The Cellist by Daniel Silva

24Upper Galilee, Israel

But first, said Sergei Morosov, the oligarchs had to be brought to heel. Khodorkovsky, owner of the energy behemoth Yukos, was the richest. But Gusinsky, by dint of his Media-Most broadcast empire, was perhaps the most influential. Police raided his offices in downtown Moscow just four days after the inauguration. Khodorkovsky survived three years before tasting the Kremlin’s wrath. Dragged off his private jet during a refueling stop in Siberia, he would spend the next decade in prison, much of it in a labor camp near the Chinese border, where he passed his days making mittens and his nights in solitary confinement.

“Viktor got off easy by comparison. A luxury townhouse in Cheyne Walk, an estate in Somerset, a villa by the sea in Antibes. One wonders why he would risk it all by getting involved with a traitor like Grigori Bulganov.” Sergei Morosov paused. “Or with you, Allon.”

“Viktor believed Russia could be a democracy.”

“Do you subscribe to this fantasy as well?”

“I was cautiously pessimistic.”

“Russia will never be a democracy again, Allon. We cannot live as normal people.”

“A very wise woman once told me the same thing.”

“Really? Who?”

“Go on, Sergei.”

Once the original oligarchs had been put in their place, he said, the looting began—a wild orgy of self-dealing, kickback schemes, siphoning, embezzlement, protection rackets, tax fraud, and outright theft that enriched the men around the new president. They saw themselves as a new Russian nobility. They erected palaces, commissioned coats of arms, and traveled the country by a network of private roads. Most became billionaires many times over, but none was richer than Arkady Akimov. His oil trading firm, NevaNeft, was Russia’s largest. So was his commercial construction company, which was awarded endless government projects, always with bloated contracts.

“Such as?”

“The presidential palace on the Black Sea. It started out as a modest villa, about a thousand square meters. But by the time Volodya and Arkady were finished, the price tag was more than a billion dollars.”

That was pocket change, Morosov continued, when compared to the money Arkady earned from the Olympic Games in Sochi. The cost to the Russian taxpayer for the extravaganza on the shores of the Black Sea was more than $50 billion, nearly five times the original estimate. Arkady’s construction firm was awarded the largest slice of the pie, a forty-eight-kilometer highway and rail line running from the Olympic Park to the ski venues in the mountains. The contract was worth $9.4 billion.

“It was one of the greatest grifts in history. The Americans sent a probe to Mars for a fraction of that. Arkady could have paved the road in gold for less.”

“How much do you suppose Vladimir Vladimirovich let him keep for himself?”

“You know the old Russian proverb, Allon. What’s mine is mine, and what’s yours is mine.”

“Translation?”

“Volodya effectively controls the entire Russian economy. It’s all his. He’s the one who chooses the winners and losers. And the winners remain winners only if he allows it.”

“He takes a cut of everything?”

Morosov nodded. “Everything.”

“Is he the richest man in the world?”

“Second, I’d say.”

“How much is there?”

“North of a hundred billion, but south of two.”

“How far south?”

“Not much.”

“Is any of it in his name?”

“He might have a billion or two stashed away in MosBank under his real name, but the rest of the money is held by trusted members of his inner circle like Arkady. He’s doing quite well for himself, is Arkady. NevaNeft is now the third-largest oil trading firm in the world. He owns a fleet of oil tankers, and he’s invested billions in pipelines, refineries, storage facilities, and terminals in Western Europe. About five years ago he moved his business to Geneva and established a Swiss-registered company called NevaNeft Trading SA. There’s also NevaNeft Holdings SA, which includes the rest of his empire.”

“Why Geneva?”

“It recently replaced London as the oil trading capital of the world. All the big Russian firms have offices there. It’s also located conveniently close to Zurich.”

“Home of the Russian Laundromat.”

Morosov nodded. “Arkady is a valued customer. RhineBank earns hundreds of millions of dollars a year in fees from laundering his money. As you might expect, they don’t ask many questions.”

“And if they did?”

“They would discover they are helping Arkady and his childhood friend from Baskov Lane achieve their most important goal.”

“What’s that?”

“Revenge.”

It was Arkady who chose the name of the unit hiding in plain sight within NevaNeft Holdings. He wanted something punchy and memorable, something that paid homage to the musical career denied to him by the rector of the Leningrad Conservatory. Like all young Russian pianists, he had studied the masterworks of Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff, whom he revered. But he had also memorized several sonatas written by the Austrian composer regarded as the father of both the string quartet and the modern symphony. He ran it by Vladimir Vladimirovich, who granted his approval. Two weeks later, after Arkady’s lawyers filed the necessary paperwork with the Swiss Commercial Registry, the Haydn Group SA was born.

“What sort of work does it do?”

“On paper? Market research and management consulting.”

“And in reality?”

“Propaganda, political warfare, disinformation, subversion, influence operations, the occasional assassination of pro-democracy advocates and exiled Russian billionaires.”

“Active measures.”

Sergei Morosov nodded in agreement. “All designed to undermine the West from within.”

“I thought the SVR and GRU were already doing a fine job of that.”

“They are,” said Morosov. “But the Haydn Group provides an additional layer of plausible deniability because it’s a private business operating outside Russia. It’s quite small, about twenty employees. They’re all former intelligence officers, the best of the best, and very well paid.”

“How much operational latitude does Arkady have?”

“For all intents and purposes, he’s the director of an elite intelligence service. But he gets Volodya’s approval for the big stuff.”

“Like killing Viktor Orlov?”

“Sure.”

“And the run-of-the-mill stuff?”

Much of it, said Morosov, involved covertly funneling money to political and social movements that were either pro-Kremlin or anti-establishment, especially those movements on the far right that were opposed to immigration and the economic integration of Europe. The Haydn Group had also created a chain of phantom think tanks and online public policy journals that presented the Kremlin’s point of view in a favorable light and questioned the effectiveness of Western democracy and liberalism.

But the unit’s most effective financial tool, said Morosov, was the promise of Russian riches. Politicians, lawyers, bankers, businessmen, even senior intelligence officers: all were targeted for corruption with Russian money. Most accepted it without reservation. And once they had taken the initial bait—the contribution, the bribe, the no-lose business opportunity—there was no wriggling off the hook. They were wholly owned assets of Kremlin Inc.

“Have you ever wondered why so many members of the British and French aristocracy are suddenly pro-Russian? It’s because Arkady is buying them off one lord, duke, earl, viscount, and marquis at a time. Money is Russia’s greatest weapon, Allon. A nuclear bomb can only be dropped once. But money can be wielded every day with no fallout and no threat of mutually assured destruction. Russian money is rotting the institutional integrity of the West from within. And Arkady Akimov is the one writing the checks.”

“You seem to have a rather firm grasp of the Haydn Group’s activities, Sergei.”

“Arkady and I were comrades from the bad old days in Berlin. He’s also quite rich, not to mention a close friend of the boss of bosses. I made a point of staying on his good side.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“A couple of months before you abducted me. We met at NevaNeft headquarters in Geneva. Arkady owns the building on the western side of the Place du Port. His office is on the top floor.”

“And the Haydn Group?”

“They’re one floor down, the sixth. Everything is state of the art. Biometric locks, soundproof glass, secure phones. And computers,” said Morosov. “Lots and lots of computers.”

“What are they using them for?”

“What do you think?”

“I think the Haydn Group is running a troll factory in the middle of Geneva.”

“A very good one,” said Morosov.

“Do you think Arkady is trying to influence the outcome of the American election?”

“I’ve been out of circulation for some time, Allon.”

“And if you were to hazard a guess?”

“Needless to say, the Kremlin would like the incumbent to remain in office. Therefore, it stands to reason that Arkady and the Haydn Group are putting their thumb on the scale. But they’re far more interested in helping the Americans destroy themselves. They spend most of their time sowing discord and rancor on social media and other Internet forums, including message boards used by racists and other extremists. Arkady told me that one of his operatives had managed to inspire several acts of political violence.”

“How?”

“By anonymously whispering into the ear of someone who’s on the edge. Have you been watching the news from America lately? They’re not so hard to find.”

Morosov drained another glass of vodka with a snap of his wrist.

“If you keep drinking that stuff, your liver is going to turn to concrete.”

“It’s not as if I have much else to do.”

Gabriel took up the dossier and rose. “Is there anything else you forgot to tell me, Sergei?”

“Just one thing.”

“I’m listening.”

“If Arkady can get to Viktor Orlov, he can get to you, too.”