It was five minutes before a short, overweight man in glasses entered. He was finely dressed in a pin-striped suit that desperately tried, but failed, to camouflage his waistline.
“Miss Bernstein,” he said to Rebecca. “How nice to see you again.”
Rebecca had seen him once before, just over three months ago when the account was set up for operational funds. It seemed a lifetime ago, but the overweight guy seemed to recognize her. Or at least pretended to recognize her. She shook his hand; it was soft, warm, and slightly moist.
“Nice to see you again too.”
Joel Malliat sat down in the huge red leather chair. He looked ridiculous-dwarfed by its size. Rebecca pretended not to notice just as she had during their first meeting, and she wondered how many other clients did the same.
Rebecca unbuttoned her coat and took it off, placing it over the chair slowly so that Malliat had time to study her from the front and side. She wore a tan sweater that was one size too small and clung to her like a second skin. Underneath she was wearing a padded push-up bra that made her breasts seem several cups bigger. The effect of the tight sweater sprayed to her breasts had shocked her when she’d first seen it. She hoped Malliat was similarly affected.
It may still have been a man’s world, but Rebecca knew women still had a big advantage over the opposite sex. Get some blood moving south and there was less inside their brains to think with.
They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, Malliat ticking all the boxes on the charming-but-trustworthy banker checklist. Rebecca didn’t try to interrupt the charade and allowed Malliat to come to the purpose of the visit in his own time.
“I’m sure you’re a busy woman Miss Bernstein,” Malliat said. “So how is it that I can assist you today?”
“I have a small problem with some transactions, which I’m hoping you can help me with.”
Malliat looked alarmed. “A transaction problem?”
“Nothing that the bank has done. You see, embarrassingly, I seem to have lost one of my client’s details. One of my former employees was, well, incompetent, and I believe she accidentally deleted some files from our system that we’ve been unable to recover.”
“Most unfortunate.”
“Therefore,” she continued, “I’ve been put in a very difficult position. I can no longer contact my client-a very important client. All I have is their account number from the funds put into my own account.”
“I see,” Malliat said, understanding.
“So, Mr. Malliat. Joel. I would be eternally grateful if you could give me the contact details of that account number.”
“Miss Bernstein, I’m very sorry, but that information is confidential, and I would go against my banking ethics to tell you.”
“I understand your position, but I’m not asking you for information that I didn’t already have. Up until a few days ago that information was on my system. You would just be telling me what I already knew.”
Malliat smiled sympathetically. “That’s beside the point. I’m simply not allowed to tell you. I suggest you hire some computer specialist to retrieve the deleted files.”
“I have already, but they were unsuccessful.”
“I’m sure your client will contact you eventually.”
“I expect like many of your banks customers, I do not run the kind of business where there is much communication between company and client.”
She added enough emphasis to the key words that the subtext was obvious.
“I don’t know what to say to that,” Malliat said.
“Say you’ll help me. It is imperative that I get hold of my client immediately.”
“I’m very sorry, but I just can’t do what you’re asking.”
The subtle approach had failed. Time for plan B. She stood up angrily and walked to the window, giving Malliat a good view of her ass, legs, and three-inch heels that were killing her feet. She turned around after he’d had a chance to stare. She noticed his eyes had to move up to meet hers.
“This is outrageous,” she said, hands on hips. “I’m an account holder here, and I demand to know who has put hundreds of thousands of dollars into my account. If you don’t extend me this simple courtesy I will have no choice but to close my account and take my business to one of your competitors.”
She saw Malliat make a quick calculation in his head. Rebecca already knew the figure. Almost two million dollars had been paid into the account in less than three months. At that rate, over a year, it would be nearly eight million dollars. Too much money to lose interest on for something as minor as a name and address.
Malliat sighed and nodded after a minute. “Okay,” he began. “I’ll help you, but I won’t give you what you want to know.”
“Then you’re not helping and I won’t be using your services anymore. I’d like to withdraw all my funds immediately. In one hundred euro bills.”
“Wait,” Malliat said quickly. “What if I give you information on the accountant who made the payments on behalf of the account holder. Will that do?”
Rebecca resisted smiling. It was as much as she’d hoped for.
“I guess it will have to.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
St. Petersburg, Russia
Saturday
16:58 MSK
They’d taken the Siberian’s car. Victor rode in the back, sat directly behind the passenger seat so he could watch the driver. The car was a black eighties BMW with all the trimmings. The interior stank of stale smoke, and the upholstery was dark and stained.
Victor had locked the Russian with the broken ribs in a back room at the bar, telling the bartender to let him go after an hour. If he released him before then Victor would come back to castrate him. Victor could tell by the wet patch on the guy’s jeans that he’d been believed.
They drove in silence, the Siberian’s eyes fixed on the road, taking Victor through parts of the city he didn’t recognize: Anonymous factories lined the streets, dead areas of wasteland stretched between, and in the distance steam rose from tall towers and mixed with clouds.
After thirty minutes the car slowed. Derelict warehouses, empty for years and left to rot lined both sides of the street. The road was uneven, potholed, curbs full of litter and black water. Victor’s eyes met the Siberian’s in the rearview.
“We’re here.”
Up ahead a chain-link fence and gate bisected the road. A tall man in an astrakhan fur hat stood in front of the gate smoking a cigarette. Behind him, through the fence, Victor could see long low buildings, dark with pollution.
The Siberian brought the car to a stop five yards in front of the gate and lowered the driver’s window. The tall man threw his cigarette away and walked over to the car. He leaned down and peered in, whistled when he saw the Siberian’s smashed face.
“Holy shit, Sergei,” he said. “Another jealous husband with a crowbar?” He was about to laugh when he noticed Victor in the back. “Who the fuck is this?”
Victor spoke before the Siberian could answer. “Just tell Norimov that Vasily is here to see him.”
Beneath the astrakhan the tall man’s face creased in thought. He stepped back from the car and took out a cell phone that would have embarrassed any Western teenager. He turned his back on the car while he spoke. After a ten-second conversation he put the phone away. When he looked back at Victor there was fear in his eyes.
“Go on.”
He pulled open the gate and the Siberian drove through onto a wide expanse of uneven blacktop with puddles of dirty water mixed with oil. The stars were lost in the dark clouds above.