The toady was in fine form.
And truly he needed to be.
The bespectacled bureaucrat from the Ministry of Economic Development droned on in his monotone, doing his best to put frosting on a fiscal shit pile. “The ruble has stabilized, with inflation only rising two percent in the last month. That is half the increase of the previous period.”
Another graph flashed to the wall-mounted screen. President Yermilov glared at the data, one more jagged line sloping down to the right.Has it ever looked different?
The monthly economic briefing was a long-honed institution, a dog and pony show inflicted by the cogs of the administrative realm. The surroundings contrasted wildly with the tedium of the occasion. The ballroom’s crystalline chandeliers hovered like glittering clouds and bolts of red velvet lined the walls. Altogether, it instilled a distinctly regal aura. Convening the monthlybriefing here was akin to eating borscht and dumplings at the Grand Palace. Yet as with all of Yermilov’s directives, it was done with a purpose. As kings and emperors had recognized for millennia, the trappings of wealth were not for the pleasure of the regent—they were a blunt demonstration of power.
He had expected today’s briefing to be the usual lusterless affair: readings on the Russian economy rarely incited passion, and in any event, in the hands of so many brazen sycophants, they were nothing near an honest appraisal. In recent months, however, the collective weight of the data had begun to instill in Yermilov a distinct sense of…unease.
“Manufacturing in the defense sector has shown improvement,” the speaker went on. “Measurable gains have also been made in finding skilled labor…”
Measurable gains, Yermilov reflected.
He had endured enough of these saccharine sessions to develop an immunity to their verbiage. The underlying content, however, was another story. Or more succinctly, the degree to which the numbers had to be manipulated. How far did the speakers stretch to find slivers of good news? How were the axes of graphs truncated for spin? Which sore points went unmentioned? Yermilov would never have survived this long as president of the Russian Federation had he not been able to tease out trends. And what he’d seen in recent months was undeniable: a galaxy of flashing red lights.
The downward slide had begun at the outset of the Ukraine War. Sanctions had come immediately from the West, as he’d known they would. Yet he also knew that the real bite from such measures would not be felt for years. Which, regrettably, was where he found himself today. Aside from the BRICS countries, and a few opportunistic outliers, Russia’s foreign trade had all butvaporized. It’s air- and seaports were operating far below capacity. Capital investment from overseas was all but a memory. Domestic manufacturing had reverted to a wartime footing, tanks and artillery shells taking the place of cars and washing machines. Russia’s fiscal reserves, her so-called rainy-day fund, had been all but depleted by the tempest in the West. The nation’s entire economy had come to rest on a one-legged stool: energy prices. Without cash coming in from oil and gas, the Russian economy would go into free fall.
And if that happened? To say the least, his days of living on an unfixed income would be over. The other end of the spectrum wasn’t worthy of consideration.
Yermilov had escaped this day of reckoning for years. To its credit, the Central Bank had done an admirable job of managing the shortfalls. Yet the softening of energy prices over the last six months had accelerated. The Saudis were fed up with OPEC+ cheating, and their pockets were deep enough to endure a yearlong crash in crude prices. In theory, if they drove enough of the marginal producers out of business, prices might rise to a more sustainable level for the long term. Yermilov didn’t know if that strategy would work—nor, he imagined, did the Saudis—but the campaign was rattling markets on a daily basis.
The speaker reached the end of his presentation and, in true beta-male form, asked if there were questions while clearly hoping there were not. Everyone waited for Yermilov to take the lead, but his distractions had gotten the better of him. After a long and discomforting silence, he rose without a word and walked out.
His security detail followed him to his office, and as he passed into the anteroom he saw Vasin waiting. The director of the GRU wore a troubled expression. Without so much as a greeting, Yermilov flicked a finger to invite him into his office.
Yermilov headed straight for his desk. When the door closed behind him, he said, “I take it this is important?”
“Yes,” Vasin replied. “There are two matters to discuss. The first involves Gunther Klaus.”
Yermilov sank heavily into the plush chair behind his desk. He left Vasin standing. “I hope you are going to tell me he has been eliminated.”
“I wish I could give you that news, but no. He has, however, been located. He is in Tangier.”
“And how do you know this?”
Vasin’s feet shifted—his usual tell. “Malenkov called me this morning.”
“Malenkov?What does he have to do with this?”
“Apparently, he has been using Klaus for his own operations and suspected him of improprieties. He sent in a hit team, but Klaus eluded them.” Vasin didn’t mention that his own men had made even less progress in Tangier.
“Eluded?How? The man isn’t trained in countersurveillance.”
“He does have basic skills. Given the work that he was doing for us, his handlers thought it wise to teach him some basic tradecraft. And being a concierge banker, he is naturally suspicious. Now that Malenkov’s team has bungled the job, Klaus will go into hiding. We believe he is still in Tangier.”
“And why did Malenkov contact you about this situation?”
“He assumed the GRU would want Klaus silenced as well, and he asked for manpower to help finish the job.”
Yermilov nodded thoughtfully. “And did you act on this request?”
“Of course. By the end of the day, we will have dozens of men scouring the city.”
“A city of what—a million people?” A single presidential finger began tapping the hardwood. An overt manifestation of anger and impatience. “Malenkov’s instincts were correct. A pity the GRU did not take such initiative.”
“I—”
