The table was arranged in a large square, the chairs around the outside. I scanned the faces of the guests as they arrived and took their seats. I’d never before seen such an impressive collection of people: George Soros; Heinrich von Pierer, CEO of Siemens; Jack Welch, CEO of GE; and Percy Barnevik, CEO of Asea Brown Boveri, among others. In total there were a couple of dozen billionaires and CEOs — plus Marc and me. I wore my best suit in an attempt to look the part, but I knew I was the only person in that room who would be sleeping on the floor that night.
A few minutes after everyone was settled, Zyuganov made a grand entrance with a translator and a pair of bodyguards and took his seat. Marc clinked his glass and stood.
«Thank you all so much for joining us this evening. I’m very honored to be hosting this dinner for Gennady Zyuganov, the leader of the Communist Party of Russia and candidate for president». Zyuganov was about to take his cue and stand as well, but then Marc added spontaneously, «And I’d like to also thank my cohost, Bill Browder, who helped to make all this possible». Marc held out his hand, palm up, in my direction. «Bill?»
I rose halfway out of my seat, gave a perfunctory wave, and quickly sat back down. I was completely mortified. It was a nice gesture for Marc to recognize me, but all I wanted to do at that moment was blend into the woodwork.
When the main course was over, Zyuganov stood and gave his speech through his translator. Zyuganov rambled on, covering all sorts of unmemorable talking points, until he said, «For those of you who are afraid that I’m going to renationalize assets, you shouldn’t be».
I perked up.
He carried on. «These days communist is just a label. A process of private property has started in Russia that cannot be reversed. If we were to renationalize assets, there would be civil unrest from Kaliningrad to Khabarovsk». He gave a curt nod. «I hope to meet all of you again when I’m president of Russia».
In the stunned silence, Zyuganov sat, took up his silverware, and tucked into his dessert.
Had he really just ruled out renationalization? That’s what it sounded like.
The dinner finished shortly afterward, and Marc and I eventually ended up back in our room. As I lay on the floor, my mind raced. If what Zyuganov was saying was true, then regardless of who won the election, I was back in business. I had to share this news with Sandy Koifman as soon as possible.
I called him in Geneva early the next morning and told him the story, but he wasn’t impressed. «You don’t honestly believe him, do you, Bill? These guys will say anything».
«But Sandy, Zyuganov said it in front of the most important businessmen in the world! That has to count for something».
«That means nothing. People lie, politicians lie, everybody lies. Christ, you’re talking about a Russian politician. If I believed everything politicians said to me, Safra would be broke by now».
I didn’t know what to think, but everything I’d heard in Davos made me feel that things had at least a small chance of working out, and I intended to do everything I could to see that they would.
10. Preferred shares
I finally finished writing Sandy’s operating procedures manual six weeks after Davos. Now Sandy either would have to send the money that Safra had committed to the fund or renege on the deal.
If Yeltsin’s approval rating had stayed at 5.6 percent, Sandy would surely have reneged. But the oligarchs’ plan appeared to be working. By early March, Yeltsin’s approval rating had risen to 14 percent and this put Sandy in a quandary. A clause in the contract said that if Safra pulled out, then he would have to pay a multimillion-dollar penalty. However, if Sandy released the money and Yeltsin wasn’t reelected, Safra stood to lose even more than that. To buy a little more time, Sandy released $100,000 of working capital, which allowed me at least to set up the office in Moscow.
I was in a quandary too. I didn’t like the idea of moving to Moscow without any real business, but it didn’t make sense for me to force the issue. If Safra decided to pull out now, I wouldn’t be able to find another $25 million investor in the three months before the Russian elections.
I went about my work and continued to prepare for the move to Moscow with Sabrina, but things had become more complicated between us. She had become pregnant almost the moment I proposed and was hit with severe morning sickness. She was in such bad shape that several times I had to take her to the hospital to be rehydrated.
As we were packing our bags in our bedroom on the eve of our trip to Moscow, she finally said what I was dreading she might say.
«Bill, I’ve been up all night thinking, and I’m…»
«What is it?»
«I’m sorry, but I just can’t go to Russia».
«Because of the morning sickness?»
«Yes, and…»
«What? You’re going to come when the morning sickness passes, right?»
She turned away, looking confused. «Yes. I mean, I think so. I don’t know, Bill. I just don’t know».
While I wanted her to be with me in Moscow, I couldn’t fault her. She was going to be my wife and she was carrying our child. Whatever our previous arrangements were, she had to be comfortable and happy. That was what mattered most.
I accepted that she would stay in London, and the next morning Sabrina drove me to Heathrow. We said our good-byes on the curb and I promised to call her twice a day, every day. I kissed her and went through the airport, hoping that she would be able to join me soon.
I thought about all of this as I flew east. But then I landed at Sheremetyevo and was confronted with the crowds and the chaos, and I didn’t have the capacity to think about anything other than dealing with real life on the ground in Moscow.
I had a two-page-long to-do list, and the first item was to find an office. After checking into the National Hotel, I called Marc Holtzman, who had recently set up his own office in Moscow. He told me about an empty room just down the hall from his and I made an appointment to see it right away.
The next morning, I left the hotel to hail a cab. As soon as I stuck out my hand, an ambulance swerved dangerously from the middle lane and came to an abrupt stop in front of me. The driver leaned across, rolled down the window, and said, «Kuda vy edete?» He wanted to know where I was headed.
«Parus Business Center», I told him without a hint of a Russian accent. «Tverskaya Yamskaya dvacet tre» — the street address in Russian. That was about the extent of my fluency. Unlike many other Westerners in Moscow, I had never studied Russian literature, trained as a spy, or done anything useful to prepare for life in Russia.
«Piat teesich rublei», he said. Five thousand rubles — roughly one dollar — to go about two miles. As he spoke, four other random cars also stopped, queuing in case I decided to reject the ambulance. I was in a hurry so I jumped in. I looked over my shoulder as I slid into the passenger seat, praying that no bodies or injured people were in the back. Thankfully there weren’t. I shut the door and we pulled into traffic, heading up Tverskaya.
I soon learned that an ambulance stopping to pick up a fare in Moscow wasn’t unusual. Every vehicle was a potential taxi. Private cars, dump trucks, police cruisers — everyone was so desperate for money that any and all would take fares.
Ten minutes later we stopped in front of the Parus Business Center. I gave the driver his money, got out, and walked through the underpass to the other side of the street. I entered the building, passing a Chevy dealership on the ground floor, and met the building’s manager, a fast-talking Austrian.