Red Notice: A True Story of High Finance, Murder, and One Man's Fight for Justice (24 page)

Ten minutes later we arrived at the hospital. Thankfully, she hadn’t given birth in the passenger seat. The rest was a whirlwind, but after ten hours, our daughter, Jessica, was born, a healthy, seven-pound, six-ounce baby. The joy I experienced from Jessica’s birth completely overwhelmed any negative thoughts I had about my visa situation.

We left the hospital two days later. Friends started arriving at our apartment with flowers, food, and baby presents. David, who’d just turned nine, immediately took to having a little sister. Watching him hold Jessica all wrapped up in a little hospital waffle blanket and giving her kisses for the first time remains one of my most cherished memories. Christmas—which we celebrate in spite of the fact that David and I are Jewish—came and went, and for a week or more, my troubles disappeared.

The New Year passed in equally blissful and uneventful fashion. There was no news from Russia because the whole country was shut down for the Orthodox Christmas holiday, but then, early on the morning of January 14, 2006, Vadim called from Moscow. “Bill, I just got off the phone with Gref’s deputy.”

German Gref was the minister for economic development and one of the most visible reformers in Putin’s government. Vadim had approached his deputy before Christmas to ask for his help with my visa.

“And? What did he say?”

“He said that Gref managed to get pretty high up—in fact, he got to Nikolai Patrushev, the head of the FSB, to discuss your case.”

“Wow,” I said, both impressed and a little frightened. The FSB was Russia’s Federal Security Service, its secret police, which during Soviet times was universally known as the infamous KGB. If this
weren’t ominous enough, Patrushev was reputed to be one of the most ruthless members of Putin’s inner circle.

“Apparently, he told Gref, and I quote, ‘Stay out of this. You shouldn’t put your nose in things that aren’t relevant to you.’ ” Vadim paused as this news sank in, then he added, as if it weren’t obvious, “There are some pretty serious people behind this stuff, Bill.”

Hearing this was like stepping into an ice-cold shower. All the good feelings of the holidays and Jessica’s birth and my expanding family were pushed to the back of my mind, and I was dropped harshly back into reality.

A week later, Ambassador Brenton called with similarly discouraging news. “Shuvalov
was
sympathetic, but said that there was nothing he could do.”

While these messages were disappointing, we still had the head of Russia’s version of the Securities and Exchange Commission, Oleg Vyugin, working on my case. He’d written to the deputy prime minister asking for my visa to be reinstated. He was due to be in London in mid-February for an international investment conference, and I hoped that he would bring some better news.

We arranged to meet in Mayfair at the bar of Claridge’s Hotel on the first night of his trip. But when I laid eyes on him, I could immediately tell that something was wrong. We sat on the low velvet stools and ordered drinks. While we waited, I said, “Thank you for the strong letter you wrote to the deputy prime minister.”

“There’s no need to thank me, Bill,” he said in excellent English. “But I’m afraid it achieved nothing. The government’s position on your visa is entrenched.”

My heart sank. “How entrenched?”

He stared at me and raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. He then pointed a slender finger at the ceiling and said nothing more. Was he saying Putin? It wasn’t clear, but that was the only way I could interpret his mysterious gesture. If this really was Putin’s decision, then I had no chance of fixing it.

When I told Vadim about the meeting, he wasn’t as disappointed
as I was. “If Putin really is behind this he must have been fed false information about you. We’ll find someone close to Putin so he can hear the truth.”

It was nice of Vadim to find such a positive way to spin this bad situation, but I didn’t buy it. “Who could possibly do that for us?” I asked skeptically.

“How about Dvorkovich?” Vadim suggested. Arkady Dvorkovich was Putin’s chief economic adviser, and Vadim had met him during our campaign to stop asset stripping at the national electricity company. Dvorkovich had been friendly to us, and most importantly, he had the president’s ear.

“It’s worth a shot,” I said.

Vadim contacted Dvorkovich, and surprisingly, he said he would try to help.

In spite of Vadim’s deliberate hopefulness, we were clearly running out of options.

Several days after I shared the bad news from the securities commissioner, Vadim got a call in our Moscow office from a man who refused to identify himself and who claimed to have important information regarding my visa refusal. He would share the information only in person and wanted to know when they could meet.

Vadim asked what he should do. Normally, we would have steered a million miles away from a Russian cold-caller seeking a meeting, but with all the obstacles we were hitting, I felt like we needed some kind of break. “Can you meet him somewhere public?” I asked.

“I don’t see why not,” Vadim said.

“Then maybe it’s worthwhile,” I said tentatively.

A day later, the stranger called again and agreed to meet Vadim at the Vogue Café on Kuznetsky Most, a trendy spot frequented by Russian oligarchs and their twenty-year-old model girlfriends. Standing around them were countless armed bodyguards, making it an ideal location.

As they had their meeting, I paced my apartment in London waiting for news. It lasted more than two hours, and Vadim called shortly
after 11:00 a.m. London time. His voice was low and grave. “Bill, it was very disturbing. This guy, he had a lot of things to say.”

“Okay—but first of all, who was he?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t give me his real name, but told me to call him Aslan. He was someone in the government for sure. Probably FSB.”

“Why should we believe someone who refuses to identify himself?” I asked.

“Because he knew everything. I mean everything, Bill. He knew about our attempts with Gref, Vyugin, Shuvalov, Prikhodko. He had a paper in front of him with all the details of your detention at the airport, a copy of the letter from Brenton, everything. It was scary.”

A chill ran up my spine. “What
exactly
did he say?”

“He said this whole thing is under FSB control, and your visa cancellation is just the beginning.”

“Just the beginning?”

“That’s what he said. He said that the FSB is interested in, quote, depriving Hermitage of its assets, unquote.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. And it gets worse. It’s not just the company. It’s us. It’s me. Apparently the FSB is tracking everything I do, and he claimed that I’m going to be arrested imminently.” Vadim said this calmly—he said everything calmly—as if he were describing events that were happening to someone else.

I stood quickly, knocking over my chair. “Do you believe him?”

“I’m not sure, but he sounds very credible.”

“Why would this Aslan be sharing their intentions with us?”

“He claims there’s a war going on inside the government, and his group is in conflict with the people doing this to us.”

I had no idea if this was real or if we were being played, but I was sure of one thing: Vadim had to leave Russia. “Listen, I think it would be best if you came here as soon as possible. If there’s even a small chance that this guy’s telling the truth, we can’t have you getting arrested.”

“Wait, wait, Bill. Let’s not overreact.”

“Are you kidding, Vadim? Get out. You’re in Russia. Russia! There’s no such thing as overreacting in Russia.”

We hung up, but Vadim refused to leave. He knew that if he left Russia at that moment, he might never go back. In his mind, he couldn’t just go into exile because of what this anonymous stranger told him that afternoon. He wanted more information.

I saw things differently, and I implored Vadim to talk to Vladimir Pastukhov, a Moscow lawyer Hermitage had used as outside counsel over the years. Vladimir was the wisest man I knew and like no one else I’d ever met. He was nearly blind, and the Coke-bottle glasses he wore made him look like a scribe from a Dickens novel. Because of his disability, however, Vladimir’s mind was sharper, bigger, and more well rounded than that of anyone else I’ve ever known. He had a rare gift: the ability to read any complex situation to the deepest level and the smallest detail. He was like a great chess player, able to anticipate an opponent’s every move not merely before it was made but also before his opponent even realized it was available.

Even though Vadim wouldn’t leave, he did agree to see Vladimir. When Vladimir opened the door to his apartment just before midnight, Vadim put a finger to his lips, indicating that they shouldn’t talk—just in case Vladimir’s apartment was bugged. He stepped aside and Vadim entered. They made their way in silence to Vladimir’s computer. Vadim sat and started to type.

I’ve been warned by somebody in the government that I’m going to be arrested. Can they do that?

Vladimir took a turn at the keyboard.
Are you asking me as a lawyer, or as a friend?

Both.

As a lawyer, no. There are no grounds to arrest you. As a friend, yes. Absolutely. They can do anything.

Should I leave?

How credible is your source?

Very. I think.

Then you should leave.

When?

Right away.

Vadim went home, hastily packed a suitcase, and made his way to the airport for the 5:40 a.m. British Airways flight to London. I couldn’t sleep at all that night until I got a text at 2:30 a.m. London time that Vadim was on the plane and about to take off.

He arrived in London that morning and came directly to my apartment. We were both in shock. We couldn’t believe how quickly things had gone from bad to worse.

As we sat in my study discussing the previous day’s drama, Vadim got a message that Arkady Dvorkovich, Putin’s economic adviser, had taken our request for help seriously. Dvorkovich said he’d convinced several people in the presidential administration that it would be damaging for the Russian investment climate if my visa wasn’t reinstated. Most significantly, the message stated that my visa issue would be put on the agenda at the National Security Council meeting with President Putin the following Saturday.

After this call Vadim and I tried to make sense of the conflicting news coming out of Russia. How could it be that people like the minister of economics or the head of the Russian securities commission were relaying messages that my situation was hopeless, while the president’s economic adviser seemed to think that he could help me get my visa fixed at the National Security Council?

It occurred to me that perhaps everyone was telling us what they thought to be true, but the Russian government was full of different factions expressing their own opinions.

Whatever was really happening, all I could do was hope that Dvorkovich’s faction was going to win and the National Security Council meeting would bear fruit for me.

But then, just four days before the big meeting, a new factor entered the equation when I received an email from the
Washington Post
’s Moscow bureau chief, Peter Finn. It read:

Hi Bill,

Hope all is well. Sorry to bother you with a rumor, but there’s one floating around that you’re having some visa difficulties. Anything to this? And if so, are you willing to talk about it? For an investor of your stature it would be significant.

Cheers,

Peter

Shit!
How had this guy heard about my visa? This wasn’t good. All I could think of was Simon Smith’s warning about how the Russians would dig in their heels if my story got out. I didn’t respond to Finn, and thankfully he didn’t follow up.

Unfortunately, another reporter, Arkady Ostrovsky from the
Financial Times
, called me on Thursday. He’d heard the rumors too. “Is it true you’ve been denied entry to Russia, Bill?”

I tensed my stomach. “Arkady, I’m sorry, but I can’t comment on that.”

“C’mon, Bill. This is big news. I need to know what’s going on.”

Arkady and I were on a first-name basis because he was one of the journalists who’d been instrumental in the Gazprom exposé. While I couldn’t deny to Arkady what was happening, I had to delay him. “If it were true,” I said, “and I gave you an exclusive on this, can you give me four more days?”

He didn’t like that, but it was better than no story at all, and we agreed that I’d call him on Monday.

I was completely on edge after talking with Arkady. Reporters were catching wind of what was going on, and all I had to do was get through the next thirty-six hours without any more of them calling. But then, at 10:30 a.m. on Friday, a Reuters reporter named Elif Kaban left me a message on my voice mail. She didn’t say what she was calling about, but she called again at 11:45 a.m.

I had a lunch scheduled with an old friend from Washington that
afternoon and left the office without returning either of her calls. I met my friend at a dim sum restaurant in Chinatown and turned off my phone, but I put my BlackBerry on the table to monitor the Reuters issue just in case. After my friend and I collected a few dishes off the cart, my BlackBerry started to blink with a message from my secretary:

Bill, Elif Kaban is still trying to get through to you. She says Reuters has received solid information about you not being allowed into Russia and they’d like to give you an opportunity to make the first statement. Please get back to them as soon as possible. This is their fourth call today. Elif Kaban is being VERY persistent!!

I stared blankly at the email for several seconds, stuffed my BlackBerry in my pocket, and tried to enjoy the rest of my lunch. I knew that the shit was about to hit the fan, but I wanted a few last minutes of peace.

After leaving the restaurant I took a detour through Green Park. It was a bright, crisp spring day, one of those days when it felt good to be a Londoner. I breathed the fresh air and looked around at all the carefree people walking in the park, people who weren’t about to have their worlds turned upside down.