Fall 1999,
The Kremlin
BEREZOVSKY FELT HIS OWN heart dance to the staccato rhythm of Tatiana Yeltsin’s heels against the polished marble of the floors as he followed her down the impossibly long hallway. He couldn’t help but revel in the lowered eyes of the various pedestrian officials, security guards, and even members of the State Duma as they passed. Even at his normally frantic pace, he was struggling to keep up with the young woman. She knew this place better than anyone—hell, she had essentially grown up in the Kremlin—and obviously she had long ago filed away her route through the awe-inspiring surroundings that still tugged at Berezovsky’s senses, threatening to muddle the important thoughts he was trying to organize inside his head. It wasn’t merely the décor—the glittering crystal chandeliers above, the gilded ornamentation on the walls, the lavish, bloodred carpeting that covered sections of the marble floor, the doors they passed, so baroquely ornate, leading to historic chambers and famous ballrooms. Nor was it even the idea of the place, the fact that it was surrounded by walls in some places ten feet thick, bricked in red, a triangular fortress at the very heart of the city of Moscow—at the very heart of his beloved Russia. In some ways it was the very air itself, loaded with the taste of power. Stalin, Lenin, Gorbachev had breathed this same air, felt this same marble beneath their feet.
Of course, the daughter of the president and the Oligarch who had helped keep the man in power were far from wide-eyed tourists. The Kremlin was no museum to either of them. But Berezovsky couldn’t shake the feeling that every step he took toward the interior of this seat of Russian power was like a pen stroke.
He had been to the Kremlin many times before; in fact, he had often conducted business in various outposts throughout the complex, in empty offices, anterooms, even hallways. He tried to find every excuse he could to conduct his trade beneath these crystal chandeliers. As often as he could, he made his important phone calls from this place, simply to better impress whoever was on the other end of the line. He had long ago learned that the best way to end a meeting, no matter where it took place, was to pretend to take a call from the Kremlin.
But in this instance, he hadn’t joined Tatiana at the Kremlin for trumped-up reasons or to impress anyone. Just as in 1996, when he and his financier colleagues had faced an existential dilemma—the possibility of the Russian government falling back into Communist hands—they were once again at a crossroads.
In 1996, Berezovsky had been able to call together the Oligarchs, who were able to work together to essentially buy themselves a government. With Tatiana’s help, they had been able to steer Yeltsin’s inner circle away from the threats of Korzhakov and his hard-liners—saving the democracy, keeping Yeltsin in place.
But this time around, no amount of money or maneuvering was going to give Yeltsin another term in the Kremlin. The constitutional term limits were clear, and his time at the helm was over. And even if they managed to construct a new constitution—something that had certainly been considered, but ruled out—the man simply wasn’t strong enough or healthy enough to remain in power.
Just as in 1996, it was a dangerous moment for Russia and for Berezovsky, personally. He knew exactly how quickly things could change; and he also knew there were real limitations to his own power. Litvinenko’s imprisonment was a clear indication of how even the smallest miscalculation on his part could lead to disaster.
Berezovsky blamed himself for the debacle with the young agent. Litvinenko’s willingness to go public with his accusations against the FSB had saved Berezovsky from being a target for assassination, but it had also goaded the young new head of the FSB into making a show of force. Putin obviously saw Litvinenko as a traitor to the agency, his actions a betrayal to their code. Even so, firing the whistle-blower should have been enough. Having him arrested, sent to prison, and then rearrested after he served eight months, much of it in solitary confinement, seemed extreme. The dramatic scene—men in masks with submachine guns dragging him right out of the courtroom—was something directly out of the old KGB playbook.
Thankfully, Berezovsky had been able to sort out the situation, personally appealing to Vladimir Putin on Litvinenko’s behalf. After a little back-and-forth, the agency had reluctantly released Litvinenko—though they had confiscated his passport and demanded that he remain in Moscow. Perhaps they really didn’t know about the second set of identifications that he’d used in his days as an agent working undercover in Chechnya—or maybe they thought a warning would be enough to scare him into staying put. In any event, there was no doubt in Berezovsky’s mind that Litvinenko couldn’t remain in Russia any longer. The Oligarch had already begun making financial arrangements to help the young agent when he eventually resurfaced overseas, most likely in the UK, a country that went to considerable lengths to keep exiled asylum seekers safe.
But Berezovsky also felt that the dramatic episode had had a rather interesting silver lining. Advocating for the young agent had put Berezovsky in repeated contact with Vladimir Putin, and he had used the exchanges as an excuse to begin socializing with the FSB head. Over the days since Litvinenko’s release, Berezovsky and Putin had become close. They had traveled together, dined together, and Putin had even been one of the many guests at Berezovsky’s most recent birthday party, a lavish affair at the Logovaz Club.
Berezovsky found Putin surprisingly bright, even though he said little. He was conservative, to a fault, and held some level of fascination and nostalgia for the strong institutions of the old world—but he was also a true believer in the current democratic state, and the capitalistic forces that had opened up Russia since Yeltsin had taken power. Berezovsky found himself quite entranced by Putin, as he had become with Roman Abramovich, and had genuinely begun to consider him a friend. Even so, in political terms, he would most likely have still described the man as a useful cog, someone who could be trusted to behave loyally and without guile.
Still, Berezovsky had been somewhat surprised by his first inklings that the Family—most notably Tatiana, and through her, the president himself—had taken a real interest in Vladimir Putin, had even begun to consider him a potential heir to the Kremlin. His surprise had initially led him to resist the idea—not simply because of the Litvinenko affair, which was upsetting but, ultimately, something he could understand—but because he could think of other candidates who would be more malleable and perhaps more electable. But when he had sensed the wind behind Putin blowing stronger, the resolve of the Family growing, he realized that it would be in his own interests to get involved in the succession plan early. If he wanted to remain an important player in the next government, he needed to take a leading role in the efforts to plan and strategize Putin’s ascension to the Kremlin. The election of 2000 needed to end, in many ways, as it had in 1996—with a debt owed to Boris Berezovsky.
Settling on one agreed-upon candidate was an important start. The revolving door of prime ministers that Yeltsin had subjected the country to had led to numerous dangerous moments for Berezovsky personally. In fact, one of the prime ministers, Yevgeny Primokov, also a former head of the intelligence division of the KGB, had taken direct aim at the Oligarch himself, along with his attorney general, Yuri Skuratov, perhaps because they believed Berezovsky wielded too much influence on Yeltsin’s inner circle. Skuratov had initialized an investigation into Berezovsky’s finances, eventually authorizing raids on Berezovsky’s office—accusing him of stealing from Aeroflot and smuggling profits earned from the airline out of the country. When the masked federal agents had shown up, looking for incriminating documents, Berezovsky had been forced momentarily to flee to one of his châteaus in France. But he had quickly struck back—and in a particularly modern fashion. He had instructed ORT to air a video of a naked man—“a man who appeared to be Yuri Skuratov”—in bed with a pair of prostitutes. Shortly after the video aired, Skuratov was sacked—along with his prime minister. Berezovsky had returned to Moscow in triumph—and then had used the momentum of the incident to get himself elected to the State Duma—an act which essentially made him immune to further criminal prosecution.
Berezovsky himself did not eventually appoint Putin to the post of prime minister—but it was Berezovsky who had begun generating a fairly large bankroll, putting in place the means for the upcoming presidential campaign. He once again called on his colleagues, rivals, and especially the people he considered under his patronage—most notably Roman Abramovich, whose oil and aluminum interests generated the sort of cash flow necessary to elect yet another president.
But even with a considerable war chest, Putin was going to be a hard sell. Yeltsin’s opponents had raised an interesting candidate in Yuri Luzhkov, the mayor of Moscow, who also happened to be Gusinsky’s supporter and krysha. This meant that Berezovsky’s main rival—and the owner of both NTV and Most Bank—was now firmly on the wrong side of the campaign. And further bad news: Luzhkov had a large following, and more important, he was the head of the popular All-Russia Party, which meant he would be guaranteed a large number—if not a definite majority—of votes.
As forward-thinking as Yeltsin’s government had been—liberating the economy from the state through privatization and building a democracy—the one thing they had not constructed was an official party.
And that was exactly where Berezovsky had stepped in—and why Tatiana had summoned him behind the redbrick walls of the Kremlin. When Berezovsky had first presented her with his idea—really a stroke of brilliance—she had thought he was making a joke. But, as he laid the framework out for her, she began to realize that it really was an excellent strategy to build a base for Yeltsin’s replacement, even before the campaign cycle began.
“The Unity Party,” she mused, as she continued barreling down the long hallway. “It certainly has a nice ring to it.”
Badri and Berezovsky had kicked the name around for quite some time, before it had stuck. Out of thin air, a party to compete with All-Russia, built around one simple platform—unifying the country. Other than that, there were no specific party goals, although it had turned out that all the governors Yeltsin and the Family had convinced to join happened to support the ongoing War in Chechnya—which, in recent months, had taken a more serious turn.
That war support would infuse an immediate popularity to Unity—at the moment, the people of Russia were strongly in favor of dealing with the Chechens in as brutal a fashion as possible. A string of vicious terrorist bombings had hit apartment buildings all over the country—including Moscow itself. Blamed on Chechen separatists, these bombings had put the country on the offensive, and newly installed Prime Minister Putin had dealt with the situation with strength and determination that had won him many admirers. Relaunching the war with renewed vigor, he had given a nationally televised press conference—which Berezovsky had made sure was replayed on ORT over and over again—giving a rousing, steely-eyed speech: “We will annihilate them. We will chase them in the airports, even if they are on the toilet, we will go there and blow them up. Then this will be finished and done with.”
But, even as Putin’s popularity rose, he had been reluctant when faced with the idea of actually running for president; Berezovsky himself had spent time trying to convince the ex-KGB agent that he was needed, to save what they had built. Even so, it wasn’t until Yeltsin himself pleaded with him, explaining that he was their best hope, that he finally acquiesced. Yeltsin understood that Putin had shown himself to be exactly the sort of strong-willed man of the people who the Russian populace loved. It was exactly that sort of strength that could carry the new Unity Party, which was designed to put him in power.
“A party, financing, and my media,” Berezovsky responded, breathing quickly as he worked to keep up with the redheaded vortex of motion next to him. “Will it be enough?”
“And your own limitless energy,” Tatiana added. “Don’t forget your limitless energy, Boris. A man who dreams up parties out of thin air.”
“If having energy is my main crime, I will be remembered well—when this is eventually written about in the history books.”
Tatiana smiled.
“It will only be written about if we win. A brand-new party isn’t going to be able to grow fast enough in a year to compete with All-Russia. The mayor has important friends, too, and NTV will be on his side. The people will see him as an alternative, maybe even a move toward a strength and stability that we’ve been lacking. Russian people love strength.”
Putin’s jump in the popularity polls after his decisive handling of the Chechen situation was proof. Not diplomacy, not words, but precise, definite action—that’s what the Russian people wanted. That’s what they fell for. But for Putin to sustain that for the entire campaign that was ahead of them—it would be a herculean task.
“What if there was a way,” Tatiana suddenly asked, thinking along the same lines, “of accelerating the situation? Of pushing the opposition back on its heels?”
Berezovsky raised an eyebrow, looking at her.
“What do you mean?”
The year 2000 isn’t simply a new beginning because of the election, she explained. It was the beginning of a new millennium. The whole world was preparing for the biggest celebration in recent history, for a brand-new century, to begin on midnight, New Year’s Eve.
“My father’s term ends next June,” she continued, “but the moment of rebirth will not wait until June. The millennium begins in three months.”
Berezovsky began to understand what she was saying—and he felt that familiar electricity rising in his bones.
If she was really saying what he believed she was saying, if she was proposing a plan of action around the sentiment—it would be like an earthquake. It would take the country by surprise, knock the opposition not just back on their heels, but right out of the race.
Berezovsky’s Unity Party was a stroke of genius, but what Tatiana was proposing—what she could no doubt achieve if she were able to convince her father to take one giant step—would be momentous.
“Ideas like this change history,” Berezovsky mused.
Tatiana looked at him, though she never stopped moving forward.
“You’re wrong about that. Ideas float around, like the breeze swirling beneath the spruce trees that line Red Square. Ideas are little more than air. Men and women change history.”
Berezovsky smiled.
“And sometimes we do it even before history realizes it’s time to change.”