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

  With those words, my immediate future was set in place. I would do as Sasha ordered and excel at my studies. Becoming an engineer or a doctor was never a dream, but I had to contribute to the family. If studying was my job, then I had to do it well.

  I soon discovered that excelling at school wasn’t only about being smart at studying hard, it was also about being smart at manipulating the system. In Soviet Ukraine you learned quickly that playing the system was the only way to get ahead in life.

  When I was fifteen, I sat an important physics exam. Yuri and I were walking home after school and comparing our answers, and to my horror I discovered that I had made a stupid mistake on one of the questions.

  It was my own fault - I’d been distracted by Olga, who was tall, thin, and blonde with blue eyes. My hormones were running wild and during the exam I spent more time daydreaming about what I wanted to physically do to Olga than concentrating on the physics questions.

  I was determined to correct my mistake at all costs, so I sneaked into the teacher’s office during a break between classes, found my paper, corrected the mistake and put the paper back into the pile. As I was about to leave, the teacher entered.

  “What are you doing in my room, Mikhail Vorotavich?”

  My heart was jumping out of my chest and I had to think fast. Luckily, I had noticed an ad for a physics contest on the school board the day before. Trying to keep a calm expression and a steady voice, I composed my reply.

  “I...err...I was looking for you to ask whether I could have your sponsorship for applying to the national physics contest for high school children.”

  The teacher looked at me through narrowed eyes, and I thought there was no way he’d believe such an obvious lie. My knees were trembling.

  “Well, Misha. That depends on how good your score is when I mark your exam. We shall see.”

  I thanked him and quickly left the office. I thought that I had barely escaped from being thrown out of school. This time my father wasn’t there to bail me out by paying the headmaster to give me another chance.

  A few days later the exam results were in, and I scored a perfect mark. The teacher was very impressed by my score and proudly agreed to sponsor me, not only because of the grade but also because I had the confidence to ask for his sponsorship. I won third place in the contest, but was disappointed that the prize was a series of physics books. Cash was more useful, so I sold the books for a few rubles.

  So, I was rewarded for cheating, not for studying hard. A good life lesson.

  ***

  Although we’d moved to another part of town after my father was sent away, I stayed at my school in the centre of Kiev. The commute was long - a fifteen minute walk to the Metro, forty five minute underground journey, and another twenty minute walk from the Metro station to school. Every day I passed our former apartment, spat on the ground and cursed the KGB, the authorities and the damn USSR that left me fatherless.

  The only thing that I was ashamed of was that I was the poorest kid in class. I tried to conceal it as much as I could. Anything that my classmates had and I didn’t, I just explained that I didn’t like it or didn’t need it. But deep inside, of course, I wanted the same things as everyone else, like a new school uniform each year or sausage sandwiches for the lunch break. My mother could afford only veggie sandwiches, as meat was too expensive for us.

  “Don’t expect things to just work out for you. If you want something, you need to put in the effort to achieve it. And if you do something, make sure that you take the time to do it properly,” my father used to say. I had to do something, both for myself and my family. I had to earn money somehow.

  Most of my classmates didn’t have such worries. They were the children of Ukraine’s elite - senior members of the communist party, high ranked army officers and distinguished state officials. Most of them didn’t give a shit about studies and grades; they knew that their parents would take care of their careers. The boys would join their father’s organisation and the girls, depending on their looks and family standing, would marry a man from a similar social class. They would focus on having children and looking pretty.

  Some, however, were afraid to take bad grades home, as violent punishments were common. As I was always short of cash, I used my brainpower to make some money by helping my schoolmates with their exams, earning a reputation of being smart and one ruble for my troubles.

  Next to our school was a small eatery - a foul place that served horrid-looking meat dumplings with sour cream. It was mostly haunted by drunkards, who came to check whether vodka supplies were already delivered, so that they could alleviate the effects of their hangover by getting drunk again. I looked completely out of place there, but I didn’t care. The dingy bistro, rarely visited by teachers or anyone other than the local boozers, was a perfect base for my little enterprise.

  Students got out during their test by saying that they needed to go to the toilet. They sneaked to the eatery with parts of their exam paper for me to solve. I answered the questions and gave the paper back to them when they had to go to the toilet again later on. Diarrhoea soon became a common ailment at our school. The worried parents even insisted on calling the sanitary services to enquire what was wrong.

  At that time, when an engineer’s monthly salary was around eighty rubles, one ruble was a considerable amount. It was a high-risk endeavour though, with very serious consequences. If any wrong ears had heard about my small business, I would’ve been severely punished. Not only because I was helping students to cheat in their exams, but also because any kind of entrepreneurial behaviour was considered capitalist influence and alien ideology. As preaching communist philosophy was a sin in America, running a profitable private business was a sin in the USSR. This was the bullshit that the communists fed us for decades.

  Once, I tried to give five rubles to my mother when we went to a bread shop. She lacked two rubles to buy a cake after spending an hour standing in the long queue. She didn’t refuse to take my money, but she beat me when we returned home. She was certain that I couldn’t have earned so much money by valid or legal means. Well, she was right. I didn’t push it and preferred not to explain my little scheme to her.

  I saved half of the money that I earned and spent the other half on luxury goods, such as books, vodka, and cigarettes imported from Bulgaria. In the USSR there was almost nothing from the United States or other capitalist countries - no American movies, no Levi’s jeans, no Marlboro cigarettes. Nothing. So Rodopi cigarettes from Bulgaria were as foreign and exotic as we could imagine back then.

  ***

  I graduated from high school when I was seventeen. Even though I spent the least amount of time attending classes, spending most of my time on the streets, I graduated second in class, thanks to my photographic memory. The top pupil was the son of two scientists and based on his pale skin and large, oversized glasses, he probably spent all his time studying. Usually I would see second place as failure, but I was content with my achievements at school.

  At the school’s graduation party, we spent all our efforts chatting up the girls from other classes since our class wasn’t blessed with many pretty girls, except for Olga. We tried our best to get the girls drunk, hoping that alcohol could get us a little action. But it didn’t. Alcohol wasn’t a stranger to these girls. It neither lubricated our way into their hearts nor their panties.

  After lucking out, we decided to go to one of my classmates’ house and drink until dawn. We raided the vodka from his parents’ cupboard. While many homes lacked bread, everyone had vodka - a staple in Ukrainian households. We spent the night talking about girls, football and the university entrance exams. Teenagers in Ukraine had the same interests as teenagers in the rest of the world. Getting drunk, getting laid and sports are universal activities for all teen boys.

  We liked our country but we hated communism in its distorted Soviet form. We had a dream that Ukraine declared war on America just to surrender the next day to be annexed to th
e United States. During the Cold War America was the enemy of the communists, and as my enemy’s enemy is my friend, we were on America’s side.

  I learned many lessons during my high-school days: the value of friendship, never snitching on your friends, the state is the enemy and manipulating it is a virtue not a sin, and if something is prohibited it means you just need to pay to make it allowed. But most importantly, and never forget it, the key to survival is to fly below the radar, unnoticed. Once noticed, you’re doomed. The state and your enemies would hunt you down.

  I didn’t know it but Ukraine was on the verge of a revolution. The end of the USSR was nigh. It would be the end of life as I knew it.

  3 The Meeting

  Tel Aviv, 2013

  Three days had passed since the operation. The patient was stable and his life wasn’t in immediate danger, but all tests confirmed he was in a coma. Doctor Rosen couldn’t say whether he was going to wake up in a month, a year or ever again. It was unclear whether he had suffered permanent brain damage. Was he the same man inside the motionless body?

  The initial shock had subsided and the enquiring calls from all over the world were answered. Now it was time to make pressing decisions. Boris invited the Group’s senior managers from Kiev, Moscow, Tel Aviv, Geneva, Sao Paulo, Luanda and Singapore to an urgent council meeting. To accommodate everyone, David rented a lavish villa in Herzliya Pituach, one of the wealthiest neighbourhoods in Israel, conveniently not far away from the Group’s Israeli headquarters.

  The villa’s main advantages were its high stone wall, its secluded location and its proximity to the sea. Arthur split the security detail so the majority could guard the villa, leaving six men to patrol the sea in three separate speed boats. As a final precaution, a luxury yacht was moored at the marina in case Arthur recommended holding a maritime meeting rather than onshore. Arthur always had a backup plan and an escape route.

  In keeping with Arthur’s usual strategy, the location for the rendezvous was determined at the last minute. All the senior managers gathered in one place would be too tempting a target for the Group’s enemies. Each person and vehicle would be checked when entering and exiting the grounds. Visitors were asked to remove batteries from their mobile phones to minimise the possibility for remote recording of conversations and GPS monitoring. The Group was under threat and Arthur didn’t take any avoidable risks.

  About a dozen black Mercedes and BMWs arrived. One by one the managers entered the villa and gathered in its spacious living room. The bodyguards and drivers waited outside, smoking and chatting with those they knew. Others stood straight-backed and silent, observing everything from behind dark sunglasses.

  As the guests made themselves comfortable, David casually wandered over to Boris.

  “Look at this place. Walls, armed guards, patrol boats in the sea. We didn’t take such measures even when I was in the military. This isn’t real. It looks like the base of a villain from a Bond movie.”

  “I know what you mean, but this is Arthur’s setup and after the shooting, who can be surprised at such a show?”

  “You’re right, of course. It just brings home what we have accomplished, and what we stand to lose.”

  “Defeat isn’t an option, David,” Boris whispered softly. “We have all worked too long and hard to capitulate without a fight.”

  A waiter entered the room and handed out the customary shots of vodka. Boris cleared his throat, raised his glass and proclaimed, “Na zdorovya! To the health of the boss!”

  The rest of the men raised their drink and chorused, “Na zdorovya! To the health of the boss,” and emptied their glasses in a single gulp. The gathering knew better than to leave a single precious drop. Communal vodka drinking was a holy ritual.

  “Gentlemen,” Boris continued, “if you would join me at the table, we have some business to discuss.”

  The group handed their glasses back to the waiter, and with formalities out of the way they each took a seat at the table. With everyone settled, Boris started the meeting.

  “Thank you all for arriving on such a short notice. You have all visited the hospital, so you’re acutely aware of the situation. Except for praying for a speedy recovery, there isn’t much more to say about that.”

  Boris paused and looked up to study the faces of his colleagues.

  “I assure you that the order and control of the Group remain solid. Everyone should keep calm and focus on the immediate objectives. We have a successful business and we owe it to ourselves to preserve it. You should all prepare for the possibility of hostile actions by competing groups that will likely try to use the situation to their advantage. We can’t show any sign of weakness. Together we stand strong. Together we are invincible.”

  The speech was met with silence. David shuffled nervously in his seat alongside Boris. Usually, the boss would head such a meeting and it wasn’t uncommon for a rousing speech to be followed by applause. He was the only one who had the full picture of all operations across the Group in his head. He remembered every small detail of every project across all the different businesses. His people admired him.

  Boris and David had to quickly learn everything. The boss had a talent not only to manage but also to lead. He knew how to engage and motivate people. He asked for everyone’s opinion, but he knew how to make the tough decisions. He wasn’t afraid to roll the dice and take risks. He had balls the size of a football.

  Everyone was concerned about the project in Belarus. The Group was bidding to construct the Belarus segment of a new seven hundred kilometre highway between Moscow and Minsk, and it was one of the largest projects the Group had undertaken so far. It was high profile and potentially massively profitable. The project’s code name was Highway to Heaven, and Boris was intent on ensuring that it wouldn’t end up as a highway to hell.

  ***

  Arthur secured a private room at the medical facility to remain close by. He constantly analysed the sequence of events in his mind. He had been in Kremenchuk, some three hundred kilometres south east of Kiev, when the assassination attempt happened. His mobile had rung, with David’s name displayed on the screen. A feeling of foreboding had swept over him at the time, as it was fairly unusual for David to call. Years of security work had given Arthur an acute sixth sense, and as he hit the answer button he already knew something serious had happened.

  “David. What’s up?”

  “He’s been shot. He’s not dead, but it’s bad. Really bad. Wrap up your business and get back here as soon as possible. We may be under attack.”

  Within just a few minutes, Arthur had jumped into his car and raced back to Kiev. His mind flooded with ideas of who could be brave - or stupid - enough to attempt to assassinate his boss.

  The first priority was to uncover who was behind it. He couldn’t leave the investigation in the hands of the Ukrainian police, which was both incompetent and untrustworthy and possibly in the pockets of the perpetrators. Whoever was courageous enough to sanction the hit must have some serious backing.

  While he was driving, Arthur called Andrei Topolski, the Group’s chief security officer in Moscow. Since the assassination attempt was made in Kiev, representing a failure of the Group’s local security personnel, someone impartial from another location was needed to conduct the investigation. Arthur’s attention could then be focused on protecting the boss. The phone was answered by a cold, monotone voice.

  “Yes.”

  “Andrei, this is Arthur.”

  “Hello Arthur. I’ve already heard about the assassination attempt. I’m guessing your call is related to the incident.”

  Arthur frowned. It was less than two hours since the shooting, and Andrei was already aware of the situation. In one way it was good to know he was on top of things, but on the other hand it showed that nothing that happened in Kiev could be kept secret for long.

  “Andrei, go down to Kiev to investigate the shooting. I want to know who’s accountable for this. I want answers and I want them yest
erday. First off; figure out from where the marksman took the shot and whether any traces were left behind,” he commanded.

  “Leave it to me,” replied Andrei. “Rest assured, we’ll find the fuckers and take care of them.”

  “Good. Don’t waste anyone before we question them. I want to know who sent the shooter and why. Get together whatever you need and get to Kiev on the first flight tomorrow morning. No point coming now as it will be dark soon. My man will be waiting for you.”

  “Okay. We’ll keep alive whoever we catch so you can personally blow their brains out. I’ll keep in touch,” Andrei answered, and killed the connection.

  Arthur chucked the mobile into the centre console and looked at the speedometer in frustration, wishing the roads would allow a faster drive. Arthur knew that Andrei would use both the formal channels of the security services and police and the informal channels of his connections to get leads. There was no doubt in Arthur’s mind that Andrei would come up with names within a few days. But Arthur’s experience told him there was a possibility that knowing who was responsible may be even more unsettling.

  They had to quickly discover who was behind the assassination attempt and whether they were going to try something else. The list of potential culprits was virtually endless. It could’ve been business rivals from Ukraine, Russia, Belarus or a dozen other countries. It could’ve been the secret services of any of those countries and a dozen more. The Group’s closet was full of skeletons. And it was a big closet.

  After driving for four hours, Arthur arrived at the hospital in Kiev. David, Boris and Masha were all there waiting, and Boris wasted no time informing Arthur of his plan. The boss was alive but the bullet remained in his brain, so he, David and Masha had decided to fly him to Israel with Arthur escorting him for protection.

  Arthur had spent the car journey wracking his brain for an answer. Nothing stood out just yet, except for a bad feeling about Denis Filatov, a so-called friend and associate, who had asked for Arthur to be sent to Kremenchuk two days before the shooting. Arthur rarely left his boss’ side unless absolutely necessary, and then the one time that he did, an attempt was made on his life. This was no coincidence. Whoever did it knew that Arthur wasn’t going to be around.