By Max Colchester and Margot Patrick
"If you are reading this, it is probable that you wonder who Ben
Worsley is."
Typing on his computer, Benedict Worsley felt surrounded. The
plan, the Englishman told friends, was to work for the Russian
financiers for a few years and then retreat to his gated
pied-à-terre in the south of France.
Mr. Worsley, tall with thinning gray hair, flew on private jets
and sailed on luxury yachts. His Rolodex swelled to include people
in Luxembourg, Cyprus and the United Arab Emirates. Despite having
no finance background, the 50-year-old former headhunter reinvented
himself as an offshore specialist helping manage hundreds of shell
companies. Along the way he acquired a ringside seat into how rich
Russians quietly shuffle money across the European Union and
marveled at how easy it was.
Now, as he explained in his online statement, it was all
unraveling. A banking crisis had turned acrimonious. "I now find
myself caught in the middle between two warring Russian factions,"
he wrote.
He was having panic attacks. He had cut himself off from many of
his old friends in London, where he got his start. The threat of
legal bills loomed. When he traveled, he thought he was being
followed. "I was a nobody," he had written to an opposing lawyer in
a pleading email. "I like to be a nobody. That's fine for me."
Nobodies like Mr. Worsley are the building blocks that made
London's reputation as an international money center. Countless
fixers -- lawyers, real-estate agents, corporate-service providers
-- help funnel foreign money though the city and cater to the
world's superrich.
It isn't always glamorous work, as Mr. Worsley ultimately found,
and the extraordinarily Byzantine job of hiding money on a vast
international scale can take a heavy psychological toll. This
account of his adventures, based on interviews with more than a
dozen people familiar with his situation, documents, court records
and the public statement he posted on his website, reveals a
conflicted man ricocheting from loyalty to betrayal as the legal
noose tightened on his Russian clients.
Mr. Worsley, who hasn't been accused by authorities of any
crimes, was paid hundreds of thousands of dollars in salary and
expenses for his work. He said in an affidavit in a subsequent
court case that he didn't stop to consider that the money flows he
facilitated might be construed as illicit.
"At that time the use of offshore companies was an everyday
reality around the world," he wrote in his online manifesto at the
end of 2017. "This is not a 'poor me' story," he went on, "But
rather a statement of truth in regard to a terribly messy
situation."
In the beginning
In the fall of 2009, Benedict Worsley sat in the back of a
tinted-glass Range Rover crawling through Moscow's thick traffic.
An old contact at Russia's National Bank Trust had called him. The
bank's chairman, Ilya Yurov, wanted to discuss secret business in
person. Mr. Worsley was intrigued. He had previously helped recruit
staff for Mr. Yurov's NBT but this promised to be something
different, and hopefully more lucrative.
Mr. Yurov didn't look like your typical retail banker. A thick
neck and squat build spoke to the Russian's continued interest in
kickboxing. Sporting a shaved head and a neatly trimmed beard, Mr.
Yurov wore suits that hid a collection of tattoos. In Moscow, this
wasn't unusual, Mr. Worsley told himself. This was Russia, not the
genteel English countryside.
Born in Eastbourne, an unremarkable seaside resort on England's
south coast, Mr. Worsley grew up in a solidly upper-middle-class
British family. His father, a respected barrister, met Mr.
Worsley's mother ballroom dancing. The young Mr. Worsley attended
an imposing private school and then found himself adrift in
London.
A friend suggested Mr. Worsley get into executive recruiting.
Since London's finance industry was deregulated in the 1980s, the
City's square mile was becoming a global banking hub. As a new
class of international rich flooded into the capital, an army of
locals was finding gainful employment facilitating their needs. It
was in this crowd that Mr. Worsley found his professional
calling.
Western banks were piling into Eastern Europe. They needed staff
and Mr. Worsley formed a firm called Central Search to help find
them.
To his clients, Mr. Worsley came with a calling card: an
amped-up brand of Englishness. In winter he headed to the Alps with
the Les Avants Bobsleigh and Toboggan Club to descend the icy
slopes dressed in plus-fours. He dined at London's historic private
members clubs, the Travellers and the Garrick, and spoke in a
hushed, slightly clipped voice. He owned a secondhand Bentley.
Then the financial crisis hit. Scores of bankers packed their
cardboard boxes, and a large chunk of Central Search's revenue
evaporated. Mr. Worsley decided he was bored of schmoozing bankers
in hotel lobbies. He needed a new challenge -- one that paid. So in
late 2009 when Mr. Yurov requested a meeting, Mr. Worsley packed
his bags and went.
As a young man growing up in the Soviet Union, Mr. Yurov faced a
choice between professional boxing and finance. He chose finance.
After clambering up the ranks in the treasury department of a
Russian bank, he was taken under the wing of Mikhail Khodorkovsky,
an oil tycoon who later fell out of favor with President Vladimir
Putin. In the early 2000s Mr. Yurov helped orchestrate a buyout of
two Russian banks, which had been controlled by Mr. Khodorkovsky,
just before the billionaire was arrested on fraud and tax-evasion
charges. The resulting venture was called National Bank Trust.
Mr. Yurov ran NBT along with two other major shareholders,
Nikolay Fetisov, a derivatives expert and Sergey Belyaev, a trained
biologist. Together they later wooed Russian depositors with an ad
campaign featuring "Die Hard" actor Bruce Willis and the tagline:
"When I need money, I just take it."
NBT's owners had a new assignment in mind for Mr. Worsley.
Like several other Russian banks, NBT skated through the
financial crisis by hiding problems from regulators. To dress up
bad loans, NBT had a system. It would lend money to a Cypriot shell
company, which would recycle the funds through a maze of companies
before funneling it back into NBT to cover the defaulted borrower's
interest payments. This circular flow kept the bank afloat -- at
least for a time.
NBT's management wanted to create distance between the bank and
the offshore network. They needed a fixer, a legitimate middleman,
to help administer the shell companies seemingly at arm's length.
They knew this person shouldn't be Russian. Russians kept getting
ripped off by European lawyers who smelled new money and jacked up
the fees.
Mr. Worsley ticked the box, Mr. Yurov thought. He was a
well-connected businessman with a pleasing whiff of old-world
aristocracy. The fact Mr. Worsley knew next to nothing about
offshore finance and spoke no Russian wasn't a problem.
The Range Rover pulled up at NBT's yellow-fronted office in east
Moscow. Mr. Yurov met him in an office with religious pictures on
the wall and pitched Mr. Worsley the job. The Brit felt flattered
and after more meetings willingly accepted.
"Is it going to be trouble?" Mr. Yurov recalls thinking upon
hiring him. "Not really."
Cypriot games
In November 2013, Mr. Worsley watched delivery men haul desks
into a squat block in downtown Nicosia, the capital of the
Mediterranean island of Cyprus.
Harried yet exhilarated, the Brit sat down in the bare,
open-plan space to write to Mr. Yurov in Moscow. Meetings with
Deloitte & Touche LLP in Malta and Amsterdam on new tax rules
had gone well. Teos Corporate Services Ltd., Mr. Worsley's new
company, was close to being licensed by the Cyprus securities
regulator. He'd hired a dozen staff to process filings and loan
payments for 250 companies.
"In short then, all on track," he signed off.
Asked for comment, Deloitte said it couldn't disclose
information relating to clients.
For Mr. Worsley the ascent into the world of offshore finance
had been steep and, to his amazement, fairly easy. He called his
London accountant for leads. Remembering ads he'd seen in a Moscow
airport, he strode into the Mayfair office of a London
corporate-services provider. It in turn introduced him to a Cypriot
lawyer, Christos Vassiliades, who had many Russian clients and was
expert in complex tax setups. Mr. Vassiliades didn't respond to
calls and emails seeking comment.
Cyprus was a natural fit. The island dubbed "Moscow on the
Mediterranean" was long used by Russians as a back door into the
European Union's financial system. The arrival of another
facilitator for rich Russians didn't raise eyebrows. Teos was just
one of more than 100 corporate service providers in Cyprus.
To his mainly local staff, Mr. Worsley appeared successful, if a
little eccentric. He rented a small house in Nicosia's crammed
downtown, unwilling to pay for something airier with a pool, and
listed six mobile-phone numbers on his email signoff. Life was
humdrum. Staff sent emails to their colleagues advertising cake in
the fridge. The work was largely administrative -- mountains and
mountains of paperwork.
"It was normal work," said one person Mr. Worsley hired,
"setting up bank accounts, company formation."
The aim of the Teos office was to help manage the merry-go-round
of cash. Laid out on a piece of paper, the NBT offshore structure
is hard to follow, with arrows pointing back and forth between
companies making and receiving loans. The goal was simple, though:
keep NBT's bad loans from coming to the attention of auditors,
regulators or customers.
Each time a major bad loan needed handling, Mr. Worsley would
receive instruction from NBT's Moscow headquarters to create a new
"silo" of companies to service it.
NBT would make loans to companies set up by Mr. Worsley in
Cyprus, with directors supplied by Teos or Mr. Vassiliades's law
firm to rubber stamp their business. The proceeds were lent onward
to a string of companies in Cyprus and the British Virgin Islands
before returning to NBT to service the bad debt. Sometimes the
Cyprus company would use the borrowed money to buy Russian bonds or
other securities, lending them out for additional cash to plug
holes in NBT's balance sheet, according to documents filed in a
subsequent case in London high court.
At its peak the network cost around $4 million a year to run,
with each company needing to follow local rules on filing annual
returns and audits. Lots of advisers proved willing to help. At
least one of the Cyprus borrowers had its accounts audited by KPMG.
The Cyprus arm of Greece's Piraeus Bank provided accounts to dozens
of companies in the network.
George Appios, chief executive of Piraeus Bank Cyprus, now
called AstroBank, said the bank can't comment on clients but
follows strict anti-money-laundering rules and is never knowingly
involved in any unlawful activities. KPMG declined to comment.
To mask the involvement of NBT's owners, Mr. Worsley flew to the
Isle of Man, a rainy island in the Irish Sea. A corporate-service
provider there called Boston Ltd. set up trusts for Mr. Yurov and
his partners that allowed them to own the offshore network with
almost ironclad confidentiality. Boston in a statement says it
"rigorously complies with its legal responsibilities."
Mr. Worsley took comfort from how consultants, lawyers and
bankers were aware of the structure and didn't seem to have a
problem with it.
The fixer went to increasing lengths to keep his clients happy.
Once, when canceled flights stranded a restless Mr. Yurov in
London, Mr. Worsley rented a car and drove all three Russian
clients to visit Stonehenge. Another time, he hired former British
special-service operatives to box with Mr. Yurov in a London
gym.
In 2011 Mr. Yurov had another task for Mr. Worsley: move his
family out of Russia. Mr. Worsley helped Mr. Yurov's wife acquire a
U.K. investor visa, and helped place the Yurov children at a
private school on the grounds of Canterbury Cathedral. He found a
bed-and-breakfast that could be rented in its entirety to
accommodate the eight-person family. The family paid Mr. Worsley
$50,000 for his efforts.
The family later moved into an 18th-century manor house, paid
for by Ms. Yurov with GBP4.1 million cash. The Yurovs bought
property in Cyprus too, securing EU passports under a Cypriot
program that lets foreigners who invest at least EUR2 million
become citizens.
By 2014 Mr. Worsley's offshore aspirations were gaining
momentum. He began to formulate plans to open up the Teos office to
other clients.
While Mr. Worsley crisscrossed Europe and the Middle East
cultivating his business, storm clouds were gathering in Moscow.
Loan losses at NBT were spiraling as U.S. sanctions weighed on
Russian business and oil prices fell. Each month NBT needed to come
up with around $30 million to plug a growing hole on its balance
sheet.
In the summer of 2014, the NBT shareholders decided it was time
to offload their bank. Mr. Yurov courted potential purchasers
including Igor Sechin, the boss of oil giant Rosneft. Mr. Sechin
declined to comment.
But the three NBT partners had a problem: what to do with the
offshore network?
In November 2014, Mr. Worsley, Mr. Yurov, and an NBT lieutenant
gathered in a conference room at a law firm near London's West End
theater district. Sitting in the room, Mr. Worsley secretly
recorded the ensuing conversation on his phone. The men fretted
over how they could discreetly communicate with each other,
according to a transcript in a court document.
Mr. Worsley -- ever the fixer -- came up with a plan. He had
read in the press that former Central Intelligence Agency director
David Petraeus conducted an extramarital affair by writing drafts
in an email account that were never actually sent. His paramour
would allegedly log into the account and read the drafts.
His suggestion was ignored and the takeover never materialized.
Russia raised interest rates to prop up its fast-devaluing
currency. NBT was running out of cash and couldn't make margin
calls. On Dec. 22, Mr. Yurov, on vacation in Australia, called Mr.
Worsley, saying that NBT would be seized by the Russian central
bank in a couple of hours.
The Russian deposit insurance agency appointed Otkritie Holding
JSC, a powerful Kremlin-linked lender that had already acquired
several weakened banks with loans from Russia's central bank, to
manage NBT. Within a week, the central bank said it contacted
Russian police about possible criminal activity.
The reckoning
A few weeks later a jet-lagged Mr. Yurov flew to Cyprus with his
son to collect a Cypriot passport Mr. Worsley had helped to
organize, according to a document filed in London court. The two
men caught up for coffee and went for a walk. Then Mr. Worsley
slipped in a bombshell. He wanted more money to pay the expenses of
maintaining the offshore network -- even though it was no longer
propping up NBT.
Mr. Yurov's face hardened. The bank had sent over a tranche of
cash a few months before. How could it be spent already? Suspicious
Mr. Worsley had been pocketing funds from their shell operation for
his own use, he demanded to see the office books.
Late that night, Mr. Worsley appeared at the lobby of the Hilton
Park Nicosia nervously clutching the paperwork. Thumbing through
the accounts, Mr. Yurov said the records showed that some $300,000
had been transferred to Mr. Worsley's bank account in the United
Arab Emirates and another $45,000 had been used to renovate an old
house in the rolling hills of southern France Mr. Worsley had
bought.
Flustered by Mr. Yurov's allegations, and increasingly
frightened of the banker, Mr. Worsley denied stealing the money,
offered to hand back his apartment keys and said if the Russian
wanted to end their business relationship that was fine. He warned
Mr. Yurov he had a bodyguard waiting for him in a car outside.
Mr. Worsley left. In the car there was no bodyguard. Instead the
Brit had persuaded an aging doorman at the Teos office to make sure
he made it out of the Hilton safely. The next day Mr. Yurov and Mr.
Worsley tried to patch things up. They went on a sightseeing trip
around Northern Cyprus, followed by dinner.
As NBT crumbled, so crumbled a very dysfunctional business
partnership.
From the beginning colleagues found the rapport between Mr.
Yurov and Mr. Worsley odd. Mr. Worsley appeared enthralled by Mr.
Yurov's power and wealth. Mr. Yurov meanwhile seemed to treat his
British business associate like a true friend.
The two men spent so much time together that Mr. Yurov's wife
suggested he should hang out with someone else. The men traveled on
vacation. They met each other's parents. Mr. Yurov's children
called Mr. Worsley "Uncle Ben." Mr. Worsley converted to the
Russian Orthodox Church, with Mr. Yurov standing by his side
translating from Russian.
Privately Mr. Worsley viewed himself as a "paid friend" to Mr.
Yurov. A teetotaler, Mr. Worsley dreaded having to entertain the
Russians. The language barrier created awkward situations. There
was the time when Mr. Worsley organized the rental of a 230-foot
superyacht to ferry the three NBT owners and their wives on a
cruise from Athens. Mr. Worsley was invited. A few days in, Mr.
Yurov found his fixer red-faced with rage, shouting that one of the
Russians aboard had drunkenly mocked him. Mr. Worsley asked to
disembark at the next stop but eventually calmed down.
After the failure of NBT, Mr. Worsley initially clung to his
patron. He still needed a job and money. The offshore network still
had to be shuttered or transferred to Otkritie.
"I am now one of Europe's leading offshore specialists," Mr.
Worsley wrote to ex-NBT shareholders along with a request for a
$750,000 success fee for winding down the network. "In short I gave
up my whole show, and changed my life....Some sort of final payment
seems very fair."
Mr. Yurov needed his British fixer for something totally
different: to prove his innocence. Russian authorities believed the
offshore network might be a vehicle for stealing money from NBT.
Mr. Worsley had access to paperwork Mr. Yurov could use to argue he
was simply trying to keep the bank afloat. Mr. Yurov argued in an
affidavit that many Russian banks had done the same, what he called
"balance sheet management." By artificially keeping NBT in business
hadn't he protected depositors?
Russian authorities were circling, trying to work out how NBT
was owed hundreds of millions of dollars by seemingly worthless
shell companies. Criminal charges had been filed against two
lower-level NBT employees in Russia. The NBT owners were already
gone. Mr. Fetisov had already taken up full-time residence in a
leafy suburb of London. Mr. Belyaev moved to Connecticut on a
student visa.
Otkritie said it wanted control of several profitable companies
held through the offshore network, including a large Moscow
real-estate portfolio. Mr. Yurov and the ex-NBT shareholders said
they were personal investments and refused to hand them over.
In the fall of 2015, Mr. Yurov and Mr. Worsley met in the
marbled foyer at Claridge's, a five-star hotel in London, for
coffee. It was an odd meeting. Both men felt the other was acting
strangely. Mr. Yurov said he wanted to fight back against Otkritie,
arguing the scale of the losses had been exaggerated and the bank
unfairly expropriated. Mr. Worsley warned him it was a bad idea. It
would be years before they saw each other again.
Mr. Worsley flew to Dubai to weigh his options. The last thing
he wanted was to be sucked into a protracted battle backing a
Russian who had overseen a major bank failure and was in
self-imposed exile.
Otkritie lawyers flew to Dubai to approach Mr. Worsley with a
different business proposition: help trace NBT's money, sign over
assets and provide information against the three former NBT owners.
Turning informant on Mr. Yurov wasn't something Mr. Worsley took
lightly. Late one evening an email landed in his inbox, saying Mr.
Yurov intended to launch a legal broadside against Otkritie.
Staring at the screen Mr. Worsley snapped.
"There are times when one has to face reality," he later said in
an emailed statement to The Wall Street Journal.
He decided to switch sides.
New instructions
Otkritie hashed out an arrangement to pay Mr. Worsley a retainer
of $32,500 a month for a year and up to 4% of the assets recovered
from the offshore network. They also agreed not to sue him.
Otkritie sued the three ex-NBT shareholders in London for breach
of duties, seeking $830 million in damages. The three men deny the
allegations. In turn, Mr. Yurov, shocked to discover that Mr.
Worsley had betrayed him, filed a criminal complaint in Cyprus
alleging that Otkritie bribed Mr. Worsley to provide evidence.
Russian authorities filed embezzlement charges against the former
NBT shareholders. Lawsuits sprouted in Switzerland and Austria as
Otkritie tried to claw back some of the money NBT had lost.
Mr. Worsley retreated to his French house and tapped out his
online manifesto, though he later scrubbed it of some details. He
feared a reprisal by Mr. Yurov. He also worried that Otkritie would
refuse to pay his legal bills and ditch him. He cut a forlorn
figure, no longer in contact with old friends. He asked Otkritie
for funds to beef up security at his home.
Mr. Worsley needed to build a new life. Working in Russia was
out of the question but finding a new career proved challenging. He
signed up to become a member of the Masonry Heater Association in
North America, a group that shares know-how for building large
ovens. A month later Mr. Worsley asked to have his name taken off
the association's website and didn't turn up to meetings, an
official there said.
Mr. Worsley's turmoil coincided with a hardening of attitudes
toward offshore centers and the people who facilitate their use. In
2016 a trove of leaked documents from the Panama law firm Mossack
Fonseca & Co. showed how tax havens around the world were used
to hide funds from tax authorities.
A political backlash grew and laws changed. U.K. authorities
could now ask hyper-wealthy foreigners to reveal the source of
their money via a system called "unexplained wealth orders." The
government pressured the British Virgin Islands and other offshore
centers to keep better track of company owners.
Authorities also targeted fixers. A new British watchdog
oversees 22 trade bodies that regulate solicitors, accountants and
other "professional enablers." In theory it is harder to quietly
fix peoples' problems from London.
After NBT's takeover Mr. Yurov holed up in the Kent countryside
in southern England. Despite his business failure, the Russian was
no pauper. His family's assets included several London properties,
a vast wine collection, and a $55,000 Turkish carpet. In 2016
Canterbury Cathedral listed him as a major donor.
Mr. Yurov and the other former NBT shareholders say they were
victims of a conspiracy: Otkritie had exaggerated the losses at NBT
to access a big Russian taxpayer loan, which it used to patch up
its own balance sheet, he said. Otkritie lawyers deny this.
In the summer of 2017 Otkritie itself keeled over after
customers yanked their deposits. The Russian central bank rescued
Otkritie and said the private bank had falsified its accounts.The
collapse did little for Mr. Yurov, who is currently fighting
extradition to Russia.
For years Mr. Yurov had no direct contact with Mr. Worsley. But
that summer, as Otkritie teetered, Mr. Yurov and his fellow former
NBT shareholders got an unexpected email. It was from Mr. Worsley
proposing they broker a truce with Otkritie. Mr. Worsley also had
another suggestion: Maybe he could help.
Write to Max Colchester at max.colchester@wsj.com and Margot
Patrick at margot.patrick@wsj.com
(END) Dow Jones Newswires
August 04, 2018 00:15 ET (04:15 GMT)
Copyright (c) 2018 Dow Jones & Company, Inc.