Red notice

27. DHL

In my opinion, Vladimir Putin had authorized my expulsion from Russia, and he probably approved the attempts to steal our assets, but I found it inconceivable that he would allow state officials to steal $230 million from his own government. I was convinced that as soon as we shared the evidence of these crimes with the Russian authorities, then the good guys would get the bad guys and that would be the end of the story. In spite of all that had happened, I still believed that there were some good guys left in Russia. So on July 23, 2008, we started filing detailed complaints about the tax rebate fraud, sending them to every law enforcement and regulatory agency in Russia.

We also gave the story to the New York Times and to Russia’s most prominent independent news outlet, Vedomosti. The articles were explosive, and the story quickly got picked up widely, both in Russia and internationally.

Several days after the story broke, I was invited by Echo Moscow, Russia’s leading independent radio station, to give a forty-five-minute phone interview. I accepted and, in a live broadcast on July 29, methodically went through the whole ordeal: the raids, the theft of our companies, the false court judgments, the involvement of ex-convicts, the police complicity, and most importantly, the theft of $230 million of taxpayer money. The interviewer, Matvei Ganapolsky, a veteran reporter who had years of experience with Russian venality and corruption, was noticeably shocked. When I had finished, he said, «If our broadcast hasn’t been switched off, then tomorrow some arrests must be carried out».

I thought so too — except nothing was done. The hours passed into days, and there was nothing. The days passed into weeks, and there was still nothing. It was hard to believe that such a huge story about the theft of government money would elicit no response.

But then there was a response — just not the one I was expecting. On August 21, 2008, during an unusually still and hot summer day in London, the phone in my office started to ring. First it was Sergei, calling from Firestone Duncan; then it was Vladimir Pastukhov, calling from his home office; then it was Eduard, calling from his dacha just outside Moscow. Each of our lawyers had the same message: a team from the Russian Interior Ministry was raiding his office.

Eduard’s message was the most disturbing. While he wasn’t at his office, a DHL package arrived at 4:56 p.m. Thirty minutes later, a large group of police officers showed up to his workplace to conduct a search. No sooner had they started their search than they «found» the DHL package and seized it. As soon as they had it in their possession, they concluded their raid and left.

Obviously, the whole episode was constructed around the arrival of this mysterious package. Thankfully, Eduard’s secretary had had the foresight to make a copy of the waybill and faxed it to us. We were shocked when we logged on to the DHL website, entered the waybill number, and got the return address for the package: Grafton House, 2–3 Golden Square, London W1F 9HR.

Our address in London.

Of course, it hadn’t actually been sent from our office. The waybill, though, showed it had been sent from a DHL depot in south London, so we immediately contacted London’s Metropolitan Police and explained the story. Later that day, Detective Sergeant Richard Norten, a young officer in a leather jacket and aviator sunglasses, strutted into our offices.

I introduced myself and asked whether he had had any luck figuring out who’d sent the parcel.

He shrugged and slid a DVD out of his jacket. «No, but I’ve got the CCTV from the Lambeth DHL», he said. «Maybe you can identify them».

I indicated my desk. Vadim, Ivan, and I gathered in front of it as Norten loaded the disc into my computer. He grabbed the mouse, opened the file, and fast-forwarded through low-resolution video footage of people coming and going at DHL’s shipping desk. Then he let it play. «Here it is».

We watched as two East European — looking men arrived at DHL. One carried a plastic bag emblazoned with the logo of a retail store in Kazan, Tatarstan. The bag was full of papers. The man stuffed these documents into a DHL box and closed it, while the other man filled out the waybill and paid in cash to have it shipped to Eduard’s office. When they were done, they turned their backs on the camera and walked out of frame.

When it was finished, Norten asked, «Do you recognize either of them?»

I looked at Ivan and Vadim. They shook their heads. «No», I answered. «We don’t».

«Well, if you give me the names of the people who are making problems for you in Russia, I can cross-reference them with flight manifests out of Heathrow and Gatwick for the past week to see if anything comes up».

I wasn’t particularly hopeful, but we gave him a list of names and he left.

I didn’t have time to dwell on DHL, though, because the Russian authorities were moving quickly. In addition to raiding our lawyers’ offices, they also summoned Vladimir and Eduard to appear at the Kazan Interior Ministry’s headquarters three days later on a Saturday for questioning.

Not only was this summons illegal — lawyers cannot be compelled to give evidence about their clients — it was ominous. Kazan’s police force had the reputation of being one of the most medieval and corrupt in Russia. They made the prison in Midnight Express look like a Holiday Inn. The men who worked there were notorious for torturing detainees, including sodomizing them with champagne bottles, to extract confessions. Moreover, by inviting Eduard and Vladimir on a Saturday, they would be off the grid until the following Monday, and during that time the Kazan Interior Ministry could do anything it wanted, more or less in the dark.

I was absolutely terrified. This was a whole new level of escalation. I’d taken Ivan, Vadim, and other Hermitage people out of Russia to prevent exactly this kind of thing from happening, but never in my worst nightmares had I imagined that my lawyers could be targets.

Because of Vladimir’s frail health, I was especially concerned about him being taken into custody. I called him right away. «I’m worried about you, Vladimir», I said anxiously.

But Vladimir was strangely unconcerned. He approached this situation as if it were an academic problem, one that he could examine and analyze, not one that was actually happening to him. «Don’t worry, Bill. I’m protected as a barrister. They can’t summon me for questioning. I’ve spoken to the Moscow bar association, and they will reply on my behalf. I won’t go anywhere near Kazan».

«Let’s assume for a second that you’re wrong and they take you anyway. You wouldn’t survive a week in jail given the state of your health».

«But Bill, it’s just too outrageous. They can’t start going after lawyers».

I was unmoved. «Listen, Vladimir. You were the one who convinced Vadim to evacuate in the middle of the night a couple of years ago — now it’s your turn. At least come to London so we can talk about it in person».

He paused for a moment. «Let me think about it».

Vadim had a similar conversation with Eduard, who also didn’t intend to leave. Both lawyers knew that these summonses were illegal and that they had strong grounds to reject them, so neither showed up for questioning.

Saturday came and went, and nothing happened. Same for Sunday. On Monday morning, I called Vladimir. «O'kay, you survived the weekend and you’ve thought about it — when are you coming to London?»

«I don’t know if I am. Everybody has told me the same thing. If I leave Russia, it would be the worst thing I could possibly do. It would appear as though I was guilty of something. Moreover, my life is here. All my clients are here. I can’t just get up and leave, Bill».

I understood his reluctance, but I felt that the danger for him in staying was reaching a critical level. The people behind this were criminals, and they acted as if they had full control of the police. «But Vladimir, if they frame you, it doesn’t matter whether you’re innocent or guilty. You’ve got to get out of there. If not permanently, then at least until this all stops. It’s crazy for you to stay!»

Despite my logic, he was resolute about staying — until he called me that Wednesday, sounding much less confident. «Bill, I’ve just received a new summons from Kazan».

«And?»

«I called the investigator who signed it and told him it was illegal. He responded that if I didn’t show up, they would bring me in forcibly. I tried to talk to him about my health, but he wouldn’t listen. He was talking like a gangster, not a police officer!»

«Now will you—"

«That’s not even the worst of it, Bill. From all this stress, I had a problem with my eye last night. It’s like a fireball in my head. I need to see my specialist as soon as possible, but he’s in Italy».

«So go to Italy, then».

«I will as soon as I’m well enough to fly».

Later that day we found out that Eduard had also received a second summons. He thought that the Moscow bar association could deflect it, but there was nothing they could do either.

Since Eduard had been an investigator and a judge in his past life, he thought he might be able to use his network to find out who was behind these attacks, but nobody knew the answer.

One by one they said, «Until you can figure it out, you’d better disappear, Eduard».

For the first time in his life, Eduard was out of his comfort zone. He was the kind of person whom everyone went to for help, not the other way around. Since 1992, Eduard had been a criminal defense lawyer, representing a wide array of clients, and he had one of the most successful track records of any lawyer in Russia. Yet while he knew how to work the legal system, he didn’t know how to disappear. Luckily, Eduard had many former clients who did, and when they heard of his troubles, several offered to help.

On Thursday, August 28, 2008 — two days before he was due to appear in Kazan — Eduard called Vadim. «You may not hear from me for a while. If that happens, don’t worry. I’ll be all right». Vadim asked him what he meant, but Eduard interrupted him and said, «I have to go». He hung up.

After that call, Eduard removed the battery from his mobile phone and went to his apartment near Vorobyovy Hills in southern Moscow. He knew that he’d been under surveillance for several weeks. The people following him hadn’t even bothered to hide it. A car was sitting outside his building night after night, with two men constantly watching his apartment. This was ominous because he didn’t know whether they were the Russian Mafia or the police. Either way, he didn’t want to find out.

After eating a quick dinner that evening, Eduard and his wife headed out for their regular evening stroll. The surveillance team didn’t follow them because Eduard and his wife went on this walk every night, and they always came back.

They walked slowly along the wide street for about half a mile holding hands, but instead of turning back where they normally would, Eduard pulled his wife by the hand and they quickly crossed the street. There, waiting for him, was a large black Audi A8 sedan with tinted windows. Eduard’s wife knew things had been getting bad for her husband, but she was totally unaware of his plan. He turned to her, took her by the hand, and said quickly, «Now’s the time».

Tonight was the night he would disappear.

She took him by the shoulders and leaned in to give him a kiss. Neither of them knew when they would see each other again. When their kiss ended, Eduard jumped into the backseat of the sedan, lay down, and the car was off.

His wife went back across the street, pushed her hands into her pockets, and walked home alone, blinking the tears from her eyes. She didn’t notice when the surveillance team perked up. But perk up they did. It took them a few hours to process what had happened, but around midnight three people showed up at the apartment asking for Eduard.

But his wife had no idea where he was, and that was exactly what she told them.

If Eduard, with all his connections and knowledge of criminal law, had decided to go into hiding, then there was no question that Vladimir, an academic with severe disabilities, had to leave Russia right away.

I called Vladimir immediately, annoyed that he was still in Moscow. «Vladimir, Eduard is gone. When are you leaving?»

«Bill, I’m sorry, I’m still not well enough to travel. But your points are well taken». I didn’t know exactly what he meant and he refused to elaborate, but it sounded as if he was going to leave.

I certainly hoped so. I was pretty sure that when he and Eduard didn’t show up in Kazan on Saturday for their second summons, the corrupt cops would issue arrest warrants for both of them.

What Vladimir couldn’t tell me was that he was assessing his options for getting out of Russia. The most attractive ones involved a land- or sea-based border crossing. The Russian border service was so antiquated that many of the remote crossings didn’t have up-to-date technology for detecting fugitives. These posts were generally staffed with the rejects of the border service. Laziness and drunkenness were practically requirements for these positions, and they routinely let people slip by who were on the wanted list. Using these criteria, the two best crossings were the Nekhoteevka crossing into Ukraine and the ferry from Sochi to Istanbul. Unfortunately for Vladimir, the car journey to either of these far-flung places could easily push his eye problems over the edge. Roads in Russia are notoriously bad, with huge potholes and unpaved sections, and a bumpy trip could make Vladimir, suffering from problems with his retina, permanently blind.

After rejecting these options, Vladimir spotted the one opportunity that had any chance of working. The Russian summer holiday was ending on Sunday, August 31. Hordes of people would be entering and leaving the country. In that chaos, Vladimir hoped that the border service might not be able to check all the passports properly. It was a long shot, and any able-bodied person would have rejected it outright, but Vladimir didn’t have that luxury.

Saturday, August 30, came — the day that Vladimir and Eduard were due for questioning in Kazan — and I sat on the edge of my seat waiting for a call from Vladimir’s wife saying they had come to arrest him. But I got no calls from Russia. I was tempted to call early on Sunday morning, but I didn’t want to alert anyone who might be listening to Vladimir’s phone that he was still there.

That day, Vladimir, his wife, and his son booked an Alitalia flight for 11:00 p.m. from Sheremetyevo Airport to Milan. They left their home at 4:40 p.m. with simple carry-on bags. Unlike with Eduard, no shady characters were watching him. The family took a taxi to the airport, but because of the end-of-summer traffic, it took two and a half hours to get there. They arrived at Sheremetyevo at seven in the evening and took their place in the check-in line. The airport was absolute chaos. People were everywhere, nobody was queuing properly, and large suitcases blocked most of the hallways. Tempers flared as whole groups of people fretted over the possibility of missing their flights.

This was just the scenario Vladimir had been hoping for. Check-in took over an hour. Then came security. Another hour just to get through the screening area. It was already 10:00 p.m. when Vladimir and his family stood in the passport control line. This was just as congested as the previous lines: people crowded in front of one another, jockeying for position and arguing for the right to be next.

As Vladimir and his family approached the front of the line, the gravity of the situation hit him hard. If this didn’t work, he was likely to be arrested. And if he was arrested, he would likely die in prison. It wasn’t overly dramatic to conclude that, for Vladimir, this normally mundane border crossing was a matter of life and death.

With less than forty minutes until their flight took off, Vladimir and his family crossed the red line on the floor and stepped up to the border guard’s booth. The agent was a young man with red cheeks, bright eyes, and a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

«Papers», he said in Russian without looking up from his computer terminal.

Vladimir dug into his travel wallet for his family’s passports and boarding passes. «Crazy night here at the airport», he said, trying to sound casual.

The border guard grunted something incomprehensible. He looked at Vladimir with a frown, waiting for the documents.

«Here you are». Vladimir handed everything over.

This was probably the five hundredth set of documents the border guard had seen that day. Normally, Russian immigration officers are fastidious about processing every passport. They type the details into the computer, wait for a result, then stamp the passport. But if they’d applied that level of attention on this day, there would have been twelve-hour delays and half the passengers would have missed their flights.

Without going through any of these normal steps, the guard took up his stamp, leafed through each passport, and stamped the pages with his exit stamp in red ink. He then handed everything back to Vladimir. «Next!» he shouted.

Vladimir looped his hand through his son’s arm, and together the three of them hustled away. They reached the plane with only fifteen minutes to spare. They boarded, strapped in, and said prayers of thanks. The plane pulled away and took off, and within hours they were in Italy.

He called me as soon as he landed, late that night. «Bill — we’re in Milan!» he exclaimed.

Vladimir was safe, and I couldn’t have been more relieved.