I earlier wrote that my client was the major shareholder of a company operating in Europe. This particular visit is to meet with said company’s Moscow-based solicitor and deal with some local legal issues, in particular the establishment of a wholly-owned subsidiary.
Previously I also told you about Felix, an official responsible for promoting trade between Australia and Russia. He was born in the old Soviet Union and migrated to Australia after Mikhail Gorbachev became President. The former Soviet leader was responsible for modernising his country through the policies of glasnost (openness) and perestroika (restructuring of the economic system). The break-up of the old Soviet Union gave people like Felix new opportunities in life.
In my recent Letter from Moscow I informed you that Felix had strong connections both in government and the business community. You will remember he arranged a dinner with a friend who had secured a contract to supply computer hardware to the government. Felix had described his friend as an ‘oligarch’. The dinner was at an exclusive Moscow restaurant that featured fighting chooks.
Felix is secretive which is probably the modus operandi of most Russian businessmen. A hangover from the Communist era. My client is also secretive. I surmise that Felix’s oligarch friend did not intend to proceed with a business arrangement.
More likely the outcome is on a ‘need to know’ basis and I don’t need to know! Whatever!
At breakfast the following morning my client is excited. “Felix has set up a meeting with one of Russia’s biggest oligarchs; a man with enormous influence and even stronger links in government. He is also related to the Mayor of Moscow.”
“His name is …..” [Hmm, best I don’t repeat it dear reader, for our mutual safety! I shall merely name him ‘the oligarch’]. “Felix said the oligarch would definitely secure contracts. All of the other agreements we have will pale into insignificance.”
How much vodka will that take, I opine.
In his typically laconic, at times brusque style the not-so-discreet one (remember him from the previous letter?) asks, “What time is the meeting, I have a meeting of my own scheduled?”
My client glanced at me for a reaction to this comment.
I suspect he has a follow-up ‘meeting’ from his rendezvous.
“I have a private meeting with the oligarch at his house and you will join us for lunch afterwards. A car will pick you up here at twelve thirty.”
At the allotted time two large black stretched limousines with darkened windows pulled to a stop in front of the hotel. Five hefty men wearing sunglasses, black trousers, black t-shirts exposing bulging biceps, quickly alighted. Four of the musclemen stood by and watched passers-by. One entered the hotel foyer and pointed directly at me.
Victor Frankenstein’s creation!
In heavily accented broken English, “You come car. We go.”
I noticed how heavy the car door was as I pulled it shut. Bodyguards, armoured vehicles, this bloke must be a serious heavy hitter – Russian Mafia? More bodyguards than last night; obviously more important.
Our route to lunch took us along the banks of the Moskva River after which the city of Moscow was named. The river is just over five hundred kilometres in length. It emerged from the hills about 140 kilometres west of Moscow, flowing through the city and eventually enhancing the Oka River, itself a tributary of the Volga. The Volga eventually meanders into the Caspian Sea.
We passed over one of the many bridges traversing the river and climbed a hill with commanding views of the entire city. This is where the Lomonosov Moscow State University is situated (see featured image above). Dating back to 1755 the University has approximately 40,000 students, including graduates, postgraduates and international students. The buildings are architecturally impressive.
Just beyond the University is a secure compound where the seriously wealthy and powerful people of Russia reside.
As we entered the compound, wherein another oligarchical friend of Felix resided, Frankenstein’s monster nodded at the sentries and pointed to a house one hundred metres down the road. “Gorbachev,” he grunted in my direction.
By the way, the word ‘oligarch’ which both Felix and my client delight in throwing around is derived from the Greek word of the early 1600s “oligarchikós” meaning a relatively small group of politically powerful people. I gather anyone who lived in Gorbachev’s compound fitted that description. Certainly Felix liked to give the impression that he only dealt with such people.
We pulled up at the second mansion in the compound. I expected to be frisked such is the security surrounding us but thankfully that didn’t occur. Instead I was immediately ushered into a room where my client, Felix and a short, heavy set, dark suited man in need of a shave have just concluded their meeting. Looks can indeed be deceiving.
“Let’s eat,” the short fat man said (I can safely call him that from thousands of kilometres away) as he pointed in the direction of another room. A man of few words.
The dining room held a large wooden table capable of sitting about thirty people. The walls were adorned by original oil paintings depicting various scenes of the Russian countryside. A large television at one end of the room, in clear sight for the host, broadcasted breaking news of a terrorist attack at a school in Georgia.
Within minutes a team of accountants, lawyers, and other advisors occupied the room.
It was obvious the earlier meeting had finalised matters, as there is very little business discussed. It seems my attendance was superfluous. In due course I may have to draft a contract. Who knows?
The short fat man (I am enjoying that label rather than ‘oligarch’) shovelled a fork loaded with crayfish into his mouth. Head tilted forward his dark, deep-set eyes flick between my client and the breaking news where a Russian strike force had stormed the school.
My client mentioned his ultimate plan to list his company on the London stock exchange. “How much do you want to raise?” the oligarch asked.
“Fifty million.”
“Is that all?”
“Pounds.”
“We must talk again,” the oligarch’s comment is more of an instruction. “My people will make the necessary arrangements.”
I don’t know what Russian mafia looks like or how they behave but I imagine this man oozes mafia. I’m glad I won’t be dealing with him.
Gordon d’Venables has been, inter alia, a teacher, soldier, farmhand, lawyer and businessman. As a lawyer he travelled extensively for international clients. His letters from various times and places around the globe (PNG, England, Ireland, France, USA, Saudi Arabia, Serbia, Iran and others) refer to some of his experiences. Gordon’s recently published book, The Medusa Image, can be obtained from Pegasus at www.pegasuspublishers.com, ISBN: 9781784658939 www.amazon.com.au or https://www.amazon.com/Medusa-Image-Gordon-DVenables/dp/1784658936
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letters.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from USA, pre-Soviet Union Breakup.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Belgrade.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Iran.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from India.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Saudi Arabia.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Vietnam.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Germany.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from London.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Second Letter From London.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Second Letter From Iran.
GORDON D’VENABLES: Letter from Moscow.
