Once Upon a Time in Russia (25 page)

Berezovsky wasn't concerned with what Badri thought or even what Abramovich might think. What mattered, to him, was that once again, he would be important—and the entire world would be watching.

February 12, 2008,

Downside Manor, Surrey, England

W
HEN THE PHONE RANG
at two in the morning in Berezovksy's bedroom at his estate in a posh suburb of London—waking him from a deep sleep—and he pressed the receiver to his ear to listen to the grief-stricken voice on the other end, he knew in an instant that his fortunes had yet again changed for the worse. Before any discussions of any potential settlement in his historic lawsuit, years before anyone would set foot in a courtroom—any excitement or optimism Berezovsky had felt in the wake of that wonderful Friday afternoon four months earlier, vanished in a stroke of completely unexpected news.

Five minutes later, Berezovsky was in the back of his car, still finishing with the buttons of his coat. His driver tore through the countryside of wealthy estates, on the short trip to Downside Manor, one of the most elegant mansions in Surrey. But even as Berezovsky's car skidded up the long driveway to the main house, he could see that the police had already set up their cordon, stringing their damn yellow tape all the way around the manicured lawn, blocking off access to the home itself.

For once, Berezovksy was out of his car before his bodyguards; he rushed straight toward the nearest constable and began shouting at the man to let him through. Berezovsky wasn't even sure what he was saying, whether he was speaking Russian or English—by this point, the tears were streaming freely down his face. But the policeman blocked his way, refusing to let him pass.

The officer obviously didn't understand. Though they didn't share the same last name, Berezovsky and Badri were more than brothers. For nearly two decades, they had been in contact nearly every day, had lived like members of the same family, and had built a relationship well beyond friendship. From the very first days at the car company, Badri had been his right hand.

And now the Georgian was gone. Fifty-two years old, he had succumbed to a sudden heart attack, having dropped to the floor in his bedroom just a few hours ago.

Berezovsky's shoulders slumped as he stood in the driveway, as one of his bodyguards tried to explain the situation to the constable. In truth, it didn't really matter. Badri's widow had told Berezovksy all he needed to know. The coroner had already declared him dead—and the police were already beginning their investigation.

Of course, there would be suspicions. Badri was living in exile, and was also the richest man in Georgia.

A month earlier, he had been a candidate for president of the breakaway nation, a campaign that had ended in pure catastrophe. In December, during the heated political process, the opposition had given the press a tape recorded in this very mansion, evidence that implicated Badri in a scandal that involved his attempts to bribe a high-level Georgian minister to help him defeat the very same pro-Western candidate that he and Berezovsky had previously put into office during the Rose Revolution.

Berezovksy had never doubted the veracity of the tape. Such a bribe seemed like business as usual where they came from, and in their history. But the incident had completely destroyed Badri's chances, and in the following election, he had received less than ten percent of the vote.

The loss had been hard on Badri; the impropriety of what he had done had made him look corrupt, and had ruined his reputation in the place he was most beloved.

Perhaps that had been part of what had led him to such an early grave. Berezovksy understood the impact that failure could have on a man like Badri. A billionaire could feel depressed as easily as a pauper.

For certain, Berezovsky believed that Badri had been going through some sort of emotional crisis. Badri had even suggested that he and Berezovsky should reassess their financial arrangements, pulling himself free of what had been a long-term, unwritten sharing of a bankroll. Berezovsky wondered if Badri's request was a response to feeling that he had been pushed into politics.

But none of that mattered now. Berezovksy couldn't believe his friend had died. Berezovksy had always assumed that he would be the one to go first.

Standing in the darkness, looking up at the lavish mansion from behind the police tape, he felt more alone than ever before. At the same time, he felt a twinge of fear, as he began to wonder how much further his fortunes could fall.

October 3, 2011,

High Court, The Rolls Building, Fetter Lane, London

I
F PURE SPECTACLE HAD
been Berezovsky's only goal—and even he would admit that spectacle in itself had always been something he'd strived for—from the very first moment of what the press was calling a historic showdown between Oligarchs, he was succeeding on every cylinder. Sitting in the back of his Maybach, watching as the phalanx of reporters from all over the world convulsed around Abramovich and his fashion-plate significant other heading into the modern, glass-and-steel court complex, he felt an intense satisfaction. He could tell, just from the look on Abramovich's face, that the attention was sheer torture for the normally sheltered man. And this walk through the barrage of press—something that would no doubt become a morning ritual over the many months of the upcoming trial—was just the tip of the iceberg. The British newspapers, television tabloids, and talk show hosts had become obsessed with “The Biggest Trial in History”—and plenty of their passion and titillation had been focused on the extreme details of Abramovich's wealth. His reported twelve-billion-dollar fortune, his soccer team, his airplanes,
his homes, his newest yacht—the Eclipse, the biggest in the world, with multiple helipads, swimming pools, Picassos on the walls.

For a private man who rarely spoke in public, never gave interviews, and kept counsel with a very few close friends and confidants—a life lived from behind gates and a veritable army of bodyguards—the attention had to seem like a form of persecution. Berezovsky was still somewhat shocked that Abramovich had let this go to trial, that he was going to sit there, in that brand-new courtroom, and lay open much of his life in such a fishbowl setting. The state-of-the-art justice complex, a bulbous, space-age building filled with open atria, spiral staircases, and lofty ceilings—had just been completed. Yet it seemed a strangely anachronistic place in which to debate a case lodged squarely in a moment in Russian history. Then again, the case did hinge around a sudden, spontaneous modernization, a revolution of market forces, the decline of an old way and the rising up of something new. Perhaps glass and steel made more sense than aging stone.

Whatever the location, Berezovsky felt that, at least here, in the moment before the trial began, he had achieved a victory; he had spent his whole life on a quest to be at the center of things. Here and now, he would have his chance to tell his story in front of the entire world. Whether it was arrogance, confidence, or even maybe a bit of delusion, he was certain the world would be sympathetic.

He waited until Abramovich had entered the building, then just a little longer for the press to settle back, recharge their camera batteries, restock their audio recorders. And then he signaled to his driver and bodyguards. He was ready for it to begin.

•  •  •

Courtroom 26 wasn't large; a rectangular box set up so that everything faced the judge's bench, a space barely big enough to accommodate
the two teams of lawyers, bodyguards, and experts, with just a few rows for the registered press. Berezovsky had been placed fairly close to the entrance, which meant that every morning, Abramovich and his team would pass right by him on their way to their seats. He did his best not to have any contact with the other side—no words, not even looks—as they went by, on orders from his legal team. At each day's recess, the two sides were led to different holding rooms, an attempt to limit any incidental contact that could turn this into more of a circus than it already was.

From the very opening statements, it became clear how the trial was going to be presented. Berezovsky's argument was simple: Abramovich had been his protégé, his close friend, and someone he'd considered like a son. He'd made a deal to build an oil and aluminum empire with the young man, and although nothing had ever been written down, they had agreed to split the ownership of their business down the middle: fifty percent for Abramovich, fifty percent to Berezovsky and Badri. When Berezovsky had fallen out with Putin—a fact that was shared ground in their arguments—and had been forced to flee Russia, Abramovich had chosen to end their partnership. He'd used the pressure Berezovsky was under from Putin's regime to force the sale of Berezovksy's shares of ORT and his interest in Sibneft and the aluminum conglomerate—now known as Rusal—at fire-sale prices. In fact, Berezovsky further argued, Abramovich had used threats and blackmail to get a price that was almost one fifth of what Berezovsky felt his interests were worth.

For his part, Abramovich's argument was equally simple. In his view, there had never been any written agreement because there never was any deal of the sort Berezovsky had described between them. Berezovsky had never owned any shares of Sibneft or Rusal. And in fact, their relationship, from his point of view, wasn't at all
the friendship that Berezovsky had described—it was actually an unwritten partnership between a young man and his krysha. In many ways, Abramovich's entire case revolved around this Russian concept, something his lawyer argued that a Western judge would have to go back to Shakespearean times to truly empathize with and understand. Abramovich hadn't paid Berezovsky and Badri one billion, three hundred million dollars in Megève because of a friendship or to buy any shares that didn't exist. He had paid that money to complete his krysha obligations.

Although the two sides' arguments hinged on fairly simple concepts, it was also obvious from the beginning that everything else about the case was going to be as complex as a spider web. A story spanning two decades, involving two men who had ridden through the chaos of that historic time in Russian history. A tale that ran from glasnost to perestroika to Yeltsin to Putin, that involved murders, arrests, an upheaval both political and economic, and of course enormous sums of money. Even though it had come from the opposing lawyer, Berezovksy had to agree that Shakespeare was an apt comparison. The judge, the Right Honorable Dame Elizabeth Gloster, was about to be thrown into a sweeping drama; it would be up to her to determine which of the players were honest, which were star-crossed and tragic—and which might be simply playing the fool.

August 31, 2012,

High Court, The Rolls Building

N
INE MONTHS.

Early mornings in heated discussion with lawyers, consultants, family, his girlfriend; going over the testimony of the day before and what was still ahead. Then that mad dash through the swarming press—the flashbulbs going off, the microphones waving toward him like reeds in a heavy wind, the television cameras catching his every grin, every outfit, whether a shirt button was done or undone, whether he wore a flower in his lapel or a tie that seemed too colorful, whether Yelena had a scowl or a smile. Then the awkward moment when he and his opponent passed in the narrow aisle that led to each of their seats, the two teams of bodyguards sifting through each other in some sort of intricate puzzle of oversize muscles and ill-fitting suits. Once or twice, on the way to the bathroom, words might be spoken; but overall, the courtroom was a place of quiet professionalism.

Nine months.

Two very different men, two very different Oligarchs, taking
the stand in between the cavalcade of witnesses, experts, employees, and hangers-on. Abramovich, always soft-spoken, always through a translator. A businessman, with a businessman's efficiency of word and concept, detailing the decisions he had made, and why he had made them. Describing himself as a man who wanted to be honest and open, caught in a world that was corrupt and chaotic. There was no hiding his ambition, the fact that he had done whatever was necessary to build his empire. But it seemed an almost emotionless ambition; he had seen Berezovsky as a necessary tool, a lever to wrest the oil business from the government, a connection that would keep him and his business safe. Berezovsky, in Abramovich's description, sounding like a gangster, who, along with his strongman Badri Patarkatsishvili, had been necessary to help him navigate the dangerous waters of a Mafia-like corporate and political atmosphere.

Berezovsky knew, as he took the stand, that he would appear to be Abramovich's polar opposite. Hitting his notes like a performer, raising his voice, nearing tears, always frenetic, often almost unhinged. Speaking in clipped English with his heavy Russian accent—and often contradicting himself—he overflowed with emotion, much of it directed at his former partner. He took great relish in calling his former protégé naive and stupid—although when he described their meeting on Pyotr Aven's yacht, he had to admit he'd found the young man's creativity inspiring. As the story progressed, as their relationship shifted on its axis, he again and again tried to hammer home the idea that Abramovich had gone from obsequious and helpless to threatening and dangerous. His accusations—mainly, that Abramovich had used the arrest of Glushkov and the threats coming from Putin as blackmail tools to get Berezovsky to part with ORT and his ownership of Sibneft—were couched as a personal affront, a betrayal from a young man Berezovsky had considered
family. Abramovich had turned his back on a friend, a father, and had sided with a tyrant.

Nine months.