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

  He slammed his fist on the table and glared at his three colleagues who all nodded wisely, obviously sharing the minister’s displeasure at recent events.

  “I tell you now that you all have my personal assurance that if you help your countries to cooperate, Russia won’t forget. Russia will remember those who stood by its side. The Soviet Union will remember its heroes. Now, the time has come to reinstate and reunite our common Motherland and rectify the mistakes of 1991.”

  The Minister of Defence of Ukraine and the Minister of Defence of Belarus nodded in agreement.

  The Russian minister continued, “There are some who will do whatever it takes to impede us. We need to stop them at all cost. We cannot order our secret security forces to intercept them since we cannot risk our plans leaking. We can count only on a small circle of loyal officers to take care of things.”

  The minister sat down and allowed his speech to sink in. Eventually the Belarusian stood.

  “Comrades, I would like to say that I too was pleasantly surprised when I received the message to meet you all. I too have activated my part of the arrangement. My president knows nothing, but even if he did, he would hardly oppose the plan. We’ll easily persuade him to delay our enemies. You can count on our cooperation. Russia can count on its Belarusian brothers.”

  After a short pause to ensure that the Belarusian minister had finished, it was the turn of the Ukrainian minister to stand.

  “I’ll do my part as discussed through proxies, although the situation in Ukraine is more complicated.”

  “Complicated?” the fourth man, who had barely spoken till now enquired.

  “This rotten demo-crazy,” he distorted the word in disdain, “has penetrated even the army ranks. This makes everything more problematic, but I have a crew that I can count on. Russia can count on its Ukrainian brothers.” He added before sitting once again.

  Silence fell in the room. The three ministers looked to the fourth man, waiting for his input. He was in his late-seventies, with a full head of snowy white hair and his upper lip and chin covered with a thick white beard. While he wasn’t young, his stern gaze emanated physical strength and power.

  He bent forward slightly and extinguished his cigarette in an ashtray. Leaning back in his chair, and without standing, finally he stated his position.

  “Comrades, your loyalty won’t go unnoticed. We need to act smartly because we cannot win in an open conflict. The world isn’t what it used to be. We need to act behind the scenes, deep in the shadows. It’s good that you’re all eager to fulfil the promise we made so long ago. Let me fill you in on what has already been done and what is now required from each of us.”

  He paused while lighting another cigarette with a silver Russian replica of a zippo emblazoned with the emblem of the KGB - a broadsword superimposed on a shield background, red star with the hammer and sickle, and the words KГБ CCCP. He briefed the ministers, covering each detail of the plot that he expected them to implement in the near future. He ensured that everyone clearly understood their role and responsibilities.

  “I have done my bit at this stage. You still need to take care of yours. You need to take care of those who can thwart our plans or come close enough to assembling the pieces of the puzzle and figure out our strategy. We cannot take any risks.”

  The three ministers listened to the fourth man with awe. Now they understood the bigger picture. Some recent events that they didn’t deem connected were presented to them as woven into a grandiose master plan. It was reassuring to know that the plan had already been initiated and the reason for the meeting was merely to discuss the personal responsibilities of the three ministers. The men listened carefully as the old man laid out what was expected of them. Despite having no political office, and having retired long ago, the white-haired man was definitely in charge.

  Once, in a different life, he had been their superior. Men spoke of his ruthlessness and brilliance with a mixture of fear and admiration. Some doubted his very existence, as his name and position were kept secret, but those who knew him, referred to him as the Puppet Master.

  6 The Land of Milk and Honey

  Hate crimes and anti-Semitism in Ukraine weren’t uncommon. The frequency of violent incidents against Jews rose rapidly after the fall of the Soviet regime and the weakening of the security services’ control as neo-Nazi, skinhead and extreme national groups all crawled out of the woodwork now that the intolerant communist regime had gone.

  Kiev, 1992

  One Friday night as we sat around the dinner table, my mother told Sasha and me of her intentions to leave Ukraine.

  “I’ve decided I want to move to Israel. Life here doesn’t get any easier. In Israel, Jews can live proudly. Since they took your papa away we have nothing. Nothing at all! Gornisht. It’s time for us to make Aliyah and return to the Promised Land.”

  “But mama, I have a wife and baby son and a stable job,” Sasha interrupted. “Yulia won’t want to move to a distant country where people speak a foreign language. Mama...I can’t go with you.”

  “We should be together, Sasha. Mishenka...talk some sense into your brother,” she ordered.

  I felt between a rock and a hard place. I hadn’t had time to formulate my own opinion, let alone try to convince my stubborn brother to commit one way or another.

  “I have a good job,” Sasha reiterated before I could say anything. “Yulia is pregnant again and I don’t want her to give birth in a foreign country where we don’t speak the language. Perhaps we’ll join you in a couple of years when the baby grows up and I save some more money. That’s the best I can do, mama.”

  “Oy vey, Sashenka,” mama said sadly. “It’s my entire fault. I’m glad your papa doesn’t hear that his eldest son is afraid to live in Zion.”

  Yuri, my best friend from school, had made Aliyah in 1991, and I’d received several letters extolling the virtues of Israel. He told me that the food was good, the girls were pretty, the beaches were beautiful, and the weather was fantastic. It didn’t even snow in winter. It wasn’t grey.

  With Sasha adamant he would stay, I decided to go with my mother. Not because of Zionism or ideology, but rather because the bleak future prospects of the crumbling Soviet Union seemed pale relative to the bright prospects of a new adventure in a faraway land.

  Another incentive to get away from Kiev was Nazar. Word on the street was that he was still looking to kill me and I was living on borrowed time. It was wise to try my fortunes somewhere else.

  If I was leaving for good, I wanted to make sure that I had some capital on me to start a decent life abroad. Without anything to hold her back, my mother made her arrangements and left for Israel within a month. I would join her shortly, as soon as I’d found a way of getting my money out of Ukraine.

  ***

  Since there were no direct flights from Ukraine to Israel, I had to take a train to Bucharest, the capital of Romania, and fly from there. I’d managed to save twenty thousand US dollars during my time at the Institute of Higher Education from my various enterprises. At the time, emigrants were allowed neither to leave any property behind nor take anything across the border beyond personal belongings of limited value. These restrictions were insignificant to me as I’d learnt from a tender age that when the state disallowed something it just meant that you needed to pay the right people to allow it. So, I devised a plan.

  Sasha somehow managed to arrange for me a private audience with Ukraine’s deputy chief of customs, Vladimir Samsonov. Never expecting anything good from the authorities, and having limited experience with Soviet bureaucrats, I didn’t quite know what to expect when I arrived at his office’s shabby reception room. The old and dirty chairs were arranged with their backs to the dingy grey walls, underneath a set of windows that looked like they hadn’t seen a decent clean for years. “What a welcoming and hospitable place,” I thought to myself.

  I was a bit nervous and had an urge to go to the toilet. The toilet’s door was locked, so I
politely asked the secretary for the key. She could’ve been good-looking were she not so haughty, unfriendly and bitchy.

  Looking at me with contempt, like something a cat dragged from a garbage bin, she reluctantly handed me the key stating, “Keep it clean, yes? Don’t you make a mess in there, yes?” As if the toilet was clean; it even lacked toilet paper.

  Finishing my business in the toilet, I handed the key back to Miss Pleasant, and sat in one of the musty chairs. Vladimir made me wait for over half an hour, doubtlessly on purpose to demonstrate his seniority. Everything was designed to belittle the visitor.

  I knew that I had to bribe Vladimir. I’d never bribed anyone before so I was a bit edgy. I’d done all kinds of stuff which could easily be categorised as felonies under the Ukrainian criminal code, but here I felt totally exposed. If Vladimir wanted to turn me in, he could make one phone call and that would be my end.

  Finally, the secretary’s phone rang. She picked it up, nodded, and told me, “Deputy Chief Samsonov will see you now.”

  Crossing the threshold into Vladimir’s office was like moving into another dimension. The opulent interior was a drastic contrast to the dilapidated reception area. Most of the spacious office was occupied by a massive table that could easily seat thirty people. At the other end stood an elegant mahogany table at which was sat Vladimir Samsonov.

  He made no effort to raise his head from whatever he was pretending to read. He was dressed up in a perfectly ironed, olive green uniform decorated with medals, with gold leaves on the collar and a hat too wide for his head. He appeared to be in his late fifties, although men in his position were usually younger than that.

  Years later I learned that most of these offices had a backdoor room. In these hidden spaces big bosses were shagging their female subordinates, and their secretaries arranged generous meals for special guests. The real, intimate business was done there, accompanied by vodka, which was always kept in a small fridge. I, of course, wasn’t special. Vladimir didn’t honour me by inviting me to his special compartment and he didn’t even offer me tap water as refreshment. I was nobody.

  After several minutes had passed, Vladimir finally looked up from his notes. He peered over the top of his glasses, studied me closely, and then gestured to the seat in front of him. I assumed a business like countenance and sat before him.

  “So,” he said in a bored voice. “What can I do for you?”

  I took a deep breath and attempted to keep a steady voice.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Deputy Chief Samsonov. I’ll soon be leaving for Israel and it’s important for me to take a few family heirlooms.”

  “I see,” Samsonov said with disinterest. “And what heirlooms are these?”

  “Nothing expensive, sir. Simply some old Hebrew books and my great-grandmother’s silver necklace. I’m hoping that you could arrange a green channel for me so that the customs officials don’t search my belongings. I would be happy to make a donation to the country for its understanding and generosity.”

  To make it sound more credible I showed him an old silver necklace I had bought for a couple of rubles at the market in Kiev. Obviously the whole story was a lie; I didn’t have any old books and I didn’t even want to take the worthless necklace. What was important for me was to not be searched, so I could smuggle my cash.

  Vladimir knew the rules of the game much better than me. He’d agreed to meet me because he anticipated a donation. As he studied the worthless necklace, I could sense the figures being multiplied and added in his brain, expecting to see the dollar signs in his eyes. Eventually he sat back and made a great show of stroking his chin, before his face broke into a friendly smile.

  “Don’t you worry, friend. If you pay me three thousand dollars as a contribution for the country, I’ll phone the border straight away and give the order to comrade Constantin Sabo, chief of customs at Chop, to escort you personally through the border. I’ll even make sure that my colleagues on the Romanian side let you pass as well. You’ll be treated like a little prince. Yes, you will my friend.”

  I was eager to finish this unpleasant conversation, so I readily agreed to the terms. I excused myself, went out to the reception room, counted the cash out of Madam Bitchy’s nosy sight, returned and handed Vladimir his fee without bargaining. Non-bargaining was to my detriment, as I was soon to find out.

  I thanked Vladimir, quickly left his office, as his bitch Cerberus ignored my farewell, and headed straight to the train station with my backpack, one suitcase and seventeen thousand dollars. I found my carriage and settled down for the journey to Chop, the border crossing into Romania.

  After the night spent crossing the plains, next morning the scenery on the way to Chop turned into a mountainous landscape of endless forests, fields and small villages dotted with ancient houses that looked like they hadn’t been painted for centuries. I spotted farmers working the fields with antique machinery, and tractors that resembled tanks from the First World War. The countryside looked desperately poor, as the system had already started to crumble, together with the rest of the regime.

  At the Chop border crossing a customs inspector told me that Chief Constantin Sabo wanted to see me. I had paid dearly for a VIP treatment and now the time had come to consummate the service. The inspector kindly offered to keep an eye on my luggage so it wouldn’t be left unattended. That was exactly what I’d expected, so I presumed that everything was progressing as planned.

  I was led to an office and offered a seat in front of Chief Sabo. To my surprise, my luggage appeared seconds later and was placed on the table between us.

  “So, comrade. Shall we see what you’re carrying across my border?” the chief said once the inspector had left the office.

  “There’s no need, sir. Deputy Chief Samsonov has personally cleared my passage to Romania,” I replied, conscious of my shaky voice.

  “That may be true, comrade, but I’m responsible for everything that passes through this border. Now...open the case and the backpack.”

  There was no point in protesting further. I unzipped the case and the backpack and emptied the contents onto the table.

  “Ahh, what’s this?” Sabo said in mock surprise, greedily eying the bundle of notes.

  “Sir, I have clearance...”

  “Enough! Listen, kid; if you continue to protest, I’ll simply write protocol about your attempted smuggling of dollars. If you’re lucky, then maybe you'll be able to leave Ukraine in five or six years’ time under an amnesty decree. Deputy Chief Samsonov called me and told me that you may have something interesting with you, so there is no point spouting his name.”

  Silly me. When I didn’t protest paying the three grand, that fucker Samsonov knew I must have more.

  “It was very naive to expect Deputy Chief Samsonov wouldn’t take advantage of your situation. I don’t take pleasure from doing this, but I have no other choice. If I don’t execute his instructions I’m going to lose my job and perhaps a couple of teeth. I’m really sorry, kid.”

  Sorry or not, he took all my money.

  I swore that I would take my revenge against Vladimir. I believed Constantin that it wasn’t his initiative and he was just following orders. I left the office in a daze and headed back to my compartment in the train. How could I start a new life with no money? Stupidly I had no contingencies, no backup plan. I’d thrown all my eggs in a single basket by trusting Vladimir Samsonov. I wouldn’t forget his treachery.

  Many years later, all it took for me was to make one phone call to force Vladimir to run. My people tracking him last spotted him planning to cross on foot the narrow strip of the border of Russia with Norway. I imagined Vladimir walking through snowy woods, hunting reindeers and running away from bears and wolves, his path illuminated at night by the aurora borealis. I hoped his filthy flesh sated one of the noble animals. But I’m jumping ahead.

  Back in Chop, I climbed to the upper bed of the compartment, turned my face to the wall and for the first time in years,
I wept. All the toughness of a racketeer and extortionist gave way to the bitter tears of a kid.

  Very soon, we were at the Romanian checkpoint, where the scenario was repeated. The customs officials ordered everyone off the train and systematically stripped us of anything of worth. When they came to my possessions they were annoyed that their Ukrainian colleagues had left them nothing to steal. I didn’t even have a pack of cigarettes to confiscate.

  “Those Ukrainian pigs leave us nothing?” they complained. I shrugged my shoulders and raised my hands, sharing their frustration.

  Eventually, I would arrive in Israel empty-handed and poor, with just the clothes that I was wearing, a worthless Pushkin book that nobody wanted to take away from me and little else. Even my new Adidas sneakers didn’t make it across the border as they were taken by the Romanians, who claimed I was smuggling them. So, from the Romanian border onwards I travelled barefoot until I was waiting for my plane at Bucharest Airport, and a sympathetic elderly couple offered me a pair of sandals for the flight to Israel. Once again I received second-hand footwear like a miserable beggar. I hated being poor.

  ***

  Israel was so different than Ukraine. The mixture of yellow sand dunes, scrubs and white apartment buildings seen from the plane and applause of passengers as we landed. The repeated questioning at the border crossing by uniformed men and women, seen everywhere. The hot, humid and sweaty climate under the blazing sun. The sense of urgency, tension and impatience of the mix of diverse people. Welcome to the land of milk and honey!

  The 1990s saw a massive wave of Jews leave the Soviet Union when Mikhail Gorbachev’s liberal government opened the borders as part of perestroika and finally eased restrictions on travel abroad. In a relatively short period of time, over one million Jews arrived in Israel, making up about 20% of the Israeli population.