Meeting Mendeleev.A short story based on true events.

by Joshua Wilwohl
June, 2022.

I’d never met a billionaire before, let alone one who was a fugitive. But Sergei Mendeleev was what you’d expect of a wanted Russian oligarch hiding out in luxury on a Cambodian island. By his own account, he was a stand-up guy: a simple real estate mogul whose name had been blackened by envious tycoons. Interpol’s Red Notice was more categorical: ‘Embezzlement’. The official line was that he’d swindled hundreds of millions from state-backed investors in Russia’s construction sector. Mendeleev insisted it was a Putin-led conspiracy to destroy him. He posted rants daily on Facebook and signed off each one with ‘abracadabra boom’, presumably to underline the magical mystery of his evasion.

A few days after the Red Notice news, I was scrolling through Mendeleev’s feed when he posted: ‘+855 77 996 762. Call now!!!!! I meet first reporter who dial number and write truth!!!!!’

I glanced around the newsroom and saw the other reporters were only scrolling or typing. I pulled the office phone across my desk and pressed the digits.

‘Hello,’ a woman’s voice said.

I introduced myself, and she instructed me to write down a date, time and directions to a dock in Sihanoukville.

‘A boat will take you to Mendeleev.’

‘Really?’

She hung up.

A minute later, the post disappeared from his wall, and I ran across the office to my editor. He moved his head back and forth in thought before he said, ‘Do you trust her?’

‘I think so.’

He clicked his tongue and nodded with approval.

‘Keep in contact. Any sign of trouble, get out.’

I arrived the next day in Sihanoukville. I hailed a tuk-tuk driver and pointed down Rue Pasteur.

‘Three lefts, then a right,’ I said, offering the driver $5.

He shook his head and insisted he knew a quicker way.

‘No, Bong. Two right, then left.’

I put the note away and held out a $10 bill.

‘OK, Bong. OK.’

After three lefts and a right, we arrived at an empty beach with a small wooden dock concealed from view by coconut trees and mangroves.

The dock looked recently built with wooden planks nailed to thick tree trunks sunk into the sand. I waited a few minutes under the afternoon sun until the sound of an engine startled me as it drifted in from offshore. A light blue motorboat appeared from behind the mangroves with three men aboard. One of them, a dark-skinned Cambodian dressed in a police uniform, had an AK-47 strapped over his shoulder. The other two men were white, bulky and bald—typical Eastern European, dressed in black combat attire. As the boat approached, one of them stepped off the stern and walked to the bow. His sidekick, the captain, threw a dock line. The cop jumped off with the machine gun swinging under his arm and walked over to me. He was grinning, baring teeth that were stained brown from betel nut.

‘Mendeleev,’ he said.

I nodded.

The henchman cut between us. He pushed my arms up and my legs apart, then patted me down and checked my backpack. When he was satisfied that I was unarmed, he stepped back and motioned toward the boat. The captain untied the rope, lit a cigarette and spoke Russian into a two-way radio. In less than twenty seconds, we were out of the dock and into the gulf.

The boat had seen better days. Paint peeled from the sidewalls, and rusted chains dangled from the ledges. A thin metal roof attached to four pillars covered the helm, where a folding chair functioned as the cockpit. A Cambodian flag fluttered from a pole above the engines. Water sprayed over the sides as we sliced through waves.

The cop was sitting on the other side of the stern, facing me and smiling.

‘Suosdei, Bong,’ I said.

‘Oh! Khmer, very good.’

I’d been in Cambodia for two years, and I had a basic grasp of Khmer. But I’d yet to meet a cop who spoke much English, other than words relating to money.

‘How long until we arrive?’

He shrugged.

‘Twenty minutes,’ the captain said.

‘Is Mendeleev there?’

‘Oh! Mendeleev,’ the cop said. ‘He good man.’

‘So, he’ll be there?’

‘Oh! Yes, yes. He good man.’

The Russians laughed like maniacs. The cop smiled like a lunatic. I looked at my watch. We had eighteen more minutes. I turned away and stared across the water. The only visible sights were trawlers, which kept their distance.

With a few minutes left, the cop moved to the bow and the captain spoke into the radio. I saw a small rocky island in the distance. There was a tall building, surrounded by greenery, and the sun hit something on it that reflected like a speck of gold. The cop twisted around, gave me a thumbs up, and shouted, ‘Mendeleev!’

At the dock, more than half a dozen shirtless men with pot bellies moved to secure the boat. The two Russians and the cop departed along the plankway, leaving me with the welcoming party. Conspicuous among them was a tall, broad-shouldered woman in a tight white dress and high heels that seemed ill suited to the terrain.

‘Welcome to Koh Kbal,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘Please, call me Olga.’

It was the same voice as the one on the phone. But in real life, her accent was more sensual.

‘Come with me.’

We walked along the dock past a brick house. Inside, a few men dressed in black studied security monitors. On one of the monitors was my face—the same picture from my government-issued press ID card. We passed under an elevated guard post and followed a wooden path through the island’s jungle. The rainforest canopy resounded with perfect bird sounds, which I’m certain were part of a soundtrack piped in on hidden speakers for Mendeleev’s amusement.

As we emerged into the island centre, I saw a large tower etched with the same serene faces sculpted in ancient stone on the Angkorian Bayon temple—except these were painted gold. Several suspended walkways jutted from the building to other structures, including a bell-shaped Buddhist pagoda. A giant plastic octopus hung over a pool and a couple of real-life monkeys swung in the trees.

Olga led me inside the tower to an enormous circular room. Sunlight beamed through a window above us onto a giant copper statue of a half-peeled banana, which stood erect in the centre of the room. Below it was a sign: ‘Danger! Hot.’ In an adjacent room was a pool table and a bar with king-sized seats carved from rosewood, the rare species I’d previously written about being illegally logged.

‘Please, sit. He will be with you soon,’ she said. She turned on her heel and left.

A few minutes later, a white cat appeared in the hallway like a palace concubine, slinking along the red-rugged corridor. I bent down and stroked her thick fur, and she purred and curled around my foot.

‘My pussy like you. You have way with ladies.’

I looked up and saw an almost naked giant of a man in the doorway. His head was a nest of tight curls and his blue swimming trunks seemed deliberately too small for the contents. I stood up and extended my hand, but he ignored it and crossed the room to the pool table, where he picked up some balls and juggled them for me. He was maybe seven feet tall and as tanned and chiselled as Johnny Weissmuller.

‘Mister Mendeleev?’

His eyes widened as though he was surprised I’d spoken, and he dropped the balls onto the table.

‘Mister is father. I am Mendeleev.’

He went back into the hallway and waved me to follow him. ‘Come.’

We rounded a corner into a corridor that was lined with taxidermy-style heads of characters from Dr. Seuss books.

‘Vlad Vladikoff. Favourite,’ he said.

We walked up a flight of railingless concrete steps. A solid oak door at the top opened onto a suspended rope bridge that was intertwined with thick forest vines. Each step was met with a creak until we reached an all-glass building. Propped up against a wall on the ground were several famous paintings by Vincent van Gogh and Monet.

‘Replicas?’

He wiggled his eyebrows.

We continued up an open-air spiral staircase that reconnected the central tower to a small, white-painted room where the Russian who piloted the boat sat at a bamboo desk. On the desk was a binder lying flat with a large sticker of the Brain from Pinky and the Brain and printed underneath it was the word ‘Mendelonium’.

‘Vlad. My head of security.’

Mendeleev walked toward one of the large open windows and leaned out. The sun shone gold across his face and he looked back at me with a grin.

‘View is good, you see?’

I went to the other window and saw that we were in the turret. Based on the height, the windows must’ve been the open mouths of the smiling faces.

‘This is your office?’

‘I like fresh air.’

He took a dramatic deep breath, spread his arms and exhaled.

‘Beautiful day for picnic. We go.’

He walked down another hallway opposite to where we’d entered. I went to follow him, but Vlad took my arm and motioned in the other direction, so I went back down the staircase and saw Olga standing at the bottom.

‘Are we going to do the interview?’

‘You are going to Koh Rong,’ she said in reference to a tourist island.

‘But I’m on deadline for tomorrow’s paper.’

She smiled and gestured toward a path that led to the dock.

I was soon back on the boat with Mendeleev, Vlad, the cop and four new black-clad bodyguards. The hull was filled with towels, underwater sea scooters, boxes of ammunition and a wicker picnic basket.

Mendeleev took a beer from the ice box, opened it and handed it to me. He then stretched out for an afternoon nap. I leaned against the sidewall opposite him. The cop leaned on the railing with a whistle, which he blew when any vessel came too close. About an hour later, we entered more crowded waters around Koh Rong. No one spoke, probably too afraid to wake their boss, whose body twitched with every sound of the whistle. When the whistling became incessant, Mendeleev woke up, clicked his fingers and demanded the cop’s machine gun. He held the AK-47 aloft in one hand and formed a finger gun with his other. With a wink, he turned to the sea and fired several shots into the air.

‘Go away you fucking fishing peasants,’ he shouted between bursts.

He swung around and pointed the gun at me, outlining my body with the barrel as he talked.

‘That is truth. Can’t make billions. Can’t build grand plans. But I help poor people. You write truth about Mendeleev. Tell world I am good man with grand plans, you know?’

He clicked his fingers again, returned the gun, and went back to sleep.

It was late afternoon when we reached the dock. Mendeleev told the cop to stay on the boat.

‘He good man, but uniform and gun … how you say … too showy.’

The rest of the entourage took me to a beachfront restaurant, the Sand Dollar, where Mendeleev ordered vodka and barbecued fish. We lounged in oversized wicker chairs. The oligarch spread out like gorged royalty, pontificating about world news. At one point, a group of Russian tourists recognised the billionaire and asked for photos with him. He obliged, arranging himself in elaborate poses for selfies.

‘He’s legend in Russia. A business genius,’ one of them said.

‘You hear that? “Genius.” You write that,’ Mendeleev said.

I leaned over to Vlad and asked him when I would get to talk with his boss.

‘Soon, soon.’

I checked my mobile for the first time and scanned through a slew of text messages from my editor.

Anything yet?

On deadline?

Safe? Need update.

I responded—All good. Story TK.—and slipped the phone back into my pocket.

One of the guards lit a spliff and passed it around. I moved closer to Mendeleev, but he waved me away.

‘Go. Party.’

He flicked a hand at Vlad, motioning us to leave. Vlad tapped my shoulder and nodded toward the bar. Eurythmics was on the speakers. Sweet dreams are made of this—and who was I to disagree with the world’s most-wanted billionaire?

Vlad ordered shots of vodka from the bartender.

‘So what’s the deal,’ I asked him. ‘How long have you been on the island?’

Vlad talked more than his boss. They left Russia last year, he told me, after Mendeleev lost a widely publicised bet that resulted in him literally eating his own tie on live television. Mendeleev wagered the cloth meal with another billionaire developer, insisting luxury apartment prices would rise within a year. They tanked.

‘He was crushed. Needed break, so we find Cambodia, and he make grand plan. Then all this happens. Investors, his friends, turn on Mendeleev. They want their money. But losing money is part of business.’

‘What about the Interpol notice? Embezzlement?’

He spat on the ground and then took a shot of vodka.

‘One investor—bad guy, friends in high places.’

I figured he meant Ulan Novikoff, a top Russian cop once blamed for the murder of government whistleblower Ivan Dobrow. Novikoff was listed on Mendeleev’s warrant as the lead investigator.

‘I keep hearing about this “grand plan”. Is this Mendelonium?’

He dismissed me with his hand.

‘Too many questions. Drink. Zdorov’ye!’

And we did. Hours passed and the sun was setting when Vlad said we were staying the night at Mendeleev’s ‘usual’ resort, Mister Parker’s.

‘Olga didn’t tell me this was an overnight thing.’

I showed him what was in my backpack. I hadn’t packed anything except my laptop and sunscreen.

‘Will I need protection?’

He deadpanned. ‘Sunscreen good only during day.’

Mister Parker’s was a few minutes walk from the bar, and I stumbled around as I looked for my bungalow in dense jungle not far from the beach. The door opened out, and once inside, I set the lock. It was a hook-and-eye latch, like what parents put on their kid’s bedroom door so they can’t leave. A window covered by a mosquito net provided a view into moon-lit foliage.

Mendeleev hadn’t given me much to go on, but it was almost midnight by the time I finished typing up my notes. I texted my editor.

On Koh Rong. Update in AM.

The sun was barely up the next morning when Vlad tapped on my door.

‘He is ready.’

I splashed my face with water and followed him to the beach.

Surrounded by shirtless guards and still wearing only his swim shorts, Mendeleev was standing underneath a wooden pavilion on the sand. One guard was fanning him with a banana leaf. Vlad showed me to a nearby picnic table. A boombox cassette recorder was primed and ready to go. Mendeleev sat down opposite me, wide-eyed and fresh faced.

‘Good morning, my friend,’ he said.

Vlad pushed the record button.

I began to ask a question, but Mendeleev interrupted.

‘If Russia take me, Russia fuck me,’ he said, pointing his index finger at me. ‘You know, like Dobrow. I am not free man in Russia. I need true court.’

‘You’re saying you’re innocent?’

‘I saying I need true court. Russia fuck me. Like they fuck Dobrow. You know?’

‘So, how do you respond to the embezzlement charges against you? Your post on Facebook—’

He held up a hand to stop me, as though I’d accused him. He stood up.

‘Respond? You don’t know. You don’t fucking know! Go! Go! Go!’

He waved me away with both of his hands, and his guards formed a triangle around him. I asked another question, but a guard flicked the banana leaf in front of Mendeleev so I could not see his face. I walked across the beach to a nearby bar, where I typed up my story.

I texted my editor.

Interviewed. Story TK. Next boat off KR.

The article was published under the heading: ‘Billionaire Fugitive Finds Refuge in Cambodia; Says No Justice in Russia’. I checked Mendeleev’s Facebook page every hour until I saw he posted the story’s link. With it was a message that had me looking over my shoulder less often: ‘TRUTH!!!!!’

He attempted to delay his extradition by announcing Mendelonium, which turned out to be a proposed $1 billion archipelago resort.

‘It make Cambodia great place to visit, you know? Cambodia make lots of money. I stay. Win-win,’ he said.

A few weeks later, Russia lost patience with diplomacy and sent in its special forces. Mendeleev was deported the next day.

The last I heard from him was a frantic phone call as he scurried through the jungle with his pursuers in tow. Before the line went dead, he yelled, ‘Russia fucking me! Abracadabra boom!’

https://mekongreview.com/meeting-mendeleev/

Interesting article, thanks for sharing.

I wonder what is happening to his island now?

Anyone else get the feeling thier reading a fiction novel?

Isn't this about Sergey Polonsky?

drozd wrote: ↑Sat Jul 23, 2022 7:59 pm Isn't this about Sergey Polonsky?

It would appear so, but with Polonskys name and proposed business name also altered. Maybe they didn't fancy being sued, maybe it's actual fiction

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/ ... y-arrested

This is a rather more coherent piece from back in the day

atst wrote: ↑Sat Jul 23, 2022 7:23 pm Anyone else get the feeling they’re reading a fiction novel?

It says
A short story based on true events.
What’s true may be an oligarch was on a Cambodian island
A billionaire has hidden out in Cambodia

Both are true

What does one call people from other nations who do exactly the same thing as oligarchs? And worse. MBS, for example?

Any aspiring journalist who has run out of COVID-scare can write Walter Mitty fantasy

Was this the guy that ran the snake and crocodile park and had a collection of vintage cars?

And no, I didn't have an imaginary conversation with him.