January 15, 1993 – Leningrad, Neva Transport Headquarters
The numbers made no sense anymore.
Alexei sat in his office, staring at the newspaper Lebedev had thrown onto his desk. The headline screamed in block letters: PRICES RISE 26% IN DECEMBER – CENTRAL BANK PREDICTS WORSE TO COME.
Twenty-six percent. In a single month. The money in their safes, in their accounts, in their workers' pockets—all of it melting away like snow in spring.
Lebedev paced by the window, his usual composure shattered. "It's worse than the paper says. I have contacts at Gosbank. The real number for January will be thirty percent. Maybe thirty-five. The government is printing money like there's no tomorrow, and soon there won't be."
Alexei forced himself to think calmly. Panic was a luxury he couldn't afford. "Our cash position?"
"About three point two million dollars in various hiding places. Plus roughly forty million rubles in operating funds." Lebedev stopped pacing, his face grim. "The rubles are losing value by the hour. If we don't convert them soon, they'll be worthless."
"Then convert them. Dollars, Deutsche marks, Swiss francs. Whatever holds value."
"I've started. But the exchange offices are flooded. Everyone's trying to do the same thing. The rate is—"
"I don't care about the rate. I care about value. Get it done."
Lebedev nodded and left. Alexei turned to the window, watching the snow fall on the depot yard below. Three point two million dollars. A fortune, by any normal measure. But in the chaos of hyperinflation, fortunes could evaporate in weeks.
He thought of his mother's hospital room. The empty medicine cabinet. The doctors who couldn't help because the system had collapsed. Forty thousand dollars would have saved her. Forty thousand.
Now he had eighty times that. And it was all at risk.
---
January 20, 1993 – Neva Transport, Kolya's Workshop
The mechanics were working on three trucks, their movements efficient despite the cold. Kolya emerged from beneath a Ural, his face streaked with grease, his expression unusually serious.
"The men are worried," he said without preamble. "The prices in the shops—they're doubling every week. Their wages, which seemed good six months ago, now barely buy bread."
"I know."
"What are we going to do about it?"
Alexei had been thinking about this. The veterans had followed him across Russia, faced down armed looters, built something from nothing. He owed them more than just wages that evaporated overnight.
"Starting next month, half their pay in dollars. The rest in rubles, but adjusted weekly for inflation. And we set up a company store—buy food, medicine, essentials in bulk and sell to employees at cost."
Kolya's eyebrows rose. "A company store? That's—"
"That's survival. They need to feed their families. We need them to stay focused. It's not charity—it's smart business."
Kolya nodded slowly. "They'll appreciate it. The ones with families especially."
"Then spread the word. And Kolya—anyone who wants to convert their ruble savings to dollars, we'll help. At a fair rate."
Kolya ducked back under the truck. Alexei walked through the workshop, past the mechanics and the trucks and the organized chaos of a business that was somehow still growing despite everything.
---
January 25, 1993 – Neva Transport, Alexei's Office
Lebedev returned with better news.
"We've converted about sixty percent of our ruble holdings. Took some losses, but nothing catastrophic. We're now holding roughly two point eight million in dollars, some marks, a little Swiss francs."
"And the ruble position?"
"Down to about fifteen million. Enough for payroll and operating expenses for the next month or two. After that—" Lebedev shrugged. "Who knows what the ruble will be worth?"
Alexei nodded. It was the best they could do. The inflation was beyond their control. All they could do was protect what they had and wait for the storm to pass.
But waiting wasn't enough. Not anymore.
"The inflation is destroying the old economy," he said slowly. "State enterprises are collapsing. Private businesses are going under. But that creates opportunity."
Lebedev's eyes sharpened. "What kind of opportunity?"
"The kind where those with hard currency can buy assets for pennies on the ruble. Factories, warehouses, equipment—all of it becoming worthless because no one has money that holds value."
"You're thinking about expansion."
"I'm thinking about survival. The companies that survive this will own the future. I intend to be one of them."
Lebedev studied him for a long moment. "You're eighteen."
"Nineteen in April."
"And you think like a man who's seen this before."
Alexei didn't answer. He couldn't explain the past life, the corporate experience, the knowledge of how hyperinflation reshaped economies. So he simply nodded and turned back to the window.
"Start looking for opportunities. Distressed assets, desperate sellers, anything that might be valuable in the long term. We have dollars. Soon, dollars will be the only thing that matters."
---
January 28, 1993 – Neva Transport, Company Store Opening
The store was a converted warehouse bay, its shelves stocked with flour, sugar, cooking oil, canned meat, medicine, and other essentials. Ivan had organized security. Yuri, the medic, had helped source basic medical supplies. Kolya's mechanics had built the shelving.
Word had spread quickly. By noon, a line stretched out the door.
Alexei watched from a distance as employees filed through, their faces a mixture of relief and disbelief. They paid in rubles—at cost, with no markup—and left with bags of food that would feed their families for weeks.
Ivan appeared at his side. "This is good. They'll remember it."
"That's the idea."
"And the dollars-for-rubles exchange? You're taking a loss on that."
"A calculated loss. Their loyalty is worth more than the money."
Ivan nodded slowly. "Your father would approve. He always said a commander's first duty is to his men."
"My father is dead. I'm doing this because it's smart business."
"Maybe. But it's also right. Don't pretend otherwise."
Alexei didn't answer. He watched his employees—his people—carry their provisions home through the snow. Four hundred families who would eat tonight because of what he had built.
Maybe Ivan was right. Maybe it was both.
---
January 31, 1993 – Evening, Volkov Apartment
The apartment was quiet, the way it always was now. Alexei sat at the kitchen table, the same table where he had planned the Kazakhstan operation two years ago. His grandfather's address book lay open, but he wasn't reading it.
He was thinking about the future.
Hyperinflation was a crisis. But crisis was also opportunity. The old Soviet economy was finally, completely dying. In its place, something new would rise. And the men who had capital—real capital, in currencies that held value—would be the ones to build it.
He had nearly three million dollars. A trucking company. Warehouses across the country. A security force led by Ivan. A network of veterans who would follow him anywhere.
It was enough. More than enough.
But he needed more. Not for himself—for what he was building. Trucks broke down. Warehouses needed maintenance. Expansion required capital. And the inflation was a warning: wealth in cash was wealth at risk.
He needed a bank. Not just an account somewhere, but a bank of his own. A place to hold money safely, to lend, to leverage, to multiply.
The thought had been forming for months. Now, with the inflation eating everything, it became urgent.
He pulled out his mother's photograph, worn from years of carrying. Her face smiled at him from a time before cancer, before collapse, before everything.
He didn't know if he was better. But he was still here. Still building. Still surviving.
And in the chaos of hyperinflation, survival was its own kind of victory.
He closed the address book and picked up a pen. On a fresh sheet of paper, he wrote:
Phase Two: Banking
- Need license
- Need capital
- Need connections
- Need someone who understands the system
Boris Lebedev knew the system. It was time to have a serious conversation.