For the next couple of days I am busy working on the presentation for compliance. The main point of my case is there is no other inflation-tracking market instrument in Russia than the economic school’s index. It is the only suitable instrument for the State Pension Fund in the environment of the approaching debt crisis.
The Russian Economic School’s website does not have much detail about their own index, but luckily the Standard and Poor’s portal has a list of its weights, such as S&P futures, gold and the index description, that Valeria, Bruno and compliance are going to love.
Bad data? Scrap it.
A few nice-looking graphs make my presentation almost impossible to reject. I am not that hopeless after all.
If she’s honest, she’ll steal; if she’s human, she’ll murder; if she’s faithful, she’ll deceive.
‘Under the terms of the transaction the customer will be locked into a four-year trade and, if or when the market goes against him, he’ll be charged an unwind cost of four per cent per annum to get out of the trade.’ I explain the business case at a high-profile conference call with the boring ‘pains in the neck’ in London compliance.
‘It’s a new unique offering in challenging market conditions with multimillion-dollar revenue potential and zero market risk,’ Bruno skillfully sums up and eventually a solid voice on the phone says, ‘Approved’.
As soon as Valeria hears this, she immediately grabs her phone and makes a call, whilst frantically placing multiples of bids and offers on the market, cold-bloodedly instructing brokers on the execution and shouting ‘done’ left, right and center.
I silently sit at my desk, watching the Russian credit market collapsing below 1998 default levels … at every point of the graph’s fall, feeling an upsurge in my anxiety levels … almost to the point of suffocation. “The greatest wealth is made when a country is collapsing or building up” … But what empire is collapsing? Who is making the wealth?
It stops when Valeria hangs up the phone. A few moments later the graph stops falling and even re-bounces a bit, making me feel slightly better. Shortly afterwards the already familiar tall, friendly waiter from Papillon brings a couple of magnums of Cristal and a big box of oysters.
‘You deserved it,’ Valeria winks at me, raising her glass from her desk, and the next second the waiter brings me a glass of champagne and a plate of oysters.
What did I deserve …?
As I am downing my second glass, an email from Bruno arrives, expressing his deepest congratulations to the Russian team: “Special thanks to Ekaterina Kuznetsova for her professional and timely effort.” It should fill me with pride, but instead it fills me with inexplicable numbness. Sergey’s resentful grin only adds to the feeling. My colleagues damn me with faint praises, but really … they are all lazy mediocrities.
I did a great job and it has just been proven to everyone that I am special! I worked very hard for this. I should celebrate … cut loose … The fancy gym downstairs is the place to try Richard’s pick-up tactics and finally get a hot guy into my luxury bed.
If the spirit has passed through a great many sensations, possibly it can no longer be sated with them, but grows more excited, and demands more sensations, and stronger and stronger ones, until at length it falls exhausted …
The next morning the suited and booted bosses from London conspicuously walk around the office, exacerbating the stressful atmosphere, as well as my severe hangover. Even when they sit down behind their laptops or in the boardroom they still radiate authority, prompting people to stay at their desks and look very busy.
The punching bag is moved aside and the golf holes are covered with a grey carpet, so it is impossible to tell how frequently they are used.
Everyone is smartly dressed. Even Olga looks decent today with a neat ponytail, much less screaming makeup and a knee-length black cocktail dress, very similar to mine.
‘I like your lipstick. It makes your lips look very elegant … not too big,’ I blabber, making a clumsy attempt at a compliment.
‘Sweetie, lips cannot be too big,’ she plunges, putting on an alluring smile for Bruno, who is approaching our desks accompanied by other important males.
‘Here is our new superstar,’ Bruno exclaims, giving me a big show-off hug and introducing me to the heads of various departments of the bank, who compliment me on my ‘good job’. Sergey shines with his bald patch at the back of the crowd, proudly carrying their briefcases.
‘Katya, we like to reduce Lehman bonds and shares position,’ he says with a strong Russian accent and an annoying, bossy attitude. ‘It should be easy for you to repeat your success and help to sell it to your clients,’ he says, currying favor in front of the bosses.
‘If this is the management decision, then of course.’ I say, smiling at Bruno, thinking one has to be a complete idiot to touch anything to do with Lehman.
‘It would be great if you could use your client relationships to help us with clearing our books,’ Bruno explains.
‘I’ll try,’ I say, smiling professionally and already regretting my time.
‘Gut,’ Bruno says. ‘You’ll have a great opportunity to pitch it directly to the clients on the terrace in a couple of hours.’ He winks and gives me a friendly tap on the shoulder.
When they move to Valeria’s desk, I hear Sergey demonstratively shouting from his desk in English: ‘It is a Chuck Norris bond! Lehman is a sure thing!’.
Disgusted by his swagger, I decide to take another route and prepare a professional offer for the clients, without having to humiliate myself calling about this worthless crap.
By the time I finish my presentation and click ‘send’ it is already 5 p.m. – time for the drinks to start.
Holding my head high, I walk out onto the broad terrace, taking in the fresh smell of the lemon sunset, with its reflection dancing and weeping in the peaceful Moskva River behind the Christ the Savior Cathedral, a monumental white stone edifice with giant golden domes.
A glass of cold, refreshing champagne from a courteous waiter elevates my mood. After all, this is one of the most impeccable views in the world - and one of the most exclusive crowds.
I strut towards a small group where Dima is in the middle, drunkenly swaying on his feet. His melancholic face is now showing some emotion as he throws dice in front of the wannabe juniors from the back office:
‘They smeared honey on all her holes and let big red angry ants swarm to sting it,’ he says excitedly. ‘You should have seen the bitch crinkle, so funny. They took them out with a stream of water but, man, I’m telling you, that was the tightest pussy I’ve ever fucked.’
Shocked by what I’ve just heard, I step aside with my on-call smile on and bump into Bruno, on his way onto the terrace.
‘So how are you settling in?’ he asks, inviting me to join the group of already-familiar London faces at the far end of the veranda, facing the Kremlin’s cardinal towers from the heights of the Swiss Bank premises. Even Red Square’s signature landmark - St Basil’s Cathedral - looks like a miniature Disneyland castle from here.
‘You did a fantastic job. We are very impressed,’ says a tall, thin, grey-haired boss with an American accent. ‘Keep pushing!’
‘I will,’ I say eagerly.
So how are you finding it in Moscow after London?’ he asks.
‘It’s niiiice,’ I say with Borat’s comedy pronunciation, which usually makes Americans laugh … and that is exactly what happens.
Soon the first customers arrive and, under the approving gazes of top management, I quickly put an irresistible smile on and jump to introduce myself as their new manager, who can work miracles to protect their assets from losses on the verge of the market collapse.
Before long, a bunch of not-so-good-looking men in tailored suits are flocking around my charming self. Most of them are short, bald, and have bellies. Richard is Apollo compared to them … but they definitely do not go on vacation in their parents’ van.
‘We’ll show those bloody Georgians how to mess with us Russians, right Katya?’ roars a paunchy, sour-smelling head of treasurn from some oil compans, all the while chewing on a fatty piece of lamb.
‘Actually, I’m Ukrainian,’ I say shyly.
‘Same here!’ he exclaims. ‘You are ours!’ he says, grabbing me by my waist.
Soon enough I excuse myself and leave the terrace, walking toward the ladies’ room.
The small loo with two cubicles is filled with an acidic lavender smell and Olga’s whining. ‘It’s just not working with him … For every little thing, a car or a fur coat, anything I ask for, his only answer is “come and do me”. He even says I should be grateful to him every day that I have this job at the bank … You’re absolutely right, he is taking me for granted. If I just calculated how much I blew him for and how much it would have cost him in the club, he would shut up.’ As I am washing my hands, she gets out of the cubicle, leaning on its door.
‘What are you looking at?’ Olga yells, sneezing into the toilet paper.
‘Nothing.’ I quickly close the tap and leave the bathroom.
Shaking my hands dry in the fresh air, I bump into Sergey. ‘Having a nice evening?’ he asks with a ratty smile.
‘It’s all right.’ I am trying to sound cool. ‘The view is fantastic. Christ the Savior looks so beautiful from here,’ I say, diverting the conversation into more neutral territory.
‘Clients seem to like you a lot. You’re a beautiful girl.’ The compliment comes unexpectedly but I sense some kind of dodge. ‘If I was a beautiful girl in Moscow I wouldn’t be working at all,’ he says, taking a new glass of some brownish beverage from the tray of a passing waiter.
‘I’m not entirely sure what you mean.’ I throw him the perfect phrase that Sophie would use.
‘Of course you know,’ he says, taking a long sip of whiskey or whatever he is drinking. ‘What’s the real reason you’re here?’ he asks in a snippy tone. ‘Money? Marriage? Do you think you can just come here, smile, charm everyone around and get them trading with you?’ he almost yells at me.
‘I don’t …’ I am trying to defend myself, not really knowing what to say.
‘What don’t you, what don’t you?’ He interrogates me just like my mom used to, making me want to cry and run away, but there is only a wall behind me.
‘Get your own clients. These are mine! Remember that.’ His lips are close to my face when he speaks, and I detect the smell of something rotten from his mouth behind his perfectly bleached teeth.
‘These are the bank’s clients,’ I bark back. ‘Bruno couldn’t care less who they deal with … you or me.’ Even as I defend myself, I already regret what I’m saying.
‘Do you know how much time and effort it took to build those relationships?’ he attacks. ‘The due diligence it took to pass their Cyprus companies with multiple shareholders and anonymous Swiss accounts, arrange the kickbacks?’ He continues pushing me deeper into the dark corner. ‘You need to get your hands dirty, and you need it do it in such a way that the head office won’t ask too many questions,’ he hisses like a snake.
I desperately keep leaning backwards with my arms crossed, barely holding back my tears … until I suddenly sense a large figure on my left, someone who smells incredibly good.
‘You should not talk to a lady like this,’ says a tall, broad-shouldered stranger, with a distinguished lined forehead and clear blue eyes. He speaks in an authoritarian baritone and wears a fine, perfectly-fitted dark blue suit without a hint of bad taste. I remember seeing him earlier, talking to one of the bosses, and remember thinking ‘this man is from a different world … unreachable for me’.
‘Oh, I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to,’ Sergey mumbles.
‘You should apologize to her,’ my high-profile savior orders in a low voice. His entire body breathes strength. He has strong and muscular shoulders, big arms, a pumped chest and thick blond curly hair, like a healthy young god.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sergey immediately apologizes to me, succumbing to authority. ‘Akbar Nikolaevich, this isn’t what you think it is,’ he mutters. ‘I’m Sergey Sviryakov, head of sales.’ He hands over his card with an air of great courtesy. ‘It’s really nice meeting you personally. I speak a lot to your treasurer at KazyMak Metallurg,’ he says, offering a handshake.
‘I’ll make sure he no longer speaks to you personally, Sergey Sviryakov,’ my debonair advocate self-assuredly says, ignoring the handshake, and moves towards the exit.
‘But let me explain …’ Sergey follows his massive back.
‘All my companies have a clear shareholder structure,’ Akbar interrupts in his booming voice. ‘I do not possess any anonymous accounts and neither my employees nor myself are interested in bribes or kickbacks,’ he says in a calm, low, metallic voice. ‘From what I heard, I must conclude that my holding does not qualify for your services. Goodbye,’ he says, and heads towards the exit.
Panicking, Sergey rushes after Akbar, trying to grab his hand, but a tough, oriental-looking bodyguard with a headphone on a spiral wire blocks his way with one strong arm, revealing the gun on the inner side of his black leather jacket. Sergey powerlessly steps back, watching them leave the terrace and gazing at me with rage.
For a moment I stay still with my heart pumping out of my chest, trying to digest what has just happened.
A strong impulse, a fear, overtakes me, as I watch Sergey furiously walking towards me … as if he is going to hurt me … I must do something. The management is way behind the bar … too far. Sergey would cut me off on the way there anyway.
Swiftly, I rush to the elevators, passing through a forest of flabbergasted faces, leaving Sergey behind.
For goodness’ sake, Akbar Gromov is one of the richest and most powerful men in the world. He could bring my career to a completely new level. I cannot blow this chance … my stomach is churning.
Akbar and the bodyguard are still waiting by the lifts.
I tell my nervousness to shut up and gather all my courage to talk to this powerful man.
‘Thank you for standing up for me,’ I say gratefully, forcing myself to look Akbar in the eye, clenching my fingers with nails pressed deep into my skin to stay focused.
For a moment, which feels like ages, he looks at me before saying: ‘You should watch out. The jackal will stab your back when you least expect it, so to speak,’ he says, stepping into the elevator, making me realize I have lost.
My limbs are trembling. My last chance is slipping through my fingers. I have to say something.
‘And now he is even hungrier!’ I shout the first thing that comes to mind. The doors are closing, together with my hopes for a long career at this bank. Sergey will eat me alive now …
Suddenly, the doors slide open. Akbar takes a serious look at me. ‘Get in,’ he commands.