March 15, 1993 – Moscow, Ministry of Finance
The building was even more intimidating than the Central Bank.
Alexei stood on the pavement outside the Ministry of Finance, looking up at its grey Stalinist facade. Rows of identical windows stared down like empty eyes. Flags hung limp in the still air. Guards in crisp uniforms checked papers at every entrance.
He had been here three times in the past two weeks. Each time, a different bureaucrat had found a new problem with the bank license application. Missing stamps. Incorrect forms. Signatures from officials who had been transferred. The list was endless.
Inside his coat pocket, a letter from General Sokolov waited. The general had been reluctant to help—"I'm Ministry of Defense, not Finance"—but had finally agreed to make some calls. Now Alexei was here to collect.
Lebedev stood beside him, clutching a briefcase filled with documents. "You're sure about this?"
"No. But we're out of options."
They walked through the entrance, past guards who examined their papers with exaggerated care, into a marble lobby that smelled of floor wax and old paper. A clerk met them, led them through corridors lined with portraits of Soviet finance ministers, and deposited them in a waiting room with furniture from the 1950s.
The name on the door read: Deputy Minister Korovin – Privatization Division.
The Wait
Forty-five minutes.
Alexei sat in the uncomfortable chair, watching the clock on the wall tick past the hour. Lebedev paced. The clerk brought tea that no one drank. Through the window, Moscow went about its business, oblivious to the bureaucratic battle being fought in this room.
At exactly 11:45, the door opened. A secretary gestured. "The Deputy Minister will see you now."
Korovin's office was surprisingly modest—a desk, filing cabinets, a window overlooking a courtyard. The man himself was in his fifties, with the tired eyes of someone who had watched too many systems collapse. He didn't rise when they entered.
"Volkov," he said, his voice flat. "Sokolov's protégé."
"General Sokolov was kind enough to make an introduction."
Korovin's lips twitched. "Introduction. Yes. He was very... persuasive." He gestured at chairs. "Sit. Tell me why I should approve your bank license when I've already rejected it three times."
Alexei sat, keeping his expression neutral. "The rejections were based on procedural issues. Missing stamps. Incorrect forms. Those have been addressed."
"Addressed." Korovin pulled out a folder—their application, thick with documents. "Let me tell you what I see. A nineteen-year-old applicant with no banking experience. A capital base that's barely adequate. A business plan that focuses on serving your own companies rather than the public. And a series of payments made to various officials—including some in this building."
The room went very quiet.
Alexei met his gaze. "The payments were... facilitation. Standard practice for new businesses."
"Standard practice. Yes." Korovin leaned back. "I've been in this ministry for thirty years. I've seen standard practice destroy this country. I've watched men like you—ambitious, ruthless, connected—strip the assets of the state and call it privatization. And now you want me to give you a banking license?"
Alexei said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Korovin studied him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. "You don't even blink. Sokolov said you had nerve. He was right."
He pulled out a pen and signed something at the bottom of the application. Then he stamped it with a heavy thump.
"Your license is approved. Not because of Sokolov, not because of your payments, not because of any of the nonsense you've been peddling. Because your business plan—the infrastructure focus, the real assets, the long-term thinking—is actually sound. You're not another speculator. You're building something."
Alexei stared at the signed document. "I don't understand."
"You don't need to understand. You need to get out of my office before I change my mind." Korovin slid the folder across the desk. "One piece of advice, Volkov. The men who are running this country now—they won't last. The next ones will be worse. Build your infrastructure, but build escape routes too. You'll need them."
He turned back to his paperwork, dismissing them. Alexei and Lebedev left the office, the approved license burning in the briefcase.
The Aftermath
Outside the ministry, Lebedev let out a long breath. "I don't believe it. After everything—the payments, the rejections, the runaround—it's a bureaucrat who approves us because he likes our philosophy?"
"I think he's been waiting for someone who wasn't just looting the country." Alexei looked back at the grey building. "He's old Soviet. He believes in something. Even if that something is dying."
"Does it matter why?"
"No. Only that it's done."
They walked to the waiting car, Ivan falling into step beside them. The license was in the briefcase. The bank was real. Phase two was officially underway.
March 20, 1993 – Leningrad, Neva Transport Headquarters
The celebration was quiet.
Just Alexei, Lebedev, Ivan, and a few of the original veterans. Kolya brought vodka. Vasiliev produced a bottle of Armenian brandy from somewhere. They drank to the future, to the bank, to the empire that was growing.
But Alexei's mind was elsewhere. Korovin's words echoed: The men who are running this country now won't last. The next ones will be worse.
He thought of the plan forming in his mind—the need for offshore accounts, foreign holdings, escape routes. Of 2004, still eleven years away, but approaching faster than anyone realized.
He pulled out his mother's photograph, worn from years of carrying. Her face smiled at him from another world.
Be better than this world.
He didn't know if building a bank, planning escape routes, preparing for a future no one else saw made him better. But it made him different. And in the world that was coming, different might be enough.