Thirteen of the fourteen bankers who had been in Saint Petersburg a month before were waiting for him in the conference room. Only the banker from England was absent. Vashin stood at the head of the table and motioned Geraldine to the podium at the other end. He spoke in Russian and thanked them for coming as Geraldine translated. He liked the way her voice was an echo of his. Then, as planned, he sat down and let her continue.
“Mr. Vashin,” she said, speaking in English, “is very pleased that you have decided to join him in this new venture. As you know, it is Mr. Vashin’s intention to establish Moscow as one of the world’s leading financial centers.” She moved gracefully to the computer-generated displays on the back wall and used a sequence of charts and diagrams to outline Vashin’s plans. Vashin concentrated on the bankers’ reaction, trusting his instincts more than logic to interpret for him. It was Geraldine who was convincing them, not his grand plan.
She came to the heart of the meeting. “Critical to Mr. Vashin’s goal is a strong banking system in Russia mat has links to the world’s international trade centers. By being essential components of such a system, your banks will—”
The banker from Chicago interrupted her. “We know why we’re here. We need to know how Mr. Vashin intends to prime the system. Banks don’t exist on promises or hot air. We need cash reserves, under our control, to underwrite our business.”
“Sufficient funds will be deposited in your Moscow branch to create the reserves you require.”
Now it was the Swiss banker’s turn. “Our governments require us to identity the source of large deposits.” Vashin was up against the basic problem faced by all criminal organizations — how to legitimize illegally obtained money. The reserves and money priming the system had to be clean or the banks would lose their charters.
“Not to worry,” Geraldine replied. “The funds will come to you by electronic transfer from recognized and long-established Russian banks.”
“And these banks will certify the money is legitimate?”
“Of course,” Geraldine replied.
“We can accept those transfers,” the Swiss banker said, “if the funds were originally sourced in a bank recognized by the European Union or the U.S. Federal Reserve system. However, if the funds are sourced in Russia, my charter requires the actual transfer of cash, securities, or gold, to our control.” The other bankers confirmed they had to live with the same constraints.
Geraldine’s voice was matter-of-fact as she explained the problem to Vashin in Russian. “We’ve got to put up the actual money before they will sign on.”
“How much?” Vashin asked.
Geraldine asked the question of the bankers and added up their responses. Her face paled at the total figure. Afraid to tell Vashin, she started to bargain and finally got the initial funding down to two billion dollars each. She relayed the number to Vashin and he jerked his head yes.
“When can we expect it?” the Japanese banker asked in Russian.
Vashin thought for a few moments. He had the funds, in one form or another. But most of it was scattered around the world and had to be physically transferred into the Russian banks he controlled to start the laundering process. “Soon,” he told the bankers. “Before Christmas.”
The meeting over, Geraldine led the men into the dining room for a sumptuous luncheon. Vashin was struck by how easily she switched roles from an accomplished negotiator to a regal hostess. She was a consort worthy of an emperor.
Turner huddled with her speech writers and Richard Parrish in her study. The two men and one woman who wrote her speeches were, without doubt, the most eclectic group on the presidential staff and could rise to any occasion, swamping her with a torrent of appropriate remarks for the audience. They had to be since Turner made about 300 speeches a year, ranging from causal remarks on the White House lawn to ceremonial addresses to the nation. But not only did they play with the power of the spoken word, they carefully crafted how and where she said it.
“Madame President,” the woman said, “we may be wasting the issue on the National Guard Association. They’re so glad you’re speaking, it doesn’t matter what you say.”
“We’re floating a trial balloon,” Parrish said. “Their response will be critical.”
“Avoid any mention of women in the military and it’ll play like apple pie and motherhood in Iowa,” one of the men said.
“Okay,” Parrish said, “we’re agreed. Let’s look at what’s on the schedule for next week.” They quickly went over the upcoming events and which writer was responsible for what speech.
Dennis stuck his head through the door. “It’s time, Madame President.”
“Thank you, Dennis.” She rose and the speech writers vacated the room as another assistant brought in her coat and gloves.
Because her speech to the National Guard Association was an announced public visit fourteen cars were waiting for her on West Executive Avenue. Her limousine was sandwiched between seven security vehicles for the short drive to the Watergate complex, less than a mile away. The other six cars held her traveling staff. It bothered Turner that the elaborate security conditions placed her in a state of almost total isolation. She had never forgotten Maura’s initial reaction and her simple comment “This turns people off.”
She raised the problem once with the head of the Secret Service. He replied they had only received four threats against her life that week, an all-time low. She didn’t ask what the all-time high was and that ended the matter.
As usual, a bank of TV cameras and reporters waited for her arrival. Again, the Secret Service scanned the crowd with hard looks, always hypervigilant. Patrick Flannery Shaw waited with the reception committee, a worried look on his face. The TV cameras recorded him speaking to her, although no one could hear his actual words. Turner paused and looked at him. He said something else and she gave him a little, but very obvious push, pointing him down the hall. She sighed and shook her head with the look a mother has for her errant children. Her worried hosts ushered her into the reception area.
The small auditorium was still ringing with applause when Turner left the stage and said good-bye to her hosts. Parrish followed her. “Your remarks about establishing an independent commission to evaluate combat readiness touched a nerve. I’ve briefed Joe how to respond to questions.” Parrish led her down a side hall and to a back elevator. Free of the press, they entered a back door into the offices of Stammerville and Holt, Media Consultants. Patrick Shaw grinned when he saw her come in.
“Well, Mizz President,” he drawled, “we sprinkled some dust on the waters.” He introduced her to the two men who would mastermind her campaign. For the next forty minutes, they outlined the realities of what it would take to elect her and a strategy to capture key states. An assistant came in with a videotape recorded from the CNN, Fox, and CNC-TV news channels. It was the first reaction to her speech. But the coverage centered mainly on the incident in the hall and not what she had said.
Shaw roared with approval when Liz Gordon from CNC-TV ended her coverage with “We don’t know what the president said to her old friend and advisor, Patrick Shaw. But it does appear he is in the presidential doghouse. A knowledgeable insider told this reporter that she is rejecting his advice to run for the presidency in her own right.”
“Who’s the knowledgeable insider?” Parrish asked.