“Welcome to Moscow, Mr. Jefferson,” said Kuznetsov in flawless English with a slight American accent. “Mr. Komarov is much looking forward to your meeting.”
It was not true but Jefferson believed it anyway. The appointment was made for seven the following evening, because Komarov would be out of town all day. A car and driver would be sent to the National to collect him.
Satisfied, Mark Jefferson dined alone in the hotel and slept.
On the following morning, after a breakfast of bacon and eggs, Mark Jefferson decided to indulge in what he regarded as the Englishman’s inalienable right in any part of the world, to take a stroll.
“A
stroll?” queried the Swedish general manager with a perplexed frown. “Where do you want to stroll?”
“Anywhere. Get a breath of air. Stretch the legs. Probably go across to the Kremlin and look around.”
“We can provide the hotel limousine,” said the manager. “So much more comfortable. And safer.”
Jefferson would have none of it. A stroll was what he wanted and a stroll he would have. The manager at least prevailed upon him to leave his watch and all foreign cash behind, but to take a wad of million-ruble notes for the beggars. Enough to satisfy the mendicants but not enough to provoke a mugging. With luck.
The British journalist, who despite his eminence in the features department had spent his career in London-based political journalism and never covered the hot spots of the world as a foreign correspondent, was back two hours later. He seemed somewhat put out.
He had been to Moscow twice before, once under Communism and eight years earlier when Yeltsin was just in power. On each occasion he had confined his experiences to the taxi from the airport, a top hotel, and the British diplomatic circuit. He had always thought Moscow a drab and grubby city, but he had not been expecting his experiences of that morning.
His appearance had been so obviously foreign that even along the river quays and around the Alexandrovsky Gardens he had been besieged by derelicts, who seemed to be camping out everywhere. Twice he thought gangs of youth were following him. The only cars seemed to be military, police, or the limousines of the rich and privileged. Still, he reasoned, he had some powerful points to put to Mr. Komarov that evening.
Taking a drink before lunch—he decided to stay inside the hotel until Mr. Kuznetsov called for him—he found himself alone in the bar except for a world-weary Canadian businessman. In the manner of strangers in a bar, they fell into conversation.
“How long you been in town?” asked the man from Toronto.
“Came in last night,” said Jefferson.
“Staying long?”
“Back to London tomorrow.”
“Hey, lucky you. I’ve been here three weeks, trying to do business. And I can tell you, this place is weird.”
“No success?”
“Oh, sure, I have the contracts. I have the office. I also have the partners. You know what happened?”
The Canadian seated himself next to Jefferson and explained.
“I get in here with all the introductions in the timber business that I need, or think I need. I rent an office in a new tower building. Two days later there’s a knock on the door. There’s a guy standing there, neat, smart, suit and tie. ‘Good morning, Mr. Wyatt,’ he says. ‘I’m your new partner.’ ”
“You knew him?” asked Jefferson.
“Not from hell. He’s the representative of the local mafia. And that’s the deal. He and his people take fifty percent of everything. In exchange they buy or forge every permit, allocation, franchise, or piece of paper I will ever need. They will square away the bureaucracy with a phone call, ensure deliveries are on schedule, with no labor disputes. For fifty percent.”
“You told him to take a running jump,” said Jefferson.
“No way. I learned fast. It’s called having a ‘roof.’ Meaning protection. Without a roof you get nowhere, fast. Mainly because, if you turn them down, you have no legs. They blow them off.”
Jefferson stared at him in disbelief.
“Good God, I’d heard crime was bad here. But not like that.”
“I tell you, it’s like nothing you could ever imagine.”
One of the phenomena that had amazed Western observers after the fall of Communism was the seemingly lightning rise of the Russian criminal underworld, called for want of a better phrase “the Russian mafia.” Even Russians began to refer to the “maffiya.” Some foreigners thought it was a new entity, born only after Communism ended. This was nonsense.