As soon as I got off my deportation flight from Moscow, I began making calls to try to figure out what had gone wrong. Elena, who was eight months pregnant, tried helping me in any way she could. I’d spent the previous ten years painstakingly building my business brick by brick, forgoing a social life, obsessing about every move in the stock market, treating weekends like workdays, all to create a $4.5 billion investment-advisory business. I couldn’t let the cancellation of my visa destroy it in one fell swoop.
My first call was to a well-connected immigration lawyer in London. He listened to my story and was intrigued. He’d just heard that another British citizen, Bill Bowring, a human rights lawyer, had been denied entry to Russia on the day after me and suspected that my expulsion was a case of mistaken identity. I thought that was pretty far-fetched, but this was Russia we were dealing with.
My next call was to HSBC, my business partner after Edmond had sold the bank. As an enormous bureaucratic bank, it’d been wholly uninspiring when it came to moneymaking, but it was world-class when it came to dealing with the British establishment.
I first spoke to the CEO of HSBC’s private bank, Clive Bannister. Within fifteen minutes he connected me to Sir Roderic Lyne, a former British ambassador to Russia who was on retainer to HSBC for issues like these. Sir Roderic promised to help me navigate the departmental maze of the British government. Fifteen minutes after speaking to him, I had an appointment with Simon Smith, head of the Russia Directorate of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, Britain’s version of the State Department.
A couple of days later I made my way to the Foreign Office building in London, an ornate and imposing neoclassical building on King Charles Street, just down the road from No. 10 Downing Street. After announcing myself at the reception area, I was escorted across a big courtyard to the main entrance. Inside were vaulted ceilings, marble columns, and Victorian imperial details. The place had been designed at the height of the British Empire to intimidate and awe visitors, and although I had met with many corporate CEOs, politicians, and billionaires, it had that same effect on me.
Simon Smith arrived a few minutes later. He was about five years older than me with thick, graying hair and wireless glasses that framed a ruddy face. “Hello, Mr. Browder. So glad you could make it,” he said jovially with an educated British accent. We sat and he poured tea from a blue-and-white china pot for each of us. As the smell of Ceylon tea filled the room, Smith said, “So, it sounds as if you’ve got yourself into a bit of trouble with our friends in Moscow.”
“Yes, it seems that way.”
“Well, actually, you’ll be happy to know that we’re already on the case,” he said professionally. “Our minister for Europe is in Moscow right now. He’s planning to raise your case tomorrow with Putin’s foreign policy adviser, Sergei Prikhodko.”
That sounded reassuring. “Wonderful. When do you think we might know something from that meeting?”
Smith shrugged. “Soon, I hope.” Then he leaned in and held his cup with both hands. “Bill, there’s one important thing here, though.”
“Yes?”
“I watched your shareholders’ rights campaigns with great admiration when I was at the embassy in Moscow, and I know how successfully you used the press to advance your causes. But in this situation you absolutely must keep this away from the press. If this story is given a public airing, we won’t be able to help you. The Russians will dig in their heels and your issue will never be resolved. Russians always need a way to save face.”
I put down my tea and tried not to show my discomfort. Following this advice would be a totally unnatural thing for me to do. But here I was facing the biggest problem in my professional career, with the British government ready to weigh in on my behalf. I understood that I had to honor Smith’s request, so I agreed and we wrapped up the meeting.
The next afternoon, Smith called with an update. “Prikhodko said he has no idea why you were deported, but promised to look into it.” Smith said this as if he were delivering good news. I thought it was pretty unlikely that Putin’s top foreign policy adviser would be unaware of the expulsion of the largest foreign investor in Russia.
“And Bill,” Smith continued, “we’ve decided to get our ambassador in Moscow, Tony Brenton, involved. He’d like to speak with you as soon as possible.”
The next day I called Ambassador Brenton. I started to tell him my story, but after a few seconds he cut me off. “No need to carry on, Bill. I know all about you and Hermitage. I think the Russians are being quite stupid in alienating an important investor like you.”
“I’m hoping it’s a mistake.”
“Me too. I have to say, I’m reasonably optimistic this visa situation will be resolved once I speak to the right people. Sit tight. You’re in good hands.”
I couldn’t help but feel that I had indeed landed in good hands. I liked Ambassador Brenton. Like Smith, he sounded genuine in wanting to solve this problem. I didn’t know if losing my visa was a case of mistaken identity, or if one of the targets from my anti-corruption campaigns was exacting revenge, but I felt that with the British government on my side, I would ultimately prevail.
The first thing Ambassador Brenton did was to send a request to the Russian Foreign Ministry asking for a formal explanation. If my visa cancellation was indeed due to a mix-up of names, this would become apparent immediately.
A week later, Ambassador Brenton’s secretary called to say that they’d received a reply from the Foreign Ministry. She faxed me a copy. As soon as it came off the machine, I handed it to Elena to translate.
She cleared her throat and read, “We have the honor to inform you that the decision to close entry to the Russian Federation to a subject of Great Britain William Browder has been made by competent authorities in accordance with section one, article twenty-seven, of the federal law.”
“What’s article twenty-seven of the federal law?”
Elena shrugged. “I have no idea.”
I called Vadim, who was in Moscow, and asked him.
“Hold on a sec.” I heard him type something into his computer. After about a minute, he came back on the line. “Bill, article twenty-seven allows the Russian government to ban people who they deem a threat to national security.”
“What?”
“A threat to national security,” Vadim repeated.
“Shit,” I said quietly. “This is not good.”
“No. It’s not.”
With that one letter I understood that my visa denial definitely wasn’t a mix-up of names. I hadn’t been confused with Bill Bowring at all. Someone serious wanted me banned from Russia.