On the hunt for oligarchs in the ‘wild west’ of corporate intelligence, FT Magazine, April 2022
“When the blow is finally delivered, it comes quick, polished and polite.”
Cover story for the Financial Times Magazine focused on corporate intelligent specialists who are the experts in serving legal papers to elusive figures such as oligarchs and royals
Published 28 April 2022
Extract
The afternoon of October 4 2014 was peculiarly bright in London and too fine to be stood for hours sweating with nerves in a navy wool suit, but Paul Austin likes to look smart when he delivers the blow. Serving someone legal papers likely means “you are ruining that person’s day, quite badly”, he tells me. A certain formality, looking more like a business associate than “a heavy”, can make the whole thing more genteel and help the medicine — a bitter thing to swallow for the oligarchs and wayward globe-trotters Austin deals with — go down easier.
The target that day was Leonid Mikhelson, a Russian-Israeli gas magnate once reported to be Russia’s richest man and, as of earlier this month, one of the Putin-allied oligarchs sanctioned by the UK. Austin had chased Mikhelson for months, fruitlessly trying to spy on his whereabouts, but had never come close. He hadn’t even come within miles of close. Mikhelson, who has a thick slab of grey hair and enjoyably expressive eyebrows, landed in London the night before on a chartered flight from Moscow. He likes to fritter his billions on art and, in 2009, started the V-A-C Foundation — named after his daughter, Victoria — which has given large sums to some of the UK’s top art institutions, including Tate.
Now, Mikhelson was en route to another beneficiary, the Whitechapel Gallery in east London, for the opening of an exhibition featuring highlights from his private collection, including pieces by Louise Bourgeois, Alberto Giacometti, Willem de Kooning. He was to be accompanied by Victoria — groomed, blonde — just in from New York, where she was studying art history, and Teresa Mavica — groomed, blonde — then V-A-C’s director.
That morning, Austin and half a dozen colleagues had convened in a nearby hotel room to discuss their plan and its potential pitfalls. What if Mikhelson arrived surrounded by security? What if he didn’t show at all? After months of attempted surveillance, this felt like their one chance. The endeavour had been expensive for their client, Alexandre Tseitline, a businessman living in Israel who alleged Mikhelson had breached a 2007 real-estate agreement. “You don’t want to, you know, cock it up. Because it costs a fortune to have six people there, and also the preceding months, of chasing this guy around,” says Austin.
Come mid-afternoon, he was in position waiting near the gallery’s entrance, envelope in hand. Another colleague, Darren Harber, stood nearby with a duplicate envelope, just in case. Others stood further down the road, should Mikhelson use a different entrance. Their goal was simple: hand Mikhelson the papers; tell him, clearly and firmly, he had been served; walk away. Nearby, a group of curators and fundraisers from the gallery smoothed their finery and fixed their smiles, unaware of the other welcome party lying in wait.
Mikhelson arrived in a chauffeured car at 6.20pm. Seeing the vehicle edge closer, Austin felt his heart rate rise before quickly stabilising as Mikhelson got out. He had no security, a welcome surprise. Austin approached and extended his hand with the document. Mikhelson, smiling at the suited man standing in front of him, reached for it and, for a moment, Austin felt a flood of relief. It was happening; he was doing it; it would soon be done. Briefly, both men held the envelope simultaneously. Austin began his spiel — “I’m here to serve you papers as part of a High Court claim” — but then, no. Mikhelson had whispered something to his daughter and was pulling away, his face ashen. The transaction was faltering; the envelope remained with Austin. “Speak only Russian,” Mikhelson barked in English, before hurrying inside. Austin and his colleague followed into the lobby. Again the papers were proffered and dodged. Imagine fencers trying to sink a jab. Harber attempted to stuff his envelope between Mikhelson’s body and his arm, where it balanced for a split-second before dropping to the ground. At another point, the envelope slid down Mikhelson’s chest, falling at his feet as the Russian extended his arms wide to avoid taking it, like an opera singer hitting a high note. It was “pandemonium”, says Austin. From his research, he knew Mikhelson’s daughter spoke fluent English. But his pleas that she tell her father to accept the service went ignored. When the papers were placed on her handbag, she let them fall away.
You can appreciate the juxtapositions of the scene: the hushed quiet of the art gallery, the formality one is meant to assume in the vicinity of supposedly high culture, and the unfolding commotion, an awkward, undignified game of pass-the-parcel. For Mikhelson, it was “humiliating”, Austin says. “Everyone was doing that very English thing of just standing there thinking, God this is really awful but I’m not going to do anything or say anything. Let’s pretend it’s not happening. The gallery staff were just horrified at us.” Finally, Mikhelson marched from the foyer through another set of doors into the gallery, where he could be swaddled in the safety and deference patronage affords. As he walked away, Austin made one last-ditch attempt. He hurled the document over the gaggle towards the Russian’s back, but the door swung closed too quickly and the envelope slipped down the blackened glass and landed on the floor, where it remained for a while, guests scanning it with distaste. Austin picked it up and left. What a mess, he thought.