CLOAK & CORKSCREW: 21) CONSUMMATION
My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & lunacy
45.
Igor Kuntevich stood nervously outside Bank Leumi, checking his wristwatch every few minutes, the moment of truth near: Would that stubborn American show? Or stall with new demands?
At nine o’clock on the dot, Tom Richardson came into view on Claridenstrasse.
Rather than feel relieved, Kunty’s eyes darted around, lest he fall into some kind of counterintelligence trap. Swiss? Or Americans acting without Swiss knowledge and permission? He did not relax his guard until after Richardson entered the bank.
“Did you bring the manuscript?” asked Kuntevich.
“I have to access it on my laptop.”
Kuntevich expressed dismay. “But how?”
“You’re opening an account for me with one million dollars, correct?”
Kuntevich nodded.
“And you brought a publishing contract for me to sign?”
“Yes.”
“Sequence of events: We sign the contract, I keep a copy, and I ensure this account is in my name only. After that, the bank let’s us use a conference room. I access the manuscript on my laptop. Take as long as you want to read it. When you’re satisfied, I transmit it to you on Skype. You do have a Skype account, don’t you?”
Kuntevich shook his head.
“Easy and free. You can open your own account on my computer within a couple minutes, we exchange call-signs, and then I transmit the manuscript.”
The Russian grunted. ‘What about your Hollywood deal.”
Richardson allowed Kunty’s sarcasm to sail over his head. “Yes, still on.”
Kuntevich could scarcely believe how Richardson had allowed himself to be rused by his former employer. New traces from Moscow clearly established, beyond the preliminary photo match, that Sophie Gunderson was not only CIA, but on its fast track, a highly regarded officer who would be called into matters only if they were high priority. But that wasn’t his problem. In another hour, he’d have what he wanted. Mission accomplished. So he said nothing more, and they awaited the branch manager, a bland middle-aged Swiss male in a dark suit to invite them in.
Richardson could discern this wasn’t the first account Kuntevich had opened with Bank Leumi. Russian and Swiss banker were reticent and discreet, but clearly they knew one another and done this drill before.
No questions were asked as the banker produced pre-completed forms.
“I am transferring an account from you to you, correct?” the banker said officiously. He glanced first at the Russian, who grunted his approval, then at Richardson, who nodded.
“You must sign here.” He pushed a form across the desk at the American.
Richardson signed and pushed the form back.
“Here is your bank account number and our wiring details,” said the banker. “And the balance of your account.” $1,000,000. He turned to Kuntevich. “You would like some privacy, correct?” The banker rose and closed the door behind him.
Richardson produced his Mac and opened it on the table between himself and the Russian. Richardson tapped a sequence of keys to access a cyber storage vault and connect to his manuscript.
“All yours,” said Richardson, pushing the Mac in front of Kunty.
“The Russian‘s eyes fixated onto the screen. But when he went to scroll, Richardson blocked him. “You have our contract?”
Irritated, Kuntevich pulled two stapled pages from his back pocket, handed the scrunched mess to Richardson.
“Short contract,” said the American.
“We don’t believe in many words,” said Kuntevich, distracted by reading page two of the manuscript. “It’s what you ask. Russian rights only.”
Both men continued to read their respective material.
“It doesn’t say you’ll publish simultaneously with other publishers,” said Richardson.
“My boss forgets. You have my word.”
“We’ll write it in,” said Richardson.
Kunty glared at the American for a long moment, grabbed the contract from his hand, and set pen to paper. We wait for other book publisher to publish. He initialed this with flair.
Richardson remained quiet while the Russian read, scrolled and began to smirk in deep appreciation.
After 30 minutes, Kuntevich seemed satisfied. “Okay, we Skype.” He produced a small Sony VAIO notebook, accessed the Internet and, within three minutes, opened a Skype account. Call signs were exchanged and Kuntevich watched as Richardson dragged his Word document to Skype. The file transfer began, took three minutes to transmit, and then appeared as an icon on Kunty’s computer screen.
In his mind, this icon symbolized promotion.
Colonel Kuntevich.