Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 09 (10 page)

 
          
“But
what about the West? Don’t we need their investment capital, their
coordination, the cooperation of their oil industry?”

 
          
“Ridiculous.
The Western world condemned our actions against
Chechnya
because it is politically popular to oppose
Russia
. The Americans are as two-faced as they can
be. They condemned our antiterrorist security actions against one of our own
republics, but NATO, a military alliance, attacks
Serbia
, a sovereign country and close ally,
without
a declaration of war,
and ignores the indignation of the entire world!”

           
“But we did nothing because we
needed Western financial aid. Western investments—”

 
          
“Rubbish,”
Kazakov said, taking an angry gulp of whiskey. “We went along with NATO’s
aggression against
Serbia
, remaining silent while our Slav brothers
were being bombed, all to try to show support for the West. We were buffaloed
into espousing the same rhetoric they were feeding the rest of the world—that
opposing Slobodan Milosevic and so-called Serb ethnic cleansing would be more
in line with the sentiment of the world community. So we remained silent and
then joined the United Nations ‘peacekeeping’ efforts.

 
          
“So
what has the West done for us in return? Nothing! They think of different
reasons not to provide us assistance or restructure government loans to suit
their own political agenda. First they blamed our actions in
Chechnya
, then they blamed the election of President
Sen’kov and the formation of a coalition government with a few Communists in
it, then they blamed so-called human rights abuses, then weapons sales to
countries unfriendly to
America
, then drug dealers and organized crime. The
fact is, they just want us to
heel.
They want us pliable, soft, and
nonthreatening. They don’t want to invest in us.”

 
          
“You
sound very much like your father, do you know that?” Zhurbenko said, nodding to
his aide to refill the young man’s glass. Pavel Kazakov nodded and smiled
slightly, the whiskey starting to warm his granite-hard features a bit. He
still looked evil and dangerous, but now more like a satisfied crocodile with a
fat duck in his mouth than a cobra ready to strike.

 
          
In
fact, General Zhurbenko knew, Colonel Gregor Kazakov had never made a political
comment in his entire life. He’d been a soldier, first, foremost, and ever. No
one—very definitely including Zhurbenko—knew what the elder Kazakov’s opinions
of his government or their policies had been, because he’d never volunteered
his thoughts, no matter how casual the surroundings. But the fiction seemed to
work, and the younger Kazakov seemed more animated than ever.

           
“So what do we do, Pavel?” Zhurbenko
asked. “Attack? Resist? Ally with
Germany
? What can we do?”

 
          
Zhurbenko
could see Kazakov’s mind racing furiously, lubricated and uninhibited by the
alcohol. He even smiled a mischievous, somewhat malevolent grin. But then he
shook his head. “No ... no. General. I am not a military man. I have no idea
what can be done. I cannot speak for the government or the president.”

 
          
“You’re
speaking to me, Pavel,” Zhurbenko urged him. “No one else around to listen.
What you say is not treasonous—in fact, it might be considered patriotic. And
you may not be a military man, but your background in international finance and
commerce combined with your brilliance and intelligence— not to mention your
commendable upbringing as the son of a national military hero—certainly
qualifies you to express an educated opinion. What would you do, Pavel
Gregorievich? Bomb Kosovo? Bomb
Albania
? Invade the Balkans?”

 
          
“I
am not a politician, General,” Kazakov repeated. “I’m just a businessman. But
as a businessman, I believe this: a leader, whether a military commander,
president, or company chairman, is supposed to take charge and be a leader, not
a follower. Our government, our military commanders, must
lead
. Never
let anyone dictate terms. Not the West, not rebels,
no one”

 
          
“No
one can argue with that, Pavel,” Zhurbenko said. “But what would you have us
do? Avenge your father’s death? Tear Kosovo, possibly
Albania
, apart looking for his murderers? Or don’t
you care who the murderers are? Just avenge yourself on any available Muslims?”

 
          
“Damn
you, General, why are you taunting me like this?” Kazakov asked. “Are you
enjoying this?”

 
          
“I
am trying to get through to you, young Gregorievich, that it is easy to point
fingers and be the angry young man— what is hard is to come up with solutions,
with answers,” Zhurbenko said. “Do you think it was easy for Secretary Yejsk
and Deputy Minister Lianov to have to retreat to their cars without grieving
with the families? Those men, the entire Kremlin, the entire high command, are
suffering just as badly as you, as badly as your mother. Except the anguish you
feel now is the anguish that we have been feeling for years, as we watch our
great nation slip into disarray, powerless to do anything about it.”

 
          
“What
would you have me say, General?” Kazakov asked. “Start a nuclear war? Go back
to a communist empire? Engage the West in another Cold War? No. The world is
much different now.
Russia
is different.”

 
          
“Different.
How?”

 
          
“We
have allowed our friends, our former client states, our former protectorates,
to break away from us. We built those little republics into nations. We didn’t
have to let them go. Now they turn on us and turn toward the West.” Kazakov sat
silently for a moment, sipping whiskey, then said, “They voted for
independence—let us compel them to join the Commonwealth again.”

 
          
“Now
we are getting somewhere, Pavel Gregorievich,” Zhurbenko said. “Compel
them—how?”

 
          
“Carrot
and the stick—then
plorno o plata
, lead or gold,” Kazakov said.

 
          
“Explain
yourself.”

 
          
“Oil,”
Kazakov said. “Look at all we have built over the years, all the places the
Soviet Union
invested to try to gain a foothold in
Western commerce, only to lose it all. Oil terminals and refineries in
Ukraine
,
Moldova
,
Bulgaria
,
Georgia
. We gave billions to
Yugoslavia
to help build terminals and refineries and
pipelines in
Macedonia
,
Montenegro
, Kosovo, and
Serbia
. They are all going to waste, or they are
going to bloodsucking Western conglomerates.”

 
          
“What
are you talking about, Pavel?”

 
          
“General,
I agreed with our participation, my father’s participation, in Kosovo, because
I believe
Russia
has a vested interest in the Balkans—namely, to help bring Russian oil
west.”

 
          
“What
oil?”

 
          
“
Caspian Sea
oil,” Kazakov said.

 
          
“How
much oil?”

 
          
“In
ten years, with the proper infrastructure in place and under firm political and
military control—five million barrels,” Kazakov said proudly. ‘Two and a half
billion rubles—about one hundred and fifty million dollars’ worth.” Zhurbenko didn’t
seem too impressed. He took another sip of whiskey— looking bored, until
Kazakov added, “A
day,
General. One hundred and fifty million dollars a
day, every day,
for the next fifty years.
And we pay not one ruble to
anyone in duties, taxes, fees, or tariffs. The money is all ours.”

 
          
Zhurbenko
nearly choked on the Jim Beam. He looked at Kazakov in complete shock, a
dribble of whiskey running down his cheek. “Wha ... how is that possible?” he
gasped. “I didn’t know we had that kind of oil reserves anywhere, not even in
the
Persian Gulf
.”

 
          
“General,
there is oil in the
Caspian
Sea
that hasn’t even
been
discovered
yet—perhaps a hundred times more than we have discovered
in the past twenty years,” Kazakov said. “It could be equivalent to the oil
reserves in
Siberia
or the
South China Sea
. The problem is, it doesn’t all belong to
Russia
.
Russia
owns only one-fifth of the known reserves.
Azerbaijan
,
Kazakhstan
,
Turkmenistan
, and
Iran
own the rest. But Russian workers and
Russian capital built most of those other nations’ petroleum industries,
General. Now, we pay outlandish prices for limited leases from those same
countries—so they can use
our
equipment and
our
know-how to pump
oil that
Russia
discovered. We must pay millions in bribes and fees, plus a duty for
every barrel we ship out of the country. We pay huge salaries for unskilled
foreign laborers while Russian men, educated oilmen, and their families starve
right here at home. We do this because
Russia
didn’t have the balls to hold on to what
was rightfully theirs all along—the Soviet republics.”

 
          
“One
hundred fifty
million dollars
.. . per
day,”
was all Zhurbenko
could murmur.

 
          
“Instead
of pumping oil, refining it, shipping it to the greedy West, and taking our
rightful place as the world’s greatest nation,” Kazakov said, draining his
glass, “we are welcoming bur heroes home in caskets draped with the flag of a
dying, gutless government. No wonder my mother wanted that flag off her
husband’s casket. It is a disgrace. Tell that to the president when you see
him.”

 
          
They
fell silent for several minutes after that, with Zhurbenko exchanging only a
few whispered words with his aide and Kazakov sipping on a couple more shots of
whiskey until the bottle was empty. The limousine soon pulled up before an
apartment building about ten blocks from the Kremlin, with unmarked security
cars parked at each comer and across from the entrance. A security guard and a
receptionist could be seen through the thick front windows.

 
          
Zhurbenko
easily maneuvered around Kazakov and exited the limousine. "My driver will
take you wherever you would like to go, Pavel,” the commander of the
Russian Federation
’s ground forces said. He extended a hand,
and Kazakov took it. "Again, my deepest condolences for your loss. I will
visit your mother in the morning, if she will see me.”

 
          
"I
will see to it that she receives you, Colonel-General.”

           
“Good.” He placed his left hand
over Pavel’s right, pulling the young man closer as if speaking in confidence.
"And we must keep in touch, Pavel. Your ideas have much merit. I would
like to hear more.”

           
"Perhaps, General.”

 
          
The
limousine drove off and had gone for a couple blocks before Pavel realized the
general’s aide was still in the car. "So,” Kazakov said, "what is
your name ... Colonel?”