Page 102 of The Collector
“A populist? Oh, no, Secretary Petrov. I’m a true extremist.”
“Please don’t get her started,” lamented Magnus. “Astrid makes me sound like a green social justice warrior.”
“How refreshing,” said Petrov. “Tell me something, Ms. Sørensen. How many genders are there?”
“There are two, Secretary Petrov.”
“Can one choose one’s gender?”
“Only in the leftist fantasy world that the West has become.”
“And which gender are you? Or is a question like that a microaggression?”
“I’m a woman.”
“Perhaps there’s hope for the West, after all.”
“Only if Russia wins the war in Ukraine.”
“You needn’t worry about that, Ms. Sørensen.” Petrov shot a glance at his Tag Heuer wristwatch and hoisted himself to his feet. “I’d love to continue this conversation, but it’s getting late, and I have business to discuss with my banker and your future husband.”
“I understand,” said Ingrid.
“Would you mind waiting here?” asked Petrov. “I promise not to keep Magnus long.”
Ingrid smiled. “Take as much time as you need.”
Gennady and Magnus rose in unison and, after a brief exchange in Russian, followed Nikolai Petrov into the adjoining room. The wood-paneled library, thought Ingrid, recalling the Sotheby’s brochure. Hand-crafted elegance, Old World style and grace. It was Gennady, with a mischievous wink, who closed the door behind them, leaving Ingrid entirely alone. Her skin felt feverish. Her fingertips were tingling.
51
Rublyovka
As Russian money laundering operations went, it really wasn’t all that complicated. Gennady’s explanation, however, was byzantine in its detail.
The process would begin, he said, with a series of wire transfers to a disreputable house of finance in Dubai with which TverBank was doing an increasingly brisk business. To avoid detection by FinCEN and other international watchdogs, the transfers would be on the smallish side, a few hundred million rubles, no more. The crooked Dubai-based house of finance would convert these rubles into dirhams, and the dirhams into dollars, all in the blink of an eye. Then the dollars would be fired to Argos Bank in the southern Cypriot town of Limassol, where they would be deposited in the account of a holding company clandestinely owned by Magnus Larsen, the CEO of Denmark’s largest producer of oil and natural gas.
“I will oversee things from TverBank headquarters,” Gennady continued. “But Magnus will have to fly to Cyprus first thing in the morning to sign the necessary paperwork at Bank Argos. He willremain in Limassol until the funds have been successfully offshored. I expect it to take no more than forty-eight hours.”
“And when it’s finished?” asked Nikolai Petrov.
“Magnus will secretly control a significant portion of your wealth. He will invest it wisely on your behalf using an array of anonymous shell corporations. Because he is a Danish citizen who is not currently under American or European sanctions, the money cannot be seized or frozen. He is the ideal wallet for a man in your position.”
“I must have approval over all investments.”
“Impossible, Nikolai. It is essential that you have no contact with Magnus whatsoever. For all intents and purposes, the money will be in a blind trust. Think of Magnus as your secret investment manager.”
“The manager of a two-and-a-half-billion-dollar hedge fund?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
They were seated on opposing leather couches, Gennady and Magnus on one, Nikolai Petrov on the other. On the low-slung table between them stood a nineteenth-century golden ormolu clock. The time was half past eleven. Seven minutes had passed since they left Ingrid and entered the library.
Petrov was contemplating his whisky. “And what sort of fee does my manager intend to charge for his services? The standard two and twenty?”
“The bankers in Dubai and Cyprus will take their cuts,” said Gennady. “But Magnus has made it clear that he will accept no payment.”
“How generous of him. But I require assurances nevertheless.”
