The Oligarch in His Prison

(A prequel to The Hired Killer)

Usually a dip in the pool soothes my nerves a bit, if only for half an hour, but it doesn’t do anything for me any more. It might as well be a pool of piss. That’s what chronic depression does to you.

Is this what it’s all about? What sort of life is this? I made this jail for myself. And worse, I am my own prison guard. What did Forbes print about me? That I am the seventh richest man in the world. They know everything, but they also know nothing. I’ve only got myself to blame for the shit I’m in.

I was doing very well at the Pacific National. Got tenure after my Ph.d. Worked on the Goldbach Conjecture: All even numbers are the sum of two primes. Didn’t prove it for all cases, but managed a proof for numbers which were multiples of 4. Nobody had done it before. I knew that I had it in me to clinch the general proof. Might have got a Fields Medal, but no, with eyes wide shut, I walked into the the den of thieves. Vash ded will help you, said Tatiana. That was Grandpa Boris. He was the tsar! I’ll bring him a bottle of Beluga and he’ll do anything for me. Abramovitch, Berezovsky, Deripaska, they all tried so hard to woo the old drunk, but not me. He had said to Tatiana, tell your man to throw his hat in the ring and I’ll make it happen.

Tatiana would never have forgiven me if I had not.

Mum and dad were good people. Party members, and they were true believers, they could quote you Das Kapital chapter and verse. They taught me good and bad. I felt good knowing good from bad. But if you once take one gulp from the same cup as the devil you caught some of his germs.

I didn’t set out to drive anybody to bankruptcy. But if you didn’t, they finished you off.

You are being a wimp, she said. You didn’t drive the man to put a bullet in his brains. He was a gutless nobody. Everyday people die on the streets of Moscow, it’s not your fault. Who the fuck do you think you are, Sergei? You’re not God for Christ’s sake. You don’t make things happen.

Let’s take a holiday love, you’re overworked, a rest will work wonders. Always wanted to see Machu Picchu. She was right. I was able to relax.

I thought that I had discovered the perfect combination. Work, holiday, partying. Never really had the taste for social events, but she loved it. She loved the opportunity of showing off her latest Dior or Balmain, her Bulgari and those as yet unclassified diamonds I bought from the Thai royal family. Oh yes, charity. That went well. In those days didn’t have any real enemy. Yes, there were a growing number of people who didn’t like me, just as there were a number of people I wouldn’t go near to unless it was absolutely necessary, but no one would take a contract on me. Or so I thought. But the age of innocence has a sell-by date.

Then the war broke out. The aluminium war. It was a dirty war. I never ordered anybody to be bumped off, but did I really not know what Avigdor was up to? He only owned 10% of Metalcom, but I delegated too much power to him. And what did I do when I found out what he had done in my name? Nichego, zilch, nothing!

Papa never said a word, but I did not like what I read in his eyes. When I had my first paper published in The Annals of Mathematics, he was so proud I thought he was going to burst. He thought that Grigori Perelman was a mensch for refusing the prize of one million dollars they were offering him. After I had sorted Blavatnik, and it was in the newspapers, he still said nothing, but had a heart attack and died shortly after. Mama hardly spoke to me afterwards. She would not accept the house I bought for her. No, Sergei, I’m used to this flat I shared with your father for forty-six years. I’d be lost in a big place.

Tatiana wanted a bigger yacht than Deripaska. But I had this fear of the sea. I

suffered from sea-sickness. She began despising me. I bought her the house in Park Lane. Houses in Manhattan, in Milan, in Cyprus. I bought Monet and Manet, Picasso, Warhol, Damien Hirst. Bought a fucking museum for her, I did.

Then had this accident in Monaco of all places. Another one in Geneva, and another one in Tell-Aviv. I know my statistics. First, three road accidents in two weeks had a ludicrously low probability. Someone was out to get me. And I knew who the someone was. Some two actually. Vladimir Putin knew that he could count on Novotnik to do his dirty work. He never gives a direct order. He doesn’t even have to say that so and so was a thorn in his flesh like this king who sent Thomas Beckett to meet his maker early. Vlad’s minions look at the direction his eyes move. Besides he is in a unique position: he has many enemies, and those enemies hate each other even more than he hates them, so he doesn’t have to lift a finger himself. He enjoys watching them eliminate each other. Watching us eliminate each other.

Then Tatiana left. I knew it was coming. Was I upset? Not half as much as I pretended. One, she hated me, and two, I would not be able to protect her. She’s better off without me, and I am much better off without her.

The state I am in is comparable to someone with a terminal cancer. I know that it’s only a matter of time before my bell tolls. Someone will end up breaching my security. Everyday that I find myself alive is a bonus. Every new day needs to be celebrated, but how? Obviously one never tires of booze. Gourmet dishes are out because of the f…ing ulcer. Nooky? Time was when I couldn’t get enough of what those agencies could provide. You wanted a film star, they provide you with a film star. University students, housewives, brown, white, black, Arab, Jewesses, Chinese, teenagers, the lot! Always fancied a real young thing, perhaps twelve or thirteen, but one’s slave of one’s moral values. Anyway, it’s too dangerous. My enemies may well use one of them to gain entry here. So I make do with porn.

Never really had any friends. Well, Piotr! Piotr wasn’t just a friend, he was a

soul mate. I can’t remember us getting sore with each other even once. Twins could never be closer. We knew each other’s minds. We could finish each other’s sentences. Funny we were so different. Him the extrovert and I the loner who liked solitude. Small wonder he’s the jewel in the crown of the Mayakovsky! We used to talk every week, but since he fell in love will Oleg the ballet dancer, he phones less and less. He said the Mayakovsky has a UK tour in the Autumn and he’ll drop by. Uncle Vanya. He wants me to meet Oleg.

I know that whatever I do, the bastards will get me. Will it be novitchok? polonium? a bullet in the head? Hanging like they did Berezovsky?

Am I really going to sign off without the blessing of mamulya? She won’t come and I can’t leave here.

Oh, Saint Michael, can I at least see Piotr?

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