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

by Carlito Sofer

  “Pah! It’s pathetic. How we ever lost the Cold War is beyond me,” Boris lamented.

  ***

  While we were busy partying in the Maldives, and while most people were busy with holidays around New Year, we received the news that the president had replaced the Director of the Security Service of Kiev, sending the old one to another location. The old one was no other than Colonel Ivanenko, who had given me my ticket into the defence business. However, we thought that we had some time to regroup, since Ukraine was virtually dead between first and tenth of January. Everyone was engaged in New Year’s and then the Orthodox Christmas celebrations.

  Colonel Ivanenko was on our payroll, representing our krysha. If our krysha couldn’t protect us anymore, it was clear that we should expect a blow. We didn’t know the new director and so we didn’t contact him when he started his new position. We didn’t properly pay our respect and didn’t pay him for his trouble of keeping us secure.

  When John arrived at the office on his first day, he opened the door to a scene taken from a Quentin Tarantino movie. Fifteen masked men were standing in the office wearing black from top to bottom, with bulletproof vests and machine guns. The computer servers were shut down, phones jammed and all the employees were lying on the floor, face down with their hands behind their heads.

  John stood at the door, paralysed with fear. He was supposed to be greeted by lovely Svetlana, my personal assistant, but there he was, face to face with Captain Svetanov and his masked gunmen. The Captain approached John, pointed a machine gun at his face and barked at him in Russian to lie down on the floor. John didn’t understand what the hell was going on and what the hell the crazy masked man was shouting at him. Luckily, his instinct was to drop everything and lie on the floor. He pissed himself, being sure it was an armed robbery.

  “Oy vey. I’m going to die. Oh, mother!” was all John could think.

  Lucky for him, two men forcefully picked him up, frisked him and found an American passport in his jacket. Since the security services preferred not to harass foreigners from Western Europe or America, unless there was a real reason, John was released after an hour. He went back to his flat, locked the door, and refused my calls.

  The mask show was nothing more than the new Director of Security saying hello, informing us that there was a new sheriff in town, and giving us a push to come and pay our respects. I trusted that he was sane enough not to kill the golden goose. He knew well that we were paying good money to get along with the security agencies.

  Nobody in the office was harmed, and the masked men left once they had conveyed their message. They took with them a number of computer servers, which was a little concerning, although I was certain that nothing too incriminating was on them. Anything that could be used against us, such as the spreadsheets with details of who received bribes and in what amounts or how much taxes we underpaid were kept well away from the office. I was sure that the new director was just collecting compromising materials on each and every person who had any kind of influence or financial clout, in case he ever needed leverage.

  Colonel Ivanenko, although we paid him generously, admitted that he had a stash of info on us. The problem was that the most sensitive materials left the SBU archives together with departing senior officers who had collected them. While their substitutes engaged in collecting new materials, who knew when the old stuff might pop up?

  I called John the next day, and finally he answered. His voice was shaky as I explained that the incident was nothing serious.

  “These things don’t happen often, John. Statistically you’ll probably never see a violent act again in Ukraine.”

  “Fuck me, Michael. I thought they were going to kill us all!”

  “No, no, it was just a show - a performance, if you like, or a ride in Disneyworld. I understand it would be unsettling for you, but that is how business can be sometimes.”

  “Not in fucking New York, it isn’t!”

  “Things are a little different here, Johnny. I understand you’re shaken up a little. Have some vodka, get a whore to take your mind off things and have the day off. I’ll come see you tomorrow some time, and we’ll start afresh, okay?”

  “Fine. I’ll see you soon.”

  The mask show had been the first unsettling experience for John in Ukraine. It wouldn’t be the last.

  John was a nice Jewish boy, who grew up in Long Island, never experiencing violence in his life. The most violent activity in which he had ever been involved was probably playing squash. The move from safe America to crazy Kiev wasn’t easy for him, and I’ll give him his due; he didn’t quit. He understood that it was his opportunity to make some serious money. Within a few days the incident seemed to have been forgotten.

  Being a Harvard MBA, an ex-Oldman investment banker, and a Jewish American did mean that John was greedy. Only a few weeks had gone by when he came into my office and asked for a two million dollar loan. This was on top of the two millions that he had already received from me.

  “Two million dollars? I’m glad to see that you feel much better after the little incident on your first day. You already got two millions. Why do you need another two?”

  “Well, I need the extra money to buy a villa on Pechersk Hills. I think the area is awesome and I think it could be a great investment.”

  I was surprised by his lack of tact.

  “Johnny, how quickly you’ve turned from a lender to a borrower. Amazing!”

  I took him to my office’s window, put my arm around his shoulder and pointed at the Ukrainian bank down the block.

  “Now take a look at the bank opposite our office. You see, I have a non-competition agreement with them. They don’t trade sunflower seeds, that I sell, and I, in return, don’t give loans. However, I do pay salaries and bonuses. Show me that you’re worth it and soon enough you’ll have a villa on Pechersk Hills. You’ll have ten villas if you want.”

  “I get it. I just thought it would be better to ask you.”

  “Now Johnny, you’ve already received two million dollars from me. So don’t try to put your dick in my ass. And by the way, consult me first about any real estate offers you get. No villa in Kiev costs anything close to four million dollars. Whoever offered you the place at that price is taking advantage of you being a foreigner. Tell Arthur the name of the guy and he’ll teach him a lesson. With that amount you can buy the entire Parliament compound.”

  “Okay, okay. I got the point. No problem; it was worth checking.”

  “He has so much still to learn here,” I thought to myself.

  18 Crimea

  Crimea is a peninsula in the south of Ukraine located on the northern coast of the Black Sea. It was conquered numerous times throughout history by anyone who happened to be in the region. Finally, in 1954 it was gifted by Russia’ Nikita Khrushchev to Ukrainian SSR for the 300 year anniversary of the countries’ union. It had been a tourist destination for years. Stalin’s favourite, where of all the places of the gigantic USSR he chose Yalta, a famous Crimean recreation town, to host Roosevelt and Churchill for the 1945 Yalta Conference.

  Crimea, 2000

  During a party in Kiev, when I was already ridiculously drunk I encountered a gorgeous girl. Without thinking too much about it I gave her my business card and told her, “Call me if you want to go to Crimea for a few days. We fly in my private jet, stay in the most beautiful hotel and have fun for a whole week. I pay for everything. We totally forget about the world. Only you, me, the sun and the sea.”

  Two days later, she called me. Who wouldn’t take such an offer? We took my plane and flew to Crimea. We landed at Simferopol, Crimea’s capital, and from there drove to Alupka, a beach resort.

  The sun was shining bright, high above the rocky coast with the broad beach strip on one side, and the mountains on the other. When we drove along the beach road, the sight of elderly men with young women walking hand-in-hand on the beach always both entertained and repulsed me.

  Since this “on
ly you, me, the sun and the sea” drunk idea became boring after I conquered the girl, I thought that it would be great to get John down to join me in Crimea. Besides working, the kid had a rough time getting used to Kiev and he needed some fun.

  He had been working long hours. The problem with Americans is that they don’t know how to properly balance work and life. They work too hard and don’t enjoy themselves. It was fine to work hard and play hard. Americans, however, didn’t get the playing bit. If you didn’t enjoy yourself you would get burned. I didn’t want to see my investment in John burning up, so I decided that he must have some fun, even if I had to force him to do so.

  Boris and I had a bet on who could coerce John to sleep with a prostitute first. I thought that this was a golden opportunity to treat him to Crimea’s warm sun and set him up him with a local babe.

  “Johnny, take the first plane and come to see me down in Crimea. Don’t give me the bullshit that you’re afraid of flying; I don’t buy it. Bring with you your sunglasses and swim gear. We’re going to have business meetings next to the pool. My driver will wait for you in the airport.”

  I really wanted John to have a relaxing time. But once again the circumstances overpowered my intentions.

  John landed in Simferopol International Airport and my driver picked him up as planned. On the way to the resort, John asked the driver to stop at a shop since he wanted to buy a pack of Marlboros. Shortly after arriving to Kiev he started smoking for some reason. Smoking cigars was one thing, but smoking cigarettes? This was a nasty habit, which I had given up years ago.

  John went into the shop and before he knew it, two Tartars approached him. Accustomed to tourists, they could sense a foreigner from a kilometre away. One pulled a gun and pointed it to his head, while the other took his wallet, watch and suit. They said nothing and he said nothing. The shopkeeper was nowhere to be found. They left him standing in the middle of the shop, in broad daylight, in his shorts and ran away. John didn’t know what to do with himself.

  When he arrived at his suite I had to calm him down. Again. After he smoked five cigarettes in a row and drank three shots of vodka, I attempted to persuade him, “These kind of incidents don’t often occur in Ukraine.”

  On his first day at work he entered a room with fifteen armed men and now he had been robbed by two armed Tartars. Luck was not on John’s side.

  I told him, “Johnny, statistically this should’ve never happened to you. This is a once-in-a-million bad luck. Having been twice in armed situations a third time won’t happen. Your anti-luck should now become super-luck. You should go and buy a lottery ticket.”

  John said, “Now I understand the meaning of the name Crimea. It’s Crime with an ‘a.’ Goddamnit. What the fuck?”

  ***

  The incident made me think whether I should retain this kid and whether he was some kind of lokh. Just two months before I almost had a fight with Boris since I had fired his nephew from the representative office of Neplokho Steel in Belarus. The nephew was duped and robbed by a local prostitute.

  My main argument wasn’t the incident itself, but rather the premise that led to it. If the rich guy that we made out of his nephew, paying him a ten grand monthly salary, needed a street prostitute in such a country where it was easier to shag than taking a shower, then he had a serious lack of judgement. In Minsk you go to the supermarket and come out with a lady wanting to fuck you. We couldn’t rely on him as our representative abroad. Boris defended his nephew, naturally, but I was resolute.

  Now I realised how hard it would be for John to get used to the surrounding reality or “globe Ukraine,” as Ukrainians called their own country, referring to the drastic difference between Ukraine and the rest of the world. It was a different planet.

  Were it not for the two million dollar advance, I would’ve probably fired John immediately. However, I decided to avail him a bit more time. If the two millions were a waste, then I was a lokh too. I hoped that I wasn’t. While at that time these two millions were two of many others, as the saying that I liked goes, “to become really rich you need to love each dollar separately.”

  The twentieth century was over and a new millennium dawned on us. I already had more money than I ever dreamed that I would possibly have. I wondered what I should do in the new millennium. What new challenges should I tackle? Making another million or ten wasn’t exciting anymore, although I didn’t lose my financial appetite altogether.

  What other goal could I pursue? I had been spending virtually all my life doing businesses that weren’t helpful to society. I hadn’t produced much, and whatever my plants produced was probably outweighed by polluting the environment in the process.

  I hadn’t discovered anything helpful. I hadn’t contributed to any country. I hadn’t done anything cultural. I had been focusing purely on making money. And most of my money was done in unethical and illegal ways.

  So what other objective was worthwhile except being the best at what I did? Perhaps it was time to try something new, like politics.

  Perhaps it was time to try to change the world.

  19 David 007

  Tel Aviv, 2013

  The knock at the door startled David. He was gazing aimlessly at the television, watching the nine o’clock news in his living room when the sharp rapping alarmed him.

  He opened the door and wasn’t overly surprised to see agents Shimon and Avner looking back at him. He had been expecting Mossad to pay him a visit sooner, rather than later.

  Soon after David left Israel and started working with Misha in 1997, Mossad made contact with him. The Israeli Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, better known as the Mossad, was interested in the information that David, as an ex officer in the Israeli Defence Force, could supply. He was working with a rising star in the Ukrainian business arena, and Mikhail Vorotavich or Moshe Shaarim was an Israeli citizen, so Mossad wanted to keep a close eye on him. Mossad knew that Vorotavich was involved in arms dealings and that was enough to justify Israel’s close scrutiny.

  Most of Ukraine’s military technologies and secrets were bought by foreign intelligence organisations for peanuts right after the fall of the USSR, so David wasn’t required to perform any hazardous spying missions behind enemy lines, like breaking into any nuclear research institute and copying its blueprints. However, as Ukraine was one of the largest arms suppliers in the world, Mossad wanted to know where those arms were heading.

  Ukraine had previously been in possession of a large arsenal of nukes and Mossad suspected that despite Ukraine’s declaration that all nukes had been destroyed under a treaty with America and Russia, it was possible that some had been ‘mislaid’ by the government. They could well find their way into the hands of one of Israel’s many enemies. Even if the nuclear weapons had been destroyed, Ukrainian scientists still had access to nuclear technology, which they could also sell.

  David didn’t want to cooperate with Mossad, but he didn’t really have a choice. Mossad assured David that any information that he supplied would remain confidential. Misha’s business interests wouldn’t be hurt, unless of course they threatened the security of Israel or its close allies.

  David’s main concern was the Ukrainian Government, through the SBU or any number of other avenues, finding out about his arrangement with Mossad. The best case scenario was that they would indict him for espionage. This was a serious risk since the punishment was severe.

  The worst case scenario was that the Ukrainian secret service wouldn’t even allow David to appear alive before the court. They would squeeze out of him everything that he knew, and then they would kill him. Either way it was likely that he would disappear forever.

  David knew that the relationship with Mossad went both ways. If he provided decent intelligence, he would also receive information that was useful. If the Mossad had intelligence on threats to David and Misha, David would be informed, unless, of course, revealing it wasn’t in the best interests of Israel.

  Shimon
and Avner took a seat and refused to have coffee or water.

  “David, we have come to warn you,” Shimon went straight to the point; no small talk. “We believe that powerful people are responsible for the assassination attempt on Shaarim. We don’t have conclusive intelligence and what we do have, we cannot share with you at this stage. However, based on the way that it was done, probably using a powerful long-distance sniper rifle, and the precision of performance, we believe that professionals are behind it. They knew exactly where and when Shaarim was going to be at his meeting, and such operations require precise intelligence. We wouldn’t be surprised if an insider within your group cooperates with them. We think that there’s a mole, but we don’t know who it is yet. You must take all precautions. Keep your eyes and ears wide open.”

  David listened intently. He already suspected that the attempted assassination was a high-level, professional operation. However, seeing Shimon concerned, and the suspicion of an insider cooperating with the assailants, made David even more anxious.

  “What do you want me to do?” David asked.

  It was Avner who answered, “It is fairly simple. One: share with us any information that you get. Two: keep yourself safe.”

  David sat with his head in his hands. He already suspected that something big was brewing, and forces that were outside the organisation’s influence were targeting them. Nothing Mossad had told him was new, but endorsement by one of the best security services in the world was worrying. Would they go after Boris next? And then him? And is there a mole? Was there anyone he could trust?

  “Okay,” David finally said. “We have our own investigation running. As soon as I find out anything I’ll keep you informed. Thanks for coming over.”

  Shimon and Avner left David’s apartment.

  Before David closed the door behind them, Shimon turned around and said, “Don’t try to be a hero and do anything yourself. You’re dealing with professional killers here. These cruel Russians will remove any obstacle without thinking twice. You have my mobile number. As soon as you discover something, call me. Don’t hesitate. Take care, David.”