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Chapter 607 News from Moscow

In December, Moscow was completely enveloped by a bone-chilling cold.

The Siberian cold front is like a giant beast breaking free from its restraints; every breath is accompanied by a piercing pain.

Against the backdrop of the leaden sky, the Kremlin's iconic red walls have lost some of their former solemn grandeur, gaining instead a sense of melancholy and coldness that resonates with the winter chill.

Andrei Ivanovich sat in a leather chair in his office on the third floor of the Kremlin, his gaze vacantly fixed on the thick family photo album in the center of his desk.

His eyes were unfocused, his pupils reflecting only the blurry texture of the album cover, his thoughts drifting off into the distance.

On Christmas Eve, a day that should be a time for family reunions and shared warmth, the whole of Russia was shrouded in gloom and despair.

For most ordinary people, the joy of Christmas has long been worn away by the pressures of life, and for Andrei, who is in the Kremlin, even leaving get off work on the hour has become an unattainable luxury.

The sky outside the window was already completely dark, but the offices inside the Kremlin were still brightly lit, like isolated islands in the night.

Everyone was doing their job, but they all wore a complex expression on their faces.

It was an expression that conveyed a mixture of confusion, helplessness, anxiety, and bewilderment.

"Andrei, urgent call from the Prime Minister's office." Secretary Katya's voice suddenly rang out at the office door, breaking the silence inside. Andrei slowly came to his senses, extended his slightly stiff hand, and answered the phone.

Prime Minister Kiriyenko's hoarse and weary voice pierced through the electricity and clearly reached his ears: "Get ready, Andrei, tomorrow we're going to saw off the tree branch we're sitting on."

These words, like a steel awl chilled to the bone, pierced Andrei's spine, sending a chill down his spine.

As the government's chief spokesperson, Andrei understood better than anyone the heavy weight behind those words.

He sawed off the branch he was sitting on.

This is a Russian proverb that implies making a self-destructive choice, a desperate gamble with no way out.

For the past month, Andrei’s work has been almost an endless cycle of lies and pretense.

Every day he faces countless questions from reporters, has to make statements in front of television cameras, and has to send a signal to the public through various channels—that the ruble will never be devalued.

Two weeks ago, when news came that the emergency loan promised by the International Monetary Fund had finally arrived, Andre even saw a glimmer of hope for a turnaround.

However, reality dealt him a heavy blow. The enormous sum of US dollars vanished into the abyss of darkness without even causing a ripple, like a piece of paper thrown into a raging fire.

While massive debt is certainly a major cause of this economic crisis, the most fundamental and fatal flaw is that of the $103 billion in emergency IMF loans that arrived, less than a third actually flowed into the national treasury to stabilize the economy and pay wages and pensions.

The vast majority of the funds were divided up by powerful figures in various departments and fields under all sorts of high-sounding pretexts. This included obtaining funds through fraudulent project applications, directly misappropriating them using their positions of power, or transferring money to their overseas accounts through complex transfers of benefits.

He knew that these funds from the West might now be back in the accounts of some Western banks, becoming capital for a few to squander and enjoy.

All that remains for the Russian people is endless suffering and despair.

His fingers traced the cold surface of the desk before he instinctively pulled open the bottom drawer, inside which lay two documents powerful enough to shake the entire Russian continent.

A document is a report of the latest social survey data, showing that 85% of the public demanded Yeltsin's resignation, and the government's approval rating has dropped to only 12%.

The other document is a debt restructuring plan that the Ministry of Finance finalized just a few days ago. The cover of the document is marked with the words "Top Secret" in bright red.

He was very clear about the contents: suspending payments of 2810 billion rubles of K-national bonds and implementing a 90-day extension for foreign debt repayments.

Andrei rubbed his temples, and the scene he had seen in the supermarket yesterday involuntarily came to mind.

The shelves were mostly empty, and the shelves for daily necessities such as bread, milk, and eggs were almost completely sold out.

Several elderly people with gray hair, leaning on canes, stood in front of the empty bread shelves, their cloudy eyes filled with tears.

Once again, only his desolate figure remained in the office.

Just then, his personal cell phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a text message from his wife, Nadya: The bank won't let us withdraw money, what about Misha's tuition?

This reminded him of the scene he witnessed earlier that day on his way to work, walking through Red Square.

People stood around arguing in front of the bank, and police formed a human wall with shields.

An elderly man grabbed a policeman's arm, his eyes filled with despair. "My retirement savings are in the bank; it's my life's savings!"

There were many similar shouts, but all they faced were the police's unwavering shields.

Andrei's Adam's apple bobbed. He knew that the government owed more than 2000 billion rubles in wages and pensions, that 54% of the population would fall into poverty, and that the middle class who had once believed in reforms could now only sell their suits at flea markets.

He recalled what he had heard in the Kremlin that day: an emergency meeting that had lasted all day, but was filled with infighting, and no one cared about the country's economic problems.

"Kiriyenko must resign; this is an explanation to the people."

I recall Kiriyenko's vow when she took office three months ago: "I will lead Russia out of the crisis."

Now, this young prime minister is being used as a scapegoat by everyone, who intend to throw him out.

He didn't intend to accept it peacefully; instead, he wanted to take everyone with him and jump into hell together.

"Perhaps it's time for a change," he muttered to himself, thinking of his 12-year-old son, Misha, and his 7-year-old daughter, Natalie. "I've done my best for this country; now, I need to think about my own family."

I stood up and walked to the office door.

He gently pressed his ear against the cold door, listening intently to the sounds outside.

The corridor was silent, with only the occasional faint footsteps in the distance before falling silent again.

He slowly walked to the office window, hesitated for a moment, and dialed a number he already knew by heart.

The moment the call connected, there was a slight static sound from the receiver, followed by a deep, magnetic male voice carrying a hint of barely perceptible joy, which entered Andrei's ears: "You've figured it out?"

Andrei was silent for a moment, his throat a little dry, and asked in as calm a tone as possible, "I want to know, do you still stand by the conditions you agreed to before?"

"Of course it counts." The other person's answer was without the slightest hesitation, their tone certain and firm.

"We will arrange for you and your family to go to the United States, and we will give you a decent job that will be enough for you to support your family, so that you and your family can live a stable life in the United States."

"Money," Andrei mentioned.

"Two hundred thousand US dollars, not a penny less."

"Five hundred thousand dollars." Andrei raised his price without hesitation, his tone firm and leaving no room for negotiation. "I need to secure enough protection for my family, and this money is what I deserve." He knew that the intelligence he possessed was priceless, enough to cause a huge uproar in the international financial market, and the benefits the other party could gain from it were far more than five hundred thousand dollars.

"I can't make the decision myself; I need to consult with my superiors."

Andrei glanced at the watch on his wrist; the hands on the dial pointed to 8:30 p.m.

"Thirty minutes. I'm only giving you thirty minutes to consider. If I don't receive a reply from you after thirty minutes, this deal is off."

"Okay, I'll get back to you as soon as possible." After saying that, the other party hung up the phone.

After hanging up the phone, Andrei sat back in his seat and slumped down, staring blankly at the ceiling, seemingly unaffected by the light.

Ten minutes later, he sat up straight, lit a cigarette, and his hands were trembling.

He hadn't even taken two puffs when his phone rang, startling him so much that he dropped the cigarette on the table.

"No problem." That was the only short sentence the other party said after the call connected.

Andrei fell silent again, and after a moment, he spoke with difficulty, "Have someone wait outside the Kremlin and watch out for my vehicle."

Meanwhile, in America, Ernst had just finished having sex with the sexy, voluptuous, and excited Monica Bellucci and had only been asleep for two hours when he was woken up by a frantic phone call.

"Feed." He didn't even look at the screen on the phone, his voice filled with frustration. "The Russian government is going to announce a default on its debt tomorrow."

In an instant, Ernst's hazy consciousness cleared up, and his body involuntarily sat up, as if he had come back to life.

"Are you sure?" Ernst asked, his breath coming in short gasps.

"It's the spokesperson I told you about before, the one we've been trying so hard to get. He's already received a call from Kirilenko, and the relevant draft proposal is in his office."

"Yerchin is preparing to push Kirilenko out; Kirilenko is planning to fight to the death," Jane Fraser's voice came through.

"Is this person reliable?" Ernst asked, frowning.

"He had access to these things, so there was no reason for him to deceive us."

"Although he is not Kirilenko's direct subordinate, he works for him and obeys his orders. Yeltsin cannot keep him around."

"I understand. Tell everyone to get ready."

After hanging up the phone, Monica Bellucci, who had already been woken up, lazily clung to him, saying, "Who was it? Why aren't you sleeping at this hour?"

Ernst smiled, pulled her into his arms, held her soft, delicate body, and replied in a good mood, "Money, huh?"