The Oligarchs (24 page)

Aizerman, the famous professor at the institute who had solved the tank gun problem and also pioneered research in imaging and pneumatics, believed that a scientist should break into a new direction every five years. He began to champion scientific study of decisionmaking. At the institute, the basic research unit was a laboratory, which was not a room filled with test tubes but a grouping of researchers around a theory or an idea. Berezovsky eventually headed his own laboratory devoted to the theory of decisionmaking, using applied mathematics to study the processes of how choices are made.
⁶
In the Soviet system, certain scientific research, especially mathematics, could be one step removed from the ever present heavy-handed ideology. For example, mathematicians worked for years on models of a market economy—this was permitted because they were
models—
while surrounded by the obvious failures of Soviet socialism. The market models were useful to the mathematicians because they learned about Western methods and read the Western literature, but they could not apply what they learned to what they saw on the street. Likewise, the study of decisionmaking was an abstract pursuit that may have had little influence on decaying Soviet socialism. Mark Levin, a professor of economics who did graduate work at the institute and knew Berezovsky in the early days, recalled that Aizerman was a visionary who didn't care precisely where the field would lead him. “We are pioneers,” was Aizerman's outlook, Levin told me. “Our task
is a new frontier. And we can't allow ourselves to work out the details. Others will do that. Our task is to create various directions. To work out what we can. And then go forward. And let other people take care of the details.”
⁷

What was remarkable about Berezovsky was not so much the science as the method. “He was a generator of ideas,” recalled Grodsky, who worked in Berezovsky's laboratory at the time and later became a leading Russian specialist on public opinion and polls. “He expressed everything that appeared in his head. Half of it could be nonsense, but the other half was genius.” Oslon recalled Berezovsky, for all his determination, was not a very good administrator, and his laboratory often failed at simple paperwork or housekeeping tasks. “They were burning all the time,” he told me. “They were always in the midst of creative surges.” Berezovsky was too busy to be bothered with mundane tasks. “He was so active that you couldn't catch him,” Oslon recalled. “He was in one place one minute, and in another the next. He had a million phone calls. A million places where he was late to arrive. Another million places where he promised to arrive but never went.”

If there was a method to his madness, Berezovsky was constantly marshaling whatever resources his incessant networking could unlock. “It was pure business,” Grodsky told me. “The possibility of organizing seminars, conducting seminars, organizing trips abroad, receiving delegations from other universities, traveling there, making speeches there—not everybody had that. Boris knew how to build relations with people. He could basically find a common language with anyone.”

The hustling and networking was not confined to academic pursuits. The head of a laboratory was expected to be a provider for his people, a hunter and forager for his extended family. Even though they were the elite of Soviet science, the traditions of
blat
and
svyazi
were alive and well. Berezovsky's days were filled with the hassles of not only organizing a seminar but also finding an apartment for a colleague. He took care of his researchers, and a place in his laboratory was a coveted privilege.

For many who aspired to succeed in the Soviet industrial and scientific system, a higher academic degree was essential. “A dissertation was currency,” Grodsky recalled. “What mattered was whether you were a doctor of science or a candidate of science, a member of the party or not a member. It was a completely different social hierarchy. And that is why, often times, graduate studies and scientific degrees
served as a kind of currency of exchange. ‘I take you as my graduate student, and you allow me to buy a Zhiguli car without having to stand in line.' It was a funny exchange, but it did take place. This is how these relations were built.”
⁸

Berezovsky's recollections of his years at the institute support the suggestion made by many that science was not at the center of his days. “I worked at science with pleasure,” he told me. “But I felt that this wasn't ‘mine.' That is, I wrote a hundred articles and three monographs. I did something in my field, something meaningful, I think. But I managed it with great difficulty. I had to keep myself within very strict limits. Because I didn't have any supertalents,
right
? In mathematics. And I simply had to control myself all the time. And—how can I put this?—I will tell you a funny thing. It's hard to believe now because I am seen today as a person who is in many places at the same time. But three years of my life—
three years of my life—
I dedicated myself to proving one theorem. Day and night. Because everything I do, I do to an absolutely maximum degree. If I am working on something, I will work only very seriously, eighteen or twenty hours a day. I proved that theorem and defended my dissertation. And when I defended it, when they confirmed me as a candidate of science, one of my friends showed me that there was a mistake in my proof. I spent
two more years
dedicated to fixing that mistake.”

Berezovsky took in talented, unemployed mathematicians, just to feel the satisfaction that they were working near him. “There were a few prominent mathematicians whom Boris simply watched out for,” recalled Oslon. “To a large extent they had no relationship to the practical activity of the laboratory. They worked on high, pure mathematics. He simply created a few tranquil places for them so they could work normally. One of them had no work, just odd jobs—for example, he cleared snow from rooftops. Borya took him on.

“That was, for Boris, a kind of a weakness. A sort of special sympathy. Maybe his desire to help mathematicians was some subliminal thing.... He also wanted to be a mathematician. He had an inclination to do pure mathematics. Maybe he dreamed of doing ‘high' mathematics. On the other hand, the strength of his character was that he was always a very practical person.”
⁹

Berezovsky's interests would blossom and then suddenly fade. He sometimes could not sustain interest in his own projects. Once, Grodsky recalled, political fever swept the institute as they began to hold
elections for an internal council. Berezovsky “also became enthusiastic and started playing. And then he suddenly lost interest. He said, ‘Come on guys, quit this. Who cares? This is all rubbish. We won't be doing this!'”

Yet Berezovsky was constantly climbing his own ladder to higher status. His charm, sincerity, cunning, and energy were valuable assets. Oslon said, “There are different levels of status: candidate of science, doctor of science, senior lecturer, professor; then there are awards, Lenin Komsomol Award, State Award, Lenin Award. A person who is motivated to climb up this ladder must possess them all. Like a king who possesses a crown and a throne, these are symbols. You had to spend a lot of time for those symbols, but once you got them you could start thinking about the next step.”

Levin said that even the process of earning a doctorate was more a lobbying campaign than a scholarly quest. “In those years, it was less of a scientific process and more a political process. And it has to be said that the political process—Berezovsky did that brilliantly.”
¹⁰

Berezovsky turned his attention to winning prestigious prizes; he set out for the first level, the Lenin Komsomol prize, and won it. Then he set out to win the far more difficult State Prize, which was awarded by a jury. To win the prize, he had to actively hustle for it; the art of convincing was as important as the science itself. Boguslavsky told me that Berezovsky threw his energy into seeking the honor, “building relations with people, getting references, getting all kinds of very important documentation to support the case.” But, he recalled, Berezovsky failed to win the prize. “There was much more competition.”

Berezovsky was undeterred. He told Boguslavsky that he had already decided on the next step: the Nobel Prize.

“His real goal was the Nobel Prize,” Boguslavsky recalled. “He put the bar at that level, and he was really thinking how to approach this as a goal, this summit. He spent a hell of a lot of time, and did a good job, recruiting young, talented kids from the university, building his scientific team, building his muscles, brainstorming. He wasn't a real scientist in terms of doing particular work, like using techniques and methods. He wasn't good at that. But he was quite creative with certain ideas, using talented kids for the routine work. He was good at deciding what subject to attack and how to get a certain solution that could be applicable for the Nobel Prize. It was not a joke. It was an absolutely real thought.”

“You know what stopped him?” Boguslavsky recalled. “
Perestroika.
It opened up another opportunity. If
perestroika
had not brought the commercial side, he would have been going after the Nobel Prize until he died.”
¹¹

 

Berezovsky's path to wealth began with a simple want—a car. In the early 1980s, a personal car in Moscow was a rare possession. Boguslavsky had an old, battered red Zhiguli. Berezovsky coveted that car.

The Zhiguli model was a modified compact Fiat. It had been manufactured since 1970 at a colossal assembly line in the Volga River town of Togliatti, named after the Italian Communist leader. The Volga automobile factory, known as Avtovaz, was an entire Fiat assembly line, imported from Italy. From his work at the institute, Berezovsky had connections with Avtovaz and proposed a deal to Boguslavsky. He would send the old red Zhiguli to Togliatti and get it completely renovated—an almost unimaginable dream, since auto parts were extremely scarce. Berezovsky's deal was this: if he arranged the renovation, they would share the car.

“I said okay, fine,” Boguslavsky told me. “I didn't like this shitty car, which broke down every day, because it was too old. It would be like a new car. And I remember, I asked him, who will deliver the car from Moscow to Togliatti?”

Berezovsky, who had just received his driver's license, replied that he would just drive the 634 miles to the auto factory. Boguslavsky was incredulous. “How can you? Two days ago you just got a license! How can you drive there?” Boguslavsky insisted that before taking the car, Berezovsky would have to demonstrate that he really knew how to drive. They set up a test. Boguslavsky parked the car on a ramp, setting the hand brake. He challenged Berezovsky to get in, start the car, and drive it forward without rolling back.

Berezovsky flunked—the car rolled backward. But then he turned on his charm. “He is very pushy when he wants to get to the target,” Boguslavsky recalled. “He said, ‘Leonid, don't worry. Everything will be just fine! Let me drive to Togliatti!” And Boguslavsky relented.

When the car came back, good as new, Boguslavsky didn't ask any questions. They shared the car; one week Boguslavsky drove it, the next week, Berezovsky. Soon Boguslavsky noticed: Each week, he
drove five hundred kilometers and Berezovsky drove three thousand kilometers. The comet was unstoppable. “I cannot tell you how happy I was,” Berezovsky recalled.
¹²

 

As Soviet socialism degenerated, the authorities placed great faith in the idea that scientific research could rescue it. The central planners and party ideologues nurtured hope that science—empirical data, mathematical formulas, the best minds—could cure the long, slow economic stagnation. The Institute of Control Sciences was tightly interlocked with Soviet factories, as every researcher endeavored to “prove” that his science had reaped practical rewards in the economy. There is a Russian word that described this complex relationship,
vnedrenie
, literally introduction or inculcation. It meant that everything in science must be shown to be useful and practical.

“All theories, all formulas, all experiments ultimately had to have some kind of
vnedrenie,
” Oslon told me. “Any kind of technical discipline, including applied mathematics, mechanics, physics—all of this had to be ‘inculcated.' What did inculcation mean? Every dissertation consisted of some practical part, in which the methods of application were described. How the scientists' theory is applied in practice: for a factory, for an institute, for a transportation system.” The scientist sent the results to the factory, which then provided a document, known as an
akt,
to certify that the research had indeed been useful.

“Moreover, that it is not simply useful, but that it had an economic effect. So, there would be a note where it was written that, ‘As a result of inculcation of the development of applicant for the degree of candidate of technical sciences, Mr. Ivanov, a savings of 10,000 rubles was obtained.' Signature, seal. That is why all the scientist-organizers, who had graduate students, collaborators and co-researchers, strove toward establishing connections with practical organizations.” The
akt
would be followed by contracts for ongoing research, which in turn became a source of revenue for the institute.

Berezovsky's laboratory earned its
vnedrenie
from the Avtovaz plant in Togliatti. The plant was one of the largest industrial undertakings in the Soviet Union. It churned out hundreds of thousands of the little Zhigulis and accounted for over 1 percent of the entire economy. Oslon recalled the institute would typically have a plan: “Laboratory of Berezovsky. Client: the factory Avtovaz. Theme: development of the system of designing of automobiles.” The laboratory wrote reports, the
institute sent them to the factory, the factory paid the institute and sometimes the researchers.