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  Inexpensive! How times can change a menu price, thought Piotr Rudzhin with irony.

  Today, the restaurant no longer fed the literati. Instead, it now catered to the deep pockets of Moscow’s nouveau riche. In the decade and a half after the fall of the Soviet Union, the country had generated millions of unregulated, undeclared, and untaxed rubles for a whole generation of bureaucrats turned oligarchs, young mafia families, and fast-moving politicians. While the nation’s countryside still bore the stigma of imprisoning large swaths of Russians in an unbreakable cycle of rural peasantry, its cities were exploding with wealth and opulence.

  Piotr Rudzhin irritably slowed his car behind two other expensive vehicles in line for CDL’s valet service. His Saab 9000 was a wonderful vehicle, but he normally wouldn’t be caught dead behind the wheel in Moscow’s horrendous traffic. Rudzhin instantly regretted having allowed his chauffeur the day off to attend his daughter’s wedding.

  As Piotr awaited his turn for the restaurant’s valet, his bad-tempered thoughts were interrupted by the vibrations of his cellular phone. He reached into his suit jacket’s inside pocket. It was Uggin.

  “Daniel, I’ve been waiting for your call. Where are you?”

  “At the airport in La Paz. I board in fifteen minutes.”

  “Right on time, old friend. I’m about to meet the big man for lunch in five minutes. Quickly, what can you tell me?”

  “It’s done, Piotr. I’ve got copies of the papers.” Uggin was making an effort to control his obvious elation.

  “That is great news. Fabulous. I’ll tell Zhironovsky.” Piotr Rudzhin could not believe how well his decision to recruit his school-yard friend was working out. “How hard was it?”

  “It was a mess. These Bolivians have more inferiority complexes than a teenager with acne. You would think that the royalties from Volga’s gas contracts would have them dancing with joy. No. Instead they were offended because the Chileans were charging them too much money to transmit the Bolivian gas to Chile’s northern-most port. Who the hell do they think they are? They’re a little landlocked country—they should feel lucky that the Chileans agreed to allow the gas to cross the border.”

  “You told them that?” Rudzhin was momentarily aghast.

  “Of course not, you dope,” laughed Daniel Uggin. “You would have been proud of me. I did two round-trips to Santiago to negotiate a better transfer price for Bolivia’s gas. It was like Kissinger’s shuttle diplomacy for Middle East peace. Anyway, I got the Chileans to agree to a thirty percent discount off their original offer. And I told the Bolivians that was as good as it was going to get. Bottom line, Piotr, the Bolivians signed. The gas will go to a lique-faction plant in Antofagasta in northern Chile.”

  Uggin’s good news had Piotr Rudzhin in a broad smile.

  “I heard that Schutz was very upbeat on the conference call three days ago,” continued Daniel. His voice became serious as he allowed a pause to invade the phone line.

  “Piotr, you trust this guy, right? I mean…Schutz isn’t Russian. Do you believe him? I have to go back in a week. Do you want me to go to Lima and make sure?”

  Rudzhin marveled at his friend’s brimming-over energy. Rudzhin had suspected that Daniel’s quietly efficient, technical background would be an asset. But Uggin’s involvement was working out a thousand times better than he’d imagined. He could never have guessed that he would have to be curbing Daniel’s enthusiasm just eighteen months after the discussion in his parents’ apartment in Kursk.

  “No, Daniel. As much as I would like to have one of us look at the situation in Peru personally, I think we have to stay out of that country. It would be a grave risk to awaken any Peruvian suspicion of Russia’s involvement.”

  “Okay. As long as the old man and you are comfortable, I’m fine too. In that case, I’ll see you tomorrow evening. Is our lunch with Zhironovsky still on for Friday?”

  “Absolutely. Fly well, Daniel Vladimirovich.”

  Rudzhin hung up the phone. His lips curled into a smile as he considered Daniel’s transformation, nothing less than amazing. In a way, it was much like his own makeover, which had begun upon his arrival in Moscow.

  Just a few years ago, Piotr Rudzhin was an average up-and-comer from a provincial town. Elections to the Kursk Oblast Duma had made him an important figure in the neighborhood, but the local legislature had been insignificant on a national scale. Now, less than seven years later, he was powerful and wealthy—an increasingly commanding figure in Russian politics—and sought out as an ally by the oligarchy.

  Rudzhin leaned forward and took a quick look in the rearview mirror. A blond lock curling over his left eyebrow needed some attention. Swinging the hair backward with a shove of his index finger, he again thanked his lucky stars for Viktor Zhironovsky. Without his powerful mentor, Piotr Rudzhin would not be who he was today.

  Viktor Zhironovsky and Piotr Rudzhin’s close relationship was a perfectly Russian friendship. It reflected modern Russia’s peculiar political balancing act. On the one hand were the infinitely rich oligarchs and robber barons, handpicked by Boris Yeltsin’s family, who had profited from the sale of Russia’s state-owned assets. To the untrained visitor’s eye, these men and women had created a new, post-Soviet Russia that was modern, sleek, and sophisticated.

  On the other hand was the infinitely brutish Russian State. There was nothing modern—or even post-Soviet—about the Russian government. The bureaucracy—filled with mediocre officialdom—still understood only the language of fear and raw muscle. The top echelons were controlled by the Siloviki, politicians from the “power ministries”—the old security and military apparatus—who under Yeltsin had formed a de facto higher-level inner cabinet.

  Moscow cocktail parties were hyperopulent affairs in enormous reconverted homes that served only Johnnie Walker Blue and Cristal champagne with hors d’oeuvres made a few hours earlier in one of Alain Ducasse’s Paris restaurants and flown to Moscow on a private plane. No matter how festive, the parties ended up as swollen rivers of gossip about the endless jostle for power between the oligarchs and the Siloviki bureaucracy. The two sides were caught in a perpetual cycle of fear, retribution, blackmail, and corruption.

  Those with the money and the power distrusted and despised each other, but the system remained in balance. That’s why it worked. Politicians did not seek executive positions in the private sector. And few self-respecting college-graduating Russians of any intellect or education would remotely consider a career in government.

  Crossover between the opposing ends of the Russian fulcrum was rare and unnecessary.

  In Russia, professionals and businessmen “partnered” with politicians and government leaders. Sure, this public-private partnership was a lucrative one—the business baron ensured a good life for the politician; the politician guaranteed contracts for the businessman. But, though the burden of corruption was a heavy one, the alliances between those in and out of government successfully protected Russia from the grabbing hand of foreign interests. Oligarchs and government fought incessantly among one another, but they agreed on one thing: Russia always came first.

  Moscow was a city of power, important friends, big decisions, beautiful women, and high intrigue. Once you had it in your hands, it was hard to let go, thought Rudzhin. But he knew that political life in Moscow was like dancing on a knife’s blade. For most of his seven years in the city, Rudzhin had never been entirely certain of his position.

  Until Viktor Zhironovsky had invited him last winter to Courchevel, the exquisite Alpine ski resort nestled geographically in the three-corner border that united Italy, Switzerland, and France. On that day, all his doubts dissipated. Rudzhin knew he had made it.

  Piotr remembered his elation at having been chosen as one of Zhironovsky’s guests at his famed alpine home in the French Savoy region. The “chalet” was a huge fifteen-thousand-square-foot eclectic structure. Art Deco meets Alpine mountain chic. It had indoor and outdoor swimming pools, a ballroom, a
Jacuzzi that accommodated ten relaxed bodies, a cinema that sat twenty-five guests, a bowling alley with three automated lanes, and its own indoor ice rink. A large bronze sphinx guarded the oval-shaped, gravel-strewn driveway to the house.

  More than five thousand Russians flocked to Courchevel every January, after Orthodox Christmas, to admire the panoramic view of the snow-capped glaciers. Those Russian visitors had either their own homes or stayed in hotels such as the Cheval Blanc, where the inn’s suites went for more than $20,000 per night. The hotel organized a yearly “Millionaire’s Cup” ski competition on the town’s most difficult slopes. Zhironovsky’s guests were regularly invited to participate. It was always an amusing day, with caviar served at the finish line. This year, the first prize had been a beautifully designed white-gold box with meteorite fragments found in the Central African Republic.

  Courchevel had brought home for Piotr Rudzhin the meaning of a recent Forbes magazine article about Russia’s moneyed elites. The magazine had counted sixty billionaires in Russia today, forty-seven of them residing in Moscow. Amazing for a country that only fifteen years ago had no millionaires, let alone billionaires.

  The thoughts of Courchevel fizzled away as the CDL’s parking attendant rapped on his car’s hood. Irritated by the interruption, Rudzhin stepped out of the car, handing the keys to the valet attendant dressed in a gray morning coat, white bow tie, and top hat. As the keys exchanged physical possession, Rudzhin lifted his right index finger in front of the young man’s face and wagged it very slowly; barely a millimeter separated Rudzhin’s fingertip from the attendant’s nose.

  The implication was crystal clear: Hell hath no fury if something amiss were to happen to the Saab 9000.

  Piotr Rudzhin entered the magnificent building and checked in with a matronly woman dressed in a cheap-looking black-and-white polyester outfit. Rudzhin noticed the white footwear often favored by Eastern European working women. The shoes were a type of cheap, open-toed ice-skating boot with a broad wooden heel and a wide open toe through which one half of the woman’s foot, clad in raw-colored, semisheer hose, jutted out.

  This was the footwear of choice for legions of Russian hotel maids, waitresses, bartenders, store clerks, and any other woman who worked standing up. These boots were everywhere. Oddly popular and spectacularly ugly.

  The poorly dressed woman at the CDL’s door carefully scanned a list of names written in cramped pencil strokes. Though he clearly saw his name, Rudzhin resisted the urge to lean over the counter and point to his luncheon host’s name, next to his. This rude imposition would have caused a bureaucratic faux pas of galactic dimensions.

  Finally she grunted. Her eyes revealed disappointment. Unfortunately, here was yet another man she would have to let in.

  “Mr. Zhironovsky is waiting for you in the Pushkin Room. This is on the second floor on the far left side.”

  Piotr Rudzhin buttoned his blue Armani suit’s middle closure and walked slowly through the bottom floor’s bar area—a lounge with sofas and love seats, antique balustrades and opulently displayed heraldry—toward the marble staircase. It was hard for the customers lining up at the caviar carriage—staffed by a gesticulating white-aproned man in a tall chef’s hat—not to notice the towering, athletic figure with the thick shock of blond hair walking by. Even the caviar chef, constructing perfect centerpieces of beluga, blini, and pelmeni favorites onto oversize plates, noticed that he momentarily lost his customers’ rapt attention.

  Rudzhin strode up the stairs and looked around. One floor’s decoration outmatched the next. Piotr could not help but marvel at the high ceiling and wooden balconies that seemed to circumnavigate the second-floor dining room. Tables covered with white damask linens were set with enormous care. Three wineglasses, one water glass, and one vodka glass horizontally crowned each setting of Christofle tableware.

  One of the waiters silently greeted Piotr Rudzhin with a formal bow and stretched out his white-gloved hand in the direction in which they were to walk. Rudzhin followed and stepped back as the waiter opened the second-to-last doorway at the end of the large dining hall.

  The transition was amazing. The large dining room gave way to a small space of resplendent elegance. A chandelier made of thousands of individually cut pieces of crystal swooped low over the round lunch table exquisitely set for two. Next to the dining table were two leather couches, each a warm brownish red. The sofas were separated by a low mahogany coffee table on which rested a large picture book of St. Petersburg’s architectural treasures, an ice bucket with a chilled bottle of Beluga Gold Line vodka and a cigar humidor stocked exclusively with Cuban Lonsdales. The walls were of warm wood paneling. Borodin’s Nocturne played softly over acoustically balanced speakers.

  Viktor Zhironovsky, one of the richest and most powerful political men in Russia, sat comfortably on one of the couches. A lit cigar was resting in the ashtray as the chairman of Volga Gaz nonchalantly swept through the day’s Izvestia, one of Russia’s most respected newspapers. A few years ago, the newspaper had been the first acquisition in Volga Gaz’s burgeoning media empire.

  “Am I late?” Piotr Rudzhin immediately blurted out, concerned to see the chairman so clearly comfortable. He must have been here for at least a half hour, Rudzhin thought. He glanced at his watch.

  “Calm down, Piotr. I’m early. I try to be here before all my lunches. It’s one of the few places where I can find both a little beauty and a little quiet. And you know what? There is another benefit. This room has no cellular reception. If they want me, they have to drag themselves over here!”

  Rudzhin was not entirely sure who “they” were. But, obviously, whoever had a claim on the chairman’s time was in danger of being put on the list of “them.” Not a good list to be on.

  Rudzhin went over and leaned down to greet the seated man with a kiss on both cheeks. Chairman Viktor Zhironovsky didn’t have to get up. Notwithstanding Rudzhin’s political successes, the gestures of respect would flow only one way in this meeting. Zhironovsky was the elder.

  And infinitely more powerful.

  Viktor Zhironovsky changed the subject. Though the informal tone of his voice remained the same, it was clear that he was all business now. “Tell me a little about life at the Ministry of Interior. What is the gossip these days?”

  Zhironovsky poured a small amount of vodka for his guest and handed the tiny glass over to Rudzhin with a smile.

  “Mr. Chairman, what could I possibly tell you that you do not know? You are being humble,” teased Piotr, raising his glass to the chairman’s health. He understood that this was Zhironovsky’s way of testing him. His value as one of Zhironovsky’s political under-studies would increase if he was able to deliver some nuggets of information that the chairman did not have.

  “No, Rudzhin, you would be surprised,” Chairman Viktor Zhironovsky intoned modestly. “My life is becoming hostage to natural gas—price, extraction, transportation, delivery, export, distribution. All the time. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Of course, it’s all important. But this wonderful underground gas of ours is an all-consuming affair. It would be nice to hear a little about other things.”

  Rudzhin smiled. He marveled at the chairman. Even when the two were alone, Zhironovsky could not stop working the network. He did a lot more than natural gas—Viktor Zhironovsky was building a company whose control and influence was extending beyond energy and into the media and politics.

  Zhironovsky was the closest advisor to Russia’s popular president Oskar Tuzhbin. There had long been rumors that Zhironovsky would be Russia’s new President when Tuzhbin ended his second term in two years. In a particularly Russian twist on democratic government, the new buzz around town was that President Tuzhbin and Viktor Zhironovsky would swap jobs.

  The younger Rudzhin admired the fact that Zhironovsky never took any information for granted. Like a shark in search of food, he was perpetually on the move.

  “Let’s see, Mr. Chairman. I can think of three
things of interest from this morning. First, I got a good preview of the new crime statistics that will come out next Monday. Not a good thing, sir. The Militsiya report a nineteen percent increase in aggravated assault, a fourteen percent increase in robbery, a twenty-one percent increase in street muggings, and even a seven percent increase in murder. Our economy grows. The country is clearly more prosperous. But crime is going the wrong way.”

  “Christ,” said Zhironovsky, shaking his head. “You see, I did not know that. The president thinks he can get away with blaming crime on Chechen mafias and gangs. But this won’t fly. For God’s sake, we are going to have to find a way to strangle the street crimes. People need to feel safe in the street. Thanks for telling me. I’ll talk to the president.

  “Okay, so what is the other stuff?” Zhironovsky insisted. He was impressed and wanted more. Clearly, Piotr was getting early warning access to important information.

  “The lottery for the European Cup was held five minutes before I left the office. Dynamo Moscow plays Manchester United in Manchester for its first game.” Rudzhin’s wry smile showed that he was pleased with himself. He knew the chairman was a wild soccer fanatic and, given what had just been said about cell phone access in the restaurant, chances were good that Zhironovsky wouldn’t yet have this information.

  “Shit!” Zhironovsky reached for the newspaper, folded it into a tube, and whipped the leather couch. “How do we always get this bad luck? Can you explain to me how we get Manchester United as our first pick? Why can’t we get Belgrade Sporting or Bucharest Steaua as our first game? You want to know what the problem is with being Russian? It’s bad luck. The Italians, or Spaniards, or Germans don’t have bad luck. Only we do. Bad luck and cold winters.

  “Shit!” Zhironovsky spat out again. “There are two pieces of bad news, Rudzhin. You are making an old man lose his appetite before we sit down for lunch.”