What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the term “oligarch?” Lemme guess: a rare butterfly, distress in the small intestine, the nth power of zero, or, or, or… a really rich Rooskie who has a palatial estate in the south of France and an 8000 square foot flat in Trump Tower. Okay, I know I shouldn’t use an ethnically pejorative term to describe a person, but, by golly, I can’t help myself. Be honest, you thought of a Russian, too. In fact, I don’t believe there is any such thing as a Canadian oligarch or a Uruguayan oligarch. To be an oligarch you just gotta be a Rooskie, er, I mean Russian. And to prove a point, the judge in the much-ballyhooed Paul Manafort trial now underway actually banned the use of the term “oligarch,” because it was pejorative to the point of possibly unduly swaying the jurors with respect to Manafort’s connection to unsavory Russians and the dirty deeds they may have conspired upon.
The first real definition I ran across was: ” oligarch (especially in Russia): a very rich business leader with a great deal of business influence.” So you see, even the dictionary guys relate Russian and oligarch. Do you remember the SAT test where you had the form of question that went: “Tissue is to Kleenex as oligarch is to _______?” Of course, it’s Russia, as in Russian oligarch. It just can’t be avoided. Suffice it to say, by any definition Russian and oligarch go together like, well, like gin and tonic
I found an even more informative definition of Russian oligarchs: “Business oligarchs of the former Soviet Republics who rapidly accumulated vast wealth during the era of Soviet privatization after the dissolution of the USSR in the early 1990s.” It’s interesting though that there didn’t used to be oligarchs in Russia. I don’t know where they were before Russia. They must have been somewhere. Maybe the Robber Barons of the 19th century in the U.S. were an early precursor to the Russian oligarchs of today.
My first trip to Mother Russia was not even for business. It was a family holiday to St. Petersburg in 1989. You may not recall, but things were not looking up for Russia then. The Wall had just come down in Berlin, perestroika wasn’t working out too well for Gorbachev, and the Russian people were having a tough time finding something to eat that wasn’t pickled beets left over from last summer. I recall going into what I was told was a meat market, only to see a couple of crusty chicken wings and a lone platter of necks….or who knows what.
There are those who say that but for Gorby’s ill-fated attempt to restructure the soviet political and economic systems, there would be a lot of empty apartments in Trump Tower, and all the English Premier League teams would still be owned by Brits. Yes, you got it. The current generation of Russian Oligarchs, including Putin, were created out of the ashes of the Soviet economy as it tried to “restructure” itself to become more Western-like and to create economic opportunity for a broader swath of soviet citizens. I won’t even try to go into the ugly details, as it’s not relevant to my story.
Fast forward almost a decade to 1998 and you would find me in Russia again, in Moscow this time, traveling under the heading of “business development.” We were in discussions with several Russian entities about creating a beachhead in Russia, which I was convinced was on its way to becoming a global economic powerhouse and a robust market in its own right. In addition, I had the idea of creating a software development center using our money and global distribution while capitalizing on the cheap brainpower of the University of Moscow. I thought such an entity would tuck in nicely under the management of a small private software company that we had just bought in Moscow. I never got the deal done, and it’s probably for the best, but I still think it might have worked… at least until Putin took over the government.
While in Moscow I met with scores of bankers, who were always glad to meet with anyone who had money, legal types, consultants, and tech execs ad nauseam. My principal focus, however, was on Gazprom. Gazprom controlled the natural gas business in Russia. When I say controlled, I mean controlled. They owned all the upstream and downstream activities. They set the prices. They determined who could and could not have access. You get the drift. They were a government-approved monopoly with no competition and little or no regulation. And they were a money pump. I think one of the consulting reports I saw indicated that Gazprom was making more money than all of the other commodity companies in Russia combined. At the end of the day, all I got out of this initiative was several long, bad meals washed down with bottle upon bottle of vodka, a nicely inscribed knock-off watch that’s still kicking around in my sock drawer, introductions to other Russian business types, and the important insight that everything in Russia, at the top, was connected. Cross ownership, family and school connections, membership in the right clubs… Hmm, sounds a little like the Ivy League in you-know-where.
Someone, I honestly don’t remember who, set up a meeting for me with… let’s call him Ivan Ivanovich. Ivan was purported to be well-connected with the government and other important Russian organizations. I should have known. I was told that Ivan was the owner, CEO, and Chairman of an “important” private bank and could be helpful to me. I met with Ivan at his headquarters building, which was a small, but impressive building in the right area of the city. It had a small brass plate by the front door announcing the name of the bank and suggesting that I was not likely to find any ATM machines inside. Ivan, as you might imagine, was well turned out. An expensive bespoke suit, silk tie, and an impressive office littered with what looked to be expensive European art… all suggesting that this was a guy to be reckoned with. We did the normal fifteen minutes of who-do-you-know-that-I-know and where-have-you-been-that-I-have-been kind of thing. Along they way he mentioned several people I had met at Gazprom and in the government. He had obviously done his homework, and there must have been some connection. His excellent English had a slight British tilt, which turned out to be an affectation, as he had never set foot in U.K. He clearly knew more about me than I knew about him, which is never a good position to be in, but I quickly came to the conclusion that there was no business here for us, and even if there were, it would be at a cost I wouldn’t want to pay.
But he wasn’t finished with me. As I was trying to bring the meeting to a polite end, he mentioned that he knew my company was involved with the World Cup Football Championships in Paris. I concurred and said that I was on my way to Paris, and that I would be attending several of the matches while attending to customers. As we were shaking hands on the way out the door, he, not so subtly, let it be known that he, himself played on a team with several other financial and industrial executives as well as a few government officials, and that he was not just a fan, but a student of the game…and, oh by the way, was there any chance that I could find a ticket or two for him. He would be eternally grateful. Painted in to a social corner, I replied that perhaps I could. He said he would return the favor in the future. He accompanied me all the way to my waiting car, which was common in Tokyo, but not so much in Moscow. I had a faint anticipation of something more to come. There was and it did. Just before we pulled away, my oligarch said, “By the way, if by some chance you have an empty seat or two on your plane to Paris tomorrow, I would be grateful if you could give me a lift.” My mind raced to find a reason to say no, but to no avail. I was cornered. I gave him the departure information and was thankful that he hadn’t asked for a hotel suite as well.
He showed up the next morning at the appointed time at the FBO with a “companion” (thus the need for two tickets and two seats). There was little doubt that the companion was not a fellow bank executive. I did not inquire further. All I will say is that my oligarch had very good taste in the feminine of the species. During the six-hour flight he regaled us with everything from his views on the business potential in the Motherland (unlimited) to the excellence of Russian vodka (incomparable) to the beauty of the Russian women (agreed).
Upon arrival in Le Bourget airport in Paris, he deplaned with alacrity with “companion” in arm, to a limo that he had evidently arranged on his own. Without so much as a spasiba (thank you) or dasvidanya (until our next meeting), he left for wherever it is that oligarchs go in Paris. I never saw my oligarch again.
