so what do you think Pat?’ Fitzwilliams asked, as Kennedy thumbed through
the thick memorandum of understanding that formed the basis of the merger
agreement between the Irish Netherlands Bank and Tarasov’s InterBank
Corporation.
‘Well it’s not looking good at home,’ said Kennedy referring to Irish ten-year
S
bond yields that had just hit 8.64%.
‘Allied Irish is beginning to look like Anglo Irish just before it was nationalized.’
‘Everything’s up for sale. Did you see what that ejjet said in Dublin?
Fitzwilliams was silent, absorbed in his thoughts.
‘There’s a large for sale sign above the country’s entire banking sector.’
‘Well it’s true Pat.’
‘He even said, if a somewhat reputable buyer walks in the door between now and
five o’clock, I’d be encouraging people to deal with him.
Speculation on AIB had reached fever point as the cost of insuring ten million
euros of AIB subordinated bonds for five years rose to almost eight million, and
the cost of insuring the same sum of senior debt for five years was half that.
Fitzwilliams well-informed sources had told him AIB would soon be in state
ownership.
‘It’s no great surprise Fitz. It’s been evident for some time, banks back home
can’t fund themselves alone,’ said Fitzwilliams finally.
‘That’s clear, but what I meant was the memorandum.’
‘Oh, of course. Well I suppose it’s best if the Irish bit was put on the back burner,
you know focus on the City. It’s a pity, but there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s
the end of a piece of banking history.’
‘Look at it like a beginning. I mean you’re still in control.’
Fitzwilliams shrugged his shoulders. His family had founded the bank and
controlled it for several generations. But it was he who had transformed it, moving
its centre of operations to the City of London, privileging the UK end of the bank’s
business, then, with Kennedy, expanding its business into Europe through the
merger with the Nederlandsche Nassau Bank. But his next move would be a step
into the unknown.
The nearest Kennedy had ever been to Russia was in the late nineties when he
had visited Tallinn in Estonia. It had been one of his early forays into the world
beyond the shores of Ireland, apart from his trips to London and Amsterdam.
The goal of his visit to Moscow was to ensure the final preparations for the
signature of the merger agreement between the Irish Netherlands Bank and
Tarasov’s InterBank Corporation by Fitzwilliams and Tarasov the following
Monday. The creation of a new City based banking group, the Irish Netherlands
InterBank Corporation (INI), would open the door to almost unlimited riches for
Fitzwilliams, especially in the development of Russian natural resources and more
in particular in the oil and gas industry, and for Tarasov a solid presence in the City
of London and the means to finance his vast business empire.
Kennedy arrived at the historic Metropol Hotel, two minutes’ walk from the walls
of the Kremlin, in the sleek limousine that had been waiting for him up at the VIP
arrivals point at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport. He was accompanied by Galina
Shatalova, the personal assistant to Tarasov as she described herself, a classical
Russian cold beauty.
164
Kennedy was promptly checked-in and followed Galina, accompanied by the day
manager, to the suite reserved for him.
‘Mr Tarasov will arrive from St Petersburg late this evening and he will meet you
for breakfast tomorrow morning,’ announced Galina with a business like smile. ‘In
the meantime I am responsible for you and have booked seats for us at the Bolshoi
this evening, a performance of Giselle.’
Kennedy nodded in agreement. He was not averse to passing the evening with the
Galina even if she did look a bit frigid.
‘So Mr Kennedy, I’ll pick you up at eight, sharp,’ she said taking her leave.
With little else to do Kennedy checked out his new surroundings. From the
window of the suite he could see the Bolshoi Theatre, and from the city map he
found with the hotel information folder, he noted Red Square was just a short walk
from.
When the Metropol had built at the start of the 20th century, it was a symbol of
Tsarist Russia’s burgeoning prosperity. Muscovites were soon calling it ‘The
Tower of Babel of the twentieth century’. Its Boyarski restaurant, originally the
Russkaya Palata, was one of Rasputin’s favourite haunts.
The hotel’s history was turbulent and totally unpredictable for those who had
built it. Not much more than a decade later war and revolution broke-out ending
the reign of the Romanoffs. The Bolsheviks moved their government from St
Petersburg to Moscow requisitioning the Metropol and transforming it into the
Second House of the Soviets, the nearby National Hotel being the First House of
the Soviets. In the late 1920s, the Metropol became a hotel again, a world-class
hotel for foreign guests, then, during WWII it was transformed into a residence for
foreign journalists in the USSR.
When Sergei Tarasov learnt the Moscow municipality government was planning
to sell the hotel as part of its privatization program, he had thought of adding it to
his list of trophies. However, he was not alone, and soon turned his attentions to a
new project, the construction of a vast hotel and residential complex on the banks
of the Moskva River, opposite the Kremlin, which he baptised XXI, a symbol of
the new Russia.
The site was an island opposite the Alexander Garden, two kilometres from the
Moscow International Business Centre in the Presnensky District. Eighty floors
were planned and the tower would include a hotel, which he boasted would
outshine the Metropol in luxury and class. Given Moscow’s lack of hotels,
especially those catering for the top end of the market, the kind Russians adored,
Tarasov was assured of success.
His natural curiosity getting the better of him, Pat checked his watch, then
calculated he had enough time to make a quick tour of the hotel and its
surroundings.
After a quick tour of the vast lobby and a glance at the hotel’s restaurants he was
seduced by the atmosphere. The Metropol was one of Moscow’s monuments of
165
modern history, described by the brochure as the Russian capital’s most luxurious
and certainly most iconic hotels.
Equipped with his map he left the hotel and a few minutes later was walking
through the Resurrection Gate, past the tiny Kazan Cathedral and the State History
Museum, to Red Square. Красная площадь, he repeated to himself, delecting the
words. He was overawed by the vast panorama and the exhilaration he felt before
the powerful emblem of what had been Soviet Russia. Instantly, he felt his sojourn
in the mystical heathen city would be a revelation, a defining moment in his life, at
the heart of the Russia, the land he had prayed for on Sundays as a child in
Limerick City cathedral.
Back in the hotel he showered and dressed for the evening at the ballet. It
precisely eight when Galina arrived. She was stunning, wearing a fabulous black
off-the-shoulder evening dress, a simple string of pearls, with her long blond hair
adorning her shoulders. A limousine picked them up and dropped them in front of
the New Bolshoi, barely two minutes from the hotel, where they were led to their
box by a serious Soviet like matron.
Kennedy was dazzled by the crowd; there were an astonishing number of
beautiful and exquisitely dressed women. Apart from his recently acquired
collection of modern paintings, Pat was not what could be described as a patron of
the arts, at least performing arts, though on many occasions he had attended
concerts and plays in London, where such outings were expected of bankers by
their friends and clients. This was something different; there was an air of
excitement and anticipation. There was an indefinable feeling of being present in a
parallel world. It was if he had passed through the Looking Glass and was
surrounded by the elite of another dimension.
The ballet was magic, even the interval when they drank Champagne and ate tiny
caviar and smoked salmon blinis. Kennedy goggled at the crowd and Galina made
small talk informing him they would return to the Metropol for a light dinner after
the ballet as he had a full programme ahead of him over the course of the following
four days.
The next morning Galina was present at nine, ready to accompany Kennedy to his
meeting with Tarasov at his home on the outskirts of Moscow. It was the rush hour
and their black Mercedes GL advanced painfully through the heavy traffic. That
did not indispose Kennedy who eagerly took in all that Galina pointed out to him,
especially the striking, unique, monuments to Stalinian architecture, which seemed
to echo a dark past.
Tarasov’s fabulous mansion lay in the exclusive Moscow suburb of Rublovka, on
the western outskirts of the city, the capital’s most exclusive residential district,
where many other rich Russians had built their vastly extravagant homes. The
thirty acre estate was hidden behind a high wall dotted with CCTV cameras,
hidden in a forest of birch and pine, an hour from the city centre.
Tarasov welcomed the Irish banker with a broad and warm smile. Pat, a confident
and close friend of the Russian’s future associate, would be an important man in
166
167
his plans. Kennedy responded with the same enthusiasm, he was enjoying the
moment, meeting his friend in a real, though perhaps kitsch dacha, at the heart of
the Russian’s world.
‘Pat my friend, did Galina look after you?
‘Yesh,’ replied Kennedy not entirely sure what the Russian mean by ‘looked
after’.
‘Tell me what would you like, chai or coffee?’
For once Kennedy replied chai, it sounded more exotic. Tarasov then led him to a
huge reception room, decorated in the kind of baroque style certain wealthy
Russians seemed to appreciate, and strangely, overlooking an indoor swimming
pool.
‘You like swimming Pat?’
‘Yesh, I like to swim when I’m in Biarritz.’
‘Ah Biarritz, very fashionable today for Russians, it was one of the Tsar’s
favourite places.’
The chai was served by a maid on a platter accompanied by a bottle of vodka and
three glasses. A few moments later they were joined by an older man who
resembled a fatherly Joseph Stalin.
‘Let me introduce you Pat, this is my good friend and shareholder of the bank,
Nikolai Yakovlevich Dermirshian.’
The last name seemed to ring a bell, and the face was vaguely familiar.
‘Nikolai Yakovlevich is one of our founders and one of our most important
shareholders Pat,’ said Tarasov.
At that same instant, Galina appeared, making a sign with her thumb and
auricular to Tarasov, who excused himself and left the room.
‘Mr Kennedy!’ said Dermirshian with a predatory smile, ‘We seem to have met
before.’
Kennedy racked his brain, a few milliseconds passed, then the penny dropped.
His enthusiasm suddenly evaporated.
‘A financial transaction, if my memory serves me well,’ Dermirshian continued,
his smile transforming into a diabolical grin.
Kennedy gasped.
‘Call me Kolya,’ said Stalin grasping Kennedy’s limp hand in a powerful grip and
shaking it vigorously.