"This is illegal!" Berezovsky shouted. "I have a right to shop wherever I want."

He took the manila envelope from his driver, who was standing close to him, and then stepped back, as his team of bodyguards advanced. Suddenly, a small scuffle erupted as the two groups of men began pushing and shoving each other. As they battled, Berezovsky waited for an opening. When one of his men pushed one of the opposing men back, a s.p.a.ce was revealed, just big enough for a pint-size Oligarch.

Berezovksy took the opportunity and sprinted forward, sliding between the two bodyguards and through the doorway into the elegant shop.

The store went instantly silent, as the shoppers inside stared in awe at the spectacle out front. But Berezovksy didn't care about the tourists, store clerks, and Londoners. He scanned the floor with quick flicks of his eyes-and saw his quarry right up front, trying to look inconspicuous. Berezovksy rushed toward him, and didn't stop moving until he was less than a foot away.

Roman Abramovich stared down at him. Berezovksy, in turn, smiled sweetly-and suddenly showed Abramovich the manila envelope.

"I have a present for you," he said.

Berezovsky tossed the envelope toward Abramovich's hands; the envelope missed the younger man's fingers, then fluttered to the floor.

But Berezovsky had already turned on his heels, and was heading back out the front door of the shop. He shouted at his driver to get the car, and the jostling swarm of bodyguards separated.

A moment later, Berezovsky was back in the quiet confines of his Maybach.

For nearly six months, he had kept that manila envelope close, as he had chased Abramovich all around the country. He had even once shown up at a Chelsea Football Club match, but had been unable to force his way past Abramovich's security to the owner's box. And now, entirely by coincidence, he had been shopping two doors down from the man.

It had taken one giant happy coincidence, but now Berezovsky had officially served Abramovich. When his former protege finally opened the envelope and looked inside, he would see the most historic papers in modern English legal times. The largest civil lawsuit in recorded history.

Boris Berezovsky was suing his former protege for five billion, six hundred million dollars, claiming that the young man had forced him to sell both his television station and his oil interests at unfair prices, through coercion and blackmail.

A part of Berezovsky believed that Abramovich would never let such a thing go to trial. The man had become well known in the British press for being averse to all forms of public attention. He barely spoke in the open, and kept his life as hidden as possible. Berezovsky believed that Abramovich would probably settle, pay him a large sum of money to keep this out of a courtroom.

If he didn't, well, Berezovksy wanted everything to come out in the open. Every step he had taken, everything he had done, in business politics-everything that had happened over the past decade, and more.

All of it out in the open, in a courtroom in front of the cameras of the world.

There would be risks involved, for sure. The story had many dark angles, and Berezovsky had no idea how he was going to look when it was all laid bare. Badri had not wanted him to take such a bold step, had in fact warned that it was crazy and that he should let things be. But, in the end, although Badri would not be involved in the suit, he had agreed to be a supporting witness.

Berezovsky wasn't concerned with what Badri thought or even what Abramovich might think. What mattered, to him, was that once again, he would be important-and the entire world would be watching.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR.

February 12, 2008, Downside Manor, Surrey, England WHEN THE PHONE RANG at two in the morning in Berezovksy's bedroom at his estate in a posh suburb of London-waking him from a deep sleep-and he pressed the receiver to his ear to listen to the grief-stricken voice on the other end, he knew in an instant that his fortunes had yet again changed for the worse. Before any discussions of any potential settlement in his historic lawsuit, years before anyone would set foot in a courtroom-any excitement or optimism Berezovsky had felt in the wake of that wonderful Friday afternoon four months earlier, vanished in a stroke of completely unexpected news.

Five minutes later, Berezovsky was in the back of his car, still finishing with the b.u.t.tons of his coat. His driver tore through the countryside of wealthy estates, on the short trip to Downside Manor, one of the most elegant mansions in Surrey. But even as Berezovsky's car skidded up the long driveway to the main house, he could see that the police had already set up their cordon, stringing their d.a.m.n yellow tape all the way around the manicured lawn, blocking off access to the home itself.

For once, Berezovksy was out of his car before his bodyguards; he rushed straight toward the nearest constable and began shouting at the man to let him through. Berezovsky wasn't even sure what he was saying, whether he was speaking Russian or English-by this point, the tears were streaming freely down his face. But the policeman blocked his way, refusing to let him pa.s.s.

The officer obviously didn't understand. Though they didn't share the same last name, Berezovsky and Badri were more than brothers. For nearly two decades, they had been in contact nearly every day, had lived like members of the same family, and had built a relationship well beyond friendship. From the very first days at the car company, Badri had been his right hand.

And now the Georgian was gone. Fifty-two years old, he had succ.u.mbed to a sudden heart attack, having dropped to the floor in his bedroom just a few hours ago.

Berezovsky's shoulders slumped as he stood in the driveway, as one of his bodyguards tried to explain the situation to the constable. In truth, it didn't really matter. Badri's widow had told Berezovksy all he needed to know. The coroner had already declared him dead-and the police were already beginning their investigation.

Of course, there would be suspicions. Badri was living in exile, and was also the richest man in Georgia.

A month earlier, he had been a candidate for president of the breakaway nation, a campaign that had ended in pure catastrophe. In December, during the heated political process, the opposition had given the press a tape recorded in this very mansion, evidence that implicated Badri in a scandal that involved his attempts to bribe a high-level Georgian minister to help him defeat the very same pro-Western candidate that he and Berezovsky had previously put into office during the Rose Revolution.

Berezovksy had never doubted the veracity of the tape. Such a bribe seemed like business as usual where they came from, and in their history. But the incident had completely destroyed Badri's chances, and in the following election, he had received less than ten percent of the vote.

The loss had been hard on Badri; the impropriety of what he had done had made him look corrupt, and had ruined his reputation in the place he was most beloved.

Perhaps that had been part of what had led him to such an early grave. Berezovksy understood the impact that failure could have on a man like Badri. A billionaire could feel depressed as easily as a pauper.

For certain, Berezovsky believed that Badri had been going through some sort of emotional crisis. Badri had even suggested that he and Berezovsky should rea.s.sess their financial arrangements, pulling himself free of what had been a long-term, unwritten sharing of a bankroll. Berezovsky wondered if Badri's request was a response to feeling that he had been pushed into politics.

But none of that mattered now. Berezovksy couldn't believe his friend had died. Berezovksy had always a.s.sumed that he would be the one to go first.

Standing in the darkness, looking up at the lavish mansion from behind the police tape, he felt more alone than ever before. At the same time, he felt a twinge of fear, as he began to wonder how much further his fortunes could fall.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE.

October 3, 2011, High Court, The Rolls Building, Fetter Lane, London IF PURE SPECTACLE HAD been Berezovsky's only goal-and even he would admit that spectacle in itself had always been something he'd strived for-from the very first moment of what the press was calling a historic showdown between Oligarchs, he was succeeding on every cylinder. Sitting in the back of his Maybach, watching as the phalanx of reporters from all over the world convulsed around Abramovich and his fashion-plate significant other heading into the modern, gla.s.s-and-steel court complex, he felt an intense satisfaction. He could tell, just from the look on Abramovich's face, that the attention was sheer torture for the normally sheltered man. And this walk through the barrage of press-something that would no doubt become a morning ritual over the many months of the upcoming trial-was just the tip of the iceberg. The British newspapers, television tabloids, and talk show hosts had become obsessed with "The Biggest Trial in History"-and plenty of their pa.s.sion and t.i.tillation had been focused on the extreme details of Abramovich's wealth. His reported twelve-billion-dollar fortune, his soccer team, his airplanes, his homes, his newest yacht-the Eclipse, the biggest in the world, with multiple helipads, swimming pools, Pica.s.sos on the walls.

For a private man who rarely spoke in public, never gave interviews, and kept counsel with a very few close friends and confidants-a life lived from behind gates and a veritable army of bodyguards-the attention had to seem like a form of persecution. Berezovsky was still somewhat shocked that Abramovich had let this go to trial, that he was going to sit there, in that brand-new courtroom, and lay open much of his life in such a fishbowl setting. The state-of-the-art justice complex, a bulbous, s.p.a.ce-age building filled with open atria, spiral staircases, and lofty ceilings-had just been completed. Yet it seemed a strangely anachronistic place in which to debate a case lodged squarely in a moment in Russian history. Then again, the case did hinge around a sudden, spontaneous modernization, a revolution of market forces, the decline of an old way and the rising up of something new. Perhaps gla.s.s and steel made more sense than aging stone.

Whatever the location, Berezovsky felt that, at least here, in the moment before the trial began, he had achieved a victory; he had spent his whole life on a quest to be at the center of things. Here and now, he would have his chance to tell his story in front of the entire world. Whether it was arrogance, confidence, or even maybe a bit of delusion, he was certain the world would be sympathetic.

He waited until Abramovich had entered the building, then just a little longer for the press to settle back, recharge their camera batteries, restock their audio recorders. And then he signaled to his driver and bodyguards. He was ready for it to begin.

Courtroom 26 wasn't large; a rectangular box set up so that everything faced the judge's bench, a s.p.a.ce barely big enough to accommodate the two teams of lawyers, bodyguards, and experts, with just a few rows for the registered press. Berezovsky had been placed fairly close to the entrance, which meant that every morning, Abramovich and his team would pa.s.s right by him on their way to their seats. He did his best not to have any contact with the other side-no words, not even looks-as they went by, on orders from his legal team. At each day's recess, the two sides were led to different holding rooms, an attempt to limit any incidental contact that could turn this into more of a circus than it already was.

From the very opening statements, it became clear how the trial was going to be presented. Berezovsky's argument was simple: Abramovich had been his protege, his close friend, and someone he'd considered like a son. He'd made a deal to build an oil and aluminum empire with the young man, and although nothing had ever been written down, they had agreed to split the ownership of their business down the middle: fifty percent for Abramovich, fifty percent to Berezovsky and Badri. When Berezovsky had fallen out with Putin-a fact that was shared ground in their arguments-and had been forced to flee Russia, Abramovich had chosen to end their partnership. He'd used the pressure Berezovsky was under from Putin's regime to force the sale of Berezovksy's shares of ORT and his interest in Sibneft and the aluminum conglomerate-now known as Rusal-at fire-sale prices. In fact, Berezovsky further argued, Abramovich had used threats and blackmail to get a price that was almost one fifth of what Berezovsky felt his interests were worth.

For his part, Abramovich's argument was equally simple. In his view, there had never been any written agreement because there never was any deal of the sort Berezovsky had described between them. Berezovsky had never owned any shares of Sibneft or Rusal. And in fact, their relationship, from his point of view, wasn't at all the friendship that Berezovsky had described-it was actually an unwritten partnership between a young man and his krysha. In many ways, Abramovich's entire case revolved around this Russian concept, something his lawyer argued that a Western judge would have to go back to Shakespearean times to truly empathize with and understand. Abramovich hadn't paid Berezovsky and Badri one billion, three hundred million dollars in Megeve because of a friendship or to buy any shares that didn't exist. He had paid that money to complete his krysha obligations.

Although the two sides' arguments hinged on fairly simple concepts, it was also obvious from the beginning that everything else about the case was going to be as complex as a spider web. A story spanning two decades, involving two men who had ridden through the chaos of that historic time in Russian history. A tale that ran from glasnost to perestroika to Yeltsin to Putin, that involved murders, arrests, an upheaval both political and economic, and of course enormous sums of money. Even though it had come from the opposing lawyer, Berezovksy had to agree that Shakespeare was an apt comparison. The judge, the Right Honorable Dame Elizabeth Gloster, was about to be thrown into a sweeping drama; it would be up to her to determine which of the players were honest, which were star-crossed and tragic-and which might be simply playing the fool.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.

August 31, 2012, High Court, The Rolls Building NINE MONTHS.

Early mornings in heated discussion with lawyers, consultants, family, his girlfriend; going over the testimony of the day before and what was still ahead. Then that mad dash through the swarming press-the flashbulbs going off, the microphones waving toward him like reeds in a heavy wind, the television cameras catching his every grin, every outfit, whether a shirt b.u.t.ton was done or undone, whether he wore a flower in his lapel or a tie that seemed too colorful, whether Yelena had a scowl or a smile. Then the awkward moment when he and his opponent pa.s.sed in the narrow aisle that led to each of their seats, the two teams of bodyguards sifting through each other in some sort of intricate puzzle of oversize muscles and ill-fitting suits. Once or twice, on the way to the bathroom, words might be spoken; but overall, the courtroom was a place of quiet professionalism.

Nine months.

Two very different men, two very different Oligarchs, taking the stand in between the cavalcade of witnesses, experts, employees, and hangers-on. Abramovich, always soft-spoken, always through a translator. A businessman, with a businessman's efficiency of word and concept, detailing the decisions he had made, and why he had made them. Describing himself as a man who wanted to be honest and open, caught in a world that was corrupt and chaotic. There was no hiding his ambition, the fact that he had done whatever was necessary to build his empire. But it seemed an almost emotionless ambition; he had seen Berezovsky as a necessary tool, a lever to wrest the oil business from the government, a connection that would keep him and his business safe. Berezovsky, in Abramovich's description, sounding like a gangster, who, along with his strongman Badri Patarkatsishvili, had been necessary to help him navigate the dangerous waters of a Mafia-like corporate and political atmosphere.

Berezovsky knew, as he took the stand, that he would appear to be Abramovich's polar opposite. Hitting his notes like a performer, raising his voice, nearing tears, always frenetic, often almost unhinged. Speaking in clipped English with his heavy Russian accent-and often contradicting himself-he overflowed with emotion, much of it directed at his former partner. He took great relish in calling his former protege naive and stupid-although when he described their meeting on Pyotr Aven's yacht, he had to admit he'd found the young man's creativity inspiring. As the story progressed, as their relationship shifted on its axis, he again and again tried to hammer home the idea that Abramovich had gone from obsequious and helpless to threatening and dangerous. His accusations-mainly, that Abramovich had used the arrest of Glushkov and the threats coming from Putin as blackmail tools to get Berezovsky to part with ORT and his ownership of Sibneft-were couched as a personal affront, a betrayal from a young man Berezovsky had considered family. Abramovich had turned his back on a friend, a father, and had sided with a tyrant.

Nine months.

Back and forth they went, sifting through the stories of their parallel rise. Listening to the stories, retold in their own words and through numerous witnesses-everyone from Abramovich's cook, who had been on that helipad in Megeve, to an esteemed professor of Russian history, whom Berezovsky had called on to explain the Yeltsin regime in the context of the fall of the Soviet regime-often filled Berezovsky with sadness. That same loneliness he had felt outside of Badri's home the night of his death plagued him; the Georgian's missing presence tore at him, especially when his friend's deposition-taken in the months before he died-was read aloud in the courtroom. Even when it diverged from Berezovsky's own memories, it took Berezovksy back to a time when everything seemed possible, when he was important-when he truly was at the center of it all.

Nine months.

And yet, as the trial moved through the decades, time traveling from point to point in the timeline, cherry-picking the intense, sometimes surreal, sometimes even comical moments that best ill.u.s.trated the two opposing points of view, Berezovsky began to notice, more and more, that the stories-which were gleefully picked up by the press, fresh carrion laid out for gorging vultures-weren't painting him as important, but rather, as ludicrous. One story revolved around a meeting at the Dorchester Hotel in March of 2000, attended by Berezovsky, Badri, Roman, Eugene, and aluminum magnate Oleg Deripaska. There, Berezovsky claimed, a deal was struck outlining his ownership in their combined aluminum company, which he believed should have held under English law-but this argument was overshadowed by the salacious detail that Berezovsky had apparently shown up for the meeting in his bathrobe. At another point in the trial, Berezovsky inadvertently mentioned that he had offered some of his called witnesses one percent of whatever he won in the case-a comment he quickly tried to take back. And in another line of questioning, he told the court that he'd purchased a secretly taped conversation between himself, Abramovich, and Badri for fifty million dollars; but when questioned again about the tape, he explained that he hadn't had the fifty million dollars available, so instead he'd given his source a yacht.

Worse than being called a gangster by Abramovich's side, more and more he was being made to look the fool. Instead of the gravitas he'd hoped to achieve, he felt himself being mocked. When a text he'd sent to an a.s.sociate was offered into evidence-supposedly signed "Dr. Evil"-he could see the opposing side's plan for what it was: an effort to make him appear like some sort of outdated G.o.dfather figure, an absurd mobster who had already been paid billions in what was essentially a protection racket.

In the end, Berezovsky tried to convince himself that the judge would see through these machinations. He had played a significant part in Russian history. He had put two presidents into the Kremlin, and he deserved respect-and a much larger piece of Abramovich's billions. If Badri had been next to him in that courtroom, his friend would have calmed his fears, played the part of anchor, as usual, and kept him from coming even more unhinged. But Badri wasn't there; Berezovsky was forced to rely on his legal team, his girlfriend, and his experts. He truly hoped it would be enough.

h.e.l.l, nine months was time enough to turn a single cell into a human life. It was certainly time enough for an English judge to understand the importance of a man like Boris Berezovsky.

When the moment finally came, Berezovsky did his best to control his expression as he stared intently at the judge. He was trying to read her face, trying to see through the curvature of her eyes as she read through her notes at her bench, to the intent inside, trying to prepare himself for whatever verdict she gave. In his heart he believed she had only one choice: she had heard his story and now she was going to give him what was rightfully his-money, but also validation. The trial had laid bare the corruption of modern Russia, and the uniqueness of the Russian business environment. It had shown the world that a man from nothing, from nowhere, had used his brilliance and innate talents to build himself into the ultimate power broker-and how it had viciously been taken away by a tyrant and a former protege, a former friend.

When the judge finally raised her eyes, a hush swept through Courtroom 26, and Berezovsky leaned forward in his seat, his heart pounding in his chest. She began to speak, legalese, first, English words that might as well have been Martian. Berezovsky found himself smiling; he could see, out of the corners of his eyes, both his team and Abramovich's team looking around at each other-everyone but the lawyers, who understood what was happening-but he kept his attention focused on the judge. Eventually, she began to make sense, her words shifting to something he could comprehend-and suddenly his entire face froze, the smile still in place, but behind it, only pain.

"On my a.n.a.lysis of the entirety of the evidence," she said, "I found Mr. Berezovsky an unimpressive and inherently unreliable witness, who regarded truth as a transitory, flexible concept, which could be molded to suit his current purposes. At times the evidence which he gave was deliberately dishonest; sometimes he was clearly making his evidence up as he went along . . . at other times, I gained the impression that he was not necessarily being deliberately dishonest, but had deluded himself into believing his own version of events. I regret to say that the bottom line of my a.n.a.lysis of Mr. Berezovsky's credibility is that he would have said almost anything to support his case."

From there, she continued to the details of the case. For twenty minutes, maybe more, she spoke, but Berezovksy was already gone, his mind swirling away from that courtroom, away from the pain of what he considered a personal attack on his character, on his memory, on his life. Abramovich had won the trial, that was obvious. But it was almost irrelevant. The judgment was not only about billions-money that Berezovsky desperately needed to support his lifestyle-but about how the world would see him from this point on. Dishonest, unreliable, a gangster, a liar.

Worst of all, the word that struck him like a blow to his very soul: unimpressive.

As the judge finally finished speaking, as Courtroom 26 began to clear, Berezovsky remained still as stone, rooted to his seat.

It was clear to him now. He had truly lost everything.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.

March 22, 2013, Four Seasons Hotel, Park Lane, London FROM WHERE BEREZOVSKY WAS standing, in a darkened corner at the very end of the long, black-lacquered bar, half leaning against the edge of a chest-high chair paneled in a deep crimson velvet, he could just make out the pianist's fingers as they trickled along the ivory keys, following the pattern of notes behind a tune decidedly jazzy in nature, something Western and light and airy, but still with a hint of depth, lilting scales that went on forever, rising above the noise in the crowded, elegant lounge, above the clink of gla.s.ses and the clang of silverware, of couples chatting, businessmen discussing deals, tourists consulting maps and considering museums, churches, restaurants. Music that should have been nothing but background, somehow elevated to the point where it was all Berezovsky could hear.

He wasn't certain why he was still in the bar. The Four Seasons was quite close to his office, easily within walking distance; even so, of course his car was waiting outside, engine running. He could also have headed home, to his mansion in the suburbs, or perhaps to the flat he kept in the city. He could have headed out of London, to any number of places. Well, any number of places that didn't have any sort of extradition treaties with Russia, that weren't in the midst of the relentless machine gobbling up more of his a.s.sets, confiscating his houses or boats or cars.

But the engine that had powered him for so long-the adrenaline that had kept him running at such incredible speed, rushing from one thing to another, a bullet train, a man who couldn't keep still within his own skin-had finally seized, shut down, gone cold. And here he was, standing in a bar just a few blocks from his office, thinking through the short interview he had just given moments before.

It had been the first time he'd spoken to anyone in the press since the trial. In fact, he'd essentially hidden himself away for the past seven months, since that horrifying verdict, refusing most visitors, not answering any mail, even changing his phone number. He wasn't sure why he had finally relented. Maybe he'd realized that at the very least, he needed to try to put his thoughts out loud; maybe, somehow, speaking would organize the swirling chaos that now dominated his mind.

The reporter, a native Russian, a competent, intelligent journalist by the name of Ilya Zhegulev-had, ironically, been from the Russian edition of Forbes-the same magazine Berezovsky had sued for libel for suggesting that he was some sort of gangster. Since then, Paul Klebnikov, the journalist who wrote that piece-and coined the label "G.o.dfather of the Kremlin"-had been gunned down outside the Forbes office in Moscow. On July 9, 2004, he'd been shot nine times with a semiautomatic pistol, then taken to a nearby hospital in an ambulance that didn't have any functioning oxygen tanks-only to bleed to death in an elevator that had somehow become stuck for over fifteen minutes in the hospital bas.e.m.e.nt. Klebnikov's murder remained unsolved, even though many fingers had pointed at Berezovsky.

But Berezovsky was beyond caring about irony; he wasn't sure what had made him finally acquiesce to speak with the Russian writer-and, in retrospect, going back over what he had said, he knew that it would have taken more than a quality journalist or an experienced linguist to decipher what he'd been trying to say. From the very beginning, he'd realized that maybe he'd been wrong to think he was ready to make any sort of statement. Throughout the interview, he'd continually asked that it be off the record.

If he remembered the conversation correctly, he'd started off by both attacking and praising Badri; trying to explain recent press reports that he and Badri had gone through some sort of financial "divorce" before Badri pa.s.sed away, which had resulted in the lawsuit and settlement with Badri's widow. And then the conversation had shifted quickly to his own despondence at his current state-the mistakes he'd made, the miscalculations that had led him in the wrong direction since he'd left Russia. He'd told the reporter how much he missed his homeland, and how badly he wanted to return. Not to the political world, not to challenge Putin or fund a revolution or fight for democracy. Just to return home.

It wasn't simply an old man's musings after a year of tragedies, financial, personal, and legal. At some point between the end of the trial and that night at the Four Seasons, Berezovsky had taken this idea-this sudden dream-and had tried to find a way to make it a reality. To that end, he had shut himself into his office on Down Street, had sealed the double doors and set the combination, then had sat at his desk and written a letter-to Vladimir Putin.