Boris was taken aback. He didn’t want a confrontation at his brother’s New Year’s party. He looked at the other guests, a toothy smile plastered to his face. «Bill, it’s all a big misunderstanding. Don’t worry about a thing».
He turned his attention to a silver tray of hors d’oeuvres and carefully picked one. Avoiding my gaze, he said, «Tell you what. Come over to Renaissance tomorrow at four-thirty and we’ll sort it out». He popped the morsel into his mouth and spoke freely, food clinging to his gums and teeth. «Seriously, Bill. Everything’s going to be fine. Have a drink. It’s a New Year’s party!»
And that was that. He was so convincing — and I so wanted to believe him — that I stayed at the party for a while and left with some measure of calm.
I woke the next morning in the darkness (in January, the sun in Moscow doesn’t rise until around 10:00 a.m.) and went to work. By the time I headed to Boris’s office the sky was dark again. At 4:30 p.m. sharp I walked into Renaissance Capital, which was located in a modern glass office building close to Russia’s White House, the big white building where the government sits. I was unceremoniously shown to a windowless conference room. I was not offered anything to eat or drink, so I sat there and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
After an hour my paranoia began to get the better of me. I felt like a fish in a tank and I started to peer around for hidden cameras, though I couldn’t see any. Regardless, I was starting to think that Boris had lied. Everything was not going to be fine.
I was ready to leave when the door finally opened — only it wasn’t Boris. It was Leonid Rozhetskin, a thirty-one-year-old Russian-born, Ivy League — educated lawyer whom I’d met on a few occasions (and who would, a decade later, be murdered in Jurmula, Latvia, after a spectacular falling-out with various people he did business with).
Leonid, who’d clearly watched the film Wall Street one too many times, had slicked-back, Gordon Gekko — styled hair and sported red suspenders over a custom, monogrammed, button-down shirt. He took the chair at the head of the table and laced his fingers over one knee. «I’m sorry Boris couldn’t make it», he said in lightly accented English. «He’s busy».
«I am too».
«I’m sure you are. What brings you here today?»
«You know what, Leonid. I’m here to talk about Sidanco».
«Yes. What about it?»
«If this dilution goes forward, it’s going to cost me and my investors — including Edmond Safra — eighty-seven million dollars».
«Yes, we know. That’s the intention, Bill».
«What?»
«That’s the intention», he repeated matter-of-factly.
«You’re deliberately trying to screw us?»
He blinked. «Yes».
«But how can you do this? It’s illegal!»
He recoiled slightly. «This is Russia. Do you think we worry about these types of things?»
I thought of all my clients. I thought of Edmond. I couldn’t believe this. I shifted in my seat. «Leonid, you may be fucking me over, but some of the biggest names on Wall Street are invested with me. The pebble may drop here, but the ripples go everywhere!»
«Bill, we’re not worried about that».
We sat in silence as I processed this.
He looked at his watch and got up. «If that’s all, I have to go».
Shocked, I tried to think of something else to say and blurted, «Leonid, if you do this, I’m going to be forced to go to war with you».
He froze, and I did too. After a few seconds he began to laugh. What I’d said was preposterous and we both knew it. Still, while I didn’t exactly want to take the words back, I wondered what exactly I’d meant. Go to war? Against an oligarch? In Russia? Only a fool would do that.
My nerves shuddered but I remained stock-still. When Leonid was finally able to contain himself, he said, «Is that so? Good luck with that, Bill». Then he turned and left.
I was so upset that for several seconds I couldn’t move, and when I finally could, I shook with humiliation, shock, and a ton of trepidation. I marched out of the Renaissance offices in a daze into the minus-fifteen-degree Moscow night. I climbed into my car, a secondhand Chevy Blazer that I’d recently bought, and Alexei put it in gear and started for my apartment.
After a few minutes of silence I opened my cell phone and tried to reach Edmond in New York. My first few attempts failed, but eventually I got through. His secretary told me he was busy, but I insisted that we needed to speak. I was afraid to talk to him, but now that it was clear that we were about to get screwed out of $87 million, I had to explain the situation. He was calm, but clearly upset. Nobody likes to lose money — and Edmond was a notoriously bad loser. When I had finished, he asked, «What are we going to do, Bill?»
«We’re going to fight these bastards, that’s what. We’re going to go to war».
The words were mine but they still felt foreign.
There was a silence. The line crackled. «What are you talking about, Bill?» Edmond asked seriously. «You’re in Russia. You’ll be killed».
I gathered my wits. «Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. But I’m not going to let them get away with it». I didn’t care if I was being brave or stupid, or if there was even a difference. I’d been backed into a corner and I meant what I said.
«I can’t be part of this, Bill», he said slowly, safe in New York, 4,650 miles away.
I was not safe, though, and it filled me with adrenaline. I ran with it. «Edmond», I said as Alexei pulled the car around onto Bolshaya Ordynka, the street I lived on, «you’re my partner, not my boss. I’m going to fight these guys whether you’re with me or not».
He didn’t have anything else to say and we hung up. Alexei parked in front of my building, the engine idling and the heat blasting. I got out and went upstairs. I did not sleep at all that night.
The next morning I walked into my new office, a bigger space that we’d moved into a few months earlier, with my head down. Regret, along with a lot of uncertainty, had crept into me overnight. But when I reached the reception area, a commotion shook me from my thoughts. Packed into the room were more than a dozen heavily armed bodyguards. The one in charge came up to me, his hand outstretched, and in an Israeli accent pronounced, «I’m Ariel Bouzada, Mr. Browder. Mr. Safra sent us. We have four armored cars and fifteen men. We’ll be with you for as long as this situation lasts».
I shook Ariel’s hand. He was roughly my age and shorter than me, but everything about him was tougher, stronger, and more menacing than I could ever be. He walked with an air of authority coupled with the imminent threat of violence. Apparently, Edmond was going to join my fight after all.
After meeting each of the senior bodyguards I retreated to my office and sat down at my desk. I put my head in my hands. How am I going to take on an oligarch? How am I going to take on an oligarch? How am I going to take on a goddamn oligarch?
By meeting him head-on, that’s how.
I gathered my team in our small conference room. I then went to the stationery cabinet and got a ream of white paper and some tape. I dropped the paper on the table and held out the tape, telling everyone to cover the walls and make the whole room into a whiteboard. «Get out your markers», I announced. «We need to come up with ideas that will cause Vladimir Potanin economic pain that is greater than the benefit he’ll get from screwing us. All ideas are good ideas. Let’s get to work».
13. Lawyers, guns, and money
We hatched a three-part plan that would sequentially ratchet up the pressure on Potanin.