The Banker Who Died

by Matthew A Carter

  “Yes,” he finally answered. “McKnight.”

  “Stanley, my dear, why haven’t you been answering? Is everything okay?” Lagrange was clearly concerned, if he was calling this early. Stanley looked at the clock—it was only 9:00 AM in Moscow.

  “Oh, hi, Pierre. Everything’s fine.”

  “You were supposed to call yesterday. We were worried—how did everything go?”

  “Everything went perfectly. We’re in complete agreement. All that’s left are some technical details.”

  “Who did you meet with?”

  “A girl with a duck…”

  “I don’t get it! Stanley! Hello?”

  “Just a joke, never mind. I met with very high-level people. The highest. I’ll be back in Zurich today. I’ll give you the details in person.”

  “So I can tell Jean-Michel that everything’s going smoothly?”

  “You can and you should. Sorry for not calling.”

  “No worries, it happens. We’ll see you soon!”

  Stanley hung up and got out of bed. He didn’t see any of Christine’s things in the room. He looked at the pillow—she always left strands of her hair behind. The pillowcase was clean. Had it really been just a dream? Or was it someone else who he imagined was Christine? Maybe it had been Mila? Yes, Mila was that persistent, stubborn, and insatiable. Stanley thought again that Mila would only bring him trouble. She was a threat in and of herself.

  He got a bottle of Coke from the minibar, and downed it all. Breakfast of champions.

  Through the half-open door, he saw the curtain on the balcony waving. Still naked, Stanley walked out. Christine was there, reclining in a low chair, a sheet draped over her, with a glass of juice and a cigarette.

  “Did you think you’d dreamed me?” she asked.

  “Good morning,” McKnight said, lowering himself into the chair next to her.

  “Good morning, Stan. You have a lovely waiter—he brought coffee and croissants without me even asking. Shall I pour you a cup?”

  “No, thank you. I did think I’d dreamed you. I never thought you were so impulsive.”

  “I seemed too ordinary for that? Boring?”

  “Not boring. It’s just…you’ve gradually become—how should I put it? Do you remember, years ago, you said that we would be different. We would break free from the routine?”

  “I remember.”

  “And then you started to get stuck in that routine yourself. I know, my mom.” He paused when he saw Christine’s face darken. “But we only talked about why that happened to her, where all our money had gone and how to pay our student loans. About where we should move and how to get a good mortgage.”

  “I remember that, yes.”

  “I’m serious…I love you, Christine, but I can’t live like that, the way we were living in San Francisco. That’s why I went to London, then Zurich. I miss you, but…”

  “You always have a ‘but’! It makes me crazy! Any conversation with you, there’s a ‘but’!”

  “Don’t get angry, Christine,” Stanley asked. “Let’s get cleaned up, have some breakfast, and go take a walk. I have a flight to Zurich this evening.”

  “Is Zurich really more fun than San Francisco?”

  “No, Zurich is as boring as plain oatmeal, but I’ve got a very interesting job. I didn’t have that at home.”

  “I thought we would spend a couple of days together.”

  “I can’t, honey. I’ve got a really important deal going on. I’m sorry! Next week you’re going to get a check double the one before…”

  “You think I’m here because of money?”

  “Of course not.” Stanley rose and lit a cigarette. The Kremlin was in front of him, covered in light fog. Cars flew down Okhotny Ryad.

  “When’s your flight?”

  “We have time to take a walk and have lunch,” said Stanley. “But let’s not order golden mackerel. My childhood dreams have let me down.”

  Part Four:

  The Magnificent Five

  Chapter 28

  Stanley stood on the scorching runway in the suburbs of East Berlin.

  The airfield was previously run by the Soviet army, which left enormous hangars and ugly outbuildings when they withdrew after the reunification of Germany.

  Several years ago, some crazy rich people bought the airfield to host raves and dance music festivals. They set up a stage on the runway, then immediately went bankrupt, and a group of serious businessmen bought it from them. Now it was an airfield for private planes, with a glass air traffic control tower rising above the old Soviet structures that may have retained their former, unappealing exterior, but had been completely renovated within.

  McKnight was in a light-gray suit and old-fashioned straw hat with a wide band, which he had discovered by chance in one of the hangars, and was now wearing for some relief from the heat.

  He rocked back and forth from heel to toe, sipping occasionally from a water bottle.

  The dispatcher had already told him that the plane from Moscow was delayed, and suggested he wait in the shade or relax in the bar, but McKnight stubbornly remained in the hot sun.

  Not so long ago, Stanley had waited for this same plane from Moscow in a Zurich airfield. That plane had been carrying bags with $200 million in cash, and plastic bins filled with gold bars.

  McKnight had tried to remind Lagrange that he, McKnight, held a fairly high position at the bank, that he had a great deal of other responsibilities, that someone else, someone with more experience in this type of work, could handle cash transit services to the bank vault. But Lagrange had growled suddenly.

  “There’s a Russian expression I’ve heard—‘If you like to go sledding, learn to like pulling the sled back uphill!’ You get me, McKnight? You like your nice tax-free bonuses and an unrestricted corporate credit card. But other things, like transferring money in person and the like, which ensures your financial well-being, you see as beneath your dignity. Is that right?”

  “No, that’s not right. Not beneath my dignity at all, but you could have replaced me with someone else for this job. I had some documents I needed to prepare for other Russian clients.”

  “We don’t have any clients more important than Gagarin now. What are you talking about, McKnight? Your other clients have a pitiful few million dollars, and this is billions on the table. Come on, McKnight! Who would you suggest take your place? Bernard? He’d shit himself out of panic. Someone from our team? They’d cut you out of the relationship with Gagarin, while informing on us to the authorities at the same time. So shut up and get your ass over to the airfield!”

  Lagrange was more or less correct, of course, but Stanley didn’t like his tone. He’d cast suspicious glances at Stanley the whole time, gesticulated too wildly.

  They had decided to send the diplomatic postal shipments to different European cities so as not to arouse suspicion. Everything had gone smoothly in Zurich. Here in Berlin, they had three armored trucks waiting for the cargo.

  Stanley had had to travel with this convoy the whole way from Zurich to Berlin, in one of the escort cars instead of his own. The driver, the director of the bank’s armored transport service, didn’t say a single word the entire way. This suited Stanley quite well, actually, and he spent the trip dozing in the back seat.

  McKnight finally received word that the plane from Moscow was preparing to land. He tossed the empty water bottle into the yellowed grass and stepped into the shade by the hangar, while the trucks and escort vehicles emerged to meet the plane. The transport director silently opened the back door of his car, and Stanley jumped in.

  The plane appeared in the sky and began to descend, its outline shimmering in the hot sky. When the plane’s wheels touched down onto tarmac a helicopter appeared over the airfield, and gradually, as if unwillingly, lowered its height, and landed
at the far end of the runway, where the plane was now heading.

  The plane stopped and lowered a ramp; several guards ran down, carrying machine guns.

  Biryuza stepped out of the helicopter, and ran, bent over, to the escort car that had also just come to a full stop.

  “Hi.” Biryuza nodded to McKnight. “How was the trip?”

  “Forget the pleasantries, Anton!” Stanley said, settling his sunglasses on his nose. “Where do you need me to sign?”

  Biryuza took out a leather folder containing several sheets of paper.

  “Here, here, and here. And on this page as well. I’d wait till my people have transferred the cargo to yours.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait. Why didn’t you come on the plane? Or did you come all the way from Moscow like this, plane and helicopter flying together?”

  “You know a helicopter couldn’t match the speed of a plane. I’m coming from Berlin. I had some business here to attend to.”

  One of the guards who had flown in with the cargo walked over to McKnight and Biryuza. He unlocked the handcuff on his wrist and handed Biryuza a flat, narrow, briefcase together with the handcuff key. Biryuza signed a form and gave it back to the guard, then passed the briefcase over to Stanley, handing over another form as well.

  “Diamonds. Worth about 250 million. Shall I open it?”

  “I can’t tell a real diamond from a fake,” said McKnight. “But we trust each other, don’t we? Give it to me. I’ll sign.”

  “First, the handcuff.” Biryuza snapped it on Stanley’s left wrist. It was wet on the inside, and Stanley shuddered in disgust—the guard could have wiped his sweat off, at least.

  McKnight signed the form, and Biryuza carelessly stuffed it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

  “Let’s not forget about the key,” Biryuza said, giving it to Stanley, “And don’t lose it!”

  “Even if I did, I have to believe that one of the guards at the bank could open it.”

  The head of the bank’s transport service came over to McKnight and Biryuza, and told them that everything was ready, and that he was to collect some important documents in Berlin at Laville’s request. There were a lot of these documents, so, first of all, he was taking two armored trucks, and second of all, Stanley would have to travel in the cab of one of the trucks.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Stanley said. “I’ll have to call for confirmation.”

  “I doubt you’ll be able to get through to Monsieur Laville,” the director said, frowning, “But if you insist…”

  “Come on, Stanley!” Biryuza said, clapping a hand on McKnight’s shoulder. “Take a ride in the truck. It’s no less comfortable, and a lot safer. If someone does decide to attack, however…”

  “I hope you’re joking,” said Stanley.

  “Of course, of course! Go with God.” Biryuza made the sign of the cross over Stanley. “Don’t worry about a thing. Especially since you’re riding with our guys, in two Mercedes G-Class escorts.”

  McKnight looked around, and saw Gagarin’s guards standing next to two Jeeps, all ready to go.

  Biryuza shook Stanley’s hand and walked briskly back to the helicopter.

  McKnight walked over to the truck loaded with money and gold. The weapons-laden guards were already in the back with the doors locked.

  McKnight opened the heavy door of the cab and buckled himself in next to the driver.

  The whole time, the sharp corner of the briefcase full of diamonds was digging into his chest. The driver opened the compartment between their two seats and pulled out a gun in a holster. The holster was on a shoulder strap that could be worn under a jacket.

  “This a Glock 22,” said the driver. “Fifteen-round magazine. Do you know how to use it?” He asked the question with a bit of a smirk.

  “I could teach you a thing or two,” Stanley replied coldly, checking the clip and cocking the hammer before putting the safety on. “I went to shooting courses by Blackwater, pretty much military training.”

  “Good for you!” the driver snorted.

  McKnight stepped out of the vehicle and tried to take his jacket off, but the briefcase got in the way. He had to take off the handcuff, and he spent a panicked ten minutes searching for the key until he remembered sticking it in his shirt pocket. Then he put on the shoulder holster, refastened the handcuff, and got back in, placing his jacket over his knees. Throughout this process, he couldn’t help noticing how, after all the alcohol and cocaine, his hands shook badly. He would more than likely miss a target a dozen steps away now. And he’d never shot at a person before, but he knew they hadn’t given him a Glock to go after some rabbits.

  “Let’s go!” he said to the driver.

  They didn’t run into any difficulties leaving the airfield. Gagarin’s guards in the Mercedes G-wagons kept a little behind them, but when the armored truck merged onto the highway, first one, then the other, caught up, one pulling ahead of their truck, one falling into position behind, continually rotating positions, and thereby cutting off access to their truck for any cars moving in the same direction. The driver noticed their maneuvering before Stanley did, and pursed his lips approvingly, giving Stanley the thumbs-up.

  “These guys know what they’re doing,” he said.

  “How about you watch the road, instead?” muttered Stanley in English.

  “I’m sorry, Herr McKnight. What was that?”

  “Yes, they do, indeed,” said Stanley in German.

  He closed his eyes. This hangover was killing him. Without opening them again, he asked if there was any water.

  “Of course, Herr McKnight! Under your seat.”

  Stanley fumbled with the cap of the bottle and greedily drank about half of it in one go. Then he remembered that he was supposed to send Lagrange a message on Telegram that they had left.

  His boss was not happy with the delayed reply. Stanley got a lot of irritated comments and instructions, and then Lagrange asked for a general report.

  “What exactly do you want to know?” asked Stanley.

  “Did you notice anything suspicious? That’s what I want to know!”

  “We’re driving down the autobahn. We have a drive of about fifteen hours. I’m with one of the three trucks. I’m sitting in the cab, wearing my seatbelt, and I have a suitcase full of diamonds handcuffed to my wrist. A gun under my arm. Nothing suspicious here, boss!”

  “Where are the other trucks?”

  “They went on to Berlin.”

  “What the hell? You should have stopped them! They should have come with you, as potential cover!”

  “They were following Laville’s orders.”

  “Laville? Well, then…okay, Stanley, I’ll be waiting for your next update!”

  Stanley hung up and put the telephone in his pocket, suddenly drowsy.

  He fell asleep, and dreamed that he was walking down Bahnofstrasse. A tall, gray-haired man walked toward him, his coat buttoned all the way up to his neck despite the warm, sunny day. The man was pale, wearing tinted glasses and carrying his hat in his hand, showing off his perfectly coiffed hair. Stanley’s neighbor was walking next to him, her hand under his arm, from which he gathered that this was her boring husband. Just then, he finally remembered their last name, a terribly long German name that meant something, he was sure, but it was beyond his rudimentary grasp of the language—Himmelstossel.

  When he woke, he recalled with regret that his neighbor had been avoiding him ever since their night of Chablis and oysters. At first he had wondered why—maybe it had been his suggestion that they eat their seafood in the nude, or the way that he had placed the oysters on her stomach, dressing their delicious flesh with lemon juice and licking it all up before moving on to every intimate part of her body.

  The real explanation was more banal: her lawyer husband had found Stanley’s lighter
, which had fallen out of his pocket, in a fold of their carpet. She had tried to justify herself, come up with some kind of explanation, but Herr Himmelstossel saw right through her.

  She admitted the truth, and he made her promise that this was the last time. She told Stanley, when they encountered each other in the underground parking garage, that she meant to keep her word. When he asked how many times she had made similar promises, she blushed and admitted that she had lost count herself. They even had grandchildren, it turned out.

  McKnight fell back to sleep and went back into the same dream. The couple had passed him and were entering a restaurant. Stanley turned back one last time, and his neighbor looked up, right at him. Her gaze steady on his, she grinned and gave him a wink.

  McKnight woke up. The road ahead of him was straight and smooth. The driver sat, staring straight ahead, with two hands on the wheel.

  “What does Himmelstossel mean in German?” Stanley asked.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “How would you translate the last name Himmelstossel into English?”

  “That’s what it would be, Himmelstossel.”

  “Okay, but it’s made up of two words. What does himmel mean?”

  “Sky, Herr McKnight.”

  “Excellent. And stossel?”

  “A lever. No…hm, ah, a pistil! You know, like in a flower.”

  “Sky pistil! Nice.”

  “But there’s no such thing, Herr McKnight.”

  “Yes, well—never mind about that.”

  Their trip in the cab of the truck was unbearably exhausting. McKnight drowsed several more times, but would wake up in a cold sweat with a stiff neck, tormented by thirst. He would drink the warm water, look out at the road, adjust his shoulder holster, and fall asleep again.

  While he was officially in charge of this operation, Gagarin’s people were running it in practice. When Stanley asked the driver to stop at the next gas station, for example, he got on the radio to ask the guard in charge of their convoy. He then told Stanley that they weren’t planning to stop for another forty-five minutes.