Once Upon a Time in Russia (6 page)

“Not a problem,” he finally murmured, already thinking beyond the risks.

Oil—the potential was so vast, it was almost hard to calculate.
More intriguing, the company Abramovich was describing would create quite a regular stream of cash. And now that Berezovsky was on the verge of privatizing ORT, he was going to need access to a veritable river of rubles. ORT was losing money hand over fist; if he intended to make good on his promise to Korzhakov, to prop up Yeltsin as they headed into the next election cycle, he was going to need money to be coming in at an alarming rate.

“As long as we're being direct—how much profit does your trading company currently bring in?”

It wasn't exactly polite conversation, asking a man how much money he made. But there would be time for cocktail chatter later. For his part, Abramovich didn't seem put out by the question.

“Forty million a year.”

“And if we can organize this proposal of yours—if we ‘vertically integrate' Omsk and Noyabrskneftegaz—how much cash would you generate?”

“Maybe a hundred million a year?”

Berezovsky reached forward with both hands and clasped the younger man by the shoulders.

“It is from this that I will require certain funds to cover the expense of keeping things running smoothly.”

Abramovich nodded, because he understood. Berezovsky didn't need to spell out what these expenses might be; he wasn't signing an employment contract, or even a partnership deal. Abramovich had come to him because of who he was—and what he brought to the table. His political connections, his protection, his roof. No doubt, Abramovich had done his research. He knew all about ORT, the Logovaz Club, and Berezovsky's lifestyle. He knew exactly what sort of deal they were about to strike.

Abramovich needed Berezovsky to privatize and combine the
refinery and petroleum production company into his trading business. And Berezovsky needed cash flow to keep ORT—and himself—afloat.

“Thirty million dollars per year, that should be a good place to start.”

Research or no, Abramovich gaped at the number.

“That's almost my entire current trading profits.”

“Correct, but when we organize this company, it will be an easy check to cash.”

Abramovich swallowed, and thought it through. Berezovsky gave the young man his space, turning his attention back to the deck, where the small group of wealthy men and women were sharing war stories over cocktails served by the crew. He had no doubt that Abramovich would accept the deal. If there was one trait he could instantly recognize in others, it was ambition—and Abramovich, as mysterious as his past might be, had that familiar hunger in his soul. He didn't want to be a fish any longer, he didn't want to be sharing cocktails and trading stories on other men's boats. He wanted a giant boat of his own.

Which was why he finally nodded, then reached out once again, to shake Berezovksy's hand.

January 1995, afternoon,

Logovaz Club

I
F THERE WAS EVER
a face designed to capture the heart of a nation, Berezovsky thought to himself, as he settled into a leather love seat in a curtained alcove on the third floor of his private club, it belonged to the man sitting across from him.

“Thugs and gangsters,” the man was saying, at the tail end of a monologue that had begun so long ago, Berezovsky had already finished two glasses of vodka in the interim, “and there is no place for either of them at ORT anymore.”

Berezovsky nodded, as a waiter refilled his tumbler for the third time. The man sitting across from him—Vlad Listyev, easily the most popular television anchor in Russia—seemed to be struggling to contain his emotions, as his voice rose above the din of the moderately crowded drawing room. Berezovsky supposed his guest's animated demeanor was better than the stiff and awkward silence that had enveloped the man when he had first arrived at the Logovaz Club. Maybe it was the opulent setting that had initially caused his unease, or perhaps the newness of his own situation—he was, after
all, a stranger to this world of business deals and handshake lunches. Or perhaps it was Berezovsky's Georgian business partner, seated not ten feet away on an antique daybed, pretending to read a newspaper. Badri Patarkatsishvili tended to have that effect on people. Even those who were blissfully unaware of his reputation.

Berezovsky had offered to move the meeting to his office on the top floor of the club, but thankfully, his guest had declined. The partially curtained alcove in the drawing room was private enough, and besides, what was the point of having such a famous face on his team if he was going to hide it behind an office door? You didn't hang a Picasso in the medicine cabinet, you stuck it right on the living room wall.

And what a famous face it was. Alive and glowing behind that bushy brown mustache, those square-framed glasses, that impressive, glossy hair. A face made for television, or more accurately, made
by
television.

Thirty-nine years old, in his trademark suspenders—supposedly modeled on the American television star Larry King—Listyev was perhaps the most famous man in the entire country. First as the host of his own talk show, which had a regular audience of over a hundred million people, and then as the beloved star of Russia's most popular game show, Vlad was a near daily presence in every Russian household. The hush that had moved through the Logovaz Club when Berezovsky had led him into the parlor had been palpable; even Badri had flushed behind his newspaper.

Choosing Vlad Listyev to run the newly privatized ORT had been an act of pure genius. Korzhakov had been right at the Presidential Club; the public would have had trouble envisioning a man like Berezovsky at the head of the nation's largest television network. But Vlad was a national treasure. He had the respect and experience
necessary to run ORT, and a face that could easily help elect the president to his next term. No matter how much Yeltsin's health deteriorated, Berezovsky was convinced that ORT, with the help of Vlad Listyev, could prop him up through 1996.

Unfortunately, however, it was rapidly becoming apparent that there was more to Vlad Listyev than just his famous face.

“You disagree?” Vlad was half off his armchair, his eyes searing behind his square glasses. “This corruption, it's like a disease. These gangsters are like tumors, choking ORT from the inside.”

“Your passion is inspiring,” Berezovsky responded. “But we're not talking about life and death. These are television commercials.”

Vlad's cheeks turned red as he shifted back into his seat.

“We're talking about more than commercials. We're talking about a system that is rotting at its core.”

Vlad glanced past Berezovsky, toward an employee carrying a tray of exorbitantly expensive caviar. Berezovsky knew that Vlad was speaking about more than just ORT. Berezovsky did not doubt for a moment the anchorman's liberalism or his belief in President Yeltsin. He had been a voice for democracy from the very beginning. But he was also in a unique position to see the grime that was oiling the gears of this new capitalism.

Yet, despite his protestations, the grime in this situation really did have to do with television commercials. ORT wasn't losing a quarter of a billion dollars a year because people weren't watching. Vlad's own show had been getting ratings, which in America, would have been the equivalent of adding ABC, NBC, and CBS together. ORT was bleeding money because of a unique, very Russian advertising structure.

Instead of the network selling ads directly to independent companies, all ORT advertising was controlled by a single entity—a
holding company made up of a consortium of shareholders. This arrangement had led to an incredible amount of graft—of which Berezovsky was intimately aware, since LogoVAZ was, in fact, one of the minor shareholders in the consortium. Though he agreed with Vlad's assessment—that the advertising structure was utterly corrupt—he admired the creativity behind it, though he couldn't take credit for its invention. That honor fell to a young, reportedly well-connected businessman who had built his wealth running disco clubs and dance halls.

“It's a complex business,” Berezovsky started.

“There's a difference between businessmen and gangsters.”

“Yes,” Berezovsky said. “Usually it's the size of their wallet.”

That got a grunt from Badri on the other side of the alcove.

Vlad brought a hand down against his knee, then removed his glasses and lowered his voice.

“It's time to change things. And I think I know how we should do this. I'm going to enact a moratorium on all advertising for the next few months. For the time being, ORT will sell no ads until this corruption is shaken out.”

Berezovsky heard Badri's newspaper ruffle. Berezovsky cleared his throat.

“There are often better ways to treat a tumor than immediately reaching for a knife.”

“We don't need to treat the tumor. We need to take it out.”

Berezovsky looked at the famous man. A moratorium on advertising was going to cost a lot of people an enormous amount of money. He began to calculate, thinking forward through the possible outcomes of such a maneuver. Who was going to lose and who was going to gain. What mattered most, of course, was where he landed on that spectrum. Initially, he would certainly lose; but as a
major part of ORT, if Vlad could somehow right the ship—it could make things very interesting.

“Perhaps a drink as we think this through,” Berezovsky said, but Vlad cut him off, rising from his seat.

“None for me, thank you.”

“Of course.”

Berezovsky had read that the man had recently beaten his alcoholism—one of the many obstacles the man had overcome. Vlad's biography read like something out of a Dostoyevsky novel: a father who had committed suicide when he was young, a mother who drank, two children who had died young.

What could Berezovsky teach a man like that?

It wasn't until Vlad had entered the elevator leading down to the security driveway, the twin steel doors closing shut behind him, that Badri lowered his newspaper and glanced at Berezovsky. As usual, the Georgian's expression was hard to read. His eyes were bright and amiable, but most of his features were hidden behind his handlebar mustache, which he twisted between the fingers of his left hand.

“It's not going to go over well. This moratorium.”

“You think he will be a problem?” Berezovsky asked.

“The dance hall king? Of course. He's always a problem.”

“Not him.”

Vlad's floral cologne still hung in the air. He was a legend, beloved by everyone. He was also very smart.

“He's a good man. He loves his country almost as much as we love him. He wants things to be better.”

Berezovsky nodded, still thinking.

“And the dance hall king? You can talk to him?”

It was what Badri did. He had been one of the heads of LogoVAZ since the beginning, and now he was an official with ORT—
but his real job, his real skill, was communication. Specifically, he could communicate with the type of people Vlad was trying to chase out of television.

“It's going to cost us a lot of money,” Badri said.

Berezovsky grunted. In the short term. ORT in general was going to cost a lot of money, but, as he'd told Korzhakov, that wasn't the point. His thoughts immediately turned to the young man on the Caribbean yacht. Roman Abramovich's integrated oil company—and his payment of thirty million dollars a year—would be just the beginning. The possibilities were endless. Oil to prop up television to prop up a president who would prop up Berezovsky.

Round and round and round it went.

Which brought him back to Vlad Listyev. Did Berezovsky need to reassess his previous opinions? Had choosing the anchorman to run ORT been a stroke of genius, or a mistake? Vlad was a good man—a truly good man. Did that make him a liability?

For once, Berezovsky wasn't sure.

March 1, 1995, 8:55 p.m.,

Novokuznetskaya Street, Moscow

I
T WAS THE MOST
incredible feeling in the world.

The warmth of the bright spots trained on his makeup-caked face, the hush in the studio as the producer counted down the seconds, the soft breeze from the boom mike lowering above his head. And then that frantic burst of adrenaline, as the camera blinked on, capturing the particles of light reflecting off his face, translating his visage into electronic packets, streaming him through cables and off satellite dishes and into wire antennas all over his beloved country, multiplying him a hundred million times, delivering him into living rooms and kitchens and appliance stores on every block in every city across the greatest nation in the world. His essence, everywhere, for everyone—because that's really all anyone was, after all—light reflected off skin and clothes and bones.

Vlad Listyev was not a religious man. Hell, with a background like his it was impossible to believe in much beyond some twisted game of fate—but when that camera flashed on, he felt connected to the world in a way that truly hinted at a higher power. Even now,
walking home from the evening broadcast of his signature show,
Chas Pik
, the cold night air biting at his skin, he could still feel that energy pulsing through him. The pretty, tree-lined street near the heart of Moscow was quiet, save for the odd car rumbling past, and the sound of the breeze riffling through the nearly bare tree branches above his head. But in his mind, one hundred million voices pushed him on. They were listening, they were watching.
They were always watching.

Vlad's pace quickened as he caught sight of his apartment building, just a dozen yards ahead. The first day of March in Moscow was often indistinguishable from the heart of winter—but tonight, it felt much more like the first day of spring. A moment of rebirth and change.