Tina smiled and bent at the knees, pretending to curtsey.
“A very ceremonious person, I have to tell you, Stanley,” said Durand.
They walked through a hallway and back out of the house onto an enormous panoramic balcony.
The lake glittered far below them. A tourist bus trundled across the bridge over the railway, and a train with bright-red cars moved beneath it.
Not a sound reached Stanley and Durand. A small bird with a red breast sat in the laurel bush next to them.
“Is that real?” asked Stanley, pointing to the bird.
Durand raised his eyebrows in bewilderment.
“When I was in Moscow, Gagarin had artificial birds singing in his garden.”
Durand laughed so hard he began to cough. “Everything our dear Russian friend has is fake—that’s just between us, mind you. The only real thing about him is his money. He has quite a lot of that. You can feel it, count it all up. And you can do it in such a way that part of it becomes ours. He won’t even notice.”
“You’re unusually candid today,” said Stanley, lighting a cigarette.
“First, you buy all this crap Swiss wine, and now you’re smoking this garbage.” Durand practically snatched the cigarette out of Stanley’s mouth. “Tina’s going to bring us a drink and some cigars right away.”
Durand drew back from the balustrade, invited Stanley to sit on a wicker chair at a low table, and sat down himself. Tina appeared with a tray and set the table with a bottle of wine, glasses, a plate of tartlets, a box of cigars, and an ashtray.
“This is the Sancerre Cuvée La Grange Dîmière 2010,” Durand said, filling their glasses. “You’re not supposed to smoke cigars with it. A connoisseur would be opposed. But I enjoy the combination. To your health! Try this one, with the pâté. Tina makes her own pâté; she doesn’t trust my chef to get it right.”
“You have your own chef?”
“Why the surprise, Stanley? Not just a chef. I also have a gardener and a chauffeur. I need one sometimes, especially when I go into town. It makes an impression—you’re sitting in a low-class tavern with some easy local girl on your knees, you get drunk, and when you stumble out with your arm around the girl, there’s your chauffeur waiting for you, who takes off his hat as he opens the door of your Rolls-Royce.”
“And you leave the girl standing on the sidewalk?”
“Sometimes I take them with me. But Tina doesn’t like that, the stupid woman gets a little jealous. She’s the only permanent resident here. My people only come here when I do. This house cost me 4.5 million francs way back in 2000. Now its price, along with that bird in the laurel bush who has already flown away, is nearly four times higher. Property is a responsibility.”
Durand drained his glass. After enjoying the aroma of the wine, Stanley took a few sips. The wine was moderately tart, with surprising fruity notes. Its taste reminded him of Mila. Just then Stanley remembered the lawyer’s wife. Yes, something was, indeed, going on with him. How could he have done such a thing? It would have seemed completely impossible mere days ago.
Durand opened a box of cigars and selected one. A guillotine was on the table by the ashtray, but he bit off the end instead, and spat it onto the balcony floor. Stanley realized that Durand must have had quite a time the night before.
“And your family?”
“They live in a different house. In France. We’re citizens of the world, right?” Durand poured himself more wine, and drained his glass again.
“You, for example,” Durand said, gesturing toward Stanley with his glass, “are an American living in Switzerland and working with Russians. People like us change the world. By the way, congratulations on your promotion.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t be modest, Stanley. Modesty isn’t flattering. I like you. You’re capable of change. When people like you buy a Porsche, it seems natural. Changeable people have the right.”
Durand poured wine into his glass. Something beeped in the pocket of his loose-fitting pants. He took a small remote out.
“For the gate,” he explained. “When I’m here, I like to run everything myself. It’s Biryuza. We’ll wait for him here.”
Tina brought in another bottle and a third glass. She wanted to bring over a third chair, but Durand waved her off and asked her to go greet the new guest.
“Let Biryuza do it himself,” he said quietly to Stanley, drinking the rest of his wine.
Biryuza, accompanied by Tina, appeared on the balcony. He was wearing loafers, wrinkled pants, a loud, untucked shirt, and a good haircut. Despite the apparent carelessness of his attire, it was clear that his entire look had been carefully designed. Stanley noticed something he hadn’t before—the expensive watch that Biryuza wore on the wrist of his right hand.
“I’m not trying to imitate the Russian president,” said Biryuza, noticing Stanley’s glance. “I really am a lefty.”
“I actually didn’t know that the president wore his watch on his right hand,” said Stanley, exchanging a handshake with Biryuza.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about him,” said Biryuza, shaking Durand’s hand. “Very few know much about him, in fact.”
Biryuza looked around and walked over to the chair intended for him, getting ready to pull it over. A satisfied Durand jumped up, and they carried the chair over to the table together.
“People want to know what our president likes to eat for breakfast and for dinner, what books he’s reading, what movies he’s watching.” Biryuza sat, nodding to thank Durand for the proffered glass of wine. “I don’t care about any of that. For me”—he paused—“for us, all that matters is how to do business under him. Let him sit in his Kremlin another hundred years if he wants.”
“I’m sorry, but what about the change in leadership?” asked Stanley.
“Oh, come on!” laughed Biryuza.
“Don’t disappoint me, Stanley!” put in Durand.
“But for state institutions to work, you have to…”
“You’re thinking like a true American,” said Biryuza. “That’s strange, and harmful, to us Russians, real Russians. And you’re repeating yourself, anyway—I think you were saying something like that in Italy.”
“Well, what would be useful to you, then?” asked Stanley, washing down a bite of tartlet with pâté with a sip of wine.
The pâté was excellent. In Stanley’s experience, women capable of culinary delights were capable of many other kinds as well. There were exceptions to this rule, of course, but as soon as Stanley laid eyes on Tina, he was sure that there was a little devil concealed beneath the demure exterior. She definitely kept Durand on a tight leash. When she approached the table, his hand shook involuntarily—he wanted to stroke her hip—but Tina stopped him with a slight narrowing of her exquisite eyes.
“I’ll ask you a different way,” said Stanley, when he saw that Biryuza was having difficulty providing an answer. “What’s not harmful for Russians like you and Viktor? So you don’t have to answer for everyone.”
“We need to be left alone,” answered Biryuza readily. “We’re beneficial to the country. We’re the support structure. Everything would fall apart without us.”
Stanley looked over at Durand, who smiled beatifically after several glasses of wine.
“Who’s bothering you?” asked Stanley. “You seem to be doing just fine. You’re keeping your money in the bank where I have the honor to work. You have very healthy assets. You’ve got property all over Europe—and probably not Europe alone.”
“Sanctions!” Durand slapped his hand on the table with such force that the bottle jumped up. “The Russian authorities are to blame for the introduction of these sanctions, but they won’t accept the blame, so businessmen like Gagarin have to bear the costs. Right, Anton?”
“Precisely. We’re the first on the list of tho
se the state will come after. Our businesses will be under threat. They’ll ask us to hand over a third, then a half, then two-thirds of our business to some newcomers. Practically all of whom are from the security forces or are the children or relatives of people working in them.” Anton opened a cigarette case and pulled out a hand-rolled cigarette.
“This isn’t pot,” he said to Durand, who was watching the process with great attention. “I roll my own cigarettes. It’s a bit healthier than all the rest.”
“In addition,” continued Biryuza, inhaling and letting out a cloud of thick gray smoke. “In addition, the number of Western investors was decreasing dramatically even before sanctions. Nobody wants to bring money to us. Even with the most beneficial offers. And past investors are now working on one thing only—how to get their money out of Russia as fast as possible with the minimum of losses. Only the international monsters are left—Coca-Cola, McDonald’s, et cetera. We had a promising business in Siberia. Geological exploration. Exploratory drilling. Oil and gas. Our Western partner was a leader in the field, with the most cutting-edge technology, and had worked with us for many years.”
“I didn’t know that Gagarin was involved in oil and gas,” said Stanley, and glanced over at Durand, who was examining the smoking end of his cigar with an innocent expression on his face.
“It’s our friends who are involved in oil and gas, and they ask Viktor for help distributing assets, and ensuring that they are completely secure. And these friends invited him to participate—”
“So what about the partner?” Durand interrupted.
“What partner? Oh, yes, so they suddenly announce that they won’t be extending their contract for another five years. How do you like that? Six months before they were supposed to sign a new contract, they decide to drop everything and leave Russia. We asked them—what’s going on? And they said—we can leave you all the equipment, at a depreciated cost, but as for the personnel—Russian engineers, mind you!—we’re taking them with us, together with their families. We offered them work in the US, in South America, Australia, who knows where else, and they said yes. They said yes, dammit. And what are we going to do with their equipment without personnel to run it?”
“You should have asked them that,” said Durand.
“Of course, Robert, no one else thought of that.” Biryuza crushed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “We asked. They offered to train new staff, at our expense, naturally. The training would take several years. And all that time their equipment will be standing unused, gradually sinking into the Siberian swamps.”
“With real Russian bears running around nearby!” Durand rose and made a gesture of invitation. “I can’t offer you bear meat, but I do have something for you to try. Follow me, please. Let us have some dinner!”
Stanley and Biryuza rose and followed him into the house.
“And what does Gagarin think about it?” McKnight asked Biryuza.
“He knew that something had to be done. And made a decision.”
Stanley wouldn’t find out what decision Viktor Gagarin had made until later. That evening, Durand interrupted their conversation, and, grabbing both of them by the elbow, jokingly tapped both of them behind the knee, leading them through the hallway to the dining room. Both Stanley and Biryuza took up the game, pretending to protest, Stanley arguing that the officer should read him his rights first, and Biryuza repeating, in a high, nasal voice in Russian, “Why did you pick me up, boss?”
Despite the jokes, Stanley understood that his visit here was no social call, that a very serious conversation was coming and that a lot would depend on what decision Viktor Gagarin had made. And even more depended on the extent to which Stanley and his bank could implement Gagarin’s decision.
Tina met them in the dining rom. She offered each of them a shot glass of vodka from a silver tray covered in crushed ice and plates of warm crepes topped with heaping mounds of large beluga caviar from another tray covered in parchment paper. This was the same appetizer they’d had when he met Durand in the restaurant in Moscow, Stanley recalled. McKnight winked at the lawyer, who nodded in answer.
“Ah!” exclaimed Biryuza. “That’s what I like. Simple, no frills. That’s the Russian way!”
“I don’t know. I’d say this is pretty fancy,” said Durand with mock offense, and added with a smile, “One appetizer, one soup, one main dish. That’s my system.”
“I’ve heard something similar somewhere. One people, one country.” Biryuza drank his vodka and took a bite of crepe.
“Don’t joke like that!” Durand laughed, shaking his finger at Biryuza. “But in all seriousness, that’s how my chef cooks. For me, the main thing is a variety of beverages.”
Stanley slowly poured the vodka down his throat, waited a beat, and took a crepe from the tray. The caviar burst in his mouth. It was fabulous.
The oak-paneled walls of the dining room were hung with portraits of men in frock coats and lace collars, and ladies with fans and elaborate hairstyles.
The huge mouth of the fireplace was fenced off by a screen painted with brightly colored birds. In the center was a coat of arms including a small crown from which a knight’s hand bearing a sword emerged.
“Are those your ancestors?” asked Biryuza, finishing his second glass and licking caviar off his fingers.
“Uh-huh.” Durand drank without eating. He didn’t grow any drunker, only redder. “And that’s my coat of arms. Didn’t you say, Anton, that your great-grandfather was nobility, and your grandfather served in the secret police?”
“In the NKVD,” corrected Biryuza.
“Yes, well, my grandfather was a butcher who was almost ruined by his proclivities for young girls, and my father was quite intelligent, but was a simple postal employee.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“I bought the portraits with the house. The coat of arms belongs to the former owner. He was a baron, I think. And his barony, for that matter, was fake—one of his ancestors bought it from someone.”
Tina carried in an enormous soup tureen; Stanley was impressed by her strength. She placed it easily on the table.
“Gentlemen,” she said in a low-pitched voice, and lifted the ladle.
“Yes, yes, my dear,” Durand gestured them toward the table, and they all sat down around a low, round table. Tina began to serve the soup.
“Give it a try—it’s real Russian solyanka, which means ‘hodgepodge,’ Stanley, just in case you didn’t know. Sturgeon and the rest are very expensive fish. Anyone who tries it has to agree: it’s the best there is.”
Stanley tasted it; Durand was right—this oddly named soup may have been the best he ever had. But then he saw Durand and Biryuza exchange glances out of the corner of his eye, and mentally prepared himself.
“Here’s the thing, Stanley,” Biryuza began. He ate several spoonfuls of soup and pushed his bowl away.
“Thank you, Tina,” said Durand, “I’ll call you.”
Biryuza waited until Tina left the room, and continued.
“So, Viktor has accumulated a great deal of money in several Russian banks as well as banks in Latvia and Lithuania. This is completely legal, clean money, but, as you know, Swiss banks are more rigorous than most in verifying sources of money.”
“And they don’t trust anyone, except…” Durand added, wiping a napkin across his greasy lips.
“Except other, smaller, Swiss banks. You get me?”
“Banks like mine?”
“Excellent, Stanley,” said Biryuza, watching him without blinking, his lips curved upward in a half smile. “We need to transfer these funds from these worthless Russian and Baltic banks to your bank. That’s a simple operation, no?”
Stanley felt Durand watching him with the same intensity of attention. To give himself time to think, Stanley dipped his spoon back into the solyanka and came up
with a piece of lemon and an olive.
Rolling the olive pit around in his mouth, he thought that sooner or later he would have to cross the line. Do something that could send him off to jail for many, many years.
“Yes, quite a simple transaction. But what amount of money are we talking?” he asked, looking first at Durand, then Biryuza. They both looked down, avoiding his gaze.
“Not so much,” said Durand, watching the wind outside shake the branches of a dark-purple spirea. “About $4 billion.”
Tina came in, pushing a cart carrying a platter covered with a gleaming metal cover and champagne in a bucket. The men fell silent.
Durand stood and lifted the cover, and Tina began to serve the guests. Stanley examined the portraits on the wall, trying to conceal his anxiety.
“The Russian part of our meal has come to an end—now begins the European section.”
“Just like Gagarin’s funds,” said Biryuza.
“Well spotted, Anton! Now, we’ve got lobster in a cream truffle sauce and black caviar.”
“Caviar again?”
“The caviar is Russian, though, isn’t it?” Stanley felt increasingly unsettled. He poured water from a carafe into the tall glass by his plate and took a small sip.
“Well, not quite,” Durand replied. “The chef used Iranian caviar. Now, for the lobster…”
Tina drew the champagne from the bucket and wrapped a towel around it.
“For the lobster, we have Cristal Rosé.”
“A marvelous pairing,” said Biryuza.
Durand tore off the foil, twisted off the wire hood, and pointed the bottle to the side. The cork popped out and hit the high ceiling.
“Not much at all,” repeated Durand as Tina left the room, filling Stanley’s glass again. “Only four billion. Maybe a bit more.”
Stanley had no doubt that this money was dirty, blacker than Tina’s hair, blacker than Biryuza’s soul—if he even had one. He raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. The bubbles sparked against the roof of his mouth. He speared a piece of lobster with his fork. The lobster melted in his mouth, the magical wine washing away the slight bite of the spice.
The Banker Who Died Page 21
