Red Wolves & White Knights

by Peter Kysel

  The dealer had arranged a circuit driving experience and the instructor encouraged me to test the car’s limits. I was astonished at how far the car could be pushed. I learned how to test the emergency brakes, flying starts, power slid­ing, drifting and taking evasive action. The harder I drove the car, the better it responded. I was determined to learn more.

  “I could organise a training course for you in Germany,” offered the dealer, when I called to thank him.

  “Could you also arrange for me to meet the team that assembled my car?” I asked, pushing my luck.

  “You can meet the engineer who assembled the engine,” explained the dealer.

  I called Porsche at Zuffenhausen and arranged to meet the finance director. Our team at the time, liked the concept of investing in luxury goods companies. The argument was simple. Western society was reaching levels of affluence, at which luxury goods were coming within reach of masses of potential customers.

  People were becoming aspirational and hungered after pleasurable luxuries. Porsche made desirable cars and was achieving large profits. It was a great investment. The share price rose from €10 in 1998, to €160 ten years later.

  #

  Frankfurt am Main Dinner

  I went on a business trip to Germany in May 2001 in my new car, visiting companies in the motorcar industry and enjoying unlimited speeds on autobahns. I watched Carreras being assembled in the Porsche factory and shook hands with the engineer who had assembled the engine and road tested my car.

  On the way out, I noticed the trucks delivering compo­nents, which came from all around Europe. As the earlier trucks were leaving, I asked about timing.

  “We allocate a twenty-minute delivery slot,” my guide explained

  “What if they are late?” I wondered. The answer was brutal.

  “If we run out of components, the production line stops, and the supplier has to pay for lost output.” No excuses accepted. There were no parking facilities for trucks any­where near the factory.

  “If trucks arrived early, they have to circle the city until their slot came up.”

  I was planning to end my trip with a two-day advanced driving course, when Michael telephoned and suggested a meeting. We agreed to meet in Frankfurt for dinner, in the Main Tower restaurant, on the 53rd floor of a recently com­pleted skyscraper.

  “We’ll be able to see all of Frankfurt from there, so we won’t need to tour the city itself,” joked Michael. We watched the sky changing colours and darkening, as night descended, and the streets and surrounding buildings lit up.

  Russia had elected Vladimir Putin as president. All the oligarchs were firmly entrenched, and the country was looking forward to a more stable future. However, Michael came up with some unsettling news.

  “Confrontation is brewing in Moscow. Borby wants to be rewarded for orchestrating the president’s election, but his crass behaviour has antagonised Putin. His main patron, and protector, Boris Yeltsin, has been pensioned off.”

  “Borby’s not happy with his $3 billion?” I asked amused and Michael nodded

  “He believes he is the kingmaker. He is demanding more money and more influence than he had over Yeltsin and expects immunity from his siphoning of money from Aeroflot and AvtoVAZ.” We both chuckled when I asked

  “So Borby didn’t realise that thousands of FSB’s agents were on Aeroflot’s payroll? Are they now demanding Borby’s head?” Michael nodded.

  “He didn’t care that they lost their jobs. They despise him and his sidekick Glouskov, who had his hands directly in the till. Borby still controls the ORT Television Channel 1 and Kommersant newspaper. He is convinced that his media influence gives him the edge over the FSB, but that’s naive.” The news was serious. Boris Berezovsky was boorish and greedy. I asked,

  “So, there will be a confrontation?”

  “Certainly, Putin won’t be pushed. He’s got the FSB behind him. They want Boris dead. Borby’s closest allies seem to be the oligarchs Khodorkovsky and Abramovich.” I ordered another bottle of wine. This gave me time to absorb this news. Russia was about to turn in a new direction. Keeping my voice even, I suggested,

  “Borby survived an assassination attempt in 1994. He must realise that he is the target of another one. Where do the other oligarchs stand?”

  “Khodorkovsky has political ambitions and is ready to challenge Putin. In a recent closed session with the oli­garchs, Putin spelled out to them individually how much they had pilfered. Khodorkovsky appointed himself as their spokesman and in response, lectured Putin on the sanctity of property rights, the rule of law and democracy.” I couldn’t restrain myself and laughed aloud. The other diners turned their heads, annoyed, so I calmed down, but the idea of a vulture lecturing anyone on justice and democracy was priceless.

  “Mikhail Khodorkovsky is building a great image in the West. He talks about how he advocates democracy, liberal capitalism and the rule of law. The Western media and investors love his moral grandstanding. Nobody thinks to question him about how he made his billions. His Surgutneftegas is a favourite Russian stock,” I said, but Michael shook his head.

  “Western support is counterproductive. Russia under Putin is driven by religion and nationalism, and the country is becoming xenophobic. Khodorkovsky has made a big mis­take by courting foreign support,” Michael said flatly, before completing his assessment.

  “Borby counts on the fact that Abramovich will maintain good relations with the Kremlin and will act as his bridge to Putin. I think that Borby and Khodorkovsky should sell their holdings in Russia and move their money abroad, before it’s too late.” I was now thinking

  Michael, aided by Nina, had developed a remarkable network of contacts. His information is good, but dangerous.

  #

  Car Chase

  We met for breakfast at Michael’s hotel, Villa Kennedy, south of the river. I checked out of the Steigenberger Hof Hotel and drove to meet him. Michael was waiting at the entrance and asked, not bothering to suppress his excitement

  “Will you have time to take me for a spin? I have never been in a Carrera.” I was happy to share the thrill with him.

  “OK, we’ll go after breakfast, I didn’t know you were interested in cars,” I said, and he looked at me with surprise.

  “You know that every man gets excited about sports cars.” It was a sunny day and I followed him into the court­yard for breakfast. We went through the principles of his acquisition of CAIC. When we finished business, Michael cleared his throat and said with a smile,

  “I have wonderful news. Nina called me last night. She is pregnant.”

  “That’s fantastic Michael. Congratulations. Have you told your parents?” Michael then turned to practical issues.

  “Yes, we have, but after them, you’re the first person to know. We need to decide where to live. We are going to continue running our business in Russia but will also open a branch in London. The Russians move $50 billion out of the country, annually. Investing the money in the west gives us plenty of business opportunities.” I nodded.

  “Well, you’ve got ten years of experience. I look forward to seeing more of you in London.” We left the dining room and walked to the car.

  “I’ll drive out of Frankfurt, south on the A5 towards Darmstadt. Then we’ll return along smaller roads and I’ll drop you off at your hotel.”

  “That sounds good, let’s go” The traffic was light, and we soon joined the A5 autobahn. Drivers in Germany are disciplined, they don’t hog the fast lanes, so I was able to show off the car’s acceleration and speed. When we passed the airport, I noticed that we were being followed by a black Mercedes C200. I pointed this out to Michael. I tried alter­nately to either lose him, or let him overtake us, but the Mercedes remained stubbornly on our tail. We both tensed.

  “There is no reason for the police to be following us. The Russians have no reason to be following me” I said slowly and looked at Michael

  “I didn’t realise that I was being be
en followed,” he responded. At that moment the driver of the Mercedes became more aggressive. He tailed us, flashing his lights, overtook us, and then slowed down to let us pass. He was driving to intimi­date. Michael watched closely and said with alarm,

  “The passenger in that Mercedes seems to be holding a gun. Please step on it.” I accelerated into the fast lane beyond 100 miles per hour, to shake off the pursuer. The Mercedes caught up and was abreast with us in the middle lane. Michael looked across and shouted,

  “That man is pointing a gun.” I glanced sideways to see a man staring at me through the open window. The pas­senger was hidden by the driver, but I was anxious. We were approaching slow-moving traffic. Suddenly, a large tanker began to move across into the middle lane, to over­take another truck. The driver steered into the path of the Mercedes, which had no chance to break, and ploughed into the wheels of the tanker. The tanker veered into the fast lane and began to lose control.

  Instinctively, I raised myself from the seat, floored the accel­erator pedal and flipped the Carrera left and right, out of reach of the tanker’s cabin. The Porsche lurched forward, just escaping the impact. It was almost flying, approaching the traffic ahead of us at a frightening speed, but the car remained completely responsive. Its four-wheel drive and fat tyres, aided by an onboard computer ensured that the car moved wherever I pointed it, without losing its grip.

  Everything appeared to be moving in slow motion. I stood up in the seat again and floored the brakes, to slow the car down. We came close to stopping. More relaxed now, I glanced in the rear mirror. The tanker’s cabin had hit the central partition of the autobahn. It spun around and the tanker slowly rolled onto its side. The slower moving truck crashed into it. Together they blocked all three lanes of the autobahn. I adjusted our speed to fifty miles per hour and moved into the slow lane. Michael looked around.

  “No one is following us. The autobahn behind us is blocked. Keep driving slowly. If another car follows us, it will be very obvious.” The autobahn ahead of us was eerily free of traf­fic. We were the only car to escape the blockage. Michael tuned the radio on to the American Forces Network, wait­ing for news about the pileup. When the traffic report was broadcast, to our relief, the announcer did not mention any individual cars.

  “Let’s turn off the autobahn, calm down and decide what to do,” suggested Michael. I took the autobahn exit before Heidelberg and continued along country roads. We were still driving south, away from Frankfurt. Nobody was fol­lowing us.

  We found a coffee shop in a small village and parked the car out of sight. My legs buckled under me as I tried to get out. Feeling weak and uncoordinated, I spread my arms over the car roof, for support. It took me several minutes to restore my balance. I was shaking as I walked into the coffee shop behind Michael, gradually realising the significance of our last hour on the road. We ordered a large pot of coffee and strudel at the counter and sat down in the far corner of the room without saying a word.

  The cafe was almost empty and none of the other custom­ers paid any attention to us. I went to the Gents to wash my face. When I returned Michael said, “I phoned Nina in Moscow and told her to catch the first flight out of Moscow. She will go to a hotel in Vienna, keeping a low profile and wait for me. I told her that I’ll join her there in a few days. I need to go to a safe place to think this incident through.”

  “Call your hotel in Frankfurt, check out and have your baggage sent straight to your flat in London. I’ll drive you to a safe house in Bohemia, where you can lay low for a few days before meeting up with Nina.”

  I took a few days of holiday and told Florisse that I would be delayed returning to London. Then I called Mr Kratochvíl in Southern Bohemia. As a family, we often rented his farm­house and the adjacent 17th century water mill, at Penikov, near Český Rudolec, for holidays. The farmhouse was avail­able, and Mrs Kratochvíl agreed to get it ready for us. She kindly offered to do some shopping and leave some dinner. I told Michael the arrangements.

  “That’s a sensible plan,” agreed Michael and called Villa Kennedy to check out. Outside the cafe, we dropped our SIM cards into a passing rubbish truck. Then we jumped on our mobiles to destroy them and buried the bits under a tree. Back in the car, we drove along the A6 through Heilbronn to Nuremberg, where we turned onto the A3 to Passau and then across the border towards České Budějovice in Bohemia. We stopped twice on the way, to buy new German and Czech mobiles, reaching the house by 6 pm. I parked the car inside the barn and locked the gates.

  First, we checked over the property, including the mill, for any unwelcome visitors. Michael discovered a cave in the meadow on a hill, sloping towards the farm. He even crawled inside to make sure that nobody was hiding there.

  “The cave is empty. It’s almost twenty meters long and completely dry,” he reported when he came out.

  “Mr Kratochvíl told us that it had been part of an access tunnel to a silver mine, centuries ago.” Having completed our search, we locked up and went inside. Mrs Kratochvíl had left dinner ready for us. We switched on the news. The morning pile-up and the blockage of the autobahn was being reported on the radio and we later watched it on German television, but there was no mention of any specific cars. We agreed to keep a low profile, making no telephone calls for the duration of our stay.

  I waited for Michael to sort out his thoughts, before asking him any questions. I lit a log fire, while Michael switched on the oven to warm up our dinner. We ate in silence and drank Pilsner Urquell which Mr Kratochvíl had left in the fridge. After dinner, I poured two generous glasses of scotch. We sat down in front of the fire.

  “To your health,” we said simultaneously and stared into the flames until Michael broke the silence

  “You saved our lives this morning,” I nodded.

  “I received lessons from Porsche on driving the Carrera. The instructor taught me how to handle emergencies and that gave me the confidence to trust the car, when I jumped on the accelerator and then on the brakes. I knew that the car was going to move wherever I pointed it and that the engine wouldn’t blow up.” I changed the topic.

  “Michael, my entire world has changed since the fall of com­munism in Europe. I witnessed all the most important events during the last two decades and participated in many of them. Nobody, with this type of direct experience, has ever come out to explain how these changes occurred. Yesterday, we could have died, and my story would have vanished into thin air. That episode on the autobahn was a signal to sit down and record my experiences.” Michael took the hint.

  “I got a different signal from this morning’s episode. I was being followed with no prior warning. I haven’t yet worked out who wanted to scare me, or even to kill me and why. You and I understand the Russian power triangle of poli­ticians, oligarchs and criminals. They are always involved with each other. Orders from politicians and oligarchs are often carried out by criminal gangs. Two contract killers died yesterday. Why were they hired?” I was listening care­fully and added,

  “You control a logistics company in Russia and that sector is largely in the hands of organised crime. You may have crossed one of them as a competitor. Perhaps they’ve got their own reasons to push you out of the business.” Michael took a piece of paper and began to jot down his thoughts.

  “I’ll write down all the possible reasons for my assassina­tion. When they see that I have survived, the protagonists may come forward with their demands.” That evening we went to bed early. The next day we continued over break­fast. I went first.

  “You know that the Russian mafiosi have a rule that they don’t harm family members. Russian criminal bosses send their families to live in Karlovy Vary, or Baden Baden to protect them. You may find these useful locations for Nina.”

  “I don’t expect the politicians and oligarchs to respect either their moral code of conduct, or their sanctuary,” said Michael, adding,

  “Putin is the president. We know that Borby offered him the candidacy last year, during
their meeting in Biarritz, and encouraged the oligarchs to finance his election. Perhaps I was targeted because of that knowledge.” Michael’s concern affected me too.

  “We also know how oligarchs came by their wealth under Yeltsin.” We thought for a moment, but I shook my head and said,

  “That information about Putin and the oligarchs is semi-public already, so it would not warrant our assassina­tion. Are there any other sensitive issues that involve you personally, Michael?” He was lost in thought for a while and then suggested,

  “I need to think through some of my business transactions and let you know. Your idea about the logistics company could be a reason.” We finished our breakfast and picked up two bicycles for a ride in the southern Bohemian countryside. Riding through the woods, it occurred to me that

  “Borby had plenty of secrets to hide. He also imported Mercedes cars. Could he be behind the intimidation?”

  “We have not had any conflicts. Those guys in the Mercedes must work for someone else.” That information cheered me up a bit. We hit the pedals with increased vigour.

  “The last one to get to the next village pays for lunch” I shouted.

  Two days later, I gave Michael a lift to České Budějovice train station. He took the train to Vienna to be reunited with Nina. We were all taking precautions. Nina bought a new mobile phone in Austria to make the tracing of calls more difficult. I was driving my car with a temporary regis­tration number, which I was going to change for a person­alised number in London.

  I had one more job to do. A few hours later I picked up my half-sister Jitka from the bus station to drive to our father’s village in Drahonice.