McKnight wanted to join the crowd, but Shamil held him back, only letting go when he saw the horns of the bulls approaching. He shouted “Go!” and took off himself, protecting Gagarin.
McKnight ran quickly, trying to keep Bernard in sight. Suddenly, he felt someone’s breath on his right hand, almost hot enough to burn, and then something wet and just as hot poked him in the back. He looked over his shoulder, directly into the eyes of a huge, dark-brown bull.
The bull snorted, as if telling him to make way, and McKnight moved to the left, hit the bull with the rolled newspaper on its strong rump, and looked back again to see Shamil helping Gagarin over the barrier. Bernard had disappeared somewhere. Biryuza caught up to Stanley and wriggled over the barrier after Gagarin to safety. That’s when Stanley caught sight of Bernard. The other man was swinging his elbows to fight his way through the crowd, near where three bulls were tossing people aside with swings of their heads.
The street turned, and several people slipped on the slick cobblestones. One bull stumbled over a fallen runner and nearly fell himself before continuing to run.
At the next turn, McKnight saw Bernard fall. Stanley tried to grab him by the arm, but a big man running from behind got in the way. In fact, he knocked Stanley down as well. Stanley fell right by the barrier and saw Bernard lying in the path of the oncoming bulls, trying to rise.
“Don’t get up!” shouted Stanley. “Stay down! Don’t get up!”
But Bernard didn’t listen. He rose and turned to face the approaching bulls. He managed to dodge one of them, but another tossed its head and gored Bernard with its horn. For a moment, Bernard hung from the horn until the bull shook its head and dropped Bernard onto the cobblestones. His body hit the ground loudly, and another bull jumped over him. Bernard curled into a ball and screamed. A puddle of blood pooled out from beneath him. The crowd, and yet another bull, rushed past the man on the ground.
Stanley ran over. Bernard was trying to stop the blood pulsing from the wound.
“Call an ambulance! We need a stretcher and an ambulance!” Stanley shouted into the crowd, his voice breaking. “It hit an artery!”
McKnight returned to the hotel covered in sweat, dirt, and blood.
The receptionist asked anxiously how Bernard was feeling. Stanley told him the doctors had managed to stop the bleeding, but he was weak. The doctors had reassured him that they’d seen much worse after the running of the bulls.
Back in his room, McKnight drew himself a bath, and had just sunk down into the fragrant water when he heard a knock at the door.
“What the hell do you want?” shouted Stanley.
“You ordered cigarettes,” said a vaguely familiar voice.
McKnight pulled on a robe and padded on bare feet to the door. He looked through the peephole and saw Dillon standing outside in a white shirt and bow tie.
“Here are your cigarettes, sir,” he said when Stanley opened the door. “You went through a lot yesterday. We’re already receiving information.”
“I’m happy for you,” barked Stanley.
“I hope your friend is well.”
“Thank you! I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
He returned to the bathroom, where he opened the pack, and saw a little packet with the bugs tucked inside. Stanley lit a cigarette and sank back into the bath.
He didn’t have the time to soak as long as he wanted. First, Christine called, offended that Stanley hadn’t, and anxious that something had happened to him. Stanley apologized and told her that the festival and all the surrounding chaos had simply made him forget all his promises—he should have called yesterday after arriving in Pamplona. They held to their agreement not to discuss anything relating to Stanley’s work with the Feds over the phone, but Stanley did tell her about Bernard’s injury, which shocked her. She asked him several times if he was sure he was okay as well. Then, as they had agreed for security purposes, she went into detail about her own affairs. Finally, Christine sent her regards to Bernard and hung up.
McKnight got out of the tub, opened a bottle of beer, and called Lagrange.
Their manager was also stunned to hear what had happened to Bernard, and asked for the telephone number of the hospital, promising to get in touch with one of the bank’s staff doctors. He said that one of them could travel to Pamplona to assist the Spanish doctors if necessary.
“You didn’t take care of him, Stan!” said Lagrange. “You should have been watching out for him, and instead…”
“I told him, more than once, not to stand, but he didn’t listen. You really think this is my fault? Why the hell did you send him here anyway?”
“Yes, I do. You were probably covering Gagarin’s ass and didn’t give a shit about Bernard.”
“I really hope you’re joking, Pierre.”
“Well, I’m not!”
“Then you can kiss my ass!” Stanley said, but Lagrange had already hung up the phone.
Stanley was in a foul mood after that. He thought he could at least get some sleep, but Gauthier called and said Gagarin was waiting for Stanley at the villa.
Stanley called a taxi and called the hospital one more time before leaving. The doctor said that the patient’s condition was stable but serious and that he would do everything he could for him.
The car was waiting for him in the square. Stanley gave the driver a piece of paper with the address.
“A lovely place,” said the driver. “Is that your castle, or are you just visiting?”
“Do I look like I own a castle?”
“Well, the porter told me that you’re staying in Papa’s room.”
“That was just happenstance, my friend.”
“Chance makes the world go round,” the driver began philosophically, maneuvering through the raucous crowd in the square. “Today, for example, the Swedish man, why did he get up? They tell everyone not to, ahead of time.”
“Swiss, not Swedish. He’s a friend of mine.”
“Damn!” cried the driver. “That’s terrible—bad luck.”
“Yes…chance,” agreed Stanley.
There was a festive atmosphere at the enormous villa Gagarin was renting, situated on a picturesque plot of land. No one remembered about poor Bernard, of course.
McKnight immediately received his portion of coke from Gauthier and a glass of vodka from Gagarin, which he poured out onto the ground when no one was looking. Komarikhin’s girlfriend gave him a friendly wave with her big hand. Stanley walked over and kissed that hand, which smelled strongly of tanning lotion.
He noticed a limousine in the parking lot, guarded by a man who resembled a Secret Service agent.
McKnight poured himself a tall glass of sangria and bumped into the US president’s national security adviser in the inner courtyard.
John Fort was obviously in a hurry to meet with Gagarin and the members of the Magnificent Five.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said McKnight in Russian.
“Hello,” nodded Fort, a tall, thin, gray-haired man. “Have we met?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Stanley said, switching to English. “My name is Stanley McKnight. We’re compatriots, I’m happy to say.”
Fort stopped and looked at Stanley with interest.
“Indeed, McKnight, that is a good thing,” he said with a smile. “What do you do?”
“I turn crap into chocolate, sir. I’m a banker.”
“Not bad, McKnight, well said. I’ll have to remember that one. I do pretty much the same. Another time!”
They shook hands; Stanley managed to press the bug he had ready onto Fort’s jacket.
Fort walked briskly into the house, and Stanley would have given a lot to know what such a high-ranking staffer from the US president’s cabinet was discussing with Russian oligarchs.
McKnight found an unoccupied sun lounger by the p
ool. The girlfriends of the Russian tycoons splashed and squealed in the pool. Stanley took several sips of his sangria. Then Biryuza sat down in the chair next to his.
“How is our man doing?” he asked.
“Bernard? Let me find out.”
Stanley called the hospital. The doctor hemmed and hawed but finally pulled himself together and informed Stanley that Bernard had passed away from blood loss eight minutes previously.
Chapter 41
McKnight planned to leave Pamplona in the morning. He wanted to go even earlier, but couldn’t force himself to get out of bed. He was comforted by the thought that he wouldn’t have made the earliest flights from Madrid to Zurich anyway. Then he decided to have a decent breakfast, realized he wouldn’t make the three PM flight, and finally booked a business-class seat on a Helvetic flight for seven that evening. It was a small plane, a Fokker, with good service. Stanley loved to fly in that type of aircraft.
He could have flown out of Pamplona, from the closest airport. His status as a guest of Gagarin gave him access to a full range of services and benefits. But after Bernard’s death, Stanley had a physical aversion to being in the Russian oligarch’s presence. The cynicism with which these money-stuffed players reacted to the death of someone they had recently dined with hit him hard.
Biryuza was surprised to hear that Stanley was renting a car and driving to Madrid.
“We could fly you to Zurich on a private plane. We don’t have any in Pamplona, they all reserved for Viktor’s guests, but you could fly out of San Sebastian, from the Donostia Airport,” said Biryuza. “Why do you want to drive, anyway? We could have a chauffeur take you.”
“Thanks, Anton, really, but I want to drive.” Stanley put out his cigarette in the urn by the hospital doors.
The tobacco tasted sour. Stanley had just come from the pathology department, where he had signed a stack of papers in the presence of Spanish government officials and bank security service personnel who had come to bring Bernard’s body back.
“I need to be alone,” said Stanley. “No offense.”
“It was his own fault, you know,” Biryuza said, his lip curling upward. “He was told how to act. It’s natural selection. He should have stayed down. He was just an idiot. He’d been warned.”
“He was scared, Anton,” Stanley said, squinting in the sunlight. “He just got scared.”
“Serves him right, then! No reason to panic.” Biryuza fell silent, then asked, “What kind of car are you going to find here, anyway? Some junker?”
“Not a problem, I can make it in a junker.”
The porter helped him load his things into the trunk, and expressed his condolences again for Bernard’s death. Stanley thanked him, and they shook hands.
He got in and entered his destination into the GPS—Madrid, Barajas Airport, terminal 2, then pulled away, and saw the porter waving in his rearview mirror. He waved back through the open window.
Christine called as he was approaching Madrid on the N-113. She was in London for a couple of days, with several meetings planned for the evening, followed by dinner with some British collectors, and a visit to an antiques auction the next day.
McKnight turned on video calling. Christine was lying on a wide bed in a semitransparent nightgown, and Stanley couldn’t tear his eyes away from her enticing body.
“Video calls have been the cause of many deaths,” he said.
“Why is that?” Christine lit a long cigarette.
“You’re distracting me,” admitted Stanley. “I almost hit the bumper of the car ahead of me just now. I’m going to have turn off the picture and just leave the sound.”
“Oh no, don’t! I like to watch you drive. You just peek at the screen from time to time, don’t stare at it.”
“That’s the problem, I can’t. I want to be next to you, not driving to damned Madrid.”
“Madrid? So you can fly to Zurich? Why didn’t you fly from Pamplona?”
“Christine, do you think you could find the time to come to Zurich for a couple days? I’m not asking for more than that.”
“Of course, I can come tomorrow evening after the auction. I’ll come on flight—”
“It doesn’t matter which one! I’ll meet you anyway.”
“But you didn’t answer me—why are you driving to Madrid?”
“Because I just wanted to get away from Gagarin and his people, at least for a little while. I can’t look at those faces anymore. I’d rather spend an extra four hours driving than fly on one of his planes, use his cars, or eat on his tab.”
“But you have to admit you said they had some curious features that interested you,” Christine put in.
“Yeah, curious is the right word! You can watch them like animals in the zoo. Dangerous animals. Don’t get too close and don’t feed them. They don’t care about anything but their own welfare and their own money. They heard about Bernard’s death, and a minute later they were already back to the party, drinking and feasting.”
“Well, that’s how most people react. Somebody died, but we’re still alive,” said Christine. “Alive, healthy, and rich. And besides, you said that Bernard—”
“Yes, strictly speaking, he was to blame. I admit it. He was told not to stand up. But he got scared. I think I’d be scared too, if a bull was standing over me, snorting.”
“You’re not to be blamed for his death, Stanley.”
“I know.”
“But you sound like you’re feeling guilty. Stanley, honey, it’s not your fault. You did everything you could. Do you hear me?”
“I know…oh, sorry, I’m getting a call from Zurich. It’s Lagrange. Can you hang on?”
“Of course, honey!”
He could hear the deep exhaustion in Lagrange’s voice. He spoke slowly, as if carefully choosing each word.
“McKnight, my dear torero!”
“Hi, Pierre, how are you?”
“Great! Where are you? Are you done running with the bulls?”
“Yes, Pierre, you know…”
“Oh yes, I know about your outstanding achievements in Pamplona. Bernard’s body arrived in Zurich today. Back to his parents. He was their only son, didn’t you know?”
“No, Pierre.”
“But you won’t be able to attend the funeral and comfort them with an account of the last minutes of their son’s life, I’m afraid. You need to fly to St. Petersburg. Do you know where that is? Not the one in Florida, the one in Russia.”
“Yes, Pierre, I know.”
“Don’t interrupt! They’re holding the International Economic Forum there. You have a hotel reservation. You’re accredited, all set.”
“Damn it, Pierre, I’m driving to Madrid to fly back to Zurich.”
“So you’ll fly to St. Petersburg instead!”
“But that’s your forum! You go there every year.”
“And this year I can’t!” Lagrange’s voice hardened. “While you’re vacationing and hanging out, traveling around the world from Singapore to Pamplona, I’m cleaning up our problems. And believe me: they’re growing by the day. Our Russian clients are one problem, and you’re going to take that one on, get me? You’ve dealt with them in the past, but now you’ll be handling them on your own. I have a different focus now.”
“Does Laville know?”
“Come on, Stanley, You sound like a child. Of course he knows. It’s his orders. Now you’re the head of Russia and the CIS markets, and your new title is managing director—how do you like that?”
“I’d prefer to head up a different market, Pierre. How about Latin America?”
“Very funny, McKnight! But there would be other Gagarins waiting for you there, anyway. We’ve got some hard times coming up. Inspections. And now, Bernard. His photograph is all over the papers. All the forums are talking about the young banker who d
ied running with the bulls. They even put his picture in front of our building, and people are bringing flowers. Idiocy!”
Stanley almost ran off the road, but the navigator beeped a warning, and Stanley got back in his lane. He had to get back to the bank as soon as possible to put the flash drive in his computer, and now this was postponed. And he was tired; truly, deeply tired. Fly to St. Petersburg! There was no direct flight from Madrid that he knew of, so he’d have to take connecting flights. A six-hour trip, minimum. He cursed under his breath.
“Okay, Pierre, I understand. I understand everything,” he said. “Flowers, photographs. Okay…when do I need to be there?”
“Where? Oh, St. Petersburg. You have time. Tomorrow. Tomorrow at nine AM local time registration starts. Our dear friends, Gagarin et al., will all be there. You’re already missing them, I imagine?”
“Pierre, I’m not in the mood to joke. And I don’t feel like listening to your jokes at all.”
“Why’s that, old pal?”
“I got a letter today. From FINMA. An official letter. They’ve asked me to come in for a talk. They want to clarify some details. They said that this invite was cleared by bank management.”
“And you’re worried about that? Forget it! It’s no big deal. Yes, I know about it. But the few days you spend in St. Petersburg won’t change anything. You can write and tell them you’re on a business trip and will come see them when you get back. The local authorities never come after their own. You’re a Swiss resident; you count. They’ll talk to you and let you go. Then you can relax. Get some sleep, at least. Was Mila at the festival?”
“No.”
“So you didn’t get any while you were there? Remember, McKnight: abstinence is bad for you! So where was our pretty girl? Has she been fired? Gagarin decided to get a divorce?”
“She’s in treatment. For alcohol and drug addiction.”
“Her addiction is between her legs.”
Stanley understood that Lagrange was intentionally trying to provoke him, was waiting for him to blow up. He might even be recording this conversation. For what reason? Stanley didn’t know, but this conversation convinced him that something was going on. He was filled with a vague sense of foreboding.
The Banker Who Died Page 39
