by Peter Kysel
“Actually, I was planning to be in Cannes for a conference, so yes, let’s meet up. I’m be staying at the Carlton Hotel on La Croisette”. As I descended the aircraft steps at Nice Airport, I felt the luxurious warmth of the South of France. I took off my scarf and coat and felt my cold slip away.
I sighed Why do we have to live in London? We could easily work here. Michael came to the hotel.
“You have given me an idea. I’m going to come to your conference and promote my company to Western investors.” Michael announced, after we had settled at a window table in the Carlton bar.
“Borby has invited me to stay at his Château De La Gourope for a couple of nights, with several of his friends and advisors.” This turned out to be the reason for our meeting.
“The chateau is fabulous. It was built before WWI, by an English aristocrat and was a famous party venue before the war. Cole Porter rented it for his crowd, the Duke of Windsor partied there, Boris Yeltsin and his daughter spent holidays there.”
“Borby’s decadent parties are all about business.”
“Yes, but this time things are more serious than I expected. Obviously, alcohol is plentiful, but guests aren’t offered girls, or cocaine. Borby surprised most of us last night when he proposed creating a pressure group to bring constitutional monarchy back to Russia.” I looked at Michael with alarm.
“Why did he invite you? He didn’t mention your family, did he?”
“No, but at one stage he asked me if an English royal would accept the Russian imperial crown.”
“What did you say?”
“Borby was the host and people were watching me, so I said that it was a smart idea which would change the course of history. Borby grew several inches taller after my endorsement.”
“Did he have more ideas?”
“Yes, several. Some I didn’t understand. He wants Russia to become a confederation, like Switzerland. He proposed that any foreigner, who could speak the language and pass an exam in Russian culture, should be eligible for citizenship. He argued that the Orthodox church was too medieval and should be reformed. He seemed to be testing his ideas for Yeltsin’s successor.”
“How did his guests respond?”
“Cautiously. They thought him romantic. The Russians are more concerned about their survival than about monarchy. Borby seemed resigned to shelve his ideas.”
“Don’t you think that the Russian political classes will ridicule him?”
“President Yeltsin had sympathy for these ideas and some of them could have come from him. Monarchy would certainly give Russia greater stability.”
“Berezovsky’s suggestions seemed to undermine Putin’s ambitions.”
“It’s bizarre. Borby was asked to organise Putin’s election campaign. Might Borby be turning against his own protegé?”
“Who knows? Do you feel any danger of personal exposure?”
“I don’t. But, how should I respond?”
“Be charming but stay out of all discussions. Leave the party early, don’t expose yourself. Let’s have dinner at the Colombe d’Or one evening. It’s one of my favourite restaurants.”
#
Birthday Present
The Porsche was my dream car, but had a built-in design fault, the engine being placed over the rear wheels. I distrusted its tendency to oversteer at speed and consequently had always been reluctant to buy one. When Porsche produced a four-wheel-drive, I was won over.
I justified this partly for spurious patriotic reasons. Ferdinand Porsche was born in Vratislavice, near Liberec. The car’s umbilical cord stretched to the designer’s birthplace in the Czech Republic. Ferdinand acknowledged his Bohemian roots by copying Tatra’s design in his famous Beetle in the 1930s.
My company car was due for replacement and I had made the decision. Still, I was nervous as I dialled the Porsche dealer. On my 56th birthday, I ordered a black metallic 911 Carrera 4x4 coupe, with a sunroof and beige leather upholstery. It took six months to build my car and I counted the days to its delivery. Whenever I couldn’t sleep, I thought about the new car and relaxed back into my dreams.
Some said it was a mid-life crisis. My joy in ordering the Carrera didn’t feel like one. Are my critics trying to spoil my joy? It’s just envy.
#
A-234
Michael and I lunched at the Coq d’Argent restaurant in the City, in November 2000. He arrived from Moscow to update me about the preparations for his wedding in Cape Town in December but seemed agitated. During lunch, he turned closer to me and whispered,
“Nina went to see her parents in St Petersburg to discuss the wedding arrangements and returned to Moscow upset. Her former boss, the mayor Anatoly Sobchak, died earlier this year, together with his two bodyguards. Their symptoms were consistent with poisoning. The FSB found them similar to the murders of the chairman of Rosbusinessbank, Ivan Kivelidi, and his secretary, who died in 1995, also in St Petersburg.”
“I don’t understand the significance.”
“Nina was involved in those investigations. She is convinced that the nerve gas A-234 was used in both cases. It’s an organophosphorus compound, used in the production of chemical weapons.” This was incendiary. I looked around and motioned Michael to stop.
We asked the passing waiter to bring our desserts and coffee to the rooftop garden and we moved up there, perched high above Bank tube station. It was a clear but cold autumn day. I pointed out the City sights, while we waited for our orders. The waiter brought us a couple of blankets. We were left alone and resumed the conversation.
“Chemical weapons have been banned,” I countered, without much conviction. Michael nodded.
“Yes, by governments, but not by private enterprise. Professor Leonid Rink, the director of GITOS (the state institute of Organic Synthesis Technology) in the closed city of Shikhany, admitted it. He testified to the FSB that he had synthesised a dozen vials of A-234 in 1994, to make money,” this was fascinating, and Michael continued
“Rink sold those vials, at $1800 each, to Chechen gangs and to a Latvian criminal, Artur Talanov, a former officer of Spetsnaz (Soviet special forces). Talanov had the relevant training. He used to be assigned to a special KGB unit, Spetsgruppa B, which was responsible for covert operations, including assassinations.”
“Did you get this information from Nina?”
“Yes. Her colleagues proved that Talanov’s vial was used in the Kivelidi’s case, by dripping some of the substance onto his telephone receiver. Nina believes A-234 also killed the mayor Sobchak and his bodyguards. The government may have destroyed its chemical weapons, but their compounds are being used by criminals.”
“How difficult is it to make the compounds”
“Apparently, they are fairly simple to manufacture. Nina told me that A-234 can be synthesised, on a bench scale, by any modern university laboratory.”
“Nina was posted to Latvia in the early 1990s, possibly in connection with the exports of those Hermitage Impressionist paintings,” I remembered. Michael agreed.
“Yes, she was giving legal cover for the project. Talanov was in charge of shipping the Hermitage art to Latvia. Local government under Sobchak and Spetsnaz in St Petersburg, carried out the scheme.”
It wasn’t surprising that Nina was upset when she found out that two of her former colleagues had turned on each other.
“Nina must be looking forward to leaving the FSB,” I said simply, and Michael seemed to cheer up
“I have good news, her director, Yury Zaostrovtsev, has approved her resignation.”
“She appeared very unsettled when I last saw her. Maybe, you should consider sending her to Karlovy Vary, or Baden Baden. By agreement among Russian gangs, health spa resorts are off limits for kidnappings, or assassinations.” Michael was not convinced.
“I think she’d prefer to stay in London, where I can keep an eye on her myself. She would get very bored in Karlovy Vary. Nina can’t stand Russian trophy wives and no doubt the feelings would
be mutual.”
#
Soul of Russia
We turned to lighter conversations about our recent holidays and the Russian nouveau riche. Michael displayed his feelings of anxiety and disillusion.
“Russia has changed from an egalitarian totalitarianism to an authoritarian kleptocracy. Fortunes are stolen from the state. The wealth which belonged to all is given to the few.” An interesting comment from someone with your background I thought, but Michael was determined to make his say
“Under Yeltsin, Russia was a mess, but it achieved the transformation to a democracy. That was extremely exciting. But the Russian experiment has become toxic. The new president has made a pact with the oligarchs.” Michael was outraged. I encouraged him to continue.
“I can’t stand it. I have to fight for change. The new rich must be taxed on their windfalls. Obtaining state assets at a 30% discount is a bargain but getting them at 1% of their true value is theft. The privatisation auctions of the mid-nineties should be declared null and void. The holdings should be returned to the state in exchange for the original payments.” Michael was getting passionate, his voice becoming louder. Now, I interrupted the flow.
“Michael, I get your point and I agree with you. You are very emotional and frustrated. What’s been happening in Moscow?”
“You have seen the poverty in Russia. I just cannot understand the lack of compassion of the wealthy for the poor. My compatriots totally ignore poverty.”
There was no point in responding to him with psychobabble by blaming the regime, Russian traditions, or deprived childhoods.
Michael seemed to have his own ideas, so I asked directly.
“What’s to be done?” He looked uncomfortable before responding. Finally, he said
“It’s quite cold here. Let’s have another drink and I’ll try and explain” I ordered more coffee and brandies and Michael continued.
“The disparity in wealth in Russia is obscene. I tried to persuade some of the oligarchs to return part of their wealth voluntarily and they laughed at me. I suggested that politicians should tax excess wealth and they patronised me. Russia is ruled by a cabal of politicians and oligarchs. The system is entrenched.” I voiced my own concerns.
“Russia is a swamp. Its huge wealth disparity will cause revolts. The regime is unstable. That’s why they launder their money abroad.”
Michael had more on his mind.
“Nina and I have agreed to use her secret documents to expose the regime. We are going to advocate the redistribution of wealth and help people out of poverty.”
“You are a paradox. The descendant of the Tsar of Russia, with a moral conscience.” I paused, before adding,
“It’s a battle for the soul of Russia, between its traditional values and the corrupt nouveau riche. If we get our story right, we could win the argument.” Michael was a romantic.
“This battle must be fought by the Russians. Not by foreigners. If exposed, you’ll end up in jail.” Michael half-agreed.
“Michael, I urge you, pull back for now. The new Russians are ruthless. This is the wrong moment to agitate. Even the West conspires with the new Russians by laundering their dirty money. You and Nina stand no chance. Wait for the right moment. Build up your assets and develop your arguments. Start a family.” I don’t know if he was really listening. He turned to me and said quietly,
“It’s my ancestral duty to fight for the soul of Russia, but I promise to choose the right moment.”
“You do have something valuable to say and it’ll be a long crusade. Organise your thoughts. Find allies and plan your strategy before you go public. You and Nina will make a great team.” I remembered to add,
“Since Vladimir Putin’s election, even the oligarchs are complaining about the lack of human rights. Our friend Borby has been outspoken. He resigned from the duma and personally attacked Putin, which could be a sign.” Michael disagreed.
“Putin will not tolerate any criticism by the oligarchs. The state prosecutors reopened the case against Berezovsky for asset stripping at Aeroflot. Borby is terrified and he has left the country.” I listened carefully. Nina was still in the FSB. Her organisation was angry with Berezovsky over the Aeroflot fraud. It was a disturbing lunch. In the lift I asked him,
“Are you safe in Moscow?”
“Yes, I’m safe. I keep well out of politics. Both of us keep our thoughts to ourselves. Nina calls it internal censorship, which is a prerequisite for survival.” When we rose, Michael looked around the roof garden.
“This was a good place for a chat. I needed to get things off my chest”
“It’s wonderful here in the summer. We’ll come back and order a picnic on the grass. They prepare a hamper, a blanket to sit on and an ice bucket for champagne. It’s very relaxing.”
#
Cape Town Wedding
A few days before the wedding, Nina and Michael drove to a winery in Stellenbosch, outside Cape Town. Having selected wines for their wedding, they decided to have a lunchtime picnic in the shade of a large yellowwood tree in the winery’s gardens, with a view of the Drakensberg Mountains. It was a warm sunny early December day. They chatted about their wedding arrangements. Nina sipped her white wine.
“Our wedding is going to be the start of a happy life. I love you. I am so blessed.” Michael filled up their glasses and she continued, “My mother keeps muttering about me get married to a foreigner in South Africa.”
“What can I do to be accepted into your family?” asked Michael
“We shouldn’t care about Galina. Don’t tell her about your Russian ancestry because I don’t trust her,” responded Nina and squeezed his hand
“I had a miserable childhood. Promise that you’ll give our baby a happy childhood, like yours.”
“Yes, of course. We’ll both will give our baby a happy childhood,” with that they packed up their picnic and drove back.
Nina and Michael were married at his parents’ house at Bishopscourt on the last day of the year. Nina’s parents were there. Florisse and I were also invited. We stayed with Florisse’s old friend Gay, who had become a professor of drama at Cape Town University.
Nina’s parents spoke bad English, so I volunteered to act as their interpreter, and we found time to chat about their life in the Soviet Union. Having survived the Siege of Leningrad, they grew up under Stalin, when the only way to survive, was to display an unquestioning adoration of the great leader. Their family had high political credentials. Galina was the family’s communist, while her husband Oleg was a worker – an electrician. Nina was a privileged child and was allowed to study. As a socialist lawyer, she reinforced these credentials, by joining the armed fist of the proletariat – the KGB and then its successor, the FSB.
Galina gave the couple one of her paintings as a wedding present. A group of happy kolkhoz peasants, painted in an optimistic socialist realistic style, underlining her political views. Her hero Stalin might have loved her style, but I found it menacing.
Oleg whispered conspiratorially to me that Galina’s political intransigence was his reason for divorcing her. He was six years younger that Galina and having launched himself into business in St Petersburg in 1990, Oleg had found a much younger partner. The sixty-five-year-old Oleg confided to me proudly.
“I now own four electronics shops and a restaurant. Women are attracted to me. I’m very popular.” Nina’s parents liked the Greek orthodox ceremony but remained apprehensive about her marriage to a foreigner.
“We won’t be able to speak to our grandchildren,” they confided in me with sadness. I reassured them.
“Michael intends to bring up your grandchildren to be bilingual. Children learn languages so easily.” That cheered them up. Galina appeared reconciled to becoming a grandmother. Even Oleg looked surprised when she said,
“That’s good and I want them to spend lots of time with us. They will be our Russian children.” Oleg and I nodded our heads in agreement. T
he wedding was turning into a happy occasion.
I watched Galina and Oleg closely. I thought
They are both sentimental and insensitive with huge reservations about hostile foreigners. It was their country which turned half the Europeans into prisoners and refugees. Galina and Oleg were adults when their army occupied my homeland. It doesn’t occur to them to apologise. They don’t get the fact that central Europeans despise Russia. Has the regime made them so callous?
At the wedding party, I asked Nina for a dance. She never missed the chance to be serious.
“Thank you for looking after my parents. It’s their first trip abroad and they are very confused. They don’t expect people to be pleasant to them, without wanting something in return.”
“Don’t worry Nina, I am really enjoying your wedding. Why are your parents so anxious?” I asked cautiously.
“They are suspicious.”
“Shall we go over and talk to George and Fiona?” We finished our dance and joined their table. When George and Nina began a serious discourse on English and Russian nationalism, I left them and returned to entertain her parents.
Chapter 20
New Toy
In 2011, George W Bush was elected president and Tony Blair was elected for a second term as prime minister. In September Islamist terrorists killed 3000 people in Manhattan. Afghanistan was invaded, and the war on terror began. Military tribunals tried suspected terrorist for acts against the USA. The IRA disarmed, realising that support for their terrorist atrocities had begun to evaporate after the 9/11 attacks. All these events were yet to unfold, while our year started peacefully.
Florisse and I went to Venice to celebrate her birthday in March 2001. On our return to London, the Porsche dealer telephoned.
“Your 911 Carrera 4 has arrived”
When the car was delivered, I sat in the car park gazing at its sleek silhouette and feeling quite emotional. A vision came to me, of our family car, when I was six years old. It was a sporty 1950 model of a grey Ford Super De Luxe Coupe Salon, with a V8 engine. Driving sports cars was a family tradition. My parents had imbued in me the ambition to succeed. We had both achieved our dreams to own beautiful sports cars. I hoped that they could see me now.