«Yes. He showed it to me, but he won’t let me keep it».
«Can you write down what it says?»
«I’ll try».
I hung up and called Ivan to tell him what was going on. He was equally alarmed and called Emma back. Then I called my lawyer in Moscow, Jamison Firestone. Jamison — a fit, good-looking, forty-one-year-old American with bright eyes, brown hair, and an incredibly boyish face — was a Russophile who’d been in Russia since 1991. He was the managing partner of Firestone Duncan, the law firm he founded with another American, Terry Duncan. In 1993, during the attempted Russian coup, Terry had gone to the Ostankino TV Tower to help protesters. As the authorities opened fire on them, he tried to evacuate the wounded, but he was shot and later died. Afterward Jamison carried on by himself.
I liked Jamison from the moment I met him, not just because he was a straight-talking American, but also because unlike most lawyers he never overcharged me. We’d done a lot of business together over the years, and our stars had risen together.
As soon as he picked up the phone, I skipped all pleasantries. «Jamie, I just got a call from our secretary in Moscow. There’s—"
«Bill! You were my next call—"
«Jamie, there are twenty-five cops raiding our office!»
«You too?»
«What’re you talking about, Jamie?»
«There’re two dozen plainclothes officers here tearing my office apart as well. They’ve got a search warrant for Kameya».
This was like being punched in the face. «Jesus Christ!»
Kameya was a Russian company owned by one of our clients whom we advised on investing in Russian stocks. Since the police were conducting simultaneous raids at our office and at Jamison’s, I could only conclude that the police were targeting Hermitage.
«Shit, Jamie. What do we do?»
«I don’t know, Bill. They’re holding us captive in our conference room. They won’t even let people use the bathrooms. The warrant doesn’t appear to be valid. The cops aren’t allowed to search until our defense lawyers get here, but they’re ripping the place apart anyway».
«Can you call me as soon as you learn anything more?»
«I will».
We hung up. Now I was late for the board meeting. I grabbed my file with the agenda and presentations and quickly made my way downstairs. Adrenaline pumped through my veins — all I could think about were these raids.
I entered the room and our four board members — men in their fifties and sixties who’d come in from different points in Europe — were looking relaxed and happy as they sipped coffee, ate croissants, and gossiped about the markets. I broke the mood by telling them what was going on in Moscow. As I spoke, Ivan burst into the room looking like a ghost. One of the board members asked what else we knew. Since we didn’t know anything else, I decided to call Emma and put our phone on speaker.
She answered and put her phone on speaker too. We listened from seventeen hundred miles away to a live blow-by-blow of boxes being emptied, men shouting, feet stomping, and even our safe being drilled into.
Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Thirty. We were shocked and impressed as Emma tried to take charge, shouting at the officers: «You can’t drink our coffee!.. Put that computer down!.. Leave him alone! That guy has nothing to do with Hermitage!» She was talking about a Deutsche Bank employee who was unfortunate enough to have shown up that morning to deliver some documents. The police had forced him to stay, and he was holed in up in the conference room, shitting himself with fear.
This raid was both disturbing and riveting. I assured the board members in Paris that there was nothing for the police to take from our office — no relevant information, no confidential files, and most importantly no assets. Everything that mattered had been safely removed from the country the previous summer.
While we continued to listen to the raid at the Hermitage office, my phone rang. It was Jamison. I stepped out of the room to take the call.
«B-Bill. Something terrible has hap-happened!»
«Jamison, slow down». He was upset and emotional. He was a corporate lawyer with fifteen years’ experience, and I’d never heard him like this. «What’s going on?»
«Maxim, one of my junior lawyers, pointed out that their warrant wasn’t valid and that they couldn’t take things unrelated to Kameya».
«And what happened?»
«They beat the shit out of him! He’s going to the hospital right now».
«Fuck. Is he O'kay?»
«I don’t know».
A lump formed in my throat. «Jamie, you’ve got to document everything these guys are doing. We’re not going to let these bastards get away with this».
«Bill — it’s not just Maxim. They’re taking almost everything».
«What do you mean ‘everything’?»
«They’re grabbing client files that have nothing to do with Kameya. They have two vans out front. They’ve taken almost all of our computers, our servers, all the corporate stamps and seals we hold for our clients’ companies. None of this makes any sense. It’ll be hard for some of our clients to operate without their documents and seals. I don’t even know how we’re going to be able to work after this. We can’t even get emails!»
I was at a loss for words. «I… I’m so sorry, Jamie. We’re going to get through this together. I promise. More importantly, let me know how Maxim’s doing as soon as you know anything».
«O'kay. I will».
I walked back into the conference room completely stunned. Everybody looked at me. «Hang up the phone». Ivan said good-bye to Emma and clicked off. I then told them what was happening at Firestone Duncan. None of us could speak.
We were in deep shit, and if I knew anything about Russia, this was just the beginning.
23. Department K
Ivan and I took the 3:00 p.m. Eurostar back to London. We needed to talk out of earshot, and the only place available was between cars, where we sat uncomfortably on fold-down jump seats. Northern France churned by just outside the door, a blur of green and gray. We tried to call Moscow and London, but the connection kept dropping out as the train zipped in and out of tunnels, so we gave up and went back to our seats, where we sat in silence for the rest of the journey. Although I’d known Russia was a violent place, since the day that I’d set foot on Russian soil in 1992 it had never touched me, or anyone close to me. Now, all of a sudden, it was all too real.
My first concern was Maxim. As soon as I got home, I called Jamie and asked for an update. After Maxim had been beaten, the police had arrested and fined him, even before he was taken to the hospital. Thankfully, his injuries were not life-threatening. I implored Jamie to file a complaint, but he resisted. «Maxim’s scared, Bill. The officers who beat him said that they’d accuse him of pulling a knife on them, rearrest him, and put him in jail if he says anything».
How could I argue with that? At least he was going to be all right.
I arrived at the office early the next morning. Ivan was already there, inspecting a handwritten copy of the search warrant that Emma had faxed over. Her handwriting was obsessively clear and still had the bubbly letters of a schoolgirl’s, but the content of the warrant was anything but innocent. It said that the tax crimes department of the Moscow Interior Ministry had opened a criminal case against Ivan, accusing him of underpaying $44 million in dividend withholding taxes for Kameya. They came up with an arbitrary tax claim for the company, and because Ivan administered the entity for our client, the police blamed Ivan.
No matter how illegitimate the Russian criminal justice system may seem from the outside, Russia is still a sovereign state that most Western governments cooperate with on extradition requests, Interpol Red Notices, and international asset freezes. Even though we were in London, ignoring a criminal case like this could lead to all sorts of terrible things for Ivan.