Sila's Fortune (24 page)

Every evening, he would go home to a gorgeous prostitute to whom he was paying a small fortune. Oksana asked for nothing, demanded nothing.

‘Councillor Kravchenko …' she would say in her warm, sardonic voice.

And the world would melt into fragile, fleeting pleasure. Only Lev's money interested Oksana, but she wanted to win it in this elegant game played by two. For as long as he paid, she entertained him. Lev remembered once seeing a young French boy, in the south of France, trying to chat up a Russian girl, an oligarch's daughter who was lying on a sun lounger on a private beach. He'd tried to talk to her; she'd looked through him as if he was invisible.
The young man had probably never in his life seen an expression of such utter disdain – one that had not a whit of hostility or anger, merely the conviction that he was nothing. This celebration of power and money that precluded the existence of almost the entire population of the planet was something Oksana possessed on a more playful level which made it worth the price. She probably knew all about his troubles, which thrilled her like a mayfly's sting, the enduring and suspended force of things destined to die. But what did it matter, since they were playing a game.

Elena had demanded a divorce and half of Lev's fortune.

Back to the wall, he had to fight while his waning strength encouraged new enemies. Decidedly, it was all simultaneously appalling and comical.

It was at this point that he received Litvinov's invitation. A plain card delivered by a man in a dark suit.

‘Dear Lev, we find ourselves back in the old, blessed times when everything could be born or die. Let's talk about this next week, you pick the date.'

The tone of the message was somewhat surprising coming as it did from an enemy, but it was also somewhat expected. Liekom had their eye on ELK.

When he stepped into Litvinov's office the following week, he was not alone. Viktor Lianov, the head of the Brotherhood, was standing next to him. What little hair Litvinov still had was white. His complexion was flushed and unhealthy. Too much food and alcohol.

‘Lev! Wonderful to see you!'

Lev thought he was sincere. They had not spoken in a long time. Of course they had always been rivals, and the encounters
between them had simply served to measure the progress of the battle on an ever-increasing scale of power and money while changing nothing, fundamentally, in their relationship. They stared at each other, sized each other up. One had the advantage of position, the other of relative youth. They measured their progress, surveying each other like animals. And yet, secretly, something they shared brought them imperceptibly closer together: they shared a time. They had awoken to power as part of Yeltsin's team and since that time they had hurled themselves into a primal struggle: a fight for survival in an economy that had returned to the roots of industrial capitalism.

They sat. Lianov stood off to one side, leaning against the wall, as though he had no part in the discussion.

Litvinov made a little vague pleasant small talk. Then his heavy-set body stiffened and he drew a stark picture of the situation.

‘We're back at the beginning, Lev. We're Yeltsin's team, we've got power now but just as we were in those early days, we're confronted by the same alternatives: fight or die. These are interesting times, Lev. We're coming to the end of the Yeltsin era. The man who made us is on his way out. He can't hang on much longer. He hasn't got the strength or the skills. The oligarchs are keeping him at arm's length, but we need a new man. Russia has only got a couple of weeks, the crash is coming any day now.'

‘You're sure?'

‘Positive,' said Litvinov. ‘The coffers are empty. The tax system is dead, there's not a rouble coming in, it's total collapse. The Russian state is bankrupt.'

‘How long?'

‘Like I said, a few weeks, a couple of months at most.'

‘What are you going to do?'

‘First, try to save us, then restore order.'

‘With who?'

‘We don't know yet. Yeltsin is still acting on a whim: he's just fired Chernomyrdin and the guy replacing him just isn't up to it. Kiriyenko isn't going to go far, we need someone else.'

‘But not someone too powerful, right?' Lev said. ‘Someone strong enough to run the country and shrewd enough to maintain our beautiful triangle: an economic oligarchy indestructibly linked to the Kremlin and the central and regional administrations, in our best interests, obviously.'

The head of the Brotherhood burst out laughing.

‘You're quite right,' he said, ‘a magnificent triangle. But don't forget us, the oligarchs need us. Without us, you become very vulnerable. Terribly human. The triangle becomes a square.'

‘Of course he's right, Lev is always right,' said Litvinov. ‘Everyone on Yeltsin's council admired you. Such intelligence!'

Lev knew that he was despised even for this. He waited for Litvinov to get to the point.

‘When the crash comes,' Litvinov went on, ‘the rouble will plummet, banks will collapse. It's going to be hard to shore up the triangle. What are our options? The IMF and restructuring.'

Lev said nothing.

‘The IMF is a no-brainer. A bankrupt Russia is too much of a threat. They can't let us go under and they know it. The whole bloc would collapse. In a couple of months, they'll be pumping in billions, and I'm telling you, Liekom is well placed
to make the most of it. Trust me, not everything will be going into Yeltsin's pockets. I've already set out a couple of nets, we'll make a healthy catch.'

‘What about the restructuring?' asked Lev, his mouth a little dry.

Litvinov hesitated. He too seemed a little nervous. He chose his words carefully.

‘Liekom needs ELK. And ELK needs Liekom.'

There was silence. Of course. It had to be that. Why else organise this meeting?

‘ELK is not for sale.'

‘I'm sorry Lev, but you're broke, you can't afford to pay anyone.'

‘The banks are behind me.'

Litvinov's eyes froze. Lev understood: he was going to shut down the banks. The Seven controlled everything. If Litvinov made their minds up for them, Lev's credit would be completely cut off.

‘We'll make you a very generous offer. And obviously, you'll stay on as the head of ELK. You're the man for the job. You've got a first-rate company. But the financial crisis is too severe. We have to pool our resources. Several of the smaller oil companies need to merge, it's inevitable. The future belongs to the multinationals. Divided, we're weak. United, we're invincible.'

Lev knew this argument by heart, and the hackneyed sentence made him smile. That smile, a fleeting suggestion of a detachment he did not feel, surprised Litvinov.

‘We've been fighting a long time, my friend,' Litvinov said, putting his hand on Lev's arm. ‘Ten years. More than most men
have to in ten lifetimes. Now it's time to enjoy life. To spend time with our families. These are our most precious assets.'

Litvinov clearly knew what had happened in his personal life. In fact, all of Moscow probably knew that Elena had left him. Yet Lev thought he sensed a surprising melancholy in Litvinov's tone.

‘We have braved a difficult period in Russian history. And we have come through it with honour, defending freedom and free enterprise, just as we promised when we were Yeltsin's team. I won't mince words: I wanted power, I have power. And my interests merged neatly with those of the country. We built up vast companies, we are the face of modern capitalism. And we did it ourselves. Us, the oligarchs. Through our energy, our skill. But that era is coming to an end now, it's time to retire. This is an opportunity for you, Lev! You'll be richer than ever. Free to go on running your company or to go and soak up the sun in the most beautiful palaces in the world.'

Lev knew what he was going to say. He had to say the words slowly, almost regretfully, because these words, which signalled his defeat, his reversal of fortune, were not his own. It was not he who was speaking but a peasant farmer bound to his land by all the ancestral power of ownership.

‘I want to be independent.'

He had said it as he should have, in the silence of last words. Slowly, forcefully, as one might repeat the noble words of a great writer. Riabine had been a great writer. Riabine was the perfect writer of a Russian scene.

Litvinov turned to the man leaning against the wall. The man remained impassive.

‘I was hoping for a different answer, Lev.'

‘I'm not surprised, my friend.'

Lev had never referred to him like this.

‘What do you want to make you change your mind?'

‘Nothing. My mind is made up.'

Litvinov turned again, shrugged helplessly, and again the man remained deadpan.

Lev got to his feet. He looked at Lianov, who held his gaze. Litvinov also stood up.

‘Stay well, my friend. A terrible time lies ahead for us. I hope that we survive.'

The warning was clear. Curiously, it was with a certain cordiality that they shook hands. They shared the times. The victories, the defeats, the shifting eras. It would all be different. The transition was coming to an end and from the ruins a new world would doubtless rise, one whose features were not yet defined.

Lianov opened the door.

Lev moved away down the corridor. Destruction carried on. Communism was dead. Transition was dead. The times ahead would know the brutality of power stripped of the tatters of democracy. The Brotherhood had asserted itself and it was Lianov now who ran Liekom. There could be no doubt. The former lords could begin to stray through the melancholy ruins of power. Power was passing to others, in the terrifying nakedness of violence.

Elegance is chilling. Elegance, culture and ease are chilling for those who do not possess them. Particularly so for a shy, narrow-shouldered quantitative analyst. It was not as bad as Samuel had warned. It was worse.

The nightmare began with a Chelsea flat that was perfect, terrifyingly perfect. Why couldn't it at least be a nouveau-riche apartment? Why, from the moment he walked in the door, this supposedly aristocratic English taste, the immaculate perfection of art and literature? Why did the library shelves have to soar all the way to the ceiling? Why did the paintings have to seem so brilliant, so quintessentially
modern
? Why did this woman have to be both a banker and a sophisticate, nourished by centuries of wealth and education?

The nightmare was Zadie's friends greeting him with a politeness so perfect, so
chilling
, with a hint of pensive aloofness corresponding exactly to the time they needed to weigh him up and, inevitably, find him wanting. They were beautiful, well dressed and doubtless devastatingly intelligent. Their accent was high-flown, so English that a student as poor with languages as Simon was inevitably ridiculous.

The nightmare was also, was especially, the rapid-fire conversation, filled with rapid-fire allusions and in-jokes based on
their long friendship, references that completely eluded him and denoted an intimacy from which he felt excluded.

Simon stood there, glass in hand, in the grip of his crippling shyness, quite simply crushed by this elegant gathering. How could he escape? How could he avoid these well-meaning glances, somewhat bemused by his utter silence. How could he get out of here?

Perhaps he should have avoided knocking over the vase on the hall table as he arrived. It was an outdated movie gag. But then it was crystal clear that Simon was an outdated gag. A man pierced with the paralysing arrows of shyness is always an outdated gag. He feels so clumsy, so ugly.

‘Simon is our most brilliant quant,' said Zadie, to help her guest out.

‘Bravo,' a young man named Peter commented ironically.

‘It was completely by accident,' muttered Simon.

Everyone laughed. My God, this feeling of being ridiculous …

‘And I can recite Rimbaud,' he added.

His statement was so absurd that they took it for English humour. They laughed again.

‘What exactly is a brilliant quant?' Peter asked him.

‘I have no idea. Zadie is brilliant, I solve equations.'

‘But solving equations is brilliant,' interrupted a young woman, ‘at least I think so, I was never able to, even at school.'

Simon turned to her gratefully. She was pale and had a long nose and light green eyes.

‘Really?' said Simon, his tone too shrill and strange.

He thought it incredible that someone would not be able to solve equations at school. It was a gesture of friendship.

‘Really,' said the young woman.

‘Neither could I,' a number of others said in concert.

‘You haven't answered my question,' protested Peter, who was having fun. ‘What is a brilliant quant?'

‘A brilliant quant is an analyst whose equations make money for the bank,' said Zadie simply.

‘In that case, a brilliant banker is a banker who makes money for the bank,' said Peter.

‘Exactly.'

‘Then let me rephrase the question. What are the qualities of a brilliant banker?'

Zadie thought.

‘Greed?'

Everyone turned. It was Simon who had spoken. His mouth was dry, he didn't know how he could have made such an outrageous remark. Zadie looked at him, a twinkle in her eye.

‘Yes, greed. That's the primary quality of a banker.'

The young woman with the pale eyes smiled.

‘A taste for gambling?' Simon ventured.

‘A taste for gambling. Taken to the extreme. The urge to take maximum risks.'

‘The ability to lie?'

Zadie hesitated.

‘Sometimes,' she said at length. ‘Yes, it is sometimes necessary.'

‘Blindness?'

Everyone stared at Simon in astonishment. But no one is more foolhardy than a shy person on a roll.

‘No. Little bankers blind themselves. People of no real worth. Blindness is the mark of a trader who's on a losing streak. He
buries his head in the sand. Keeps playing even when he's losing, even when he's losing the bank's money.'