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“Those are four important qualities. Over the past eighteen months, I’ve seen that I made the right choice by investing in you. Now, let’s go further. I want you to come to Moscow. With your family. And I’m offering you the position of vice president for international affairs. It comes with a big salary increase. And, of course, you will get a place to live, a car and driver, and, Uggin, a very generous expense account.”

Daniel Uggin was floored. This was a huge honor. Now Piotr was smiling. He recalled Piotr’s admonition of the previous night to get to the meeting on time. Rudzhin had known all along what this meeting was about.

Zhironovsky continued, his voice lower, now treating Daniel as an intimate.

“Let’s be frank, Uggin. Luck has made Volga Gaz into a huge company. Our country has enjoyed what I like to call a ‘triple boom.’ In the last ten years, we have had increased gas reserves, increased production volumes, and increased prices. These three stars do not align often. We Russians should consider ourselves extraordinarily fortunate.

“Here in Moscow, our job is to prove that we know how to convert luck into opportunity. Volga Gaz has to become stronger, bigger, and more agile. To be successful, we will need to be tough. This is not just a goal for our company. It’s also a Russian goal, a national objective. That is why some of the most important officials in the Kremlin and I are working together. It is why your friend Rudzhin is here. We all know that Volga Gaz’s future is not a private problem; it’s a patriotic mission.

“And we need…” Zhironovsky paused for a moment before concluding the half sentence. “Let me be clearer—we demand your participation.”

Uggin was overcome by a range of strange emotions. Floored by the chairman’s words, he had never in his life felt as important as
he did at this very moment. Viktor Zhironovsky, the man who controlled a huge part of Russia’s economy and was, potentially, the nation’s future president, had just declared in the most absolute terms that he
demanded
Daniel Uggin’s help.

Daniel Uggin was just enough in control to know that he was participating in a life-changing moment. But it was hard to keep the jumble of feelings in check. Zhironovsky’s appeal imbued him with a strange new feeling—a sense of destiny. Proud to be chosen for his professional capabilities, he also felt he was embarking on a mission greater than just a job.

Uggin gathered his thoughts.

“I’m honored, Mr. Zhironovsky, at the trust you are willing to place in me. It is a very exciting opportunity. Of course, I have a million questions.”

Zhironovsky cut him off with a wave of his hand as he stood up.

“Yes, yes. But those we will deal with over lunch.”

MOSCOW
AUGUST 4, 1:45 P.M.
VOLGA GAZ’S CORPORATE DINING ROOM

Right on cue, the two French doors at the far end of Viktor Zhironovsky’s office were slid quietly open by a waiter in a black tuxedo and white gloves.

“Come, come,” Zhironovsky commanded as he sheperded his guests into the intimate, exquisite dining room. “Only my best guests eat here. I call this the ‘Taipan’ room. Do you know what that means? It is Chinese. It translates into ‘he who wields real power.’”

The dramatic floor-to-ceiling glass walls, Tibetan rugs, and Ming vases played off the simplicity of the ebonized wood floor. The dining table could fit ten guests, but only one end of the table was elegantly set for the three men.

As soon as they sat down, Viktor Zhironovsky ordered the waiter to bring a bottle of champagne—Cuvée William Deutz Rosé 1999—to celebrate Uggin’s promotion. Daniel Uggin had trouble keeping his ogling stares under control. He did not know whether to be more impressed by the chairman’s knowledge of champagnes or by the opulent surroundings of the dining room.

A small menu, printed in fine cursive on thick notepaper, was placed in front of them. The food courses and wine pairings were titled in both Spanish and Russian. On the bottom was the signature of Juan-Estaban Arcos, the world-famous Spanish chef and producer of avant-garde, experimental delicacies in his small restaurant north of Barcelona. In the past years, Arcos had been fawned over as the world’s most original gastronome by prestigious international foodie magazines; his restaurant had a two-year waiting list.

Zhironovsky saw Uggin struggling to understand the menu. It included maddeningly unintelligible courses such as seaweed tagliarini with Bay of Biscay scallops, a cappuccino of foamed duck’s liver mousse and seared tuna made into a Tower of Babel with golden beets and salted jicama.

“Daniel, I trust you’re not a traditionalist when it comes to eating,” Zhironovsky intoned in a mock chide. “I truly hope not because this month I have Arcos’s best sous-chef cooking for me. And he is even crazier than his boss. But if this is too wild for you, don’t worry. By the time you are back at this table, the menu will have changed.”

The chairman picked up on Daniel’s inquisitive look.

“You see, my dear Uggin, I hate getting bored. My guest chefs rotate month to month. In September, Jean-Paul Arnaud will send his top assistant from his three-star Hôtel de la Poste in the Loire. Yes, you will find the Frenchman far more subdued and steady than this Spanish madman. On the other hand, it will be a less amusing experience.”

Lunch went on at a leisurely pace, the unusual courses coming and going. Dessert was a densely fluid crème caramel served in a
martini glass. The still-impeccable waiter communicated the chef’s instructions on the dessert’s consumption. It had to be drunk in a single go so as to enjoy the thick liquid’s phased temperatures, which began very warm at the top and finished ice cold on the bottom.

Finally, espresso was served in small rose-colored cups of fifteenth-century Chinese porcelain. Exhausted by the extended meal, Daniel Uggin wondered how Zhironovsky could do this every day. Just as Uggin’s mind began to calculate the calories consumed and the cholesterol created, he heard Zhironovsky’s voice directed toward him. The chairman’s tone was suddenly serious.

“Now, my boy, Piotr and I do have some business to discuss with you,” said Zhironovsky, folding his napkin on the table and looking at Daniel Uggin.

“Of course, Mr. Chairman. How can I help?”

Zhironovsky glanced at Rudzhin.

Taking the cue, Piotr started right in.

“I’ll be direct, Daniel. No beating around the bush. Our Latin American trap is set. If things proceed on schedule, in a few months Russia will control the gas fields in Peru and Bolivia. It is imperative to keep our Peru cover with Anfang a secret, at least until we sign the contracts with the Peruvian government; longer, if possible. But after that, it will be impossible to turn back the deal, even if the connection between Anfang Energie and Volga Gaz becomes public.”

“The Americans won’t know what hit them,” interrupted Zhironovsky. “At the time of their greatest need to expand the United States’s access to natural gas, they will find that Volga Gaz is the operator, manager, and provider of their most important source of liquefied gas. It will completely change the quality of Russia’s relationship with the Americans.”

Rudzhin looked at Daniel before continuing. He could see his friend’s concentrated interest.

“But something new has happened, Daniel. And we must strive to take advantage of the situation,” Piotr whispered, shifting forward, his body now close to Uggin’s.

“You see, we’ve become aware that the crisis in California has had a deep psychological impact on the Americans. We all knew that the September eleventh terrorist attacks have made the United States far more cognizant of its dependency on Middle Eastern oil. But for years the concern never spread beyond oil. What happened in California in early June has now made the Americans realize that they are similarly vulnerable to natural gas shortages too.”

“This is a good thing for us, isn’t it?” asked Daniel. “It will only make them more anxious for access to the liquefied gas from Latin America, won’t it?”

Zhironovsky was smiling. “Good questions,” he muttered under his breath.

“Absolutely,” affirmed Rudzhin. “But the fact is that it will take time to build new off-loading sites in the United States. And, even so, the liquefied gas from Latin America won’t be enough to meet their growing needs.”

Uggin was now puzzled. He couldn’t see where this was going.

“You looked perplexed, my friend. And rightly so. You see, the Americans are now in a panic. President Laurence’s administration wants to be the one to ensure that there are no more Californias in America’s future. So they are looking for more gas. From other sources. With dependable partners.”

Rudzhin paused for a second before posing a rhetorical question.

“And who do you think has all this gas?”

“Well, we do,” answered Uggin dutifully. “But—”

Rudzhin raised his hand, signaling Daniel to silence.

“And where is our gas?”

“In Siberian fields, of course.” Daniel was now feeling that this exercise was slightly infantile. “But—”

Again Rudzhin raised his hand, with a broad ear-to-ear smile.

“And what is Siberia close to?”

“Nothing,” Daniel started to answer and then stopped himself. Slowly, his mind was bending in a certain direction.

Zhironovsky watched the exchange with amused glee. He saw
Daniel Uggin struggling against an answer that simply couldn’t be the right one.

“Go ahead, young man, I know what you are thinking. Don’t worry about sounding silly. Say it.”

“Well, sir, Siberia is close to nothing. But it’s so big—seven time zones—that, actually, it’s close to everything.”

“Ah, yes.” Zhironovsky beamed. “This boy is good…”

Rudzhin took over the conversation once again.

“Daniel, you still can’t quite bring yourself to say it. So let me. Siberia has ten of the twenty largest gas fields in the world. Just eastern Siberia alone—Sakhalin and Kamchatka, in particular—contains more gas than most other countries’ fields combined. And eastern Siberia is a lot closer to Alaska than it is to Moscow or Paris or London.”

“So, are you telling me…?”

“Yes, you’re right. The Americans are interested in reviving the notion of a Bering Strait crossing.”

Uggin was incredulous.

“I thought this idea was dead,” he exclaimed. “We haven’t discussed this since Czar Nicholas the second brought up the idea before the First World War. Wasn’t he the first one to talk about it? And that was only because he was furious that his grandfather had sold Alaska to the Americans for $7.2 billion thirty-eight years earlier.”

Zhironovsky leaned forward, the veins on his nearly bald forehead bulging. His blue eyes shone with intensity.

“Uggin, I like you even more because you know your history. And the tides of history could shift again in the next few weeks. From the American point of view, a Bering Strait crossing could be the perfect solution to their problem—a physical connection to the one nation that can supply them with all the natural gas they could ever need. Furthermore, it feeds right into all of their myths—conquering new boundaries, believing blindly in technology and engineering—you know, all the silly things the Americans believe about themselves.”

“And all with a nation that is not Muslim; that too is important in America these days,” added Rudzhin.

“Will they really want this?” asked Uggin. “After all, we’re not exactly their favorite friend now.”

“They will want it. Badly. So badly that once they have given it some thought, they won’t be able to get it out of their heads. The Americans are shortsighted; they won’t see that a long-term dependency on Russia is a strategic trap. They can’t get beyond their big cars. Their crazy use of water. Of electricity. Spend, spend. Consume, consume. The United States is incapable of change. It survives on a mountain of overconsumption and debt. They can’t change their culture, so they will jump at any chance to keep things the way they are.”

An eerie silence came over the table.

“So how do we help the Americans come to the conclusion that a bridge across the Bering Strait is their panacea?” Uggin asked quietly.

Zhironovsky looked at him dead center.

“That is what we want to talk to you about.”

The ornate grandfather clock, timed to strike on the hour, chimed three loud gongs.

Zhironovsky licked his lips. A half hour ago, he had ordered a bottle of eighteen-year-old single-malt whiskey and most of it was already gone.

“Uggin, what we are going to discuss here is highly confidential. The only other people who know what we are talking about are the president and the director of the FSB,” said Zhironovsky, referring to the Russian security agency.

“There is no greater national security priority in this country. Do you understand?”

Daniel Uggin nodded somberly, grateful for the confidence.

“If this is serious, we will have the United States by the balls. A Bering Strait crossing could mean a permanent change in the power equation. We would demand an end to antimissile systems in East
ern Europe. We would require the Americans not to interfere in our relations with difficult neighbors such as Georgia or Ukraine. We would insist on a cancellation of Japan’s nuclear plans. NATO would have to dissolve. China would be put in its place.

“You see, Uggin,” said Zhironovsky, waving his hand in a wide arc. “The possibilities are endless.

“But, as your question implied, we have to help them come to the right decision. We cannot just hope that they come to the correct conclusion alone.”

Zhironovsky saw Uggin’s puzzled look. Zhironovsky’s hand came to rest on his arm.

“President Eugene Laurence called President Tuzhbin the day before yesterday. He asked if we would receive a high-level delegation led by General Martha Packard, the director of the CIA. It seems that she is a believer in the possibilities of a Bering Strait crossing. She is coming at the end of this month and her purpose would be to engage us in a discussion of the crossing’s feasibility.”

“This is incredible,” Uggin nearly shouted. “They are really serious about it.” He worried for an instant that his outburst would be misconstrued. “It’s not that I did not believe what you have told me, Mr. Chairman, I’m just so surprised by how real this is.”