Red Wolves & White Knights

by Peter Kysel

  I’ ll walk through Hyde Park and Green Park, meet up with a friend at Le Caprice for lunch. I’ ll reserve a window table. Then I’ ll walk to the watch shop in Bond Street, buy the pres­ent for Michael and take a taxi back home.

  She made her telephone calls. Her friend Sara was delighted to join her for the walk and lunch. They met in the park, and as they walked, they chatted about all the preparations they were making for the babies they were both expecting. They parted after their lunch at Le Caprice at just past two o’clock. Nina then walked to the watch shop, where she found the perfect thin Calatrava gold watch for Michael. She left instructions for it to be engraved and delivered to the flat. The doorman let her out into the street and as she waited by the kerb for a taxi, she felt happy that the day had gone so well.

  A Vespa scooter, with two helmeted riders, came past. One of them hit her in the face, knocking her down and par­tially running over her. He grabbed her handbag and they accelerated away. Nina had hit her head on the kerb and lost consciousness. Passers-by stopped to help, and shop assis­tants ran out of shops. A group of people gathered around her. Someone called an ambulance, which took Nina to University College hospital nearby.

  The police contacted Michael, who rushed to the hospital to be at Nina’s side. Michael’s parents flew in from Cape Town to support him, but Nina never regained con­sciousness. The baby boy was born by emergency caesar­ean. His mother passed away, after seven days in a deep coma. As Michael and Nina had agreed, the baby was named George Michael Johnson. Nina’s parents arrived from Russia for the funeral and spent several days griev­ing with Michael.

  Michael was inconsolable. He asked me to retrace Nina’s steps on that last fateful day. I met her friend Sara, a young English woman, who was distraught, but had no informa­tion to give. It was the same at Le Caprice. The doorman at the watch shop was the last person to have seen Nina. He was visibly upset when describing the scene.

  “She cracked her skull on the kerb. When the ambulance men lifted her, there was a pool of blood on the road. It started to rain, and I watched the blood slowly drain away, like her life, I thought. It was terrible.”

  Fiona stepped in and took charge of Michael and the baby. His father George busied himself with other practical issues. The police traced the scooter by the registration number. It had been stolen and was left abandoned in south London. Then they had a breakthrough when the robbers tried to sell the jewellery that Nina was carrying in her handbag. Michael’s father and I went to court. It was very painful to watch the proceedings.

  “A man pointed out a woman to me and gave me £100 to steal her handbag” claimed the Vespa passenger and the other robber was equally blunt.

  “He gave me £200 to rough up that rich foreign bitch. So, I did.” They showed no remorse and when questioned about the alleged instigator, they shrugged their shoulders and remained vague.

  “He was this old, chubby foreign geezer. No, we didn’t know him. He told us to call him Andy and said the bitch had double-crossed him and deserved a lesson. We dropped the handbag in a litter bin in Berkeley Square.” The riders could hardly have been more than eighteen years old. They probably lied throughout the proceedings. They were con­victed of dangerous driving and a random robbery, that went too far. They pleaded guilty and were sentenced to seven years.

  In the midst of those depressing days in early August, the engraved watch was delivered to the flat, Nina’s surprise posthumous birthday gift to Michael. It almost broke him. He felt that his wife was reaching out to him from beyond the grave. Emotionally this was a very hard time. He needed to leave London to find some solace.

  His parents took him to South Africa, where Nina was buried in Stellenbosch, within sight of the yellowwood tree, where they had picnicked before their wedding. Her tomb­stone was engraved with the words Nina was happy and in love.

  Our contact was sporadic and Michael’s conversation life­less, always concentrating solely on business. We met briefly at Christmas, in Cape Town. He was not in good shape. When he called me several months later, I detected a change in his voice. He sounded more determined.

  “I am coming over to London for a few days on business, but I also need to speak to you. I think about the accident every day and it’s driving me crazy. I don’t believe that it was a case of random violence. The robbery was used as the justification in court. But I’m convinced that the real reasons lay somewhere else.”

  It had occurred to me: The scooter riders referred to the insti­gator as Andy. Could it have been Andrei? but I kept this thought private.

  #

  New Son

  Michael arrived in London, still mad with sadness and anger. He told me that his life had two objectives.

  “I want to discover who was behind the killing and take my revenge. I want to develop the idea that Nina and planned together. A project, for a civil society in Russia, which will commemorate her life.” Florisse and I tried to dissuade him.

  “Michael, your priority must be to bring up George to be happy and healthy. You’ll be doing it for Nina. Parenting takes decades. Baby George needs his father right now and you should dedicate yourself to him. Any thoughts of revenge will cloud your judgment,” argued Florisse, and I agreed

  “You’ll be no good to George, if you are distracted by busi­ness, or revenge, and never around. Rebalance your life. One day, you’ll meet a nice woman. Your idea of a civil society is a noble concept. I’d be happy to work on devel­oping the idea with you.” I opened a bottle and we decided to order a Japanese take away. We drank Saki and chased sushi around our plates with chopsticks. Florisse joined us for dinner, but left us soon after, saying,

  “Michael, you’re welcome to stay in the guest bedroom. You two need to talk. I’ll see you for breakfast.” We settled on the sofas.

  “George Michael was baptised in the Greek Orthodox church in Cape Town. My parents have been wonderful. Mother knows intuitively what little George needs. Father is like me, still trying to work out how to be useful. We have a good nanny.”

  “Your parents love their grandson, but the child is your responsibility, not theirs.” Michael nodded in agreement.

  “I need to sort out my business, but I am hesitant to go to Russia, as it might be dangerous for me personally. I can’t forget that car chase last year. Nina was part of their system and I suspect that Andrei could be behind the attack in Bond Street. How can I protect George if I don’t know the reason for Nina’s murder?” Michael had had the same thoughts as me.

  “It’s a difficult dilemma. I had been in a similar position in 1979. My mother died in Prague when Florisse was preg­nant with Tamara. I loved my mother and was devastated. I applied for a visa to go to her funeral, even though the UK Foreign Office warned me that I could be sentenced for desertion if I returned to Czechoslovakia, and never see my daughter, who was about to be born. Spitefully, the embassy issued the visa after six weeks, ensuring that I would miss the funeral. They didn’t allow me to say goodbye to my mother. The visa was in fact issued after Tamara was born. My prime responsibility was to my wife and daughter, so I didn’t go back to Prague.” Michael understood

  “What do you think I should do?” he asked

  “Your former colleagues from Deloitte can handle your business in Russia. Meet them here in London. Give them power of attorney to act for you. Just be careful when dealing with Galina and keep your son safely in Cape Town.” We continued until the early hours.

  “After breakfast, we’ll go for a walk around Hampstead Heath.” We hoped to steer Michael away from any thoughts of revenge. He gradually relented, accepting his responsibil­ity for bringing up his baby son.

  #

  Class Struggle

  Christmas office parties are designed by human resources departments, to encourage team spirit. They are intended to be social levellers allowing bosses and their subordinates to mingle. Women dress up for the occasion and men look forward to drinking unlimited amounts of alcohol. They
appreciate having the party in a smart venue which, for most of the staff, would be outside their normal experience.

  Bosses are aware that these are parties for the staff. Class differences are sharply exposed when different social groups are lumped together to have a good time.

  The calendar year 2002 wasn’t a good year for our London office. Six out of ten flagship funds underperformed their competitor groups. AIB wasn’t happy. For the first time, the Dublin office had outperformed, and the London staff felt that the knives would be out for them.

  The new CEO, sent in from Dublin, was an affable man, who was forced to ride two horses. He knew that London had better quality staff, but he also felt loyalty to his Dublin colleagues. Any reorganisation would inevitably result in job losses. Where would they fall? Rumours flew around and the atmosphere at the party was restrained. After dinner, our boss stood up to make a speech.

  “Do you think that he is going to announce redundancies tonight?” someone asked at our table. We raised hands in similar gestures indicating

  “Who knows?”

  “The Dublin office has had better results this year and they’ll use that as an excuse to get rid of us.” There wasn’t much trust in the firm.

  While the CEO was speaking, two secretaries slipped in behind his back and began to make explicit gestures. This elicited a somewhat embarrassed titter from the audience, but our boss, unaware of them and assuming that the audi­ence was warming up to his speech, increased his efforts to entertain.

  At the pinnacle of his speech, the two secretaries turned around, bent over and lifted their skirts. The audience let go and burst into uproarious laughter and applause. The boss smiled acknowledging the appreciation.

  “Glad you like my jokes,” he said with satisfaction, as the two secretaries pulled down their skirts and ran off, through a door to the kitchens It was a daring performance and a vicious comment on the social divisions within the com­pany. The staff had responded by ridiculing the boss. The atmosphere then became rowdier and grew more adversar­ial. With the unlimited supply of alcohol, it was likely to escalate.

  As a director, I was likely to become one of their targets. It was time to slip out of before class war erupted. I clutched my stomach and ran towards the Gents and outside. The result of the party was evident the next day on Facebook. The girls from the back office had spearheaded the Christmas party revolt and targeted senior executives. They had draped themselves all over their targets, while their colleagues took embarrassing photos.

  Reputations were damaged, as class antipathy erupted in an already unhappy organisation.

  #

  FSB Raid

  In February 2003 FSB squads, dressed in black overalls and balaclavas and brandishing AK-47 submachine guns, simul­taneously raided Galina’s and Oleg’s flats in St Petersburg. They searched the flats under the pretext of having received information that Nina, the former FSB agent, had been murdered in London by Western intelligence services, implying that MI5 was implicated.

  Galina readily accepted that explanation and cooperated with her interrogators, while Oleg was more suspicious of the real purpose of the raids. When Galina denounced Oleg for keeping the keys to Nina’s safe deposit box in Moscow, he crumbled and, ashamed of his weakness, handed the keys over. A few days later he was able to inform Michael, who telephoned me the news from Cape Town.

  “As we agreed, the safe deposit box contained her newspa­per cuttings and love letters. Oleg told the investigators that Nina had wanted to write a book about FSB on completion of her active service and had kept the papers as a record. He assured them that Nina was a patriot and would only publish memories with complete authorisation from the FSB. This should be the end of the story.” I didn’t feel the need to respond and after a few generalities, we ended the conversation.

  The impulse to look for the safe deposit box in Moscow had to come from Andrei, who is active at the FSB. Now that Nina is dead, he has succeeded in sullying her reputation. They have found the undeclared safe deposit box. Andrei’s own star must be rising again. Andrei has turned into a monster. Galina feels vindicated, believing that her daughter became a traitor by marrying a foreigner. Galina has remained a Soviet woman and a socialist artist. She feels morally justified in what she has done. What a mess.

  Borby sold his Russian assets in 2001 and was granted refu­gee status in the UK in 2003. In Russia, Borby was accused of being a member of an organised criminal group and received two separate sentences of six and thirteen years. Stealing from the KGB controlled Aeroflot, backfired on him. Mikhail Khodorkovsky was arrested in Russia in 2003 for fraud and tax evasion and received ten years. Michael called me again in the middle of 2003.

  “In the light of those raids, we definitely made the right decision to keep away from Moscow.” I agreed.

  “It’s worrying that even oligarchs like Khodorkovsky and Berezovsky, who financed Putin’s election campaign, are in trouble.”

  “I’m going to stay in South Africa and bring up George and wait until the situation in Russia has stabilised, even if it takes decades. I’ll try to reduce my property holdings and transfer money out of the country, if I can.” Michael had come to realise that his family duty was to keep the Romanov line alive.

  “We’ll see you in Cape Town over Christmas.”

  It was a depressing epitaph for a young man who had been fired up to help the country of his forefathers. A dozen years later, he had to concede defeat and the end of his dream. Michael gave up all his plans for a Russian hedge fund and property developments in Moscow and St Petersburg. I was even wondering how he felt about his Russian blood. When your enemy is an ideological adversary, it’s easy to hate him. When the ideological adversary has gone, but the regime is still awful, it’s difficult to know what to do.

  Chapter 23

  Adventures and Redemption

  The US led coalition invaded Iraq in March 2003 in defi­ance of much of world opinion. Baghdad fell to the US forces, resulting in widespread looting and the disintegra­tion of the Iraqi government.

  The occupation failed to export western democracy to the Middle East and instead, stimulated a new phase of Islamic terrorism. The space shuttle Colombia, exploded. Britain baked in a hot summer, with the highest tempera­tures on record.

  #

  Promotion

  I learned early on in my career that employers considered staff to be disposable. An experienced colleague once advised me,

  “Always be on the lookout for your next job. That’s your insurance policy. Your performance may warrant bonuses but won’t guarantee you against unemployment.” I was nearing sixty.

  The City is no place for old men. I should diversify my job opportunities.

  In January 2003 I enrolled on a degree course in European studies and intensified my endeavours to improve my French. I reckoned that I might qualify for a senior EU job and began to monitor the job vacancies.

  My concerns were misplaced. In early May I was promoted from director of European investments to chief investment officer, with the task of improving the bank’s investment results. This appointment seemed to follow the precedent set in my previous four jobs.

  Financial groups were chumocracies, in which I was a useful semi-outsider. When the business did well, I felt I was patronised for being a useful technician, but largely ignored. The chairman’s cronies were always promoted above me. My opportunities emerged when the business began to fail. The deal was simple. I was promoted to fix problems and if I failed, I would be fired.

  I acquired the skills to fix results under extreme pressure. I took the line that the only way to improve the eroding performance, was by instigating radical changes and taking complete control.

  New investment processes were introduced within a week. European valuation models were extended to the global markets. Computers were run to analyse 50,000 potential investments in fifty markets.

  Clients were graded for their expected returns and risk tol­erance. T
heir portfolios were optimised for allocations to countries and currencies. All investments were screened and ranked according to eighteen valuation criteria. Traditional methods could never compete with the speed and discipline of these new processes, which all managers had to implement.

  The impact on the company’s performance was dramatic. Within the six months to November 2003, eight out of ten flagship funds outperformed their peer groups. They were ranked in the 1st and 2nd quartiles by the Micropal statis­tical service. The London, Singapore and Baltimore offices were integrated into one investment organisation.

  It was odd that the Dublin operation, which by now was in the greatest need of improvement, remained outside the integrated structure. Rumours began to circulate about a possible sale of the company. In response, I approached the bank’s board of directors with a proposal for a management buyout. I was asked to wait.

  My personal life auspiciously returned to stability. After the rift during the previous year, our marriage became harmo­nious again. It all settled down when I accepted Florisse’s decision not to buy the holiday home in France. While I concentrated on my job, she took early retirement.

  Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I dreamt about an alternative family lifestyle, with a house in Aix-en-Provence, more leisure and less work. I regretted that it never hap­pened, but a happy relationship was the greater priority.

  #

  Redemption of the West

  “Both we and the Americans have redeemed ourselves in Eastern Europe,” said Jack Straw in the cable, car taking us to the top of Vizelle, as we watched the Courchevel Valley receding beneath us. But before I had the chance to respond, we had reached the top station and joined the rest of the group for an afternoon of skiing. Jack reverted to the topic back at the hotel over après-ski drinks.