by D. R. Bell
“So they never told you…He was drafted into the army and in 1956 his unit was sent to crush the Hungarian anti-communist uprising. He was arrested after an incident there, sent to the Gulag.”
“Why didn’t they tell me?”
“Perhaps your parents tried to protect you. Or bury the memories. Frankly, your dad was never much for the Party. He was careful not to talk about this, but I could sense it from small comments. He never got promoted because he did not join the Party.”
I thought of my father’s diary.
“Do you remember Ivan Mershov, his militzia boss during the blockade? I think I recall him coming over.”
“You can’t remember Ivan; he died soon after you were born. You are probably thinking of his son Kostya. Kostya was friends with your dad. He started in the militzia but then transferred to the KGB and moved to Moscow in the 1970s; I lost track of him since.”
I usually try to be calm and analytical, but my understanding of the world is breaking down. There is a 500-year-old globe in the New York Public Library that carries a “Here are dragons” inscription on the unknown land. I managed to live with Karen for twenty years and not fully understand what makes her tick. And now I find out my parents adopted someone. Which makes him my brother? A brother I’ve never met? I am in the land of dragons now.
I want to take Jennifer and Simon to lunch before I leave, but Simon is glued to his video game. When I suggest that he might be spending too much time gaming, he protests, “But Dad, this is The Kingdom of Soma, the coolest game ever!”
I let him be.
Jennifer and I drive to the tiny downtown, walk along the beach, eat her favorite deep dish pizza, talk about the first year in college, her life in California, plans for the summer. However badly Karen and I screwed up, we did create this wonderful human being.
Jennifer wants to change her major, “Dad, I want to be a scientist, like you. I love research.”
“That’s great! I am sure you’ll do well. What kind of science are you interested in?”
“Physics or computer science, I have not decided yet. The only thing is, Grandpa won’t let me. He says I should study business administration or policy. He won’t pay for me to go to school and study science. But mom and I will talk to him again.”
I cringe inside, understanding Karen’s words that much better. Her father uses his money to control everything.
I tell Jennifer about my father as I drop her off. She starts crying, then asks, “Are you trying to find out what happened?”
“I am looking into it.”
“Please, be careful.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I always land on my feet.”
As Jennifer walks back into the house, I see Karen in the second-story window, looking at us. I wave to her to come down, but she shakes her head. It feels like her way of saying “farewell.”
Back on the freeway, stuck in the famous Orange County traffic. Alone with my memories.
No matter how strong we are,
We are still prisoners of our memory.
It was my mother who taught me Akhmatova’s poems. My father never quoted her. It’s only from his diary that I found out how much he loved her poetry.
When I boarded that flight to New York twenty years ago, I was scared out of my wits: I have burned all the bridges to unite with someone I knew for just one day. A magical day, but only one. But when Karen met me in the JFK airport, already visibly pregnant, it was like we have not parted. The magic was still there.
How do you grow apart? One day at a time. In movies, couples discuss their differences, the man says something profound about his devotion that he couldn’t express before, the woman falls into his arms. In real life, wounds go deep.
I think we were happy in the beginning. After Simon came Jennifer. I was teaching physics in college. We lived in a small two-bedroom apartment, but I did not know any better. Then the in-laws started talking how much better private schools are and how we really should live in a big house with a yard. All for the kids, of course. I left physics and went to work on Wall Street, in the 1990s when hiring physics professors as “quants” was all the rage. Wall Street tried to gain respectability by portraying finance as a science. In fairness to Karen, she did not push me. But she liked that I almost tripled my salary in the move; we sent the kids to a private school, we bought a small house, then a bigger one. Karen kept an orderly home. As an influential congressman’s daughter, she started getting traction in the society. I became another mid-level Wall Street functionary. Actually, a lower mid-level one – in our Connecticut town the upper middle social strata was reserved for people with seven-figure incomes.
And as I was marching on, I limited my field of vision to what others told me was needed. Nobody forced me to, I put the blinders on voluntarily, even willingly. At some point, my careful life stopped feeling real to me. I was acting in a movie where a character named Pavel Rostin worked, tried to climb to the top, collected objects, people and stomach problems along the way. In trying to become a “player,” I took one chance too many. Suddenly the performance has ended and I stood exposed, real, mortified, angry at Karen for what I was about to do to her.
That evening when I came home and, drunk with terror, told her that we are broke and the house, the one she’s been building and decorating for the past four years, is no longer ours, she did not raise her voice.
She sat there quietly staring into space and asked, “When do we have to move?”
“We can live here until they kick us out.”
“I don’t want to be kicked out. Pavel, I love you, but I am leaving.”
If you love me, why are you leaving? I wanted to say. In my world, if you love someone you stay with them. Perhaps we needed a new dictionary: “Love according to Karen” vs. “Love according to Pavel.”
But I just asked: “Where will you go?”
“I will go to California to stay with my kids.” It’s my kids now.
That night, she took off her nightgown and made love to me for the first time in a year. When I woke up, she was gone. As the traffic crawls past a giant billboard of one of Sam Baker’s dealerships, I think how Karen craved to be free from her father but at the same time wanted me to be like him.
By the time I get to LAX and turn in my rental car, it’s past 4 p.m. and my only choice is an overnight flight leaving in five hours. I hate red eyes, can never sleep on the plane, but don’t see other options. I make myself comfortable in a bar by the gate, and call Jack Mikulski,
“Jack? Pavel Rostin here.”
“You missed me, you really missed me,” comes a cackling laughter. “You want your results already?”
“No, but I will be in New York tomorrow.”
“OK, why don’t we meet in The Ketch at 5? They have a good bar.”
“Sounds good, Jack. Look, I have one more name for you to check out.”
“Ha! I knew you wouldn’t be able to hold out on me! What’s the name?”
“John Brockton.”
The voice on the other end changes: “John Brockton? The same one that was killed in California with his Russian girlfriend? Is that why you are in California, you crazy Russian?”
“Look, I just want someone to look at his fund’s transactions, public information, nothing more.”
“OK, but we’ll have to keep it pretty tight, I don’t want to jeopardize Suzy.”
Neither do I. And I don’t want to jeopardize you, Jack. I don’t say this to him.
I get a pen and a pad of paper and start drawing pictures. As my father taught me, “Pavel, when in doubt, get organized. Focus on the facts, on things you know.”
In one corner of the page, I draw a circle I call “Grand Castle Rock Fund.” Under the circle I put down Martin Shoffman. Overweight, balding, always ready with a broad smile, a joke, and a firm handshake. Referring to his wife Sarah as “my much better half, I don’t know how she can put up with me.” Turns out she couldn’t. Martin, who signed a bad agreement for us an
d now seems to be quietly working for another hedge fund. Martin, who brought in the New Treasury Island ELP that pulled the rug from under my fund. Was his smile just a mask? Did he sell me out from the beginning?
In the other corner: a “Brockton-Streltsova’s murder” circle. Under it, Sal Rozen, Jeff Kron, Michelle Kron, Mark Bezginovich.
Jeff Kron, the man convicted of murder but proclaiming his innocence. Don’t all the murderers insist that they did not do it?
Michelle Kron, a lawyer who sacrificed her career to move to a small California town in the middle of nowhere because she believes in her brother’s innocence. And because she has nobody else left, the family destroyed by someone else’s greed.
Sal Rozen, a detective who thinks that Jeff Kron did not commit the murder.
Bezgonovich, Streltsova’s brother, who may have hired my father to investigate.
That’s three people that do not believe the official version.
Into the third corner goes “Streltsova’s investigation” circle. All I can place under is “Nemtsov? Nemschev?” from Streltsova’s notes. What was she investigating during the last days of her life? Terrorist bombings in Moscow? Laundering of money out of the failing Soviet Union? If hundreds of billions have been stolen, that’s the kind of money that someone would kill to keep secret.
In the last remaining corner, I make the list of people that may play some role but I am not sure to which circle they belong:
Major Vakunin, who finds new and unlisted numbers in hours. He must have worked with my father, but who would care about an old guy that retired many years ago? Unless that old guy’s been working on something of interest.
Investigator Pemin who commands militzia majors and dresses like a Wall Street financier. During the meeting, Vakunin have been clearly playing a second fiddle to Pemin. Either Pemin is very well connected for an investigator or he is not an investigator at all.
Petr Saratov, who follows orders of some colonel. Why did he say he knew my father? Not likely they worked together, Saratov seemed to be too young for that. He wanted the papers my father sent. Why did they let me live?
Sam Baker, who has people following me, probably just for divorce blackmail purposes. I don’t see him being involved in any of these cases, but I leave his name on the list for completeness. And because he spies on me.
In the middle, I put my father.
So far, Natalya Streltsova is the only connection between these circles.
Famous physicist Richard Feynman compared particle physics experiments to smashing two watches into each other as hard as you can and then trying to figure out their workings by picking up the pieces. I am looking at the pieces, sensing there is a complex mechanism behind them.
Thursday, June 15
The red eye flight wipes me out, as usual. I get home and climb into bed for a nap, but sleep does not come. The noisy weekday world keeps intruding.
I sit at the computer, pull out the pad of paper from yesterday, and start methodically googling names.
Natalya Streltsova: Nothing before 1998 when she first appears as an investigative reporter on the Russian TV station Telenovostiy. Born in Moscow in 1970. The station is acquired by Boris Sosnovsky, one of the most powerful Russian oligarchs with strong ties to the government. In 2000, Streltsova became an anchor of a popular weekly program reporting on corruption, graft, and government-sanctioned pilfering. There is a picture - very pretty, blonde, willowy, tall, smiling fearlessly into the camera. She raises questions about the terrorist bombings in Russia that killed hundreds and are used to justify the second war in Chechnya. Except that Telenovostiy claims that the bombings have been orchestrated by the FSB and the GRU, the descendants of the KGB, to create a pretext for war. The TV station was sold in 2001 and the Telenovostiy’s investigative program gets canceled. Streltsova continues as an investigative reporter for an independent newspaper, but there is nothing on her from late 2002 until late 2003 when she is found dead in Santa Barbara. I make a mental note to do more research about the bombings.
Mark Bezginovich: A newspaper article from 2001 describing a “new kind of successful Russian attorney.” Other references are not as kind, labeling him an “attorney for the mob” and mentioning his name in a number of high profile cases. There is a phone number which I write down from the Yellow Pages.
John Brockton: Born 1965 in Chicago, degree in Russian Literature from the University of Chicago in 1986, Harvard Law School in 1989. Climbs up the ranks of Millennium Mutual. A 1997 article has his picture as a “new breed of American emerging market money manager” that lives in the “emerging country” (Russia), speaks the language, and guided his fund to a fivefold appreciation in only three years. A small announcement about Brockton leaving in July 1998 “to pursue other interests.” An article from the Santa Barbara News-Press about a young multi-millionaire buying a “magnificent property” in 1999. All quiet until 2003, when the news world erupts with a sensational murder case.
Martin Shoffman: Born in 1966 in Boston, marketing degree from the University of Iowa in 1988, Wharton Business School in 1993. Assorted Wall Street jobs, Lehman, Salomon, Barclay. Not really getting anywhere until becoming a co-manager of a hedge fund in 2005.
Boris Sosnovsky: A powerful Russian oligarch with strong ties to Yeltsin’s family. But as the government changes in 1999, Sosnovsy finds himself on the wrong side of the new president. Sosnovsy is forced to sell the TV station in 2001. He moved to Paris but continued agitating about the Russian government, blaming it for staging the bombings in Moscow and other things. In February of this year, he was found hanging in a locked bathroom. Police declared it a suicide.
Sam Barker: U.S. congressman since 1984, currently the third longest serving congressman. Being pegged for the chairmanship of the powerful House Means and Resources Committee. Has been dogged by allegations of enriching himself by acquiring real estate that would jump in value following Congress’ decisions. Being challenged in the 2006 elections by a populist district attorney who dug up Baker’s lucrative purchase of a cheap tract of land just a couple of months before freeway construction was unexpectedly funded.
What ties them together if anything?
I dial the number I found for Bezginovich. It’s an answering service. I leave my name and phone number.
I get to the Captain’s Ketch early, saunter to the bar, get a beer, and watch the testimony of the Fed chairman. A few months ago, I would be glued to the TV, hanging on each and every word. Now I just casually follow the text running along the bottom of the screen, proclaiming that there is no bubble of any kind in U.S. real estate.
A familiar cackling laughter scares the few present patrons and makes the bartender smile. Jack hits my shoulder. “These clowns won’t know a bubble if it had a neon sign posted saying B-U-B-B-L-E!”
Suzy follows him at a slight distance, probably embarrassed by his display.
It’s early, so we get ourselves a quiet corner table. The waiter makes a face when he hears we are partaking only in drinks and appetizers, but it’s too late to reseat us.
Suzy pulls out two manila folders and opens the thicker one. “The Treasure Island Exempt Limited Partnership was set up with $110 million in April of 2005. You won’t easily find this - the Cayman Islands are a jurisdiction that’s short on taxes and long on privacy. Judging by the amount and the timing, it looks like the Partnership was specifically set up to finance your hedge fund. The directors are a usual bunch of for-hire Cayman bodies, most of whom sit on hundreds of boards, get a little bit from each, and know nothing. While nominally an independent fund, the beneficial ownership and the manager indicate that it’s effectively a ‘feeder’ fund to a larger ‘master’ hedge fund by the name of White Sycamore ELP. The White Sycamore has a number of other feeder funds, with about $800 million under management. No names of interest on the management or directors roster. Here’s where it gets interesting: The White Sycamore is a ‘special purpose vehicle’ for another fund called Dougla
s Fir Holdings.”
“Why?”
“Generally, it’s used to separate different types of investments. In this case, perhaps to hide the true size of Douglas Fir Holdings - it appears to have a number of special purpose ‘side pockets’ and feeder funds, with likely tens of billions under management. Ownership of Douglas Fir points to The Birch Grove, a company in Cyprus. Cyprus is also known for its excellent tax treatment and privacy.”
“And for being a money-laundering haven for the Russian mafia and oligarchs,” adds Jack.
“The Birch Grove has other subsidiaries. Ultimately, it probably manages hundreds of billions of dollars - we can’t estimate. It is in turn owned by Kedr II Holdings of Switzerland. Unlike the other companies I mentioned, the Kedr is not a financial management group but a diverse conglomerate - there is a bank and a network of trading companies, mostly registered in Antigua and Panama.” Suzy draws her finger through various printouts.
“Bearer shares …” says Jack knowingly, and Suzy nods.
I hate to admit ignorance, but I have to ask. “What are bearer shares?”
“Shares that are not registered to a particular name; you claim ownership by presenting them,” Suzy patiently explains. “The ultimate in secrecy, money laundering, tax evasion… Very few jurisdictions allow them.”
“And who owns the Kedr?”
“The ownership points to Der Hornstrauch Anstalt, which is an offshore company in Liechtenstein. So far the trail ended there, Anstalts are Liechtenstein’s financial institutions that don’t disclose beneficial ownership.”
Suzy moves to the last printout page in the manila folder.
“One more thing,” she says. “This looks like a network of companies carefully set up for opaqueness. The financial management arm, The Birch Grove and her feeder companies, are relatively new, nothing before 2000. The Kedr II Holdings and other companies go back to the early 1990s. Even if we, along with unlikely help of legal authorities, get through the Caymans’ veil, we then have to pierce the veil in Cyprus, and then Liechtenstein, and we don’t even know if it ends there. I went through the names of directors and administrators for all of these companies, they are included in the printout, but I did not see anything of interest. Then I started looking for the earliest documents, and one name caught my eye: Greg Voron.”