imaginable had to be imported. So Krupatin became a major importer with a government license, liberally bribing officials to back up his counterfeit bills of lading. He bought at low world-market prices, everything from shiploads of wheat to railcars full of porcelain toilets, and sold to the central government at inflated prices, always paying off party officials whenever he had to. He could afford it. From 1982 to 1985 he made staggering profits and began opening bank accounts all over Europe.
“Because of his established government connections, he was standing in the doorway of opportunity when perestroika walked through, the beginning of the golden age of organized crime in Russia.” Ometov sat back and crossed his arms thoughtfully, shaking his head.
“Free market economy. Well, Gorbachev, he was desperate. Everything was collapsing around him, poor bastard. The only people who had money to invest in these ‘free enterprises’ were the party barons, who had spent their careers siphoning money from the government, and the gangsters, whose black-market economy was in fact the real economy that kept Soviet society from imploding. So who do you suppose put their money into this new ‘private commerce’?” He nodded wearily. “Black and gray money flooded into joint ventures with Western entrepreneurs, it flooded into the stock exchanges, into cooperatives and banks and joint stock companies. During the six years of perestroika, Krupatin became a criminal giant. And he was not the only one.”
Ometov sighed hugely and stood up. He put his hands into his pockets and walked over to the glass wall. He stared out a moment, his sloping shoulders the very caricature of weariness. He turned around.
“In August 1991, the Soviet Union fell apart. Fifteen new nations emerged, and the criminals really went to work. Russia was like a helpless woman being gang-raped by her own children. There was an immediate hemorrhage of Russia’s natural resources, tons and tons every day, day in and day out—aluminum, petroleum, cobalt, nickel, steel, timber,cesium, uranium, titanium, silver, tin, and on and on and on. The independent republics—the former Soviet Union—plundered the country with the help of the
mafiya
, which had the money and the connections to obtain the material.
“And armaments. My God. Every crooked general who had any control over a military installation of any kind used its armory as his personal property—and sold it to the
mafiya.
Tanks, missiles, planes, automatic weapons, mortars … you can imagine. And who did the
mafiya
sell these weapons to? Everyone! Criminals, terrorists, drug traffickers, military establishments. Warring Third World armies.
“Our little Sergei was right in the middle of this. Money poured into his pockets. With these profits he entered the international drug trade on a scale that dwarfed his former efforts. Now that Russia’s borders were porous, he used them as transshipment avenues. He made contact with the Sicilians; he knew they were trafficking cocaine for the Colombians, who had no distribution network of their own in Europe. He offered his import companies as venues. It began to snow the year round in Europe. European consumption of cocaine jumped to two hundred tons annually—ten billion dollars’ worth on the streets. Krupatin’s drug profits quickly quadrupled.”
Ometov paused, pursed his mouth, and thought a moment. “Sergei traveled. He followed his money like a rat follows garbage, and he followed his businesses, which were now thoroughly established in Holland, Luxembourg, Belgium, Sweden, Germany, Britain, and the United States. His Chechen thugs were raising the crime rate in every country, laundering money, dealing drugs and weapons and stolen antiques and stolen cars, extorting, blackmailing, running protection rackets. It was a Russian holiday.
“Krupatin himself was long out of the day-to-day operations of all this, however. Today he simply travels
“Because of his established government connections, he was standing in the doorway of opportunity when perestroika walked through, the beginning of the golden age of organized crime in Russia.” Ometov sat back and crossed his arms thoughtfully, shaking his head.
“Free market economy. Well, Gorbachev, he was desperate. Everything was collapsing around him, poor bastard. The only people who had money to invest in these ‘free enterprises’ were the party barons, who had spent their careers siphoning money from the government, and the gangsters, whose black-market economy was in fact the real economy that kept Soviet society from imploding. So who do you suppose put their money into this new ‘private commerce’?” He nodded wearily. “Black and gray money flooded into joint ventures with Western entrepreneurs, it flooded into the stock exchanges, into cooperatives and banks and joint stock companies. During the six years of perestroika, Krupatin became a criminal giant. And he was not the only one.”
Ometov sighed hugely and stood up. He put his hands into his pockets and walked over to the glass wall. He stared out a moment, his sloping shoulders the very caricature of weariness. He turned around.
“In August 1991, the Soviet Union fell apart. Fifteen new nations emerged, and the criminals really went to work. Russia was like a helpless woman being gang-raped by her own children. There was an immediate hemorrhage of Russia’s natural resources, tons and tons every day, day in and day out—aluminum, petroleum, cobalt, nickel, steel, timber,cesium, uranium, titanium, silver, tin, and on and on and on. The independent republics—the former Soviet Union—plundered the country with the help of the
mafiya
, which had the money and the connections to obtain the material.
“And armaments. My God. Every crooked general who had any control over a military installation of any kind used its armory as his personal property—and sold it to the
mafiya.
Tanks, missiles, planes, automatic weapons, mortars … you can imagine. And who did the
mafiya
sell these weapons to? Everyone! Criminals, terrorists, drug traffickers, military establishments. Warring Third World armies.
“Our little Sergei was right in the middle of this. Money poured into his pockets. With these profits he entered the international drug trade on a scale that dwarfed his former efforts. Now that Russia’s borders were porous, he used them as transshipment avenues. He made contact with the Sicilians; he knew they were trafficking cocaine for the Colombians, who had no distribution network of their own in Europe. He offered his import companies as venues. It began to snow the year round in Europe. European consumption of cocaine jumped to two hundred tons annually—ten billion dollars’ worth on the streets. Krupatin’s drug profits quickly quadrupled.”
Ometov paused, pursed his mouth, and thought a moment. “Sergei traveled. He followed his money like a rat follows garbage, and he followed his businesses, which were now thoroughly established in Holland, Luxembourg, Belgium, Sweden, Germany, Britain, and the United States. His Chechen thugs were raising the crime rate in every country, laundering money, dealing drugs and weapons and stolen antiques and stolen cars, extorting, blackmailing, running protection rackets. It was a Russian holiday.
“Krupatin himself was long out of the day-to-day operations of all this, however. Today he simply travels
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