the times | Monday April 4 2022 3
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ROBERT WILSOT FOR THE TIMES MAGAZITEpopped up on Mark’s phone showing
Klyuev and Pavlov sitting on a couch
in Spencer Oliver’s makeshift office at
the Grimaldi Forum. It was the best
picture Mark or any of us had ever
seen of Klyuev.
Mark ran over to the Forum’s press
centre. The lounge was empty, except
for a Georgian TV crew drinking
coffee. Mark jogged over to them and
stopped short in front of the female
correspondent, Ketevan Kardava,
whom Mark knew. “Ketevan, I need
your camera!”
The cameraman, who looked more
like a rugby player than a technician,
gruffly asked, “Why would I give you
my camera?”
“You guys were at our film the other
day, right? Dmitry Klyuev is here.”
The Georgians looked at one
another in disbelief. “No way,”
Ketevan said. Mark scrolled though
his phone and held out Neil’s picture
at arm’s length.
Her eyes widened. The crew spoke
among themselves in Georgian and
then Ketevan said, “Let’s go.” (Russia
had invaded Georgia in 2008, and the
emotional and physical wounds were
still fresh — there was no love lost
between Georgians and Russians.)
Mark and the Georgians rushed to
the escalators. Within a few minutes,
Dmitry Klyuev, Andrei Pavlov, and
two members of the Russian foreign
ministry emerged in the hall. Klyuev
and Pavlov wore official OSCE badges
around their necks. These had been
provided to them by the Russian
delegation, even though neither of the
men had any official position in the
Russian government.
The Georgians started filming.
Klyuev tried to ignore them. He
slouched slightly and stuffed his
badge in his pocket. He glanced
around nervously, stepped onto the
escalator, and went upstairs towards
the exits.
The Georgians only got about a
minute of video, but that was all we
needed. After Klyuev had left the
building, the crew went back to the
press centre, downloaded the footage,
and sent a link to Mark.
Klyuev’s unexpected presence in
Monaco was almost too good to be
true. There was no way that Spencer
Oliver would have agreed to meet
with Dmitry Klyuev unless the
Russian government had formally
asked Spencer to take the meeting.
All of this proved our point: the
Klyuev Organised Crime Group and
the Russian government were one
and the same.
With only hours before the vote,
Mark showed the Klyuev clip to MPs
throughout the assembly.
Any of the doubts aired at our
screening had now evaporated. When
the assembly convened, the vote
on the Magnitsky resolution passed
291-18. The only delegations to vote
against it were from Russia, Belarus
and Kazakhstan.
The Russians had spectacularly
overplayed their hand. Not only had
they failed to stop the Magnitsky
resolution, but their actions cemented
their defeat. Moreover, we had
succeeded in forcing Dmitry Klyuev
out of the shadows.
Mark came home triumphant, but
then the news got even better. Based
on the reporting coming out of
Monaco, Swiss law enforcement had
frozen Klyuev’s Swiss bank accounts.
This was the second freezing order
in the Magnitsky case. It would not be
the last.a cab back to my French hotel. Once
in my room, I checked my email. As
I scrolled through the messages, a
new one arrived. It was from one
“Svetlana Melnikova”.
“Dear Mr Browder,” it read, “I very
much enjoyed meeting you earlier
this evening. I thought we had a very
strong connection. I was wondering if
you’d like to meet for a drink at your
hotel? Where are you staying?” She
signed it, “Kisses, S.”
Strong connection? We’d spent
all of two minutes standing in line
together. What was she talking about?
I didn’t respond.
An hour later, as I was getting into
bed, another email arrived. “William,
are you still awake? I am. I can’t stop
thinking about you. I’d really like to
see you this evening. More kisses, S.”
I had to laugh. I’m a 5ft 9in
middle-aged bald man. Six-foot, busty
blonde models don’t throw themselves
at me. This couldn’t have been a more
blatant honeytrap.
But as I lay in the dark, my mind
spun. Here I was at a conference in
Monaco getting hit with a honeytrap.
Sure, it was ham-fisted and clumsy, but
it meant that I had been standing next
to an FSB operative that very night.
The honeytrap hadn’t worked, but the
Russians knew I was in Monaco.
At first light, I stuffed my things in
my bag and went down to the hotel
lobby to order a taxi. The night
manager offered the cab waiting
outside, but I refused.
“Please call a new one.” He didn’t
understand why I was being so fussy,
and I didn’t explain.
A few minutes later, a black
Mercedes pulled up. I instructed the
driver to go to Menton, a French town
in the opposite direction from Nice
Airport. I kept looking out the back
window. There was nobody on our tail,
so I told the driver to turn around and
head back in the direction of Nice.
I called Mark, waking him. I relayed
what had happened with Svetlana as
well as my fear that the FSB knew our
whereabouts. I asked him to meet me
at the British Airways desk at Nice
Airport. “It’s not safe here.”
“Bill, you’re way overreacting.
They’re not targeting me. And I won’t
go with any Russian girls — promise.
Let me finish what we came here to
do.” I gave in.
I returned to London alone, and,
for the next couple of days, Mark
systematically worked his way through
the European delegations, making our
case for the Magnitsky resolution and
encountering few headwinds.
But then, on the day of the vote,
Mark got a call from a man named
Neil Simon, the press officer for
Spencer Oliver, the secretary general
of the Parliamentary Assembly. “You
won’t f***ing believe this. Dmitry
Klyuev and [his lawyer] Andrei Pavlov
are meeting with Spencer in his office
right now!”
“What?” Mark choked.
“Klyuev is here with Spencer and —”
“Doing what?”
“He’s trying to convince Spencer to
take the Magnitsky resolution off
the agenda.”
“Dmitry Klyuev? Our Dmitry
Klyuev?”
The Russian FSB had a lot of things
in their toolkit, but to dispatch a
major organised crime boss to
personally lobby the head of an
international political organisation?
That was a new one.
Mark asked Neil to send him a
picture. Within seconds, a photoBill Browder. Left:
MonacoI made my pitch for the Magnitsky
resolution, and concluded, “As you
can see, there’s now no difference
between the Russian government and
organised crime.” There was universal
support for the upcoming Magnitsky
resolution, but a number of delegates
thought I had gone too far in asserting
that the Russian government was so
thoroughly criminalised.
A Belgian MP invited us to a
cocktail reception hosted by Monaco’s
prime minister at a hotel that evening.
At the event, I noticed that nearly
every person we passed spoke Russian.
It was extremely unnerving. As
we scanned the crowd, we were
approached by a friend of Mark’s, an
American OSCE staffer named Anna
Chernova. “Why are all these Russians
here?” Mark asked.
Anna responded in a whisper, “For
most politicians, this is work. But for
the Russians it’s a holiday and the
government pays for everything.”
Russia was also a member of the
OSCE, along with other non-
European countries like the United
States and Canada, but they had sent
an unusually large delegation.
Anna pointed at a group of
overweight, middle-aged men perched
at the bar. “Those are the Russian
MPs.” She nodded at a bunch of
women wearing too much jewellery
and high-end clothing milling around
the buffet. “And those are the wives.”
Then she swung towards the far end of
the pool, where there was a gaggle of
bikini-clad blondes, none of them
older than 25. “And those are the
mistresses. The kids are all up in their
rooms on their iPads.”
A short while later, as I queued for
the buffet, I felt someone push into my
back. I moved forward to make room,
but then it happened again. I glanced
out the corner of my eye and realised
it was a woman. I turned to find a
stunning, 6ft blonde with full red lips.
She smelt like sandalwood. She wore
a simple black cocktail dress and high
heels. She smiled warmly. In English
with a slight Russian accent she said,
“Hello. I’m Svetlana. Are you here for
the conference?”
“Yes I am. And you?”
“I live in Monaco and I’m
volunteering at the OSCE. It’s a very
interesting event, don’t you think?”
I nodded. I grabbed a plate and
a napkin rolled with silverware.
Svetlana did the same and continued
to make conversation. “I normally
work in fashion. But I find politics
to be so fascinating.”
Given that earlier in the day I’d
accused the Russian government of
having merged with Russian organised
crime, I wasn’t too keen to engage
further with any Russian, let alone a
beautiful woman who “normally”
worked in “fashion”.
I reached the food and filled my
plate, then shuffled off to a bar table
to eat on my own.
When I went to get dessert, though,
Svetlana sidled up to me again.
This time she asked, “Are you
speaking at the conference?”
“I am.”
“What’s your topic?”
“Human rights.”
“Oh! Human rights are very
interesting. Do you have a visit
card?” She touched my arm with her
fingertips, letting them linger there
for a moment too long.
Just then, a pair of MPs who’d been
at the screening appeared and began
peppering me with questions. Svetlana
loitered among them. A few minutes
later, both MPs asked for my contact
details. Svetlana held out her hand
expectantly. It would have been
awkward not to give her a card as
well, so I did.
Mark and Anna joined me, and
the group dispersed. Svetlana slipped
away as well. Mark asked, “Who’s the
hot blonde?”
“A Russian girl interested in fashion
and human rights,” I answered flatly.
Mark smirked.
I was exhausted and didn’t stay at
the reception much longer. I tookI felt
someone
push into
my back.
I turned
to find a
stunning,
6ft blonde
with full
red lips
Extracted from
Freezing Order: A
True Story of Money
Laundering, Murder
and Surviving Vladimir
Putin’s Wrath by Bill
Browder, published on
April 12 (Simon &
Schuster, £20)