Mark Blair - Stroika

‘How can I help you?’ he had asked, distracted. A clerk had entered without knocking and placed a form in front of him to sign.

‘I want to open a foreign currency account, US dollars… to pay suppliers,’ Misha had continued when the clerk had left. He chose to omit the bit about siphoning money off to a Swiss account.

Vasiliev had simply stared at him.

‘You’ll need Central Bank permission… three to four months, if you are lucky.’

That was when he had suggested dinner.

Misha made it to the restaurant earlier than planned. He took the Zhiguli and parked it on the embankment. As he stepped out of the car a sudden gust of Arctic wind forced him to take a step back. He grabbed the iron balustrade and looked down onto the canal. He shivered. Ice stretched in every direction, a silver filigree knitting snow-covered island to snow-covered island. A man wrapped up in a wool blanket, standing next to a bucket, stood over a hole cut in the ice holding a fishing rod in one hand and a lantern in the other. He wondered if he’d had any luck.

Canali made Misha feel he was back in Milan. Konstantin had done a good job, no doubt with input from Viktoriya. An open, custom-built, stainless steel kitchen gave on to a limestone floor dining area, where low lighting illuminated exposed brick and discretely placed tables.

At the bar, two women sipped champagne while balanced on elegant cream leather stools. The blonde caught Misha’s eye as he stepped down into the restaurant from the entrance. No doubt the Angels he had ordered, he thought. She introduced her raven-haired friend as Sveta and herself as Dasha. Misha guessed them both around twenty. They were certainly dressed for the part. Dasha wore a short black tube dress and Sveta a diaphanous gold-coloured loose blouse over leggings. Misha took two envelopes from his inside jacket pocket and gave one to each.

No sooner had he finished explaining that he and, by implication, they were entertaining a business associate did the door open and Vasiliev appear. Gone was the ill-fitting crumpled suit Misha had seen in the bank. Grigory wore an expensive-looking three-piece under a half-open navy wool coat. A man of many parts, thought Misha. Grigory looked over to the bar, caught sight of Misha chatting to the two girls, and raised his hand in acknowledgement.

Vasiliev took an instant liking to the blonde Dasha. The girls turned out to be well educated and from cities east of Moscow; occasional escort work at university had gravitated to full-time after they had moved to Leningrad. They could earn more in one night than they could in a month in some boring and grim state factory or office job. The punters, they said, generally had more going for them than the loser boyfriends they had knocked around with in the past.

Outside, an old lady carrying an almost empty string shopping bag caught Misha’s eye as she walked, stooping, past the side window of the restaurant. When he returned his attention to the group, he found Sveta studying him.

‘I don’t want to end up like her,’ she said seriously.

‘Well that makes two of us… Come on, let’s eat.’

The maître d’ led them to their table. Misha had asked for a private corner. As it turned out, it was a quiet night. Dasha sat opposite Vasiliev – who insisted on being called Grigory – and Misha, Sveta, whose long legs stretched under the table, occasionally brushing his.

They ordered food and a good bottle of Georgian wine. Dasha rarely broke eye contact with Grigory, constantly running her jewelled fingers through her long hair, flirting outrageously. Grigory was clearly enjoying himself. Why wouldn’t he! Misha thought. Sveta sat quietly taking it all in.

‘So tell us more about your business,’ said Grigory, turning to his host.

‘Import, about to move bigger into export… fashion, perfume, computers, you name it.’

‘You have a tie-up with Leningrad Freight, I understand.’

‘Yes, you are well informed.’ He wondered how well informed. Did he know he was also bringing in merchandise across the border at Smolensk to avoid the prying eyes of the military customs in Leningrad?

Misha felt the tip of Sveta’s high heel rub against his leg. She looked at him across the table in a steady gaze and smiled. It was hard not to be aroused. She was striking, now he looked at her again, with thick, straight shoulder-length hair, high Slavic cheekbones and wide, dark oval eyes that sparkled in the subdued restaurant lighting.

It was after coffee that Misha asked the two girls if they could wait at the bar while he talked to Grigory privately.

‘Pretty girls, Grigory.’

The banker added his confirmation. ‘Will they be staying?’ he asked, clearly afraid Dasha might leave.

‘That depends,’ said Misha. ‘What will it take to open that foreign currency account within the next two weeks?’

‘Two thousand US dollars.’

Nothing came cheap, thought Misha. ‘How about one thousand dollars and Dasha stays?’ he countered.

Grigory considered the proposal.

‘I’m interested in long-term business relationships,’ said Grigory. ‘I appreciate this might not be the case with Dasha.’

Misha watched Grigory take a sip of brandy and replace his glass slowly on the table.

‘Can I ask you what you want to use this account for?’

Misha considered giving him a flat no , but the banker would have access to his account anyway. He’d see what he was doing, or at least guess.

‘A number of reasons: firstly, paying overseas suppliers – the business is getting too big now to be making payment via suitcases; secondly, the rouble is headed in only one direction as far as I can see… who wants to be holding a currency worth less and less every day; thirdly, moving money to safer jurisdictions; and finally, receiving hard currency payment for exports.’

‘Exports?’

‘Hard currency assets: timber, fuel, nickel… oil. So I’ve told you about what I am after, what is it you want? Beyond Dasha, and, of course, helping me open a currency account.’

Grigory took another sip of his brandy.

‘I am a banker. I’ve worked for state banks overseas, London for three years. I know how money works. You’ve been to Milan. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that Soviet banks are antiquated and that most have no idea how the international system works. There is opportunity in that.’

‘Okay,’ said Misha, warming to him. ‘Like what specifically?’

‘Investment banking… currency trading, for starters.’

‘Well, the second part we can start to do now… once you have that foreign currency account open. Investment banking…?

‘Buying state property… companies when they start selling them. It’s going to happen.’

‘Let’s talk more, later, who knows…’

Grigory looked pleased with where the conversation had gone. He paused before asking: ‘And why don’t you get yourself a decent car; that red Zhiguli parked on the embankment is yours, isn’t it?’

‘I like it,’ Misha answered defensively, and laughed. ‘I think we should join the girls now and not waste any more time!’ Misha looked at his watch; it was still only ten fifteen.

Misha stood up and Grigory followed him over to the bar. The girls were standing close to each other. Dasha leaned towards Sveta and whispered something in her ear, and whatever it was caused her to almost choke on her drink. She put down her glass on the bar and covered her mouth, her slim body shaking with suppressed laughter. Misha eyed her skinny frame balanced on pin-like stilettos and slipped his arm around her waist. She leaned back against him. His thumb massaged her hip through the silky fabric of her top as they watched Vasiliev and Dasha collect their coats. Dasha gave her friend a knowing wink before disappearing through the door, her escort in tow.