“Tell him I won’t last that long,” Stanley replied.
The driver passed on his message, then relayed the reply, that Stanley would have to wait.
“These Russians are such pigs,” the driver said after switching off his radio. “He said I should tell you to go ahead and piss yourself! This isn’t the first time I’ve transported their valuables, and they always act like they’re the masters of everything. Where does that come from, anyway?”
“It’s a common phenomenon when people start off poor and begin to get rich,” answered Stanley.
“You think so? It’s a rule of life?” The driver was clearly ready to philosophize.
McKnight shrugged. He didn’t want to have a conversation with the driver. He wanted a bathroom, a cup of coffee, and something to eat.
They finally pulled into a big rest stop with a gas station on one end and a small shopping center with several fast-food restaurants.
Gagarin’s people wouldn’t let Stanley get out of the car at the gas station. He only managed to jump out after the armored car had parked in the far corner of the lot next to one of their escort Jeeps. Two guards waited outside his door with expressionless faces. One sat in his seat and slammed the door shut behind him, and another, wearing all black, followed Stanley toward the shopping center.
But they’d only gone a couple dozen feet when the guard’s radio beeped.
“Yes, sir!” the guard answered, falling a step back. “What? A permit? I’ll ask!”
He ran up to McKnight, who was pretending not to have understood the conversation, and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Mister, do you have permit to carry gun?” the guard asked in broken English. “Permit?”
“Permit? Permit for what? To go to the bathroom? To drink coffee?”
He intentionally answered in a slight Texan drawl, the hardest accent for foreigners to understand, imitating Christine’s uncle.
The guard unexpectedly managed to understand him.
“To carry gun, mister!” he said to Stanley, and cursed into the radio: “Goddamn it, this shithead doesn’t even speak English, he sounds like a barking dog, Vlad.”
Stanley realized he’d forgotten about the gun tucked under his arm. He’d have to go back to the truck. He took off his jacket, unbuttoned the holster, and gave it to the guard who’d been sitting in his seat a moment ago.
“Stay right on him, Alexey,” said Vlad, the second guard. “He’s either hungover, or he’s on something. Keep an eye on him!”
“Understood!” the first guard said. He put his hand on Stanley’s shoulder and said, “Come with me, mister. Let’s go!”
They walked toward the shopping center, Alexey several steps behind him the whole way. Stanley’s immediate destination was the toilet. Alexey followed. Stanley was about to enter a stall, but Alexey gestured for him to wait. He examined every stall, but the bathroom was empty except for them, and gestured again for Stanley to go ahead.
“Are you coming in there with me?” asked Stanley.
Alexey pretended not to understand and turned away, leaning against the wall.
Stanley sat down and got out his smartphone, calling Lagrange.
“Pierre,” Stanley began as soon as Lagrange answered. “This is completely out of control! First, they give me a gun, and now Gagarin’s thug is following me everywhere. He’s dressed like a commando. Everyone is staring at us! You should have at least warned me!”
“Calm down. Calm down, McKnight.” Lagrange’s voice was even, unperturbed. “What would be different if I had warned you? You would still have resented someone telling you what to do. Please, relax. Where are you now?”
“I have no idea.” Stanley thought that Lagrange might be right. Maybe he should accept the situation and not try to throw his weight around. “We’re at some rest stop. I’m sitting on the toilet, with a bodyguard right outside. I slept most of the way so far.”
“Excellent! Have a drink, maybe a beer, eat some greasy German sausage, and sleep some more. We’re all waiting for you here! Call in an hour, unless you’re sleeping—then I’ll call you. Bye, Stanley!”
McKnight left the stall. Alexey was talking on his mobile phone, explaining to some girl why it would be impossible to buy her what she wanted, since they were traveling through Germany without stopping, and the prices were nearly two times higher in Switzerland. Every other word was a curse, but he wasn’t, to Stanley’s surprise, using them to hurt or attack the girl. He simply added swear words into his speech as logical connections or to express emotions—surprise or happiness.
Stanley dried his hands and pushed the door open with his shoulder. Alexey followed, and Stanley strolled down the main corridor of the building, which was lined with small shops. At the far end, he saw the signs of fast-food restaurants and stalls, but just as he was getting ready to order from a Nordsee, Alexey’s radio came to life.
The guard answered. “Yes. Well, he sat on the damned toilet for twenty minutes. Okay, okay, we’re on our way.”
“Mister,” he said, elbowing Stanley. “Hustle! Got to go! It’s time!”
“Okay, sure.” Stanley nodded.
He ordered fish and chips and a Coke. The girl smiled at him and started putting together his order.
“You want anything?” Stanley asked Alexey. “I’m buying.”
Alexey just swallowed and shook his head.
“Up to you,” said Stanley, but asked the girl to double his order anyway.
The fish was a bit dry and oversalted to Stanley’s taste. The driver of the armored truck, though, was touched by Stanley’s gesture, and had devoured most of his food by the time they were back on the autobahn. Stanley finished his Coke and realized that he was sitting on the holster with the gun inside. He tossed it onto the floor at his feet; the driver shook his head in disapproval. Stanley tipped the hat down over his face and fell asleep. Lagrange called him every hour, and each time that Stanley answered, he told his boss he was sleeping, even if he wasn’t, that everything was fine, and that there was nothing to worry about.
Chapter 29
Stanley looked out the window groggily to see that they must have passed the border into Switzerland some time ago. When he woke again, it was evening, and they were entering Geneva.
Biryuza was waiting for them at the entrance to the bank vault. He got out of a black Mercedes and shook Stanley’s hand.
“Everything okay?” Biryuza asked in Russian. “How was the drive?”
“Everything’s great, Anton!” Stanley answered, also in Russian. “It’s been a while since I slept for so long in such an uncomfortable position.”
“Well, we’ve got something here worth a little discomfort,” Biryuza said with a nod to the armored truck. The bank guards were climbing out, rubbing their stiff legs.
Alexey was listening to their conversation, staring at Stanley in open astonishment.
“Excuse me, Anton,” said Stanley, enjoying the expression on the guard’s face, “we need to get this unloaded as fast as we can. I’ll call Lagrange!”
But Lagrange appeared in person, without any advance notice. He exuded an air of deep satisfaction. He was literally beaming. Instead of their usual handshake, he embraced Stanley, slapping him on the back.
“I’m proud of you, McKnight! Excellent work!” Lagrange exclaimed. “I couldn’t have handled it—fifteen hours in a truck! You’re a hero! Right, Anton?”
“Yes, indeed!” agreed Biryuza.
The transport driver in charge asked Stanley to sign a special form. Stanley’s hands shook a little.
“Do you still need me for anything?” Stanley asked him. “If not, I’d like to get going.”
“No, we’ve got it from here,” the other man replied.
“Stanley, I’m eating at Brasserie Lipp tonight. I hope you’ll join me. Anton, wha
t about you?”
Biryuza shook his head, explaining that he was flying back to Moscow that night, in about two and a half hours. Stanley also declined—what he wanted more than anything in the word was to take a bath, and then have a real sleep, in a good bed and clean sheets.
“Which hotel did you put me in?” he asked Lagrange.
“The Beau-Rivage,” Lagrange said, clearly disappointed to lose his dining companion. “It’s at 13 Quai du Mont-Blanc. It’s not far from here, but I’ll call a car for you.”
“Thank you, Pierre! That’s all right, I’ll walk.” Stanley shook hands with both men. “I feel like I’ve forgotten how to. See you, Alexey! Don’t be cheap. Get something nice for your girl!” Pulling his hat further down on his head, Stanley headed toward the exit.
The façade of the hotel was extraordinary, richly decorated with graceful columns and elaborate fluting, miniature balconies, delicately crafted bay windows, and numerous other adornments.
The tall doors opened as Stanley approached, and he found himself in the cozy interior of the lobby. Water burbled in a fountain, and a fire blazed in a fireplace at the far end, despite the warm summer evening. Stanley went over to the desk.
“I believe you have a room for…”
“For Mr. McKnight, sir?” The clerk was lean and dark-skinned, with brilliant white teeth.
“How did you guess? I had no idea I was so famous,” Stanley joked.
“I received a call from a Mr. Lagrange just before you arrived,” the clerk answered with a smile. “Here is your card. You’re in room 404. Would you like anything sent up? Dinner? We could also reserve a table for you in our French restaurant. Perhaps you prefer Thai food? Or—”
“Thank you, you’re very kind,” Stanley retrieved the card from the polished surface of the desk with some difficulty. “I’ll call you if I need anything.”
“Anytime, sir! Anything you need, anything at all!”
The lift moved swiftly and soundlessly upward. The carpet in the corridor muffled the sounds of his steps. Stanley slid the card into the reader at his door and turned the handle to enter.
He came in, took off his hat, and hung it at the corner of the door, and only then noticed the man stretched out on a couch in front of the fireplace.
The man’s pose was languid, entirely at ease, his feet resting on one soft armrest of the couch, and a large pillow under his head. The knot of his tie had been loosened, and his jacket hung over the back of a chair. Narrow glasses rested on the tip of his nose, and he was reading some papers. He looked up at Stanley with a smile, tapping the end of a pencil against his teeth.
“Don’t be frightened, McKnight,” he said, without moving. “Although this is, I suppose, breaking and entering, you’re in no danger. No need to call the staff for help.”
He tossed his papers and pencil onto the floor and rose lightly, holding out his hand.
McKnight recognized him. It was the blond man who he’d thought was following him in Zurich. So, he’d been right about that, after all.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” Stanley asked, his voice loud in the quiet room.
“I’ll tell you everything, McKnight. Don’t rush, and don’t make a scene. There’s no need.”
“I’ll decide what I need,” replied Stanley. “Answer my question, or…”
“Or you’ll call for help? I wouldn’t advise it.” The other man let his hand fall back.
“Why should I call for help?” Stanley shifted position slightly to one side. “I’ll throw you out myself.”
“You’re simply tired and irritated,” the blond said peacefully. “Unsurprising after such a long drive, all the way from Berlin, let alone in the cab of an armored truck. And under the watchful eye of some Russian morons.”
“How did you…damn it! Listen…”
“You can call me Frank. I just happened to have a second key to your room and decided to have a talk with you. Especially since you want to talk to someone yourself, don’t you, Stanley? Can I call you Stanley?”
Stanley took a deep breath, held the air in his lungs, and let it out in one rush. Then he walked around the blonde, almost knocking his shoulder into him, heading toward the minibar.
“Sure,” said Stanley, debating between vodka and whiskey. “Just not Stan, okay?”
He unscrewed the cap from the vodka bottle and drank down the contents in one gulp.
“Bravo, Stanley,” said Frank. “You’ve learned a lot from your Russian friends. And not just how to drink vodka, I think.”
“Who are you?”
“You’re not going to offer me a drink?” asked Frank.
Stanley tossed him the bottle of Macallan, and Frank caught it in the air. Stanley took out his cigarette case and lit a cigarette.
“I won’t offer you one,” he said. “You’re clearly an American, with a healthy lifestyle, gym membership, some kind of special diet? So. Who are you, Frankie, and what are you doing in my goddamn hotel room?”
Frank, in an obvious parody of Stanley, also emptied his minibar bottle in one go. Then he walked over to where his briefcase rested against the couch, and pulled out a full bottle of Macallan.
“I brought a gift. I know you like good scotch. How about we continue this conversation on the balcony?”
“Continue?” Stanley snorted. “We haven’t even begun. Is Frank your real name?”
“We have already begun, Stanley, long ago. Grab some glasses, if you would. You have such a lovely view from your balcony! Some people sure do have it good. I usually get a room overlooking the alley.”
Stanley picked up two glasses and followed Frank onto the balcony. He placed them on the railing, and Frank filled both, handing one to Stanley and keeping one for himself.
“My name really is Frank. Frank Dillon. I work for the US government.” Frank took a drink. “I’m an expert in bank transactions and money laundering.”
“The US government is in the money-laundering business? How about that!” Stanley took a drag on his cigarette, exhaling a thick stream that Frank had to wave away from his face.
“You can joke all you want, Stanley, but you know I didn’t break into your hotel room just to say hi.”
“Yeah, no kidding.”
“No kidding, indeed, Stanley. This is quite serious. They only call me in for cases involving very, very large sums of money. Of very doubtful provenance. Such as the ones Viktor Gagarin is depositing in your bank. You’re familiar with Gagarin. Are you not?”
“Hmm, it’s not ringing a bell. I know there was a Russian cosmonaut by the name Gagarin, and there were some Russian princes with that name as well. What did you say his first name was again?”
Stanley took a drink from his glass. He was experiencing two conflicting states of consciousness simultaneously—on the one hand, an unusual lightness and clarity of mind, and on the other, a paralyzing fear. Terror, to be precise.
Who was this cold-eyed man standing next to him, pretending to enjoy the view of Lake Geneva? Who was he, really? Someone sent by Gagarin to test him, or maybe on the orders of his bank’s security service? Or, the least pleasant option, was he actually from a government agency?
“Are you in the CIA?” asked Stanley, flicking his cigarette toward the night sky.
“Right away, he goes for the CIA!” Dillon laughed briefly. “A fine organization, with…”
“Excellent people, true professionals, patriots, and faithful democrats,” Stanley continued. “Not in terms of adherence to a single party, but faithful servants of democracy as a whole, which our great country is implementing globally with an energy that could be put to better use.”
“Not bad, Stanley, not bad. If I’m in need of an expert in the composition of, say, press releases, I’ll keep you in mind. After all, you’ll be looking for a new job soon. If you’re lucky enough to
stay out of jail after you leave your current position, that is. Otherwise, I’ll look you up in about twenty years.”
“Twenty years? For what? What am I supposed to have done?” Stanley tipped his empty glass toward Frank, and the other man filled it again.
“As of now, you’ve broken twelve federal laws, McKnight. You can, of course, continue down the same road, but I’d advise you to take a moment to consider what you’re doing. It’s not too late to stop.”
“I spend my days in an office, doing small transactions for our richest clients, and I’m breaking laws by the dozen? Without knowing anything about it?” Stanley pulled out another cigarette and lit it.
“We’ve been watching you for a long time, Stanley. Even in Moscow. And we know that you visited the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, we know that Viktor Gagarin upped his deposit in your bank to $10 billion, and we know why you went to Berlin and what you brought back with you to Geneva.”
Frank paused, seemingly lost in thought. He sipped from his glass.
“Are you okay, Comrade Dillon?” asked Stanley.
“Fine! We know about your lover, Viktor Gagarin’s wife. Mila, right? Her father is a high-ranking official in the presidential administration. Mila’s mother is the daughter of a former USSR defense minister. Here’s an interesting fact for you—your lover’s maternal uncle was the last CIA double agent in the KGB to be shot under Communist rule.”
“Have you considered a career as a screenwriter, Frank? I think you’d go far,” said Stanley.
“Writing up storylines and filling in all the details is actually my official job. I’ll leave you my card.”
“Not your business card? Maybe you are CIA, after all? I’m just trying to understand, here.”
Dillon only shook his head in reply.
“Your only way out of this is to cooperate with us.”
“But I’ve never written screenplays, Frank! You heard what I can do—press releases, sure. But not scripts. I’m no good at composing dramatic storylines. Especially not for your audience.”
The Banker Who Died Page 27
