February 1, 1995 – Moscow, Neva Bank Headquarters
The fax machine hummed to life at 9:47 AM.
Alexei was in a meeting with Lebedev when the document began feeding through, page after page, its thermal paper curling as it emerged. The secretary brought it in without reading it—she knew better—and placed it on the corner of his desk.
By the time the machine stopped, there were forty-seven pages.
Alexei picked up the first page and read. His expression didn't change, but Lebedev, who had learned to read him over four years, saw something shift in his eyes.
"What is it?"
Alexei handed him the page. Lebedev read, his own expression shifting from curiosity to disbelief to calculation.
"Loans-for-shares. It's actually happening."
The presidential decree was dated January 31, 1995. It authorized the government to auction shares in state-owned enterprises in exchange for loans from commercial banks. The loans would be used to fund the budget deficit. If the government failed to repay—which everyone knew it would—the banks would take ownership of the shares.
In theory, it was a way to raise emergency funds. In practice, it was the greatest transfer of wealth in modern history.
"The first auctions are in March," Alexei said, scanning further. "Yukos, Lukoil, Surgutneftegaz, Sibneft. The biggest oil companies."
"We already have Surgutneftegaz. Five point four percent."
"Now we have a chance at more. At real control."
Lebedev set the pages down carefully, as if they might explode. "This is what Khodorkovsky was preparing for. The consortium he mentioned."
"Yes. And we're part of it."
The Consortium
That afternoon, Alexei called Khodorkovsky.
The oligarch's assistant put him through immediately—a sign of how their relationship had evolved. Khodorkovsky's voice came through the line, calm and controlled as always.
"Volkov. You've seen the decree."
"I've seen it. The consortium is moving forward?"
"It is. We're meeting tomorrow, ten AM, at Menatep. Bring your financial people. We need to coordinate bids, allocate targets, ensure we don't compete against each other."
"I'll be there."
"One thing, Volkov." Khodorkovsky's voice dropped slightly. "This is going to get rough. The other players—Berezovsky, Potanin, Smolensky before he crashed—they're all circling. There will be politics, threats, maybe worse. Are you prepared for that?"
Alexei thought of Ivan, of the security team, of the Cadillacs and the armored Mercedes and the building on Vasilievsky Island with its cameras and guards.
"I'm prepared."
"Good. Tomorrow, then."
The line went dead.
Lebedev spent the rest of the day assembling materials. Surgutneftegaz production figures. Valuation analyses. Cash position reports. Everything they would need to demonstrate their capacity to the consortium.
Ivan came by in the evening, finding Alexei still at his desk. "You're staying late."
"Big day tomorrow. Loans-for-shares. The real game starts now."
Ivan nodded slowly. He had been watching Alexei for four years, had seen him grow from a desperate sixteen-year-old into a player on the national stage. But this was different. This was the big leagues.
"The security team is ready. The cars are ready. Whatever happens tomorrow, you'll be protected."
"I know."
Ivan hesitated. "Your father never had a chance to play at this level. He died for a country that was already dying."
"My father believed in something. I believe in survival."
"Maybe they're the same thing."
Alexei looked at him, surprised. Ivan rarely offered philosophy.
"Get some sleep," Ivan said. "Tomorrow changes everything."
February 2, 1995 – Menatep Headquarters, Moscow
The conference room was packed.
Twenty men sat around the massive table, with another dozen standing against the walls. Alexei recognized most of them from the Banking Association gala—Khodorkovsky at the head, Potanin across from him, Berezovsky near the window, a dozen lesser players filling the remaining seats.
He took a place near the middle, Lebedev beside him. Ivan waited outside with the security team, six Cadillacs lined up in the parking lot like a statement.
Khodorkovsky called the meeting to order. "Gentlemen. You've all seen the decree. You know what's at stake. The government is desperate for cash, and we're going to provide it. In exchange, we'll own the country's most valuable assets."
Murmurs around the table. Some were excited, some nervous, some calculating.
"The consortium will operate as follows. We pool our resources. We agree on targets. We bid collectively, not against each other. When the auctions are won, shares are distributed proportionally to each member's contribution."
Potanin spoke up. "And the valuations? How do we determine what's fair?"
"Khodorkovsky's team has prepared analyses. Each company will be valued based on its reserves, production, infrastructure. We'll use those as baselines for bidding."
Berezovsky's voice cut through. "And if someone outside the consortium bids higher?"
"Then we bid higher still. The consortium represents significant capital—hundreds of millions. No outsider can match us if we're united."
Alexei listened, saying nothing. The dynamics were clear. Khodorkovsky was positioning himself as leader. Potanin was a rival. Berezovsky was wild card. The others were followers, hoping for scraps.
When the meeting broke for lunch, Khodorkovsky pulled him aside.
"Volkov. You've been quiet."
"Listening."
"Good. Listeners survive longer than talkers." He studied Alexei for a moment. "Your stake in Surgutneftegaz puts you in a unique position. You already have a foothold. The consortium will focus on other targets—Yukos, Lukoil, Sibneft. But when Surgutneftegaz comes up for auction, you'll have first claim."
"How much will it cost?"
"To take control? Maybe twenty million. Maybe thirty. Depends on the bidding."
Alexei calculated. Twenty million was most of his liquid capital. But Surgutneftegaz was worth hundreds of millions. The math was simple.
"I'll be ready."
Khodorkovsky nodded. "I thought you would be."
That evening, Alexei debriefed Lebedev and Ivan in his office.
"The consortium is real. Khodorkovsky is in charge. Potanin is a rival. Berezovsky is unpredictable. The rest are followers."
"And Surgutneftegaz?"
"Mine, if I can raise the capital. Twenty to thirty million."
Lebedev whistled softly. "That's almost everything we have."
"That's the point. This is the moment. The men who own the oil companies will own Russia. I intend to be one of them."
Ivan spoke from the doorway. "And if it fails?"
"Then we're back to trucks and warehouses. Not a disaster, but a setback." Alexei looked at both of them. "But it won't fail. I know how this ends."
He couldn't explain the past life, the knowledge of what was coming. But he knew that loans-for-shares would create the oligarchs. And he intended to be among them.
Twenty million for Surgutneftegaz control. Thirty million for a stake in something larger. The numbers were staggering. But so was the potential.
His father had died for nothing. His mother had died for lack of medicine. His grandfather had watched his world dissolve.
This world—his world—would not dissolve. It would be built on oil and infrastructure and the careful accumulation of power.
The loans-for-shares auctions were coming. And Alexei Volkov would be ready.