Free Once Upon a Time in Russia by Ben Mezrich Page A

approach the situation in a very narrow, practical way: a one-hundred-five-pound woman in a pantsuit, long blond hair tied up in a bun, hauling a forty-three pound suitcase up a flight of stairs.
    Just getting the damn thing from the armored car parked out front, through the back security entrance of the Logovaz Club, had taken the help of two of the bodyguards her employers had sentwith her from Abramovich’s offices. Unfortunately, the Logovaz’s own security team hadn’t been keen on letting her men escort her into the building. So here she was now, on her own, dragging what felt like a ship’s anchor wrapped in polyester, step by torturous step. The Logovaz security men now standing by, gawking at her, had offered to help—one of them had even made a grab for the suitcase—but Marina had slapped his hand away. She didn’t know these men, and the last thing she was going to do was let someone else handle the package she had been sent to deliver.
    She did her best to tune out the men watching her, as she focused on her efforts, the muscles in her forearms and thighs straining against the expensive material of her suit. She had taken only a few steps before her progress was suddenly interrupted by a young man with slicked-back hair and a tailored blue jacket rushing down from the top of the steps and skidding to a stop in front of her.
    â€œExcuse me, miss. Can I help you?” he asked, his voice nearly cracking.
    Marina didn’t know the young man by sight, but she was pretty sure his name was Ivan. She had been told that one of Berezovsky’s assistants would meet her at the door—and yet, even so, she wasn’t about to hand off the heavy suitcase to this kid whom she’d never met before.
    â€œI have a package that I need to pass on to Mr. Berezovsky,” she said, “And as you can see, it’s rather large. So it’s going to take me some time.”
    Ivan held out a thin, pale hand.
    â€œYou can leave it with me.”
    Marina shook her head, her bun bouncing with the motion.
    â€œNo. I have to transfer this package myself. I have to pass this on personally, namely to Mr. Berezovsky.”
    Ivan didn’t seem pleased at all—but Marina didn’t really care. She was an accountant, this man was an assistant—and the contents of the suitcase were well beyond both their responsibility levels. Marina knew this for certain, because she had packed the damn thing herself. And that, alone, had been an experience she was certain she would never forget.
    There was a frozen, awkward moment, while Ivan tried to figure out what to do and continued to block her progress up the stairs. Finally he shrugged and guided her forward toward the lobby of the club. At least one of the nearby security men snickered at the sight of the slight young woman towing a heavy suitcase—while the impotent assistant simply led the way—but Marina ignored him. She knew they were all bit players in this farce, witnesses who saw nothing that their employers didn’t want them to see, who heard nothing but what they were told to hear.
    Even so, it was hard for Marina not to feel self-conscious, as they slowly worked their way through the various floors of the Logovaz. She had never been in this place before and felt out of place in the crowded club, especially around the expensive suits of the businessmen and designer cocktail dresses of their guests. Marina couldn’t help but wonder if Ivan found the moment as surreal as she did; then again, working for a man like Berezovsky, he had probably seen many things even more bizarre than an accountant pulling a heavy suitcase.
    The truth was, moments like these were part of the new way of doing business in Russia, although this instance was an extreme. As a trusted employee of Roman Abramovich for many years now—and in her new position, at the “formation in process” of Sibneft—she had already