July 15, 1991 – Moscow, Ministry of Defense
Alexei stood on the pavement outside the Ministry of Defense, watching the grey colossus loom against a grey sky. Its windows were dark, its flags limp, its entrance guarded by soldiers who looked too young to understand what they were protecting. The Soviet Union was dying, but its heart still beat here, in this monument to military power.
Beside him, Ivan shifted uncomfortably. "I don't like this place."
"No one likes this place. That's the point."
They walked through the gates, past guards who examined their papers with exaggerated care, into a marble lobby that smelled of floor wax and faded glory. A clerk met them, led them through corridors lined with portraits of marshals long dead, and deposited them in a waiting room furnished with furniture that had been uncomfortable in 1955.
General Konstantin Vasilyevich Sokolov kept them waiting forty-seven minutes. Power, Alexei had learned, was measured in waiting time.
When the door finally opened, a different clerk ushered them into an office that was surprisingly modest—a desk, filing cabinets, a window overlooking a courtyard. The man behind the desk was in his late forties, with the close-cropped hair and erect posture of a career officer. His face was familiar from Grandfather's address book photograph.
"Volkov," Sokolov said, not rising. "You look like him. The General, I mean. Not your father."
"Everyone says that."
"Everyone is usually right." Sokolov gestured at chairs. "Sit. Tell me why a seventeen-year-old boy needs a meeting with a Deputy Minister."
Alexei sat. Ivan remained standing by the door, a silent presence.
"I'm here to ask for your help."
Sokolov's eyebrows rose. "Help. From me. Your grandfather's notes told you I owe him, I suppose."
"They did. 1970. The incident at the dormitory."
For the first time, something flickered in Sokolov's eyes—not fear, but acknowledgment. "He covered for me. Saved my career. I've spent twenty years wondering when someone would collect that debt."
"Today."
Sokolov leaned back, studying Alexei with new interest. "You're direct. I appreciate that. What do you want?"
"Cover. Protection. Not for me—for my operations. I'm building a logistics network. Trucks, warehouses, a bank. It's legitimate, mostly. But there are people who want to stop me. A man named Tarasov, for one. He has connections. Money. Men."
"Tarasov." Sokolov tasted the name. "I've heard of him. Port district, organized crime, expanding into everything. He's made enemies, but he's also made friends. In this building, unfortunately."
"Then I need friends in this building too."
Sokolov was quiet for a long moment. He looked at Ivan, at the way he stood, at the scars visible at his collar. "Afghanets?"
"Yes."
"Your father's man?"
"My father's sergeant. Now my head of security."
Sokolov nodded slowly. "I served in Afghanistan. 1984-86. Not the same as your father—I was staff, not combat. But I saw enough to know what men like him are worth." He turned back to Alexei. "You're building something. A company, a network, maybe an empire. You want me to protect it from people like Tarasov."
"Yes."
"And what do I get in return?"
Alexei had prepared for this. He pulled a folder from his briefcase and placed it on the desk. Inside were numbers—projections, growth estimates, profit margins. The language of business, not war.
"Neva Transport will control thirty percent of the independent trucking in Leningrad within a year. Our warehouses will handle cargo for a dozen industries. Our bank will finance trade across the region. That's economic power, General. Power that can be directed. Power that can help friends."
Sokolov studied the numbers. His expression didn't change, but his eyes moved faster, calculating.
"You're offering me a piece."
"I'm offering you a relationship. When you need things moved—quietly, quickly, reliably—we move them. When we need protection from bureaucratic harassment, you provide it. Mutual benefit."
"And if Tarasov decides to escalate? If he sends men, not just threats?"
Alexei glanced at Ivan. "We have our own security now. A core team. But we're growing."
"Recruiting veterans. Training them. Building a real force."
Sokolov leaned forward, his eyes sharp. "How many?"
"Currently? A dozen operational. But we have plans for more."
"A dozen isn't enough. Tarasov can field fifty, a hundred if he needs to." Sokolov paused, considering. "Here's my condition. You want my protection? You want me to put my reputation behind your operation? Then show me you're serious. Hire fifty veterans. Not twenty, not thirty—fifty. Trained, equipped, loyal. Build a force that can actually protect what you're creating."
Alexei absorbed this. Fifty veterans. That was a significant expansion—more than double his current security team. It would cost money, time, effort. But Sokolov was right. A dozen men couldn't stand against Tarasov's network.
"Fifty," Alexei repeated.
"Fifty. When you have them, call me. I'll help with the bureaucratic side—licenses, registrations, the paperwork that keeps you legal. I'll also make some calls, let certain people know that you're under my protection. But only when you've proven you're worth protecting."
It was a test. A challenge. Sokolov was asking for proof of commitment before committing himself.
Alexei met his gaze. "You'll have them. By the end of the year."
"By September. The world is moving fast. I need to know you can move with it."
"September, then."
Sokolov nodded slowly. "Good. Now get out of my office. I have a country to watch collapse."
They shook hands. Alexei and Ivan left, walking back through the marble corridors, past the portraits of dead marshals, out into the Moscow afternoon.
Ivan waited until they were in the car before speaking. "Fifty veterans by September. That's—"
"That's what we need. He's right. A dozen men won't stop Tarasov."
"Where do we find fifty veterans in two months?"
"The same place we found the first ones. The address book. The veterans' committees. They're everywhere, Ivan. Thousands of them, scattered across the country, waiting for someone to give them purpose."
Ivan was quiet for a moment. "And the money? Fifty men, equipped, trained, paid—that's hundreds of thousands."
"We have the money. The fuel operation, the copper, the trucking contracts. This is what it's for. Not sitting in a bank account. Building something that lasts."
The car pulled away from the Ministry, leaving the grey colossus behind. Ahead, the road led back to Leningrad, to the growing network, to the next challenge.
Alexei touched the card in his pocket. A general's private number. Political protection—conditional on performance. Another piece of infrastructure, invisible but essential.
Fifty veterans by September. It was ambitious. It was necessary. It was the next step.