley gave in. Especially since the salesman explained that the Porsche Doppelkupplung transmission came standard with the 911 Turbo S.
“You’re kidding!” Stanley stood next to one of the cars, elevated slightly on a podium. It looked so small, or at least smaller than a Tesla. He had never heard of that transmission in his life, and had no idea what it could do.
“Really?” said Stanley, doing his best to look like a connoisseur.
“That’s right!” The salesman was fully engaged in the process of hooking his wealthy customer. “The PDK transmission, with manual and automatic modes, is essentially composed of two gearboxes built into one frame, seven gears, and two clutches. It shifts gears in a matter of milliseconds. With only the slightest effort. And, by the way, compared to a manual, the PDK gives you higher acceleration rates with lower fuel consumption. There are special paddles on the steering wheel for when you want to switch to manual. They work on the right or left, so you can switch gears with either hand. If you’re operating the car in automatic, there’s a mode switch with four positions: Normal, Sport, Sport Plus, and Individual. With the last mode, you can customize your active suspension, Auto Start-Stop function, and sports exhaust system. And in the center of the switch, you’ll find the Sport Response button. When you press it, for twenty seconds, the car will have maximum acceleration capabilities. To be honest, the only time you’ll need it is to overtake another Porsche. You’ll already be faster than other cars without any special effects.”
“I see. I see,” Stanley replied, loosening his tie. “I’ll take it.”
“I’m sorry?”
“‘I’ll take it.’ I’ll take a Porsche! Wrap it up! That one! I want it!”
The salesman studied Stanley’s face.
“Are you Russian?”
“Not exactly. I’m an American, with a little bit of Russian blood,” Stanley said, showing the slim percentage in the slim gap between thumb and pointer finger. “I want to drive this car out of your showroom today, this car right here, and I’d like you to take the one I arrived in back to the Tesla dealership.”
“But Herr…”
“McKnight.”
“But Herr McKnight, we can offer you a number of different options, some amazing additions. For example, this car has a Bose sound system, but if you wait a couple days, we’ll put in a Burmester, which has some advantages in—”
“I want to drive out of here today. Right now. In this car. I’m quite satisfied with Bose. Is that going to cause a problem?”
“Not at all, Herr McKnight. Please, have a seat. Coffee? Tea? It will take just a couple minutes to draw up the documents. We do the registration for you, and we’ll have your license within the hour. Insurance—”
“I understand,” said Stanley, relaxing into his chair, and accepting a cup of coffee from a long-legged girl in a tight gray dress. She had a scarf with the Porsche logo wrapped around her neck, the long tip of which was tucked into the collar of her dress. She smelled like the perfume that Mila wore, a jasmine and bergamot scent with a hint of cinnamon.
To his surprise, Stanley felt a pleasant warmth spreading through his groin. He realized that if he got hard now, it would be immediately obvious to all the Porsche staff.
“I can wait for a little while. But not too long,” said Stanley.
“We’re already working on it, Herr McKnight!”
On the way to the dealership, Stanley had felt as if some kind of beast were controlling his actions. Capable of any kind of insanity. Ready to bare its fangs, to attack. Finger on the trigger.
Driving the new Porsche, Stanley was in the same kind of mood. A stray scent, a look of invitation in a woman’s eye, the allure of her walk, and his erection im
mediately returned. He was full of desire. It helped him operate his new car.
At first it was unusual, how low it sat on the road, the stiffness of the driver’s seat in comparison with the Tesla, and the need to lean forward to make out the traffic lights. But Stanley adapted quickly.
He suddenly—perhaps with the aid of that same switch—ceased to hear the inner voice that asked: What will people think? Am I disturbing anyone, causing trouble? He just kept his eyes on the road in front of him, and pulled smoothly ahead of the other cars.
But still, switch or no, he was driving in a city. A ticket would be unfortunate, not so much because of the fine, but because his name would go on the list of traffic law violators, which would probably displease Laville, who received weekly reports on events related to his bank and his employees.
Lagrange had warned Stanley that the bank’s security service was omniscient. They wouldn’t interfere in your private life, but they knew where you went, what you bought, how much you spent, what wine you liked, what condoms you bought, and if you visited prostitutes.
“But since you don’t go to whores, your condoms won’t be in the report,” said Lagrange with a laugh. “You’re practically a monk here. Laville loves that kind of employee. He’s got some Calvinist preachers in his family tree. All in black. Back in those days, condoms were made out of pig bladders, you know.”
Stanley entered the underground parking garage. His spot was located against the far wall. To his left was his neighbor, a lean, fair-skinned frau.
Her husband, a lawyer, was always away on business trips.
She always gave Stanley a friendly smile, and they exchanged pleasantries, but there was nevertheless a touch of condescension in her gaze.
It was obvious that she was sick to death of all the good, dependable men in business suits surrounding her.
She was taking a grocery bag out of her car, and already carrying another, when Stanley pulled up. She was bent over, her breasts nearly spilling out of her partially fastened blouse.
She stared openly as Stanley climbed out of the Porsche.
His jacket lay on the passenger seat. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his eyes concealed behind dark sunglasses, and his usually neat hair was disheveled, even though he’d been riding with the top up.
Stanley had had to rev the engine a bit as he turned in to alert her of his presence; the warmed-up tires moved almost soundlessly over the road, and at low speeds, the engine was almost as quiet as the Tesla’s.
“Good evening,” said Stanley. “Can I give you a hand?”
“I wouldn’t say no, Mr. McKnight,” she said, stepping back from the trunk and fixing her hair. When she raised her arm, Stanley caught the scent of her perfume. That was enough.
He tried to remember her name, or her last name. Hasselbrink? Husselbrink? Something like that. Or maybe simpler? Could it really be Schmidt?
“I didn’t recognize you,” his neighbor said. “Something’s different.”
“Something good?”
“Unexpected.” Her nostrils trembled slightly as she drew in breath. “You don’t look like you usually do. I’d never have thought…”
“Never have thought—what?”
They were already in the elevator. In the bright overhead light, he could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and clumps of mascara on her eyelashes. The small space was filled with the scent of her perfume, tempting Stanley.
How old was she? She looked to be about thirty-five, but she was probably pushing forty. She’s a bit older, no big deal, said Stanley’s inner voice. He spoke sternly to himself—No matter how turned on you are, nothing’s going to come of it. You’re going to help her carry her bags to the door of her apartment and say goodbye.
But it was not to be. The neighbor said that whenever she saw Stanley in his conservative business attire, she’d always been surprised at the narrow frame this handsome, powerful man had squeezed himself into. They had reached her apartment. She said that her husband was the same way; he had become a dried-up husk of his former self. He was on one of his trips, her husband. In Norway. Or Denmark. It didn’t really matter.
She opened the door, asked Stanley to bring the bags into the kitchen, and followed him inside.
McKnight set the bags down on the wide countertop next to the sink.
She offered him something to drink. Wine? She had a fabulous Chablis. Her favorite. Without waiting for an answer she passed by him, their hips almost touching, to the wall cupboard, taking down two glasses.
Stanley felt as if a thick veil was falling over him. This Frau Schmidt—or was it Hasselbrink?—stood in front of him, holding the glasses, her arms spread, offering herself openly to him. He put his hands on her hips. Her eyes were so close to his that he saw her pupils contract. McKnight’s hand began to travel upward, her skirt rising with it. Stanley kissed her dry lips, feeling them grow instantly moist and warm.
“I need to take a shower,” she said, gasping from the long kiss.
“No,” said Stanley pulling down her panties, and lifting her onto the kitchen table. “No need for a shower.” He tugged his pants down, bent his knees slightly, and entered her easily.
She was still holding her hands out to either side. Her breathing grew rapid.
“To hell with the shower!” she said in a surprisingly low voice in Stanley’s ear. “Just don’t stop!”
She dropped the glass in her left hand, wrapped her legs around Stanley’s waist, and drew him down toward her, dropping the second glass.
“Don’t stop!”
Luckily, he hadn’t been planning to.
Chapter 23
Stanley saw the spoiler slide out automatically in his rearview mirror.
So he was already going faster than eighty miles an hour.
The road moved smoothly to the right, skirting Bern. The glass of the city’s windows sparkled far below.
Stanley reached for a pack of Parliament on the passenger seat, starting to turn the wheel to follow the turn of the road, and saw on the display that his rear wheels were also deviating from the axis.
He pressed down on the gas, and the spoiler moved a little more. Stanley flipped the lid of his lighter open, noticed he was almost in the oncoming lane, flicked the wheel of the lighter, and touched the flame to the end of his cigarette. He saw a bus coming toward him. Stanley calmly adjusted his wheel slightly and slipped back into his lane. The bus flew past, the driver leaning on the horn in panic. Stanley raised his hand and gave him the finger. The poor guy probably didn’t even see it; the bus had already transformed into a dot far behind him.
Down the E27, Stanley dove under an overpass, hugged the curve of the road, and flew onto the A9, where he saw Lake Geneva spreading out before him.
Two hours on the road felt like five minutes to Stanley. He saw the exit sign on Rue Chailly, poked at the display, and heard a voice advising him to slow down and prepare for a right turn. He accelerated and turned off the GPS. He turned, the lake still visible, and began his descent, turned left onto Rue du Lac, and found himself in Clarens.
Stanley saw a sign for the Cave du Chateau de Glerolles winery and headed there. He parked in the lot and got out—he liked the idea of picking up a couple bottles of wine. A little while later, he was driving through Clarens again.
In a few minutes, Stanley was in Montreux, where he switched the GPS back on. The voice suggested he turn off Avenue Casino and onto Rue de Bon Port.
The road took Stanley out of Montreux, toward Durand’s home high on a hill overlooking the lake. Behind it, distant mountains were half visible in the twilight, their peaks covered in snow. He took a deep breath.
The GPS announced that he had reached his destination. His car came to a stop, its shiny black hood kissing the gate.
The gate slid to the side, and Stanley drove up to the house,
where Durand stood waiting on the steps. He held an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” exclaimed Durand, coming down to meet him. He bent down and slapped his palm lightly against the Porsche’s spoiler. “What about protecting the environment? Where’s your Tesla?”
“Fuck the environment!”
“You’ve changed, Stanley old pal!” he held out his hand, and they shook.
“For the better or worse?” asked Stanley.
“The important thing is change itself,” said Durand. “There are two kinds of people—those who change and those who remain the same. Those who change are the masters, and those who can’t are the slaves. Where did you buy all that?” he asked, pointing to the bag with the wine bottles.
“In Clarens. We’ll have to give them a try.”
“Well, let’s risk it. Although the only interesting thing about Clarens is that a Russian writer is buried there—I can’t remember his name. He wrote a novel about some old goat who lusted after his wife’s daughter. Have you read it?”
“I don’t think so. It doesn’t ring a bell. So? Did the old man get what he wanted?”
“I forgot. I read it a long time ago. Probably. I think I have it in the library. I’ll give it to you. I hardly read anything these days. I’ve changed, you see. Come on, follow me. I’ll show you the house. Ah, I remember! Nabokov is his name. Or Nabokoff. Doesn’t matter. He wrote in English. Can you believe that? A Russian writing in English, and now here you are, a Russian speaking English, dealing with Russian money.”
“Robert, how many times do I have to tell you—I’m not Russian. It’s my great-grandfather who was Russian. Speaking a little Russian doesn’t make me Russian.”
“Get over it, Stanley! Why so defensive? What matters is that you’re a good guy and a skilled professional. And here’s Tina,” Durand said, nodding toward a pretty girl headed their way with an Asian tilt to her eyes and smooth, dark hair. “She runs the place.”
The Banker Who Died Page 20
