February 10, 1993 – Leningrad, Neva Transport Headquarters
The folder landed on Alexei's desk with a heavy thud.
Boris Lebedev stood over it, his face a mixture of exhaustion and barely contained excitement. He had been working on this for three weeks, ever since Alexei had raised the idea of a bank. Now the research was complete.
"Everything you need to know about getting a banking license in the Russian Federation," Lebedev announced. "Costs, requirements, timelines, people to bribe, people to avoid, people who will take your money and disappear."
Alexei opened the folder. The first page was a flowchart so complex it looked like a wiring diagram for a nuclear reactor. Boxes and arrows and decision points stretched across three pages, each one representing a bureaucratic hurdle, a potential delay, an opportunity for corruption.
"This is insane."
"This is Russia. The old system is dead, but its ghost still haunts every ministry. To get a license, you need approval from the Central Bank, the Ministry of Finance, the local authorities, and about seventeen other committees that exist mostly on paper." Lebedev sat heavily in the chair across from Alexei. "The good news is that most of these approvals can be bought. The bad news is that the price keeps changing."
Alexei flipped through the pages. Each one had numbers scrawled in Lebedev's handwriting—estimates, ranges, names with question marks. The total at the bottom made him blink.
"Two hundred thousand dollars?"
"Minimum. Could be more. The Central Bank officials are the worst—they know they have a monopoly on approval, and they act like it."
Alexei leaned back, thinking. Two hundred thousand was significant but not impossible. They had nearly three million in hard currency. The question wasn't whether they could afford it—it was whether they could navigate the process without being cheated, exposed, or arrested.
"What's our first step?"
Lebedev pulled out a separate sheet. "Grigorenko. Pavel Ivanovich Grigorenko. Deputy Director at the Central Bank in Moscow. Your grandfather's address book has him listed."
Alexei flipped to the page. Grigorenko, Pavel Ivanovich – Class of 1973 – Deputy Director, Central Bank of Russia, Moscow. Grandfather's note was brief but potent: 1985: approved loan for brother's factory despite irregularities. Expects discretion. Useful for access.
"A Central Bank contact. Someone who can tell us how the game is really played."
"Exactly. I've already made inquiries. He's willing to meet—for a price."
"What price?"
"He didn't say. He wants to discuss it in person."
Alexei nodded. Moscow. Another trip, another meeting, another test of his ability to navigate the new Russia's corridors of power.
"Set it up. I'll go next week."
February 15, 1993 – Moscow, Central Bank of Russia
The building was newer than the Ministry of Defense, but it carried the same weight of institutional power. Marble floors, high ceilings, guards at every entrance. Alexei sat in another waiting room, another uncomfortable chair, another test of patience.
Grigorenko kept him waiting only twenty minutes—a sign, perhaps, that Grandfather's name still carried weight.
He was a small man, neat, precise, with the careful movements of someone who had spent his life handling other people's money. His office was filled with charts, graphs, financial publications from around the world. He spoke perfect English, perfect German, and Russian with a slight Moscow accent.
"Volkov," he said, studying Alexei across his desk. "You have your grandfather's eyes. And, apparently, his timing."
"His timing?"
"He always knew when to act. When to wait. When to strike." Grigorenko leaned back. "You're here about a banking license."
"Yes."
"Everyone's here about a banking license. Half the businessmen in Russia are trying to get one. Most will fail." He studied Alexei with new interest. "You're different, I suspect."
"I'm not trying to build a bank to speculate. I already have a trucking company, warehouses, a security firm. I need a bank to manage my own money, to finance my own operations, to protect what I've built."
Grigorenko's eyebrows rose. "You want a captive bank. For your own empire."
"Essentially."
"That's... unusual. Most people want a bank to play with other people's money. You want one to protect your own."
"My own is enough. For now."
Grigorenko was quiet for a moment, then laughed—a short, genuine sound. "Your grandfather said you were special. I didn't believe him. Now I'm not sure."
He pulled a folder from his desk. "The banking license process is complicated. But not impossible. You'll need to demonstrate capital, a business plan, clean ownership. You'll need to bribe the right people—I can tell you who. And you'll need to move fast. The window for new banks is closing."
"How fast?"
"Six months. Maybe less. After that, the Central Bank will freeze new licenses. The old guard will protect their monopoly."
Alexei nodded. "I'll be ready."
Grigorenko studied him again. "One more thing. The contacts in your grandfather's book—use them carefully. Some are still valuable. Some are dangerous. Some are both." He slid a piece of paper across the desk. "These are the people you need to see. In this order. Mention my name, but don't mention our conversation. Pay what they ask, but don't pay more than they're worth."
Alexei took the paper. Five names, five addresses, five prices scrawled next to them.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Your grandfather saved my career twice. This repays that debt. After this, we're strangers."
They shook hands. Alexei left the office, the list burning in his pocket.
February 20, 1993 – Moscow, Various Locations
The next five days were a blur of meetings.
A deputy minister who demanded ten thousand dollars just to review the application. A committee chairman who wanted twenty thousand to "expedite" the process. A bureaucrat who asked for five thousand and a job for his nephew. A former KGB officer who wanted fifteen thousand and "future considerations."
Alexei paid them all. Not with enthusiasm, but with the cold calculation that each bribe was an investment in the future. By the fifth day, he had spent nearly eighty thousand dollars and collected a stack of signed documents, stamped approvals, and vague promises.
Lebedev met him at the hotel that evening, reviewing the haul with a mixture of awe and horror. "This is insane. We've spent a fortune, and we still don't have a license."
"We have something better. We have friends."
"Friends who will betray us the moment someone offers more."
"Then we make sure no one offers more." Alexei pulled out the list Grigorenko had given him. "There's one more name. The final approval. Grigorenko says this man is the key."
The name at the bottom: Kuzmin, Alexander Petrovich – Chairman, Licensing Committee.
The price: negotiable.
February 22, 1993 – Moscow, Licensing Committee Office
Kuzmin was nothing like the others.
He was young—maybe forty—with the sharp eyes of a survivor and the expensive suit of a man who had already figured out how to profit from the new Russia. His office was modern, tasteful, with a view of the Moscow River. No Soviet relics here.
"Volkov," he said, gesturing to a chair. "Grigorenko speaks highly of you. That's rare."
"I'm grateful for his recommendation."
Kuzmin smiled. "Recommendation. Yes. Let's call it that." He leaned back. "You want a banking license. You've already paid a small fortune to various... intermediaries. Now you need my signature."
"Yes."
"And what do I get in exchange for my signature?"
Alexei had prepared for this. "Twenty-five thousand dollars.
Kuzmin's eyebrows rose. That's generous."
"That's an investment in our relationship. I'm not just buying a signature—I'm buying a partner. Someone who understands that the bank's success benefits us both."
Kuzmin studied him for a long moment. "You're nineteen."
"Nineteen."
"And you think like a man who's been doing this for decades."
"I had good teachers."
Kuzmin laughed—a genuine sound. "Grigorenko said you were different. He was right." He pulled out a document and signed it with a flourish. "Your license will be issued in thirty days. Use that time to prepare. And Volkov?"
"Yes?"
"Don't make me regret this."
They shook hands. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place.
February 28, 1993 – Leningrad, Neva Transport Headquarters
The cost was staggering.
Alexei reviewed the numbers with Lebedev: one hundred thirty-seven thousand dollars in bribes, fees, and "expediting payments." Another fifty thousand in legal costs and document preparation. Nearly two hundred thousand before the license was even issued.
But it was done. The approvals were in place. In thirty days, Neva Bank would exist.
Lebedev shook his head slowly. "I still can't believe it. A bank. Our own bank."
"A tool. Nothing more. A way to protect our money, finance our growth, and build something that can't be taken away."
"And Kuzmin?
"A necessary cost. He'll be useful—access to information, influence at the Central Bank, a voice in Moscow when we need it."
Lebedev nodded slowly. "You're thinking ahead."
"I'm always thinking ahead. That's the only way to survive."
He turned to the window, watching the snow fall on the depot yard. Three point two million dollars in cash. A trucking company with nearly a hundred vehicles. Warehouses across the country. A security force led by Ivan. And now, a bank.