The Banker Who Died

by Matthew A Carter

  “No, thanks!”

  “Well, you could rent an apartment as well. Or buy one, really.”

  “The climate’s not for me, thanks. It’s a damned sauna.”

  “But everything’s better here in terms of personal capital than in your precious Switzerland. The banks are more reliable, they have better credit ratings, and they are less politically biased.”

  “Sure, that’s a great idea,” Stanley agreed indifferently.

  “I imagine there’s going to be an outflow of Russian money from Switzerland to here soon. Are you even listening to me, McKnight?”

  “Huh? Yes, I’m listening. You’re right: this cocktail has the right balance of flavors, not too sweet.”

  “Ah, forget it! All right, let’s order another.”

  Stanley felt himself beginning to get drunk, but at least the allergies tormenting him had eased up. The julep was light and refreshing, but Stanley was a bit worried about what would happen if he tried to walk away from the table. Then he decided it didn’t matter. Maybe he wouldn’t live to try.

  He had arrived in Singapore early that morning, changing time zones in the more difficult direction, from west to east. He felt like a boxer who’d taken too many punches to the head. When he reached the hotel, all he wanted was to fall into bed and sleep just a little, but then Mila showed up at his door.

  Stanley knew who it was before he looked through the peephole from the sound of her nails scratching against the wood.

  She always scratched doors with a certain rhythm, as if playing a song. Stanley opened the door, and she slipped past him into the room.

  McKnight was sick to death of meeting her like this, over and over—he’d arrive somewhere, and Mila would appear at his door, slip inside and tell him they had to make love quickly, since they were expected at lunch, breakfast, or dinner, or they had to drive somewhere to meet someone.

  Everything was different this time. Mila looked tired. Her full lips were dry and cracked, there were dark circles under her eyes, and it looked as though she hadn’t washed her hair quite some time.

  Stanley said hello, but Mila didn’t respond. She sat down in an armchair, crossed her legs, and lit a cigarette.

  “Did you rush over here to save my dear husband?”

  “What are you talking about, Mila?”

  “I’m surrounded by assholes. Cowards. Garbage.” It was as if she hadn’t heard him at all. “Not a single real man. Oh, some of their dicks are good enough. But a real man is more than just his dick. That’s something else. Do you know what, McKnight?”

  Stanley opened the minibar and offered Mila a drink. She pointed at the bottle of vodka.

  “With orange juice,” she said, then repeated, “So, do you know what it is or not?”

  “Mila,” sighed McKnight, “I’m very tired.” He mixed her drink and opened a bottle of Coke for himself, downing half of it in greedy gulps.

  “Exactly!” Mila poked him with one long finger. “All the men around me only talk about themselves. I! I! I’m tired. I’m this, I’m that, I shit myself…or I want! I want this! I want that! Honey, wipe my nose! Honey, I want a hand job!”

  “What do you want, Mila?” He was seized with the sudden desire to hit her across the head with the bottle in his hand. “Why did you come here?”

  Again, she seemed not to hear him.

  “You can tell a real man, Stanley, by his actions. And not just any actions, but the right action, the right action at the right moment, that’s important too.”

  “Mila, I’m not a child. I don’t need you to teach me how to live.”

  “Shut up! If you were a man, you would take some action. You’d get money, and we’d run away together.”

  “And now you shut up,” Stanley said harshly. “You thought I was one of your things, just another toy like everyone else around you. But I’m not a toy. And we need to end this. And I’m certainly not going to take money from anyone.”

  “End this? End what?”

  “Our relationship.”

  “You’ll do what I decide. And we’ll end our relationship when I want. Did you forget that you still owe me one wish?”

  “Enough, Mila!”

  “Do you want me to tell Viktor everything? Who’s he going to believe if I tell him that you forced me, if I tell him that you tried to get the numbers to his personal accounts from me?”

  “I know them already,” Stanley said, sinking into a chair, exhausted. “What the hell do I need his accounts for?”

  “You don’t really know him yet, you stupid man. You should be more careful with me. And I don’t want to hear anything—anything—more about breaking up!” She tossed the remainder of her vodka cocktail at Stanley. “You need to change.”

  Mila looked even worse now, in the courtyard at lunch, despite her heavy makeup and thick layer of lipstick. Her hands shook occasionally. He pitied her, but he was sure he had made the right decision—he had to end their relationship at all costs. He also thought that if Mila tried to tell Gagarin something in this condition, her husband would be more likely to believe Stanley than his own wife.

  Mila sensed Stanley’s covert observation and, with a defiant air, took a packet of cocaine out of her pocket and pulled the tablecloth back to pour out a little onto the marble surface of the table. She pulled out her credit card to make a line.

  Stanley understood the reason for her behavior—she was high all the time—several hours ago when she’d shown up at his door, and now, drunk on champagne. And she was using something stronger than cocaine.

  “Mila!” cried Biryuza. “What are you doing? That’s illegal!”

  “Fuck off!”

  “We’re in Singapore, Mila,” Stanley said, trying to come to Biryuza’s aid.

  “And you can go right to hell too!”

  McKnight realized that if the police arrived (and the staff here would definitely call the police) he might be detained, which he did not want at all. He started looking around, as if seeking out an escape route. Then his salvation appeared through the doorway of the courtyard—a twitchy, nervous Gagarin trailed by Durand.

  Gagarin quickly took in the situation. He strode over and brushed the coke onto the floor and flipped the tablecloth back into place.

  “You idiot!” Gagarin roared at Mila. “No more of this! And get out of here! Scram! Now!”

  “Viktor, honey! I’m happy to see you too!” Mila leaned back in her chair. “How was your morning? Have you had breakfast?”

  “Idiot woman!”

  “Calm down, Viktor,” Durand hissed into his hear. “Don’t shout!”

  But Gagarin did not, or could not, calm down. He swung at Mila, who meekly turned to take the blow. Gagarin didn’t hit her, though, and rammed his fist into the table instead. He howled in pain and began cradling his injured hand, rocking it back and forth.

  “You came close to making a serious mistake, Mila,” Durand said. “If you get caught with drugs in Singapore, it’s a death sentence, and not even your husband’s money could save you. Twenty-five years in prison would be the best-case scenario.”

  “You can fuck right off too,” Mila replied with a sweet smile and then knocked the bucket with champagne onto the floor with one quick blow and burst into tears.

  “Nobody here loves me!” Tears were streaming down her face, and she sniffled as she talked. “Everyone turns on me. Nobody thinks about me. So what if I go to jail or…” She looked at Durand with sudden interest.

  “How do they execute people in Singapore?”

  “Goddamn it, Mila!” Gagarin growled. “I told you to get out of here. Go to your room! You can snort as much coke as you want there. But it would be a better idea to go to sleep!”

  “Sleep? How will I make it to my room?” Mila made an attempt to stand and nearly fell over. McKnight caught her elbow.
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  “Stanley will help you,” said Gagarin.

  “This damn Yankee? This ruthless, despicable banker? Nothing is sacred to him!” Mila’s speech was growing less and less intelligible. “He’s just as heartless as all of you. But he…” Mila stuttered to a stop.

  McKnight thought that now would be a good time for the local police to show up. If they took Mila in and charged her with a drug crime, that would solve a lot of his problems. He also thought that Mila was on the verge of saying something that would betray their secret to Gagarin.

  Gagarin ignored Mila entirely. “Stanley, I’m sorry to ask, buddy, but can you help me out here?”

  “No problem, Viktor. I’ll take your wife to her room.”

  “Thank you, my friend! And then come right back down to the lobby—we need to go to Freeport.”

  Chapter 35

  Mila was silent and compliant as McKnight guided her through the inner courtyard to the elevators, his hand at her elbow.

  She could barely walk. The hotel employee who called the elevator for them kept his face blank, but McKnight noticed a worried look in his eyes as he took in Mila’s pale face. She was breathing heavily and licking her lips; she’d eaten all the lipstick away already.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he asked very quietly.

  “I’ll manage,” said McKnight, and they went into the elevators.

  They made it to Mila’s room without any adventures, aside from a few stumbles on the way. She spent a long time looking for her key card at the door. Stanley finally took her purse, squatted down, and dumped all its contents onto the hallway floor. The card wasn’t there.

  “Maybe Viktor has it?” Stanley asked, looking up at Mila.

  Mila shrugged and sighed heavily.

  “Does someone have an extra key? Maybe Shamil?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know!” Mila said, leaning against the wall and sliding slowly down it onto the floor. “I. Don’t. Care.” She stretched out her legs. “I…”

  Her head dropped onto her chest.

  His phone rang. It was Gagarin calling, wondering how much longer they’d have to wait.

  “I’m sorry, Viktor, but we can’t find the key card to the room. Mila is about to pass out, she’s sitting on the floor, and it’s not in her purse.”

  “You’ll have to pick her up, McKnight. The card’s in her back pocket. I wouldn’t trust anybody else to do it, but you’re like a brother to me—I know you’re not going to grope my wife. Go on. I’ll wait.”

  “Okay, hang on!”

  McKnight picked Mila up, so that she was hanging over his shoulder, and felt around in her pockets. The card was there.

  “Finally,” muttered Mila. “That’s so nice. Stick your hand deeper. Come on, Stanley. Don’t be shy. Stick your finger in my ass.”

  “Did you find it?” asked Gagarin. “What’s she saying? I can’t hear her.”

  “I can’t make it out,” said Stanley. “She’s mumbling. Yes! I found it!”

  “Excellent! Get her in and put her in bed. But face down, remember—face down!”

  “Yes, I’ve got it.”

  McKnight opened the door, dragged Mila in, pulled her all the way to the bedroom, and put her in bed, following Gagarin’s instructions. Then he went back into the hallway and gathered everything from the floor back into her purse. When he returned, Mila wasn’t in her bed.

  “Shit! Motherfucker!” he cursed, turned around, and took a blow to the face from something large and heavy. The object Mila had hit him with shattered into pieces at the impact.

  “Asshole! You think you can do me like that, huh? I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!”

  Stanley realized that Mila had hit him with one of the vases from the table in her bedroom. She picked up another, which looked to be made out of metal. Stanley grabbed her wrist, and she dropped the vase.

  “You’re hurting me, you animal!” She tried to knee him, but McKnight pushed her away.

  He pushed her harder than he had intended, and she flew into the table, knocking the other vases onto the floor. One or two broke. Mila fell down, then tried and failed to get up. She grabbed onto Stanley’s leg instead.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” she said quickly. “Please forgive me. I’m so sorry! Stay with me! Please, I’m sorry. I can’t live without you! I’ll kill myself! I’ll cut my wrists, stay! I’m begging you, please, don’t leave me!”

  McKnight bent down and pried her fingers off his leg. He felt the blood trickling from his head wound, and got out a handkerchief, pressing it to the cut.

  Mila got on her fours, then her knees. Her smeared mascara made her eyes look huge. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “Don’t leave me! Or, no, let’s run away together, today, right now. No one will catch us, I know how to hide from him. It’s not hard. He’s such an idiot. I hate him. Baby!”

  She started crawling toward Stanley.

  “Forget it, Mila! It’s not going to happen. This was a mistake, Mila. This is over. Everything is finished between us. Do you understand?”

  Stanley’s words pushed her back into a state of rage. She came up swinging, and McKnight threw up his arm to block her. She landed a painful blow on his forearm.

  “So that’s how you want it?” she said. “Fine!” She tried to kick him, but he dodged and ran to the door.

  “Running away?” he heard her call hoarsely. “Run, you bastard! I wish you were dead!”

  Same to you, thought Stanley. When he made it to the hallway he turned back. Mila was standing in the doorway.

  “Damn you to hell.”

  McKnight went downstairs, still holding the handkerchief to his wound.

  He was close to giving up and leaving. Just leaving. He’d resign by email to Lagrange—no, directly to Laville. Leave everything in his apartment in Zurich and his Porsche in the parking lot. He could hire someone to deal with them later. He’d transfer all his money to some small bank in the Midwest, then the Cayman Islands, to his own offshore account. He could close that and take the cash. Buy a plane ticket, get Christine, and move to Napa. They could buy a vineyard, make their own wine. They’d call it Chateau McKnight…no, Lagrange knew he loved Napa, and he might have mentioned it to Gagarin as well. Okay, so they’d go somewhere else, then, maybe Los Angeles—he had a friend there who had some ties to the less savory side of the city, and who he had heard could provide people with new documents and identities. They would need that—he couldn’t simply quit this job, even if he tried to disappear. He knew too much; they would look for him, and they would find him. Of this, McKnight was certain.

  Stanley went into the restroom next to the hotel’s front desk. When he lifted the handkerchief from his head, it reopened the wound and started the bleeding again. He wet the handkerchief and put it back in place. Then he went out and asked the clerk there for a Band-Aid, and the man grew alarmed, started asking a string of questions: what happened? Where was he wounded? Did he need a doctor? But Stanley told him that he had banged his head on a corner leaving his room, and that he didn’t need a doctor, all he needed was a Band-Aid. He refused any further help and went to put it on himself.

  He washed the cut in the bathroom, wiping around it with a soft, scented hotel towel, and stuck the Band-Aid over it. He felt something scratching his neck. When he reached back, he discovered a shard of the vase Mila had broken over his head, caught between the collar of his jacket and the collar of his shirt.

  Stanley picked it out and, considering, decided not to throw it out. He stuck it in his pocket. When he exited the hotel, he saw an enormous black limousine at the curb, with Gagarin pacing nervously alongside it. Gagarin’s figure and balding head were reflected in the mirror shine of the vehicle’s black paint.

  McKnight laughed to himself, despite his condition. This limousine would be inconvenient and unwieldy on the
streets of Singapore, but matched Gagarin’s appearance perfectly. It was either parody or a hint of something serious, some kind of threat.

  McKnight looked around. Ah, the threat was close at hand—a Jeep with security guards was parked nearby, with Shamil leaning out of the driver’s side.

  “What took you so long, Stan!” Gagarin rushed over. “We’ve been waiting and waiting, and you…hey, what’s this? What happened?”

  “It’s nothing.” Stanley tried to back up, but Gagarin got a firm grip on his elbow and walked him out from under the hotel awning and into the light so he could examine the wound.

  “Who did this? It was her, wasn’t it?” Gagarin’s eyes grew hard. “You can tell me the truth.”

  “I did it myself, running into the corner of the door. When she couldn’t open the door and I found it by looking through her pockets, she thought…”

  “That you were groping her, and took a swing at you?”

  “No, Viktor, she just stumbled backward, and I was trying to keep her from falling, and hit myself. It’s not her fault, it was just an accident, really.”

  Gagarin lit a cigarette, looking him over. “Hmm, somehow I don’t quite believe you, McKnight! All right, get in and let’s go. They’re expecting us.”

  Gagarin pushed aside the driver in a cap with gold braid and opened the back door himself. The door swung open backward, and Gagarin ushered Stanley in first and then followed him. Durand and Biryuza were already inside.

  “Uh-oh!” said Biryuza at the sight of Stanley’s face.

  “Come on. Let’s go!” ordered Gagarin.

  The limousine pulled smoothly away from the curb, followed by the Jeep with security guards. All four passengers sat in the back, Gagarin and Durand facing forward, and Biryuza and Stanley with their backs to the driver.

  “I love the roads here,” said Biryuza. “Or, how they organize the flow of traffic, to be more precise—their interchanges are excellent!”

  “It’s not the intersections that do it,” said Durand. “Or not alone, anyway. The founder of modern Singapore, Lee Kuan Yew, instituted a rule that you needed to buy a certificate to own a private car. Those certificates might cost two or three times what your car is worth. They’re sold at auctions, and that money is used to fund public transport. ‘Dracula’ cars are popular here.”