The Banker Who Died

by Matthew A Carter

  After Gala had delivered him to the hotel, Stanley decided to have dinner. He ordered golden mackerel stewed with tomatoes and fried peppers, and a bottle of Chablis.

  In addition to the razor from his great-grandfather, Stanley had also inherited an obscene ditty from the Russian side of his family. He’d memorized it, and then written it down.

  His grandfather had often sung the verse to himself, certain that neither his daughter nor his grandson could understand him: “In the vineyards of Chablis/ the pages entertained the countess/ First they read her poetry/ Then they fucked her merrily.”

  When Stanley started studying Russian, he remembered his grandfather’s little song, and showed it to his university teacher.

  His teacher, an emigrant from the USSR with a slim waist and wide hips, smoothed down the folded and worn page, read its contents, and chuckled to herself. “The poem is about courtly love between a lady and her servant. An untranslatable play on words,” she had said, handing the paper back to Stanley.

  But a girlfriend of his, a Russian girl working as a bartender in a little place on Forty-Second Street in New York, laughed for a long time when Stanley read her the poem, after telling her in advance that he was going to read her something in Russian.

  “You’re so funny,” said the bartender, who married some film producer shortly thereafter and moved from the Bronx to the Hollywood hills. “Remember this, Stanley: you have to start the study of any language, especially Russian, with an overview of its obscenities. If you don’t know the plural past tense of the verb fuck from the infinitive to fuck, then your being able to read Dostoyevsky without a dictionary isn’t worth a thing.”

  Stanley had objected that he was still far from Dostoyevsky, and his bartender taught him as much as she could about Russian cursing. Most importantly, though, in large part thanks to his grandfather’s poem, Stanley learned to love Chablis.

  He drank the wine down to the last drop, but didn’t finish the fish, even though he’d been waiting to try it ever since he’d read a travelogue as a child in which the author wrote that golden mackerel was the tastiest fish he’d ever had. It was worth coming to Moscow just to order it!

  Stanley walked out of the hotel. He was in a dark-blue suit and a fitted, pure-white shirt, all custom-made in Florence. He liked the raised Australian mother-of-pearl buttons on these shirts, thick and hand-sewn.

  Stanley had no briefcase or shoulder bag; all he had was his passport, wallet, smartphone, and a flat leather cigarette case. He’d started carrying a case ever since they’d started printing terrible pictures showing the medical effects of smoking on packs of cigarettes. He took out a cigarette, and the porter in livery was by his side with a lighter.

  Stanley thanked him and then looked around. The entrance to the hotel was blocked off by two rows of policemen in helmets with their visors lowered, standing shoulder to shoulder, shields resting on the ground. The street past them was filled with a turbulent human sea.

  One of the protesters approached the line of policemen and began shouting into a megaphone. Stanley couldn’t make out what he was saying, amid the general noise and the rasp of the megaphone.

  “What is he saying?” Stanley asked the porter.

  “That corruption is evil,” the porter replied.

  “And that draws a crowd here?” snorted Stanley. “Why does he need a megaphone to tell us something everybody knows?”

  Like Stanley’s waiter, the porter spoke good English, but was clearly reluctant to give an exact translation of the slogans distorted by the megaphone.

  “Well, to be precise, sir, he says that planes are not for corgis,” the porter said.

  “Not for corgis? What does that mean?”

  “The wife of a high-ranking official recently flew to a dog show on a private plane, at government expense, so her corgis could participate.”

  “Like the queen of England?”

  “Yes, sir. And she says her corgis are better than the queen’s, so her participation will enhance Russia’s prestige.”

  “Really? An interesting argument.” Stanley stood up on his toes, trying to see the signs the protesters were carrying.

  “What’s written on that sign over there?” he asked.

  “We won’t forgive! We won’t forget!”

  “Yeah, that sounds pretty Russian. What about that one?”

  “Which one, sir?”

  “The one the girl is holding, that one with freckles.”

  “Ah! Hospitals, not ducks!”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “One very, very high-up government official built himself an enormous country mansion with an artificial pond for ducks, where the ducks have a special little house.”

  “So?”

  “You could build two rural hospitals for the cost of that duck house.”

  “Nice! How about that one? The one the guy is holding, under the red-and-black banner.”

  “Those are anarchists, if I’m not mistaken. And the sign says: ‘War on the palaces!’”

  “I see. Well, I liked the ones about the dogs and the ducks.” Stanley tossed his cigarette butt and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. “The rest are so-so.”

  A member of the hotel staff came up to the porter and whispered something in his ear.

  “Sir,” the porter said, turning to Stanley, “They’re about to start clearing the square. I strongly advise you to return to the hotel.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Our security service is in contact with the police. And we listen to their radio, so our information is good, sir.”

  “I’d be happy to, but unfortunately, I can’t today!” Stanley got a fresh cigarette out of his case. “Someone’s coming for me shortly. Should be here in about a minute and a half.”

  “But, sir, how do you expect them to get here? You see what’s going on. I’m afraid it will be impossible.”

  “You don’t know who’s coming, my friend. But I do. Nothing is impossible for them! They’ll be here in a minute and a half, well, forty seconds now.”

  Stanley was bluffing a little. He did have some pretty serious doubts as to whether Biryuza would be able to get through that crowd and the heavy police presence. He expected that Biryuza would call him and set a meeting point within a walking distance from the hotel.

  But his doubts were dispelled by the quacking sound and flashing lights of a siren as a huge black Audi pulled up in front of the building.

  It was able to get through thanks to four big brutes hanging off of the spotlessly clean sides, two on each side, and another two ruthlessly clearing the way in front of the car. The nerve and tenacity of this team stunned the police as well as the protesters: their human wall parted, and the car’s rear window, its thick, tinted glass clearly designed to withstand a round from an assault rifle, lowered, and Biryuza’s pale face emerged from the dim interior of the car.

  “Ready, McKnight?”

  “Of course, Biryuza!”

  “Then come on in!”

  Biryuza opened the door and shifted deeper into the interior, and Stanley, winking at the porter frozen in astonishment on the sidewalk, threw his newly lit cigarette on the ground and slid into the car.

  “Reverse, Gala!” ordered Biryuza. “We have to return our fighters here to the Jeep escort, and then…”

  Biryuza paused, and put a finger to his lips.

  “Where are we headed, Anton?” asked Stanley, seeing the miniature girl from the evening before behind the wheel in large mirrored sunglasses.

  “I promised you a surprise, didn’t I? Didn’t I? I did! So shut up and enjoy it.”

  “Ok, then. Hi, Gala!”

  Gala nodded, turned the wheel, dispersing the crowd, and they were moving. The tinted rear windows kept Stanley from seeing what was going on to their right and left, but h
e could see through the windshield as the hulking men running in front of their car casually knocked anyone in their path out of the way. When the car turned onto the road passing between the hotel and the long-shuttered building of the Lenin Museum, they knocked the police officer rushing toward them aside with the same indifference.

  “Anton! They just pushed a police officer!” Stanley said.

  “What! You can’t be serious! Did you see that, Gala?” Biryuza exclaimed in mock astonishment.

  “I didn’t see anything,” said Gala in a hoarse, low voice. The men running in front moved aside, Gala hit the gas pedal, and the car took off, siren quacking away.

  Moments later, they passed Lubyanka Square, flew by the Polytechnic Museum, and passed through Staraya Square. Biryuza took the time to point out the gray building that once housed the Central Committee of the Communist Party, and was now the headquarters of the Russian president’s administration.

  “Anywhere you spit in this town, it lands on a friend of my boss. They all owe him. Some for a house in London, some for still holding on to their jobs,” said Biryuza. “Viktor has an amazing, rare quality—he ensures that people are obligated to him wherever he goes. Even those with whom he’s had no dealings. Although I can’t think of who that might be.”

  The car moved downhill toward the river, then turned right onto the embankment. It was a picturesque view: the Kremlin with the gold domes of Christ the Savior rising behind it.

  “You’re not taking me to meet the patriarch of Russia, are you?” asked Stanley.

  “No, not today. We try not to interact too much with spiritual figures. Although that field is looking more and more promising these days. Thanks for the idea, Stanley.”

  Gala drove past the Prechistenskaya Embankment and made a sharp right turn under the overpass, forcing the flow of traffic to brake suddenly to let her pass, before turning left and then right again and flying onto the Garden Ring.

  The cars ahead slowed for a red traffic light, but Gala hit a button on her display panel, the quacking of the siren turned into a wail, and a traffic cop emerged out of nowhere to block off oncoming traffic and let Biryuza’s car through. In no time, they were pulling up to the entrance of a tall building topped with a high spire. Its windows looked narrow, and the lower section of its walls were covered in red granite.

  “We’re here!” Biryuza announced.

  “Where are we?” asked Stanley.

  “This is the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I’m going to introduce you to someone.”

  “This is your surprise?”

  “You’re a quick one, McKnight! Just pick things up, don’t you? Look up, Stanley. You see that spire? According to legend, when they were finishing construction on the building, Stalin happened to drive by. He noted that Russian buildings usually had pointed tops. So they immediately drew up plans for a spire. They made it out of metal for ease of construction, and painted it the color of the building. The spire might have been added to give the building a more unique appearance. Otherwise, it’s a bit too much like US government buildings from the first half of the twentieth century, which was unacceptable, of course. Got it?”

  “I see.” Stanley laughed. “As per usual, the Americans are to blame for everything. What else is new?”

  Chapter 25

  They were met at the vast front door by a tall, narrow-shouldered man in a Zegna suit. His tie was tied in a thin, tight knot, and the grip of his slender hand was unusually strong when they shook.

  “Zaitsev sent me,” the narrow-shouldered man said. “He couldn’t meet you himself, as the minister called him in. I’m Igor Novichok, Zaitsev’s aide.”

  Biryuza, who had been tensing up, relaxed and nodded.

  To Stanley’s surprise, Novichok easily opened the door behind them—then saw that there was a smaller, ordinary door within the enormous one.

  Stanley was momentarily blinded by the soft gloom of the entrance hall after the bright sunlight, but recovered quickly to see that they were being waved over to a counter manned by an armed policeman in full uniform. The officer didn’t ask for any identification, simply nodded politely and asked them to step through a metal detector.

  Once through the metal detector, they crossed the vestibule with its marble columns, reflected in the polished black granite of the floor, and came to a carved wooden stand, where they did have to show their documents.

  “We’re happy to see you, Mr. McKnight,” said the auburn-haired girl as she handed back his passport.

  They walked toward the elevators but passed by the main ones where a small cluster of people waited, heading instead to a small corner. Novichok took a card out of his pocket and placed it against a keypad in the wall, and elevator doors opened soundlessly. Stanley noticed that there were only four buttons in this elevator. Novichok pressed the red one.

  “Time for takeoff!” Biryuza laughed—and they shot upward as soon as the doors closed.

  “Follow me, please!” Novichok said when the elevator stopped and the doors opened. He let Stanley and Biryuza out first, then quickly moved ahead of them, his steps quiet on the hallway carpet.

  The hallway was lined with wooden paneling, and dimly lit. The doors they passed were set back in the wall, and each had keypad locks. It seemed to go on forever.

  Finally, they came to a tall door without a keypad lock. Novichok pulled a bunch of keys out of his pocket and flipped through them with his slim fingers to find the right one. He opened the door wide, saying, “Please come in, gentlemen!”

  They entered an enormous office. Its thick, dark-green curtains were closed tightly, and a large carpet covered the floor. The wooden paneling on the wall reached up to eye level, but wasn’t as dark as that in the hallway. They were covered in lacquer, which gleamed under the light of a large chandelier.

  “That’s Karelian birch. A nice look!” Novichok told Stanley, noticing his glance. “Sit down. Sit down. Zaitsev will be here any minute. Tea? Of course you want tea! One moment!”

  Novichok went over to the desk, on which sat two old-fashioned telephones—a black one with a rotary dial and a white one that had a golden USSR emblem in place of a dial. He sat behind it in a high-backed chair, which creaked slightly under his weight. Stanley wondered what would happen to that chair if the corpulent Lagrange sat on it. Novichok picked up the black telephone’s receiver and dialed one number.

  “Tea. Cookies. Mishka,” Novichok said into the receiver. “For three.” And hung up.

  There was a portrait on the wall above the desk of a man with a large forehead wearing a pince-nez, coat, and hat.

  “Is that Beria?” Stanley asked.

  “Hah!” Biryuza and Novichok exclaimed in unison.

  “You know who Beria is?” Novichok asked, taking out a pack of Parliament and lighting one.

  “Stanley! You’ve already shocked me with the Porsche,” said Biryuza. “Now—Beria? Not many Swiss bankers know that Lavrentiy Beria was the last head of Stalin’s secret service, that even Stalin was wary of him, and that he was shot shortly after Stalin’s death.”

  “Yes, I know who Beria was,” said Stanley. “He also ran the Soviet nuclear project. And he loved young girls. He drove around Moscow collecting them, like butterflies. Then he raped them. I’ve seen the office where he did it—it’s a restaurant now. I also know who the Decembrists were, what year the revolution was, that Stalin wanted to make peace with Hitler, and that they signed a secret agreement, but Hitler managed—how do you say it in Russian? He managed to screw Stalin, and there was a long war, in which Stalin finally managed to screw Hitler. I know a lot. What are you laughing about?”

  Biryuza and Novichok were roaring with laughter. Biryuza was doubled over with laughter, slapping his thick thighs, squatting down as if he was preparing to jump into a dance around the room.

  “What are you laughing at? What’s
so funny?”

  “Mr. McKnight!” Novichok stopped laughing finally and grew serious. “As a matter of fact, this isn’t Beria, although there are some similarities, I agree. This is Vyacheslav Molotov, the longtime Minister of Foreign Affairs in the USSR, the very man who Stalin sent to sign a secret agreement with Hitler.”

  “Not with Hitler,” said Biryuza, wiping tears away.

  “Well, of course, not with Hitler himself, but with his minister, Ribbentrop. No offense, it was very funny.”

  “Don’t be mad, Stanley!” Biryuza took a package of tissues and blew his nose noisily, then tossed the crumpled-up tissue into the wastebasket with an accuracy that any pro basketball player would envy.

  Deep leather chairs stood around a low table covered with watermarks from glasses and almost burned through in places from cigarettes. Stanley sank into one of them and ran a hand over the table. Whoever usually sat here loved his cigars—there were several deep marks from cigar burns here and there. The scent of old tobacco filled the room. There was a carafe of water on the table, and several glasses on a crystal tray.

  The office doors swung open to admit a fat woman in a short dress, white apron, and white cap over straw-yellow hair. She was pushing a trolley that held a small samovar with a teapot, a dish with sweets labeled Mishka in the North, another dish with cookies, a plate with lemon slices, a sugar bowl, and three glasses in silver tea-glass holders bearing the USSR emblem.

  A chubby redheaded man followed her into the room, a jacket over his arm. His tie lay over his shoulder, and thin-framed glasses sat on the tip of his meaty nose. As he passed the woman, he moved his jacket from one arm to the other and gave her a hearty smack on her substantial behind. She, unconcerned, began to transfer the contents of her trolley onto the table, and the man extended his hand to Stanley.