Dancing with the Vodka Terrorists by Rob Ferguson

Author:Rob Ferguson [Ferguson, Rob]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-927403-25-9
Publisher: Iguana Books
Published: 2012-07-20T16:00:00+00:00

12 Five Nations, Five Specialists

Soheil Ramanian ate his pizza meticulously with a knife and fork. In public school English he told me that his family had left Iran during the Islamic revolution in 1978. In London they were in the import-export business. Soon he was going to return to Tehran for the first time since he’d left. He smiled and said he was greatly looking forward to it.

We were sitting on the patio at the Bistro on Proletarskaya Street near the Fine Arts Museum. The Bistro was the current favourite lunch spot for Tashkent’s tiny expat population. But on Wednesday, May 31, the place was mostly empty, just half a dozen expats and visiting consultants sitting under trellises crawling with grapevines. A paltry breeze barely fluttered the whisper-thin paper napkins in their plastic racks on the tables. It was 35 degrees Celsius.

JC Torrion had called from Paris and told me to meet with Ramanian. “He’s done some work for us before, in the Caucasus – Georgia and Azerbaijan. He’s also provided services for consultants in Tashkent. He knows the territory.” JC gave a little laugh. “I guess he’s your go-between.”

As I ate my pizza with my fingers, I studied Ramanian’s business card. He was director of a trade company with an address in Grosvenor Place, London SW1. I wondered how you got into the kickbacks-for-bosses business, what talents were required. Business savvy and discretion, I guessed. Excellent negotiation skills. (When I’d arrived for lunch, Ramanian had been closing a deal to sell Cohibas – Cuban cigars – to the Italian-Swiss owner of the restaurant. The owner had agreed to take several dozen.)

As I explained Bozov and Guiniyatullin’s campaign against Victor and now me, I spotted David Pearce, the chief of the World Bank office in Uzbekistan, crossing the patio to join someone sitting in a corner. He discreetly ignored me. A few weeks before, in late April, JC and I had been sitting in Pearce’s elegant office, admiring his collection of Central Asian objets d’art and carpets, relating much of the same story I was sharing now with Ramanian. Then Pearce had sounded sympathetic and reassuring:

“I think you should know that what’s happening to you happens to all Western consultants here,” he’d said in a mid-Atlantic accent. His tone was patronizing, but not unfriendly. “It’s how outsiders have been treated in Central Asia for centuries.” He’d smiled. “They say it takes six months before a consultant is allowed to start working here.” Then more seriously, “But I’m becoming very concerned about the Aral Sea project. The region’s water management is terrible and it’s getting worse because of this continuing drought. Internationally this project’s reputation is shit. And it’s all because of Mr. Guiniyatullin. He refuses to cooperate. He makes everything very difficult.” He’d stroked his white goatee and looked exasperated. “It’s becoming impossible to work in Uzbekistan. There’s a lack of cooperation at every level. Other donors are pulling out. The economy just keeps getting worse. It’s going down the tubes!”

As we’d left, he’d promised to talk personally with Mr.

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