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

by Carlito Sofer

  The White Tiger smoothly squeezed the trigger, aiming just above the target’s right eye. He envied that man. Not everyone died kissing an attractive blonde.

  40 The Assassination

  Kiev, 2013

  Kiev was beautiful in the summer. The weather was hot and the sky was cloudless blue. Boris, David and I went to a meeting in the Parus Business Centre in the centre of Kiev.

  The meeting was at the office of Dogma Financial Services, a boutique investment bank that we hired to represent us for securing credit facilities in the final stages of the tender for the construction of the highway between Moscow and Minsk.

  Project Highway to Heaven was complex and we required extra discretion. Unusually, we came to the bank’s office and didn’t have the meeting at our office. I was planning to meet Masha after the meeting to take her for lunch and shopping. Boris also had a planned rendezvous with his lady friend, Natalia.

  At the meeting with Dogma, as small talk we were chatting about wealthy Jewish bankers and the Rothschild family in particular. My thoughts were wandering. I thought that it would be interesting to find out more about the dynasty of the Rothschilds. Was it the richest dynasty of the nineteenth century? What about that of Rockefeller? I thought that he was the first official dollar billionaire.

  Masha was waiting for me at the building’s entrance, next to our bulletproof Rolls Royce. I turned around and said my goodbyes to David and Boris. I turned to face Masha and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She smelled so good. Still thinking about the Rockefellers and Rothschilds, I put my arm around Masha’s shoulder, walked together with her to the car, heard an unusual hiss followed by blackness.

  Then, I woke up and opened my eyes.

  41 Good Morning

  Tel Aviv, 2013

  Misha Vorotavich woke up and opened his eyes.

  He looked around confused at the unusual surroundings. A second ago he was kissing Masha in front of the Parus Business Centre in Kiev. Now he was lying in a bed in what seemed to be a hospital room. His muscles felt stiff. It was hard to move. His mouth was dry and his head was aching.

  The nurse saw that he was awake and dropped a syringe in surprise. She and the medical staff were under strict instructions to tell only Masha and Arthur if there was any change in Mr Vorotavich’s condition.

  “Nurse...nurse,” Misha tried to say, but his throat rasped, and the words came out sounding more like a gurgle.

  “Good morning, Mr Vorotavich. You’re finally awake!”

  Misha tried to speak again, but still made no sense.

  “Here; drink some water. You’re at a hospital in Israel. I’ll go tell the doctors and your wife you’re back with us, okay?”

  The nurse held the glass to Misha’s cracked, dry lips, and he drank greedily, spilling it everywhere.

  “Okay...slow down,” the nurse urged. “Now let me go and get a doctor, I’ll be back shortly.”

  Misha lay back in the bed and tried to work out what was going on. The nurse left the room, and seconds later Arthur burst through the door. To say that Arthur was happy would be an overstatement, but he seemed somewhat excited. This was untypical for him. Even though Misha wasn’t 100% aware of what was going on, he was still surprised by Arthur’s exuberant demeanour.

  “You’re awake, boss. Good morning. How do you feel?”

  “I’m fine, Arthur. What has happened? Where am I? Where’s Masha?”

  Not asking who am I? Or who are you? was a good sign, thought Arthur. At least Misha hadn’t suffered amnesia or brain damage.

  Arthur quickly updated Misha with a condensed version of recent occurrences, including the discussion that he’d had with Andrei, Boris and David, the situation in Odessa, the purported involvement of the shadowy Puppet Master, Nazar, the car bomb that had taken Andrei’s life and the recent unwelcome guest from Chechnya.

  Misha had a concerned expression on his face. He touched the scar on his forehead. He put together the mosaic in his head and broadly got the picture. He understood that he was in a great danger. There was a war going on around him and he was no Suvorov, the legendary Russian general who never lost a battle. He was just a businessman.

  The persons suspected of being involved were just too bizarre and terrifying to digest. The former chief of the KGB who used to be known as the Puppet Master? How the hell did their paths cross? And why the fuck did he tell people that he was Misha’s father-in-law?

  Colonel Ivanenko and the SBU? The Russians? The Belarusians? The Chechens? Denis? Even Nazar back from the dead? Half the world was after him.

  He drank some more water. Slowly.

  He thought that the brave die once, while the cowards die every day from fear. If that was the opposition, the chances of winning the war were slim. But there was no one to whom he could really surrender.

  “Don’t tell anyone that I’m awake, except Masha and David. Tell David that he can tell Boris. Nobody else,” Misha commanded.

  He needed some time to think. With Arthur around he felt that he was safe, although even Arthur might not be able to protect him, given the possible enemies that were out to get him.

  Arthur left Misha alone to digest the barrage of information he’d been given. Five minutes later he returned with a document folder in his hand.

  The last thought that he had before what now seemed to be a dream came into his head. “Arthur, give me your smartphone for a sec,” Misha said.

  He needed internet access. He Googled ‘rothschild’ and found it on Wikipedia.

  “Fuck. Here it is. The total wealth of the Rothschild family was estimated in 2012 at 1.7 trillion US dollars. Although none of the contemporary family members hold over a billion.” He said it to Arthur, who didn’t seem to give a toss.

  Now, ‘rockefeller.’ “Fuck me. Forbes magazine considers Rockefeller as the richest person in history evaluating his wealth at 318 billion dollars in 2007 equivalent.”

  Arthur still didn’t seem the least interested in what Misha was saying.

  Misha felt deceived, his purpose of being the richest in the world now seemed much more distant than it was. But then, Misha thought, technically, if now the individual Rothschild family members didn’t have more than a billion each and Rockefeller’s wealth was recalculated in today’s value with indexing to inflation, then these all were only calculations. The actual number that mattered in the modern world was today’s total net worth. Not theoretical gobbledegook. The thought was amusing. He still hoped to climb the summit of the billionaires’ pyramid. Not all was lost.

  “I’m sorry, boss. These are some papers left by Boris. He said they’re very important and you need to sign them immediately you wake up,” Arthur interjected.

  Misha took the documents, which had a note inside the front cover that explained everything.

  Misha read the instructions twice, then closed the folder and placed it on the bedside table. The documents were to execute a letter of credit to pay the down payment and the project in Belarus was his. He shut his eyes and let the facts roll around his brain. His signature on the official papers was worth three and a half billion dollars. But this wasn’t only about money any more. This wasn’t only about taking him out of the project in Belarus; it was tied up somehow with a secret plan to unite Russia, Belarus and Ukraine to create a new Soviet Union.

  “A few signatures here and I’m one step closer to being the richest,” he mumbled aloud.

  While Misha didn’t fully comprehend all the details of the events that led to his attempted assassination, he understood that there was some kind of conspiracy concerning Ukraine and Russia aimed at some sort of a new union. He and maybe others were seen as an obstacle as they steered Ukraine in the direction of the EU. Misha had the money, connections and political clout to be a threat.

  Connected or not, his involvement in Belarus pissed off a bunch of powerful figures. He needed to make a decision between pursuing more money and trying to stop this conspiracy. Did he care enough to intervene? Would
he just accept the way it was?

  Boris’ note explained the delicacy of the situation in Belarus. This was nothing new, but this time the opponents were formidable. He had to make a decision fast.

  Two doctors appeared and carried out a series of tests that all confirmed that most signs were back to normal. Exhausted, Misha slept for an hour. When he awoke, his next move was clear. He opened his eyes and saw that Arthur was sat in the room, waiting for him to come around.

  “Arthur, get me out of here. Tell the pilot to prepare the plane for take-off in two hours with full tanks. Tell Masha to meet me at the airport in an hour and a half and bring the children. You’re coming with us.”

  “You have bullet in your head, boss. You slept for nearly three weeks. Should you leave so soon?” Arthur asked, the concern in his voice an emotion Misha had rarely heard before.

  “It’s not a matter of should, it’s a matter of must. We’re in immediate danger. We must regroup and strike back. There’s no time to lose.”

  “Okay boss. What’s the flight plan?”

  “Don’t worry about that for now. There may be people monitoring our jet, best to leave it till the last moment when we’re all on-board.”

  “Got it. David and Boris are aware of your recovery; do you want me to inform them?”

  “No. I’ll call them when we’re clear.”

  ***

  The jet flew to the Cayman Islands, which is conveniently far away from Ukraine, Europe and Israel. Misha needed time to think about his next move.

  A couple of days later the jet took off again, and this time the destination was New York City, where David had used his connections to somehow arrange for a visa for Misha and the family. Those same connections managed to set up a meeting between Misha and the CIA. Misha didn’t count on the US too much, as with its current leadership it was no more dominant than Luxembourg. But trying to have a powerful clandestine agency at his side wasn’t a bad move.

  What Misha didn’t know was that it was Mossad that arranged with the CIA to grant him a visa to the United States. David had called his friends at Mossad and told them everything he’d learned about the conspiracy. After comparing details, it became clear that there was a plot involving hardliners from the Soviet era to unite Russia, Belarus and Ukraine. They suspected that military officers and former members of the KGB were involved, although intelligence reported that the presidents and the secret services of the three countries seemed oblivious to the plan. David’s information was highly praised.

  Shimon even poked him jokingly for the first time, “You’re a candidate for a medal, David. Of course nobody can know you received one and if they did we must kill them, but still.”

  The new Soviet Union would have a significant impact on the global balance of power. It would affect the position of the United States and China as the two leading superpowers. It would affect the balance of power in the Middle East, tilting it towards Russia and its allies, such as Iran. It would tip the dynamics of the global economy as the Soviets would control the global energy market, covering their own resources and influencing the Middle East’s oil. The United States, Israel and others should be concerned about the looming implications of such a dark union.

  ***

  The man who was once known as the Puppet Master called his friend in Ukraine. After hearing the report he seemed satisfied. He thought through the entire combination of moves like a Grand Chess Master. Ukraine wouldn’t sign any association agreement with the European Union. Instead it would be brought back to Russia’s embrace, this time for good.

  The naive Europeans had made preparations for a summit in Vilnius to sign the association with the Ukrainian Leadership and to begin negotiating for Ukraine to become a full member of the European Union.

  “Let them be entertained,” the Puppet Master thought. “Soon we’ll announce our little surprise. First we take Crimea, then we take Kiev. If everything goes smoothly, I might initiate a reconsideration of Alaska’s sale to the US in the nineteenth century. Two cents per acre paid by the Americans doesn’t sound right to me.”

  The only annoying development was the sudden recovery of Mikhail Vorotavich. He had done too much harm to Russian interests and was a fervent advocate of Ukraine joining the EU. He had too much money, and too much influence. He should’ve been out of the picture by now. Lazarev’s people hadn’t accomplished the task.

  Vorotavich wasn’t a major obstacle to the plan, but the Puppet Master didn’t want to have any unfinished business.

  While the first assassination attempt on Vorotavich hadn’t finished him, it wasn’t too complicated to arrange an auxiliary measure. He picked up his mobile phone and pressed a series of numbers.

  “It’s me. That thing we talk about. Do it. And this time do it right.”

  ***

  Now back in the Cayman Islands, Misha watched the sunset over the Caribbean Sea. He was drinking vodka and smoking a Cuban cigar, two of his favourite activities. The private doctor had finished his latest series of checks, so Misha could relax for the evening. How he had survived the assassination attempt was baffling to say the least, but the fact that the bullet had lodged in an area where it could remain without further damage was surely a miracle. He would forever buzz at security scans at airports, but that was a small price to pay.

  He was reading the newspaper. One article that caught his eyes was about the Rothschild family. It was revealed that the family had a hidden fortune, previously unknown to the general public, concentrated in the hands of just a few descendants of the dynasty. Its value wasn’t revealed, but the article claimed that it was by far the biggest estate that ever been in private hands. Misha’s dream of reaching the number one spot in Forbes World’s rich list was unachievable. Or was it only postponed?

  Misha firmly believed that there was one winner. All the rest were losers. Nobody remembers who got the second place. There was no point going for the second spot on the list. Perhaps he needed a different goal for his life.

  He flicked on the TV and found a summary of the latest round of games in the European Champions League. Watford United, his baby, won 2-1 in the group stage game with AC Milan at the San Siro Stadium. What a glorious result, only the second English club to win in Milan against either of that city’s two massively successful teams.

  Misha’s mobile phone rang. He answered it, thinking it would be someone congratulating him on his club’s historic victory.

  “Hello?” Misha spoke cheerily.

  “Misha. It’s Sasha. They got…”

  The line went silent.

  “What the fuck!”

  Then a different voice spoke menacingly.

  “Vorotavich. We hold your brother. If you want to see him again we’ll be waiting for you at Red Square in forty eight hours. Come alone.”

  Misha knew exactly who it was. He called Arthur.

  “Arthur, they have made their move. It is time.”

  “As you suspected they would. Good...let’s finish this.”

  “Everything is in place?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then it is time to retire these old bastards.”

  “This bit I won’t sleep through,” Misha said to himself. “It’s going to be too good to miss.”

  Epilogue

  Kiev, 2014

  Ukraine was burning. It was hitting the global news headlines as brothers fought brothers in Maidan Nezalezhnosti, the Independence Square, in the heart of Kiev. The country was on the verge of a civil war.

  Just over twenty years ago, the same square was full of people happily celebrating Ukraine’s independence. About ten years ago, the same square was full again during the Orange Revolution that righted the wrongs of rigged presidential elections. Back then there was no human loss. Now, however, they were killing each other.

  But nothing is left to chance. Nothing happens without a reason.

  The man who was once known as the Puppet Master opened the door of his office at the Kremlin’s u
nderground facility, approached his computer and filled the authorisation forms for the operation Kievan Rus.

  It was time to take back Crimea. Crimea first, the east of Ukraine second and then Kiev. It was back to the USSR.

  Ukraine was burning. The country was bleeding. He was watching with satisfaction as his plan was unfolding before his eyes. The East would rise again.

  About the authors

  The authors are Ukrainian-born Nik Krasno and Israeli-born Carlito Sofer. Nik grew up in Kiev and was engaged for years in the business and legal sectors in Ukraine. He immigrated to Israel and studied law together with Carlito, who later moved to London. Both are in their forties and this is their first work of fiction.

  Acknowledgements

  We want to thank David Thurlow for editing the book and Ilanit Galam for designing the cover.