“They fucked some Filipina whores,” Mila interrupted. “Or got fucked, more likely. How are you, Stanley? Your ass isn’t too sore?”
“That’s enough, Mila,” Gagarin said.
“I’m just curious!”
“It’s time for you to shut up. Now.” Gagarin put enough threat into those words that even Mila got scared.
Gagarin broke into happy laughter.
“Who else got scared?” he asked. “McKnight?”
“I’m always scared,” answered Stanley, putting some avocado salad on his plate.
“Don’t be scared, my friend. In a week, we’ll be having the time of our life, and there’ll be more than enough to be afraid of then. Have you ever been to the running of the bulls?”
“No, I never have.”
“Uncultured swine! We go to Pamplona every year. Always! Mila,” Gagarin began, putting his arm around his wife’s shoulders, but she brushed it off with a snort, “always demands that she be allowed to join in, but it’s man’s game. Men only.”
“Especially if you put about five grams of coke up your nose beforehand,” Biryuza added quietly.
“Those are the times we’re living in, Stanley—people can’t just enjoy something. They have to add coke or alcohol. But if I have to choose, I’ll take vodka. We’ll expect you in Pamplona in five days. I won’t take no for an answer.”
“How could he say no, Viktor?” Mila looked over at Stanley with hatred in her eyes. “He’s one of your minions.”
“Didn’t I tell you to shut your mouth? Are you looking for trouble?”
Mila hunched her shoulders and lit a cigarette. Gagarin waited a moment and then went on as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
“I really like it here. Not the hotel, although it’s not bad. Could be better, but not bad. I’m talking about Singapore itself. I might buy a house here. My darling drunk wife smashed up a vase worth millions of dollars yesterday. I forgave her, of course, but I decided to give her a task to complete—to find us a house. A good house. In one night. And what do you know—she found one! A villa on Sentosa Island, for about $25 million, with a private beach; it even has a helipad. I want to go there and have a look. We’ll go with Mila, have lunch somewhere. McKnight!”
“Yes, Viktor?” Stanley, his omelet finished, wiped his mouth and looked up at Gagarin.
“You’ll join us, of course?”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline, Viktor. When the documents for the purchase are ready, send them to me, but otherwise, you don’t need my services for this. I need to fly to California as soon as possible.”
“California? What do you need to go to the States for?”
Stanley caught a note of wariness in Gagarin’s voice; it wasn’t the first time, either. He was watching McKnight as if he suspected him of something. Stanley wondered what was worse—that he was having an affair with the wife of a Russian oligarch or that he planned to sell that oligarch out, hand him over, along with all his politician and bureaucrat friends, to the American government? He decided there wasn’t much difference in the level of betrayal and that the end result of both would be the same. And smiled.
“Something funny, Stanley?” Gagarin asked.
“Nothing’s funny, Viktor,” answered McKnight. “I just might happen to have my own personal life, that’s all. And if you recall, I do have a wife living in the States. Who I need to see. A family matter, if you will.”
“The same woman who came to Moscow?” Mila asked with a sneer. “Oh yes, I saw her picture. Shamil showed me. Surprised, Viktor? I asked him to. After all, it has to do with your security, doesn’t it?”
“Thank you, my sweet. I just don’t know what I would do without your tender care.”
“As for you, Stan, I have to say that I’m not very impressed with your taste.”
“It is what it is,” said McKnight, realizing that there was no conflict between Gagarin and Mila—he had forgiven her for the vase and her hysterics. He remembered a Russian proverb: a husband and wife are the same devil, and he felt again that he had made the right choice, breaking things off with Mila.
“Go to hell, McKnight!” Mila exclaimed, as if reading his thoughts, and Gagarin laughed.
“And a good day to you,” Stanley replied calmly.
Chapter 37
Stanley left on the next flight to Los Angeles out of the Changi Airport. He could have waited for a direct flight to San Francisco, but that would have meant another seven hours in Singapore, and he wanted to get out of town as soon as possible.
He went through registration and security, and when he was waiting at the gate, Barbara called him. She wanted to know where he was, and Stanley told her that he was very tired, and needed to see his wife, and would she please ask Lagrange to call him. But as soon as she hung up, he switched off his phone.
Stanley got settled in business class, ordered a double bourbon, drank it, and asked the stewardess not to disturb him. He was asleep before the plane had reached cruising altitude. When he awoke, it was night outside the plane, and he was powerfully thirsty. He ordered a water and another bourbon. The stewardess told him that he had missed an excellent dinner, but she could bring him some black caviar and champagne. Stanley turned down the champagne, but enjoyed the caviar with another bourbon before falling asleep again.
Stanley half expected Dillon to be waiting for him in the Los Angeles airport. After all, his people were undoubtedly tracking Stanley’s movements, so Frank surely knew what flight he was on. Then he scolded himself for acting like some teenage shut-in who believed in an all-powerful CIA, and cloak-and-dagger spy games. No one was there to meet him, of course.
Stanley turned his phone back on as he made his way toward the car-rental companies. Barbara called him immediately. It seemed that the Swiss prosecutor’s office had conducted a search in the bank’s Zurich office and the headquarters in Geneva, although it wasn’t quite a search. The prosecutor’s office gave them a warrant with a list of documents they wanted to see. Barbara sent the list to Stanley over email. She asked him when he’d be coming back, and Stanley told her he’d be back just as soon as he saw his wife, so the day after next.
He rented a Toyota, had a burger and a Sprite, and headed out on World Way at a leisurely pace, turning onto Center Way and then making a smooth turn onto Vicksburg Avenue, enjoying the clarity of the road signs in comparison with Europe; he hardly even needed his GPS.
Lagrange called when Stanley was turning onto Interstate 5.
“McKnight! Finally!” Lagrange was panting like he’d just been on a run. “Barbara told me that you’re in the States. You decided to go back to your wife? You Americans are too focused on your family ties.”
“I have some problems to resolve, Pierre.”
“Then go ahead and solve them, McKnight, but…wait, wait a minute!”
Stanley heard a gurgling sound. Lagrange must have been pouring himself some of his beloved whiskey.
“Okay.” Lagrange took a sip and gave a sigh of satisfaction. “Okay, my friend, we have some problems of our own. The Department of Justice from your home country has launched an investigation. I don’t know why you Americans have to stick your nose everywhere, but your compatriots are suddenly so intensely interested in our bank that the Swiss prosecutor’s office is standing at attention and ready to take orders.”
Lagrange took another sip.
“In a word, they’re on the hunt. They’re just taking practice shots now, but the real shooting is going to start soon. Laville is running around, trying to figure out who and what they’re so interested in, but…where are you now, anyway?”
“I’m on Interstate 5, Pierre, heading toward San Francisco. I’ll be there in about five hours.”
“Interstate 5? That doesn’t tell me anything. I need you here. Do you understand?”
“I’m supposed to be in Pamplona soon.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, McKnight? Pamplona? The running of the bulls? Are you a bull, or are they going to be chasing you?”
“Gagarin is our biggest bull. He only let me leave Singapore when I promised to come with them to Pamplona. Considering that he’s planning to move his valuables out of our vault to Singapore…”
“Okay, your trip to Pamplona could salvage our working relationship with this jerk-off. So let’s do this—you do your thing in shitty San Francisco, fly here, we’ll meet with Laville, and then you fly over to our bull. Right?”
“Right, Pierre.”
“And stay calm, Stan!”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know! I was nervous when the people from the prosecutor’s office were here. By the way, we need to put together the documents they asked for. Will you give Barbara your instructions? Excellent. Go on, then, Stan. Say hello to your wife! She’ll be in your arms in five hours, you lucky man.”
“I will, Pierre, thanks!”
“Of course.”
A little over three hours later, Stanley turned on Highway 152 toward San Jose, then took Gilroy to 101 toward Market Street. After that, he was on automatic pilot, choosing his route and taking a shortcut home without conscious thought. Only when he was parking in his driveway did he realize that he hadn’t told Christine he was flying home. He knocked and rang the bell, but no one answered. In the end, he called Christine’s cell number. She was at work, but delighted to hear from him; she said she would leave the office and meet him at home as soon as she could.
McKnight took a walk around the neighborhood, stopping to buy wine and cheese in a shop where the owner remembered him and greeted him by name, as well as a bouquet of flowers at the shop next door.
Christine arrived, and they walked in together. Stanley was immediately enveloped by a feeling of calm and security. Christine suggested ordering a pizza, and they opened the bottle of wine. But partway into their first glass, the phone on the kitchen wall rang. Accustomed as they both were to the sound of their cell phones, it was a while before they realized where the ringing noise was coming from. When Stanley finally picked up the receiver of the phone on the wall, he heard Frank Dillon on the line.
“Where the hell have you been, Frank? I’ve been waiting for your call,” said McKnight.
“Do you know how the devil torments people for their sins, McKnight?” said Frank with a laugh. “He makes them wait.”
“Are you the devil, then?”
“No, no, I’m much worse.”
“I only know one thing—people aren’t punished for their sins. People are punished with their sins.”
“Maybe so, McKnight, maybe so. Do you know the Ethiopian restaurant the Goose & Gridiron?”
“No, I’ve never been.”
“It’s in South Berkeley on Telegraph Ave. Can you come now?”
“Yes, of course.”
“All right, I’ll be waiting!”
Christine shot Stanley a sad look, but said nothing. Stanley took her car, and was walking into the restaurant within half an hour. The room was nearly empty, and he spotted Frank sitting with a short man of about forty with a Mediterranean cast to his features, who Frank introduced as Marco Monti.
“My partner,” said Frank.
“Do you like Ethiopian food, Mr. McKnight?” asked Marco.
“Call me Stanley. You know, I’ve never tried it, somehow.” Stanley sat down across from Frank and Marco.
“Well, we went ahead and ordered for the table—doro wot, slow-cooked lamb stew, kitfo, and a lot of vegetables.”
“Hm, that doesn’t tell me much.”
“You’ll like it. Just keep in mind that the sauce is very spicy. And there’s a flatbread called injera you can wrap the food in, very tasty! I’m a vegan myself, and it’s a good vegetarian option.”
“Ah, an animal lover?”
“The Ethiopian church—orthodox, like the Russian, by the way—has more holidays requiring abstinence from meat and poultry than the Catholic one. That’s why there are so many vegetarian options in Ethiopian cuisine.”
“Marco, our Swiss banker here will figure the food out on his own,” Frank interrupted his partner, waving over their portly waiter, who began setting out steaming dishes of bread and vegetables.
“What are you drinking?” Frank asked in a sympathetic tone of voice. “We’re having Coke.”
“I’m drinking vodka,” said Stanley. “Do they have vodka? An Ethiopian version?”
“They’ll find some! For you…” Frank tore off a piece of bread and dipped it in the sauce. “Stanley, I understood from your call that you’re ready to work with us—am I right?”
“You’re right. And tonic, please, with ice. Lots of ice! Separately.”
“Well, then, I can tell you that Marco and I represent the American government. We have sufficient authority to make a preliminary agreement with you on the terms of our deal.”
“Deal?”
“That’s right. You’ll need a good deal to save your ass, McKnight. You won’t try and deny that you’re a criminal and belong in jail, will you?”
“Really?” Stanley winced from the heat of the spicy sauce. “You still need to prove that.”
“Don’t test us, McKnight! I could arrest you right here,” Marco hissed, his mask of Italian goodwill dropping for a moment.
Dillon held up a hand to his partner.
“Maybe you weren’t aware, Comrade Stanley, but laundering money through banks, such as the one where you have been working so productively, is a threat to the national security of the United States. Especially dirty money from Russian oligarchs. People like your client Viktor Gagarin.”
Frank fell silent; the waiter was approaching with a tall, narrow glass of vodka, and set it down in front of Stanley.
“What kind of vodka is this?” he asked.
“Polish vodka.”
Stanley drank the vodka, winced again, and took a bite of flatbread and spicy lamb, which set fire to his mouth.
“Wash that down with some tonic, McKnight,” Frank suggested, and went on: “So you’re a threat to national security. We can’t guarantee your safety, but if you give us the information we need, and testify in court, we can protect you.”
“Let me stop you there, Frank,” Stanley said, placing his empty glass on the table. “I have zero confidence in our judicial system, our police, or our security agencies, CIA or NSA. By the way, do you work for the State Department or the Treasury Department? OFAC? Who are you guys?” Stanley pushed his plate away and took out a cigarette.
His companions paused for a moment, studying his cigarette silently.
“You can’t smoke here, McKnight. You’re not in Moscow,” said Frank.
“Or are you CIA after all?” McKnight squinted and blew a stream of smoke into Dillon’s face. “Excellent! What’s next, I fall to my knees and kiss your hands? I need…damn it…I need another vodka.”
Stanley raised his hand and snapped his fingers. The waiter appeared.
“Another Polish vodka!” Stanley told him. “It seems to me”—Stanley looked first Marco, then Frank in the eye—“that you’re quite interested in me. You won’t get anything without my help. Not from the Swiss, who would tear out your throat to protect banking secrecy, or from the Russians, who’ll just mow down anyone in the way with a Kalashnikov without stopping to check who’s from the CIA and who’s from OFAC. We’re talking about billions of dollars here. Not about tax evasion by some little shop owner, or some modest offshore accounts. Tens of billions of dollars. Maybe even a trillion or two of dirty money. Corruption at the highest levels. About that fucked-up Russia, where you can buy anything for five cents, and the corruption creeping out of there, eating away at all those mechanisms that y
ou clean-living, clever people believe to invulnerable. And I can pull back the curtain for you. And here you sit, telling me ‘we can’t guarantee,’ as if I’ve come crawling on my knees to you!”
The waiter brought the second glass of vodka. Stanley downed it in one gulp, took a drag, and rolled some raw, thinly sliced beef up in the injera without taking the cigarette out of his mouth. “Mmmm, delicious. What do you call this one?”
“Kitfo.”
“Although a bit spicy for me, I must say.”
“They’ll have a blander version for you in prison,” Marco said in another hiss.
Stanley pretended not to have heard him.
“I have a product, gentleman, an exclusive product. Why don’t you try and make me a reasonable offer for it? And not just me—my wife as well. Are we clear?”
Dillon and Marco exchanged glances. They looked a bit stunned. Dillon nodded.
“We’ll do everything in our power,” said Marco.
“Listen, Monti, I don’t need anything that rests on your personal power. You’re a cog in the system, and while you may be very smart and very professional, I need a 100 percent guarantee. A guarantee that won’t depend on, say, a jury verdict. After all, it’s possible that some, or even all, of my bank clients will be acquitted. Or avoid a trial entirely. And I’ll stand up proudly in court and wait for my head to be blown off when I step outside? No, thanks. Which is why I’m sorry to say that you two aren’t ready to meet with me. For some reason, you thought I’d already shit my pants and I’d be grateful to you for wiping my ass. Well, let me assure you that I know how to wipe my own ass. Do you get me?”
“We understand you perfectly,” Dillon said. “And you’ll get the protection you need, for yourself and your wife.”
“Now that’s a different story.” Stanley rose, and ground out his cigarette on his plate. “You know where to find me. And I don’t like Ethiopian food. Next time, let’s meet at Starbucks.”
Part Five:
Bull Market
The Banker Who Died Page 36
