Afterwards, Steve soaked in a hot bath for almost an hour, then wrapped himself in a thick terry robe, and lay on the bed watching Russian television. They were broadcasting a Russian classic: Alexander Nevsky by Sergei Eisenstein. Steve became so enthralled by the great black and white film that he had not realized when Pearlstein’s answering message arrived.
“Temperature sounds fine, Doug. Envy you, best Jake.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO:
Moscow
The next morning, Steve approved the transfer of $7.5 million from a British Virgin Islands account controlled by Jake Pearlstein to an account in the Cayman Islands indirectly controlled by the Sirotskys. Thus began a nail-biting week. Steve had no enforcers at his command. There was absolutely nothing to prevent the Russian hackers from absconding with the funds, except their own definition of honor.
To maintain his cover as a wealthy independent investor, Steve spent his waiting time trolling Moscow’s most promising hi-tech startups. At the top of the list was a company called Way-Ray located in a townhouse in the eastern part of the city that had long ago seen better days. The living room resembled the set up a low-budget sci-fi thriller. The centerpiece was a holographic projector mounted on a car dashboard. It emitted beams that would look to a driver as 3D arrows glowing over the tarmac, indicating the way to go.
“This will change the way the world drives,” said Way-Ray’s gangling twenty-two-year-old founder, Vitaly Ponomarev. “In three years, we will be a billion-dollar company for sure.”
“A billionaire by thirty?” Steve smiled.
“Exactly,” said Ponomarev, aping his Silicon Valley cyber heroes.
“What are your sales figures to date?” asked Steve.
“Nothing – yet. But we have fantastic interest from many companies. We are poised to take off.”
After another half hour of talk, it turned out that though Way-Ray had a very long shot at success, the world of hi-tech startups in Russia was even less impressive. What surprised Steve as he made the rounds of new companies over the following few days was that, for a country so large there were so few like Vitaly Ponomarev around.
Kozlov might be strutting on the world stage, but the country that had put the first man into space years ago was a pygmy as far as private high tech was concerned. As Vitaly Ponomarev had finally admitted to Steve, “Most of the billionaires in this country, earned their fortunes by using their connections and bribery. They took over companies that used to belong to the state. They did not build them up themselves. We have no tech heroes in this country. No Elon Musk or Mark Zuckerberg. In any case, people with money here are not interested in investing in startups. They would rather spend it on their wild lifestyles: on women and yachts and foreign mansions.”
Steve was surprised when the Sirotskys sent him a coded message to meet at their safe house one day before their week was up. He arrived at eight in the evening, as requested. Again, it was Boris in black t-shirt and jeans that let him in. Olga sat on the sofa in the living room, still looking sensational with her blond hair tied back in a bun and a form-fitting black Lululemon yoga outfit with sequins down the side. She nodded when Steve took a chair across from her. On the coffee table were several black file folders and a large porcelain bowl of pistachios.
“Before we get to business, can we offer you a whiskey again,” said Boris cheerfully, “or perhaps vodka?”
“Thanks,” said Steve. “I’ll try vodka this time.”
“And, please, help yourself to the pistachios,” said Boris. “They’re very fresh.”
Boris poured vodka for the three of them; then raised his glass to toast, “Na Zdorove.” Steve took a sip of the burning liquor. Boris emptied his entire glass, then patted Olga’s shapely butt to indicate she should make room for him. He plopped down on the sofa and smiled broadly at Steve.
“So here we are,” he said, pointing to the files on the table between them. “One folder per company. As you suspected, the real owners of the companies are very close allies of Kozlov. My wife will begin.”
Glancing coolly at Steve, Olga picked up the top folder. “This one, Rivka I, is controlled by General Anatoly Popov, one of the rising stars in the Russian military.”
“I’ve heard of him,” said Steve. It was the first time Olga had spoken since Steve offered them the work. She had apparently become reconciled to the fifteen million dollars.
“Also,” said Olga, “Popov is the former son-in-law of the deputy commander of the Russian armed forces. These pages give a list of his holdings outside Russia,” she said, flipping through the file, “in Athens, in London, in Paris, and Mallorca – a five-bedroom vacation home overlooking the water at Deia. There are pictures for most of the properties.
“He bought a new shopping mall from Stokes a year ago in Houston, Texas. Also, he seems to be in partnership with BST, one of the Panamanian companies you gave us the name of, which is controlled by Stokes. They have an investment together in a new five-star hotel in Malta. It is called Seabreeze. What is interesting is that Stokes’s company only put up 20% of the capital for that hotel, but was credited with 49% of the investment.”
“Fascinating. Good work,” said Steve. Olga awarded Steve a slight smile. The fear that had been hanging over him for the past week – that he might have thrown away fifteen million of Pearlstein’s dollars – was beginning to dissipate. He took a large sip of vodka and picked up a handful of pistachios.
Boris refilled his own glass before he opened the next folder. “This one, Arbat, is owned by Alexei Petreykin who controls the cement industry in this country. Actually, not by Petreykin himself, but by his wife and two sons, seventeen and nineteen years old, obviously brilliant business people,” he raised his eyes to the ceiling then thumbed through several pages of their property holdings, stopping at one. ”Here you can see he bought a property in Dallas, Texas from Stokes for three hundred million dollars, a 200-unit housing complex. We checked. A year earlier Stokes bought the same property for one hundred fifty million. Doubled his money in a year.”
“Either Petreykin was very stupid…” said Steve.
“Highly unlikely,” said Boris.
“Or something else was involved here,” said Steve.
“You should look for the something else,” said Boris as he picked up the next folder.
“This company called Kalinka,” he continued, as if he were giving a guided tour of a posh Moscow suburb, “is owned by another of our biggest oligarchs, Fyodor Lebedev. Interesting history – he came up through the ranks of the KGB with Kozlov, then just happened to be in the right place when they sold off one quarter of the country’s natural gas. And voilà,” he snapped his fingers, “an overnight billionaire. And we’re the ones who are considered the crooks.” He gave a mirthless smile, “At least Olga and I work for our profits.” He riffled the pages and stopped at one. “Ah yes, among other things, we see they are partners in a new residential development in Kuala Lumpur, with Westend – another of the Panamanian companies you gave us owned by Stokes.”
Olga took over again with a folder for the company called Styx. “It is owned by the wife and three children of Dmitri Morozov,” she said. “Also apparently wonderful business people. Morozov started as steelworker, from somewhere got the money to invest in several iron and steel firms, a mobile phone company called Norstar, and a newspaper, Sparks. He also owns the Cosmos Bank and the Sloane Titans soccer club. He bought three properties from Stokes, in Memphis, Houston, and Los Angeles. All the details are here,” she said.