March 15, 1995 – Moscow, Government Auction Hall
The room was electric with tension.
Alexei sat in the third row, flanked by Lebedev and Ivan. Around them, the cream of Russia's new business elite waited for the first loans-for-shares auction to begin. Khodorkovsky was two rows ahead, surrounded by his Menatep team. Potanin held court near the windows. Berezovsky paced at the back, unable to sit still.
The target was Surgutneftegaz.
Not the five percent Alexei already held, but a controlling stake. Twenty percent of the company was being auctioned today, with the understanding that the winning bidder would get effective control. The price, in theory, was a loan to the government. In practice, it was the purchase price for one of Russia's largest oil companies.
Lebedev leaned close. "Our consortium has pooled forty million. Khodorkovsky is leading the bid. If we win, our share is proportional to our contribution."
"And our contribution?"
"Twelve million. Thirty percent of the consortium. That would give us twelve percent of Surgutneftegaz—combined with our existing five, seventeen percent total. Effective control, if we coordinate with other shareholders."
Alexei nodded. Twelve million was a significant bet. But Surgutneftegaz was worth hundreds of millions. The math was simple.
The auctioneer took the stage. The room fell silent.
"Lot number one: twenty percent of Surgutneftegaz, represented by shares held by the State Property Committee. Bidding opens at fifteen million dollars."
A murmur rippled through the room. Fifteen million was absurdly low—a fraction of the company's true value. But that was the point. The government needed cash, and the insiders had rigged the game.
Khodorkovsky raised his hand. "Fifteen million."
A representative from one of Potanin's banks countered. "Sixteen."
Khodorkovsky again. "Seventeen."
The bidding crept upward, slow and deliberate. Twenty million. Twenty-two. Twenty-five. At each step, Alexei watched the other players, calculating their intentions, their limits, their breaking points.
At thirty million, Potanin's representative dropped out. At thirty-two, a foreign investment fund that had somehow gotten into the room stopped bidding. At thirty-five, only Khodorkovsky remained.
"Thirty-five million, going once... going twice... sold to the Menatep consortium."
The room erupted in applause—the polite, calculated applause of men who had just witnessed a billion-dollar asset change hands for pocket change.
Alexei allowed himself a small smile. Twelve percent of Surgutneftegaz, added to his existing five, gave him seventeen percent. Effective control, if he played his cards right.
That afternoon, while the oligarchs celebrated, Alexei worked.
The auction had been the main event, but there were other acquisitions to complete. The consortium had also agreed to purchase the remaining shares of several logistics companies—the pieces of infrastructure that Alexei had identified as essential.
Murmansk Shipping Company: the consortium acquired another fifteen percent, bringing Alexei's total to thirty-eight percent. Effective control.
Siberian Railway: another twelve percent, bringing his total to thirty percent. Effective control.
Novorossiysk Port Authority: another ten percent, bringing his total to twenty-five percent. A strong minority position.
Three smaller logistics firms: full control through the consortium's purchases, with Alexei holding majority stakes.
Lebedev reviewed the final tally with something like awe. "When the dust settles, you'll control the transportation network for Surgutneftegaz's oil. The railway, the port, the shipping line—all connected, all under your influence."
"That's the point. The oil is worthless without infrastructure. Now we have both."
That evening, Khodorkovsky hosted a dinner for consortium members.
The restaurant was private, exclusive, hidden from the chaos of Moscow. Twenty men sat around a long table, drinking French wine and congratulating each other on a day's work that had made them all billionaires on paper.
Khodorkovsky raised his glass. "To the consortium. To the future. To Russia."
They drank. Alexei sipped his wine, watching the others. Potanin was already scheming, his eyes moving constantly. Berezovsky was loud, expansive, dominating the conversation. The lesser players were drunk on success and champagne.
Khodorkovsky found him later, away from the crowd. "Seventeen percent of Surgutneftegaz. Plus control of the logistics. You've done well, Volkov."
"I've had good partners."
"Partners, yes." Khodorkovsky's expression was unreadable. "You understand that this is just the beginning. The real game is politics, influence, protection. The men who own the oil will be targets. The men who don't protect themselves will be destroyed."
"I understand."
"Good. Because I've been watching you. You're different from the others. You build infrastructure, not just empires. That might save you, when the reckoning comes."
Alexei filed the warning away. In his past life, he knew what happened to Khodorkovsky. The reckoning would come for him too, eventually. But not yet.
March 16, 1995 – Neva Bank Moscow Branch, Alexei's Office
The paperwork took days to process.
When it was done, Alexei sat alone with the final numbers. Surgutneftegaz: seventeen percent. Murmansk Shipping: thirty-eight percent. Siberian Railway: thirty percent. Novorossiysk Port: twenty-five percent. Three smaller logistics firms: majority control.
Twelve million spent. Assets worth perhaps a hundred million. A good day's work.