Red Wolves & White Knights

by Peter Kysel

“I brought the box with me from Moscow,” he said with relief, but also with concern, as he patted his case. I reas­sured him

  “I’ll take you to the Park Lane branch of Barclays Bank. We’ll open a safe deposit box and you and Nina will be key holders. As a precaution, you should copy all the documents and open a second box at Credit Suisse in Geneva. The third box, which can stay in Moscow, should contain only unim­portant, publicly available press cuttings and gossip from the internet. The keys to the Moscow box can be held by Nina and her parents, but not by you. Andrei will, hopefully, assume that there is only one box. Nina’s parents mustn’t know about the other two boxes.” We strolled over to the bank and made the arrangements. Michael handed me the key.

  “I’d like you to have the key to this box. Only you and I will know about its existence. If anything happens to our family, I authorise you to use its contents at your discretion. You can publish them, or pass them on to MI5, or do any­thing else. Nina and I will keep the keys to the safe box in Geneva.”

  “Have you read the papers?” I asked and he nodded

  “Yes, some of them. Would you like to see them?” I shook my head and raised my hand.

  “No, thanks. I’ll be happy never to see them” On the way out of the bank, we dropped into the Dorchester for a cup of coffee.

  #

  Five Mottos

  On the way, Michael commented on my suits.

  “Do you have them tailor made?”

  “Yes, it’s my superstition. As a student, I had a suit made for my first job interview. When I was offered the job, I knew that it had helped me to get it.”

  “There must be other reasons.”

  “I had no one to ask for advice when I came to Britain, so I adopted five dictums to guide me.”

  “What were they?” Now, I began to feel self-conscious.

  “They are my family’s tenets, with a couple of additions.”

  “Tell me.”

  “My father was a couturier. His maxim was ‘clothes make men’. I adopted it and added my stepfather’s adage ‘quality gives confidence’. My mother stressed to me ‘good men have principles’. In England, I added New College’s motto ‘man­ners maketh the man’ and the City of London’s dictum ‘my word is my bond’.” Michael laughed and I felt embarrassed.

  “Do they work?”

  “Oh, definitely. They guide me. I believe, they helped me to fit in. People don’t patronise you when you are well man­nered, wear a well-cut suit and an expensive watch.”

  “How did you succeed at work as an outsider?”

  “I worked fourteen-hour days and on weekends and hol­idays. My bosses saw value for money.”

  “What motivated you?”

  “Fear and ambition. Fear that one day I would find a black plastic bag on my desk and spend the rest of my life sleeping under Blackfriars Bridge. Fear drove me to work hard.”

  “Others are driven by greed, which is toxic. People driven by greed are immoral, fiddle their expenses and defraud their clients. I mistrust them.”

  “Love of money should be recognised as a somewhat dis­gusting morbidity.”

  “Who said that?”

  “John M Keynes.”

  “It’s different when you do well for other people. I derive great pleasure from the successful performance of my funds.”

  “But you are under relentless pressure. The performance of fund managers is published daily. How long can you cope with that amount of stress?” I should have given his question more thought. Instead, I dismissed it lightly.

  “I’m not sure. One day I’ll find out.”

  Michael was a bright man, with an easy charm and confi­dence, a typical product of the British public-school system. He was good at sport, was sociable and spoke fluent Russian. He was prepared to work in a putrefied swamp, because it was the country of his ancestors.

  Of course, his inexperience was a handicap, but he was intelligent enough to seek guidance. When the changes in Eastern Europe began, I felt envious of the great advantage he had over me – his age.

  Chapter 18

  Vojta

  After my long absence in exile, I formed a close bond with my father, Vojta. He lived in a studio flat in a modern apart­ment block in Štěpánská Street. He loved being in the centre of Prague, a few steps from Wenceslas Square. The flat was compact, but had a balcony overlooking Prague castle.

  Vojta had divorced his second wife and remained single for thirty years. As his old friends drifted away, he became quite lonely. He had remained slim and well dressed.

  I asked him to make me some clothes and he was delighted that his old skills were still appreciated. Vojta loved talking about the fashion business and his design achievements. On one of my visits to his flat, I brought a notebook to record his reminiscences. This became our routine and we both looked forward to our meetings, and the chronicling of his life.

  “Why don’t you find yourself a suitable companion?” I asked him once

  “Because I like the young and pretty ones, but they are not interested in me,” Vojta responded, sipping his glass of red wine.

  “You should get together with someone of your own age,” I pushed further.

  “Old women are obsessed with their grandchildren and I certainly don’t want to be their pension fund.” He paused, smiled, looked into his glass and said,

  “I am much happier on my own. It is so annoying the way old people are always grumbling. I’m content to sit here and think about my life and remember old friends and a time when we were young and interesting.” I wasn’t con­vinced, so I tried to see him as much as I could.

  “Give my love to Jitka. Will you ask her to meet me here?” I always said on leaving. Jitka was my half-sister from Vojta’s second marriage. He clearly preferred to have two separate visits and always offered the same excuse

  “It’s hard to get you two together, with your high life in London and her living in Liberec. Maybe you’ll get together at my funeral,” he joked.

  #

  5th December 1999

  On 5th December 1999 the telephone rang at our house. It was Jitka. She was brief.

  “Vojta was admitted to hospital for tests but collapsed and died. I have made all the arrangements.” I flew in from London for the funeral. It was a sad and awkward situation. As a result of my father’s difficult divorce from his second wife, Jitka and I were complete strangers. After the service, I invited her for lunch, and we drank a few vodkas in our father’s memory. Reflecting on his life helped to create a more relaxed atmosphere.

  “What shall we do with Vojta’s possessions and his ashes?” asked Jitka. I responded automatically,

  “You can keep all his stuff. I would just like to have the photographs, which Vojta kept under his glass coffee table.” Jitka nodded. We continued to eat in silence until I said,

  “I’ll drive to Drahonice, his home village, to find the family graves and we’ll bury his ashes along with his ances­tors. I’ll donate something to the village in his memory. Not sure what, but I’m sure I’ll get some inspiration when I’m there.” Jitka nodded and I went on,

  “I would like our children to be aware of their roots and have some notion of our family history.” Jitka had three daughters. She understood my point.

  “We know very little about our ancestors. Why don’t I do some research into the family history, while you’re away. We can drive to Drahonice together.” I found this change in our relationship surprising but was glad. By the time we parted she said,

  “I always wanted to meet you, but I was nervous and a little afraid. I am so pleased that we have managed it.” We ignored old family discords and sidestepped potential new ones. Through our recollections, we kept our father’s memory alive. I realised that I did not want to let him go.

  We agreed on a joint project, which allowed us to build on our reunion. Vojta had brought us, as siblings, together.

  #

  Gulag in Czech Swamps

  I drov
e from Prague to Mariánské Lázně, to spend a few days with my cousin Miloš and to come to terms with Vojta’s death. After a game of golf Miloš suggested,

  “I have been learning more about the swamps, let’s go and visit them.” It was a relaxing drive. The winter roads, cov­ered in light snow, were free of traffic. When we arrived, the swamps were eerily deserted. Fog drifted through the trees. We walked down the wooden paths over stagnant water pools covered in thin ice, when Miloš stopped and pointed to a ruined building in the distance.

  “Those used to be thriving villages. The army and the ura­nium mines turned this prosperous area into swamps in just a few decades after the war.” It was hard to believe that productive land could be destroyed so quickly.

  “You talked about prisoners working in the mines.”

  “The uranium mines, between here and Příbram, were called the Czech gulag. Seventy thousand political prison­ers were shoved into camps to work in the mines. Working there was a death sentence. The average life expectancy was forty-two years.” I felt acutely, how the previously mysteri­ous and melancholic area had changed into a hostile envi­ronment. This gave me the shivers. Instinctively, I looked around, expecting some danger, and said,

  “My stepfather Josef avoided being sent here. Instead he was sentenced to thirty years of forced labour on building sites.”

  “What for?”

  “For owning shares in a textile business. Josef was rela­tively lucky, he lived into his seventies.”

  “Were you sent to do forced labour too?” Miloš was five years younger than me and still a child during these events.

  “Yes, but only for a year in an engineering factory. I was punished for having a father who owned an haute couture salon.” Miloš nodded and we turned to walk back to the car in silence, till I asked,

  “How much uranium did the gulag produce?”

  “Enough for 10,000 Hiroshima-size nuclear bombs. Our communist bears were great warmongers.”

  “Was uranium exported to the USSR, to build the social­ist arsenal promoting world peace?”

  “Yes, at our expense.”

  “We were their colony”

  “The Russians owed this country $44 billion, just for the uranium, and defaulted on their payments.” I whistled. That was equivalent to the annual government revenue.

  “They never paid up?”

  “Never paid up and left us with these swamps”

  #

  Educating George and Fiona

  Florisse, Tamara and I flew to South Africa for Christmas. We met up with Michael’s parents when we visited Cape Town for a few days, and brought them up to date, without concealing the dangers of doing business in Russia. I also told them that I liked Nina and respected her honesty.

  Over dinner at their house, Fiona and George told us, in confidence, that their son’s wedding to Nina was planned for late 2000. George wanted to know more about the country of his ancestors, which he had never visited.

  “Your experience in central Europe and the former Soviet Union gives you unmatched insight. You understand why the former is successful and the latter is a let-down. You should write it all down.”

  “I’m too busy now. Maybe in a few years”

  “Keep documents, take photos and make notes,” added George as Michael joined us

  “You have access to authentic records,” he said. He was referring to Nina’s secret documents. I recoiled. Nina’s records of criminal activities were incendiary. We wouldn’t survive their publication. I let his comment pass and said evenly,

  “I have retained some material and will start filing it.”

  “That’s right. But tell us, why is the rouble so weak?” asked George

  #

  Rouble

  “Currency is a reliable mirror of any country’s economy and stability. The message gets clearer over time. Political elites dislike open foreign exchange markets, because they expose their hubris. During the last decade the forex mar­kets judged Russia hard.”

  “So, the currency is like a canary in the mine? It gives out warnings?” asked Fiona

  “It seems a more accurate guide than the official statis­tics,” added George. I gave an example.

  “In 1989 1 million roubles bought $1 million. Today, 1 mil­lion roubles buys $29.” They were absorbing the message. George asked hesitantly,

  “I see the link between politics, economy and the cur­rency. How was it in the old Russia?”

  “Not much better. The French philosopher Joseph de Maistre said disparagingly about Russia in 1811 Toute nation a le gouvernement qu’elle mérite [Every nation has the government it deserves] and the Marquis de Custine followed in 1843 with the observation In Russia, the veneer of European civilisation is too thin to be credible. Sadly, both comments remain relevant.” Michael added his observation

  “Ten years ago, the Russian and Czech GDP per person was the same, at 62% of the average EU level. Since then Russia has stagnated at the same level, while the Czechs improved to 88%.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Yeltsin was partially successful in changing the political climate and achieving a small amount of privatisation, but his major economic reforms failed.”

  “What is the remedy?”

  “The oligarchs control over a half of the economy. Their companies are badly managed – Norilsk Nickel is the larg­est single polluter in the world. They are notoriously corrupt – Gazprom sells its gas to an opaque US company, Itera at 5% of the market price. Foreign multinational companies could help to the Russian economy achieve healthy growth, but they are barred.” George stepped in

  “As the oligarchs finance the political elite, there is no political will to deal with them.” Fiona summed up our conversation.

  “And because the Russians don’t trust their government, money leaves the country It is a national shame that nobody trusts the currency of the potentially richest country in the world.”

  Michael and George exclaimed simultaneously,

  “Russia must be reformed!” I remained silent, convinced that Russia will not reform itself, but I didn’t wish to dampen their passion. For me, Russia signified menace. It was an aggressive bear, with an instinctive appetite for con­quest, but fortunately, with economic legs of clay. Later in bed, I thought of writing about it.

  Like the Nazis, the communists murdered people, stole private property and enslaved nations. But they escaped any retribu­tion. Communists have regrouped, concealing their history and they are a threat to democracies.

  Russia may be disparagingly called Nigeria with atom bombs, but communist China is the fifth largest economy and it’s rising. My book should be a personal account of the realities of socialist homelands. Hopefully, it’ ll wake some people up.

  PART 6

  New Millennium – Consolidation Decade

  In 2000 both George W Bush and Vladimir Putin were elected presidents. Sydney hosted the Olympic games and the Tate Modern opened in an old power station in London. The UK was hit by the worst snowstorms for 50 years and in Paris, the Concorde airliner crashed, ending the era of supersonic travel.

  Michael had become my source of information about events in Moscow. At a Millennium Eve party, he casually mentioned

  “You may remember that in 1992 Borby went to St Petersburg, to get the approval for a car dealership.”

  “Yes, I remember meeting him at the Europa Hotel. He was with a man from the town hall,” I replied

  “That man was the deputy mayor, Vladimir Putin. Three years later, Borby brought Vladimir to Moscow and found him a job in Yeltsin’s administration. He succeeded in get­ting Putin appointed director of FSB in February 1999, prime minister in March 1999 and then acting president.” I whistled in appreciation of Putin’s meteoric rise this year.”

  “Borby has formed the Unity Party and Putin is the candi­date for president. All the oligarchs will back his campaign. Borby’s own financial contribution came, apparently with Putin’s kn
owledge, from stripping Aeroflot of its revenues.” I was aware that Berezovsky had invented ‘income priva­tisation’, which meant stealing money from state owned companies by charging them usury interest rates. I was impressed by Michael’s knowledge and appalled by Borby’s adventurism.

  “Borby is clearly the kingmaker in Russia.” But in my mind, I wondered. Borby is an Icarus. He flies high on wings glued by fraud. Ever closer to the sun, the rising heat will melt his wings and he will crash.

  Personally, I had more mundane concerns, about deliv­ering my investment results. Investment managers are cap­tives of their performance figures. The pressure to perform is relentless. Colleagues, clients, competitors and the media monitor their weekly results, which determine their job expectancy. I was responsible for European funds.

  Fortunately, my Strategy Fund was awarded ‘Best European Unit Trust for 2000’,” but work was stressful and domi­nated my life. High stress has a cumulative impact on health, which became evident later on in life, when stress accelerated my retirement and caused subsequent ill health.

  I enjoyed returning to a more prosperous country. Radical Czech privatisation had paid off. People were better off, buildings had been renovated. The property market was buoyant, and the country had been integrated into the industrial networks of Western Europe. Good restaurants opened in Prague and began to spread elsewhere.

  Chapter 19

  Riviera

  Michael phoned me with a coded message.

  “I’ll be staying with Borby in Cap d’Antibes. We are enjoy­ing blue skies, sitting in cafes and sunbathing. Shall we meet up?” The weather in London was dreadful, the days were short, cold and rainy, with temperatures hovering a few degrees above freezing. It seemed that everyone was coughing and sneezing.