“But you don’t have to deal with that, right?”
“I have to deal with that as well. I ensure that these packages are delivered. I accompany them. Oversee their placement in bank storage. In a word, Christine, I’m up to my ears in shit.” McKnight drank his wine and lit up a cigarette.
“You could leave. Couldn’t you just drop everything and go?”
“Not anymore. I can’t go. I can’t hide. I’m dirty now too, and the CIA came to see me.”
“The CIA? What do they have to do with it?”
“The CIA is interested in illegal financial transactions, Christine. Especially if American citizens are involved.”
“And you’re sure that it was actually the CIA?”
“I can’t be sure, no. It could have been the CIA, or maybe the Department of Justice. Who the hell knows? But that man who…” McKnight faltered. “Anyway, forget the minor details about how we met.”
“Yes, stick to the main point!”
“He introduced himself as a consultant. A consultant working with the United States government. He got right down to it, told me he knew all about what I was doing, my contacts, and my ties to the Russians.”
“So he says!”
“Christine, men like him don’t bluff. If he knows about it, he can probably prove it in court.”
“In court.”
“Yes. Twenty years.”
“Twenty years?” Christine, in shock, poked at her plate and raised the fork to her mouth, and when the piece of eggplant fell off, she just licked the tines, and her mouth automatically made several chewing motions as if the food had reached it. Despite the context, McKnight had to smile.
“Twenty years in prison, Christine. They promised me that. But they also promised that if I cooperated, they wouldn’t press charges. It’s up to me.”
He drank his wine and lit yet another cigarette. Christine said nothing.
“You know what, I’ve lost my appetite,” Stanley said.
“Me too.”
“Want to take a walk?”
“Let’s.”
Outside, they chose a shady trail heading up the mountain. The sea was behind them, and the trunks of the pines on either side had been twisted by years of maritime winds. The pine needles scattering the ground made a soft, springy carpet beneath their feet. Stanley walked ahead, breathing deeply in the fresh air, and Christine held his hand.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I have no idea,” McKnight replied. “Does it matter?”
Christine laughed and stopped.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Tired already?”
“I’ll always support you, Stanley,” Christine began, her smile disappearing, now focused and intent. “Whatever happens. And not just when you ask for it. I’ll offer you my support when I feel like you need it. And right now, I think there are several things you need to do.”
“Christine…”
“Let me talk, please!”
“Ok, sorry, go ahead.”
“First of all, you have to agree to cooperate with the government. They’ll keep their word.”
“How many times have they gone back on their word?”
“I wasn’t finished!”
“Sorry, sorry.”
“Secondly, you have to come back.”
“To you?”
Christine laughed drily.
“Let’s not worry about that for the moment. I mean come home, to America. Nothing good is going to come out of you staying in Europe. Especially working with Russians. They, especially, don’t keep their word.”
“How do you know that? From books?” Stanley brushed her face with his hand. “Movies?”
“It doesn’t matter! I know! This isn’t your game, and you’re going to lose. You’ll be lucky if prison is the worst of it. These people have no mercy. They’ll find a way to get to you anyway, unless you make a deal with the government. Then you’ll have a chance. Right?”
Stanley looked over Christine’s shoulder. A yacht, tiny in the distance, crawled lazily over the waves of the bay. A bird was singing somewhere in the branches nearby.
“Right,” nodded Stanley. “You’re right, of course. But you don’t know the details—there are reasons I can’t act right away. I’ll need time to get everything arranged.”
“How much?”
“How much what?”
“How much time do you need?”
“A month. Yeah, I think I can do it in a month.”
“Okay, then, in a month, you’ll buy a ticket to San Francisco. And you’ll contact the government. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
Stanley pulled his arms around her, felt her skin against his, now warm from the sun, inhaled the scent of her hair. He stepped to the side of the path, pulling Christine behind him, and they were hidden from view behind a high, thick bush.
“We have the whole night ahead of us, Stan,” she said, her voice hushed, as she unbuckled his belt.
Stanley thought about how he had used this same belt less than twenty-four hours ago to strike Mila’s behind as she writhed and moaned beneath him. He closed his eyes, trying to chase the memory away, and raised the hem of Christine’s skirt, gently slipping his fingers under her panties. Now she was unzipping his pants and taking him in her hand with such tenderness that his vision darkened with pleasure. Then she pushed his chest, down onto the covering of pine needles. Stanley lay down, and she lowered herself on top of him. The sun was behind her back, her face in shadow, but Stanley sensed her happy smile. He could feel her light weight, her inner wetness matching his pulsing length within her. He felt that he loved this woman. Her alone.
They had breakfast on the hotel veranda the next morning. It had been a long night—they made love, fell asleep, and woke up to make love again, over and over. They hardly spoke. In the dim hotel room their bodies clung together, one mouth finding the other. It was dawn when they finally went to sleep for good, and they woke up fresh and energized.
“Why can’t you do it right away?” asked Christine, sipping her coffee.
“Do what?” Stanley took a piece of bacon from his plate.
“You said you needed a month to set everything up. Maybe you shouldn’t delay? The sooner you talk to the government, the better.”
“No, no, I need to prepare. I need to find out what they know.”
“But that man you talked to said they knew everything, right?”
“The Russians call it vzyat na pont—I guess the closest translation would be to bluff, to act like you’re in charge of a situation. That consultant, or adviser—that man, at any rate—could just be trying to intimidate me. He threatened me with prosecution, but does he have enough evidence to actually bring the case to trial? I could find myself in a really idiotic position.”
McKnight split open his boiled egg in a cup, and dipped a piece of cheese into the yolk. Even if he did manage to put together the dossier of materials he needed, it still might not be enough to get himself out of the situation he was in. Moreover, he was starting to distrust that promise that he would escape prosecution. His experience interacting and doing business with the Russians had fundamentally changed his views on human nature. He saw people as dishonest and self-interested at their core. Before, not twelve months ago, he would have thought differently.
“An idiotic position is better than a jail term.” Christine said emphatically.
“Trust me,” said Stanley. “I’m doing this the right way.”
They were planning to spend at least two days at the hotel, but when Stanley turned his phone on after breakfast (he had turned it off yesterday before they set off on their walk) he saw that Lagrange had been trying to contact him.
“Stanley! Whe
re the hell have you been? Why didn’t you answer your phone? Where are you?”
“Like I said, on the islands. In Croatia. Has someone been looking for me?”
“My dear McKnight, have you been on the internet? Watched television? The European news? No?”
“I’ve just been sleeping and eating.” Stanley turned to Christine and took her hand.
“Lucky! But I’d watch the news if I were you.”
“I will. But what’s going on? And you didn’t tell me whether someone was trying to get in touch with me.”
“In order: Biryuza called, and I said what we had agreed, that you were in Geneva, in an important meeting. As for the news, it’s about Gagarin. They announced a journalistic investigation of his affairs. Some fucking anticorruption foundation! They called him the front man of a group of corrupt Russian politicians.”
Stanley felt his fingers holding the phone go numb.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Yes, Pierre. Go on.”
“And in that damn press release, they name our bank. As the place where he launders his money!”
“Shit!”
“That’s right, Stanley! It’s all bad. And it’s going to get worse. Okay, I’m going to call you back shortly. Don’t turn off your phone anymore.”
“What happened?” asked Christine, when Stanley set his phone down on the table.
Stanley briefly summarized his conversation with Lagrange.
“What are you going to do?” asked Christine.
“Go swimming with you.”
“You’re not going to watch the news?”
“What do I need the news for? Everything’s clear as it is!”
Stanley and Christine walked down to the beach and took a swim. The water was pristine, transparent.
Stanley dove deep after a small stone and pretended for a moment there, underwater, that when he surfaced again, he would have gone back in time, before any investigations. He swam back to shore and saw that Lagrange had called him twice already.
“Yes, Pierre, did something else happen?”
“I’ve been talking to some of our contacts. It’s not looking good for Gagarin. He just called Laville. Gagarin’s in a panic—he could be accused of laundering money.”
“That was to be expected,” said McKnight, and immediately regretted it.
“Yes,” agreed Lagrange. “It was. But he’s going to take us all down with him. Actually, he’s going to hide away in his Russia, and we’re going to go down. Is that what you want?”
“No, Pierre, it is not.”
“You’re suspiciously calm.”
“What do you want from me? Should I go drown myself? I haven’t paid my hotel bill yet. Or returned my rental car. Let alone all my other responsibilities. If I run around shouting—we’re lost! We’re lost!—will that help?”
“Fine, fine, but you should know that we’ve already gotten calls from FINMA and the Swiss prosecutor’s office.”
“They’re just doing their jobs, Pierre. I would…”
“Enough, McKnight! Gagarin is worried his assets will be frozen. That they’ll seize his deposits with us. He wants to move his gold, diamonds, and paintings somewhere. So pay for your damn room and your damn car and get your ass to Singapore. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“And Gagarin says hi. And hello from his wife. Did you get caught hip deep over there? His voice was displeased when he mentioned his wife.”
“No, I didn’t. There was nothing to catch.”
“Ok, someone will meet you in Singapore. Take care, McKnight!”
“And you, Pierre, all the best!”
McKnight put the phone on the beach chair, and it slipped through a crack and fell onto a small pebble with a dull sound.
“Is it bad?” asked Christine.
“It’s all bad,” agreed McKnight. “But it’s going to get worse!”
“You’re turning into such an optimist, honey. Don’t worry!” Christine put her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “If you don’t hurt yourself, no one can hurt you.”
Chapter 34
They were sitting in the interior courtyard of the Raffles Hotel.
The Singapore afternoon was hot, humid, and smelled of rotting fruit mixed with Indian fragrances.
The southwestern monsoon was in its second month, but had yet to bring any relief from the heat.
McKnight inwardly cursed the tropical climate, suffering as he was from unexpected allergy attacks, but he forced himself to smile and nod along with Mila’s hysterical stupidity. Then agree with Biryuza’s pompous pronouncements, listening with the air of an expert seriously considering the other man’s comments.
The endless warm rain pounded on the glass roof sheltering the courtyard. The huge fan blades on the ceiling had some success at dispelling the oppressive heat and humidity, but did nothing to improve Stanley’s terrible mood. Everything irritated him—Mila and Biryuza, the attentiveness of the hotel staff, the starched white tablecloth, and the intoxicating aroma of the strange flowers blooming from the bushes growing in the courtyard.
Biryuza insisted that he and Stanley order a mint julep with a double shot of bourbon.
Mila was, as usual, going heavy on the champagne. As her drunkenness progressed, she gradually took full possession of the ice bucket holding the bottle, waving the hovering waiter away. Eventually, she called for another bottle to replace the empty one, cursing through clenched teeth to shut Biryuza up as he tried to talk her out of it.
“I’m sorry, Mila, but that’s the third bottle. Your third, Mila.” Biryuza spoke softly but insistently.
“If I finish a third, I’ll order a fourth,” said Mila, seemingly unaffected by the champagne. “What’s it to you?”
“It’s unhealthy to drink so much champagne,” he replied. “Have you heard of the Zelda syndrome? Named after the wife of F. Scott Fitzgerald. She drank champagne by the bucket and developed—”
“I’m going to develop something if you don’t shut up,” Mila said, hatred in her gaze. “You know what’s going to develop, Stanley?”
Mila barely looked at Stanley. She gave every appearance of disliking him intensely. This seemed to surprise Biryuza, but Stanley understood her game—she would do everything she could to get him alone, and who would think anything of it, if he was so obviously unpleasant to her?
“Yes,” replied Stanley, “I do.”
“So?”
“You’re going to tear this place apart.”
“Aren’t you the clever one!”
When the waiter came by, Biryuza had a long conversation with him about what kinds of bourbon could be used to make this cocktail. Then he asked Stanley about his favorite bourbons. Fighting back the desire to tell Biryuza to fuck off with his questions, Stanley rejected Jim Beam and Pappy Van Winkle, but approved Old Forester.
“An excellent choice,” said the waiter.
“You have to remind him that the syrup should be from cane sugar,” added Biryuza, but Stanley noted that in this hotel, they were likely already aware of that, without any advice from their guests.
The mint juleps were served in the traditional fashion of the American South, in chilled silver cups. Biryuza began a lecture on how to properly hold them so as not to disturb the lovely frost on the cup’s exterior, and reduce the transfer of heat from one’s hand. Stanley had no choice but to hear him out.
The cocktail, when McKnight finally tried it, was stellar. This mollified him somewhat, but then Biryuza started in on the architecture and history of the hotel. He asked Mila: “Do you know that this is where Vertinsky first sang his famous song, ‘In Banana-Lemon Singapore’?”
“Who cares!” Mila said, finishing her glass and lighting a cigarette.
“And you?” Biryuza asked Stanley.
<
br /> “I did not.” McKnight took the pack of cigarettes from Mila and lit one of his own. “I don’t know who Vertinsky is, as a matter of fact. Another of your rock stars from the USSR?”
“You ignorant American!” Biryuza gestured to the waiter for another round. “Do you at least know that it was named in honor of Sir Thomas Raffles, the founder of Singapore, or that it was built by Armenians, the Sarkies brothers?”
“Oh shut up, Biryuza!” Mila said. She lifted the bottle out of her bucket, knocking it over onto the marble floor with a crash. “Everyone’s had enough of you!”
One waiter rushed over to clean up the ice, and another dashed off for a new bucket.
“Yes, yes, I’m the one they have had enough of.” Biryuza thanked a third waiter, arriving with their cocktails. “You don’t know anything, you’re not interested in anything, and I’m trying to enlighten you! Show you the world. Like those gold plaques over there, do you know what they’re for? McKnight?”
Stanley watched grimly as the frost on his cocktail glass grew thicker. There was no escape from the humidity here.
“McKnight?” Biryuza repeated.
“I didn’t see any gold plaques,” responded Stanley. “I have no interest in the features of hotel architecture.”
“If you read them, you’ll learn that Somerset Maugham, Joseph Conrad, and Rudyard Kipling have all stayed here. I suppose you don’t know anything about them, either?”
“Listen, Biryuza,” Mila began, “if you don’t change the topic and your tone, I’m going to break this bottle over your head.”
“Maugham called this hotel a symbol of Singapore, and you—”
Enraged, Mila grabbed the neck of the Kristal bottle sticking out of the bucket.
“All right, all right!” Biryuza raised his hands in surrender and sighed. “What am I going to do with you incurious wretches?” He took a sip of his drink.
After a pause he began again, “What would you say to moving here to work? It’s a lovely place.”
“And live in this hotel for $3,000 a night?”
“I’m sure you can afford it, McKnight.”
The Banker Who Died Page 33
