Shame I didn’t get to use the gloves, though.
29
Mafia in Moscow
The incident with the Australian gangster proved a turning point. I started getting regular work providing security for top businesspeople at AGMs. I flexed my muscles at meetings for Manweb, British Airways, Shell, BAS and McAlpine. These all proved to be routine and run-ofthe-mill, but nonetheless good experience. The Vickers AGM was a bit tastier. The great manufacturer of arms, tanks and warplanes, this was right up my street. But it’s a contentious area of operations, and there was always going to be more potential for disruption by protesters, or infiltration by people spying on behalf of competitors in this fiercely competitive, multi-billion-pound global industry.
But what made this a stand-out meeting was the small matter of a motion to be discussed: that Vickers should sell off to either BMW or Volkswagen its most famous division – Rolls-Royce Motors. The prospect of this quintessentially British manufacturer falling into foreign hands exercised certain minds so strongly that death threats were sent to the chairman, Sir Colin Chandler. We beefed up our normal security arrangements and everyone was well and truly keyed-up. In the event, apart from angry exchanges from the floor, and one character playing the Dambusters March on a handheld ghetto blaster, the meeting passed off without incident and BMW won the rights to one of the most famous brands in the world.
Then came the big one. A principal of enormous wealth and influence, who was president and founder of a remarkable success story. In little over ten years since his company’s formation in America, sales had rocketed to an eye-watering billion dollars a year. It’s only a rare individual who can achieve that level of success. Sales were continuing to increase, products were expanding. The company was going from strength to strength. He’d well and truly cracked the American market. Now it was time to conquer the world. Starting in Moscow, then the assassination capital of the world. As soon as we arrived at the hotel, the atmosphere was heavy. ‘We had a bit of a problem last week. You may have heard.’ The concierge stared at us, weighing us up. ‘A British businessman. He wasn’t playing the game. He didn’t understand the local rules. He was assassinated with a magazine full of AK-47 just outside the front door. Welcome to Moscow, gentlemen.’
This guy was going to take some serious bodyguarding.
The luxurious, five-star Moscow Marriott Grand was a stone’s throw from Red Square, the Kremlin and the Bolshoi Theatre. As I gazed around the elegant reception hall I thought, ‘If they openly kill people here, what do they do in the suburbs?’ I glanced at my other team members, Rusty (the team leader) and John Mac (the mystery man on the balcony of the Iranian Embassy. John was the real deal, not a character from that famous volume of fairytales and tall stories entitled One Thousand and One Walters, or The Iranian Knights – written, of course, by unreliable narrators). I was reassured to be in good company. We were going to need plenty of top cover for this one.
With big opportunities come big dangers. Ask any prospector during a gold rush. After communism fell in the late Eighties and early Nineties, the former Soviet Union had collapsed into near economic and social anarchy. The transition from the old state-controlled economy to a free market model was a slow and painful one. Corruption, murders, contract killings and violent crime were now widespread and casual.
Bumbling Boris Yeltsin was head of government and the economy was in meltdown. With state spending grinding to a halt, hyperinflation decimating savings, huge tax increases being imposed, unemployment rising to epic heights, whole swathes of industry gone to the wall, and any state enterprise which actually produced wealth having fallen into the hands of the privileged oligarchy, millions of ordinary people had been plunged into crisis. They were desperate to escape the rampant poverty.
This potent mixture of wealth and adulation presented a security challenge of the first order. This was our very first event in Russia. We were all going into the unknown, though I’d a pretty good idea it wasn’t going to be a walk in the park. Back home, Pete McAleese – exD-Squadron – had already painted a vivid picture of training Russia’s Inland Revenue teams. No pen-pushers these. These tax inspectors were being trained in combat techniques for when they had to storm office buildings in full body armour. Not your normal tax inspectors.
We headed off to check out the venue for the big event – the sales convention the following day. The expected audience was 26,000. Not bad for your first event. The auditorium was massive, like an aeroplane hangar with seats. It looked just like the NEC with tiered rows all the way up to the roof, arranged in a 180-degree arc around the stage. I was reassured to know that we’d drafted in a load of conscripts from the Red Army as extra security. With an arena this big we’d need them. We checked and double-checked everything. No stone was left unturned. Nothing could be left to chance. I was standing with Rusty discussing the final plans when suddenly in saunters this guy who nonchalantly swaggers across the floor towards us. He was taller than me – and that’s not something I say very often. A stocky Ronnie Kray lookalike, complete with slicked-back hair and double-breasted jacket. If he’d had the word ‘Mafia’ written across his forehead it couldn’t have been more obvious. I whispered to Rusty, ‘Hey, Russ. It’s the local Gendarme. This guy’s Mafia.’
Rusty nodded. ‘Yep. Here we go.’
Big events inspire big curiosity. Full of cockiness, he strode up to us. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ He spoke remarkably good English. ‘My name is Serge. I’ve been told you guys are in charge of security for tomorrow’s event. Yes?’
‘That’s right, mate,’ I said. ‘You’ve got the right people.’
Without changing his impassive expression one iota he went, ‘Great pity that. We are going to have to close you down.’
I played along. ‘Whaaaat! What are you talking about?’
He went on, ‘Your fire regulations are out of order.’
I couldn’t believe it. He was pulling the oldest con in the book, the fire regulations. The Kray brothers used to play that one in London in the 1960s. Unbelievable! They were fifty years behind the racketeering times in Moscow. These guys didn’t need finesse and they didn’t bother.
I decided to wind our friend up a bit further. ‘Fire regulations? That can’t be right.’ I looked nonplussed. ‘We’ve had them all checked out. A fire officer from the Moscow Fire Department came round and gave us a certificate.’
‘Ah, yes. But some new government regulations have just come in. Not everyone is up to date with them yet.’
I pushed him a bit further. ‘Where exactly are you from?’
He didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘I’m from the authorities.’
I’d had enough of the pantomime. I said, ‘Right, mate. Let’s get in the back room and discuss it in private.’ We had a little security office in the back of the building. We went in and locked the door so we could talk confidentially. The guy, still as cocky as ever, plonked himself in the only executive swivel chair as if he owned the place. Which effectively he did. As if to make his point, he casually unbuttoned his jacket and opened it to reveal his shoulder holster.
Rusty took control. ‘OK, mate. What’s the score?’
He persisted in the charade, really laying it on. ‘It’s your fire regulations. We’ve had an outside assessor check them out. They are out of order. A long time out of date. You are not qualified for an event of this size. Unfortunately we are going to have to close you down.’