The Banker Who Died

by Matthew A Carter

  “Not much, no,” nodded Stanley, amazed at his own self-restraint. “A small sum, but I’ll have to get permission from management, wait and see and what Lagrange has to say. And, of course, get approval from Laville.”

  “My friend, for us, your opinion is the most important one,” said Durand, filling Biryuza’s glass, then his own. “After all, you’re the one who will be in charge of the whole transaction. What if, say, they agree to it, but you don’t. What would we do then?”

  “Especially because that’s not all,” said Biryuza, taking several more swallows and clucking his tongue.

  “I don’t believe you!” Stanley tried to laugh it off.

  “Believe it!” Biryuza set his glass down and began to twirl it by its stem, looking off to the side. “Viktor has accumulated quite a bit of cash in Russia.”

  “In rubles?”

  “Good lord, no! Dollars, euro, some pounds. In addition to, naturally, the gold, diamonds, and paintings—lower quality than what Robert acquired from the previous owner here, but not bad at all.”

  “Rubens? Cranach? The Elder, I mean…”

  “Ah, so you know something about art? I had no idea.” Durand extended his glass across the table, and he and Stanley clinked rims.

  “Actually, Stanley guessed right,” said Biryuza. “Viktor does have a Lucas Cranach the Elder in his possession. A portrait of Henry VIII, I think. But forget about that! What we’re working on now is getting the cash, the gems and gold, and the paintings over to Switzerland. If it works out—and it will, everything always works out for Viktor—we’ll have to deposit the cash in Viktor’s account in the bank and arrange for the storage of the rest.”

  Biryuza stopped, worn out by his long explanation, and dug into the food on his plate with enthusiasm.

  “How much?” Stanley asked Durand, girding himself for a very unpleasant reply.

  Durand picked up a napkin and drew a pen from his pocket. Stanley was half expecting a gold fountain pen studded with diamonds, but Durand quickly scribbled a series of numbers on the napkin with a yellow Bic. He pushed the napkin over to Stanley, who looked down to see the number 6 followed by nine zeros. So, with the four, that was ten billion all together. Ten billion! If he were sentenced to a year for each billion—not an unlikely prospect—that would be ten years in jail. And that was a best-case scenario.

  “Well, as I said, if management approves it, and you can get the Cranach delivered, I’ll be glad to assist.” Stanley pushed his plate away and drained his glass.

  “I knew it,” Durand said to Biryuza. “Stanley’s our guy. You know what he did, Anton? He got rid of his shitty Tesla and showed up here in a Porsche! That’s our kind of man. Am I right?”

  For the first time in their acquaintance, Biryuza looked at Stanley with some sympathy.

  Just then, they all heard the distinctive sound of a helicopter engine.

  Durand checked his watch.

  “Like usual—here for dessert. That’s our resident sweet tooth, your boss, Stanley…”

  Stanley walked over to the panoramic window. The white-and-blue Augusta AW109 hovered lightly over the house, blades spinning lazily.

  The setting sun had turned Lake Geneva into a mirror, the dark tops of the pines overlapping against the sky, the sun’s rays shining between their slender trunks one more time before the end of day. The helicopter descended out of view, and Stanley realized that the Durand’s villa must have a helipad. He turned around, and Durand went out to meet Lagrange.

  Biryuza had pushed back from the table and sat with his legs stretched out. He smoked, not looking at Stanley, but Stanley could feel his attention, his consideration of the main question—could Stanley be trusted. Biryuza looked up suddenly.

  “So, you’re our guy, right, Stanley?” he asked quietly.

  “I work for Laville & Cie,” said Stanley, surprising himself. “What’s good for the bank is good for me. Serving the bank’s clients is a sacred duty to me. Viktor Gagarin is a client of our bank. So I’ll do whatever is necessary to…”

  Stanley didn’t get a chance to finish; Lagrange entered the room, followed by Durand and Tina.

  “What’s with the long face, Biryuza?” asked Lagrange, exchanging a handshake with the younger man who hadn’t bothered to rise from his seat, and turned to Stanley without waiting for an answer.

  “You drove, right? Is your Tesla charging? Charged up? Can I tell the pilot he’s free to go? Laville held me up with an endless discussion about all our business, and we came to the best possible decision. Jean-Michel sent me over in his helicopter to make up the time. So, should I let him go?”

  “Go ahead. The Tesla’s all charged up,” said Stanley with a wink to Durand.

  “I’ll put the cost of the electricity your employee here used to fuel up his Tesla in my fee,” Durand added with another wink.

  Dessert was a traditional crème brûlée and vanilla ice cream, served with cognac. But when Lagrange heard what they’d had earlier, he ordered several crepes with caviar and vodka for himself.

  Tina brought in a tray with glasses of vodka on ice, and the reheated crepes with caviar. Lagrange took care of most of the shots and crepes in a matter of minutes, only then proceeding to dig into the crème brûlée.

  “The more I travel to Russia, the more I start to pick up Russian habits. How many times have I seen that herring dish return to the table after the end of a hearty meal, when the coffee and tea have already been drunk?”

  “Herring under a fur coat,” Biryuza reminded him. “Any good news?”

  “Ah yes! That piece of herring drowning under mayonnaise, potatoes, beets, and who knows what else. It’s awful! Or pickled mushrooms. They put them all on the table next to the cake and start pouring vodka. And everything starts all over again. Pretty much like Russian life and Russian history, for that matter. Everything goes in a circle.”

  “Is there any news?” Biryuza asked again.

  “Laville approved it. If that’s what you’re asking about. I’d like to see who wouldn’t.”

  Biryuza exhaled in relief, rose, and prepared to leave, explaining that he had business to attend to. He shook Stanley’s hand briefly, giving him a searching look. Stanley smiled widely in reply. Durand, who had been applying himself to the cognac, had grown even redder, and started to yawn, his head tipping forward on his chest.

  “Well, then!” Lagrange said with a laugh, puffing on a Cuban cigar he’d taken from the box Tina brought in. “And Robert is one of our strongest lawyers. In all senses of the word. I think it’s time for us to depart as well, Stanley. Is your Tesla charged up?”

  “You asked me that already, Pierre. It’s charged to the max. Tina, please pass on my thanks for a lovely evening. And to the chef as well. That solyanka was superb.”

  The hint of a smile flickered over Tina’s impassive face, and her eyes narrowed slightly. She nodded and gestured for them to follow her.

  Stanley and Lagrange left through a side entrance, and a servant brought the Porsche around. A glass of water and a box with two small pills appeared in Tina’s hands as if by magic.

  “This will take away all the effects and the smell of alcohol,” she said, in a strong Brooklyn accent. “I highly recommend it.”

  Lagrange was still staring at the Porsche after Stanley had taken the pills and the water.

  “That’s what you’re driving? Where’s your Tesla? I’ve been looking forward to riding in an electric car once more, with a real eco-warrior and healthy lifestyle activist at the wheel, and this is what I see? Tina, honey, maybe you can explain?”

  “Have a nice trip!” Tina said to Stanley, then turned on her heel, and headed back up the spiral staircase leading to the first floor.

  “Where did Durand find that bitch, anyway?” Lagrange muttered under his breath, but loud enough for Tina to overhear.


  “Get in, Pierre, and don’t forget to buckle up,” said Stanley.

  “I hate seatbelts!”

  “Otherwise, it won’t go faster than twenty-five miles an hour. Buckle up!”

  Stanley turned on the GPS and headed out, relying solely on its instructions. He drove very carefully, slowing down and turning at its advice.

  “Pierre,” Stanley began, braking at the intersection of Avenue Casino. He passed a bright-red Mercedes, its color even more brilliant in the twilight, turned right, and right again, as the GPS commanded, getting on the A9 before hitting Clarens. “Pierre, you understand that what we’re planning to do is completely illegal.”

  “Stanley,” broke in Lagrange, “shut up. You’ve already bought yourself a nice little house in Küsnacht and a Porsche. That’s just the start. It’s time to take the next steps. This transaction? Nothing out of the ordinary. Everybody does it. If we say no, Gagarin will just find another bank, we’ll lose a ton of money, and you’ll have to sell your Porsche.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because Laville will get rid of both of us. He’ll give us good severance packages, of course, but nobody will hire us. Especially me. You’ll have to start practically from scratch. Go back to the States, start handing out your résumé.”

  “Okay, I agree on the transfer of funds from Russia and Baltic banks, but how will the cash be sent? Are you aware that he also wants to send gems, paintings, and gold?”

  “Of course, I am. As is Laville. It’s none of our business, or yours, how it all gets here. Our job is to deposit the money in the account and take our percentage. Can you imagine what that’s going to be? Laville put you in charge of the transfer to bank storage once it’s all in Switzerland. Everything has to be done through third parties. Tenth parties would be better.”

  “And where am I supposed to find these parties?”

  “That, my friend, is your problem. You’re a big boy, Stanley. If you back out, no problem. Well, neither Laville or I will have any problems with you. Biryuza, on the other hand…”

  “What about Biryuza?”

  “He won’t even say anything to Gagarin. He’ll just whisper to Shamil, and…”

  “Are you trying to scare me?”

  “I’m kidding! I’m kidding! What is this, kindergarten? I’m giving you a warning. You’re a great guy, and I really like you. You just have to make a choice. It’s difficult, I know—principles, ideals, I know. You don’t have anything to drink in here, do you?”

  “There’s a Christmas present from Gagarin in there.”

  Lagrange, already quite drunk, dug around in the glove box and found a bottle.

  “What is it?”

  “Macallan, 1947.”

  “Can you drink that from the bottle?”

  “However you want, Pierre!”

  Lagrange took a drink and nodded in appreciation.

  “We do this deal, and we’re set for retirement. Me, for sure.” Lagrange yawned and closed his eyes. “There’s been a cozy little shack waiting for me a long time now, near where they roll the world’s best cigars, pour the best rum, and have the loveliest hookers.”

  “Where’s that?” asked Stanley. “You have a backup aerodrome in Cuba?”

  Lagrange shifted, opened his eyes to take another drink from the bottle, and, after a satisfied burp, mumbled something else about hookers before falling asleep.

  Stanley mulled over the choice facing him the rest of the trip. The car ran smoothly mile after mile. It was approaching midnight when Stanley entered Zurich. He parked in front of Lagrange’s house. His boss woke up as suddenly as if he’d been shocked, opened the bottle for a farewell sip, and shoved it back in the glove box.

  “I have faith in you, McKnight,” said Lagrange. “I know you’ll do the right thing. See you tomorrow!”

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

  “Really? So I won’t see you then, oh, alas!”

  Lagrange undid his seatbelt and pulled himself out of the car with some difficulty.

  When Stanley pulled into his own parking lot, he saw the lawyer’s wife in an evening gown, also just returning home.

  “Hi,” she said. “I was with some girlfriends at the opera. Something Russian—it was boring, something about a king and a beggar. Ugh. I’ve just remembered that I have a dozen oysters and two bottles of Chablis. Care to join me?”

  “I’d love to.”

  Chapter 24

  The statue of the Soviet marshal Zhukov on horseback looked even more ungainly from the wide, clear window of the Four Seasons than it did on the ground.

  Stanley had circled this statue several times on his first day in Moscow, right after checking in to the hotel.

  He had strolled around Manege Square, noticing that Zhukov was too big and too heavy for his narrow-backed horse.

  Stanley remembered seeing an old film reel in which the marshal observed a parade in Red Square. That Zhukov was rather short, and sat solidly on a powerful white stallion that was always sidling about as if wanting to break into a gallop.

  This one, the bronze savior of Russia, looked like he would fall off the second his pacing horse decided to speed up. He had a long body, like the horse on which he sat, for the proportions of the statue. His bronze uniform was adorned with a medal.

  Stanley had flown into Moscow late in the evening. At the airport he found a short, thin girl wearing all black—black pants and jacket—with delicate facial features and a piercing gaze. She was holding a sign with his last name on it.

  Stanley approached and pointed his thumb toward his chest, saying, “I’m McKnight.”

  “Gala,” she said by way of introduction and lifted his suitcase with ease.

  She set a brisk pace; Stanley could barely keep up with her. A gauntlet of heavy-faced taxi drivers offered their services as he passed.

  Dusk was gathering outside the large window of the airport. Gala went outside, toward a black car parked in a no-waiting zone. A flashing blue light sat atop its roof.

  The policeman standing next to the car saluted when he saw Gala. She pressed the button on the remote, making all the car’s lights flash. The trunk opened, and Gala tossed his suitcase in and settled into the driver’s seat. Stanley moved to sit in the passenger seat, but she shook her head.

  “In the back, please! And buckle up. We’ll be going fast.”

  She operated the car as if it were part of her. Remembering the Moscow traffic jams, Stanley asked how long they would be on the road. Gala smiled. “Not long.” Once the car joined the highway, she hit the sirens and moved into the far left lane, almost pushing the other cars off the road as she went.

  Now Stanley was standing in front of the window in his room, looking down at the square packed with people, and that awkward statue.

  Russian flags flew over the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind.

  The waiter who brought him breakfast lowered his eyes gratefully as Stanley tucked fifty euros into his pocket. Stanley would never normally give a tip of that size, in the Four Seasons or any other hotel. A ten would be enough, with the prices in this hotel. But the waiter was highly trained. He probably prepared a daily report on the visitors he served, for the FSB or some other agency. But Lagrange had told him to get an expensive room, and to forget about his American ways.

  “No percentages, no calculations!” he ordered. “You have to be impulsive. You can decide not to tip one person, but then you have to give the next one double. Act more capricious. Start a big fuss over nothing. Russians will respect you for that…”

  “What’s going on down there?” Stanley asked the waiter.

  “It’s an opposition rally, sir,” the waiter answered in serviceable English. “They were only given permission to hold a rally on Mayakovsky Square, but they’ve gone down Tverskaya. There might be some trouble with
the police now. If I could offer some advice, it would be better not to leave the hotel for the next hour or two. Can I pour you a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thanks, I’ll do it,” Stanley said, finishing his orange juice. “And what does the opposition want?”

  “They’re protesting against corruption.” Stanley watched the waiter’s white-gloved hand adjust a fragrant pale-pink rose in a tall, thin vase. “There’s an anecdote about that, if you’d like to hear it?”

  “Go ahead!” Stanley moved away from the window and sat in armchair by the table. He pulled the egg cup over—just as he’d asked, the yolk was hot and runny, perfect for dipping cheese sticks in.

  “It’s from the time of the 1917 revolution. An aristocratic woman, a descendant of the Decembrists…I’m sorry, sir, do you know who the Decembrists were?”

  “I do. Go on.” Stanley nodded. His egg was perfectly cooked.

  “So an aristocratic woman, a descendant of Decembrists, asked her maid what the demonstrators with red flags in the streets wanted. The maid replied: they want there to be no more rich people. Strange, said the aristocratic woman, my grandfather wanted there to be no more poor people.”

  “Not bad!” Stanley said, biting into his cheese stick. “Not bad. And neither was your anecdote. Thank you!”

  The waiter bowed, and exited the room soundlessly.

  Stanley could not, of course, wait in his room until the end of this opposition rally, as the waiter had called it.

  Yesterday, dehydrated and suffering from a headache after his flight, he’d dined alone in one of the hotel’s restaurants, which he’d chosen for its dark interior. After a couple of phone calls, though, Biryuza had set up a meeting, telling Stanley to expect him, along with a surprise.

  A business meeting with Gagarin’s partners was scheduled; Biryuza did not explain what kind of surprise could possibly accompany such a gathering.

  Stanley didn’t like surprises. Especially since they’d been growing more frequent lately. He didn’t ask Biryuza what this surprise was, but did think to himself that maybe it was time for some surprises of his own. There are two types of people: those who get surprises and those… Stanley gave it up, realizing once again that the creation of aphorisms was not his strong suit.