Heads You Win Read online

  “A Chloé bag, from Bonwit Teller.”

  “OK, I’ll pick one up this afternoon. What color?”

  “Gray. It’s already been gift-wrapped and was delivered to my office yesterday. All you need to do is sign this.” She placed an anniversary card on his desk.

  “I sometimes think, Pamela, that you’d make a far better chairman than me.”

  “If you say so, chairman. But in the meantime, can you make sure you sign all the letters in your correspondence file before Mr. Woods arrives?”

  Getting Pamela to return to her old job was the wisest decision he’d ever made, thought Alex as he opened his correspondence file. He read each letter carefully, making the occasional emendation and sometimes adding a handwritten postscript. He was considering a letter from the president of the Harvard Business School inviting him to address the final-year students in the fall, when there was a tap on the door.

  “Mr. Woods,” said Miss Robbins.

  “Sheldon,” said Alex, jumping up from behind his desk. “Has it really been a year already? Can I offer you some coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” said Woods.

  “Now, before you say anything, yes, I am aware it’s an election year, and I’ve already decided to double our contribution to the party, in Lawrence’s memory.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Alex. He would have made a fine congressman.”

  “He would indeed,” said Alex. “In fact not a day goes by when I don’t mourn his death. That man quite literally changed my life, and I never had a real chance to thank him.”

  “If Lawrence were alive, it would be him who was thanking you,” said Woods. “Everyone in Boston knew the bank was in serious trouble before you took over. What a turnaround. I hear you’re to be named as banker of the year.”

  “A lot of credit for that must go to Jake Coleman, who couldn’t be more different from his predecessor.”

  “Yes, that was quite a coup. I assume you’ve heard that Ackroyd was released from prison last week?”

  “I did, and I wouldn’t have given it a second thought if he hadn’t been seen boarding a plane to Nice the following day.”

  “I’m lost,” said Woods.

  “And it’s better you stay that way,” said Alex, as he signed a check for one hundred thousand dollars and handed it to Woods.

  “I’m most grateful,” he said. “But that wasn’t the reason I came to see you.”

  “Isn’t a hundred thousand enough?”

  “More than enough. It’s just that we, that is to say my committee, hoped you would allow your name to go forward as the next Democratic candidate for junior senator here in Massachusetts.”

  Alex couldn’t hide his surprise. “When you asked me to stand for Congress after Lawrence’s death,” he eventually managed, “I reluctantly turned the offer down so I could take on the chairmanship of Lowell’s. However, I confess I’ve often wondered if it was the right decision and whether politics was my real calling.”

  “Then perhaps it’s time for you to take on an even bigger challenge.”

  “Sadly not,” said Alex. “Although the bank is finally back on its feet, I now want to take it to the next level and join the major leagues. How much do you expect the Bank of America to contribute to the Democratic cause?”

  “They’ve already given a quarter of a million toward the campaign.”

  “Then I’ll know we’ve arrived when you ask me for the same amount, and more important, when I don’t give it a second thought.”

  “I’d rather have a hundred thousand, and you as the candidate.”

  “I’m flattered, Sheldon, but the answer is still no. However, thank you for asking.” Alex touched a button under his desk.

  “Pity. You’d have made an outstanding senator.”

  “That’s a great compliment, Sheldon. Perhaps in another life.” They shook hands as Miss Robbins entered the room to escort Mr. Woods to the elevator.

  Alex sat back down and thought about how different life might have been if Lawrence hadn’t died—or even if he and his mother had climbed into the other crate. But he soon snapped out of “what might have been” and returned to the real world, putting a tick on the top of the letter from the president of the Harvard Business School.

  Miss Robbins had just closed the door behind her when the phone rang. Alex picked it up and immediately recognized the voice on the other end of the line.

  “Hi, Dimitri,” he said. “It’s been too long. How are you?”

  “Well, thank you, Alex,” said Dimitri. “And you?”

  “Never better.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Alex, but I thought you ought to know that Ivan Donokov has been released from prison and is on his way back to Moscow.”

  “How can that be possible?” asked Alex, turning ice cold. “I thought he was sentenced to ninety-nine years without parole.”

  “The CIA exchanged him for two of our agents who’d been languishing in a Moscow hellhole for over a decade.”

  “Let’s hope they don’t come to regret it. But thank you for letting me know.”

  “I only hope you don’t live to regret it,” said Dimitri, but not until after he’d put the phone down.

  Alex tried to get Donokov out of his mind while he continued signing letters. His thoughts were interrupted when Miss Robbins reentered the room to pick up the correspondence file. “Before I forget, Pamela, there’s a man who’s been sitting in reception for the past three days. Do you have any idea who he is?”

  “A Mr. Pushkin. He’s flown over from Leningrad in the hope that you would agree to see him. Claims he was at school with you.”

  “Pushkin,” he repeated. “A great writer, but I don’t recall anyone from my school by that name. But as he’s so determined to see me, perhaps I ought to give him a few minutes.”

  “He says he needs a couple of hours. I tried to explain that you don’t have a couple of hours before Christmas, but it didn’t deter him, which made me wonder if he worked for the KGB.”

  “The KGB don’t sit around cooling their heels in reception for three days, especially when everyone can see them. So let’s see the rabbit before we shoot it. But make sure you rescue me after fifteen minutes—tell him I have another meeting.”

  “Yes, chairman,” said Miss Robbins, not looking at all convinced.

  Alex was still signing letters when there was a gentle knock on the door. Miss Robbins entered the room followed by a man he thought looked familiar, and then he remembered.

  “How nice to see you again, Misha, after all this time,” said Alex, as Miss Robbins left the room.

  “It’s good to see you too, Alexander. I’m only surprised you remember me.”

  “Captain of the junior chess team. Do you still play?”

  “Occasionally, but I never reached your dizzy heights, so don’t bother to challenge me.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I played,” admitted Alex, which only brought back memories of Donokov. “Before you tell me what brings you to Boston, how is the city of my birth?”

  “Leningrad is always beautiful at this time of year, as you will remember,” said Pushkin, in Alex’s native tongue. “There are even rumors that it won’t be too long before its name will be changed back to Saint Petersburg. Another symbol to perpetuate the myth that the old regime has been replaced.”

  Hearing Pushkin speaking Russian made Alex suddenly feel sad, even a little guilty, that he’d lost his accent, and now sounded like any other Boston WASP. He looked at his visitor more closely. Pushkin was around five foot eight, with a thick brown mustache that reminded Alex of his father. He wore a heavy tweed suit with wide lapels, which suggested either that he had no interest in fashion, or this was the first time he’d traveled outside of the Soviet Union.

  “My father worked in the docks when your father was chief supervisor,” said Pushkin. “Many of the lads still remember him with respect and affection.”

  “And my uncle Kolya?�€