One Hard-won truths
‘I’mgladthis recordingshows how heatedI ambecause youare a dishonest journalist. There is no honesty inyou at all. AndI hope youwillplay this recordingto your publishers as well,before they fuckingpublisha pack of lies.’
MohamedAmersiis extremely cross. I amnot doing what he wants. Mohamedjust wants everybody to do what he wants. To accept that what he says happenedis what happened. That who he says he is is who he is. Thenhe canget back to his philanthropy.
We are sittingacross a boardroomtable at the offices ofAmersi’s lawyers inLondon. The mere name ofthe firm– Carter-Ruck – is enoughto induce a jolt ofanxious nausea injournalists. NigelTait,most formidable ofthe partners,once remarkedthat he gets a buzz from suppressingfree speech. Letter after letter after letter (to the reporter but also to their editors,andsometimes only their editors,to make the point that the reporter is not to be trusted) threateninglegalproceedings of scarcely imaginable expense. That usually does the trick. The book,the article,the documentary willvanishfrom view,ifit ever made it into view inthe first place. Should these muckrakers,these tittle-tattle merchants,these
grubby hacks defy his clients,Tait willensure they spend months,years,incourt. The lawsuit he engineers willgo to war ontheir reputation,their career,their sleep. Fundingthis is no problem: his clients tendto possess inexhaustible quantities ofmoney.
NigelTait is MohamedAmersi’s lawyer. He’s somewhere inthe building,I suppose. Inthis room,as agreed,it’s just me andMohamed. Plus a piece of corporate art that looks like a hatchingegg,a plate of deluxe chocolate biscuits anda dozenblue ringbinders. Inthese,I have beentoldto expect,reside the proofthat MohamedAmersiis right about everything.
For two anda halfyears I have beentryingto figure out who this manreally is. Since I first heardthat a major donor to the rulingparty – the Conservatives – had hiredNigelTait to go after a former MP. Charlotte Leslie’s offence was to have raisedquestions about Amersi,about his past,about how he made the money withwhichhe was now purchasingaccess to the most powerfulpeople inthe UK (yes,evento Boris). Amersi, onhis charitable foundation’s website,is ‘an entrepreneur,philanthropist andthought leader’. Leslie googledarounda bit andwrote a memo suggestingthere might be some more chapters to this man. No bombshells,no skeletons or smokingguns,no allegations ofthe kindofgreat crimes that are saidto lie behind many a great fortune,just some apparent gaps between his words andhis deeds,plus some traces ofbusiness dealings – hardly uncommon– inthe former Soviet Union. So why,I wondered,hadshe producedsuchan aggressive response inAmersi.
FromMayfair to Kathmandu,I lookedfor the real MohamedAmersi. Andas I went,I felt his story connect witha bigger one. Once youspot it,it’s everywhere. The Chinese Communist Party bullyingrespectedscientific journals into withdrawingresearchonthe origins of
Covid-19. AservingUK prime minister andrecently departedUSpresident respectively resigningfor lying andfacingjailfor lying. Putin’s troops capturedin Ukraine sayingthey came to free their fellow Russianspeakers fromannihilationby the Nazis inKyiv. Hannah Arendt wouldhave recognisedwhat is happening. Everywhere,the powerfulare makinga renewedclaim to the greatest prize ofall: to ownthe truth. The power to choose what youwant reality to be andimpose that reality onthe world.
Afew days ago I sent Amersia longlist ofwhat I’ve learnedabout himinthese two anda halfyears. The letter that came back fromNigelTait andhis sidekicks invitedme to their office. This morning,a sticky Friday in July 2023,I walkeddownChancery Lane,past the glass towers ofthe law firms sparklinglike pristine teethina perfect smile. Onthe way I listenedto aninterview with Andrew Malkinson. He’s just beenfreedafter seventeen years inprisonfor a rape someone else committed. ‘I was intotalshock for the first few years,not evenweeks but years,tryingto get my headaroundthe fact that the worldnow thinks I’mthis person,but I’mnot that person. I contemplatedsuicide many times.’Althoughhis convictionwas transparently wrong,the interviewer askedifhe ever didwhat lots ofprisoners who begin longsentences protestingtheir innocence do,andafter a while just give up. ‘No. No,no,no. The truthis the most fundamentalthing. I’ve always hadaninterest inscience andmathematics andstuff. These are fundamental,hardwontruths.’
I am,I’mtold,about to see another injustice unravelled. What I have heardabout MohamedAmersiis wrong. If,as he explains,I’mnot too fuckingthick to understand,he willset the recordstraight. He wants to helpme. So that whenI sit downto write this book it won’t be fulloflies andbias andhogshit and
misinformationimpartedby wankers. So that I will write the truth.
1 The word ‘hogshit’ appears to be a portmanteau, forged in fury, combining two of Mohamed’s other preferred terms for information that displeases him, bullshit and hogwash.At the backof this bookare comprehensive notes explaining the basis of every significant fact herein, including what people say and think.Sources are either named or, to protect them, described as fully as possible short of making them identifiable.Corroborating documents are cited.When it comes to Amersi’s interjections, I’ve used footnotes, in case the reader is as fucking stupid as me and needs easily accessible assistance with his technical jargon and other challenging language.
Two Take-off
Who is it that MohamedAmersiwants to be? He wants to be the manwho is due aboardthe private plane scheduledto depart RAF Northolt onSunday January 20,2013. Aprivate plane carryingMohamedAmersito his well-earnedplace amongthe highest inthe land.
Everythinghas beenarranged. BenElliot’s people have takencare ofit.
Amersiadores Ben. As a person: his decency,his warmth. His friendship. Benunderstands what I’mtryingto do, Amersithinks. None ofthis wouldbe happeningwithout Ben. Mohamedsays so himself. ‘Unless youhave somebody like himwho opens these doors for you,it’s not possible.’
For Quintessentially clients,there is nothingBencan’t provide. WhenMadonna’s mucous membrane criedout for the soothingproperties ofslippery elm,Elliot’s people airliftedteabags ofthe stuff to her inLos Angeles. Others have wantedpenguins,false eyelashes (anda plastic surgeon to repair the mischiefthe St Tropez hostess haddone herself by tearingout the originals),llamas,backstage passes to Beyoncé,a footballsignedby LionelMessi,albino peacocks.
Tall,handsome,his Etonaccent customisedto Mockney, Bencanget youinto places others cannot go. Ifyouwant the Sydney Harbour Bridge to yourself,Ben’s people willget you the Sydney Harbour Bridge,andyoucanpropose onit. They willhave the doors to Shanghai’s couture boutiques closedto
the public so that your wife is undisturbedwhile she shops on her birthday. Quintessentially’s clients party beside pyramids anddine onicebergs. Ifthey want to stay at home but wish their home was the Batcave,a Batcave Ben’s people will build.
Yet evenBencannot controlthe weather. You’dhave to be Vladimir Putin,sendingjets to spike the clouds,andBen’s not Putin. As Amersimakes ready the eveningbefore take-off, the temperature falls below zero. After midnight,snowflakes fillthe air. They carpet the runway at RAF Northolt.
Needs must whenthe devildrives. Whenthe devildrives, sometimes youjust have to fly commercial. BritishAirways to Glasgow. Benwas goingto come alongbut now he won’t. Amersi’s host,Ben’s aunt’s husband,willbe there to welcome him.
The plane flies north. How far he has come,Mohamed fromMombasa. The Amersis’roots runthroughthe old empire. His forebears,inIrantheninIndia,were inthe business ofmovingcommodities. Alot came fromAfrica. So it made commercialsense for Amersi’s grandfather to send his sonto Kenya. To Mombasa,the port city where the IndianOceanwinds have carriedcenturies oftraders, slavers,missionaries andinvaders. Whenlittle Mohamed was bornin1960,Kenya was stilla Britishcolony. Three years later came independence. It hadtakendecades of rebellionto throw off colonialrule,but the Britishdidnot simply leave. Across the former colonies,there was oilto be drilled,mines to be dug,arms to be sold,markets to be opened. Andthe oldmotherlandwas willing,for a suitable fee,to take delivery ofthe promisingoffspringofthriving families fromthe former colonies suchas the Amersis for moulding.
Merchant Taylors’Schoolwas foundedby guildsmenfive hundredyears before the adolescent Amersiarrivedin1976. Agenerationearlier,it hadbeenuprootedfromcentral Londonandshiftedto roomier grounds inthe heartlands of
Englishpropriety,the Home Counties. The new pupilfrom Mombasa,withhis accent andhis pigment andhis Islamic name,was not inthe image ofthe bishops andgenerals and translators ofbibles who hadprecededhim. This was the EnglandofPaki-bashingandthe NationalFront. OnApril20, 1968 – youngMohamed’s eighthbirthday – EnochPowellhad prophesieda river ofblood. Sometimes Amersihas wonderedwhat his life wouldbe like ifhe were JohnSmith, white man.
Because youcanclimb allthe way to the top. But as you haulyourselfonto the summit,youwillfinda wall,a wallthat youcouldn’t see before. Andinthe wall,a single door,oaken andlocked. Entry is securedby birthright alone. Youcan’t buy your way in.
Except that youcan. This is what BenElliot has inhis pocket: a key to the finaldoor.
Andwhy not? Didthe triumphofcapitalismover communismnot teachus that wealthis the badge ofworth? That money gravitates towards merit? AndMohamedAmersi has made money. It might evenbe said– by no less an authority thanMohamedhimself– that he has beenthe premier mergers andacquisitions adviser inthe emerging markets telecommunications space. The master dealmaker.
Whenthey disembark inGlasgow,a chauffeur awaits Amersiandhis partner. Not Annar,the Mombasa girlhe marriedin1981 whenhe was not yet twenty-one. At his side today is Nadia Rodicheva,a beauty seventeenyears his junior. Mohamed,short andalways smart,a neat greying plume above his hawkishfeatures,takes his seat beside her inthe car. No longer just some Kenyanandsome Russian. They are about to become someone.
Past picturesque Scottishfarms they are carried,past the townJohnnie Walker comes from,past a hamlet called Moscow. Closer,closer …
Ben’s people emailedthe itinerary a few days ago. Arrive. Meet host. Host personally conducts tour ofexquisite
Georgianmansion,withits Chippendale furniture andthe Gobelintapestries that were a gift,accordingto a fictional passage inthe oldplace’s history,fromthe SunKing,Louis XIV. Tea. Rest. Gather for dinner at halfpast six.
The car enters the grounds. Throughthe trees,Dumfries House peeps like a pearl. The gardenis anhors d’oeuvre of neat conifers andsculptedlawn. The gravelofthe drive crunches under the wheels. Adozensolidsteps wide enough for the fullest ofretinues leadupto anochre stone front toppedwithsilvery chimneys. Andwithin,allset to receive his guests,is Charles.
Three
A furnace for the past
The other MohamedAmersi– the MohamedAmersithat MohamedAmersidoes not want to be – didnot boardthe flight to Dumfries. He was left behind. Left behindinthe past.
The thingabout the past,though,is that it’s forever ambushingthe present,forever buzzinginto the picture like a fly inthe projector. It is anunceasingeffort,keepingthe past under control. Sometimes youcanburnit. Sometimes youcanbuy it. Whichis what one ofMohamed’s business partners is seekingto do right now,onSeptember 6,2004, behindthe heavy velvet curtains ofa private roomat the Ritz.
‘I willbe aroundfor forty-sevenminutes,’says Jeffrey Galmond. ‘One hour or so. Andthenrunningoff to another meeting. I have got meetings tomorrow allday. AndthenI have got meetings onWednesday. Thursday,I think,I amout ofhere. I keepmoving. I stay inthe same place for about two or three days andthenmove to another place. I don’t make any bookings inadvance. I use a lot ofprivate aeroplanes. They come fromanother country,come to pick me upandfly me out.’
The previous day’sObserverhas declaredJeffrey Galmond to be what he wants to be: ‘the newest conqueror ofthe Wild East’. Abillionaire. ‘The 54-year-oldbuilt a modestly successfullegalpractice inDenmark before startingto
advise numerous Europeanclients onRussianinvestments in the early nineties. Details ofhis subsequent career are not widely knownbut he seems quickly to have become a serial investor himself,makingcanny plunges into Russia’s property andtelecoms markets.’The writer notes: ‘Galmond’s story is allthe more remarkable for beingso little recogniseduntilnow.’
Jeffrey Galmondhas revealedhis remarkable story inthe longwitness statement he has beenforcedto make after a richRussianaccusedhimofnot beingwho he says he is. Under oath,he’s describedinthis affidavit how he became a titanofthe Russiantelecommunications industry without anyone noticing. ‘I have beenassistedinthis process by the maintenance ofa low profile,’he states. ‘It is my firmbelief, andI wouldsuggest it is plaincommonsense,that ifone trumpets one’s activities fromthe rooftops andsignals one’s intentions whenbuildingupbusinesses inthis way,one is askingfor trouble. It willinvite envy,animosity and competition.’
Thankfully for Jeffrey,doingbusiness withthe manhe says he is canbe lucrative. MohamedAmersi’s share willbe four milliondollars.
It usedto be easier,managingthe past. Before information went digital. Paper was so muchmore flammable. Just look at the Russianbefore us now,onDecember 5,1989,ina detached,custard-colouredhouse near the northbank ofthe Elbe,shovellingdocuments into a furnace.
He has the thick neck ofa judo champion,thoughfour years ofGermanbeer have pudgedhimout. Asternparting bisects his soft hair. The way his lips twitchupat the sides, it’s like he’s suppressinga smirk. But there is no tarrying over the incineration,no time to relisha few ofthe secret words printedonthese secret pages. Outside,crowds are pressingagainst the gates. Weeks ago,upinBerlin,the wall
was breached. The Russianknows his time here inDresden is over.
Since he was a boy,he’dwantedthis life,to belongto the Soviet Union’s most exclusive club: the KGB. It woulddeliver himfromthe Leningradgrind,the communalflat withthe rats andthe appallingtoilet. It wouldmake himanauthor of events. One spy,he saidto himself,one spy candecide the fate ofthousands. Allthroughhis law degree,he hopedfor the call. For the taponhis shoulder. Eventually it came. And withit,the chance to be someone else.
They allhadpseudonyms,the recruits. Keepingjust the first letter oftheir realname,like a memento ofwho you really were. Platov,that was his. These other people that they became,they couldleave the commons behind,depart the realmofthe many,enter the zone ofthe few. ‘Nobody cango here,’he tolda friendone day,whenhis KGB credentials gainedthemaccess to anantique churchto see its magnificent altar. ‘But we can.’Tickets to any theatre,no problem. Youcouldevenleave the country.
Lyudmila was pregnant withtheir secondwhenthey left Leningrad. She has likedit here inDresden. The driver,the picnics withthe Stasiguys. The family’s apartment is next door to the KGB office. He goes home every day for lunch andsees her ovalface,those bigeyes accentuatedby stark, dark lashes.
The Russian’s professionalperformance is monitoredlike the output ofa factory under a Five-Year Plan. It is measured in‘the quantity ofrealisedunits ofinformation’. Today, informationis beingunrealised. The most valuable documents have beensent to Moscow. They have buried some ofthe others. The rest,handfulby handful,he andhis colleagues are throwinginto the flames. He must make an expert judgement ofeachfile’s worth,set against its danger. Asecret is like a hiddenpassage beneathyour citadel. It couldbe your salvation. Ifyour enemy discovers it,it could be your ruin.
The crowdis growing. He canhear them. Here in Dresden,as across the Soviet empire,the prevailingreality is breakingdown. The Russianhas grownupina systemrun onvranyo,a termdefinedthus: ‘Youknow I’mlying,andI know that youknow,andyouknow that I know that you know,but I go aheadwitha straight face,andyounod seriously andtake notes.’He has requestedguidance from KGB headquarters. No answer comes. Moscow is silent.
Vladimir Putinhurls more papers into the fire. More and more untilthe furnace bursts.
Lyudmila hates the queues back inLeningrad. Chapters of history are saidto be endingandbeginningbut everythingis the same. The empty shelves,the coupons,the rationcards. They’ve no savings – inDresdenthey spent his KGB salary on the car. At least they have the washingmachine their Germanneighbours gave thembefore they left.
Her husbandhas founda new way to make money: politics. He has establishedhimselfas a fixer for Anatoly Sobchak, leader ofthe city’s democrats. Putinis the liaisonbetween this law professor andthe security forces. Whenthe Communist hardliners’tanks approachthe city,Putin negotiates withthemthroughthe night. Their coupfails; the transitionto somethingcalledcapitalismproceeds.
Leningradbecomes St Petersburgonce more. Sobchak is its mayor,Putinhis deputy. They take offices inthe oldSoviet headquarters. Putininstalls a KGB comrade calledIgor Sechin,veteranofColdWar conflict inAngola,as his gatekeeper. Onthe hook where Lenin’s portrait hung,Putin chooses not the customary image ofthe newly elected president Boris Yeltsinbut anengravingofanemperor,Peter the Great.
WhenPutinis summonedto the capital,Lyudmila is still gettingover the crash. The light was green. She didn’t see the car that smashedinto them. Into the front,mercifully:
Katya was asleepinthe back. The childwas only bruised. Lyudmila was knockedout. Whenshe came to,she grabbed a bystander andgave themthe number to callSechin. The public hospitalthe ambulance took her to was fullofthe deadanddying. Corpses lay onstretchers,left there by a state that hadfallenapart. Only whenthey brought her to the military clinic didanX-ray show the crack inher spine anda fracturedskull. She was there for two months. It wouldbe three years before she felt normalagain.
She falls inlove withMoscow. It feels like a place where life is infullswing. Putinis gettinga promotiona year. Into Yeltsin’s presidentialadministration,thenback to the KGB –they callit the FSB now – as boss. Thensecretary to the security council,thenprime minister in1999.
How strange,Lyudmila thinks,I’mmarriedto a manwho yesterday was just anunknowndeputy mayor ofSt Petersburg,andnow he’s prime minister. Afew months later, he is president. Putintakes Lyudmila to places others cannot go. They poptheir New Year’s champagne ina helicopter over Chechnya. But she andthe childrensee less ofhim. Like whenthe kids want himto watchthat new movie they love withthem. The one where youhave to take a blue pillor else reality falls apart. TheMatrix. He says he doesn’t have time.
These days Putinkeeps the highest company. ‘I foundhim to be very straightforwardandtrustworthy,’George W. Bush declares after they meet. ‘We hada very gooddialogue. I was able to get a sense ofhis soul; a mandeeply committed to his country andthe best interests ofhis country.’
Allthe attentioncanbe unpleasant for Lyudmila. It’s unpleasant whenthe media diginto their background. It’s unpleasant,she says,whenthey lie. The family’s life has gone onshow. Her husbandstillhas his secrets,ofcourse. Everybody does. One ofthemfeatures Lyudmila herself. For a while after they move to Moscow,she takes a job at a telecoms venture. She gives it upbefore Putinbecomes president in1999,but the company continues to enjoy the
aura ofassociationwiththe bigman. Once Putinis inthe Kremlin,it grows into one ofthe country’s most valuable. Its owner goes unnamed,hiddeninside a shellcompany. Until,in 2004,the shelljiggles andcracks,andthere emerges a hitherto unremarkedDane,the new conqueror ofthe Wild East,Jeffrey Galmond.
Beingthe new conqueror ofthe WildEast has its perks. The private planes,the meetings at the Ritz.
‘That’s very lovely,’says James Hatt,listeningto Jeffrey Galmonddescribe his jet-set existence.
‘Pardon?’
‘Lovely,’repeats Hatt,who has arrangedthis private suite to allay Galmond’s concerns about eavesdroppers. He speaks withthe sonorous precisionofthe Englishbarrister he usedto be. ‘I amvery happy for you. Youmust be havinga lovely life.’
‘Youwouldnot like to be inmy shoes,’says Galmond, whose moustache,like the rest ofhis hair,is greyer thanit was back inSt Petersburg.
‘That is true,’Hatt says. ‘I wouldn’t. I don’t want to be in your shoes. AndI was havinga very happy,comfortable, quiet life. Avery different life. Andthen,one day,my life got complicated.’
Like a great many other westernbankers andlawyers and management consultants,at the fallofthe Soviet Union, James Hatt went to Russia to do business. He endedupin telecoms. After a decade,he movedto Massachusetts to do what he really wanted: trainto be a psychoanalyst. He has beenstudyingJung’s concept ofsplitting,how we are able to be two people at once. Andthen,the other day,the past turnedupat his door,inthe formofa mancalledTimasking Hatt to meet Kroll. Agents fromthe private intelligence industry do not track youdownbecause they want to hear your thoughts onJung. Krollis ona missionfromthe rich
Russianwho’s tryingto prove that Galmondis not who he says he is.
I’ve readyour affidavit,Hatt tells Galmond. Your bigthick fuckingaffidavit. Jesus Christ,it’s fullofholes. The Kroll spies are very interestedinit. Andthey’ve foundTony Georgiou,another character fromthe past that Hatt and Galmondshare. Tony Georgioudoesn’t believe Galmond’s story either. Georgiou’s review ofGalmond’s account is even blunter thanHatt’s: he calls it ‘fabricated’. Andhe’s gone andwrittenanaffidavit ofhis own.
The cigars-and-caviar heir to anItalianfurniture business, Tony GeorgiouhadbeeninSt Petersburgfittingout exclusive hotels inthe late eighties when,waitinginthe ten-hour queue to use a phone at the Astoria for four minutes at a cost offorty-five dollars,he saw anopportunity. Gorbachev was openingthe economy. Georgioudecidedto start a telecoms business. His associates made introductions to St Petersburg’s new rulers. Georgioumet Sobchak,the charismatic mayor,andhis inscrutable deputy,Vladimir Putin. Andhe heardofa youngofficialwho everyone said was destinedfor great things.
LeonidReiman’s friendly face andcongenialmanner distinguishedhimfromthe stolidapparatchiks who disdained anddistrustedthe foreigncapitalists. Reiman,by contrast, they coulddealwith. His mother taught Englishand Reiman’s was flawless; he caught nuances that wouldescape allbut native speakers. Georgiouarrangedto meet himat the Astoria. The youngRussian’s intelligence,his ability to understandintricate corporate apparatus – these qualities, instantly apparent,demonstratedto Georgiouthat he had foundhis man.
Althoughhe was not formally the boss ofthe officials who ranSt Petersburg’s public telephone system,Reimanwas clearly incharge. Georgioucultivatedhim. Aninvitationto a Christmas gatheringinLondon. The promise ofproximity to westernsplendour that glimmeredwhenGeorgioudroppeda
name,suchas that ofhis personalfriendLordBeaverbrook, Conservative Party treasurer.
Inreturn,Georgiouwas after a telecoms licence. The Soviet apparat hadnot so muchbeenswept away as clunkily repurposedfor capitalism. Atelecoms licence required sixteensignatures. ‘Mr Reiman,’Georgiouhas writteninhis affidavit,‘was able to take the document aroundthe relevant ministry officials andto ensure that at eachlevelthose involvedwere persuadedto sign. AlthoughI was not involved inthis,I understandthat this wouldhave involvedMr Reiman payinganappropriate “fee” to eachofthe officials inreturn for their help. I shouldadd,at this stage,that it is a fact of life ofdoingbusiness inRussia that it is necessary to take care ofeveryone whomyouneedhelpfrom. Mr Reiman seemedanexpert in“oilingthe wheels” andhadno compunctionabout doingit. He toldme what it wouldcost andI providedthe money.’
Reimanhimself,a civilservant inhis thirties,got a million. OnOctober 12,1992,Georgiouwiredthe payment to Reiman’s Swiss bank account. ‘I queriedwhether Mr Reiman,as a State employee,couldlegally receive sucha payment,’Georgiousays inhis affidavit,‘andI was assured that this was a private arrangement andnot prohibitedby Russianlaw.’The finalpayments were for ‘people without whose support the licence wouldnot be forthcoming’. Georgioudidn’t know who allthese shadowy powers were. His affidavit does not recordwhether there was any inducement for the senior officialwho approveda change to the shareholdings inPeterStar,his telecoms venture. The owners were originally to be Georgiouhimselfandthe Russianpeople. But the Russianpeople’s interest was shifted into a private company incorporatedonthe Isle ofMan, ownedby just one ofthem,LeonidReiman. Achievingthis neededthe consent ofthe chair ofSt Petersburg’s committee for foreignrelations. The chair obligingly signedhis name: Vladimir Putin.
Putinhas kept Reimanclose. The telecoms venture where Lyudmila workedwhenthe Putins movedto Moscow is the one Reimanfounded. This venture has beenacquiringmore andmore assets,becomingone ofthe biggest companies in Russiantelecoms. To beginwith,it belongedto the Russian people. But like their stake inPeterStar,this one too has quietly changedhands. It now belongs to a private company inLuxembourgcalledFirst NationalHolding. There is no public recordofwho owns it. But inhis affidavit,Jeffrey Galmondhas unmaskedthe humanbeingbehindFirst NationalHolding: it’s him,Jeffrey,conqueror ofthe Wild East. Andthis is rather bewilderingfor James Hatt,as he sits withGalmondbehindthe Ritz’s heavy velvet curtains.
‘LeonidReimanwas always incontrolofFirst National Holding,’Hatt says. ‘YouandI know that to be true. The reality.’Andthis reality is rather important now. Because these days LeonidReimanis President Putin’s telecoms minister. He oversees anindustry worthcountless billions, the bedrock ofPutin’s surveillance state,andinwhich,if Hatt is right,Reimanhimselfsecretly holds anenormous illicit stake.
‘WhenLeonidbecame a minister andwent to Moscow,’ Hatt reminds Galmond,‘youandI were sittingtogether inSt Petersburg. Leonidwouldphone youat one inthe fucking morning. Andifhe’dbeeninSt Petersburghe usedto come andsee us at one inthe fuckingmorning. Remember the nights we spent together? It’s no wonder I never got laidin St Petersburg. I was always inyour fuckingoffice.’
‘Onthe smallredcouch,’says Galmond.
‘Onthe smallredcouch.’
‘Yeah,yeah,’says Galmond. ‘That’s true.’
But ifJeffrey Galmondis not who he says he is,who is he? Tony Georgiousays inhis affidavit that Galmondinthe nineties was a mere lawyer – ‘arrogant andnot that bright’–whose wife happenedto be close to Reiman’s. That’s what Hatt remembers too: that Jeff Galmondwas one ofthe
lawyers who helpedLeonidReimancovertly assemble and runhis telecoms empire. Youwere there,Hatt tells Galmond. Youwere there whenwe drew upthe paperwork to describe the owners ofPeterStar ina way that would nicely disguise Reiman’s stake. The owners,Hatt points out, were describedas ‘persons interestedintelecommunications innorthwest Russia’. The paperwork didnot,Hatt observes, say ‘I,Jeffrey Galmond,ownit’.
‘Right,’says Galmond.
This is just the sort ofthingthe Krollspies are lookingfor. ‘They are unpickingyour affidavit,’Hatt tells Galmond. ‘This is a bigissue.’
‘For whom?’Galmondasks.
‘For you,’says Hatt.
It’s true,this scrutiny ofthe galaxy ofcompanies Galmond purports to ownis most incommoding. Eventhe authorities inBermuda,usually one ofthe easiest places to maintain corporate camouflage,are examiningthe ones he’s set up there. They are constantly askinghimquestions. Why are youmakingthis payment? Where does the money come from? I can’t move a dime,he complains,not a fuckingdime, without producinga great bigbinder.
The spies are closingin. They want to show that Jeffrey Galmondis a frontmanconcealinganimmense corrupt scheme withinPutin’s regime. Yet there are stillthose who take Galmondat his word,who willbelieve that he is who he says he is,andwho are thus able to joinhiminhis moneymaking. He’s recently met one suchperson,by the name of MohamedAmersi.
After Merchant Taylors,university at Sheffieldand Cambridge,one prestigious law firm,CliffordChance, another,Jones Day (a ‘star’ofits Swiss office,the trade press says),MohamedAmersiis a most impressive character whenhe meets Jeff Galmond. Andsome experience inRussia:
whenYeltsinsoldoff the Soviet economy inthe nineties, Amersiworkedona bidfor telecoms assets. He knows God andthe devilandeverybody,Galmondthinks; he’s shrewd, intelligent. They see eachother againinLondonandDubai andSt Tropez.
By now,Amersihas departedthe law. There is a way to monetise this ability he possesses,the ability to make everyone feelhe’s ontheir side. To be what they calla ‘dealmaker’. It’s how Mohamedhas longseenhimself. That has beenthe recent verdict ofa HighCourt judge.
Mr Justice SmithobservedAmersiinhis witness box. The case was brought by two former clients ofMohamed’s old firmJones Day,the Saab brothers ofLebanon,who claimed that Amersitwo-timedthem. They thought he was their lawyer ona property dealbut he was also workingfor the Saudibank onthe other side. No,Mohamedtoldthe court, the Saabs are mistaken,there was no wrongdoing. His testimony,Mr Justice Smithconcluded,was ‘unreliable’, ‘incredible’,‘extraordinary’,‘generally unsatisfactory’, detailedwhenit suitedhimbut vague whenit didnot,and contradictedby contemporaneous correspondence. In Amersi’s swornwitness statement,the judge remarked, Mohameddeniedthat onSeptember 14,1994 he had discusseda retainer withone ofthe Saabs. The Saabs’ barrister pointedout that Amersi’s owncase reliedonthis conversationhavinghappened. Mohamed‘therefore produceda freshwitness statement,’the judgment recorded, ‘not only sayinghe now recalleda conversationonthe 14 September but givingdetailedevidence as to what was discussedabout the retainer’.
As he peeredinto the psyche ofthe manbefore him,the judge concludedthat Amersisaw nothingamiss inhis own conduct. The holes inhis records,those were his secretary’s fault,he said– the incompetent womanstruggledwiththe office computers. As for a conflict ofinterest,Mohamed made himselfblindto it. ‘Inreality,’Mr Justice Smithfound,
‘Mr Amersisaw himselfas a dealmaker.’He ‘was so attractedpersonally because ofthe success fee,because of the size ofthe transaction,that he lost a proper sense of objectivity’and‘forgot that he was a lawyer who owedduties to different clients that might cause conflict. It is clear that he purportedto act for bothsides at stages duringthis saga. Ofthat there is no doubt.’
‘He was a bloody farmer andhe is a fuckingfarmer and he lost his job because he behavedlike a farmer.’ MohamedandI are gettingstarted. Fortifiedwitha swift yoghurt enroute to Carter-Ruck,I listenas his rage swells,subsides,thenswells again.
‘Sorry,canI just ask,I know this might seemlike a strange question,but why farmer? I don’t understandthe insult,’I say. ‘Why’s beinga farmer a badthing?’
‘They are generally seenas peasants.’
‘I see what youmean.’
Andthis peasant ofa judge hadnot believedAmersi, sidinginsteadwiththe Saabs.
‘Well,’Mohamedsays ofhis former clients,‘fuck them.’
The Saabs suedJones Day andAmersitogether. The claimagainst Amersihimselfwas stayedbefore the trial. But Mohamedwishes to set the recordstraight anyway. There was that ‘one fuckingmail’that showedhe was doingwork for bothsides,the one Mr Justice Smith ‘made a songanddance about’. Yet Amersiwas always in the right. He explainedthis to Mr Justice Smithbut the judge ‘didn’t understandit because he’s too thick’. As am I,Mohamedtells me. ‘I’mtalkingto a two-year-oldthat doesn’t understandanything.’
He shows me some ofthe paperwork fromthe case. ‘I know inyour little headyouhave saidmy modus
