I put down my tea and tried not to show my discomfort. Following this advice would be a totally unnatural thing for me to do. But here I was facing the biggest problem in my professional career, with the British government ready to weigh in on my behalf. I understood that I had to honor Smith’s request, so I agreed and we wrapped up the meeting.
The next afternoon, Smith called with an update. «Prikhodko said he has no idea why you were deported, but promised to look into it». Smith said this as if he were delivering good news. I thought it was pretty unlikely that Putin’s top foreign policy adviser would be unaware of the expulsion of the largest foreign investor in Russia.
«And Bill», Smith continued, «we’ve decided to get our ambassador in Moscow, Tony Brenton, involved. He’d like to speak with you as soon as possible».
The next day I called Ambassador Brenton. I started to tell him my story, but after a few seconds he cut me off. «No need to carry on, Bill. I know all about you and Hermitage. I think the Russians are being quite stupid in alienating an important investor like you».
«I’m hoping it’s a mistake».
«Me too. I have to say, I’m reasonably optimistic this visa situation will be resolved once I speak to the right people. Sit tight. You’re in good hands».
I couldn’t help but feel that I had indeed landed in good hands. I liked Ambassador Brenton. Like Smith, he sounded genuine in wanting to solve this problem. I didn’t know if losing my visa was a case of mistaken identity, or if one of the targets from my anti-corruption campaigns was exacting revenge, but I felt that with the British government on my side, I would ultimately prevail.
The first thing Ambassador Brenton did was to send a request to the Russian Foreign Ministry asking for a formal explanation. If my visa cancellation was indeed due to a mix-up of names, this would become apparent immediately.
A week later, Ambassador Brenton’s secretary called to say that they’d received a reply from the Foreign Ministry. She faxed me a copy. As soon as it came off the machine, I handed it to Elena to translate.
She cleared her throat and read, «We have the honor to inform you that the decision to close entry to the Russian Federation to a subject of Great Britain William Browder has been made by competent authorities in accordance with section one, article twenty-seven, of the federal law».
«What’s article twenty-seven of the federal law?»
Elena shrugged. «I have no idea».
I called Vadim, who was in Moscow, and asked him.
«Hold on a sec». I heard him type something into his computer. After about a minute, he came back on the line. «Bill, article twenty-seven allows the Russian government to ban people who they deem a threat to national security».
«What?»
«A threat to national security», Vadim repeated.
«Shit», I said quietly. «This is not good».
«No. It’s not».
With that one letter I understood that my visa denial definitely wasn’t a mix-up of names. I hadn’t been confused with Bill Bowring at all. Someone serious wanted me banned from Russia.
20. Vogue Café
When I told Ambassador Brenton that the Russians had declared me a threat to national security, he said, «That’s unfortunate, Bill, but don’t worry. We’ll continue to work the diplomatic channels. I have a meeting scheduled with one of Putin’s top economic advisers, Igor Shuvalov. I’m guessing he’ll be sympathetic. However, at this point it wouldn’t hurt for you to get your own contacts involved as well».
I agreed, and Vadim and I began to compile a list of Russian officials we knew who might be helpful.
Since meeting in Moscow five years before, Elena and I had moved in together, gotten married, and she was pregnant with our first child. She stayed in London in the two-month period before her due date. As I sat in bed on the evening of December 15, 2005, adding names to this list, Elena emerged from the bathroom, her robe tied tightly around her bulging pregnant belly. «Bill», she said with a shocked look on her face, «I think my water just broke».
I jumped up, paperwork scattering over the bedcovers and onto the floor, not knowing what to do. My ex-wife Sabrina had delivered David via a scheduled cesarean section, so I had just as little experience with natural childbirth as Elena, a first-time mother. We’d read all the books and gone to all the classes, but once it actually started, all that stuff went out the window. I grabbed our prepacked hospital bag with one hand and wrapped the other around Elena, quickly shepherding her to the elevators and then to the garage near our apartment building, where I helped her into our car. The St. John and St. Elizabeth Hospital was only a short drive away, but in my panic I took a wrong turn on Lisson Grove and ended up in a one-way system that I had no idea how to get out of. As I looked desperately left and right, Elena, normally pleasant and unflappable, started to scream words I’d never heard come out of her mouth. Evidently, the contractions had started.
Ten minutes later we arrived at the hospital. Thankfully, she hadn’t given birth in the passenger seat. The rest was a whirlwind, but after ten hours, our daughter, Jessica, was born, a healthy, seven-pound, six-ounce baby. The joy I experienced from Jessica’s birth completely overwhelmed any negative thoughts I had about my visa situation.
We left the hospital two days later. Friends started arriving at our apartment with flowers, food, and baby presents. David, who’d just turned nine, immediately took to having a little sister. Watching him hold Jessica all wrapped up in a little hospital waffle blanket and giving her kisses for the first time remains one of my most cherished memories. Christmas — which we celebrate in spite of the fact that David and I are Jewish — came and went, and for a week or more, my troubles disappeared.
The New Year passed in equally blissful and uneventful fashion. There was no news from Russia because the whole country was shut down for the Orthodox Christmas holiday, but then, early on the morning of January 14, 2006, Vadim called from Moscow. «Bill, I just got off the phone with Gref’s deputy».
German Gref was the minister for economic development and one of the most visible reformers in Putin’s government. Vadim had approached his deputy before Christmas to ask for his help with my visa.
«And? What did he say?»
«He said that Gref managed to get pretty high up — in fact, he got to Nikolai Patrushev, the head of the FSB, to discuss your case».
«Wow», I said, both impressed and a little frightened. The FSB was Russia’s Federal Security Service, its secret police, which during Soviet times was universally known as the infamous KGB. If this weren’t ominous enough, Patrushev was reputed to be one of the most ruthless members of Putin’s inner circle.
«Apparently, he told Gref, and I quote, ‘Stay out of this. You shouldn’t put your nose in things that aren’t relevant to you.’ » Vadim paused as this news sank in, then he added, as if it weren’t obvious, «There are some pretty serious people behind this stuff, Bill».
Hearing this was like stepping into an ice-cold shower. All the good feelings of the holidays and Jessica’s birth and my expanding family were pushed to the back of my mind, and I was dropped harshly back into reality.
A week later, Ambassador Brenton called with similarly discouraging news. «Shuvalov was sympathetic, but said that there was nothing he could do».
While these messages were disappointing, we still had the head of Russia’s version of the Securities and Exchange Commission, Oleg Vyugin, working on my case. He’d written to the deputy prime minister asking for my visa to be reinstated. He was due to be in London in mid-February for an international investment conference, and I hoped that he would bring some better news.