The Banker Who Died

by Matthew A Carter

  Chapter 38

  Stanley entered his hotel room, slipped the porter a hundred euros, and fell onto the bed closest to the balcony door.

  “Shall I open the balcony door for you, sir?” asked the porter, shutting the closet where he had placed Stanley’s small suitcase.

  “What for?”

  “So you can hear the city preparing for the running of the bulls.”

  “Go ahead.” Stanley squinted and saw white pants, a white shirt, and a red necktie on the bed next to him. There was a pair of white canvas shoes with rubber soles on the floor.

  “Those are authentic shoes from the era when Señor Ernest stayed in this room,” the porter said, as if he had personally encountered the famous guest.

  He opened up the balcony door, letting in a muffled hum of city noise: the voices of passersby on Estafeta Street and the sounds of distant cars moving around the Plaza del Castillo.

  “We’ve kept the room exactly the same as it was when—”

  “Yes, thank you, I’m aware,” Stanley interrupted the porter. “What about the shoes? Are they my size?”

  “Of course, sir. And if anything doesn’t fit right—”

  “Yes, yes, thank you! Everything is great, just please make sure that I’m not disturbed.”

  “Of course, sir!”

  The porter left the room, and McKnight got up and shut the balcony door. It made little sense in this heat (it was nearly 100 degrees Fahrenheit outside) to sit in a room with a working air conditioner and leave a door open.

  Stanley kicked off his shoes, opened the minibar, and mixed himself a vodka and tonic, tossing some ice cubes into the glass. He took a big swallow, then put the drink on his nightstand and lay back down.

  Tall glass shelves with works by Hemingway stood in the corners of the room; he saw A Movable Feast, that endless feast, in different languages, as well as a bronze bust of the author. Another bust faced him from on top of the closet.

  The first thing Biryuza had told Stanley when he picked him up at the airport was that he’d be staying in the famous Gran Hotel la Perla, and not in just any old room, but in the actual room named after Ernest Hemingway.

  “This used to be Room 217. Now it’s 201, but everyone calls it ‘Papa’s Room.’ Do you have any idea how much this cost Viktor? This room is booked during the San Fermin festival years in advance. But he told me to get this room, whatever it took. I had to find the Australian millionaire who was planning to stay there with his girlfriend, negotiate with them, find them a different hotel, pay their cancellation fee, and give them a generous gift.”

  “And this was all for me?” asked Stanley.

  “Don’t get too proud, Stan. Viktor instructed me to make sure this room was available, and he also rented a villa, where he will stay and receive his guests. Some people will stay in the city. You’re one of ‘some people.’”

  Then Biryuza paused, waiting for Stanley to react to “some people.”

  “We drew straws,” Biryuza finally went on. “You got Hemingway’s room. So it was just luck. But you should make the most of it!”

  McKnight finished his vodka and made himself another, then searched around on the bedside table for the remote. He switched on the enormous flat-screen TV on the wall. “Just think,” Stanley told himself sarcastically, “Hemingway watched this very TV!” He flipped through the channels until he landed on Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein—he and Christine had met at a screening many years before.

  The old black-and-white movie went well with the décor of the room.

  Stanley took a few more sips, watching as Dracula, played by Bela Lugosi, hypnotized Wilbur, the bumbling and cowardly clerk played by Lou Costello, so that he’d remain motionless while Dracula freed Frankenstein from his box.

  McKnight made himself a third cocktail and got out a cigarette. He looked around before lighting it, trying to find a smoke detector. Smoking was probably forbidden here, but he didn’t put out his cigarette—it would be disrespectful to the memory of the great writer not to enjoy a cigarette in his room. Or not to have a drink there, for that matter.

  He remembered his meeting with the agents. He’d surprised even himself with his boldness and determination. He recalled Dillon’s stunned expression and laughed. It had probably been a while since the confident and self-assured Dillon had encountered someone like him.

  Meanwhile, onscreen, Dracula and Frankenstein had arrived at the island of Dr. Sandra Mornay, the unfortunate Wilbur’s ex-girlfriend. The actress playing Sandra reminded Stanley a little of Mila—her character was just as unprincipled and cynical.

  Stanley had felt much better after his meeting with Dillon and Monti in the Ethiopian restaurant. It had been as if he’d had the chance to view himself from the outside, and he’d felt strong, ready for anything. So when he’d come home to find his wife in a state of anxiety, he’d had no trouble reassuring her. He’d spoken quietly, in a measured tone of voice, trying not to let on that the main danger they faced—Stanley was sure of it now—wasn’t the consequences of defying the US federal government, but Gagarin, and his henchmen and friends. More precisely, those Magnificent Five.

  Even if they did decide to prosecute Stanley, the trial process could go on for years. There would be appeals, jury selections and rejections, and other judicial twists and turns.

  But Stanley thought that the federal government would rather reach an agreement with him than let it become known how they had instigated the violation of laws, or at least delayed the investigation.

  But Gagarin and his Five weren’t bound by any judicial conditions or moral codes. For them, Stanley had no doubt there were no boundaries they wouldn’t cross, no restrictions on their actions. They wouldn’t hesitate to send hired killers, would collude with any group—from Mexican cartels and the Italian mafia in Brooklyn, to Northern Irish militants or veterans of the Balkan wars. The long arm of the law couldn’t reach them because they could always hide in Russia if necessary and quickly recoup any loss of laundered funds or valuables.

  Christine had kept saying that she understood, but that Stanley was in danger now. He was between a rock and a hard place, and she couldn’t see how he would make his way out.

  His confidence had gradually won her over. She’d clung to him and told him that if he was so sure of everything, he should let her come to Zurich. She could talk to her boss about a leave of absence, or she could quit, even, and maybe they would let her have her job back when it was all over. It had taken Stanley some effort to talk her out of it. They’d talked nearly till dawn, then made love, and slept till noon.

  Lagrange had called while Stanley and Christine had been eating breakfast. He was still in the office, he’d said, dealing with the devastation. He’d sounded frustrated and had complained of being utterly abandoned, responsible for everything, and cleaning up after everyone—he’d said he wouldn’t mind taking a break either. Stanley had tried to say that he’d be back to work soon, and would be happy to do his part clearing out the rubble, but Lagrange had just laughed.

  “Stan, you’re hardly a bank staffer any more. Your main job is to be our authorized representative at the court of his majesty Gagarin. Believe me, my friend: that’s the most important thing right now. You might think that you’re not fulfilling your duties, but what matters to us most is that you are with Gagarin, even when he’s visiting Singaporean prostitutes. We can barely keep up with his deliveries. It seems like he’s trying to stuff our vaults with every single treasure in goddamned Russia. And he’ll keep doing that, as long as you’re with him. You’re our guarantee to him. People like Viktor only trust personal relationships. So you maintain yours on behalf of our bank. Where are you now?”

  “San Francisco. And tomorrow I’m flying to Pamplona.”

  “Ah, Pamplona, of course! San Fermin, right? Your life is just one big party, eh? I’m starting to
get jealous, Stan, pretty jealous.”

  “Don’t envy me, Pierre. Believe it or not, I wish more than anything that I was in Zurich, heading into the office in the morning.”

  “More than lying side by side with your pretty wife? All right, go run with the bulls, get a horn in your ass, then come back to work. We’ll get you a standing desk till you recover. Tell Gagarin and his wife I said hello. Is she there? Do you remember what I told you? Watch out. Viktor will finish what the bulls start if you’re not careful.”

  The conversation with Lagrange had left Stanley feeling concerned. His colleague wasn’t simply annoyed—he’d been simmering with rage, because this wasn’t the first time that Gagarin had failed to invite Pierre to join them. Lagrange was jealous that Stanley was having the fun that he used to have.

  Smoking and watching Dracula fight a werewolf, Stanley began to consider the fact that Lagrange never forgave insults. If he couldn’t get Gagarin back somehow, he would take it out on Stanley. “If you’re enjoying a place in the sun, you’re blocking someone else’s light.”

  He had to take two connecting flights to reach Pamplona and the trip took almost twenty-four hours. Christine offered to drive Stanley to the airport, but he got a message from Marco Monti that evening, asking him to meet at the airport to discuss matters before Stanley left, and he decided to take a taxi there. He didn’t want Monti to see him with his wife.

  McKnight was walking through the airport when Monti appeared beside him out of nowhere. The agent nodded and gestured for McKnight to follow him. They passed through security and a police checkpoint and walked down a long corridor to a door with a keypad lock. Inside was a small, windowless room, dimly lit. The only furnishings were a table, two chairs, and an empty bookshelf.

  “Have a seat, McKnight,” Monti said. “And don’t worry—the plane won’t take off without you.”

  “I hope not,” Stanley said. “I paid about fifteen K for that ticket, all told.”

  “Just don’t tell me you paid with your blood money,” Monti said, sitting across from Stanley and putting a plastic object on the table.

  “Dillon’s already in Europe,” Monti went on. “He asked me to give you instructions.”

  “So you are fully guaranteeing immunity for myself and my wife? Complete protection? You guarantee that I’ll get to keep my bank accounts and real estate holdings? You’ve accepted all my conditions? If not, you’ll just be wasting your breath.”

  “We fully accept your conditions, Mr. McKnight,” Monti said. “We give you our full guarantee. The situation has changed, and—you were right—we’ve come to an agreement with our directors. We can’t conduct this operation without you. You might have wanted a written guarantee, but—”

  “That’s not necessary. At least, not yet. I’ll prepare a detailed list of my terms and give them to Dillon when we meet. I’ll be seeing him in Europe?”

  “Yes. He’ll be in Pamplona.”

  “Excellent. And what do you have here?”

  “This is a special kind of flash drive,” Monti said with a smile. “When you return to Zurich from Pamplona, you’ll go into the office, stick this flash drive in any bank computer on a Friday night, and take it out on Monday morning.”

  “You do realize that if I get caught with this, I’m going to have some serious trouble? Employees are forbidden from hooking up any personal tech items to the bank’s internal systems.”

  “Even if you do get caught, all the bank’s security service will find on the drive is pictures of you, Mr. McKnight, and your wife.”

  “Where did you get them?”

  “Well, there are certain skills we haven’t entirely lost. The flash drive is really only a transmitter. Over the weekend, our team will use it to hack into the bank system and copy everything we need, remotely. Nothing will remain on the drive itself. So you put it in, copy at least one photo onto your desktop. You missed your wife, you see, and wanted to print a photo of her, something like that. Clear?”

  “Clear.” Stanley nodded, tucking the drive into his pocket.

  “That’s not all.” Monti held out a hand when Stanley made as if to stand. “Our main interest isn’t really the data we’ll get with this flash drive. Don’t get me wrong, it’s important, and your assistance will be critical in getting it. But the ‘Magnificent Five,’ as you call them, are going to be in Pamplona for the festival, and they’re the ones we want. They’re not coming to run with the bulls or see a bullfight. Although they probably will go at least once. But they’re worried about recent events, about the Swiss prosecutor’s investigation into Gagarin. That’s their money, after all, their channels, their reserve aerodromes. They’re also concerned about the possibility of international sanctions against them and their close friends.”

  “Oh come on, Marco!” Stanley huffed. “No one’s going to touch them. They’re thick as thieves with the elites in the West. They have businesses in common—”

  “This isn’t a business matter. It’s about big-league politics. Really big-league. John Fort, the president’s national security adviser, is flying from Washington to Pamplona—and I don’t think he’s there to watch the bullfight. He’s probably interested in holding talks with the Magnificent Five.”

  Stanley was stunned.

  “Are you trying to tell me that John Fort is involved in these deals with the Russians? And you want to use me against him or something?”

  “No comment on that. But your job is to get the Magnificent Five to trust you, and, if possible, get any information on their talks with Fort. We don’t even know what they’ll be discussing.”

  “Well, that’s not too difficult to guess. They’ll negotiate on concessions for Russians involved in sanctions in exchange for contracts going to American oil companies.”

  Marco shrugged.

  “Maybe yes, maybe no. They could be discussing anything, from oil, as you say, to Iranian nuclear capabilities. So…”

  Marco got out a pack of cigarettes and pulled something out of it about an inch in length, resembling a wire or a thick strand of human hair.

  “This is the world’s most advanced listening device. There are none like it. You’ll need to attach it to Gagarin’s clothes. It’ll ‘live’ for about twenty-four hours, and then it’ll just fall off, so there’s no danger to you. The Russians don’t have this technology yet. Secretary Fort will have all the rooms swept for bugs, but his instruments won’t find this one.”

  “So I’ll have to stick a bug on Gagarin every day?”

  “Yeah. Try. And on as many of the Five as you can. There are ten bugs in this pack, and Dillon’ll give you another ten in Spain. Keep in mind that each one costs over $15,000.”

  “Wow, Marco, you’ve got quite the budget—bugs, flights, hotels. I’ll try to wrap this up as quickly as possible for you.”

  But Monti gazed at him directly and said that although they had accepted all of Stanley’s conditions, he shouldn’t expect that their cooperation would end any time soon.

  “The only thing I can do quickly is put you in jail,” Monti said. His polite and sympathetic mask was slipping again. Stanley saw the real man before him, a cynical and cold agent.

  “Until we have an accurate picture of Gagarin and Company’s money-laundering schemes, and bank transactions showing compromising material on the Magnificent Five,” concluded Monti, “you’ve got no hope of retiring.”

  It was a typical move from an officer in the security services. Promise, agree, then take a step back, then another, until your opponent had no moves left, and no way back.

  Stanley thought about the trouble he was in the entire eight-hour flight to New York. He had only an hour to make his connecting flight to Madrid, but he managed to stretch his legs and have a cup of coffee. He found himself thinking cowardly thoughts—of just stepping out of JFK, clearing all the money out of his accounts, buying
a big American car, and driving back west.

  “Sir, we’re waiting for you!” a flight attendant at the gate told him.

  McKnight threw his half-finished cup of coffee into the trash can and trotted down the sloped corridor to the plane.

  The flight from New York to Spain was over thirteen hours. Stanley was prepared for the worst, but everything went quite smoothly. It was an evening flight, so he fell asleep almost immediately, and awoke to a sunny morning—no surprise there—in Madrid. He did have seven hours to kill at until his next flight, so he took a taxi to the Puerta del Sol. The driver asked if it was his first time in Madrid, and Stanley told him that he just wanted to have a walk around a bit and have a nice lunch. He ate bean soup and ham at Casa Botin and drank nearly a liter and a half of wine; in the end, he didn’t have time for a walk. He returned to the airport, and was back in the air on an Iberia flight at six that evening, arriving in Pamplona just an hour later.

  Chapter 39

  The hotel phone rang. McKnight, half asleep, was watching Dracula turn into a bat and couldn’t figure out which phone was ringing at first.

  “I asked not to be disturbed!” he said when he finally picked up the receiver.

  “Yes, sir, but your colleague insisted that we put him through,” the clerk said apologetically.

  Stanley thought that it must be Lagrange, and prepared himself for the taunts and jokes to come.

  “Go ahead!” he said, but to his surprise, it was Bernard on the line.

  “Stanley!” Bernard sounded like he’d won the lottery or hit the bull’s-eye in a shooting competition. “I’m right next to you!”

  Stanley looked around in confusion. “What do you mean, next to me?” he asked.

  “I’m in the same hotel as you, Stanley,” Bernard said, still delighted. “One floor below you, I think. What a nice place, huh? Lagrange sent me. He didn’t want to go, busy with work and all. But he sent me. He said you could use some support.”

  “Support with what?” Stanley finished his vodka, but the ice had melted long ago, and it tasted terrible.