The Banker Who Died

by Matthew A Carter

  “Mr. McKnight!” he said with a polite smile. “Nice to see you again. They’ve asked me to walk you over.”

  “There’s no need, I know the way to my own office, if Karl would just open the door,” Stanley said, beginning to lose patience. “What the hell is going on?”

  “His name is Kurt, Mr. McKnight. And management has asked me to accompany you. So, let us go.”

  Another guard, looking like Kurt’s identical twin, joined the senior guard. “How could I forget his name?” wondered Stanley. “I always have a perfect memory for names! Even for mannequins like these guys.”

  Kurt, previously known as Karl, opened the door. Stanley, flanked by guards, proceeded down a corridor, but not the one that led to the employee elevator—to the one for visitors.

  “Where are you taking me?” asked Stanley. “What’s the meaning of all this?”

  They didn’t answer him. Stanley repeated the question.

  “Mr. McKnight, I was told to bring you to the meeting room, the main one on the second floor. That’s all I know. Please come along now.”

  The elevator doors opened up.

  “Please hand over your briefcase,” the senior guard said when the elevator began to ascend.

  “Have you lost your mind?” Stanley exclaimed.

  “At the instruction of Mr. Laville. Please don’t make any problems.”

  Stanley exhaled. The situation was growing ridiculous.

  “Do what you like!” said Stanley, and handed over the briefcase.

  After several minutes waiting in the meeting room, Stanley began to feel like the founder of Laville & Cie, a man with a high forehead, bushy eyebrows, and a thin neck, really was watching him from the painting. Damn it, thought Stanley, I’m the one who’s losing his mind. What is going on here!

  The doors opened, and the head of compliance, Michel Poiccard, walked in, followed by Barbara, her expression tenser than usual, and a shabby-looking man who Stanley had seen once in Lagrange’s office and who Lagrange had introduced as the head of security.

  The shabby man, without saying a word, unbuttoned his jacket, sat down across from Stanley, and fastidiously brushed some invisible dust from his sleeve.

  Stanley noticed a gun in the man’s shoulder holster as he did so.

  “Hello, sir,” Barbara said, with effort.

  “Hi, hi,” said McKnight with a nod, and looked at Poiccard—he was placing a red folder on the lacquered, perfectly smooth surface of the table.

  “What’s going on?” Stanley asked him. “I’m getting pretty tired of asking the same question over and over again.”

  “We have big problems, thanks to you, McKnight.” Poiccard drew a high-backed chair away from the table and sat, crossing his legs. Stanley saw that he was wearing red-and-yellow-striped socks and smiled.

  “Something funny?” the head of security asked. His voice was as colorless as his appearance.

  “What problems, Poiccard?” asked Stanley, ignoring the other man.

  “A large sum of money has disappeared from the account of your client.” Poiccard opened the red folder. “Mr. …yes, Mr. Gagarin. And we believe that you are responsible for that disappearance.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “No.”

  “What amount are we talking about? Barbara said something about two billion, but I thought it was a joke. A bad joke.”

  “It’s no joke, McKnight!”

  “Ah, so I’m such an idiot that I stole money from a Russian oligarch who would tear off your head over 500 euros, and now, like a little boy who’s gotten into the jam jar, have come strolling back here thinking that the loss of a little jam—i.e., billions of dollars—will go unnoticed? I’m not offended that you suspect me, that means you think I’ve got balls, but since I’m here and not on the run, that means you think I have no brains. I’d punch you in the face, Poiccard, but your friend here has a gun.”

  “Don’t get worked up, McKnight!”

  “Don’t get worked up? Are you a complete and absolute idiot, Poiccard? Of course, I’m worked up! I’m so worked up I’m about to start tearing this place apart. We are missing—if you’re not playing some kind of game—funds belonging to my client, one of the richest people in the world, I’m a suspect, and you expect me to be calm? Who withdrew those funds? How? Where did they go? Come on, Poiccard! Give us the report!”

  Poiccard looked down at his folder.

  “Eighty transfers were made over the last week amounting to approximately $2 billion.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Is that so, McKnight?” Poiccard snorted and flipped through some papers.

  “No more than $30 million have ever been transferred out of Gagarin’s accounts,” Stanley said, rubbing his temples. “Money came to our bank but never left! There were small payments, mostly on fuel for the yacht, a couple times he bought little things at Graff for his wife, and he recently purchased a house in Sentosa. Altogether, that’s maximum thirty million. Maximum! He used other banks to pay for his other expenses, and we were his most reliable piggy bank, where he only added money.”

  “And he did,” exclaimed Poiccard, “until you decided to add your client’s money to your own wallet!”

  “Con man,” Barbara said, shaking her head.

  “Have you all lost your minds?” Stanley said, jumping out of his seat.

  “Sit down, McKnight. Sit down,” said the head of security, moving his jacket to the side.

  “I’ll say it again—idiots.” Stanley sat back down. “I don’t know about any transfers. Even if there have been transfers, I didn’t have anything to do with them.”

  Poiccard pulled several papers out of the folder.

  “Is that so, Mr. McKnight? And how do you explain your personal authorization on all these transfers?”

  “Let me see.” McKnight practically snatched the papers out of Poiccard’s hands. All the papers had his signature and Lagrange’s personal stamp. For internal purposes, this was all the authorization needed for any transfer under $100 million.

  “I’ve never seen these forms before in my life. And they’re copies of documents, at that. A signature is easy enough to copy from old transfer forms—where are the originals?”

  “It is your signature, McKnight.”

  “A child could copy a signature with a Xerox machine.” Stanley picked up a pen from the table and spun it around a couple times before setting it back down. Only one person could explain what was going on. Even though Stanley already sensed, already knew deep down what had happened, his mind was refusing to accept it.

  “Where’s Lagrange?” Stanley asked quietly.

  “You’d know better where your accomplice is, McKnight. We’re looking for him, and we’re going to find him.”

  “I repeat,” said Stanley, “everything you’ve said here is complete and total nonsense. The only thing I’m convinced of is that you’re looking for a scapegoat. And I’m an ideal candidate. Okay, carry on, but in the meantime, I’d like to go for a walk.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here,” replied the head of security.

  “I have to take a leak,” snorted Stanley. “Excuse me, Barbara. Or are you going to bring me a pot? At least an empty water bottle. And then, my dear friends and colleagues, no one in this room can order me to do anything. I don’t report to any of you. Nor am I under arrest. Isn’t that right?”

  “No, however, you’ll have to—” began the security adviser, but Stanley stood. He looked around and saw the Japanese vases standing next to the tall mirror, Laville’s prized pieces. He claimed that each of them was worth the same as a private plane.

  Stanley thought that the police would be arriving any minute. These idiots would have called them as soon as he showed up at the bank. Without the police and official charges against him, neither Po
iccard or security had any right to hold him.

  They’d have to hand him off to the authorities. Now he could hear the distant sound of police sirens approaching through the armored windows of the bank. That’s probably not for me. They’ll come for me without any sirens, quietly and discretely, but I don’t have much time at all! thought Stanley.

  “Barbara, would you be so kind as to turn around for a moment?” he asked, going over to the vases, and demonstratively reaching for the zipper of his pants.

  “Stop this nonsense, McKnight!” cried Barbara. “Do something, Poiccard!”

  “Indeed, McKnight, there’s no need for this vulgar display,” began Poiccard, but the security adviser broke in.

  “I don’t see a problem with allowing our dear colleague to visit the restroom.”

  He spoke formally, looking at Stanley without blinking, and was clearly very happy that the party responsible for the loss of funds, this devious American thief who had wormed his way into their reputable bank, had been caught, and was about to be handed over to the police.

  “The police will be here soon,” he went on, “and my man will assist you, Poiccard. That is, if Mr. McKnight tries anything foolish. Like making a run for it, say.”

  “Excellent!” said Stanley, and headed for the door. Poiccard followed him. Another security guard stood on the other side of the door, either Kurt or Karl, tense and ready for anything. Kurt or Karl led the way, followed by Stanley, and then Poiccard bringing up the rear.

  The guard remained in the hallway, and Poiccard went in first. The man had obviously watched more than his fair share of action movies and decided to act like a policeman—he checked both stalls (they were empty), and, just to be safe, banged on the hand dryer a couple times and examined the high window with tinted glass panes.

  “I doubt I’d be able to jump that high,” said Stanley, observing Poiccard’s actions with interest. “Can I take a piss now?”

  “Ok, ok, McKnight, don’t get an attitude. I’ll leave you alone, but don’t take too long.”

  Poiccard went out. Stanley immediately locked the door to the restroom, went into a stall, and stood on the toilet. From that height, he managed to reach the lock on the window frame, turned it, and yanked the frame roughly toward himself.

  From that sharp tug, the frame banged on the wall, and the glass flew out, barely missing Stanley and shattering on the tile floor. But as it turned out, even if Stanley had been able to pull himself up and climb out the window, it wouldn’t have done him any good—bars covered it from the outside.

  Poiccard hammered on the door from the hallway.

  “What’s going on in there, McKnight! Open up! Open this door!” Then, to the guard, “Break it down!”

  Stanley didn’t wait for them to break it down. He swung the door open, and putting all his strength and frustration into the swing, punched Poiccard in the jaw.

  “I hate compliance!” said Stanley.

  Because of the narrow entrance, Poiccard didn’t fall down, and his body protected Stanley from the reach of the security guard.

  Stanley moved toward the guard, staying behind the unconscious Poiccard. He waited for the right moment, then shoved the motionless body to the side—Poiccard’s head banged loudly against the edge of the toilet as he fell—and came at the guard, whose hand was already raised to strike.

  Stanley’s kick caught the guard right in the groin, and the other man screamed, doubling over. Stanley grabbed his collar and slammed his head repeatedly against the toilet as well.

  Blood sprayed from his fractured cheekbone. Ignoring the man’s moans, Stanley stuffed him and Poiccard into a stall, slammed the door behind him, and leaped out of the room.

  McKnight ran down the hallway leading to the stairway, but met Barbara around the corner.

  Like a soccer goalie gearing up to face off against an oncoming striker, she stretched her hands out wide and crouched down slightly, taking a couple steps toward him.

  “You won’t get away, you American bastard!” she hissed. “You dirty thief!”

  Stanley didn’t hesitate for a second. He ran into her full force, and her body crumpled inward and dropped to the floor. But as he stepped over her prone form, he felt her latch onto his left ankle. Principled little witch, he thought. He stopped and turned, trying to free his leg. But he moved a little too forcefully, and his boot slammed into Barbara’s forehead. Her grip relaxed, and her eyes rolled up as she slumped back down.

  Stanley bent over and patted Barbara on the cheek. “Nothing personal, honey, nothing personal!” He tore the magnetic key card from her neck and ran on.

  But when he opened the door to the stairway, he heard voices from below. When he peered over the banister, Stanley saw the senior security officer, two men in civilian clothing, and a policeman in uniform. The only path left to him was up.

  He tried to not to run and attract attention, but still moved quickly as he made his way up to the top, fourth floor. He opened the door with his key and entered a hallway that led to another stairway. This narrow spiral staircase went up to the roof, where the bank maintained a small garden and smoking area.

  When he was almost at the door to the roof staircase, Stanley remembered the flash drive in his pocket. He looked around him, and saw that the door to a small office was partially open. These offices belonged to the bank’s most junior IT employees, and one of them, it seemed, had gone up to smoke on the roof and forgotten to close his door tightly behind him—which was strictly prohibited.

  McKnight cracked the door open. The room was windowless and dim, with two desks facing each other. The two occupants of this office would have to stare at each other’s faces all day long. The chairs were empty; apparently they were both smoking on the roof.

  Stanley slipped into the office. It was equipped with old desktop computers, powerful enough and reliable, but nothing like the latest high-speed models in the offices of the bank’s senior management and leadership. Stanley took the flash drive out and crouched down, ducking under the desk and feeling around on the back of the system unit of one of the computers for a USB slot. He plugged the drive in. Now, even if the bank’s security detected the drive’s intrusion into their system, they would have a difficult time finding it. Stanley was too busy savoring his minor revenge to be careful and banged his head soundly on the underside of the desk as he got back up.

  Rubbing the bruised spot, Stanley went back out into the hallway and trotted toward the spiral staircase.

  Several bank employees were up on the roof when he got out, and they all stared in surprise at the panting man.

  Just his presence here was surprise enough—employees at his level of seniority could smoke in their offices, equipped with powerful vents. Moreover, Stanley hadn’t been in the office much lately, involved as he was with work for his Russian clients.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen!” Stanley greeted the smokers, although he didn’t see any women among them.

  “Hello, Mr. McKnight!” answered a tall, thin man whom Stanley had seen in the hallway several times. “What’s going on down there? We saw a police car.”

  “Who knows?” Stanley replied, and walked over to the edge of the roof. If he took a running jump, he could make it to the roof of the next building.

  He looked again. Or I could fall short and end up in the custody of these cretins with two broken legs.

  “But they had all their lights and sirens going!” the thin man continued. “As if someone had broken into the vault or something.”

  “Well, in a manner of speaking, someone has,” muttered Stanley. He looked around one more time and decided to jump. It would be a tricky business: before leaping from the edge of the building, he would have to jump up onto the short wall around the roof without slowing down. Stanley turned his back toward the edge of the roof and began to count off his steps.


  “Is everything okay?” asked one of the smokers.

  “Everything is excellent!” answered Stanley, and finished his count:

  …twelve, thirteen, fourteen…that’s enough, I think!

  “Maybe you’d like a cigarette?” asked another.

  “Later.” Stanley took a deep breath, slapped his legs to get the blood moving, and took off at a run.

  He jumped with the complete certainty that he wouldn’t make it to the roof of the neighboring building. It wasn’t a suicide attempt, but it was his only option; he simply couldn’t allow himself to be led out of that building in handcuffs, suspected of stealing Gagarin’s money. But all the cards were stacked against him! The signature, the transactions done with his codes, with his personal passwords, from his computer. He knew that it would be practically impossible to prove his innocence, to show that he was the victim of someone’s cunning plot, the pawn in a carefully planned and skillfully executed operation. They would pin it all on him. That is, if he survived until the trial, a highly unlikely outcome. So—he jumped.

  He saw the stunned faces of his smoking audience. This was the very last thing they’d expected to see when they went upstairs for a break. Stanley’s dormant athletics skills had risen to the fore somehow, even though it had been fifteen years since he’d run track in college.

  He leaped easily from the edge of the roof, pushing off with great force, and flew over the gap between the buildings. His speed and jump were actually too strong—he crashed onto neighboring roof, lessening the blow with his hands, rolled quickly to his feet, straightened, ran, and leaped onto the next roof. He picked up speed, crossed it, crouched, and jumped yet again.

  I could win a parkour contest like this, he thought. Maybe when I get out of prison.

  That thought finally brought him up short. He stopped, panting. He looked himself over—his suit showed no visible damage, his shoes weren’t scratched, he didn’t have any bruises or scrapes, and nothing had fallen out of his pockets.