“Now,” continued Kirill not expecting any obstruction, “my bosses cannot endure the Russian pressure forever. But they do want to do the deal with you, not because of your beautiful eyes, but because you’ll make them very rich.”
“So where do we go from here?” Boris asked, surprised at the hint of a way out of the mess.
“What I’m empowered to offer is that you have a fortnight from today to organise a letter of credit, confirmed by a ‘Triple A’ bank, securing your payment, and payable against signed contract for the construction of the highway. Obviously, this demand isn’t on the tender’s official criteria. But this is a small adjustment that we have to make, given the circumstances. I hope that you can organise it, Boris, as we sincerely prefer working with you and not with the arrogant Russian cunts trying to get in our way.”
“Thank you for your honesty. I’ll pass on the instructions to the board,” Boris lied.
The meeting was over, everything was crystal clear. Boris had two weeks to arrange for the down payment and Neplokho would win the tender. If he didn’t arrange it in time, the Russians would take it.
Kirill cordially offered to take Boris to the airport, so this visit wasn’t so inhospitable after all. However, the bottom line was that the project seemed lost. Only Misha could organise the letter of credit with only a few signatures on banking instruction forms.
Boris called John and instructed him to get all the papers prepared anyway and have them at the hospital in the hope that Misha would wake and provide his signature. While conceding that it was probably a futile gesture, Boris wasn’t willing to give up just yet.
At least Boris was on his way back to Kiev alive, and for that he felt a sense of relief. He could’ve ended up as worm food in one of the forests of Belarus.
35 The Pearl of the Black Sea
Odessa, 2013
David stood outside the airport and let the sun warm his face. The old outdated terminal was packed with holidaymakers as Odessa’s high season got into full swing and it was a full ten minutes before he spotted Maksym, the deputy director of the Odessa steel subsidiary.
David knew Odessa well, having spent many a summer weekend hanging out in Arcadia, the famous beach and recreation area. But this trip was purely business, and David was apprehensive of what he was going to discover.
Finally, he saw Maksym, who was looking around frantically, resembling a meerkat as his head swept left and right. With pleasantries quickly out of the way, they were soon in a car heading out of town to the industrial centre where the steel factory was located.
An hour later they entered the huge business park and turned towards the steel factory. The factory was approached by a long, fairly straight road so that the entrance was clearly in view from a few hundred metres away. As they neared the steelworks, David could make out a large group of young men hanging around the main gate, looking like they were ready to storm it.
“Damn, it looks like it is about to kick off,” David exclaimed.
“It has been like this for a couple of days now; I’m surprised they haven’t got inside yet,” Maksym replied with a shake of the head.
“I don’t fancy trying to get through that lot.”
“Don’t worry. The fools don’t know we have a back entrance.”
They were coming up to a small slip road. Maksym steered the car off the main road and drove slowly along what was nothing more than a track that led to the rear of the factory.
Once inside, David followed Maksym to the manager’s office and was introduced to the factory chief, Arsen, a middle-aged nervous looking man.
“So we have a situation here. What’s the latest news?” David asked.
“Well, all those characters outside are waiting for a court enforcement officer with a court writ. I spoke with Odessa’s police chief, but he’s not going to intervene. He says it’s a commercial dispute not criminal, so whatever was the court’s ruling he doesn’t care. He warned me that if justice is obstructed though, he might hold me personally responsible for any tragic consequences.”
“I assumed we had a good working relationship with the police chief.”
“So did I. I’ve drank so much vodka with that guy, that if he says such things to me, it means he has very clear orders from Kiev and it’s not in his deliberation anymore.”
“How many men did you receive from the Anti-Mafia people?”
“Thirty,” Arsen answered. “And two MPs are on site to hopefully prevent the hooligans from daring to smash down the gates.”
“So we’re clearly outnumbered,” David thought to himself, mumbling it aloud. “And I fear the presence of MPs means nothing to the crowd outside.”
The report was abruptly interrupted as somebody started to knock loudly on the main gate, which could be clearly heard from Arsen’s office window.
“Fine. Let’s see what’s up there. Maybe the courier has brought our pizza order,” David joked, hoping to raise morale. Nobody smiled. He, Arsen and the two members of parliament went to the gate.
Arsen opened a small metal window in the security booth and said, “We’re closed. Not receiving scrap metal today,” treating the visitors as metal thieves bringing stolen metal to trade as scrap for a few peanuts.
“Very funny,” David heard a male voice answer from outside. “I’m state enforcement officer Ivan Grachyov and here is the beneficial owner of the factory and its director. Under court order #54/2013 you’re hereby required to transfer all factory’s assets, documents and territory to this man.”
David had to see who the supposed new owner and director was, so he pushed Arsen aside for a second to take a glance. David coughed with laughter when he saw the ‘new owner’ standing nervously beside the enforcement officer. He was a young man, barely out of his teens wearing a badly fitting, shabby suit and tie and big unfashionable glasses. Clearly the kid was just somebody’s dummy, and the real opponents preferred to remain incognito.
Next to the kid stood a rough-looking man with a lazy eye. Something stirred at the back of David’s mind, but he couldn’t quite bring it to the fore. The crowd started chanting and yelling threats, and when they began waving their arms around and punching the air, David noticed another identifying feature of the man. He was missing two fingers. While he had never seen the man before, David had listened to Misha’s stories about his humble beginnings in Kiev. He knew straight away that the man was Nazar.
Switching places with Arsen again, David let him continue the conversation with the official.
“It’s nice to meet you, gentlemen, we were unaware that somebody bought our Odessa subsidiary of Ukraine Metallum. Let me see the papers.”
Once the papers were passed through the window, Arsen started to read them, as if he hadn’t had the same set of documents photocopied three days before at the court’s archive. Arsen was buying time.
David took the chief security officer of the steelworks to one side and spoke quietly so only they could hear.
“You don’t bring seventy-something bandits and keep them restless for hours just for the menace. They have a clear purpose, a job to be done. Start calling all correspondents, TV channels and anyone you know who could give us media exposure. Tell them to send TV cameras down here now. Tell them anything you want, just to make sure they come. You can tell them that foreign investors are being raided, women are being gang raped or that extra-terrestrial aliens have just landed here. It doesn’t matter. Just get them to send a crew down here right away.”
But it was too late. Before he’d finished relaying his orders, a tear gas grenade landed next to David. He instinctively rubbed his eyes, but he felt weak and numb. Another grenade was launched over the gate and David felt himself on the verge of fainting.
“This is no ordinary tear gas,” was the last thought that entered David’s mind before the blackness shrouded him.
***
David woke with a fuzzy brain, feeling like he’d been on a week-long bender of booze and drugs. He
shook his head to clear the muzziness, but it was to no avail. He squinted around the room, unsure where he was, but didn’t recognise anything. He wasn’t tied up, which was a good sign. As his senses cleared a little, he thought that his arm ached terribly. He lifted the offending limb and realised it was in a plaster cast.
“Ah, you’re awake,” someone said. David rubbed his eyes and squinted in the direction of the voice. It was Arsen.
“You missed all the action, pal.”
“What happened? I remember the tear gas, but after that it’s just a blur.”
“I’m afraid you took most of the initial blast, and it wasn’t ordinary tear gas.”
“That makes sense...When I was in the Israeli Defence Force I probably inhaled more tear gas than you could imagine.”
“I don’t doubt that, David.”
“So what happened after the gas?”
“They stormed the factory. A bulldozer smashed through the gates and the MPs fled out the back door.”
“Did the TV cameras arrive in time?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Damn. I should’ve thought of it earlier. How did my arm break?”
“As they started to storm the gate we retreated and pulled you inside my office. You were unconscious. The guy who was carrying you probably inhaled the gas and fell on your arm as he collapsed.”
“Fuck.”
“The Anti-Mafia fighters fought back, and at one point it looked like the attack might be unsuccessful. But then another five trucks full of fighters entered the compound and I ordered our men to stand down before there was a total bloodbath.”
Arsen had made the right decision by stopping the fight. Further resistance was pointless and clearly would’ve resulted in casualties. The attackers occupied the factory, and took the documentation and corporate seal. The control, both legal and physical, was lost.
The battle was lost. Were they about to lose the war?
36 Friends
Kiev, 2013
Denis Filatov and I were sitting in a café in Kiev, smoking Cuban cigars and drinking single malt scotch whiskey. Just as Kirill the Consultant was a rising star in Belarus, Denis was a rising star in the Ukrainian business elite.
He was about my age. His hair was darker than coal. Obviously he was dying it to conceal grey hairs. For me men who dyed their hair were vain. They weren’t aging gracefully, trying to deceive the world about their true vintage year. It was fine for women to do so, since they needed to look pretty and ageless. But for men?
Denis started his career working for me as the head of the transport and commodity department of Neplokho Commodities. I knew when and how much he stole in his dodgy deals with suppliers and customers. However, Denis, the crook knew how to bring money for the Group too, so I kept him as long as I could control him.
He left the Group when he saw an opportunity to take over a truck factory in Kremenchuk. However, we remained in an amicable relationship. He didn’t betray my trust so there was no reason to punish him. He made sure to tell everyone that I was his business guru. It was good PR.
Denis lit a cigar that I offered him, finished his whiskey, waived his empty glass to the waiter to fetch him another one and complained,
“Misha, I don’t believe this country has a future anymore. Now I’ve heard that the president’s family wants to take over Ukraine’s entire automotive industry. And you know how these things are done. You receive an offer to sell your holdings for one tenths of their value. If you don’t it’s a suicide since the police, SBU, tax, bandits and every fucking other authority are on you the minute the deadline for accepting the offer expires. I don’t feel that comfortable here anymore. If they put an eye on my factory, I don’t think that even you could help me.”
“Well, I don’t know, Denis. I can be in the same position myself. I hope it never comes to it. But if you need something, let me know. I’ll see what I can do,” I replied, already sensing that this was a theoretical preamble to a practical question that Denis was going to ask.
And indeed, I knew him well, as he jumped on my offer.
“Thanks a lot, Misha. I really don’t know how you manage to make money in this country being such a kind person. There’s one thing that you could help me with. I know that you retain the best possible security in this dangerous country. I’m beefing up my security personnel to regain a bit of confidence and I would really appreciate it if you could send Arthur for a few days to train them in Kremenchuk, once I have it ready.”
“You can count on it,” I replied, relieved that he didn’t ask for more complicated favours.
I often asked Denis to bid in tenders in which I needed a dummy competitor. These favours weren’t free. Denis knew how to leverage my political connections for his benefit when he needed something in return. While we had good relations and we often went out together, I couldn’t call Denis a friend. I knew that he would sell me out without thinking twice if the situation made it worthwhile for him. He probably wouldn’t think twice before selling his own sister if enough money was involved.
“With friends like Denis, who needs enemies,” I thought to myself.
37 The Investigation
Kiev, 2013
David, still recovering from his trip to Odessa, flew from Israel to Kiev to meet with Boris and Andrei to discuss how the investigation into Misha’s shooting was progressing. As was becoming all too common recently, the meeting didn’t go ahead as planned. Andrei decided to stay in Moscow to closely monitor what he described as a rapid unfolding of events there, so he suggested holding a conference call instead of a face-to-face meeting. Arthur, who was in Israel protecting Misha, was added to the call. When they all dialled in, overcoming the usual technical difficulties of hosting a call from three different countries, Boris gave Andrei the order to begin.
“I had someone look into our friend Denis, as Arthur requested.”
“I knew that snake would be involved somehow,” Boris spat. “And what did your man discover?”
“He discovered that Denis has been meeting with Zoltan Lazarev, a senior director at Russia Highways, which won the tender for the Russian segment of the new highway between Moscow and Minsk.”
“That’s very interesting, Andrei,” Boris said.
“And why is that?” David asked, as he didn’t see the connection.
“Denis worked for Neplokho Commodities, before he went on his own and bought a truck factory in Kremenchuk.”
“Well, my man started following Denis around the clock. They saw Denis also meeting with Natalia Myasnikova,” continued Andrei.
Boris hit the table with his fist.
“Blyad suka. The bitch! Were those intimate meetings?” he roared. Boris had been fucking Natalia for the past six months. From plain jealousy his mind jumped to a more sinister idea, “She has been working with Denis. She has been sleeping with me to try to get info,” he screamed, shaking his head. “The fucking bitch!”
“Yes, this is our suspicion,” Andrei continued. “I’m sorry, Boris. Have you told her anything about the project in Belarus?”
“Perhaps...general details? You know how it is. The bitches are impressed when you tell them about big deals and anyway the project isn’t exactly a secret. How the hell could I know that the bitch was sent to spy on me? What is she, some kind of Mata Hari?”
There was silence for a few seconds as everyone contemplated the information that Andrei had shared with them so far. Boris broke the silence.
“You know what? I was supposed to meet the bitch after we had the meeting when Misha was shot. She knew when and where we were going to be. Maybe she worked with the assassins. Maybe she gave them the details so they could shoot Misha.”
“I’ve consulted with some people in Israel. People whose opinion I trust. They said that Misha was shot by professionals based on precise intelligence. They knew when and where he was going to be. They were likely working with a mole inside our group. I bet Natalia gave them the info,” D
avid added.
“So,” Andrei continued, “we suspect that Natalia was working with Denis to provide information about the project in Belarus to Zoltan. Zoltan and Russia Highways have a clear motive to get us out of the picture. One possible conclusion is that they chose to do so by taking out Misha. Another incriminating fact against Denis is that he had asked Misha to send Arthur to Kremenchuk just before the assassination attempt. It was convenient for the attackers to remove Arthur so our defences were weaker. However, we have no proof yet that connects them with the assassination attempt and I’m not sure whether we will. All we have is circumstantial evidence, not a direct link.”
“Then keep looking,” Boris said angrily.
“It gets more complicated than this. We tapped Zoltan’s mobile after we suspected that he was involved. We intercepted a call made to Ruslan Sanayev, a former director in the JV between Ukraine Metallum and the economic department of Chechnya. As you remember, we took over the JV in 2005 and the Chechens got really upset. Apparently, Zoltan has been keeping Ruslan updated with the details of the tender for the highway. Ruslan asked Zoltan to speak with the White Tiger to clear the ground for new players, as he phrased it.”
“Who the fuck is White Tiger?” demanded Boris.
“We don’t know.”
“Then find out. We must conclude that the Chechens are trying to get their bid into the tender, and this could be killing two birds with one stone for them: taking revenge on Misha for taking over the JV and taking over a major infrastructure project in Belarus, snatching it from us and the Russians.”
Rise of an Oligarch: The Way It Is: Book One Page 27
