The Banker Who Died

by Matthew A Carter

  Once again, Stanley was close to losing consciousness. As he grew weaker, his searching fingers found the drill on the floor. He slowly drew it closer until he got a better grip, then turned it on.

  The drill bit entered Lagrange’s right side, near the liver. Lagrange howled, and instantly let go, jumping up. Stanley jabbed again with the drill, but missed.

  Lagrange stumbled backward, holding his side, and rushed toward the stairs.

  Stanley rose slowly, breathing deeply, and followed the trail of blood on the floor. He took the knife with him.

  Lagrange lay in a pool of blood on the second floor, six feet from the top of the stairs. With one hand, he pressed down on the wound in his stomach, from which blood spurted out, and with the other, he was holding the receiver of the stationary phone that had tumbled from its wall shelf.

  Stanley stood over Lagrange and kicked the receiver to the side.

  “Too late to call for help, old pal.”

  “I hate you,” Lagrange rasped, blood trickling out of his mouth. “I hate you, you Russian bastard.”

  Stanley put his foot on Lagrange’s throat.

  “Au revoir, Lagrange. I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut your fingers off, after all.”

  Stanley shifted all of his weight onto his foot, and Lagrange’s struggles soon ceased.

  Chapter 52

  It was drizzling as the plane touched down in New York, and the faint sounds of thunder were barely audible in the distance. Flights had been delayed due to the fog, and the flight from Havana landed hours later than scheduled, around seven AM.

  Stanley opened his eyes when they came to a complete stop and the passengers were lining up to get off. His knee ached from sitting in the same position for so many hours, but he didn’t rush to get up. He knew what was waiting for him out there; he just didn’t know whether they would arrest him here on the plane or whether they’d let him get further into the airport first.

  Stanley looked through the window. Airport employees in bright-yellow jumpsuits and fur-covered headphones slowly unloaded the luggage from the cargo hold; from this height, they looked like Lego figurines.

  He closed his eyes. He imagined floating slowly along on his back. The water was almost completely calm, the waves of the turquoise Caribbean Sea slowly rocking him back and forth. The rays of the sun gently warmed Stanley’s body, reaching through him to the sandy bottom below. He was floating next to a beautiful, deserted, sandy beach stretching out into the distance. Stanley wondered whether to keep floating, or whether it was time to swim back to shore, bury his arms and legs in the sand, and fall asleep.

  “Stanley McKnight?”

  Stanley jerked. He didn’t want to open his eyes.

  “I’m going to read you your rights,” someone’s grating voice said.

  “Wake up, McKnight!”

  Stanley slowly opened his eyes and looked up, squinting. A thin man of about fifty with nearly clear, fishy eyes stood over him. He was dressed in a black suit, and two more men in similar black suits stood behind him. The thin man stood with his hand at his hip, pushing his jacket back to show his badge and gun.

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I want to become a shell on the bottom of the ocean,” whispered Stanley.

  “Too late for that, buddy,” said the man with a laugh. “I can’t help you there.”

  “Then go ahead: read me my rights.”

  Through the fog he heard, “You have the right to remain silent.” Stanley shut his eyes again, pulled by the intense desire to return to his daydream of the beach.

  “Do you have any questions, McKnight?”

  “No.” Stanley shook his head.

  They handcuffed him and led him off the plane. He limped more than usual from the sharp pain in his knee. On his way out, he caught the frightened expression of the stewardess he’d been flirting with. He winked at her, but she shrank back in fear, as if he were a serial killer. Stanley didn’t care; he didn’t care about anything at all.

  Two hours later, the thin policeman and his partner put Stanley on a plane to Washington, DC. He left that airport in a police car, sirens on and lights flashing. Stanley hadn’t been in Washington since he was a child. He noted their route before he dozed off, and thought they must be heading toward Langley.

  “You look pretty good for a dead man, McKnight.”

  “But I feel like shit.” Stanley sat on a metal chair that was screwed to the floor. Frank Dillon and Marco Monti sat across the table from him.

  “We already said our goodbyes, you know. We thought the Russians must have buried our poor banker somewhere near Monaco.”

  “They tried, Frank. They tried. And thanks for the help there. I sure could count on you, you fuckers.”

  “We’re not magicians.”

  “Oh, that I know.”

  “What did you do in Cuba?” asked Monti.

  “I decided to take a little vacation after my old Russian client put a couple of neat little holes in my kneecaps.”

  “We didn’t agree to that.”

  “Give it up, Monti. Where was I supposed to go? A Crimean health resort? They’re all on your sanctions lists.”

  “You broke our agreement,” said Marco. “All guarantees are now null and void.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “And fuck you, McKnight! We’ll see how fast you can limp away from all your new boyfriends in jail, pretty boy.”

  “I can’t wait. Go ahead and send me there now,” said Stanley, giving him the middle finger.

  “You son of a bitch!” Marco jumped up.

  “Take it easy, boys. Settle down,” said Frank, raising his hands.

  “You know where the most unpleasant people in the world live, Frank?” asked Stanley. “They live in Zurich and eat the worst food in the world. Have you heard of raclette? You think I came back here by accident? I’d rather go to prison here at home than be free in fucking Switzerland.”

  “You’re a good patriot, Stanley,” Frank said. “Now why don’t you tell us everything. We’ll help you.”

  “How?”

  “By saving your ass.”

  “You already helped me once. People died.”

  “Stanley, please accept my sincere condolences. I am truly sorry about your wife. But we need to move forward. We have to nail those Russian bastards. Are you with us?”

  Stanley remained silent, studying the large mirror on the wall. He wondered how many people were watching him behind it. Suddenly, he saw Gagarin’s face before him, dotted with small drops of blood, the basement in Nice; then Shamil appeared, twisting the dial to send another electric shock.

  “McKnight,” Marco asked again quietly, “are you with us?”

  Stanley shook himself.

  “I’d like a drink,” answered Stanley. “I had a bottle of Russian whiskey in my bag. And bring me some cigarettes. And ice, as much ice as you can.”

  “You’re not at a goddamned night club in St. Tropez!” shouted Monti.

  “If you didn’t notice, the Russians did a number on my knees,” Stanley said, putting his feet on the table. “Russian whiskey will help ease the pain. You want to talk—bring me whiskey.”

  “Okay, whatever. Monti, bring him what he asked for.”

  “Anything else, McKnight?”

  “I want a guarantee. New appearance. New life.”

  “You’ll have to remember a whole lot for that, Stanley.”

  “I know enough.”

  “It’s not what you know—it’s who you know.”

  Monti came back five minutes later with cigarettes, the potbellied bottle of Zvenigorod, and an ice bucket. Stanley poured himself a double, took a hefty gulp, and lit a cigarette.

  “You drink like a fish,” Monti said, shaking his head disapprovingly.
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br />   “Let me guess: you’re all about the healthy lifestyle?”

  “Uh-huh. I’m a vegan.”

  Stanley finished his drink and reached for the bottle to pour another.

  “I can’t stand people like you, Monti.”

  “Is that so!”

  “You’re a psychopath. Excuse my directness. Most psychos are obsessed with living a healthy lifestyle.”

  “He’s a clever one, Frank. He knows it all.”

  “Oh, that’s not my own interpretation. Psychologists have written about it. You’re athletic, don’t eat meat, are always choosing the healthiest food. This passion for healthy living comes from your constant fear of death. Something inside you, Monti, is whispering, ‘Don’t let me die, God. Monti hasn’t lived yet.’”

  “Have another drink, McKnight, and maybe you should start thinking about yourself.”

  Stanley paused to light a fresh cigarette, and asked, “Any news on Gagarin?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “No,” Stanley shrugged.

  Frank exchanged a look with Monti, and the younger man dug through the papers in a red folder until he found the newspaper he was looking for. He tossed it on the table.

  Stanley pulled it over and read the headline, “Tragedy on the French Riviera. Russian oligarch Viktor Gagarin drowns while diving from his yacht.” Stanley checked the date; Gagarin had died about a month ago.

  “Is this true? You believe this?” Stanley slapped his hand down on the paper. “That cocksucker probably staged his own death, changed his appearance, and is now hiding away somewhere. Singapore, maybe.”

  “Unlikely.” Frank shook his head. “I think his own people killed him for the missing money. No plastic surgery could keep him hidden from the FSB. “

  “And his wife? Mila?” asked Stanley.

  “Killed herself. Couldn’t stand the grief,” laughed Monti. “The very same day. She hung herself with a shoelace in the bathroom at home.”

  “Well, well,” Stanley sighed. “Money costs the most to women who marry for it.”

  “So, Stanley,” said Frank, “we have a good offer for you.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “You give us all the information you have. Tell us in detail what you saw and heard when you were hiding Russian money—their corrupt schemes, their front men, their offshore structures. The technical details aren’t actually our main focus now, though. We managed to get enough of that through your flash drive. We need information of a more personal nature.”

  “Who’s sleeping with who?”

  “That too. What bad habits do they have? Political views? Do they believe in God and Judgment Day? Any compromising info that you know.”

  “Tempting. And then what? I’m found floating face down in the San Francisco Bay?”

  “We’ll guarantee your safety,” said Frank. “No one will be able to touch you in the States. You’ll spend one month working for us, and then…then we’ll get you plastic surgery to change your appearance, and you’ll live out the rest of your life in whatever section of this great country we choose for you.”

  “As far as the public knows, you’ll disappear,” added Monti. “You’ll become just another banker who died.”

  “It sounds like a way out. What do I have to do?”

  “Nothing much, really. You already know how to talk. You’ll spend your days with our specialists, telling them everything you know. Then—freedom!”

  “Well, not entirely,” Monti clarified grimly. “You’ll be under observation—for you own safety.”

  “Do I have a choice?” asked Stanley.

  Frank shook his head.

  “Okay, let’s say I agree. Why not ask me to testify in court? Aren’t you going to go after the Magnificent Five?”

  Frank laughed.

  “Where did you get the idea that we’re trying to put anyone in trial or send them to prison, Stanley?”

  Stanley ground out his cigarette.

  “You’re collecting compromising information, but you’re not going after anyone?”

  “No.” Frank smiled.

  “So what’s the point of it all?” Stanley tapped his pointer finger on the rim of his empty glass.

  Frank and Monti just went on smiling silently.

  “Of course,” said Stanley. “You don’t want to put the dirty Russians in jail. You want to blackmail them. It’s your best recruitment tool.”

  “He’s quick,” Monti said to Frank, pointing at Stanley. “A clever banker.”

  “You don’t want to stop the Russian mafia. You want to manipulate them and get control over everything.”

  “Mafia? Bite your tongue, Stanley,” said Frank. “‘Mafia’ is a chain of pizzerias in Brooklyn. What they’ve got in Russia and the former Soviet Union states is a system, a well-organized system of theft and money laundering, growing deep into the government like ivy on a tree.”

  “Is it really so bad?” asked Stanley.

  “Do you know the size of the national welfare fund in Norway?” asked Frank.

  “Over a trillion dollars, I read.”

  “Right. The national welfare fund in Russia is a tenth that size, and will soon run out. Now, do you know how much oil the two countries produce?”

  “No.”

  “Russia produces six times more oil. How do you explain that?”

  “Theft.”

  “Absolute and total theft.”

  “But isn’t there theft in other countries? You’re trying to say there’s no corruption in Norway? No one in France steals anything? It’s the same everywhere.”

  “True,” said Frank. “It’s like the old joke: ‘Why did you arrest me? Everyone else is pissing in the pool too!’ People are the same everywhere, but you Russians are the only ones doing it from high up.”

  “Very funny,” Stanley said. “I still don’t understand why you’re focused specifically on Russia.”

  “Politics, Stan, politics,” said Frank. “Carthage must be destroyed.”

  Stanley was quiet for a bit, flipping through the newspaper on the table. There was a photograph of a familiar Russian, a tall blond man, being led out of a police bus in handcuffs.

  “I know him,” Stanley said.

  “That’s the main opposition leader in Russia,” Frank said in surprise. “How do you know him?”

  “We were in a Moscow jail together. Not for long, though.”

  “He’s a brave guy.”

  “Are you helping him?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? You think he doesn’t have any chance of winning?”

  “Of course, he does,” Frank said, raising his hands, palm up. “He’s got a chance, as long as he doesn’t get shot too soon.”

  “A cheerful forecast.”

  “Some more Russian whiskey, McKnight?”

  The black Chevrolet Suburban was heading down a wet highway toward Georgetown Pike. The first snow had fallen, and turned immediately to slushy puddles. Stanley was feverish and had a cough. He’d also quit smoking five days ago, and he was wracked with desire for a cigarette. He looked out the passenger window at the bare trees outside, trying to take his mind off it by counting each tree they passed.

  Frank Dillon was behind the wheel. He was in a good mood; McKnight had finished giving evidence, and all that remained was a couple plastic surgeries to change his appearance.

  “Do you get depressed in the fall, Frank?” asked Stanley, suppressing a yawn.

  “The only thing that depressed me is your sorrowful mug. Smile, my friend! You’ll be a different person soon. You’ll get a chance to start over. Have you picked out a new face?”

  “I didn’t know I had a say in it.”

  “Well, within reason. For example, do you want a bigger nose?”

 
; “No.”

  “You could ask the surgeon to focus on your nose.”

  “I don’t want a bigger nose, Frank.”

  “I just think it would suit you,” said Frank, turning away from the road to give him a wink.

  “No.”

  “I’m sure it wouldn’t bother you.”

  “Fine, I’ll leave it up to the surgeon. Happy?”

  “Good.”

  “Let it be a surprise. I’ll wake up from the anesthesia, walk over to the mirror, and …surprise.”

  Stanley fell silent.

  “Do you have any cigarettes?”

  “Didn’t you quit, Stan?”

  “I did.”

  “So don’t start again.”

  “I want to smoke one last cigarette. If I’m going to be gone soon, if they’re making a new man out of me, I have to mark the occasion with a last drag.”

  “Look in the glove compartment.”

  Stanley dug around a bit until he found a soft pack of Camels, and lit one from the car’s cigarette lighter.

  “Nasty weather.” Stanley exhaled with pleasure.

  “Yes.”

  “Frank, you said you’re going to pick where I’ll be placed?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Could you put me in California?”

  Frank laughed.

  “I’ll see what I can do, McKnight.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And I might be able to get you a job. At a bank.”

  “A bank?” Stanley took one last deep drag and tossed the cigarette out the window. “Fuck banks.”

  About the Author

  Before writing his first novel, Matthew A. Carter worked in the private banking industry in Switzerland and the UK. He also spent seven years in Russia as an investment banker and is fluent in Russian. He was born and grew up in San Francisco and studied economics at University of Southern California. He now lives in Zurich.