“Arkady doesn’t form business relationships with prominent Westerners out of the goodness of his heart. He uses Russian money as a stealth weapon to rot the West from within. You are an ideal target, a saintly liberal activist who harbors a dark secret. Arkady will use you and compromise you at the same time. And once you’ve taken the bait, you will be a wholly owned subsidiary of Kremlin Incorporated. At least in their eyes.”
“Which is why I never do business with Russians. They’re too corrupt, even for me. And far too violent. Mind you, I do business with plenty of gangsters, including the Italians.They’re quite reasonable, actually. They take their cut, I take mine, and everybody lives. But chaps like Boris and Igor are quick to resort to violence if they think they’ve been cheated. Besides,” added Martin, “I was under the impression Arkady took his dirty laundry to RhineBank.”
“He does. But he will soon find himself in need of a new cleaning service.”
“And if he approaches me?”
“You will play very hard to get. But once you agree to take his money, you will violate as many laws as possible, including in Great Britain and the United States.”
“What happens then?”
“Arkady goes down. You, however, will emerge with your glittering reputation intact, just like after the Iran operation.”
“And when Boris and Igor come calling?”
“You’ll have a roof over your head.”
“You?”
“And the Swiss,” said Gabriel.
Martin made a show of thought. “I suppose I have no choice but to say yes.”
Gabriel was silent.
“And who’s going to pay for this democracy project of yours?” asked Martin.
“You are. You’re also going to purchase a painting.”
“How much will it cost me?”
“A fraction of what you paid for that Lucian Freud of yours. What was it? Fifty million?”
“Fifty-six.” Martin hesitated, then asked, “Is that all?”
“No,” said Gabriel. “There’s one more thing.”
28
Talackerstrasse, Zurich
At three fifteen that afternoon, Isabel heard a knock on the door of her windowless office. The tenor and tone suggested it was Lothar Brandt, head washer boy at the Russian Laundromat. Therefore, she allowed an interval of twenty seconds to elapse before inviting him to enter. Lothar closed the door behind him, never a good sign, and placed a stack of documents on Isabel’s desk.
“What have you got for me today?” she asked.
He opened the first document to the final page and pointed to the signature line for the compliance officer, which was flagged with a red tab. As was his custom, he volunteered no information as to the nature of the trade or transaction or the parties involved. Isabel nonetheless signed her name.
They fell into an easy rhythm: place, point, sign.IsabelBrenner . . .To alleviate the tedium, and perhaps to distract Isabel from the fact that she was committing serious infractions of numerous banking regulations, Lothar recounted the details of his weekend. He and a friend—male or female, he did not specify—had spent it hiking in the Bernese Oberland. Isabel murmured something encouraging. Privately, she could think of no worse fate than to be trapped in the Alps alone with Lothar. Like Isabel, Lothar was German. He was not unintelligent, only unimaginative. Isabel had once been forced to sit next to him at a company dinner. It was all she could do not to slash her wrists with the butter knife.
“What about you?” he asked suddenly.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your weekend. Anything special?”
She described a dull two days spent sheltering from the coronavirus. Lothar was apoplectic. He believed the virus to be a hoax fabricated by social democrats and environmentalists to slow global economic growth. Exactly where he had stumbled on this theory was unclear.
When Isabel had finished signing the first batch of documents, Lothar returned with a second, then a third. European markets were closing as she rendered her name for the final time. RhineBank had suffered yet another drubbing, falling by more than two percent. It was no matter, thought Isabel. The bad boys on the derivatives desk in London had probably made a killing betting against the firm’s stock.
