Rise of an Oligarch: The Way It Is: Book One

by Carlito Sofer

  ***

  I wondered who in my immediate surrounding was an SBU agent. This was the first step towards acute paranoia. I was joining the club of high ranking officials, businessmen and the like. They all suffered from paranoia.

  I couldn’t afford the luxury of going to see a shrink due to a panic attack. What would my colleagues say if they found out that I was losing my marbles? But even if you had paranoia, and you knew it, it didn’t mean that you weren’t being followed. Did it?

  That was why almost all delicate conversations were spoken in an Aesopian language of hints and allegories. Sometimes it was difficult to decipher what was agreed even for all participants. More than once I left meetings together with David and each one of us thought that the other understood everything. But often we didn’t.

  It was one thing to use known metaphors like “the motherland will not forget you” meaning “we will reward your services, if you deliver,” to call a big boss “papa” and an insider in an organisation “advisor.” But to conduct an entire conversation using only riddles and enigmas was a task for a Pentagon encoding unit, not for me.

  Sometimes it was just too grotesque. I freaked out when we held one meeting in Geneva, following Joshua’s introduction. David and I met with supposedly a representative of a serious African buyer from Zimbabwe. We rented at the last minute a private room in a hotel to reduce the risk of surveillance.

  We met him at the hotel’s lobby. Mr Mufasa introduced himself, and the three of us went to the room. He was short, wore a white hat, had thick round glasses and held a suitcase from crocodile leather. He searched our private room, gesturing us with his finger to be quiet. We sat down around a table.

  Mr Mufasa started the discussion, “I understand that you’re in the egg exporting business. Now, we don’t eat chicken eggs. We need ostrich eggs. If the eagle sits on an empty nest the eggs won’t hatch. So for the eagle to land, the eggs must be fertile.” He paused looking at us, nodding knowingly.

  “Do you mean these eggs?” I drew a bomb on a paper and showed it to him. He nodded.

  While nodding he continued, “The snake in the garden is after the eggs. We need two mongooses to catch the snake before it reaches the eggs so the eagle can land safely. Otherwise the elephant will drink all the water.” And so on, and so forth.

  David and I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about and what all these animals and their eggs had to do with anything. That was too much. I didn’t want to know.

  He was nuts or smoking something too strong. I excused myself, as if to make an urgent phone call. I never returned to the room. David caught up with me later. He said that I missed a lesson in zoology.

  David observed, “Did you notice that we didn’t drink anything with this guy? In every meeting we drink vodka or something else before we get down to business. Perhaps we didn’t understand what he was saying since we were sober.”

  “I’ve been a drunk for many years. I assure you drunk or sober, we didn’t understand because there was nothing to understand.”

  Was he a lunatic, was I a lunatic or were my lines of business attracting the lunatics?

  ***

  One particularly good weapon buyer was Angola. Since 1975 it had been torn apart by a bloody civil war caused by a power struggle between two former liberation movements. They had fought the Portuguese for independence and now fought each other for power over liberated Angola. Tribalism was well-rooted in Africa. The borders that the Europeans had arbitrarily drawn on the map, sometimes using a ruler to get straight lines, ignored the true African nations.

  The Angolan war also served as a surrogate battleground for the Cold War. Aligned with the two Cold War super-powers, one Angolan side in the civil war, the MPLA, was Marxist-Leninist and backed by the USSR, while the other side was the anti-communist UNITA, which was heavily backed by the United States. Putting ideology aside, what was important for me was the opportunity to make money.

  We tailored a big transaction between the parties. Ukraine was going to supply the MPLA a full range of arsenal, including AK47 Kalashnikov assault rifles, RPGs, jeeps, trucks, armoured fighting vehicles, heavy artillery, anti-tank missiles, and plenty of ammunition. This time we focused on low-tech weapons that didn’t require special training and maintenance. If the deal was successful we planned on a high-tech follow-up deal, including tanks and helicopters.

  To assure the relevant people once again that their personal share was guaranteed and that they could wire us the first payment, Gigo and I flew to Luanda, Angola’s capital. We wanted to personally shake on it and to be there to counter any last minute surprises, courtesy of the Russians.

  As there were no direct flights from Kiev to Luanda, we flew with KLM via Amsterdam. The 14-hour flight in KLM’s business class was pleasant and uneventful, which was a striking contrast to the welcome that we received when we landed on African soil.

  As we lined up for the usual customs and immigration formalities, a local uniformed officer with two armed soldiers approached us and pulled us from the queue. For a split second I was worried that we’d been set up, and our hosts were about to make us disappear, probably at the behest of either the Russians or one of our other competitors. As my mind raced with what options we had to make a run for it, the officer spoke.

  “Welcome, welcome Senor Boorootoveech. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. My name is Joao de Cruz, at your service, sir. Please, please. Follow me. We get sir past security and straight to lovely hotel. Welcome to Angola, sir.”

  It was amusing how this massive guy, a full head taller than me, spoke like a little baby. A wave of relief flooded over me, and I noticed Gigo unclenched his fists. Good old Gigo; he was ready to take on armed security officers with his bare hands!

  We followed Joao, and the two soldiers followed us. The airport’s terminal was a grey cement building, with some bullet marks still evident on its wall. We entered the hall through a small side door. It was hot and humid with only a few squeaking old ceiling fans to lazily push the fetid air around.

  The passport inspector sat behind a glass window, smoking a cigarette with an armed soldier standing behind him. Joao nodded to the man and he waved us through without bothering to look at our passports.

  The terminal had no shops or sandwich kiosks. It only had three merchants with stools. All three seemed invalids, as one was missing a leg, another had an eye patch and the third one smiling, lacked half of his teeth. We left the terminal and were escorted to a black Mercedes. The driver wearing a smart uniform, white hat and gloves, hurried round to open the door for us.

  “Welcome to Angola sir,” he said, bowing deferentially.

  The door shut behind us, and Joao got into the front passenger seat. The car pulled away, and Joao turned to address us.

  “We take sir straight to lovely hotel. Sir can freshen up and then we take sir to lovely dinner. Please don’t leave hotel before we come to get you. Not very safe for white sir. Please, please,” Joao insisted.

  When I entered the Mercedes I had felt an itch on my neck. I smacked it, looked at my hand, and saw it was covered with blood and the carcass of a fly as big as a flying cow. I wondered whether it was a tsetse fly and I was going to get the sleeping sickness.

  “Welcome to Africa! What a great start!” I thought to myself. Let’s hope this wasn’t a bad sign.

  The car soon entered the outer districts of the capital city. Luanda, which had once been a grand, modern city, was a real shithole, making Kiev appear to be a beautiful, modern, well-constructed city in comparison. After Angola’s independence most of the Portuguese escaped the capital, leaving the unskilled local population to run the city and maintain its relatively well-developed infrastructure. This, together with the damages caused by the civil war, a huge influx of refugees and the ever-growing slums resulted in a slowly decaying, totally dysfunctional city.

  It was terrible; the roads were destroyed, with just random patches of asphalt, sewage ran through the str
eets and rubbish was everywhere. Almost every building looked like it was on the verge of collapsing. Everything was neglected.

  Joao turned and faced us once again.

  “Please, please. If sir sleeps with beautiful local women, sir mustn’t forget to use condom. Sir should use two condoms. Local women are beautiful but not very healthy. HIV all over the place. Please, please, sir remembers what Joao says and sir have wonderful time.”

  We arrived to the hotel, which was supposed to be five-star, the best that money can buy in Luanda. Not only was it dirty, but the paint was peeling, the carpet from the entrance to the check-in desk was sticky under our feet, and there was a terrible musty smell that seemed to follow us around. I swear I saw a mouse running across the lobby. When I told Gigo he said, “You’re imagining. The snakes probably eat all the mice.”

  A porter in full western-style uniform took us up to our room, and the horror show was complete. We tipped the man and had a full inspection of our accommodation. It was awful - the beds were old and lumpy, and although the sheets and towels were clean, they were stained and threadbare. What on earth had we let ourselves in for?

  We had a few hours until our business dinner, so we slept fully-clothed on top of the covers until Joao came to collect us later that evening.

  The dinner was to be hosted by the Minister of Defence. As the minister was late, Joao kept assuring me that he would show up ‘any moment soon.’ Joshua had told me many stories about meeting African officials, and I wasn’t surprised at the minister’s tardiness. What would be considered unprofessional or rude in most of the business world was par for the course when dealing with African officials. The minister finally arrived forty five minutes late. An extraordinary level of punctuality in African terms.

  The meal was served, and we ate a mix of fine Portuguese food and local dishes. The water-buffalo stew, crocodile dumplings and ostrich kebab were delicious, and I wondered whether these guys ate every animal they could hunt. The minister drank copious amounts of red wine for the duration of the meal, so much so that at the end of the evening Joao had to carry him to his car.

  Joao returned to our table and told us it was time to leave, and he would escort us back to the hotel.

  “I’m a little worried that we didn’t discuss any business, Joao,” I told our guide.

  “Sir, do not worry. Minister likes you and your friend. He see you tomorrow and talk, okay sir?”

  All my previous meetings with African officials had been held on neutral ground in Europe, so this was a new experience for me. I had pictured us staying in a luxury hotel, eating fine, European cuisine, and maybe being taken on a safari to see giraffes, elephants and lions in the wild. I mentioned the safari part to Joao, and he laughed.

  “Not many animals now, sir. We have long war and we eat animal.”

  I was gutted. When I was a boy I had read a book about David Livingstone, the famous English explorer, and was looking forward to seeing some of Africa’s magnificent beasts.

  The next morning we met at the minister’s office to finalise the details. The minister studied the paperwork and then smiled.

  “Excellent, Senor Vorotavich,” he finally said. “We have a deal.”

  At the end I had a SWIFT confirmation of the first instalment, for the magic number of twelve million dollars, indicating that the funds were on the way to my account, from which four million I was supposed to pay back to some unidentified Swiss account.

  It was as simple as that. No scrutiny of fine print or anything else. As far as the Angolans were concerned, we had a deal, and if we veered from the agreement, we were dead.

  Gigo and I politely refused the minister’s offer to celebrate with some local girls, as well as the escort back to the hotel. It was just a short drive, so we took a car as all we wanted was to go to the hotel bar and drink. There wasn’t anything else to do anyway.

  On the way back, we stopped at a red traffic light. Two jeeps pulled up on either side of our car and armed uniformed men jumped out of the vehicles. Without saying anything to us, they broke our car’s windows with the butts of their rifles and forced us out, pointing Kalashnikovs at our heads. My first thought was that the Russians were behind this, to take me out of the picture. I silently bade farewell to this world.

  Hoping though that all they wanted to do was rob us, I took out my wallet and handed it to them together with my Breitling watch. After one of the soldiers took my belongings, I dropped on my knees and raised my hands over my head.

  “Please, please. Take all our money and the car.”

  Gigo, unfortunately, hadn’t learnt much about self-control over the years. Instead of following my example and quietly handing over his belongings he started to argue with the armed men. Since it was difficult to argue in Georgian or Russian with the Portuguese-speaking Angolans, Gigo augmented his point with a perfect right hook to the jaw of the muggers’ leader.

  The punch connected well, accompanied by the characteristic sound of a broken bone. Gigo’s opponent went down unconscious. Gigo looked down at his adversary’s falling body with satisfaction, but his success was short-lived. In Africa life isn’t worth much. The muggers weren’t interested in a fist fight and Gigo had only brought his fists to a gun fight.

  From there, everything became slow-motion. Gigo looked at me with a huge smile spread across his face, his gold teeth sparkling, but the smile contorted to one of surprise, quickly followed by pain. The robbers opened fire with their AK47s and riddled Gigo with bullets. He fell to the ground and his body shook like he was performing a perverse dance. The firing stopped, and Gigo lay dead in front of me, blood pouring out of the multiple wounds and pooling around his body.

  What a waste of life! Before I could react, they hit me on the head with the butt of a Kalashnikov, and I blacked out.

  I woke up in hospital with Joao standing over me.

  “Please, please. Sir must lay still. Joao told sir not to go out of hotel. It isn’t safe. So sorry about sir’s friend. Senor Geegoo was very brave. We found those who killed senor Geegoo and hurt sir. Here is sir’s wallet and watch that they took. They won’t take anyone’s belongings ever again. They are now crocodile’s food at the Zambezi River.”

  Despite Joao’s childish language, I didn’t doubt his words.

  I was told that after they knocked me out, the robbers drove off leaving Gigo and me lying on the street. They weren’t working for the Russians or anyone else; they were just local thieves who saw two westerners out alone and couldn’t resist robbing us. What they didn’t know was that we were under the protection of the Minister of Defence. Joao, who turned out to be the head of Angola’s Ministry of Defence Special Operations Unit, was basically charged with enacting whatever the minister asked him to do, such as making the robbers disappear from the face of the earth.

  Gigo was dead. Out of all the dangerous businesses that we’d been involved in over the years, he died in a stupid robbery. What a fucking waste.

  Gigo was a true friend. Now, he was just a dead friend.

  ***

  After recovering from my concussion, I headed back to Kiev. I needed to replace Gigo immediately, before the people who worked under him decided to offer their services to a competitor. Our businesses were expanding fast and we needed a professional security officer.

  For a couple of years I had tried to persuade my cousin Tolik to join the organisation. Sasha and I didn’t have many relatives, and so we had always been very close. After finishing his regular service as a paratrooper in the Russian army, I first asked him to join us, but he had volunteered for the Chechen campaign instead.

  He was like an older brother to both of us, and we were devastated when we heard he had been killed fighting just outside Grozny. Losing Tolik was a serious blow, both emotionally and from a business perspective as we’d always presumed he would tire of being a soldier and come and join us. But he was the type of man who loved living on the edge, so such an end was inevitable.

&nbs
p; The last time we saw him, he visited us in Kiev along with his army buddy, and Sasha and I made sure they had the best of leaves before they returned to the battlefield. Tolik’s friend was Arthur Slotski. He served with Tolik in the paratroopers division during their regular service, before Arthur transferred to Spetsnaz, Russia’s military Special Forces.

  The last time I had seen Arthur was at Tolik’s funeral. Now, I needed someone like him, the best friend of my cousin. Someone I could trust absolutely.

  Currently a retiree, Arthur was a professional. He always dressed in a plain black suit, neatly pressed white shirt and polished shoes. To a casual observer he was probably middle-management or a clerk. How wrong first impressions can be.

  When Arthur accompanied Tolik to Kiev we all went to a Sauna. Arthur’s body was extremely muscular and covered with scars, at least two of which were from bullet wounds. He had a simple green tattoo with the emblem of the Russian paratroopers next to the symbol of his blood type. He never smiled and hardly spoke, even after a few shots of vodka, which didn’t seem to affect him at all.

  All it took was a couple of phone calls and a half hour’s wait, and I got hold of Arthur’s number. I called and asked him to meet with me in Kiev as I had a proposition for him. Arthur agreed to come, and I offered to put him up in a swanky Kiev hotel for a few days while I present my proposal to him.

  He arrived in Kiev the next day and without massive persuasion on my part Arthur agreed to join us as the Group’s chief security officer. For him, working for his deceased best mate’s cousin was more important than money and I was sure Tolik had told him that our security needs were anything but dull.

  14 Business or Pleasure

  Kiev, 1997

  After the unsettling events in Angola I needed to relax. One additional role that we had to do as part of the business with Africa was entertaining the envoys and officials who came to Kiev to inspect the goods and meet the suppliers. We became experts on traditional and less traditional Ukrainian hospitality.