Once Upon a Time in Russia by Ben Mezrich Read Free Book Online Page A

business partner. After a little checking up on Abramovich, he’d been impressed by the boyish entrepreneur’s ambition, if not the moderate level of his success. Like the rest of them, Abramovich had started nowhere—truly, nowhere—orphaned by the age of four, his mother a victim of a blood disorder, his father killed in an accident at a construction site. He’d been shipped off to the Komi Republic to live with relatives—one of the harshest environments on the planet, a frozen tundra at the edge of the Arctic Circle where it was dark for more than three months out of the year. He’d studied engineering but had never graduated; after a stint in the army, he’d become a mechanic—but even at an early age, he’d seen himself as an entrepreneur.
    â€œI can think of no better time or place,” Berezovsky said. “But I hope your proposition doesn’t involve rubber ducks.”
    Abramovich lost some of the color in his cheeks, until he saw that Berezovsky was joking. Indeed, the young man had begun his career running a toy company, manufacturing plastic playthings and, yes, rubber ducks. But soon after, he’d shifted into something muchmore lucrative: the trading and transportation of oil. How a high school dropout from the Arctic Circle with no connections could go from making rubber ducks to trading 3.5 million tons of petroleum products in just a few years was more than a little mysterious—but Berezovsky liked a little mystery. Compared to the circles Berezovsky frequented, Abramovich’s trading company, though assuredly lucrative, was small-time. Still, he was intrigued by the man’s youth and quick ascent. And then there was the lure of oil itself. There was money in cars, less so in TV—but oil was money in its true, liquid form.
    And Berezovsky was certain Abramovich hadn’t come to him seeking petroleum expertise.
    â€œAs you may know,” Abramovich said, moving closer along the railing, “my trading company moves oil from the state refinery at Omsk in Siberia, which in turn gets its crude from the state-owned production units in Noyabrsk. I’ve spent the past few years familiarizing myself with this production line—from the drilling to the processing to the barrels I transport—and I’ve come to believe that, given the opportunity, I could do it better.”
    â€œBy that you mean . . .”
    â€œVertically integrate, combine the production and refining businesses with my trading company. Run it along my already existing shipping network—and we’ve got an entire oil company moving petroleum across all of Europe.”
    Berezovsky no longer felt the boat rocking beneath his feet as he focused in on what the younger man was proposing. Berezovsky had been wrong when he had phoned Badri. This opportunity was much bigger than any simple commercial venture. Abramovich was talking about privatizing a massive, state-owned refinery and combining it with one of the largest producers of crude into one company. In asingle swift act, they would be creating one of the world’s largest oil businesses. Berezovsky felt his adrenaline rising at the thought.
    â€œThe business is one thing,” he said, thinking aloud. “The politics quite another. But yes, this is perhaps something I could organize.”
    Abramovich fought a smile, but his eyes glittered like the Caribbean behind them.
    â€œOf course the oil industry has its risks. It’s a very competitive arena.”
    The young man didn’t need to spell things out for Berezovsky; he was well aware of the industry’s reputation. The same sorts who had shot up his car dealerships—and blown up his car—were endemic in the world of oil, and much fiercer. But, as Korzhakov had implied, Berezovsky was not the same man who had crawled out of that burning Mercedes. Berezovsky knew how to take care of the