Rice hadn’t mentioned the investment project or the need to sign NDAs when they had last spoken. Working for an investment banker wouldn’t be his number one choice, although he had a good knowledge of their requirements. Furthermore, he couldn’t see how working for such an organization would have any relation to his core war crimes work. He glanced at Jayne, who gave a small shrug.
“I’m not sure,” Johnson said, turning back to Rice. “It doesn’t sound like my normal type of work. We can have a conversation about it, though, if you’d like.”
“Right,” said Rice. He checked his watch and looked around the room. “Listen, why don’t we see if we can get a meeting room here for twenty minutes now. I’ve got a couple of NDA forms in my briefcase. You can sign those and we can get things moving straightaway. If the project or terms don’t suit your needs, no harm done and I’ll look elsewhere. Is that okay?”
Johnson nodded. “Yes, I understand. Jayne, what do you think?”
“Yes, that’s fine with me,” Jayne said.
Johnson pointed at O’Hara, who was nearby. “Ask Sally. She’ll find a room for us.”
Rice headed over and spoke to O’Hara for a few minutes, then returned to say that she could provide a room. “I’m just going to have to get confirmation from my London office that it’s okay to enter into preliminary discussions with the two of you,” he said. “It’s just a final check of both your credentials. Why don’t you mingle and socialize while I do that. I’m guessing it will take about an hour.”
Johnson glanced at Jayne. This would be a final sign-off on the due diligence that Rice had done earlier, he assumed. Johnson nodded. “Yes, that’s fine with us.”
As soon as he had gone, Johnson murmured to Jayne, “I think he’s checked me out already. There’s no way he’d be talking about signing NDAs so quickly otherwise. He probably just needs to verify your story.”
Jayne nodded. “I know. But let’s go with it. Could be interesting.”
“It’s interesting that the Afghans are opening up the gas market to foreign investment with all this Taliban activity still going on,” Johnson said. “It’s going to be quite risky. I mean, a well-placed RPG into a gas production or distribution facility or pipeline is going to reshape the goddamn Hindu Kush if they’re not careful. Some investors might not be too eager to get involved.”
An hour and a quarter later, after Rice said he had received clearance from his London office, the three of them were sitting around a table in a small room on the first floor of the embassy. The internal window looked out over the party in the atrium that they had just left. Only a few people had left, and those remaining were getting steadily louder and more drunk.
Johnson and Jayne signed the nondisclosure agreements that Rice produced from his bag, and he slid them back into a plastic folder with a satisfied sigh.
“Right,” Rice said, propping his elbows on the table, hands clasped together. “Here’s the score. My client, a US private equity company called Haze Investments, is hot on Afghanistan. They’ve got several medium-sized oil exploration companies in their portfolio and now want to move up a league. They’ve come to me for advice because I know Afghanistan, up to a point. What they need is some intelligence on their potential rival bidders; they want to know what they’re up against so they can tailor their offer accordingly. But we’re struggling a little to get the information we need on two of the other parties who are interested in getting into bed with the Afghans.”
“Who’s handling the process for the Afghanistan government?” Jayne asked.
“The Ministry of Mines and Petroleum is leading it,” Rice said. “So the minister there and his officials are responsible, but one of their people, the head of financial transactions, is running the process for them.”
“So who are the bidders you’re interested in?” Johnson asked.
“First, the Chinese,” Rice said. “There’s a couple of state-owned companies, could be either of them who lead it, but it’s basically the Chinese government plus whatever partners they can bring in. They’ll be into it because they won’t like the idea of the Russians getting back into Afghanistan. But I’ve got a guy in Shanghai who’s doing the due diligence on them. You don’t need to worry about the Chinese.”
“So who else, then?” Johnson asked.
“There’s a Swiss-based investment company—you might have heard of them. ZenForce Group,” Rice said.
“No, I’ve not heard of them,” Johnson said.
“They’re extremely private. Into oil and gas trading, and they are increasingly buying up production companies and exploration businesses. They’ve got a front man, the managing director Rex Zilleman, who’s American, now based in Zürich, where the company’s home is. There are others involved, we believe, but we don’t really know all the details.”
It all sounded far too corporate, complex, and not remotely interesting to Johnson. “Is there anyone else?” he asked.
“The other one is a Russian, a crony of Putin’s,” Rice said. “He’s an oligarch—a billionaire, maybe a multibillionaire. But he’s very secretive. He’s got strong interests in energy and has the funding to basically buy whatever he wants. A group of oil fields fell into his lap somehow—as they seem to in Russia—during the 1990s, and Putin has supported him. Since then he’s used the resulting cash flows to snap up all kinds of assets, ranging from gas fields to pipelines and power stations in various parts of the world, and now a few exploration companies. Apart from that, we don’t know a huge amount.”
The idea of doing some research on an oligarch seemed slightly more appealing, but the oil and gas sector? Johnson knew little about it, and it was just too removed from his normal field.
“So you want to know more about this guy,” Johnson said. “Makes sense, but I’m not sure if poking my nose into Putin’s toilet is my thing, really. Frankly, it’s not my scene.”
Rice leaned back in his seat and adjusted his open-neck shirt. “I’ll do it on your usual terms,” he said, “plus a special circumstances fee that will reflect the security situation here in Afghanistan and the people you may be dealing with on the Russian side in particular. I can negotiate. My client is paying so there is flexibility.”
“What you’re trying to say,” Jayne interrupted, “is that it’s bloody dangerous.”
“Let’s be honest, there are security risks. I want to ensure that’s reflected in the payment,” Rice said, scrutinizing Johnson. He wasn’t smiling. “What do you think?”
“Like I said. It’s not my scene,” Johnson said. “I’m a war crimes investigator.”
“Well, actually, I have reason to believe one of the parties involved might be of particular interest to you, then.” Rice raised an eyebrow.
“Who?”
“The Russian.”
“What’s his name?” Johnson asked.
“Yuri Severinov. Runs a business called Besoi Energy. Haze is thinking that if a Russian rival is trying to get involved in Afghanistan, they might be able to leverage the history between the two countries. I mean, Russia occupied Afghanistan from 1979 to 1989. If this guy has any skeletons in his cupboard dating from that time, then, well, you know . . . ” Rice’s voice trailed off and he raised his hands expressively.
They were obviously thinking of playing slightly dirty if the opportunity arose. “You think he might have skeletons?” Johnson asked.
“Possibly. In the ’80s, he worked for the KGB here in Afghanistan.”
The KGB? Severinov? Johnson had to stop himself jerking upright in surprise as he made the connection. Instantly, his mind flashed back to 1988, to running for his life from a remote Afghan village as two Russian Hind helicopter gunships closed in.
“You’ve heard of him?” Rice asked, his gimlet eyes scanning Johnson’s face.
“Indeed,” Johnson said, grimacing a little. “I’ve heard of him. Oh, yes.”
Chapter Three
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Moscow
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Severinov tried to relax as his driver negotiated the smooth stretch of black tarmac driveway through the trees and up toward the imposing facade of the Russian prime minister Dmitry Medvedev’s private residence in the luxurious Gorki-9 district.
But after less than four hours’ sleep following his flight back from Kabul, and then an early morning call from Medvedev’s urbane personal assistant Mikhail Sobchak summoning him to Gorki-9 before he could even eat breakfast, relaxation was proving elusive. He had made do with eating a couple of bananas in the car en route.
He scanned the array of eight Roman-style pillars that decorated the front of the symmetrical white three-story building, then looked up at the slate gray dome that topped the roof.
This dacha, on the south side of the Moscow River, was one of many occupied by the rich and famous in the so-called Rublevka area, just off the Rublevo-Uspenskoye highway, around eleven miles west of the capital. The property had previously been occupied by former president Boris Yeltsin until he had resigned in 2000.
It was Severinov’s first visit to Medvedev’s home, although the two had met several times at the Kremlin and at the Russian White House—the main government building and Medvedev’s official workplace.
Severinov’s black Mercedes Maybach came to a halt outside the front of the house, and a doorman moved smartly forward to open the rear door for him, nodding deferentially as Severinov stepped out. His close protection bodyguard got out of the other side of the car and walked briskly around to join him.
He screwed up his eyes in the glare of the late spring sunshine. The heat, combined with a slight nervousness about the meeting, caused beads of sweat to form on his forehead.
Severinov was now worth many billions of dollars, thanks in part to the patronage of Vladimir Putin and Medvedev, former head of the Russian oil and gas giant Gazprom. In contrast to their battles against other oligarchs, the pair supported the acquisition by Severinov’s business, Besoi Energy, of three underperforming state oil and gas fields for peanuts, debt-free.
Severinov gave them a shake-up, installed new management, and turned them around. The resulting tidal wave of cash that flowed into his bank accounts enabled him to pay off the modest acquisition cost within two years and then purchase a whole raft of other energy assets, both in Russia and abroad.
A key factor behind Putin’s support was Severinov’s background. His father, Sergo, had been a fiercely loyal Russian, a hero of the Second World War—the Patriotic War as the Russians called it. He had then spent seven years working for Josef Stalin as a close bodyguard and an enforcer who became known for his brutal methods of extracting information from reluctant interviewees. Once, after a night of drinking vodka, his father confided that his favored technique was to use a rubber truncheon and a spring-loaded steel rod to systematically break leg and arm bones.
Severinov also had links to Putin through the KGB. After studying economics at Moscow State University, Severinov joined Russia’s main security agency in 1980. He was based in Berlin, where he became fluent in German and English. Putin, a KGB officer from 1975 to 1991, had worked in the Leningrad and Dresden bureaus. The two men occasionally cooperated on Cold War operations.
So far, Severinov’s parentage, his links to Stalin, his shared KGB background with Putin, and his care in operating his business had carried some weight. Nevertheless, things weren’t quite the same as they had been. Putin remained mindful of old connections and friends but had forged strong links with new people and brought in new methods and attitudes, and Medvedev likewise. Severinov knew his currency with both men had been somewhat debased over the years and was aware that whatever he had could be taken away at the president’s whim.
Sobchak had told him that Medvedev wanted to further discuss bidding plans for the exploration and production assets owned by the Afghanistan government. It was the type of large, heavily politicized strategic deal that Putin and Medvedev took a very close interest in.
The truth was that Severinov held Medvedev in some awe, partly because of his vast knowledge of the oil and gas sector but also because of his power.
Sobchak, dressed in a smart black suit, held open the imposing front door of the house for Severinov and his bodyguard as they entered the entrance hall. He shook Severinov’s hand and apologetically indicated toward the airport-style X-ray scanning machine to his left.
Once Severinov and his bodyguard had passed through the device, he immediately saw Medvedev, a slightly stocky man with dark, receding hair and a straight, even slightly downturned mouth, step forward to greet him.
“Yuri, greetings,” Medvedev said. “How are you? I heard about your narrow escape in Kabul. Damned Taliban.”
“Greetings, Prime Minister,” Severinov said. “Yes, the Taliban are everywhere still. It’s irritating, but I try to stay positive. If we’re going to do business in that country, we have to work around them.”
Medvedev, wearing a white cotton shirt with gold cuff links but no tie, led him through a set of black double doors and along a red-carpeted corridor to the door of his private office, and Sobchak brought up the rear. Severinov indicated to his bodyguard to wait outside.
Once in the reception suite outside his office, Medvedev turned around and faced Severinov. “I have a special guest who will also be joining us for the meeting,” he said.
Before Severinov could ask who that might be, Medvedev opened the door and walked into the dark oak-paneled office. There, sitting in a chair next to the desk, was Putin. Severinov did his best to remain cool and collected. A doubleheader involving both the president and the prime minister was not what he had been expecting. Dermo. Shit. Were they taking Afghanistan this seriously? Clearly they were.
Severinov walked across the light oak floor, interleaved with strips of dark wood to form a diamond pattern, and shook the president’s hand. As on the previous occasions when he had met Putin, his hand felt as though it had been through a crusher.
The president, unsmiling and unblinking, made no attempt at niceties. It wasn’t like the old days. “Sit down,” he said.
Severinov, not daring to take his eyes off Putin, lowered himself into one of the ornate dark wood chairs decorated with gold leaf, its padding lined with heavy blue material. Medvedev sat in the other chair, a large Russian flag drooping from a pole behind him.
“We both want to speak to you because we are concerned about what happened in Kabul,” Putin began. “It was careless of you. I’m not going to ask for an explanation, but that story was all over the damn television news in Kabul, and of course, international media followed up, including some of the useless asshole journalists around here.”
My God, that idiot Lvov and his police briefings, Severinov thought, fresh beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.
Putin stroked his chin. “What was my core, most important instruction to you when I set you this task in Afghanistan?”
“Mr. President, sir, you said you wanted to keep everything very low-key,” Severinov said.
“Yes. I did. And being so careless as to leave yourself open to an RPG attack on the main highway is hardly low-key, is it?” Putin spat.
“No, I have to agree, but—”
“What kind of surveillance detection did you follow before and during that journey, can I ask?”
Severinov should have expected this. Putin took the concept of shouldering personal responsibility for security measures extremely seriously, no matter the capabilities of his support staff.
“It wasn’t thorough enough,” Severinov said. “I would like to apologize for that. It was an error that won’t be repeated.”
“No, it won’t,” Putin went on. “This oil and gas investment in Afghanistan is one of the most important strategic moves we currently have on our books. If we don’t secure it, the Chinese will. And we simply cannot allow that. Russia failed using outright military muscle in Afghanistan in the 1980s. Now we are taking a different approach. If we control Afghanistan’s natural
resources, we control the country. What’s more, it will enable us to strengthen our ties with Kabul at a time when they are absolutely sick of having the Americans and the British stomping all over the country. They can’t stand Obama. And I’ve put you in personal charge of this project because I trust you.”
“Thank you,” Severinov said.
Medvedev tapped his fingers on the desk. He was going to have his say too. “We’ve canceled twelve billion dollars of debt the Afghans owe us, we’ve sold them a massive amount of weapons and ammunition, and Hamid Karzai is keen to build bridges with us as an alternative to Washington. We can help them—we’re experts in oil and gas. They want us in, and it’s your job to make sure it becomes a done deal.”
Putin nodded in agreement, then leaned forward over the desk’s mirror-like, polished surface and thrust his face toward Severinov’s so that the two were no more than half a meter apart, eyeballing him. “I am personally looking forward to traveling to Kabul to sign this deal. I want it to be seen as part of Russia’s attempts to build much better relations with Afghanistan.”
Not the reality that you want to use it as a strategic move against the Chinese and the Americans, Severinov thought.
“Yes, I understand,” he said. He knew that Putin and Medvedev had both seen the briefing paper he had written on the Afghanistan opportunity, including a short assessment of the likely rival bidders. It had been a difficult paper to write, partly because information on the rivals had been hard to obtain—particularly the Swiss group ZenForce. Apart from their managing director, Rex Zilleman, his knowledge of the key people behind ZenForce was sketchy at best.
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