The Banker Who Died

by Matthew A Carter

  “I thought you were going to save me again,” Gagarin said to Stanley.

  “But I’m not a savior, Viktor. I’m just a banker.”

  “Just, huh? Well, well…”

  Back in his cabin, Stanley was just locking his door when he felt another person’s weight pressing in from outside. He thought it was Shamil, coming to cut off his head, balls, or who knows what, and Stanley was almost ready to agree to any punishment, just as long as it was quick. But it was Mila.

  “Were you scared?” asked Mila, locking the door behind her. “You were! They told you he was going to cut your head off?”

  “Yes, and my balls.”

  “Your big, strong balls? Oh no, they’re mine. All mine!”

  It looked like Mila was getting ready to take the initiative again, walking toward him, but Stanley, without thinking what he was doing, reached out and slapped her across the face. Mila flew back into corner and fell, her dress riding up. Stanley stepped over to her and bent down, pinning her in place with his knee while he tore off her panties, throwing the torn scraps to the side.

  Mila looked up at him like a little animal, with sweet fright in her eyes. There was a drop of blood at her lip. Stanley pulled his belt off and pushed down his pants. Then he pulled her up by her hair and turned her around, facing away from him. He raised the belt and brought it down sharply on her legs, and then her ass.

  “Oh, yes! Like that, please! Again!” Mila breathed.

  Stanley shoved her legs apart roughly with his knee, hitting her with the belt again.

  “Yes! Please!” she said again.

  Stanley entered here, feeling the soft, firm flesh, slippery wet. Then pulled out again.

  “Where did you go? Come back!” moaned Mila.

  “Shut up!” Stanley said, hitting her harder.

  He entered her again, then, pulling out, pushed into her tight ass.

  “Ah! Mama! You’re going to tear me apart! Ah! It’s so good! More! Hit me again!”

  “Shut up!” Stanley shouted, driving into her as far as he could go. “Shut up!”

  He was moving like a machine. Mila moaned and cried out for her mother. Stanley felt as if he was watching himself in a movie. Suddenly, light flooded into the cabin through the window, illuminating Stanley, crouched over a woman clinging to the wall, impaled on his throbbing member.

  “I’m coming! Oh God, oh God!” Mila wailed, stamping her foot and breaking the heel of her shoe.

  Stanley hit her again.

  Chapter 33

  Voices carrying through the bulkhead woke McKnight. Half awake, he couldn’t make out what they were saying, but when he was finally fully conscious, he realized he could hear almost every word.

  He lay on his bed, realizing with horror that his savage night with Mila had been audible to his neighbors down the entire corridor.

  He sat up and got out of bed, stepping on something hard and sharp. He dropped back on to the bed and reached down to find the heel of Mila’s shoe.

  “Shit! Fuck! Shit!” he muttered, looking at the heel on his floor and listening to his neighbors’ conversation.

  “We need to say something,” a young man’s voice said in an affected drawl. “Otherwise, if he finds out from someone else, he’ll ask why we didn’t say anything. I heard everything they did, and then saw his wife come out of the room.”

  “First of all, my son, speak quietly—he speaks Russian, and if you didn’t catch it already, you can hear everything on this ship!” said another man in a deep voice. “Secondly, I can tell you as a former major in the state security service, informing on someone is a sin. Unless the life of another person, or many people, depends on your words. Then I’d give my blessing.”

  Stanley realized that his neighbors must be Father Vsevolod and his muscular lover. But more importantly, the priest’s lover knew about him and Mila. Stanley broke into a sweat.

  “I was asked,” the young voice began, but Father Vsevolod interrupted him.

  “Say nothing to anyone! Let them deal with it themselves. We don’t have to live with their sins. We have our own to overcome, don’t we, Seryezhenka?”

  “Oh, Father, what are you doing! That hurts!”

  “It’s no fun if it doesn’t hurt,” the priest’s deep voice continued. “Remember: you’re under my protection here. If you do something wrong, I’ll curse you. And then when we get back to shore, or, God forbid, return to our long-suffering homeland, you’ll be arrested. How many years in jail did I save you from, Seryezhenka? For your sins?”

  “Eleven…”

  “There you go! Eleven years. You just watch out! Keep quiet, or I’ll say the word, and you’re finished.”

  McKnight, the heel in his hand, got up, looking for other evidence that Mila had been in his room. He found the torn pieces of her panties in the corner. He picked the weightless, transparent fabric up off the floor, and brought them to his nose without thinking. The scent brought on such a rush of desire that Stanley was almost frightened. He almost thought of calling his wife and telling her that he was held up with work and couldn’t meet after all, so that he could stay on the yacht.

  He wrapped the heel up in the panties and hid them in his bag, then went to take a shower. The cold water helped ease his burning lust, but not his rapid heartrate. Lathering shower gel on himself, he resolved to get off this yacht as soon as he could.

  He packed his things and zipped up the bag. His hand was already at the door when he thought that it might be wise to provide some plausible reason for his unexpected departure. McKnight pressed Lagrange’s number on his smartphone.

  “Hi, Stanley,” his boss answered. “What’s wrong? Hangover?”

  “Yes, Pierre,” he agreed, “a hangover.”

  He tried to speak as quietly as he could.

  “Listen, I can’t take it anymore. I’m tired of drinking so much, and I’ve got a lot of work waiting for me. Could you do something for me? Call Gagarin and tell him that Laville needs me, back in Geneva, maybe?”

  “You could—”

  “And I’ll spend a day or two on the islands. Pull myself together. I’ve had enough of these Russians.”

  “You don’t have to explain to me, McKnight. I completely understand—I went through the same thing, myself. Of course, I’ll help you out. Just stay in touch, in case we really do need you.”

  “Absolutely, Pierre! See you soon! And thank you.”

  Shamil was quite surprised when McKnight came to tell him he wanted a flight off the yacht to the Split airport. The guard was sitting in a lounge chair on the middle deck, his feet up on the railing. He didn’t move when Stanley addressed him, looking up through mirrored shades, so the only way that Stanley guessed his reaction was his voice on the phone when he placed a call.

  “The banker wants to leave us,” he said into the receiver. “Yes, immediately. Understood.”

  Shamil ended the call and raised his mirrored gaze to Stanley.

  “Just a moment. The pilot is having breakfast. Maybe you would like to as well?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “As you like,” Shamil said, shrugging and turning away.

  McKnight put his bag on the helipad and took a walk around the decks of the yacht. Everyone was still in their cabins. Only when he reached the upper deck did he encounter another guest—FSB General Zlatoust, in a robe that kept flapping open in the breeze to reveal his protruding stomach. Yulia stood next to him, the general pawing at her breast, his heavy brows raising and lowering, eyes half shut. Yulia saw Stanley, and gestured for him to stay away. Stanley nodded and went back down to find the pilot finishing up his sandwich.

  “You’re leaving us?” he asked.

  “Yes, I have business to attend to.”

  “Too bad,” the pilot replied, his voice expressing his complete indiffer
ence on the matter.

  Stanley rented a car at the airport, using his personal credit card, issued back in San Francisco, for the transaction, instead of his corporate card. Then, as if remembering something, he asked: “Actually, could I pay in cash?”

  “Of course, sir!”

  Stanley counted out the money and went into the parking lot. After his recent cars, it felt strange to sit behind the wheel of a Mini Cooper, especially with its manual transmission. But he still enjoyed driving the—comparatively—imperfect car. It was only a short trip from the car-rental place to the parking lot, where he found an open spot with some difficulty.

  There were many people waiting in the arrival hall of the airport. He had loads of time before the flight was due to arrive from London, and wandered over to a kiosk selling coffee. He was starving, but decided to wait until Christine arrived so they could have breakfast, or lunch, together.

  He took his paper cup over to a table, stirring in packets of sugar with a plastic spoon. He thought how quickly he had become accustomed to luxury, how he was used to having his coffee prepared by specially trained baristas (except for the coffee he drank in the office, brewed by Barbara), putting special gourmet sugar in that coffee, and stirring it with a teaspoon, and certainly not one made out of plastic. He took a sip—it wasn’t bad at all. Stanley looked around. The majority of people around him were dressed casually, in a style he was used to seeing at vacations and resorts. He stood out in his Brioni suit. He took another sip and then turned, sensing that someone was watching him. He tried to do it unnoticeably in his dark sunglasses, but he couldn’t tell who it was. The coffee suddenly tasted bitter; the plastic spoon must have lent it an unpleasant aftertaste.

  McKnight went outside, found a Smoking Area sign, and lit up a cigarette. Just because he couldn’t see who was watching him didn’t mean he was necessarily imagining things. McKnight trusted his gut. He remembered Dillon, that mysterious consultant, and his mood soured completely. But when he picked Christine out of the stream of passengers arriving from London, he was struck by her beauty, and felt a surge of new strength. Christine threw her arms around him and kissed him, then stepped back.

  “Are you sad?” she asked.

  “Not anymore,” replied Stanley.

  “Glad to hear it! What are your plans?”

  “To spend at least a couple of days with you.”

  “Excellent!” Christine was not only beautiful, but efficient; “I found a lovely spot. I’ve rented a place for us there, for a couple days. Pag Island.”

  “I never heard of it,” said Stanley, “Just the Pakleni Islands, where they burned some sinners.”

  “How awful? Did they really?”

  “Yes, and they’re still doing it today.”

  “Are you kidding, Stanley?”

  “Yes, of course! Let’s go,” he said with a laugh.

  Christine was a little surprised at Stanley’s choice of car, but then said that the place where they were heading was probably not as chic as the resorts and hotels that he’d become accustomed to lately.

  Stanley put their destination in his phone, and they left the parking lot.

  “Why do you keep looking in the rearview mirror?” asked Christine. “Is someone following us?”

  “Oh, ha ha, of course not!” said Stanley. “I’m just not used to this car yet.”

  “You could have rented a different one!”

  “No, no this one’s fine!”

  Stanley drove from the airport at high speed along the Franjo Tudjman coastal highway, avoiding any traffic jams, and turned onto Prince Trpimir Street, once again shifting into the left lane.

  “What’s the rush?” Christine checked her seatbelt. “You act like you’re trying to outrun someone.”

  “There you go again! First someone’s following us, now I’m trying to outrun someone. I just want to get there as soon as I can. So, we just need to go straight along the E65, until the turn onto 160th, and then straight again. Are you hungry?”

  “I only had a coffee at the airport.”

  “Same here.”

  As they drove, they kept an eye out for café or restaurant signs but kept missing the exits. They finally stopped at the Fortuna pizzeria after the toll at Posedarje.

  “The Swiss banker is going to have pizza as well?” Christine teased him.

  “Swiss bankers not only eat pizza; they also go to the toilet like ordinary people.”

  “I don’t believe it! Then I’ll go there as well.”

  They had a lunch of pizza and Coke. It was noisy in the pizzeria, but they were in the very back of the room, against the wall. Stanley was intensely thirsty, and the Coke didn’t help, only making him thirstier.

  “You’ve changed. A lot,” said Christine.

  “I’ve always liked Coke. Just didn’t admit it,” he said, trying to joke.

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “What, exactly?”

  “You’ve grown even quieter. You look around you from time to time like you’re anxious about something. You’re more wrapped up in your own thoughts. I can tell that you’re happy to see me, but something is weighing on you. Are you sick, Stanley?”

  “I’m as healthy as a horse,” he said with a laugh.

  He had a sudden, desperate urge to tell Christine absolutely everything, here in this provincial pizzeria. Everything except Mila, that is, but he was even prepared to tell her about his brief relationships with his neighbor and with Elise.

  Stanley looked into Christine’s eyes and realized that he didn’t have the courage to tell her about his job or that the CIA was trying to contact him. Christine would understand about the other women, but if he told her about work and everything related to it, she would panic.

  “I’m as healthy as a horse,” he repeated. “It’s just that this is the first time in a long while that I haven’t had to rush off anywhere else, and it’s making me nervous. I keep expecting a call from my office or a client. To be honest, I’m terribly, awfully tired.”

  Christine took his hand.

  “Drink up your coke and let’s go,” she said.

  Twenty minutes later, they were crossing the Paski bridge onto Pag Island. They were driving directly above the sea, the sun playing on the waves to their left. They crossed nearly the entire island, taking the 107 through the town of Novalja until they finally stopped at the Boskinac, a hotel and winery.

  They arrived to find that their room wasn’t ready yet, and the apologetic manager led them out onto the veranda, which had a marvelous view of the Novalja valley. He offered them a bottle of local wine on the house and suggested a local cheese with olive oil to go with it. Stanley asked for something more substantial in addition to the cheese, and the manager promised to send the waiter with freshly made lamb and baby vegetables.

  Stanley filled their glasses and took a sip from his before tossing it all back in one gulp. The wine was fabulous. He poured himself another glass and asked the waiter who had just arrived with their cheese to bring another bottle.

  “You’re so tired you’ve decided to get drunk?” Christine asked.

  “I’m not getting drunk. Remember that line? I’m just drinking a little wine,” said Stanley, but then admitted: “Yes, actually, I wouldn’t mind getting drunk. Not at all.”

  “So—it’s not just exhaustion that’s bothering you?”

  Stanley raised his glass to watch the clouds through his wine, and sighed deeply.

  “Not just that,” he said and nodded as he pulled out his cigarettes.

  “Ha,” said Christine, “Now you’re having a cigarette, after the second bottle you’re going to be offering me marijuana, and then, before ordering your fourth, you’re going to pull out the cocaine.”

  “I hate to disappoint you,” said Stanley with a grim chuckle. “But if I did hav
e marijuana or cocaine, I’d offer them to you.”

  He drank down half his glass. Christine followed his example.

  “I don’t want you to have to go it alone,” she explained and drank the rest of her wine.

  “It really is delicious, isn’t it?”

  “Okay, so what’s going on, Stanley?”

  “What? Oh, sorry…the thing is…”

  McKnight fell silent. The waiter was approaching their table at the edge of the veranda with two large plates. McKnight thanked him and tried the meat.

  “Excellent!” he said, and set his fork back down when the man had left.

  “The problem is, Christine, that my work is tied to dirty money. Russian money. I’m covering up criminal transactions and laundering illegally obtained income. That’s the short version. I can give you the long version, but there’s no point.”

  “What! But your bank is one of the most respected financial institutions in the world! You said…”

  “Well, that doesn’t stop the bank from doing business with Russian oligarchs. Just yesterday I was on one of their yachts. A guy by the name of Gagarin. On that same yacht, he had Russian ministers, an FSB general, and staff from the Russian president’s administration. They’re all in the same group. And this Gagarin represents them. He’s their front man. Frontovik. Billions of dollars flow through him, and his bank accounts, which I provide. Billions!”

  “That’s their personal money?” Christine was so stunned that she had forgotten all about the food. She just drank her glass of wine and held it out to Stanley for more. He complied, and topped up his own glass, before waving the waiter over and ordering another bottle.

  “You could call it that. Their personal money. They appropriate huge sums from the national budget, interest from various deals, money raised from the tribute they all extort from Russian businessmen. But the important thing is that this personal money is all illegally acquired. And then they send it out of Russia using diplomatic mail; art, gold, jewels, and enormous sums of cash.”