Volodin shook his head vigorously. “Events in Ukraine have not gone according to plan, but we hold several oblasts along our border and we now control Crimea. The Black Sea Fleet is secure in a way it has not been in a generation.”
He saw that he wasn’t going to be getting a round of applause for the stalemate he’d entered into in Ukraine, so he spoke of other foreign initiatives.
“We have reached out in positive ways to the Chinese.”
Diburov parried this away. “Reaching out isn’t very specific, is it? Our pipeline talks with China stalled the day oil dropped below eighty U.S. dollars a barrel. It’s trading below sixty now, so China can buy from anywhere. They don’t want or need a pipeline now—”
Volodin did not wait for Diburov to finish speaking. He said, “And Saudi Arabia, long an adversary, is reaching out to us on many fronts.”
Now Levshin spoke up. “They are doing this because they have cash we need, and they think we are desperate enough to chance our policies on Iran and Syria to get it. Those are your policies, Valeri Valerievich, and it is through your mishandling of the economy that we are in such desperate need of their cash.”
Volodin’s eyes scanned the room, saw men sitting up straighter, looking to one another. Something was coming. A threat, a demand. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, his palms begin to sweat.
He knew he needed to head this off.
For the first time this evening, Valeri Volodin looked to Mikhail Grankin, the head of his Kremlin Security Council. From what he had seen, Grankin had been the only man in the room to save his vodka for a toast to Volodin.
Grankin was young, only forty-five, a full twenty years below the average age in the room. He had been FSB, a bold and successful foreign intelligence officer, then he left intelligence work to serve under Volodin in Saint Petersburg. When Volodin came to the Kremlin a few years earlier, Grankin came with him, rising through the ranks from junior consultant to senior adviser on security matters. Volodin had been Grankin’s krisha, his roof, his benefactor.
And then, some months earlier, the head of the FSB had been killed by his own security force. Of course Volodin had been responsible for the death of Roman Talanov, and it was up to him to replace him. He sent Mikhail Grankin to Lubyanka to take the reins, not because he was smart and crafty, although he was. He was not necessarily the best man to lead one of the largest intelligence agencies in the world, but he was a Volodin confidant in the ways the fifteen other men in this room were not.
Grankin was siloviki, like the others, even though he was younger. His time in FSB had led him to riches and influence, but Volodin determined that Grankin was also young enough to be spared the hubris felt by every other man in this room.
Valeri Volodin no longer trusted the siloviki, nor did he trust the FSB, but he did trust Mikhail Grankin to comply with his wishes.
After a few months in power at Lubyanka to right the ship Grankin had left the FSB at Volodin’s request, and he came to lead the Kremlin’s Security Council, a small, tight group of men who advised Volodin on all matters of intelligence, diplomacy, and military. The hyper-compartmentalized and secretive president of Russia listened to Grankin and his small team, and he gave them directives, plotting the course for the nation.
Grankin, next to Volodin, was the most powerful Russian when it came to international affairs.
With a nod from the young Kremlin Security Council chief, Valeri Volodin turned his eyes back to the room and said, “Gentlemen. I can see you have all put your heads together and come up with a solution. But I am the president. So why not listen to my solution first?”
Shelmenko said, “You brought a solution to our problem with you tonight?” The skepticism was obvious in his voice. “Well, then, the boys and I can’t wait to hear it.”
After Grankin nodded to his president, urging him on, Volodin said, “You all want a change. I see this. A return to prosperity. I understand. Who wouldn’t? What if I told you there is an initiative I have been working on with Misha Grankin that will cause a transformation in the order of things? I wanted more time to perfect every note in this concerto, but I see from your faces that you men are not the type to wait. You’ve been sharpening your knives since last year’s meeting, and tonight your knives are out.”
Diburov sighed, blowing out smoke from his cigarette as he did so. “Details, Valeri Valerievich. Give us details. Without specifics this is just talk.”
“This is an operation of wide scope and immeasurable depth. I can’t give you details, but I can tell you that once it begins, you will know, and when it ends, that is to say when we all come back here in one year’s time, Russia will be a very different and much improved place.”
Pushkin called out from the back. “You are going to throw another lady punk band in prison for dancing in the Christ the Savior Cathedral?”
This line got the biggest, and perhaps only, real laugh of the evening.
Volodin even smiled at this, but his sharp, angular face showed the malice he felt.
He said, “I smile, Pushkin, not because you are funny, but because I am already picturing the reception you will get here next year when I remind the room of your comment. No. Something big is on the horizon. It involves our military, our intelligence organizations, and the diplomatic offices at the Foreign Ministry.”
Heads turned to the foreign minister. Levshin shrugged. “First I am hearing about this.”
Volodin snapped back, “Because you have no orders yet. You’ll get them soon enough.”
“This sounds like the fantasy of a man trying to stave off the ignoble end of his tenure.”
Volodin bit his lower lip, the shaking of his hands nearly visible now.
Mikhail Grankin stood suddenly, surprising everyone in the room, even Volodin. “With your permission, Valeri Valerievich, I would like to address the group for just one moment. I know you are too wise and careful to provide specifics, but I am willing to stick my neck out.”
Volodin made a dozen calculations in his head, then slowly he nodded. “Be as sparing as possible, Misha.”
Grankin turned to the room. “We will bring the West by the nose to the negotiating table.”
The men looked at one another. Confused. Unconvinced.
“Negotiating for what?”
“The Baltic.”
There was laughter, jeers, and hisses, but from only half of the group. The others sat silently, curious to know more.
Grankin talked for ten minutes only, but this was more than Volodin had been willing to do. He was short on the details of the operations, but he went to some length about the results he expected to attain. When it was over, a show of hands indicated the siloviki were at least willing to let the opening volleys of the plan play out, to see where it went.
Diburov muttered that things couldn’t get much worse, so he’d watch Volodin’s scheme for a while.
The meeting broke up at three a.m. The mood, while certainly not ebullient, at least was decidedly more upbeat than it had been an hour earlier.
Grankin shook Volodin’s hand in the little lobby in front of the bar. Volodin said, “Are you heading back to the office or to your home?”
“I am going home.”
“Good. Come with me, I will take you. We can discuss matters in the car.”
“Thank you, Valeri Valerievich.”
On the drive through the darkened streets of Moscow, Grankin addressed his president. “They were even bigger old pigs than I expected them to be. They showed you no respect, and you handled them expertly.”
“But?”