The American dream was sold to the general public. Anyone can become rich and it’s something within everyone’s reach. It was theoretically true, but the statistics gave it the same probability as that of winning the lottery. The number of winners, or those becoming sizably rich, was extremely negligible out of the entire population. The vast majority was doomed to work in miserable jobs, dreaming big, but being satisfied by at least having their own apartment with a mortgage to be repaid over the rest of their lives. If they had a decent pension, they should be satisfied. They were slaves to the system. They worked all their life and their children would need to work all their lives as well. There would be no real change for the working class.
The middle class was paying for everything, but they didn’t order the music. The majority didn’t rule, undermining the notion of democracy. Oligarchs in the East, just as magnates in the West, having disproportionate influence on governments and politicians, had lost any sense of social responsibility, succumbing only to greed.
The wave of mass protests and uprisings throughout the world was a precursor of that. In many instances, people couldn’t even formulate their demands. However, deep inside they felt that they were being screwed. And indeed they were. I was glad I had chosen not to bow to this system and skipped the career of engineer or lawyer.
Most countries were just the same. Their basic motto was in quintessence, ‘bring in your money, no matter what its source, and we will worship you and you won’t have to pay any taxes for a very long time.’ Some countries, like Cyprus, Australia and others even established official citizenship programmes for ‘investors,’ ‘entrepreneurs’ and ‘businessmen,’ applicable similarly to all kind of crooks, drug dealers, and the likes. The only criterion of these programmes was bringing into the country a sufficiently large amount of money.
How did I reconcile for myself these thoughts with abusing any weakness of any country, where I didn’t care to litter? Well, I didn’t. I knew myself all too well to fight my own instinct and nature. A snake is a snake. I was a natural born swindler. Being the first one to plunder valuable assets and exploit corrupt political systems, didn’t mean that I thought that the states shouldn’t prevent these things. But if I stopped first, then my competitors would prevail and I wouldn’t reach my ultimate goal of conquering the summit of the billionaires’ chart.
I was confident that the current policies in countries bowing to big capital represented a hazard to me and other billionaires. I was perfectly aware that most people hated and felt envious of the nouveau riches. In this modern era the information about benefits and other incentives was made known to the general public, and thus hatred and envy multiplied.
Take Ukrainians, who were probably one of the most inert nations on earth. Perhaps the vodka made them inactive. It took something big to move them. However, even they were all out on the streets, once they felt that they were blatantly deprived of their choice of the president during the Orange Revolution.
Their bellies were full with corruption going on around them and general despair. But they needed a momentum or very specific cause to take it out. Too bad for them that their high expectations of the new rulers that they brought to power on their own shoulders had disappointed them miserably. Nothing really changed for the better.
However, since those people felt once that their march mattered; they might do it again, if the circumstances called for it. Considering the strained and gloomy atmosphere in which Ukraine was submerged after the anarchy ended around 2010, my intuition told me that such a moment might well present itself in the not too distant future.
***
From higher matters I returned back to myself and switched to cognac. I was forty years old, a significant milestone. Just surviving in my business and reaching such a distinguished age was an achievement. Forty is the perfect time for a mid-life crisis. When you’re young, in your twenties, you’re full of hopes and aspirations. You have high expectations about the future and you’re too naive and inexperienced to manage them. All your future lies ahead of you. The world belongs to the young and you’re one of the owners.
Normally, when you reach forty you realise that you haven’t achieved everything that you wanted and you’re unlikely to achieve your targets. With age comes real life experience. It allows you to manage your expectations more realistically. Unfortunately, with age you also lose the energy of youth and start to reminisce on how good you were when you were young. As the saying goes, as I get older, I was better.
My mind focused on my current reality, which wasn’t too bad. I looked out at the olive trees, the glass-like still waters of the Med, and the white sandy beach below me. Not too shabby, I reminded myself. I was smoking a Cohiba Esplendido cigar, which was considered by Che Guevara himself as a super-premium smoke, drinking XO Remy Martin cognac and casually thinking about the project in Belarus.
A meeting to move ahead on the project was scheduled for the next day in Zurich. A few more projects were in the pipeline and the prospects were promising. Life was good; I really shouldn’t complain.
I wandered back to the living room and flopped onto the sofa. Absent-mindedly I flicked on the television, and ironically there was a soap opera playing that was set in the world of Russian oligarchs. The scenes were supposed to describe the reality that was part of my life, so it was amusing for me to watch how people like me were perceived by the outside world. It was so naive. The way Russian oligarchs and their connections with the mafia were portrayed was just ridiculous and far-fetched.
I switched the TV off and threw the remote control onto the table.
“Fucking ridiculous,” I said to myself. “Making out we’re all gangsters and murderers.”
As I lay there, bored out of my mind, I heard noises coming from the kitchen.
“Tanya?” I called out. “Is that you, my darling?”
“Yes, I have some shopping to put away, be with you in a minute.”
I lay back with my hands behind my head. Tanya walked into the living room moments later and sat beside me.
“What a morning,” she complained, exhaling animatedly. “So many people at the market and it’s so hot today.”
“Poor Tanyusha,” I teased. “Why don’t you grab another bottle of cognac and we can toast my birthday once more.”
Tanya didn’t need asking twice. She moved to the drinks cabinet and returned with a bottle of XO and another glass.
As she poured the fresh glasses, I played with a couple of strands of her long brown curls.
“So Tanyusha, is it time for my special birthday blow job?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Have you been a good boss?” she whispered sultrily.
Tanya had been working for me for nearly five years, and was almost family. I liked to joke around with her and she usually answered back. Once in a while things went further than just joking.
I was generally faithful to Masha. Occasional slips, such as getting a blow-job from Tanya, weren’t a sexual relationship. There was nothing romantic or emotional involved. If it worked for Bill Clinton, the President of the United States, when he got a blow job from Monica Lewinsky, then it should work for me.
Admittedly, it was a bit of self-deceit, but I honestly thought that this was only a minor misbehaviour. I would never have a romantic relationship with another woman and betray Masha’s trust. I considered myself a modern man, unlike most of my Ukrainian and Russian colleagues, who weren’t faithful to their wives. I expected total loyalty from Masha and my close men and I repaid their loyalty with mine.
“I’m always a good boss,” I argued.
“Maybe another time, Romeo. Your bed is still warm from your wife’s body.”
“And now I’ve lost my libido. Thank you, Tanyusha.”
“Anytime, horny boss,” Tanya said, leaning over and gently squeezing my penis through my trousers.
“You’re such a tease. Maybe next time I won’t ask. I’ll take you when you least expect it.”
And with that, Tanya stood up and returned to the kitchen to grab her bag, and then left the apartment. I sat there drinking for a couple more hours, and as the sun went down I stepped out onto the balcony and took up my position overlooking the beach, restaurants and bars as the night-time lights were turned on. Tel Aviv was such a peaceful city, right in the middle of the crazy Middle East. Another year had passed, and still I had one thing to conquer. There was a Forbes’ Rich List to top. This was my Mount Everest.
“Onwards and upwards,” I said as a toast to myself, and drained the last of the amber liquid in my glass. It was time to go to sleep as I had a jet readied to make the early morning flight to Zurich to meet with our friends from Belarus.
31 The Road to Minsk
Zurich, 2013
The private jet landed in Zurich Airport just before noon. The project in Belarus was too important to be left for Boris and David, and although I trusted them both implicitly, I wanted to personally test the waters.
Through Boris’ connections we were able to organise for the Chairman of the State Committee on Tenders of Belarus to meet me for a couple of hours. It goes without saying that we paid all his expenses, which included first class flights, a five star hotel, top-class entertainment while in town, and some cash to cover all his miscellaneous expenses, trouble and valuable time. I wanted to understand whether the tender was tightly rigged or surprises could be expected. I had a low tolerance for surprises.
We met for lunch at the two Michelin-starred restaurant at the Dolder Grand Hotel, where a private room had been specially arranged for the two of us. To clarify who was the boss, I waited outside the restaurant so I was ten minutes late. When I entered the room Kirill was already ordering his drink. I didn’t know Kirill but recognised him immediately from his photos on the internet. Boris called Kirill ‘The Consultant.’ He was in his sixties, below average height, overweight and balding.
“Vorotavich... Mikhail Vorotavich,” I introduced myself and extended my hand.
“Kirill Vishnevsky,” he replied and firmly shook my hand. A handshake tells a lot about a man. I don’t trust people with a weak handshake. Between ordering the food and its arrival I broached the subject of our meeting.
“Look, Kirill, I see Belarus as a major country in my global business network. Belarus and Ukraine are neighbours and it’s our national responsibility to promote our economies. The reason that I asked our mutual friends to arrange this meeting was that we want to participate in your country’s large-scale tenders. It’s important for us to receive fair treatment and a fair chance of competing and winning tenders where we can offer competitive terms.”
This was complete bullshit since I had put aside large amounts of money to pay the right people to ensure that the tenders would be anything but fair. However, I took a cautious approach. The recent case of two Israelis who were arrested for allegedly bribing the Georgian Minister of Justice was fresh in my mind.
“As you know, we have bid on the tender for the construction of the new highway between Moscow and Minsk for its Belarusian segment. This is a very important project for us,” I continued. “What do you think about our chances of winning the tender?”
“Can we speak openly?” Kirill asked in a soft voice.
“Sure, of course. I wouldn’t want it any other way,” I answered.
“The final decision will be made by the president himself,” Kirill explained. “I don’t know whether he’s yet to make up his mind or has already decided. At this stage we’re instructed to reduce the number of bids from six to three. Any new bids will be rejected.”
“I hope that we’re part of the remaining three,” I said, half-stating a fact and half asking a rhetorical question. “This is a strategic project for my group and a significant project for me personally.”
“You’re part of the remaining three. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have come to meet you in Switzerland,” Kirill reassured.
“It’s good to hear that we’re being appreciated by the Belarusian authorities. I understand that a company headed by the president’s nephew is also one of the bidders. Have you received any instructions about his company?” I asked.
I knew that if the winner of the tender hadn’t been known, a tender of that scale wouldn’t have been published. I was certain that Kirill knew already who was going to win.
“No, we haven’t received any such instructions. As per my experience we’ll receive instructions only after the tender is closed,” replied Kirill, like a practised actor.
I knew he was talking shit, and it was time for me to lay everything on the line.
“Look, Kirill, I know that you’re a loyal man of the president. You won’t do anything without getting his instructions and anything you do is in line with such instructions. I appreciate loyalty. We have a reasonable basis to assume that our bid is very good and very competitive. All I’m asking you is to keep me updated if at any stage in the process the wind blows not in our direction. Is that okay?” I said.
Without waiting for his response I added, “The country will remember its heroes, Kirill.”
I used the sentence that everyone knew was the code for a payment for services. At the same time I removed a white note out of my pocket and wrote ‘1,000,000 US dollars’ on it. After Kirill nodded, probably taking a second to count twice the number of zeros, I put the note back in my pocket.
One million dollars was an excessive amount by Belarusian standards. According to the background information that was collected for me, Kirill wasn’t used to such amounts. I was sure that this sum was higher by at least one zero than any payments that he had received so far. However, I had a few reasons to spoil him.
Although not a youngster, Kirill was a rising star in Belarus and was in the president’s close circle. The regime in Belarus was considered strong and I was certain that the Chairman of the State Committee on Tenders of Belarus wasn’t the highest position that Kirill was going to reach before retiring. Paying him above his expectations was a long-term investment. I had no doubt that this was a worthwhile investment with high expected returns.
In addition, there were reasons to get Kirill on my side for this particular tender. This was a strategic tender for Neplokho and our first foot in the door of Belarus. If Kirill reported to the president on bribes, and he probably did, the payment to Kirill would put us in a positive standing with the big boss. We would come across as being generous. Even when it was said that the tender was closed, at the magnitude of this tender I couldn’t be sure at any stage. The winning bidder could be thrown away if the president got upset.
“Thank you for meeting me, Kirill. It’s been a pleasure. And please, the suite is at your disposal if you want to stay on a few days. Anything you want, just have a word at the front desk and it’ll be added to my account. Also, my driver is available to you to take you anywhere you wish to go.”
“That is very generous, Misha,” he said with a smile.
I already knew he was booked on an early evening flight back to Minsk, and was to chair a special meeting the following morning. It pays to do your research and to have people on the inside.
“Kirill, let’s stay in touch then. See you soon.”
I left Zurich with a good feeling about the project in Belarus. I felt that we could work with Kirill and I didn’t expect any nasty surprises.
32 From the Shadows
Kaliningrad, 2013
The armoured Mercedes left the centre of Kaliningrad and swept along the empty highway that led out of the city. The highway soon changed to a single lane, badly maintained road that was lined either side by a never-ending sea of weeping willows.
“How ironic,” The Russian Minister of Defence thought to himself as he stared out of the blacked-out window. “This authentic German city of Konigsberg adjoined to Russia in the aftermath of World War II remained Rus
sian, while Ukraine and Belarus broke away. That’s some real nonsense. As always, the army has to amend what the silly politicians did in 1991.”
The car sped through miles of open countryside, divided into antiquated farms where people still toiled by hand for a meagre living. The car continued south, where the meeting had been arranged at an old dacha that belonged to a mutual friend - a retired general who also served with the ministers in Afghanistan.
The eighty mile trip was more uncomfortable than anticipated, as the driver couldn’t avoid every dip and pothole on the neglected roads, historically built by Germans. Thankfully, after two hours of torture, the Mercedes slowed down, and pulled into a side road that led away from the main route south. Several kilometres later, the obviously once-magnificent old dacha came into view.
“Thank god for that,” the minister muttered in relief. “Any longer and my back will be playing up for weeks.”
The driver pulled around the side of the house, and parked up out of plain sight, under the ubiquitous willow trees, and next to three almost identical Mercedes. The driver opened the rear door and helped the aged minister exit the vehicle.
“Thank you. Stay with the car,” the minister ordered the young driver, as he headed to the side entrance to the dacha.
Without needing to knock, the door opened and a Russian officer met the visitor with: “I serve the Soviet Union,” a formal army greeting used in the USSR, and showed him to the meeting room.
“Your colleagues are already here, comrade General,” the officer informed the minister. “Please, go ahead.”
Rise of an Oligarch: The Way It Is: Book One Page 25
