This, in turn, had given the president a robust hand to demand the Duma provide hundreds of billions of additional rubles to rebuild Russia’s military might and even modernize Russia’s aging strategic nuclear forces. What’s more, it gave Luganov tremendous leverage to exploit emerging vacuums in Central Asia, the Middle East, and Eastern and Central Europe.
While he would never dare to say as much, Oleg often sharply disagreed with his father-in-law’s specific decisions. Still, he could not deny the man’s take-no-prisoners brand of national leadership and global brinkmanship stirred something deep in the Russian soul, even his own. Selfishly, Oleg hungered to be useful and successful and thus respected by this man who dominated the stage. Now, after so many years, he was finally being entrusted with state secrets—indeed, with secrets apparently too sensitive for even the defense minister himself.
Luganov lit a cigar and leaned back in his white leather executive chair.
“Oleg Stefanovich, what would you say was the worst disaster of the twentieth century?” the president asked out of thin air.
“I don’t know,” Oleg mumbled, caught off guard by the randomness of the question. “World War II? Hitler’s betrayal of Stalin? The siege of Leningrad?”
“Ah, my son, you still have so much to learn,” Luganov replied, puffing on the aromatic cigar. “These developments hardly compare to the greatest catastrophe.”
Oleg’s mind raced through the pages of modern Russian history. “The Bolshevik Revolution and the end of the czars?” he offered.
“Tragic, but not the answer I am looking for,” said Luganov. “Think, Oleg Stefanovich. Think harder.”
Oleg tried. But to his shame, he drew a blank.
“The collapse of the Soviet Union,” Luganov said at last. “I am not now, nor was I ever, a true Communist. I cannot say I truly approved of the rise of the Soviet system, its leaders, or its ways. But its utter collapse was without question the major geopolitical catastrophe of the century.”
Oleg said nothing.
“In that moment, the greatness of the Russian mind, the beauty of the Russian language, the dominance of Russia’s military, and the glory of Moscow itself were called into question around the globe,” Luganov expounded, smoke curling around his head like a halo. “Tens of millions of our citizens found themselves outside Russian territory. And of course the epidemic of disintegration infected Russia itself.”
Oleg wasn’t sure whether he should be taking notes. He would have preferred to. It would have given his hands something to do and a place for his eyes to focus. But in the end, he chose not to write, just to listen. He stared for a while at the conference table, then mustered up the courage to look at his father-in-law.
“Every man has a destiny, Oleg Stefanovich,” Luganov said. “Yours was to fall in love with my Marina and give me a grandson—a godson—a heritage, a legacy. This is good. It may be small, but it is noble. You are a family man, and you must always cherish and protect your family. You must always be loyal and true to your family.”
He puffed away on the cigar.
“My destiny is on a much grander scale,” Luganov continued. “The Russian people are my family. They are my children. I am their father, and my loyalties must be to them. They have suffered a cruel and humiliating blow—from the barbarians in Washington, from the Zionists, from the bloodsucking bankers and the corrupt corporate chieftains and sleazy swindlers and the cruel conspirators of the NATO alliance and the eunuchs of the West. My children have had the bread ripped out of their hands, stolen right out of their mouths. Their jobs. Their dignity. Their glorious heritage as Russians.”
Oleg had never heard the man speak this way. Not in private. Certainly not in public. And he was not finished.
“What did Dostoyevsky say? ‘Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth.’” The president stared out the window, and Oleg followed his gaze. The night was dark. The moon was full, but it was on the other side of the plane. The only lights visible were those at the end of the wing, blinking red in the coal-black sky. Luganov set his cigar down and seemed to ponder the words.
“‘The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth,’” he said again, no longer to Oleg but to himself. “It falls to me to make things right, to cure the sadness of my people. My destiny is to restore the glory of Mother Russia. She must not only be great again, she must be seen as great—strong, proud, indomitable, invincible. This will take great courage. This will take great cunning. Not every step will make sense to the masses or even to some of my cabinet. I will have to take risks that would cause lesser men to stumble, even if this brings us to war.”
It was quiet for several moments. Oleg briefly wondered if the man was expecting a response, though he had nothing to say.
Then Luganov turned to him. “I have a mission, a destiny, Oleg Stefanovich, and in this task I dare not fail. The gods have determined that I am to save this great people from deprivation and deepest shame. For this—and for this alone—my name, and that of my family, shall be recorded in the annals of Russian history, like the great princes of our past.”
Luganov abruptly leaned forward in his chair and motioned for Oleg to come sit beside him. Oleg complied. The scent of the cigar smoke was thick, but Oleg did not mind it. His grandfather had loved cigars, Cubans when he could get them, and the aroma brought back fond memories of sitting in his lap as a child, at his dacha on the Black Sea, listening to him tell stories of the czars and their exploits.
“The people say I am brutal,” Luganov said in a voice barely above a whisper. “I know it. I hear the talk. And it is true. I won’t deny it. In defense of my nation’s honor, I am more than willing to be brutal—vicious, even—but this is no vice.”
Once again, Oleg felt deeply conflicted. He had longed to be close to this man, a true associate, an intimate, needed and respected. Yet just at the moment his father-in-law was really drawing him into his confidence, Oleg felt unnerved by the man. He was not a normal leader, and Oleg was uneasy when he considered the amount of power Luganov possessed and his lack of accountability. To whom did he answer? Did he have any constraints at all? This was not what Oleg had anticipated when he’d accepted a position in the government. Yet he understood the price of crossing this man. So Oleg was becoming a master of personal discipline. He could not show the slightest flicker of fear, much less moral disapproval, not unless he first made a careful exit strategy.
Just then Luganov looked in Oleg’s eyes and said something that nearly made him shudder, as if the man could read his most personal thoughts.
“A dog can smell fear, Oleg Stefanovich. When someone is afraid, a dog knows it, and he attacks. The same is true with an enemy. If you show the slightest hesitation—fear, doubt, lack of surety—your enemy will think he is stronger, that he has the upper hand. So you have only one option—when the moment is right, you must strike. You must go on the offensive. Hit first, and hit so hard that your enemy will not—cannot—rise to his feet. You must hit him with a crushing blow. And when you take him down, everyone else will be watching. Then they will fear you. Then they will respect you. That’s when you have them. That’s when you know you are the master, and they are the slaves.”