Commander-In-Chief (15 page)

Two months earlier

V
aleri Volodin sat at his desk in the Kremlin, his eyes running over a single sheet of paper lying on his blotter. It was the list of the FSB’s most trusted financial minds in the nation. He read every name on the list—thirty-eight in all. He knew of all the men, of course—these were well-known technocrats involved in government finance and, more important, the personal finance of the government elite.

He was looking for one name in particular, and when he came to the end of the list, he smiled with satisfaction, because Kremlin Security Council Director Mikhail Grankin’s list confirmed to Volodin exactly what he expected.

There was no mention of a local private equity manager named Andrei Limonov, and this meant, to Volodin, that Andrei Limonov would do just fine.

He’d researched Limonov through the Interior Ministry officials as well, just to make certain the man was trustworthy politically, and found the man had a refreshing lack of ambition in politics. Volodin appreciated this greatly, because if one thing could
corrupt a man faster than money, it was the power that the Kremlin offered.

Volodin recognized Limonov as a bean counter, a damn good one, but nothing more than that.

He snatched up the phone on his desk, and his assistant answered immediately. “Yes, sir?”

“I am playing hockey tonight?”

“Yes, sir. The match is at ten p.m. Shall I cancel it?”

“The match will continue. I want to add a player to our team.”

“Of course.”

“Who is our left-winger this evening? Is it Kuklin?”

There was a pause as Volodin’s secretary scrambled to pull up the right file on her computer. Finally, she said, “That’s correct, sir.”

“Remove him. Contact Andrei Limonov, director of Blackmore Capital Partners, and tell him he will be playing on my left tonight. He suited up against us once, a year ago. He was terrible, couldn’t skate the wings if his life depended on it, but no matter. I’ll see him through.”

“Yes, sir.” A pause. “Shall I tell him he will be meeting with you here in the Kremlin after the game?”

Volodin’s secretary knew the president liked to invite men to play sports with him before a meeting. It was a good way to take the measure of the man, and to also show who was in charge. Volodin replied, “No. Tell him nothing. I’ll decide if I want to speak with him after the game.”

•   •   •

A
ndrei Limonov pulled up to the VIP entrance to Luzhniki Olympic Complex at nine p.m., rolling his sleek Mercedes S65 coupe through the gates after giving his name to a guard with a clipboard.

The coupe rumbled, restrained by Limonov’s foot on the brake pedal. The 621 twin-turbo V12 wanted to blast through the complex, but the driver controlled it expertly, negotiating a second security check and two more open gates before coming to a stop in front of the Luzhniki Small Sports Arena, the only major building in the area with its lights on on this August evening.

Limonov climbed out wearing a black suit with a burgundy tie, his blond hair combed into a part that partially covered a small bald spot that bothered him in a way he could never let on to others. In his line of work it helped to be young and vibrant and vigorous, and although he was only thirty-five, he was already considering a hair transplant that would help him hold on to his youth for a few years more.

Limonov was met at the player entrance to the stadium and checked in, and then an attractive young female employee from the Kremlin introduced herself and led him to the locker room.

Limonov had been only fair at hockey, and that was back when he was fifteen years old, so he was surprised to be here. He hadn’t played hockey in several months, though he retained a great passion for the game.

He’d been told the president himself had invited him to join the weekly match, which was stunning, but Limonov had heard that Volodin extended invitations to important people in the city, mostly when he wanted something from them.

Limonov had met Valeri Volodin only a couple times, most recently a year earlier, when Limonov’s amateur hockey team, made up of friends from university, had been invited to play against Volodin’s team.

Volodin’s side won that night, as they did every night they played, for two important reasons. One, Volodin’s team was partially made
up of current and former players from Dynamo Moscow, Volodin’s favorite professional squad.

And two, nobody wanted to body-check the man who controlled the military police and the Army.

Valeri Volodin, consequently, scored a lot of goals.

While he kitted up for the game, Limonov looked around at the other men on the team. He recognized all of them, as most had been famous national hockey stars just a few years ago, and those that weren’t former pros were well-known Volodin confidants in the government who, thanks to their boss’s passion for the sport, spent a lot of time playing hockey. The private equity man knew he was out of his league, to put it mildly. This was an uncomfortable feeling for him, because he was normally the most confident man in the room.

Andrei Limonov was smart, and he was successful. He also was supremely self-assured. He knew without a doubt that if he’d been more than a small child back in the nineties he would be one of the main power players in the nation now. Back then the assets of the Soviet state were carved up and handed out to a select few in Russia, then snatched up by the most ruthless of them, making a hundred billionaires in a nation with a quarter-billion in abject poverty. Limonov was certain he would have been one of the toughest, smartest, and shrewdest, had he only been around to enjoy that brief moment in time when all the fortunes were made.

Still, he was making good money now. He was a millionaire, and his private equity firm could not have been on stronger footing.

One could not work with banks or in trading here in Moscow without having ties to the Kremlin and the FSB, as the
siloviki
ran both institutions as well as the Russian economy. Business and government were one and the same here, so many of Limonov’s top
clients were also the powerful elite who ran the government and government-controlled ventures. That said, Limonov was no inside man in the Russian government. He’d worked for senior officials at Gazprom and Rosneft and other state-controlled companies, and he’d done work for senior officials at FSB for a time, building up shell networks to launder funds into Western banks, but recently he turned down an FSB offer to handle a large portfolio for them. He looked at the proposition carefully, but in the end he didn’t need the headache, so he rejected the offer. From this decision he’d lost a couple of
siloviki
clients, but in the long run he was sure it would work to his advantage. He’d shown several top men in the government that he wasn’t going to be their bitch, and he kept his nose cleaner than many of the other men in his profession here in Russia’s capital.

At ten-fifteen p.m. the door to the locker room opened and several men in suits entered. They were clearly security, and they quickly walked the room. A pair of bomb-sniffing dogs on leashes did the same, sniffing every locker, gym bag, and even a jock strap that had been cast aside by one of the ex–Dynamo Moscow players.

A few minutes later when the team was stretching and chatting in the middle of the room, Valeri Volodin entered, wearing a suit and tie. He nodded to the group perfunctorily and began to change clothes at his own private locker.

Limonov had wanted to speak with the president as soon as possible to thank him for the invitation, but soon it became clear that unless he thanked the man through his mouth guard on the ice, he wouldn’t get the opportunity till after the match.

The game started after eleven p.m., with only a minute or two on the ice for Limonov to warm up. He’d been told the opposing team was made up of bodyguards of the Russian prime minister,
and although they would not touch Valeri Volodin, they could be extremely aggressive toward the other players on Volodin’s team. One of the Dynamo guys patted Limonov on the helmet right before the start of the match and told him the other team couldn’t catch the pro players on Volodin’s team, so they took out all their frustrations by body-checking the hell out of any amateurs invited as the president’s guest.

And tonight there was only one man in that category.

And the prediction had been correct. Within the first minute of play Limonov had been knocked on his back twice, and in the first period he’d been slammed violently against the boards so many times he’d lost count.

In the second period he thought he’d broken a rib after a pass to the president that Volodin converted for an easy, uncontested goal. Limonov climbed slowly off the ice to his knees and asked for a substitution, but Volodin just skated up past him and said, “Be tough, Limonov. That was nothing.”

Andrei Limonov used his stick to hoist himself back up to his feet, and then he went back to his position.

The fact the opposing side battled as hard as they could against most of Volodin’s team—even taking their frustration out for having to play the role of whipping boys by body-checking some of the big-name players—made the game look legitimate in some respects, but it also drew a stark contrast with the play reserved for Valeri Volodin. When the Russian president was on the puck, he was only lightly grazed by a shoulder here and there.

Consequently, Valeri Volodin scored four goals, and no one else scored more than one.

Limonov had not managed to get into position to take a single shot.

When the match was over, Limonov was literally doubled over in pain. He had to ask one of the other players what the final score was, because it was too much effort to look up at the scoreboard.

He staggered back to the locker room, well behind the other players, and just as he sat down on a bench at his locker and began removing his gear, Volodin appeared in front of him and punched a fist into Limonov’s shoulder. It hurt like hell, but Limonov thought this was a good sign. The president was treating him like a childhood chum.

“You played better than I thought you would, Andrei Ivanovich.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Of course, I had expected you to be horrible, so you didn’t have to do much to exceed my expectations.”

Limonov nodded. “You were excellent, Mr. President. Your third goal was a thing of majesty.”

Volodin’s half-smile disappeared. “And what of the others?”

Limonov hesitated, but then said, “Number two was very good, also. Number one should have been called back after the illegal check Pavel Yurievich placed on their defender to take the puck in the first place. I hope you don’t mind my saying that, or the fact that your fourth goal was handed to you. Dmitry Petrovich sent you a back pass that rightfully should have been his shot. He had an open goal, yet he passed to you.”

Other than a hint of nervous laughter, there was no sound in the locker room for several seconds. Finally, Volodin said, “A detailed accounting of tonight’s ledger. Spoken like a true accountant.”

Only when Volodin smiled at his joke did the other men in the room recognize it as a joke, at which point they themselves broke into uproarious laughter.

Volodin put his hand on Andrei Limonov’s shoulder again. “I want you to come and see me. Tonight.”

He turned and walked off without waiting for a response.

Limonov wanted an ice bath more than a visit to the Kremlin, since the pain in his side and in his legs and in his lungs was at the forefront of his mind now, but he knew there was no way out of such an invitation. He had no idea what the president wanted from him, but Volodin was already out the door to the locker room, and he would not have dared ask, anyway.

“Don’t worry, Andrei Ivanovich,” a forty-year-old ex–Dynamo right back named Pavel said. “If Volodin wanted something bad to happen to you, it wouldn’t happen at the Kremlin.” He smiled. “It would just happen.”

The other men chuckled, but Limonov could see on their faces that they were all worried for him.

Limonov pulled himself up into a standing position by using the door of the locker, and then he headed for the showers.

I
t took an hour for Limonov to move from a bench in a locker room at Luzhniki Small Sports Arena to a red velvet gold-framed baroque chair in a sitting room overlooking the Kremlin’s Tainitsky Gardens. He was washed and his blond hair combed in a part and he wore his suit and tie, but his rib cage was seized with pain and he was covered with black-and-gray bruises. He sat here drinking a glass of tea, but he wished he were home with something stronger and a few painkillers. The pair of beautiful and impossibly tall attendants who had given him the tea probably could have found him something for his pain, and they stood just feet away now, on either side of the door to the main hallway, but Limonov sat there with his mouth shut and pretended he was fine.

Volodin had orchestrated tonight’s meeting to show his virility and physical prowess. It wouldn’t do for Limonov, more than a quarter-century younger than his president, to show any weakness at all.

Outside a window on his right he could see Volodin’s Mi-8
helicopter, its rotors slowly spooling up, and this gave Limonov the impression that, just after their meeting, the president would be heading home to his private residence in Novo-Ogaryovo just west of the city.

It was well after two a.m., so Limonov thought it was a safe bet his was the last meeting of the day, but he’d read stories about how the president would sometimes work straight through the night and then work a full twelve hours the next day.

Volodin charged into the room without even looking up at the women on either side of the door. He sat down, then finally raised his eyes in Limonov’s direction. “Why doesn’t the FSB like you?”

Limonov almost pissed himself. The pain in his ribs disappeared as the muscles in his back cinched even tighter. “I . . . well, I don’t know. I didn’t know there was a problem. I certainly have done nothing that would—”

He stopped talking when Volodin raised his hand.

“No, no, nothing like that. You just aren’t on their list of most trusted financiers.”

Limonov’s bladder was safe, for now. He let out a little sigh of relief, but he realized Volodin had intentionally rattled him. He recovered and said, “Oh. Yes. As I am sure you know, I worked for Gazprom, Rosneft, and several other state-controlled companies. Many of my colleagues also did work setting up FSB and SVR shells around the world. My colleagues, from what I understand, floated my name to the FSB, mentioning I had created a robust international business network that could have been useful to them. FSB asked me to arrange the international finances for some of their corporate entities and move it through my existing system. I looked over the terms and didn’t think they were in my best interests. Nothing dramatic, just no money in it.”

Volodin took tea from one of the tall young ladies. “Many would say that gaining favor from the State Security services would be all the reward one would need.”

Limonov just replied, “No one told me these matters were important to Mother Russia. It just looked like bad business for my firm. I stay busy enough.” He shrugged. “I am happy to serve this nation if I am called to do so, Mr. President.”

“I heard about your financial network.” Volodin nodded. “It’s very clever.”

“Thank you.”

“Small potatoes. But clever nonetheless.”

Limonov said nothing.

Volodin smiled now. Held eye contact with Limonov for several seconds. The younger man fought the desire to speak, sensing Volodin was testing his patience. Finally, the president said, “I need you to do something for me. Large potatoes. It will be good for Russia, but it will also be good business, I assure you.”

“Of course.”

“This matter is of utmost secrecy.”

Limonov almost said “Of course” again, but he caught himself, said,
“Konechno,”
which was more like “Sure,” and a little familiar under the circumstances.

“I have a number of personal assets throughout the world, as well as a few accounts.”

A few accounts?
Limonov thought. It had been rumored that Volodin had been one of the richest men in the world before the worldwide plummet of energy prices. Limonov had heard enough gossip around Moscow’s financial circles for him to assume the president still possessed assets somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty billion U.S. dollars. Most of that, Limonov knew, was in
shares of state-owned companies, but a fair chunk of it would be in offshore accounts.

With a poker face Limonov said, “Yes, sir. I am friendly with men here at the Kremlin. Your financial advisers. Obviously, they haven’t told me details, they are good men, but these are men who do not trifle with small change.”

“I am told my portfolio is valued at twenty-one billion euros, or thereabouts. Is that a number that shocks you?”

Limonov was not shocked, except for the fact that the gossip had proven so close to the accurate number. Still, he said, “You have worked hard building your fortune, and you have worked hard strengthening our nation. You have excelled in both endeavors.”

Volodin went silent again, his eyes locked on Limonov’s. His thin smile was so tight his lips had lost some of their color. “Eight billion U.S. dollars, give or take, is held in banks abroad. My problem, Andrei Ivanovich, is that too many people know exactly where these foreign accounts are.”

Limonov knew the total number of people involved in establishing and maintaining Volodin’s riches was five, which didn’t seem to him to be a large number, especially considering the sums these men were dealing with and the number of accounts involved.

Still, he said, “Yes. The five bankers here at the Kremlin were necessary, however, because of all the financial intelligence required in order to ensure your assets were well hidden from outsiders.”

Volodin looked down at his fingernails. “So that nobody knows where my money is, many people have to know where my money is. Is that it, Limonov?”

Volodin seemed to be pointing out an irony, but Limonov wasn’t certain. He just nodded a little.

“The locations of my foreign holdings, these are banks also used
by other members of my government, other individuals, other people in my circle who require offshore accounts.”

“Yes, sir. That is often the case. As it is with the network I have created, several investors here in Russia benefit from single entities that we have created as shells to—”

“The problem, Andrei Ivanovich, is that the more people who know where my money is, the more people who can either get to it or stop me from getting to it.”

“I assure you, no one knows where your holdings are. I’m sure your investment team went to unprecedented lengths to ensure this.”

“But you just told me five people knew. Not including me.”

“Well . . . yes, but I mean no one outside of the inner circle of accountants who you entrusted with your money.”

Volodin said, “Don’t you think the West is looking at people like those five technocrats? Don’t you think they will use them to get to me? All five of these men are tight with FSB, with other known groups that outsiders know of. Don’t you think it is just a matter of time before someone in the FSB will accept a bribe or a political rival will promise the moon and the stars to one of the men involved with my portfolio?”

Limonov had no answer, because he saw no solution to the problem. If Volodin wanted to stick his $8 billion in his mattress, he was welcome to do this, but Limonov felt certain that would be even more dangerous than having a deep network of bank accounts hidden under the names of dozens, if not hundreds, of trusts and shell companies.

He only said, “I feel certain your accounts are safe.”

Volodin shook his head. “Well, I feel less certain. I need to move money. I want you to help me. Only you. No one else must know. The fact that you turned down government work, you aren’t in the
confidence of the FSB, and you are not a known Kremlin cashier will help obfuscate the fact you are involved.”

Limonov understood why he was here now. “I see. What percentage of your total offshore holdings would you like to move?”

“All of it.”

Limonov did not mask his shock. It would have been impossible to do so. “But
why
? I understand the sanctions have made many in the Kremlin nervous, but they won’t touch your money. They can’t. Plus, there is no indication the Americans are aware of specific holdings, and by moving money around, securing different locations, you will only draw attention from the Americans—”

“This is not about America. This is about home.”

Limonov thought for a moment, worked it out for himself. “Your assets were put in their present locations by men trusted by the FSB. Is there someone at FSB you do not trust?”

Volodin nodded. “Of course there is.”

“Well . . . Mr. President. I am no chief executive. But can’t you simply remove this person from his position? Replace him with someone you do trust?”

“No. Replacing my potential enemies with other potential enemies is more problematic than simply moving my holdings. You are not known at FSB as being one of my financial planners, so they aren’t going to be expecting me to give you this access.

“As it stands now, my personal assets are tied up in vehicles that are known to the FSB. In many cases they are controlled by the FSB. It is only via the goodwill of the Russian government that I have any money at all.”

Limonov understood what Volodin was really saying. The Russian president had created a nation where he, the chief executive, made all the rules. It worked to his advantage now, but where would this arrangement leave him when he was no longer the chief
executive? Basing his future on the hopes that his nation’s intelligence service carried benevolent feelings for him wasn’t much to bank on.

Volodin wanted his money away from the gravitational pull of the next Kremlin leader.

Limonov couldn’t imagine Valeri Volodin lying on a beach in Tahiti with a fruity drink in his hand, living out his days. But that wasn’t up to him. Volodin wanted a golden parachute, and he was willing to pay Andrei Limonov to set it up for him.

Limonov said, “This . . . what you are asking, it will be very difficult. I have never dealt with the numbers you are speaking of.”

Volodin continued to speak as if he had not heard Andrei Limonov. “And we need to do this quickly. Speed is our friend in this endeavor.”

Limonov persisted. “The sums in discussion, even if I could mask the movement of the money, the arrival of the money somewhere else would cause certain suspicion. If I do this, I need to do this very slowly and carefully.”

Volodin just shook his head. “This must begin within the next month or two. I will need to see your plan before that.”

“This is an incredibly short time frame. May I ask what is the reason for the rush?”

“You may not. I understand your current assets under management are three billion dollars. You have also moved tens of billions of dollars offshore in the past several years. I need you to do that which you already do, but in a larger scale, and faster. Much faster.”

Limonov wondered if Volodin had any clue just how difficult this would be. In an instant he told himself,
Of course he knows.
He’s just putting the screws to an underling to do his bidding.

Volodin put his hand on Limonov’s shoulder, which did not convey the fraternity that he might have been intending. “Look,
friend. You do this, your commission will be substantial. What do you think of one and a half points?”

Andrei Limonov was an accountant, a moneyman, so he could not help making a quick calculation in his head.

If he pulled off this impossible task for his president as directed, he stood to make $120 million.

In a matter of months.

A small gasp came from his already open mouth.

Volodin squeezed his shoulder. “Yes, I see you are interested in this partnership. I will leave you to get to work. Come up with a plan, and then we will discuss implementation. I will instruct my staff to give you access to me twenty-four hours a day. You do nothing without my knowledge.” He leaned in a little and offered a thin smile. “This scenario doesn’t give you power of attorney over my finances or anything ridiculous like that. I have to trust you more than anyone else to offer you this job . . . but that’s not saying much.”

Andrei Limonov just nodded a little. “All my actions will, of course, be utterly transparent to you.”

Volodin stood. “Good.” He leaned over Limonov, and his thin smile came back. “Because there are two ways this ends for you, Limonov. Only two. Either you become rich beyond your wildest imagination and you have a job for life managing my assets . . . or I gut you like a fucking fish.”

The threat was completely out of phase with the rest of the conversation. It stunned Andrei Limonov, and as Volodin turned and walked out of the beautiful sitting room in his customary quick gait, Limonov realized that had been the man’s intention. He found himself frozen with fear, unwilling to even let himself consider for an instant any outcome other than success in the contract he had just agreed to.

After Limonov had sat there for a few minutes, one of Volodin’s beautiful assistants returned to the room. It was nearly three a.m., but she looked perfectly made up and wide awake. She said, “Can I walk you back to your car, sir?”