PART 1: DEFIANCE

DEFIANCE 

Or How to Succeed in Business Despite 

Being Hounded by the FBI, the KGB,

the INS, the Department of Homeland Security, the Department of Justice, Interpol and Mafia Hit Men 

A TRUE STORY

by Alex Konanykhin

This is a true and a well-documented story. The abbreviation KGB stands for “KGB and/or its successor or predecessor agencies”, to avoid confusing readers with various abbreviations used at different times for such agencies. Where transcripts were not available, dialogues and scenes are reconstructed to the best of my recollections. Thoughts attributed to other characters are just my opinions on their likely motivations. Names of all main characters are real. I only changed or omitted names of some minor characters to avoid exposing them to risks of retaliation. An inquisitive reader can easily access related court transcripts which have become a subject of public record. 

Acknowledgments 

This book would not be possible if Judge Ellis were too busy or callous to care about the fate of two immigrants whom the U.S. government wanted to use as chips in a quid pro quo deal with corrupt Russian officials. 

This book would not be possible if Judge Bryant found no courage to reverse his own deportation order, once he learnt that it was based on misrepresentations by the U.S. government. 

This book would not be possible if attorneys Michael Maggio and J.P. Szymkowicz decided that they did not want to waste time on the hopeless case for which they were not likely to be paid. 

This book would not be possible if Marc Fleischaker, Chairman of Arent Fox, declined to dedicate resources of his venerable law firm for a pro bono case, or if his partners John Nassikas and Jacques Smith thought that my case deserved less than their best because they could not bill me for it. 

This book would not be possible if Donald Bucklin of Squire, Sanders would not make my case his top priority. 

This book only became possible because Antoinette Rizzi sacrificed her government career to tell the truth about my case. 

Elena and I are forever grateful to Austin McMurria, who bailed Elena out and took our fate so close to heart. We admire courageous investigative reporter Del Walters who was the first to reveal to TV audience the government conspiracy against us. 

We are also forever grateful to our many friends who took risks by supporting us. I am not mentioning their names here to protect their privacy. 

Special thanks to John Ballard, whose editing much improved the book. 

Ambush at Peace Bridge 

December 18, 2003 

“Freeze!” boomed a voice out of nowhere. “Stop the engine! Get out of the car slowly!” 

Suddenly, an officer in green fatigues wrenched open my door and stuck a machine gun under my nose. 

“Don’t move!” the officer warned, fixing me with the unblinking gaze of a predator. 

What should I do? Freeze or get out? 

I didn’t have much of a choice. My seatbelt trapped me. If I reached to release the buckle, the officer might think I had a gun. So I raised my hands and peered out as a dozen troops in green fatigues and blue uniforms with Department of Homeland Security insignias on their chests surrounded our BMW. Some wore black facemasks, all carried guns, and none seemed in a particularly jovial mood. 

“Stop the engine!” the officer yelled. “I said stop it, damn it!” 

Only moments before, I had stopped at the toll booth at the U.S.- Canadian border, said good morning to the collector, and handed him three bucks. Ahead, the Peace Bridge, which straddled the Niagara River loomed like a beacon. 

We were fated never to cross it. Instead, the officer reached over and tried to yank out the key, and I could smell old sweat and new aftershave. But the gear was engaged and the key stuck in its slot. 

Furious, the officer unfastened my seat belt and grabbed me by the lapels. Heaving me out, he slammed me against the side of the car, pulled my arms behind my back, and slapped on a pair of handcuffs so tightly that my fingers quickly went numb. 

“Say hello to Mother Russia for us, comrade,” the officer muttered spitefully. 

On the other side of the car, another officer cuffed Elena, my beloved wife. The sight sickened me. Then, after we were securely cuffed, four officers led us to the Customs and Immigration Building on the American side of the border. 

“Sucks to be you,” observed one anonymous officer through his black mask. 

I couldn’t disagree. Back in Russia, a panoply of neo-Stalinist horrors awaited me: inquisition and torture by the KGB (or whatever they were calling themselves these days); a nationally-televised Show Trial; and, following that, the infernal man-made miseries of the post-Gulag prison system, where tuberculosis, AIDS, and guard and prisoner brutality were rampant. “Accidental” death there seemed inevitable. 

For twelve years, the KGB had been breaking my balls and making unprecedented efforts to destroy me. This was payback for my exposing their corruption in courts and the media, following their hijacking of my banking and real-estate empire. 

I had battled these bastards every step of the way, but they gradually took over Russia. Now, in America, I was Russia’s most wanted man, hunted by KGB operatives and Mafia assassins. 

Five weeks before, yielding to unprecedented pressure from the Kremlin, the United States government had revoked my political asylum, forcing Elena and me to flee for our lives to Canada. That revocation was based on the astonishing pretext that Russia no longer conducted political persecutions! 

Tell that to Michael Khodorkovsky, my former business partner who, like me, had had his business empire plundered by the KGB controlled government. The richest man in Russia, Khodorkovsky was then put through a classic political Show Trial and tossed into the nefarious Siberian prison camps, a fate that could still easily become mine, too. 

The officers led Elena and me into the Immigration building and escorted us down a narrow corridor. 

“Pray,” she told me before they pushed us into separate holding cells. “Only a miracle can save us now.” 

But maybe my share of miracles had already been used up. 

At twenty-five, I could have died when the KGB kidnapped me in Budapest. I wriggled out of that one by the skin of my teeth. 

At twenty-seven, the KGB took out a contract on me, but the FBI tipped me off, saving my life. 

At twenty-nine, the U.S. tried to hand me over to the KGB in a dirty political deal. But the American courts intervened. 

Court hearings revealed that the United States government had agreed to fabricate immigration charges against me, in return for keeping an FBI office in Moscow open. My life was to have been sacrificed for the FBI Director’s pet project. But why was this dirty deal still being played out, long after the court had found it illegal? 

I couldn’t believe how expertly the KGB had manipulated this great country where we sought refuge from my assassins.

As I paced around my tiny detention cell, still cuffed – three steps forward, three steps back – I pondered my fate. 

I had been blessed – and cursed – with an unusual life. I had studied to become a rocket scientist at the most prestigious technical university in Russia. But the first of many scrapes with authority killed my science career before it even started. 

Afterwards, I made – and lost – a number of fortunes. By the time I turned twenty-two, I was a self-made millionaire. At twenty-five, I was one of the most successful businessmen in Russia, involved in the exhilarating effort to transform a totalitarian regime into a free, open, and democratic society. Then the KGB hijacked my business and I had to start anew, this time in America. Within three years, I built a successful business. It was unlawfully destroyed by the American government, and I had to start from scratch yet again. By the time I turned thirty-five, my Internet company was valued at one hundred million dollars. 

All together, I had built up a number of pioneering businesses. I bankrolled Boris Yeltsin’s rise to power. I traveled the world and met many fascinating people. I married a wonderful woman who was perfect for me. I walked tall, and fought for what I believed in. 

But the enemy proved much too powerful. Now I was about to become a victim of the system that had claimed the lives of millions of others who dared to challenge it. 

Even more painful was the thought that I had failed Elena. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever met, and the purest soul. In our thirteen years of marriage, she stood by me through triumph and tragedy, despite countless risks.

It appeared that the KGB had “bought” her from the U.S. government, as well, to guarantee that I would sign a false confession. And I was the one who had unwittingly brought this fate upon her. I was paying the price for taking on an adversary as dangerous as the KGB, but what was her crime? Nothing more than loving me. The thought gave me a searing headache. 

I was thirty-seven years old, in excellent health and filled with energy, big plans for the future, love for life, and love for my wife. I was grateful for the many blessings I had enjoyed. 

And I sure as hell wasn’t ready to die yet

Part I 

From Exile to Asylum

Chapter One 

The Unraveling 

By 1992, I controlled a banking and brokerage empire from my sixteen-story headquarters in the heart of Moscow. I lived in a luxurious compound that was the former State Residence of President Gorbachev. I was twenty-five years old and married to the most beautiful girl in the world. 

An outside observer might be forgiven for thinking that mine was an idyllic life. Unfortunately, that was not the case. 

Things were looking bleak all over my country. The Soviet Empire had just collapsed, and Yeltsin’s fledgling democratic government was largely dysfunctional. The power vacuum was being filled quickly by organized crime. Russia was rapidly metamorphosing into what I call a “Mafiocracy”. With a heavy heart, I realized that democracy in my country might be short-lived. 

Economically, the situation was dismal. Young people couldn’t find decent work, and many wound up joining gangs. Many of them were veterans of the brutal and pointless war in Afghanistan, and killing was their only skill. With the huge Russian army disintegrating, weapons filtered into the streets. 

In 1990, the Russian mob was made up of beefy men covered in tattoos. By 1992, they weren’t so obvious. Mafia ranks now included many well-dressed, well-educated, highly intelligent people with KGB backgrounds. Many former KGB officers who had lost their careers with the demise of the Soviet Union had joined the rackets, since it was the easiest route to maintaining the lifestyles to which they had grown accustomed. 

The KGB became the brains behind organized crime. They easily opened doors to senior officials. The police and the government were becoming subservient to crooks. 

The Russian Mafia targeted legitimate businessmen and thought nothing of killing anyone who resisted its demands. Bodies of assassination victims began to pile up. Contract killings became so ubiquitous that newspapers didn’t bother to cover them all. Gangs extorted from many, if not most, successful businesses. 

My Russian Exchange Bank was the leading private financial house in Russia. Because my signature could move tens of millions of dollars, I was all too painfully aware that my wife and I were prime targets for kidnappers and extortionists, so we lived in a “gilded cage”: a state residence surrounded by an elaborate security network. Whenever we left our well-protected compound, armed guards tagged along. 

My security force at that time was about 250 strong and consisted of former police and, ironically, KGB officers. The cost of maintaining a small private army was enormous, but I was way ahead of most other bankers and businessmen, who were forced to pay off organized crime. Doling out extortion money would have been a lot more costly, and far more humiliating. 

Compared to the risk of being kidnapped or worse, the KGB looked like the lesser of two evils. But I was considerably less well protected than I realized when, following a botched takeover attempt of my bank, events quickly spiraled out my control.

Hijack Attempt 

With my business empire growing rapidly, finding capable executives had become one of my biggest headaches. Eventually, I was forced to promote the most capable officers of my security detail – in other words, former KGB men. 

Captains Sumskoi and Boldyrev, former shift commanders of my security, had performed their executive duties well. That is, they did until August of 1992, when they first tried to steal my bank. 

I discovered their plot after chatting with two minority shareholders. Sumskoi and Boldyrev, the shareholders told me, had approached them, offering a small fortune for their voting rights. The rest wasn’t difficult to deduce: these two guys planned to vote me out at the next quarterly meeting and take over my bank. 

Though I owned a 51 percent controlling stake, 12.5 percent of that was through my commodity exchange, one of the key components of my business empire. And the exchange was managed by the captains. All they had to do was to lease 37.5 percent voting rights from the outside shareholders, then vote against me, using the voting powers of my own stock. 

Such a backhanded maneuver would be a violation of fiduciary duties in a developed country. But Russia was still in the early stages of economic reform, so ethics and regulations were rudimentary at best. Nothing really stood in the way of a manager determined to betray the interests of a business owner. Simply put, loyalty was something I could never count on in the “Wild East” of post-Soviet Russia. 

Fixing the immediate problem was easy: I fired the captains and revoked their powers-of-attorney. Then, to increase my stake in the bank, I transferred $3 million dollars from my personal account to the Russian Exchange Bank and used this to buy extra stock. End of problem. 

Bluntly, this put Captains Sumskoi and Boldyrev in deep shit. They had borrowed heavily to buy votes, hoping to repay the loans from my bank’s plundered assets. Now they couldn’t pay back their personal loans. Worse, my investigation revealed that their lender was one of the most brutal of Russia’s crime groups. 

Desperate, and fearing for their lives, the captains visited me at my office the next day. 

“You think you can just throw us out like a used condom?” blustered Captain Boldyrev. “We’ve been working like crazy, and have a right to a piece of the business.” 

“I have 2,000 people working just as hard as you guys,” I replied. “Not everyone can be a co-owner.” 

Boldyrev paused to collect his thoughts. “All right,” he blathered on. “So you outsmarted us. Congratulations. But I’ll tell you what.” He leaned forward. “It would be better for everyone if we parted on a positive note. That might save future trouble, if you get my drift.” 

This not-so-veiled threat made me seethe. “What do you have in mind?” I asked coldly. 

“Three million bucks. Call it a severance package.” 

The thought of forking over millions in extortion to these KGB shakedown artists was repugnant to me. 

“You guys were fired for a reason, and will be paid only what you’re entitled to under your contract. You may go now.”

Arrogant bastards! I thought as they got up furiously to leave. They think they can intimidate me! Thank God I’m too well-protected to have to worry about the threats of these clowns. 

As far as I was concerned, the problem was over. I called up the head of my security detail and told him to keep on eye on the two traitors. 

The following morning, business matters sent me outside the country. At six o’clock, the heavy gates of my state residence swung open and the convoy rolled out. One guard stood at attention at the control post while another — armed with a submachine gun — covered the convoy’s exit. 

As usual, I was ensconced in a heavy, armored government limo, with an armed chauffeur and Presidential guard in the front seat. 

Racing off, the lead car switched on its red-and-blue lights and siren, breaking the silent charm of the pine forest. 

I lowered the window separating me from the driver and requested that both be turned off, since there was no traffic. The guard relayed the order by radio, the siren was squelched, and the lights were extinguished. As we drove along in renewed silence, I gazed out through the tinted glass window at the walled complexes that housed our nation’s leadership. 

Forty minutes later, I arrived at Moscow International Airport, climbed aboard a jet, and went straight to the VIP section. I had no idea that I was leaving Russia forever.

Chapter Two 

Kidnapped 

Hungarian Surprise 

No security detail awaited me when I touched down at Budapest Airport, three hours later. Foolishly, I never felt in danger outside of Russia, and therefore didn’t feel the need for security. 

I dashed over to the long-term parking lot and found my car right where I had left it, three weeks before. The silver Mercedes 500 SEL was a bit dusty, but the engine fired up at the first turn of the key. 

I drove to our Budapest apartment, where Elena was waiting for me. 

Elena is gracefully thin, and moves like a dancer, which indeed she is. She has green eyes, long, wheat-colored hair, milk-white skin, a soft voice, and a slender neck that Modigliani might have enjoyed painting. As a native of Moscow, Elena also doesn’t like the heat, and because I had neglected to install air-conditioning, the place was sweltering. So I called to reserve a room in a nearby hotel, then drove to downtown Budapest for a meeting. 

After parking, I ran into my good friend Eugene. Eugene had brown tousled-hair and a round, friendly face. “Hey, Alex, I didn’t know you were in town.” 

“Just flew in.” 

“How ‘bout dinner tomorrow night?"

“Sounds great,” I replied. “Elena and I are staying at the Aquincum. Why not meet us outside the entrance at eight?” 

“Deal. Maria and I will see you tomorrow.” 

The following day, Elena and I were enjoying a late lunch at the nearly-deserted hotel restaurant. Two severe, militant-looking people dressed in plain clothes – a man and a woman – appeared in the doorway. Spotting us from across the room, they strolled over to our table. 

“Mr. Konanykhin?” asked the woman. “This is Officer Andros from the Hungarian Ministry of Security. I’m his translator.” 

With their short hair and old-fashioned dress clothes, both definitely looked the part. 

On my request, they showed their IDs. I took Andros’s and gave it the once-over. It looked legit. 

“How may I help you?” I asked, handing back the ID to Andros. 

“Our ministry is conducting an investigation into the arms trading deals of Mr. Ryashenzev,” explained Andros through the translator. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.” 

“What sort of questions?” 

“I understand that his company maintains an account in your bank,” said Andros. “Correct?” 

“That’s right. So?” 

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Konanykhin, we’d like to go over these matters with you at the Ministry.” 

“Do I have to go?” 

“No. But we’d appreciate it if we didn’t have to compel your cooperation.” 

I weighed my options. I held a permanent residency permit in Hungary and saw no reason to alienate the local authorities. I nodded, indicating my agreement, and asked Elena to wait for me up in our room, adding that I’d return in a couple of hours. Then the officers and I went outside, got into a car, and drove off towards the city’s center. 

We never made it to the Ministry of Security. The car stopped in front of an ordinary apartment building, a few blocks away. The officers got out and opened my door. 

“This isn’t the Ministry,” I said, stepping out warily. 

“We maintain an office here for confidential meetings,” the translator replied. 

“I’m sorry,” I said, smelling a rat. “I’ve reconsidered. I’m not going in with you.” 

“I’m afraid we’ll have to insist,” said the translator. “If you resist, you’ll force us to use our weapons.” 

Scuffling with two armed Ministry of Security officers didn’t seem like a terribly bright idea. Neither did running away and getting shot in the back. So I followed the officers inside, hoping against hope that my suspicions were unfounded. 

We trudged up a rickety flight of stairs and arrived on the first landing. There was a heavy aroma of fried onions in the air. 

The three of us walked over to a door, which opened without anyone knocking.

As soon as I got a look at the six people inside, I knew things were terribly wrong. Five of the men there were clearly thugs, wearing the cheap, dark suits and gold neck chains favored by gangsters. 

I had been led straight into a den of thieves. 

The sixth man there, Vadim Avdeev, was the man I’d recently appointed to manage my Russian Real Estate Exchange. Vadim also happened to be a former KGB lieutenant and close friend of the two officers who had tried to extort three million of bucks from me, just two days earlier. 

Oh shit, I thought. 

“Well done,” said Vadim to the officers who had delivered me. Evidently, he was their leader. “And welcome, Mr. President,” he said, addressing me with mock reverence. 

“What’s going on here, Vadim?” I asked. 

“You’ll see.” 

Vadim directed me to a second, barely furnished room, much larger than the first. 

A tall, muscular guy with a crew cut followed us in. From the corner of my eye, I noticed that the two Hungarian officers were leaving. I had to admit, they had played their parts quite professionally. 

Vadim motioned for me to sit on a large leather sofa. As I settled down, he took a seat on the matching chair across from me. The enforcer who had accompanied us sat at the end of a large desk, which was bare except for one menacing object: an electric iron, the infamous torture tool of Russian racketeers. 

“Well, Alex,” said Vadim, smiling wryly. “You should have been fair when you had a chance. My comrades asked you politely for a little money, but you wanted to keep it all for yourself.” 

Vadim sounded genuinely disappointed. What an actor! 

I said, “So what would you like me to do now?” 

Vadim paused dramatically, and then replied, “The cost has gone up, I’m afraid. We have since incurred expenses. You will sign your companies and bank accounts over to us. All of them.” 

“And if I don’t?” 

“Then you might accidentally drown in the apartment’s bathtub,” the enforcer chimed in. “Or maybe it will be something else.” 

My mind raced as I searched for a way out. I realized that, as soon as the crooks had what they wanted, they’d kill me. There was no way they were going to leave a person they had swindled out of hundreds of million bucks alive to tell the tale. 

Unfortunately, attacking Vadim wasn’t a solution, since the two of them could overpower me. Besides, four other goons waited in the next room. The only thing left to do was buy time and hope for a miracle. 

“Hey Vadim,” I said. “Your friends never even asked for a share for you.” 

Vadim shrugged. “They just didn’t want to tip you off to my involvement.” 

“You sure? They were trying to screw me. Do you really think they’d have been more honest with you?” 

But Vadim wasn’t in a chatty mood. “Listen, Alex, we worked eighty-hour weeks while you got massages in your state residence or entertained your wife in Paris. So let’s start with the bank accounts.” 

Vadim removed a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it and extended it toward me. “Here’s where the money’s to go.” 

“Well,” I said, receiving the paper. “Looks like I have no choice except to cooperate.” 

“You got that right,” quipped the enforcer. 

I took a moment to look the paper over. Then I said, “Where’s the telex?” 

“The what?” 

“The telex terminal?” 

“What do you need that for?” 

“To move the money, I need the account numbers, a telex, and the security codes. You do have access to a telex, right?” 

Vadim suddenly appeared befuddled. The enforcer said, “Stop the fancy nonsense!” 

“Fancy nonsense?” I replied, feigning astonishment. “So tell me, Vadim. How did you envision something like this happening? That I write the instructions on a napkin, we send it by carrier pigeon to Credit Suisse, then they move the millions?” 

“We have a fax and a typewriter.” 

I shook my head in disbelief. 

“Look,” I went on. “No bank accepts faxed instructions for large amounts. Faxed signatures are too easy to copy from another document. Swiss banks have special confidential code values that are calculated based on the date and amount of the transfer. You’ve been an executive. You know this stuff!” 

“He’s right, Sasha,” replied Vadim, divulging the big guy’s name. “Why didn’t we think of it before?” 

My appeal to Vadim’s business ego had worked. In reality, he knew as much about international banking as I knew about breeding polo ponies. 

“We’ll get you a telex,” said Sasha without conviction. “Where are the codes?” 

“In Moscow.” 

“Moscow?” Vadim exclaimed. 

“Yes. In my bank. In my personal safe.” 

After a heavy minute of silence, Vadim beckoned for Sasha to leave the room with him. 

Through the open doorway, I saw them engage in a quiet but heated discussion. I considered running to the window, smashing it with my fist or elbow, and yelling for help. But with the four bored thugs staring at me through the open doorway, I wasn’t sure it would do much good. 

Vadim and Sasha returned 

“Let’s reassign your companies,” said Vadim. “Surely we can do that now.” 

“I guess we can,” I replied. “Where’s the paperwork?” 

“Paperwork?” 

“Yes, paperwork. You can’t transfer ownership of a major commercial group without the proper documents. Surely you know that?” 

“We’ve had no time,” admitted Vadim. “But let’s do that now.” 

“But how?” I said, as if totally disoriented. “We’re talking about transferring ownership of an elaborate group of enterprises, including five banks. A task of that magnitude takes half a dozen lawyers a couple of weeks.” 

I was exaggerating by at least four lawyers and one week. But luckily they didn’t know that. They exchanged sour, disappointed glances and left for another colloquy in the anteroom. 

Then, after a few more minutes of tense, hushed discussion, Vadim made some phone calls. They were obviously to his co-conspirators in Moscow, to relay news of these unforeseen hitches. 

Meanwhile, Sasha came back and slammed the door. He squatted down at the edge of his desk and folded his arms in an intimidating matter. 

I refused to make eye contact and so we sat there quietly for what seemed like an eternity, though it was probably only half an hour. 

Finally, Vadim returned. He looked frustrated, exhausted and stressed. 

“You look tired, Vadim,” I observed. 

“We haven’t slept for the past two days,” he replied. “We can rest now, though. Since nothing can be done tonight, you’ll stay right here. The guys will keep you company and we’ll work everything out in the morning.” 

“Whatever you say,” I said. “But I’m sure Elena is already very worried and has surely called the chief of my personal security by now. If I don’t return tonight, I’ll be declared missing. The authorities will figure I’ve been kidnapped, and by tomorrow my signature will be worthless.” 

Sasha looked totally stunned. It took several seconds for the weight of my words to sink in. Then he had a meltdown: he swore loudly, kicked the desk, and turned furiously to Vadim. “Did you guys think this thing through at all?” he fumed. 

Vadim glared nastily back at his enforcer, intimidating him into silence. Though Vadim had fucked up royally, he was still a KGB man. He wasn’t about to let Sasha forget who the boss was. 

I then waited agonizing minutes while Vadim talked on the phone again in the other room. When he returned, he looked even more exhausted. 

“So here’s the deal,” announced Vadim with a rusty voice. “My guys will take you to the hotel, where they’ll keep a close eye on you. Don’t even think of doing anything stupid. As you know, the Ministry of Security is on our side, and so are the police. They’ll do anything the Ministry tells them.” Vadim paused for effect, and then continued, “If you fully co-operate, we’ll allow you to keep half of your fortune. Understood?” 

“Understood,” I said, feigning relief. “And thank you! I’m tired of all this pressure. I want out, I really do. I’ll let you guys worry about running the business. Half is enough for me. Half is fair.” 

“Half is more than fair,” broke in Sasha. 

“Half is more than fair,” I confirmed, hoping my act was convincing. 

Vadim searched my expression. Then he said, “Show me what you’re carrying.” 

I emptied my pockets, dumping my passport and residence permit on the desk, along with 140,000 Hungarian forints, and some petty cash in U.S. dollars. Then the enforcer patted me down. 

“That’s it,” confirmed Sasha after completing his search. 

Vadim said, “We’ll start the transactions tomorrow at ten. I need to catch up on sleep now.” 

Out of the Den of Thieves 

Vadim exited the room, leaving me with Sasha. We went into the room where the four other goons were waiting to escort me. The apartment door was open, so I led the way downstairs while the goons followed a step behind. 

Two cars were waiting for us on the street. The translator who had helped abduct me was in one of them. Two of the goons and I piled into her car, with the other car right behind. 

Surely our odd bunch was a strange sight as we entered the lobby of the exclusive Aquincum Hotel: a tall, young Russian accompanied by a Hungarian woman in her early forties, followed by four obvious thugs. Hotel personnel watched suspiciously but didn’t interfere. 

We took the elevator and went to my room. I knocked and waited. 

Elena, pale and worried, opened the door. As soon as she saw the goons who accompanied me, she turned a whiter shade of pale, as the famous song goes. 

We entered the room. The translator asked to see Elena’s passport and resident’s permit. Elena looked at me and I nodded. She went over to the desk and retrieved the documents from her handbag. 

“Good,” the translator said, taking Elena’s papers. “How much money do you have?” 

“Only some petty cash.” 

“Very well then. I will leave you now. Remember, no stupid moves.” 

The translator flashed a feeble smile, then left, along with the goons. I closed the door, relieved to find myself separated from this motley crew for the first time since the ordeal started. But, as Vadim had said, there was still plenty of work left to be done. 

Escape 

“What’s going on, Alex?” asked Elena, searching my eyes. 

“Be calm,” I whispered, even though she was perfectly composed. “I was kidnapped by the KGB guys who tried to squeeze me in Moscow. They think I’m going to sign over my companies. Pack your valuables. I’ll fill in the blanks later.” 

Elena stashed some jewelry into her purse as I quickly explained my plan. Then I asked her if she was ready. 

“Ready.” 

“Then let’s go.” 

I gripped the handle, took a deep breath, and opened the door. Outside, two of the goons were loitering in the corridor. When they saw us, they became visibly concerned.

“We’re just going to walk around the hotel,” I told the Russian thug. “I have a huge headache and there’s a lot to do tomorrow.” 

“Just take it slow. Remember, we’re watching you.” 

“Gotcha,” I replied, stabbing the elevator button. 

Elena, I, and the goons stepped into the car. 

When the doors opened downstairs, we noticed two other thugs looking terribly out of place in the plush lobby chairs. Ignoring them, Elena and I headed towards the clerk at the reception desk. 

“Any messages while I was out?” I asked loudly enough for the goons to hear. 

As the clerk checked my box for messages, the goons from upstairs joined their cohorts in the lobby for a hushed conversation. 

“I also need my safe deposit box,” I told the clerk softly in English, hoping the thugs wouldn’t understand. 

“Here you go, sir,” said the clerk moments later, handing over several pages of faxes. 

I pretended to review the messages, though their content couldn’t possibly have been of less interest to me at the moment. 

Less than a minute later the clerk put down my safe deposit box on the counter. Positioning my body to block the thugs’ view, I withdrew cash, credit cards and passports from the box, and stuffed them into my jacket’s lapel pocket. Then I slid the box back to the clerk. 

This is it, I told myself. It’s now or never. 

I took a deep breath, glanced at Elena, and headed for the door, still pretending to review the faxes. Elena followed closely behind, with the goons lingering a few paces back. 

Through the hotel’s revolving glass door, I could see Eugene and Maria parked in their new Volvo. Thank God he wasn’t late for dinner! 

Reaching behind to place my hand on Elena’s shoulder, I gently ushered her ahead of me into the one of the door’s chambers. We spun through the mechanism in what was surely the longest four seconds of my life. 

Popping out on the other side, we rushed across the sidewalk to the Volvo. I yanked open the rear door, shoved Elena in, then dove in behind her, slamming the door and locking it. 

“Go!!!” I shouted. 

Eugene realized he had to drive first and ask questions later. He jammed the stick shift into gear, and then floored it. 

As we raced away, I peered back through the rear window to witness a sight worthy of slapstick. At the hotel, three thugs were trapped inside one chamber of the slowly revolving door, bouncing against the glass in a futile effort to accelerate its rotation. It was way too small for three large men, and they were only able to take baby steps in their frantic attempt to get free. 

Leaving Hungary 

Within seconds, we were several blocks from the hotel, driving at 120 kilometers per hour and still accelerating. 

“Slow down, Eugene,” I said hoarsely. “We don’t want to get stopped by the cops.” 

“Where to?” asked Eugene calmly. 

I was about to suggest the airport, then thought better of it. That was undoubtedly the first place the KGB would search for me. I had to avoid panicky and predictable moves, and needed time to think. 

“Why, the Brazilian restaurant you suggested, of course,” I responded lightly, noticing that the relief of the escape was making me feel almost giddy. However, we were not out of danger yet, and I made an effort to switch to the serious mood. “We really need to talk.” 

“You got it, Alex.” 

At the restaurant, I described everything that had happened to me that day. 

“Jesus,” replied Eugene worriedly. “So what the hell are you going to do now?” 

“I don’t know yet. Let’s brainstorm.” 

So we sat back and talked as the Brazilian barbecue went cold. 

Eugene kicked things off by stating the obvious. “If their Ministry of Security is involved, you can’t call the police.” 

“Agreed,” I replied. “But that also rules out staying in the country.” 

“True.” 

“So the only choice we have, really, is for me and Elena to get out. But how? We can’t use the airport or railroad stations because those are the first places they’ll look. Can you take us to Bratislava?"

“Of course,” replied Eugene, to my vast relief. “But why not shoot for Austria instead? The KGB can still get you in Czechoslovakia. After all, it’s a former Soviet Bloc country, just like Hungary.” 

“They might be looking for us at the Austrian border,” broke in Elena. “They know we have a business there. They’re much less likely to expect us in Slovakia.” 

“Besides,” I added, “the bastards seized our passports with Austrian visas, and we don’t need visas for Czechoslovakia. Good thing we travel so much that we have accumulated a stack of valid passports. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs would often just issue us new sets of passport when I asked them to get us visas.” 

While Eugene and Maria nibbled at their food, Elena and I reviewed the passports I had retrieved from the safe deposit box. We quickly realized that, though we had many valid visas in the remaining passports, the only Western country both of us had permission to enter was the United States. 

“So as far as I can see now,” I told Elena, “we have two options: return to Moscow or fly to the United States. Quit the game or stay in.” 

“Why so dramatic, Alex?” broke in Eugene. “You’re a big man in Russia. You know the President and you have a private army. The kidnappers are just a bunch of rogue KGB officers. You can crush them like that.” He snapped his fingers. 

“The problem is, if we go back to Russia, I’ll have to have them killed.” 

“Killed?” 

“See, if I let an attack like this slide without bloody retribution, they or others will soon attack me again. I’ll be seen as risk-free prey. The street is watching, as the saying goes.” 

“No killings,” pronounced Elena. 

“Exactly,” I agreed. “You do it once, and there’s no going back. Every time I look in the mirror, I’ll be seeing a criminal. I hate those bastards, and I’m not about to become one now.” 

Maria said, “What about the Russian police?” 

“The police won’t touch the KGB,” replied Eugene before I could. “In fact, the KGB won’t touch the KGB.” 

For a few more minutes, we picked at the barbeque in silence. Then Elena said, “Today, you weren’t supposed to walk away, Alex. You got lucky. I’m not sure that you’ll be so lucky next time.” 

“You’re right, sweetheart. So, the next stop is the States. I’ll sell my companies. Khodorkovsky or someone else will grab them. Even with a fire sale, we’ll still be set for life. And then, hopefully, we’ll start something even more successful in America or Canada or Europe. We’re lucky. We have plenty of options.” 

I did not feel very lucky, though. The KGB was forcing us to leave Russia, possibly forever. The irony was that they and the Communists weren’t even in power. We supposedly were. 

Border Crossing 

Less than eighty minutes later, we were nearing the Czech border. Eugene said, “I hope they haven’t put a border alert out yet, or your American plans are screwed.” 

I knew we were taking a risk by showing up here, but I figured it would be difficult for the kidnappers to put out a national alert so quickly. That would have required the time to fabricate a pretext and negotiate bribes. 

Most importantly, the kidnappers thought they had seized our only passports, so sealing the borders probably wasn’t their top priority. 

My pulse raced as we pulled up to the gate, but we crossed without a hitch. The officer saw no reason to question four well dressed people in an expensive car. He respectfully reviewed Elena’s and my passports – the type normally carried by government VIPs – and waived us through with “Welcome to Slovakia!” 

Half an hour later, we were at the airport – which, to our exasperation was closed. Through the glass walls of the terminal, we saw that a flight to New York would be leaving at nine the next morning, so we drove to Bratislava to wait out the night. 

We wound up at a hotel bar. The four of us sat in the candle-lit atmosphere, drinking in silence. 

By this time, the adrenalin had worn off, and I was beginning to feel how tired yet wired I really was. It would take four shots of Cognac before the tension gave way to warmth and relaxation. Unfortunately, the tiredness lingered. 

Elena and I kept wondering what was going to happen, now that our lives had been turned upside down. Still, we didn’t forget to thank Eugene and Maria for saving us. 

“No problem,” my friend responded. “Any decent man would have done the same.” 

With nowhere else to go, we sat at the bar until closing time at 4:00 AM. Then we strolled through the old section of the Slovak capital. Two hours later, we found a café which had just started to serve breakfast. After our sleepless night, we all felt we could use some caffeine. 

Following our liquid breakfast, we drove back to the airport. I paid for the tickets with cash; then we went up to the registration desk. 

“Luggage?” asked the clerk. 

“None,” I replied. Then, realizing how suspicious we’d look flying over the Atlantic empty-handed, I lied, “We have our carry-on bags in the car, though.” 

The clerk handed over our boarding passes. 

“I hope the KGB isn’t checking the passenger lists,” said Eugene after Elena and I checked in. “They probably can force the plane down, anywhere in Eastern Bloc airspace. The KGB used to control these countries, you know.”


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Empire Stolen