The Banker Who Died

by Matthew A Carter

  “It’s not a black-and-white world. More black-and-gray. After I graduated from Stanford, my father sent me to intern with my second cousin in Rome. He was a top manager at Banco Ambrosiano, and he was a very pious man who also served the church. After three years of Americanization, I was a little surprised by what I found at that bank,” Laville said with a smile, “but my cousin soon set me on the right path.”

  “And what right path is that?” asked McKnight.

  “You don’t need to be afraid of your clients. Everything you dream of is located on the other side of your fear.” Lieblingsky said, raising his wine and tapping Stanley’s glass gently.

  I’ve heard that somewhere before, thought Stanley.

  “Brillamment! Let’s drink to that!” exclaimed Lagrange.

  “Is it really impossible to work for clients who earn their money honestly?” Stanley looked down into his glass as if the wine might answer.

  “What is honestly earned money, Stanley?” Lagrange asked, spreading out his hands. “There’s no such thing! Everyone steals. Who is honest? Even Zuckerberg stole his company. There is no honestly earned money. There is only money cleaned by time. Only time changes the nature of the money.”

  “You’re putting together investment portfolios for Gagarin, looking for ways he can avoid paying taxes while building a mega-yacht, and Lagrange wanted to find for Mobutu…”

  “I found an excellent personal hotel for him,” Lagrange said proudly. “You’ve been to Paris, Stanley? Do you know Avenue Foch? A square millimeter there costs as much as your Porsche. Mobutu got a seven-story palace there through me, and only visited a couple of times, when he came to Paris to take his family shopping. He demanded he travel by Concorde. Air France refused at first, but Mobutu knew how to bargain. Through me, naturally. And the Concorde flew to Kinshasa. Have you been to Kinshasa, Stan? It’s no San Francisco, far from it, and certainly no Zurich or Geneva, but good lord, the whores in Mobutu’s palace were unbelievable! Such dark-skinned beauties, and what perfect asses!”

  “Behave yourself, Lagrange!” said Laville and laughed.

  “Sorry, boss!” Lagrange said. “My fault! And then we got that arrogant bastard a villa right near Monaco. In Roquebrune-Cap-Martin, on Avenue de l’Empress. Three swimming pools, a three-hectare garden, a personal helipad. The irony is, my dear Stan, that when they got rid of Mobutu…” Lagrange paused, and clapped his hand to his forehead. “Damn! It’s been twenty years already! Do you miss him, boss?”

  “Of course, I do. But now, thanks to the talented Mr. McKnight, we have Gagarin. Who has a new Mobutu at his back. So what was the irony, Lagrange?”

  “The irony is, that when Mobutu and all his whores vacated that house on Empress Eugenie, a rich Russian bought it. And do you know how he came to buy it? I put together an investment proposal for him. I advised him to put his money in real estate. And he invested $200 million. Without giving it a second thought. Just stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a couple hundred million dollars.”

  “But that wasn’t the end of it, Stan,” Laville said, digging into his dessert. “That was just the beginning!”

  “Exactly, boss! Because that Russian soon fell into debt, and another Russian, from the oil sector this time, acquired the villa. And do you know how that came to pass?”

  “Let me guess: you put together an investment proposal?”

  “Ah, you’re no fun, Stan! You know everything!” Lagrange tossed his napkin onto the table. “But who’s lounging around those pools now, Stanley? If you can tell me the answer, I’ll owe you a bottle of 1965 Armagnac, from the cellar of my distant relative, Baron Lagrange. So?”

  “Those same Russians? No? No…I’ve got it! Maybe the Russian president is vacationing there,” said Stanley with a snap of his fingers.

  “Nope! The Armagnac stays with me. Gagarin’s lover is relaxing in that villa now, Madame Petrova. Do you know her?”

  “Let him be, Lagrange,” Laville put in. “You’ve tired Stanley out with your interrogation. Gagarin has a lover, a former diver…”

  “Former tennis player, boss!” Lagrange corrected him.

  “What’s that? All right, a tennis player,” agreed Laville. “By the way, I always wondered why Russian women put on so much weight. It looks like even the bones of their skulls expand, their faces get so wide. And forget about their…” Here Laville stood and patted his hips. “Russian men like that. They see that their investments aren’t going to waste.” Lagrange poured everyone more wine and drank, considering. “Or maybe they’re trying to increase the amount of kissable area?”

  “Possibly, very possible.” Laville nodded. “But seriously, Stanley, it’s not much of a stretch to compare Mobutu and the Russian president. Zaire had ‘mobutism,’ and Russia has ‘assholism’ or ‘mudaizm’ as they say in Russia; there are black people over there, and white people over here, but they’re just the same inside—crooks. And us bankers, Mr. McKnight…well, you already know what we end up having to do! Cigars and coffee, please. By the way, Lagrange, I have a ’37 Armagnac, we’ll open it! Help yourselves, please!”

  “I thought I noticed you having a bit of an internal struggle with the comparison between Zaire and modern-day Russia?” asked Lieblingsky, when they had all arranged themselves around the roaring fire with Cuban cigars and the delicious Armagnac. “Is that your Russian blood making itself known?”

  “No, not at all,” said Stanley. “It’s not about who has actual ‘Russian blood.’ The vast majority of those you’re talking about are just residents of Russia. If they’re Russian, it’s through culture alone. And you have a certain contempt for those people. You see them as a second-class kind of people, close to savages, part of a primitive, almost prehistoric culture.”

  “So you think Russian culture is sophisticated?” Lieblingsky asked with an ironic smile.

  Lagrange laughed. “Now Stanley’s going to start telling us about Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. Isn’t that right, McKnight?”

  “And why shouldn’t I?” Stanley felt a sudden burst of irritation at Lagrange, at Laville, and most of all against old Lieblingsky.

  “Because, my dear Stanley, they’re both long-dead. Like the nineteenth century in which they lived…”

  “Tolstoy died in the twentieth century, though, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, who cares about the minor details, McKnight!” Laville thumped his glass down on the polished surface of the table. “What Russia had before, the people who were its pride and the pride of the entire human race, passed away long ago. Some of them got lucky and died in their beds, but most of them were killed by other Russians. During their civil war, and especially during the endless murders after that. The result? Everyone who had something to give to world culture rotted in their camps or was mowed down in their wars, and it’s the killers and their descendants who survived. Russia has been host to a unique genetic experiment. An excellent illustration of what happens when the worst among us win. And the worst, the wardens, have no culture. Not a genuine, high culture. Russia and its culture are long-dead. Instead of Gagarin, the first cosmonaut, we have to deal with the crook who shares his name. Go ahead, name one Russian cultural figure, excluding the nineteenth century.”

  “Ok,” nodded Stanley, “let me see—ah! Nabokov.”

  “Nabokov? All right. Anyone else?”

  “That’s not the best example, Stanley,” said Lieblingsky. “He was an émigré, and did his best work in English. Anyway, is that all you’ve got?”

  “I remember a Russian director winning an Oscar. And we suggested one of our clients invest in research on graphene, which Russians got a Nobel prize for.”

  “They haven’t lived in Russia for a long time, and their discoveries were made in England and the Netherlands.” Laville took a small sip. “Anyone else?”

  “The automatic rifle. AK-47. A Russian invented it
. The Kalashnikov,” Stanley began to tire of the conversation and company of his bosses. He wished he could go home, kick off his shoes, loosen his collar, and drink a little whiskey before going to bed.

  “Kalashnikov stole everything from Hugo Schmeisser,” Laville said, slapping his knee. “They stole everything, all of them. They’re all Mobutu. To one degree or another. The atom bomb, they stole that too. Have you seen their cars? They’re a disgrace! Their modern writers—I was at an event with a Russian writer—he was a Mobutu too. He lived in Switzerland for a time, if you can believe it. I think he has a Swiss wife. Anyway, he put bits by other authors, little-known ones, from the nineteenth century in his novel, (which was published here in translation, of course). Not as a literary game. Just because he thought no one would notice. A Russian translator let me in on the secret at that event.”

  “I didn’t realize you were so interested in literature, Jean-Michel,” said Lagrange.

  “I bought the publishing house,” Laville said apologetically. “They published that Mobutu-Russian just before I acquired it. I wanted to get a look at that product of the kleptocracy. Well, Stanley? No more objections?”

  “No, I don’t have any good arguments. But I have the feeling that you’re not right.”

  “I’m usually suspicious of feelings,” said Laville. “But your recent successes owe a lot to your feelings, it seems to me. Or senses. So…”

  “So let’s drink!” Lagrange said loudly, raising his glass.

  Laville’s driver took them back to Zurich in a limo. Lagrange chattered incessantly, occasionally opening the bar, gradually emptying out the cube-like crystal liter decanter of whiskey until it was gone. Stanley responded with brief replies. Joked around. Then Lagrange fell asleep, and Stanley stared out into the darkness, trying to understand what was happening to him. He couldn’t explain it, but felt like he was being gradually sucked into some kind of quagmire.

  They dropped Lagrange off first. When they drew near Stanley’s building, he asked the driver to stop.

  “I’ll walk the rest of the way, thanks!” he said.

  The driver held the door open for him and wished him a good night.

  He had to get up early the next day, and Stanley promised himself to take it easy for the next couple days. But tonight, he stopped into the first open bar he came across. His tuxedo made an impression—the bartender smirked at him when Stanley ordered a double bourbon and a beer. Then another bourbon.

  “Where are you from, handsome?” asked the woman on the stool next to his. Her eyes were different colors, one light gray, the other brown, and she spoke with a slight lisp.

  “California.”

  “Well, aren’t you a long way from home!” She raised her glass. “Prost!”

  Chapter 31

  The Robinson helicopter, like a big-eyed white beetle, flew over the coastline. Below them, the unbroken blue expanse of the sea stretched out, and the pilot pointed ahead to their destination—the island of Hvar.

  From above the island was red and brown with patches of greenery. Brown stone of the rocky island landscape, red brick rooftops, and the green tops of trees.

  McKnight gazed out at the approaching island from the cabin of the helicopter. He was the only passenger on this flight, and the pilot had suggested he get comfortable in the seats in the back, but Stanley chose the copilot’s seat instead.

  The pilot had jokingly asked earlier whether Stanley was going to take over, and had he ever flown before. Stanley shook his head.

  “I hate helicopters,” he admitted, as they drove from the main building of the Split Airport to the hangar for private planes and helicopters. “I’m afraid to fly in them. In airplanes too, for that matter. I didn’t used to be, but now I am…”

  Stanley had actually been hoping to take a taxi to the marina and find a boat owner there willing to take him out to Gagarin’s yacht.

  When Stanley told the pilot that, the other man shook his head.

  “It’s impossible for security reasons,” the pilot said. “Your boat could be booby-trapped with bombs, after all. And there are VIP guests on the yacht as well as the boss.”

  Stanley nodded. Safety first! God, he was sick of it. As if he couldn’t strap explosives to a helicopter! He didn’t say that to the pilot.

  He had received an invitation from Gagarin the day before. Sent directly to him for the first time, not through Lagrange. Gagarin got in touch with Stanley personally on Telegram.

  “Stanley, my savior!” said Gagarin when Stanley picked up. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

  Gagarin sat on the deck, the sea and the sun at his back. Behind him, at the railing, Stanley saw a potbellied man with folds of fat at the neck, a hairy back, and a large bald spot, in long, sagging shorts, pawing at a thin girl with large, fake breasts. The girl tossed back her head and laughed loudly, exposing her thin neck. Laughter sounded from somewhere else on the boat. And music—Beethoven. “Ode to Joy.”

  “My work day starts pretty early—” Stanley began, but Gagarin cut him off.

  “I’m your work. And I need you. Fly to Split. Biryuza will send you a ticket. And then come over here.”

  “But, Viktor—”

  “I’ll tell Lagrange.”

  “Pierre—”

  “Pierre will stay in Zurich. He hasn’t been able to hold his liquor lately. We like a man who can stay on top of his game. You know what I mean?”

  “Someone who can drink a lot and stay sober?”

  “Exactly! See you tomorrow.”

  Stanley headed to Lagrange’s office. When he passed Barbara, he heard that she was talking to Lagrange’s secretary. Barbara gestured for him to stop, and quickly finished her conversation.

  “Monsieur Lagrange is in a rage,” said Barbara. “I wanted to warn you ahead of time.”

  Lagrange really was in a state. He was offended that he hadn’t been invited to Gagarin’s new yacht. He was jealous of Stanley’s relationship with Gagarin, jealous of Stanley’s success. That was clear in every line of his posture, his sharp tone, in how he splashed whiskey out of Stanley’s glass with his careless pour, leaving a puddle on the table’s smooth surface.

  “Stanley, Stanley, our golden boy,” said Lagrange, pushing the glass of whiskey over to him. “You sure are lucky! A little midweek vacation on the yacht of a Russian billionaire. Do you know the ‘Magnificent Five’ are going to be there?”

  “The magnificent what?”

  “Five. The five people to whom our god, our benefactor, his Excellency Viktor Gagarin owes everything. They’re the ones who made him a billionaire. To be precise…”

  Lagrange fell silent, raising his glass and looking at the light through its contents.

  “To be precise?”

  “What?” Lagrange said, as if waking from sleep.

  “You were talking. You started to say, ‘To be precise,’ and then you stopped.” Stanley took a sip. “I’ve suspected for a while now that part, maybe even a significant part, of Gagarin’s money doesn’t belong to him.”

  “He suspected!” Lagrange finished his whiskey in one gulp. “Well, well. What a fast learner you are! Suspected! You have to know something with 100 percent certainty, not suspect it.”

  “And what exactly should I know, Pierre?” asked Stanley, in as relaxed a tone as he could manage: he was at sea, trying to figure out what, aside from not being invited to the yacht, had made Lagrange so irritated.

  “That if you make a mistake, lose 20 percent, or even 30 percent, of Gagarin’s money, Gagarin will survive. He’ll steal even more, and the Magnificent Five, who you’ll meet tomorrow, will help him do it. Of course, he’ll be displeased, he’ll be angry with you, but that will pass quickly. He’ll pour you some vodka, you’ll drink with him as usual, have your little kisses, and everything will be forgotten. But if he finds you on top of
his wife, he’s going to cut off your balls.”

  “Pierre! How many times do I have to tell you—”

  “And you’ll be lucky if Shamil does the cutting. He’s a professional, at least. But if Gagarin does it personally, with a dull knife—”

  “Pierre!”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Lagrange got up, and was ready to pour Stanley another drink. When he saw that Stanley’s glass was still full, he just sighed and poured one for himself. “You think that this is just speculation on my part? That I was watching you, envious, oh look at that pretty girl he gets to fuck, that I imagined something? My dear Stanley! You can deny it all you want, but soon other people are going to find out what I already know.”

  The helicopter circled over Hvar Island. Yachts dotted the azure sea below in picturesque disorder. A cutter was pulling up to one of them, a white line of foam in its wake.

  The helicopter began its descent. Stanley looked down and noticed girls sunbathing on one of the yachts. The sun played over the surface of the sea, which was calm in the bay, but further out the waves were topped with white.

  Most of the yachts were motorized; sailing was becoming a thing of the past. Or already was. Sailing yachts were the exception now, rather than the rule. One of Stanley’s London colleagues, an aristocrat who stood to inherit the title of earl, had invited a group of friends onto his yacht, and worked the sails himself, complaining about motor yachts.

  “How can you call something a yacht if it’s a big ship with a team of twenty people? Hah! I’ll buy a decommissioned aircraft carrier, equip it for recreation, and according to their definition, it’ll be a yacht! Everything intended for recreation is a yacht, they think. But a yacht is a craft like mine—made from mahogany, with a mast, sails, minimal electronics…”

  The motor yachts were all big, but Gagarin’s was so huge that it was anchored outside of the bay, in its own personal spot. No other yachts could come near it—there wasn’t a single anchor buoy within a half-mile radius, probably at the request of the security services of Gagarin and his guests.