Red Notice: A True Story of High Finance, Murder, and One Man's Fight for Justice by Bill Browder Page A
Authors: Bill Browder
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without a trace of disappointment he said, “Sure I do, Bill. If you need someone with asset management experience, then I’ll bring in someone with asset management experience.”
I winced as he said this. I imagined him coming back to me with a cousin from some small brokerage firm and putting me in an even more awkward position as I turned him down a second time.
But twenty minutes later he called back. “How would you feel if Edmond Safra did the deal with us, Bill?”
Edmond Safra! Safra was the owner of Republic National Bank of New York, and his name was like gold in the world of private banking. If Edmond Safra was willing to join this venture, it would be like winning the lottery.
“Yeah, that would address the issue. I’m very interested, Beny.”
“Good. I’ll set up a meeting.”
The same afternoon he phoned back. “It’s all set. Fly to Nice and be on the Carlton pier in Cannes tomorrow at noon.”
But I have to work tomorrow , I thought. “Beny, can we do this next week sometime so I can—”
“Safra is ready to see you tomorrow, Bill,” Beny interrupted, irritated. “Do you think it’s easy to get a meeting with him?”
“Uh, of course not. Okay, I’ll be there.”
I bought a ticket, and when I woke up the next morning, I put on my suit, went straight to Heathrow, and checked in for the 7:45 a.m. flight to Nice. Before boarding I called the trading desk, faked a raspy cough, and said I needed the day off.
I arrived in Nice, and, following Beny’s instructions, I took a taxi to the Carlton Hotel in Cannes. The bellman thought I was checking in, but instead I asked how to get to the pier. He pointed across the Boulevard de la Croisette at a long gray pier that extended past the beach and into the blue Mediterranean. I crossed the street squinting against the sun (I’d forgotten my sunglasses in cloud-covered London) and stepped onto the pier. I walked over the planks passing beautiful, tanned people in their tiny swimsuits. I was completely out of place with my dark wool suit and my pasty-white skin. By the time I reached the end, I was sweating. I checked my watch. Five minutes to noon.
A couple minutes later, I noticed a bright speedboat approaching from the west. As it got closer, I realized that it was Beny. He pulled his boat—a forty-five-foot, white-and-blue Sunseeker—to a chortling stop at the edge of the pier and yelled, “Bill, get on!”
Beny was dressed like a Côte d’Azur playboy in a light apricot shirt and white linen pants. The contrast between us couldn’t have been starker. I unsteadily hopped aboard. “Take your shoes off!” he ordered. I did, revealing black socks pulled above my ankles.
Beny maneuvered the boat away, and as soon as we were free of the no-wake zone, he punched it. I tried to talk about the meeting andSafra, but the engine and the wind were so loud it was impossible. We rode east back toward Nice hard and fast for half an hour, rounding the Antibes peninsula and crossing the Baie des Anges before arriving at the port of Villefranche-sur-Mer.
Beny pulled into an empty slip, tied off the boat, and had a rapid-fire exchange with the harbormaster in French about mooring for the afternoon. When Beny was done, we made our way to the parking lot, where a pair of armed security guards ushered us to a waiting black Mercedes. The car climbed up through winding roads to one of the highest points above Villefranche. We eventually entered the grounds of a sprawling private residence, which I later learned was the most expensive house in the world. This was La Leopolda. It looked a lot like the Palais de Versailles, the difference being that here dozens of ex-Mossad bodyguards in black tactical gear patrolled the grounds with Uzis and SIG Sauer pistols.
We got out of the car and were escorted through a colorful garden with a splashing fountain surrounded by pointed cypress trees. We were shown into a vast and ornate living room overlooking the sea.
I winced as he said this. I imagined him coming back to me with a cousin from some small brokerage firm and putting me in an even more awkward position as I turned him down a second time.
But twenty minutes later he called back. “How would you feel if Edmond Safra did the deal with us, Bill?”
Edmond Safra! Safra was the owner of Republic National Bank of New York, and his name was like gold in the world of private banking. If Edmond Safra was willing to join this venture, it would be like winning the lottery.
“Yeah, that would address the issue. I’m very interested, Beny.”
“Good. I’ll set up a meeting.”
The same afternoon he phoned back. “It’s all set. Fly to Nice and be on the Carlton pier in Cannes tomorrow at noon.”
But I have to work tomorrow , I thought. “Beny, can we do this next week sometime so I can—”
“Safra is ready to see you tomorrow, Bill,” Beny interrupted, irritated. “Do you think it’s easy to get a meeting with him?”
“Uh, of course not. Okay, I’ll be there.”
I bought a ticket, and when I woke up the next morning, I put on my suit, went straight to Heathrow, and checked in for the 7:45 a.m. flight to Nice. Before boarding I called the trading desk, faked a raspy cough, and said I needed the day off.
I arrived in Nice, and, following Beny’s instructions, I took a taxi to the Carlton Hotel in Cannes. The bellman thought I was checking in, but instead I asked how to get to the pier. He pointed across the Boulevard de la Croisette at a long gray pier that extended past the beach and into the blue Mediterranean. I crossed the street squinting against the sun (I’d forgotten my sunglasses in cloud-covered London) and stepped onto the pier. I walked over the planks passing beautiful, tanned people in their tiny swimsuits. I was completely out of place with my dark wool suit and my pasty-white skin. By the time I reached the end, I was sweating. I checked my watch. Five minutes to noon.
A couple minutes later, I noticed a bright speedboat approaching from the west. As it got closer, I realized that it was Beny. He pulled his boat—a forty-five-foot, white-and-blue Sunseeker—to a chortling stop at the edge of the pier and yelled, “Bill, get on!”
Beny was dressed like a Côte d’Azur playboy in a light apricot shirt and white linen pants. The contrast between us couldn’t have been starker. I unsteadily hopped aboard. “Take your shoes off!” he ordered. I did, revealing black socks pulled above my ankles.
Beny maneuvered the boat away, and as soon as we were free of the no-wake zone, he punched it. I tried to talk about the meeting andSafra, but the engine and the wind were so loud it was impossible. We rode east back toward Nice hard and fast for half an hour, rounding the Antibes peninsula and crossing the Baie des Anges before arriving at the port of Villefranche-sur-Mer.
Beny pulled into an empty slip, tied off the boat, and had a rapid-fire exchange with the harbormaster in French about mooring for the afternoon. When Beny was done, we made our way to the parking lot, where a pair of armed security guards ushered us to a waiting black Mercedes. The car climbed up through winding roads to one of the highest points above Villefranche. We eventually entered the grounds of a sprawling private residence, which I later learned was the most expensive house in the world. This was La Leopolda. It looked a lot like the Palais de Versailles, the difference being that here dozens of ex-Mossad bodyguards in black tactical gear patrolled the grounds with Uzis and SIG Sauer pistols.
We got out of the car and were escorted through a colorful garden with a splashing fountain surrounded by pointed cypress trees. We were shown into a vast and ornate living room overlooking the sea.
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