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

“competition.”
    Berezovsky found himself grinning as he thought of his rival, Gusinsky, and the scene that had been documented by dozens of journalists just two weeks ago. The spectacle had been so compelling, the press had even given it a name: Faces in the Snow. A dozen bodyguards dragged out into a parking lot, made to lie facedown in the snow for hours, while the Moscow police stood by impotently. Gusinsky himself had avoided arrest; but after Yeltsin’s private security force had finally admitted they had conducted the raid—a “misunderstanding,” they had explained, that had ended with a handful of Gusinsky’s bodyguards in the hospital—the banking magnate had reportedly fled the country. He would be back, to be sure, but he had gotten the message. Berezovsky was not to be trifled with.
    â€œNot a problem,” he finally murmured, already thinking beyond the risks.
    Oil—the potential was so vast, it was almost hard to calculate.More intriguing, the company Abramovich was describing would create quite a regular stream of cash. And now that Berezovsky was on the verge of privatizing ORT, he was going to need access to a veritable river of rubles. ORT was losing money hand over fist; if he intended to make good on his promise to Korzhakov, to prop up Yeltsin as they headed into the next election cycle, he was going to need money to be coming in at an alarming rate.
    â€œAs long as we’re being direct—how much profit does your trading company currently bring in?”
    It wasn’t exactly polite conversation, asking a man how much money he made. But there would be time for cocktail chatter later. For his part, Abramovich didn’t seem put out by the question.
    â€œForty million a year.”
    â€œAnd if we can organize this proposal of yours—if we ‘vertically integrate’ Omsk and Noyabrskneftegaz—how much cash would you generate?”
    â€œMaybe a hundred million a year?”
    Berezovsky reached forward with both hands and clasped the younger man by the shoulders.
    â€œIt is from this that I will require certain funds to cover the expense of keeping things running smoothly.”
    Abramovich nodded, because he understood. Berezovsky didn’t need to spell out what these expenses might be; he wasn’t signing an employment contract, or even a partnership deal. Abramovich had come to him because of who he was—and what he brought to the table. His political connections, his protection, his roof. No doubt, Abramovich had done his research. He knew all about ORT, the Logovaz Club, and Berezovsky’s lifestyle. He knew exactly what sort of deal they were about to strike.
    Abramovich needed Berezovsky to privatize and combine therefinery and petroleum production company into his trading business. And Berezovsky needed cash flow to keep ORT—and himself—afloat.
    â€œThirty million dollars per year, that should be a good place to start.”
    Research or no, Abramovich gaped at the number.
    â€œThat’s almost my entire current trading profits.”
    â€œCorrect, but when we organize this company, it will be an easy check to cash.”
    Abramovich swallowed, and thought it through. Berezovsky gave the young man his space, turning his attention back to the deck, where the small group of wealthy men and women were sharing war stories over cocktails served by the crew. He had no doubt that Abramovich would accept the deal. If there was one trait he could instantly recognize in others, it was ambition—and Abramovich, as mysterious as his past might be, had that familiar hunger in his soul. He didn’t want to be a fish any longer, he didn’t want to be sharing cocktails and trading stories on other men’s boats. He wanted a giant boat of his own.
    Which was why he finally nodded, then reached out once again, to shake Berezovksy’s hand.

CHAPTER SEVEN
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    January 1995, afternoon,
    Logovaz