Читать книгу Marilyn Monroe’s Russian Resurrection - Dmitrii Taganov - Страница 4

Levko has chosen Chinese cuisine for lunch with his partner. First dish was to be a swallow's nest, that’s a soup cooked of small fishes caught and brought by swallows to build their nests, glued together with something tasty. Second dish was simpler, the duck a la Peking with bamboo shoots. Levko hired his first private cook in the nineties when he founded his first bank. It was vitally sensible: in those wild years the less the banker showed up in crowded places, the longer he was expected to live. He named his first bank as a born gambler and reckless card player: Bid Credit. This bank, with the doors from a dirty backyard, did not deal in loans, but mostly had laundered criminal money. If Levko ever gave any loans then, that was to the traders who brought to the country second-hand clothes or long overdue sausages and canned food bought cheaply from Europe’s shops. That was quick and profitable turnover for his bank. But the main business of his bank was laundering criminal rubles and moving it abroad turned into hard foreign currency, minus, of course, a fat percent for his bank’s risk and trouble. Also, his bank transferred rubles from its accounts into paper cash keeping no record and trail, if the owners needed it for some shady and murky deals. That was even more illegal. Though, the problems were only with the suitcases to carry to and fro billions of those inflated and weak rubles, called then "wooden".

Levko also stuffed his pockets with easy money when privatization was undertaken by current government. Issued privatization vouchers, a silly idea in the falling apart country, meant to justly divide all of the state’s riches among two hundred million people. But currently those pieces of paper had meant or cost almost nothing in those hungry years and were sold by most people just for dinner. Thus almost all riches of the great country were seized and divided between a hundred fat corrupt cats; two hundred million people got nothing. Levko’s bank very actively bought and sold those notes of country’s potential wealth, getting huge and quite legal profits.

Confused by privatization and shock therapy applied by vigorous but entirely ignorant government, millions of Russians took their scarce “wooden” rubles, fast depreciating with inflation, to newly sprung unknown banks such as Levko’s Bid Credit. Advertizing in the newspapers, Levko boldly promised everyone a hundred percent gain, but by the end of year the ruble lost thousand percent of its value, leaving him profits he could never dream of.

Those were golden years for such operators as Levko, and no wonder it so foolishly ended in ninety eighth with a crash. Country finance could no long endure economy “a la Levko” and had burst as a bubble; vigorous but ignorant “vouchers-managers” drove the country to default. Bid Credit went bankrupt in concert with his country’s government. Levko then reasoned that if even his State does not pay its debts, he won’t do that even more so. His own money was transferred in advance to off-shores, because he felt long before that something wrong was going on: the state government, as a loser gambler in tatters, was borrowing money by growing every week three-digit percentages.

Bid Credit vanished. They simply removed the sign and locked all the doors. But still there were dozens of those who owed money to the bank, and a lot of money. To lose it seemed to Levko ridiculous. Though the debtors were shrewd enough and also hid their money wherever they could, though to sue them in a civilized way and get then just pennies was stupid: those pennies would immediately be claimed by bank’s creditors. So it was the best to go bankrupt and approach the bandits. That’s when the banker Levko met the killer Rebrov.

Levko always lunched at his spacious office, because he did not like being away from his computers even for an hour. Everywhere one could throw a glance, on the tables and on the walls, flickered and silently stirred charts and tables on computer monitors. The world stock exchanges directly reported to Levko the current results of his risky financial speculations. He was an innate gambler. As a youngster he had begun playing cards for living on golden beaches of Sochi. At nights, in stuffy and smoke-filled hotel rooms Levko beat and baffled rich Caucasian food markets traders, winning all they had on them. But never Levko entered numerous casinos, that were opening everywhere with perestroika. He played only those games where chances and luck were on his side, but not obviously on someone else's. Levko was a very clever gambler.

Five minutes to one Levko tore his eyes from the monitors and went to the farther corner of his office where the lunch table was laid by the window, and attentively inspected it. The table was served in Chinese style with the blue elegant porcelain. Levko was an aesthete in everything. At lunch he liked listening to classical music, particularly opera arias, which he adored. Therefore, he swiftly went through the disk collection on the shelf, looking for something Asian, and chose Cio-Cio-San.

Levko was an avid concertgoer and frequenter of opera theatres, at home and abroad. He had many friends behind the stage, and almost all ladies, whom he invited to his two-storey apartment, were of those arty circles. Those nights he sent away his servants, so they wouldn’t babble, because Levko was married. His wife and son lived mostly in London, coming back just for short visits, and that suited Levko fine. The reason was his son’s bad case of mischief. His son, a sixteen-year-old goof, studied at school there, but a year ago he got involved in a bad incident of group rape. All the boys involved were from good rich families, though the girl was from a respectable family too. To hush up this case Levko had to disburse, with pain in his soul, several hundred thousand of British pounds. The case was "amicably" hushed up, but after that incident his wife rented apartment near his son’s school and lived there, keeping an eye on her son

Levko seated his guest facing the window and took place at the opposite side, to watch two large plasma monitors on a wall.

“Well, I don't offer you a ‘martini’, but I will drink one for the appetite,” said Levko fingering a napkin. “Or will you?”

Rebrov shook his head and pursed up his lips; he didn’t drink for several months. Young waitress, with a happy smiling face, brought a bowl and poured soup into cups with porcelain spoons. When she closed the door behind her, Levko said, “Vladimir arrives next Friday.”

Rebrov tore off his eyes from the window where he watched the crows sitting on a poplar tree and looked at Levko. "That's it,” he thought, “So it’s real."

“Are you ready?” Levko asked, and Rebrov just nodded. “Did you warn your men?”

“Not yet, too early.”

Both fell silent taken up by their soup. Rebrov tasted some, and then just stirred the soup with the spoon, driving swallow’s little fishes around the cup. Levko ate with healthy appetite, considering his next important and touchy question.

“What on earth happened to that poet Sergey?” He asked very lightly.

“Suicide, they say. Hung.” Rebrov shrugged his shoulder.

“Why? Such a capable twin!”

Levko contemplated Rebrov's face with sharp eyes of a gambler: any muscle of his face could give him out. Levko had met that Sergey just once, and he went to see him out of curiosity, as a freak of nature, and was amazed by his resemblance to the great poet. Levko didn’t care at all about that strange out-of-date twin, and whether he already met with his great prototype. What he worried about now was a possible double game being played behind his back. Didn’t Rebrov himself put Sergey’s head into the noose?

Rebrov didn’t answer the question considering it rhetorical. He caught with his spoon a little fish and asked, “How do the swallows catch them, as they can’t swim?

“They are Chinese,” Levko said, engaged with his soup. Listening to quiet aria of unhappy Cio-Cio-San he continued to think of nuisances. He never trusted anybody in his affairs, and the leftist politician Fomin, he recently met, could be trusted even less. One could expect anything from such a determined Communist. Their great purposes, as it well known, justify any means. That’s what he told Levko, though what means were appropriate for him any current minute one could only guess. More so, because of their ideology the banker Levko should have been their worst enemy.

Levko had fed already millions of dollars to this leftist party, but they asked more and more, and he with no debate donated more off his thin, almost ruined bank balance. But it shouldn’t have to go this way much longer. His investments should return soon with a thousand-fold gain, just in one week, at longest one and a half. Although, there was no hanged poet in their scenario! Why is this mess?

Suddenly the charts on TV screens on the opposite wall sharply stirred, and Levko jerked his head up and fixed his cold eyes on them. In the morning Levko entered into a pair of not very big deals in the currency markets; first one, with an expectation of the growth of the dollar against the euro in London Stock Exchange, and the second, of the fall of the dollar against the Russian ruble in Moscow Exchange. All the morning before lunch current prices for both deals looked like curved saws on the charts, though both were heading to the monitor corners where Levko wanted them to go. Thus, a steep hill was formed on a London chart, and an abrupt slope on Moscow one. But suddenly latest teeth of both chart saws crumpled and abruptly jumped: London, up, and Moscow, down.

“Excuse me,” said Levko and almost leaped to his computer. All was ready there for his final touch; he just twice clicked with the mouse button, and both his deals were closed, and very successfully closed. With his two fingers he earned these morning twenty thousand dollars, just a trifling in his situation, but very pleasant and encouraging, and it will warm him from inside till the end of a day. Levko returned to the lunch table in a very high spirits.

Pekinese duck was served, and when waiter girl closed the door Rebrov asked, “So what’s happened to our money, Leonid? How are things?” By Levko’s carefree grin, familiar to Rebrov for twelve years, he guessed that it was too bad.

“So-so. But one bank promised me to help with credit. Don’t you worry; we’ll break through as usual. Don’t worry.”

“Very bad, and I am sick of it already. It’s so shaky, Leo.”

“In two weeks you will be billionaire. It suits you?”

“I doubt it.”

“Ivan, I just ask you to be honest with me. You know where we’re heading, and we should stick together as one fist. And please, don’t you trust this Communist maniac.”

“Did he find a madman for this job?”

“I don't know and I don't want to know. That homicidal part is strictly your business, and don’t you ever talk with me about it.”

“Since when did you turn into such a saint?”

“Long enough, and please never even mention these things to me.”

“OK, Leo, and don’t you worry too. They say he hired some private detective. I guess for this job.”

“Did you see him?”

“Not yet. Perhaps, I’ll see him tomorrow at the funeral.”

“Probe him, talk to him, we don’t want this sniffer dog spoil us everything.”

They ate the duck in silence. Rebrov just pecked his plate with the spoon.

“Why don’t you eat? Does it hurt?” Levko asked going on with his duck, not even looking up.

“No appetite.”

“What does the doctor say?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you really question him?”

“When I die? Not yet.”

Levko knew better than his partner when he will certainly die, because he consulted this matter with a renowned doctor. With the symptoms of the cirrhosis of the liver that Rebrov told him once, with the bleedings from the bowel veins, he was already on the last stage of the decease and could live no longer than half a year, but perhaps even less. When Levko was told about it he wasn’t much distressed. He wasn’t glad too, because he considered himself a decent man, but certainly he was not distressed. Levko was afraid of Rebrov for a very long time. He often had nightmares with this man doing something cruel to him. He even called him in his mind nelud, werewolf in Russian, or devil. Twelve years ago, as it was apparent now, he underestimated Rebrov. He thought then that he could easily get along with this illiterate village lad, or bend him down, or at least do away with him any time he wanted to. Levko was wrong. This youngster happened to be much cooler than anyone he ever met before, and very clever. Since then Levko never felt himself a total boss in his bank. The only argument his new partner and security chief ever proposed for all business conflicts was death. In fact, that was quite a common argument in the business circles during those wild ninetieth years.

Rebrov didn't stay for a dessert, and Levko didn't implore him to. The moment he left Levko rushed to his computers and peered into figures appeared there during his absence. Today these figures, or maybe the stars in the sky, were favorable to him. With the eyes on the screens he familiarly groped for a long brass chain with the key of his Porsche, and whirled it around his finger. This cheap brass chain was very special for Levko, because it was bringing him luck. He noticed it twenty years ago when he was a black market money changer on the street. That’s when he bought his first car, secondhand Lada, and since then, standing in the street, waiting for customers, he whirled this brass chain with a car-key around his finger. Car-key was visible sign of his rising status, and a long brass chain was a clear warning to anybody who would approach him with malicious intentions. Many thugs and trumps had such intentions on that street.

Keeping his eyes glued to the figures, Levko quickly and cheerfully twirled the brass chain with a Porsche key in front of the computer screens.