In St. Petersburg, after finishing a video call with Amy Pascal and handling some additional work, Simon shut down his computer and left his study.
This residence was located on the southwestern coast of St. Petersburg, an area lined with the historic estates of Russian nobility, including Peter the Great's Summer Palace. When Simon began establishing his influence in Russia a few years ago, it seemed only fitting to select a residence in this prestigious district.
Russia, with its vast land and sparse population, has no shortage of space. Simon's coastal estate spanned an impressive 100 hectares, situated between Peter the Great's Summer Palace and Konstantin Palace. The estate's primary residence was a three-story Baroque-style mansion reminiscent of the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg, though instead of the Winter Palace's green exterior, this one had a stately stone-gray facade.
To ensure quality during construction, materials and the construction crew were sourced from Ukraine, knowing well the famous tale of American embassy buildings being riddled with listening devices. Ever since his experience at the Plaza Hotel, Simon harbored a wariness for such things.
Leaving the study, he was soon greeted by his assistant and two maids carrying two different outfits for him to choose from. He picked one casually, changed in a nearby bedroom, and headed downstairs.
Outside, the car awaited.
Noticing that he was preparing to leave, a tiny figure wriggled out of her mother's arms and ran toward him, eager to come along.
Simon picked up the little girl. When Yulia Shurchikina approached, ready to take her daughter back, Simon shook his head with a smile and told the child in his arms, "You can come, but you have to be on your best behavior."
The girl's face lit up as she replied sweetly, "Of course, Daddy! Nina is always well-behaved."
Yulia, uncertain of Simon's destination but knowing it was no ordinary outing, stepped forward to take her daughter back. "Sir, please let me take her. This isn't the right place for Nina."
The little one, sensing her mother's approach, clung to Simon's neck like a little koala and urged, "Daddy, let's go."
With a smile, Simon nodded to Yulia and continued to the car. The driver and security team outside exchanged glances, slightly surprised to see Simon carrying the little girl but said nothing. They opened the door, and Simon got in with Nina, while his assistant followed.
Once the car doors closed, the girl immediately made a face out the window toward her mother. Simon didn't correct her, as Yulia wouldn't be able to see inside the car. Instead, he instructed the driver to head into St. Petersburg.
Two identical black Mercedes left the estate and turned onto the road leading toward the city.
It was already past 7 p.m., but given St. Petersburg's high latitude, daylight lingered. It wouldn't grow dark until after 8 p.m. As Simon indulged Nina's curious questions, he gazed out the window at the passing cityscape.
St. Petersburg, a city situated on the Baltic Sea, stands as a testament to Russia's evolution from a remote, backward country to a European powerhouse. In the early 18th century, Peter the Great relocated the capital from Moscow to St. Petersburg, despite fierce opposition, and aggressively pursued Westernization, adopting European technology and culture. This move laid the foundation for Russia's status as a major power for nearly 300 years, until the dissolution of the Soviet Union.
Ironically, Peter the Great's era coincided with China's Kangxi Emperor, but the two rulers led their countries in opposite directions. Peter's drive to open Russia ultimately made it a European power, while China's commitment to isolation left it vulnerable to being left behind by history.
Now, this ancient metropolis, with its 300 years of history, had entered another period of decline.
As Simon's car entered the city, aside from the Soviet-era asphalt roads, wide and sturdy, much of the city bore signs of decay. The facades of many buildings appeared dilapidated due to a lack of maintenance, and the sparsely populated streets gave it an almost ghostly appearance.
Simon understood, however, that this decline was not yet the lowest point for Russia.
Russia's GDP had already plummeted from $517.9 billion in 1991, when the Soviet Union collapsed, to $395.5 billion in 1995—a drop of 24%. But the real abyss lay ahead, in 1997.
This year, 1996, was a turning point. It was not only an election year for the U.S. but also for Russia.
Boris Yeltsin, who had initially seized the presidency, had led Russia into disarray. By early 1996, public support for him had dwindled to a mere 3%—not 30%, but an almost insignificant 3%. Fully aware of the potential consequences of losing this election, Yeltsin had aligned with Russia's oligarchs, pouring vast sums into manipulating public opinion.
With media channels limited and public discourse easily swayed, the influx of money paid off. By now, a few months later, Yeltsin's approval rating had rebounded to around 50%, putting him ahead of his opponent and making his re-election in July likely.
In return for their support, the oligarchs would demand their share. Consequently, in Yeltsin's second term, a second wave of privatization of Russia's state assets would proceed with even greater recklessness. Coupled with the fallout from the Asian financial crisis, Russia's economy would plummet even further, reaching its lowest point in 1999, with a GDP of just over $190 billion—a staggering 50% drop from the current figure.
If not for Yeltsin's one redeeming act—choosing a competent successor near the end of his presidency—Russia might have ended up selling land to survive, much like when it sold Alaska.
Simon's convoy made its way from the southwest suburbs into the city, crossing the Neva River. After about forty minutes, they arrived at a private residence in the city's eastern outskirts.
This estate belonged to Mikhail Fridman, an oligarch supported by the Westeros network in Russia. Tonight, Fridman was hosting a small gathering of political and business figures at Simon's request.
As Simon stepped out of the car, he handed the curious little Nina to his assistant, A, while Fridman approached, clearly eager to speak. Simon gave a subtle nod to his security team, who withdrew slightly, giving Fridman the cue to speak quietly.
After hearing Fridman's words, Simon appeared slightly surprised but said, "Then let's talk."
Fridman immediately led him through a side door into the villa, pausing slightly when he noticed Simon's entourage following. However, he didn't object.
The side corridor was dimly lit, with just enough light to reveal the gathering in the main hall at the end of the hallway.
Simon instructed his assistant to take Nina to the main hall before he and Fridman turned toward the stairs, heading to the second floor. The corridor there was similarly dark, and they stopped at a door where two burly figures stood on either side, relaxing slightly upon recognizing Simon and Fridman.
One of the guards hesitated but ultimately opened the door and quietly announced their arrival.
It was a study, softly illuminated by a single wall lamp, casting a dim glow over the room.
Simon stepped in, noticing a woman seated on a sofa in a tailored black suit with short hair, legs crossed, holding a glass of wine. She didn't rise until he approached, setting her glass down to stand up leisurely. Though she had to tilt her face up due to their height difference, her expression bore a touch of haughty self-assurance as she extended her hand toward him. "Hello, Mr. Westero."
Simon smiled and shook her hand briefly. "Hello."
The woman hesitated slightly before continuing, "You can call me Tatyana."
"Alright."
Simon nodded and took a seat across from her on a single-seater sofa.
Tatyana, slightly irked that her initial attempt at posturing had fallen flat, kept her expression composed but felt a twinge of frustration as she resumed her seat. Simon seemed completely relaxed, leaning back and observing her with mild amusement. Finally, she gestured toward a bottle of whiskey on the coffee table. "Mr. Westero, would you like a drink?"
"No, thank you. Please help yourself."
Nodding, she took another sip of her own drink, only to feel increasingly like she was on the defensive. After another moment's hesitation, she set the glass down, trying to mirror Simon's casual demeanor but found herself sitting upright again.
With a slight smile, Simon observed the scene before breaking the silence. "This is a pivotal election. Meeting with me now could pose significant risks for your father's campaign."
She couldn't help but retort, "We're not like you, Mr. Westero, drawing attention wherever we go. We can manage some discretion."
Although Simon's arrival in St. Petersburg had been unannounced, it was evident that many were well aware of his presence.
Simon merely smiled. "So, Tatyana, what brings you to me?"
Her expression faltered briefly before she gathered herself. Having come this far, she saw no point in pretense. In recent months, she had effectively stepped into the public eye, skillfully leading her father's campaign. "Mr. Westero, my father deeply admires you. He calls you a remarkable miracle of our times."
"Thank you."
Tatyana paused, feeling a touch frustrated. Wasn't this where he should reciprocate with some polite flattery?
She was beginning to regret her initial attempt to play coy.
She had studied a detailed dossier on Simon, which included his achievements and traits, but much of his personality remained elusive. He seemed almost like a blend of multiple personas—cold and ruthless enough to start wars, yet tender enough to show affection toward those he'd once disregarded; insatiable in his romantic pursuits but able to abstain entirely when focused. This complexity was understandable, given his well-known stint in a psychiatric facility.
After a moment's contemplation, she finally spoke again, "Mr. Westero, what do you think of the Russian presidential election?"
Simon, recognizing her vague question, shook his head. "Tatyana, let's be direct. Why are you here?"
This address felt overly familiar, and she inwardly scoffed, wondering if they were close enough for such informality. But brushing off her irritation, she said, "Mr. Westero, we've noticed that your representative, Mikhail Fridman, hasn't made much headway in recent years. With the election likely securing my father's re-election, if you wish to advance in Russia, perhaps we could become allies?"
For the first time, Simon's interest seemed genuine. "Who exactly do you mean by 'we'?"
She replied, "The Westero family and the Yeltsin family."
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