Mark Hollingsworth - Londongrad: From Russia With Cash; The Inside Story of the Oligarchs

I have dug myself into a hole and I am in too deep. I am not sure that I can dig myself out

- STEPHEN CURTIS, January 2004

6.56 P.M., WEDNESDAY, 3 MARCH 2004. A brand-new white six-seater .5-million Agusta A109E helicopter lands under an overcast sky at Battersea heliport in south-west London. Waiting impatiently on the tarmac and clutching his two unregistered mobile phones is a broad-shouldered 45-year-old British lawyer named Stephen Curtis. He is not in the best of moods. Three minutes earlier he had called Nigel Brown, Managing Director of ISC Global Ltd, which provided security for him, regarding disputed invoices sent to a Russian client. This is causing problems! he shouted and then paused. Look, I have to go now. The helicopter is here.

Curtis climbs aboard the helicopter and manoeuvres his bulky frame into the passenger cabins left rear seat. A member of the ground staff places his three pieces of hand luggage on the seat in front of him and the pilot is given departure clearance. At 6.59 p.m. the chopper lifts off into the gloomy London sky. It is cold and misty with broken cloud at 3,800 feet, but conditions are reasonable for flying with visibility of 7 kilometres.

The lawyer turns off his mobile phones and sits back. After a day of endless and stressful phone calls from his 4 million luxury penthouse apartment at Waterside Point in nearby Battersea, he is looking forward to a relaxing evening at home at Pennsylvania Castle, his eighteenth-century retreat on the island of Portland off the Dorset coast.

By the time the helicopter approaches Bournemouth Airport, after a flight of less than one hour, it is raining lightly and the runway is obscured by cloud. The Agusta is cleared to land and descends via Stoney Cross to the north-east where, despite the gloom, the lights of the cars on the A27 are now visible in the early evening darkness. The pilot, Captain Max Radford, an experienced 34-year-old local man who regularly flies Curtis to and from London, radios air traffic control for permission to land on runway twenty-six.

Echo Romeo, replies Kirsty Holtan, the air traffic controller. Just check that you are visual with the field.

Er, negative. Not this time. Echo Romeo.

The air traffic controller can only see the helicopter on her remote radar monitor. Concerned, she increases the runway lighting to maximum intensity. This has the required effect and a mile from the airport the pilot radios: Just becoming visual this time.

Golf Echo Romeo. Do you require radar? asks Holtan.

Yes, yes, replies Radford, his voice now strained; he repeats the word no less than eleven times in quick succession.

Suddenly, the chopper descends sharply to the left. It then swings around almost out of control. Within seconds it has fallen 400 feet. Golf Echo Romeo. Is everything O.K.? asks a concerned Holtan.

Negative, negative, replies Radford.

They are just 1.5 kilometres east of the threshold of runway twenty-six when the height readout is lost on the radar. For the next fifty-six seconds the pilot confirms that he has power but then suddenly, frantically, radios: We have a problem, we have a problem. As the chopper loses power, at 7.41 p.m. Radford shouts down the open mike: O.K., I need a climb, I need a climb.

Radford hears a low horn, warning that the speed of the main rotor blades has dropped. He keeps his finger on the radio button and can be heard struggling to turn out of a dive, but he has lost control. No. No! he shouts in a panic. They are his last words.

The helicopter, now in free fall, nose dives into a field at high speed and explodes on impact, sending a fireball 30 feet into the air. The aircraft is engulfed in flames, with the debris of the wreckage strewn across a quarter of a mile. I heard a massive bang and rushed up to the window and just saw this big firewall in front of me, recalled Sarah Price, who lives beneath the flight path. The whole field appeared to be on fire. It was horrific.

Some thirty-five firefighters rush to the scene, but the two men aboard - Stephen Curtis and Max Radford - die instantly. Later that night their charred bodies are taken to the mortuary at Boscombe, Dorset, where an autopsy is performed the following day. Their corpses are so badly burnt that they can only be identified using DNA samples taken by Wing Commander Maidment at the RAF Centre of Aviation Medicine at Henlow in Bedfordshire.

The news of Curtiss dramatic death was not only deeply traumatic to his wife and daughter, it also sent shock waves through the sinister world of the Russian oligarchs, the Kremlin, and a group of bankers and accountants working in the murky offshore world where billions of pounds are regularly moved and hidden across multiple continents. That was not all. Alarm bells were also ringing in the offices of Britains intelligence and law enforcement agencies, for Stephen Curtis was no ordinary lawyer. Since the 1990s he had been the covert custodian of some of the vast personal fortunes made from the controversial privatization of the countrys giant state enterprises. Two of his billionaire clients - Mikhail Khodorkovsky and Boris Berezovsky - had entrusted Curtis to protect and firewall their wealth from scrutiny by the Russian authorities.

The Russians liked and trusted the highly intelligent, gregarious Curtis. Generous, a heavy drinker, loyal, amusing, and extravagant, he slipped naturally into their world. Also impatient, ruthless, and aggressive when required, he restructured their companies, moved their funds between a bewildering series of bank accounts lodged in obscure island tax havens, established complex trusts, and set up an elaborate offshore ownership of their assets. On their arrival in London he found them properties, introduced them to the most powerful bankers, entertained them late into the night, and recommended private schools for their children and even Savile Row tailors for their suits.