September 15, 1993 – Moscow, Tverskaya Street
The brass plaque gleamed in the weak September sun.
Neva Bank – Moscow Branch
Below it, the renovated entrance of the Tverskaya building opened onto a lobby of marble and glass. Chandeliers hung from ceilings that had been restored to their pre-revolutionary glory. Polished counters awaited customers. Computers sat ready on desks, their screens dark but their potential immense.
The transformation was staggering. What had been a decaying shell two months ago was now one of the most elegant banking spaces in Moscow.
Alexei stood across the street, in the same spot where he had first surveyed the ruin in July. Ivan stood beside him, watching the crowd of dignitaries, journalists, and curious onlookers gathered for the opening.
"You're not going in?" Ivan asked.
"Later. Let them see the bank manager, the employees, the respectable face. I'm just the owner."
"You're nineteen."
"Nineteen. And the owner."
A car pulled up, disgorging a man in an expensive suit – the new branch manager, a former Gosbank official named Vinogradov whom Lebedev had recruited. He was fifty, silver-haired, impeccably dressed, and utterly unconnected to anything illegal. The perfect front.
Vinogradov shook hands with the arriving dignitaries, posed for photographs, cut the ribbon with a pair of oversized scissors. Cameras flashed. A small crowd applauded. Neva Bank – Moscow Branch was officially open.
Inside the Branch
The lobby was busier than Alexei had expected.
Dozens of people milled about, drinking champagne, examining the facilities, asking questions. Vinogradov moved through them like a politician, shaking hands, exchanging cards, projecting the confidence of a man who had done this a hundred times before.
In a corner office, away from the crowd, Lebedev sat with a stack of documents, reviewing the day's first account openings. When Alexei slipped in through a side door, he looked up with a satisfied expression.
"Twelve corporate accounts already. Five individuals. Total deposits so far: about two hundred million rubles."
Two hundred million rubles. At the street rate, maybe one hundred fifty thousand dollars. But the number itself was impressive – a signal that Moscow's business community was taking them seriously.
"Who are the corporate accounts?"
Lebedev consulted his list. "A trading company – imports electronics from Germany. A construction firm – they're building apartments in the suburbs. A law firm – the new kind, Western-style. All legitimate, all with real money, all looking for a bank that won't collapse next week."
"And the individuals?"
"Business owners. Professionals. People who made money in the chaos and want somewhere safe to put it." Lebedev smiled. "We're becoming respectable."
Alexei looked through the glass at the crowd in the lobby. Respectable. That was the goal. A legitimate bank, serving legitimate customers, building a reputation that would protect them when the authorities came looking.
But underneath, the machinery continued to turn. The Moscow branch would handle the real estate accounts, the internal loans, the complex web of transactions that funded their operations. It would be the visible face of an invisible empire.
"Vinogradov – can he be trusted?"
"He's a professional. He does his job, collects his salary, asks no questions. He knows the bank has... unusual owners, but he doesn't know who. That's how we want it."
"Good. Keep it that way."
September 20, 1993 – Neva Bank Moscow Branch, Vinogradov's Office
The first week exceeded expectations.
Twenty-seven corporate accounts. Fifteen individuals. Total deposits: nearly four hundred million rubles – about three hundred thousand dollars. Loan inquiries from a dozen businesses. The phone rang constantly.
Vinogradov handled it all with practiced efficiency, his silver hair and calm demeanor inspiring confidence in nervous first-time customers. He had hired two additional tellers and a loan officer. The branch was already profitable.
Alexei watched from the back office, saying little, learning much. The Moscow market was different from Leningrad – faster, more aggressive, more connected. The customers here were not factory directors and local businessmen, but traders, speculators, the new class of Russian capitalism.
One customer in particular caught his attention – a young man, maybe thirty, who arrived in an expensive suit and left in a car with diplomatic plates. He opened an account with five million rubles and asked no questions about interest rates or fees. He simply wanted a place to park money, quickly and quietly.
"Who was that?" Alexei asked Vinogradov later.
"A trader. Oil, I think. Maybe other things." Vinogradov's expression was carefully neutral. "He asked about you."
"About me?"
"Whether you were really nineteen. Whether you had connections in the government. Whether you could be trusted with... sensitive transactions."
Alexei's instincts sharpened. "What did you tell him?"
"That you were young but serious. That the bank was conservative but efficient. That sensitive transactions required sensitive discussions – with you personally."
Vinogradov had handled it perfectly. Not committing, not refusing, simply leaving the door open.
"Good. If he comes back, I want to meet him."
September 25, 1993 – Neva Bank Moscow Branch, Evening
The day had been long, productive, exhausting. Alexei sat alone in the back office, reviewing the week's numbers, when Ivan appeared in the doorway.
"You have a visitor."
"A visitor? At this hour?"
Ivan's expression was unreadable. "He says his name is Berezovsky. He wants to open an account."
Alexei's heart quickened. Berezovsky. One of the new oligarchs, building an empire of cars, media, influence. If he was here, it meant they had been noticed.
"Show him in."
Berezovsky was not what Alexei expected. He was small, energetic, with the restless movements of a man whose mind never stopped. His suit was expensive but rumpled, his tie slightly askew. He looked like a professor who had stumbled into banking by accident.
"Volkov," he said, extending his hand. "I've heard about you. The boy banker from Leningrad. The one who buys real estate and actually shows up to check on his investments."
Alexei shook his hand, keeping his expression neutral. "I've heard about you too, Mr. Berezovsky."
"Call me Boris. Everyone does." Berezovsky dropped into a chair, crossing his legs. "I need a bank. A small one, discreet, efficient. The big banks are too slow, too bureaucratic, too connected to the old system. Your operation here – it's clean. Fast. Professional."
"Thank you."
"I'm not complimenting you. I'm stating facts." Berezovsky leaned forward. "I want to deposit two million dollars. I want access to my money when I need it, without questions, without delays. I want loans when I need them, at reasonable rates. Can you do that?"
Two million dollars. A significant addition to their deposit base. A statement of confidence from one of Russia's rising powers.
"Yes. We can do that."
Berezovsky studied him for a long moment. "You don't hesitate. You don't ask why. You just say yes."
"Is there a reason I shouldn't?"
A short laugh. "No. No reason." He stood, extending his hand again. "I'll have my people transfer the funds tomorrow. Welcome to Moscow, Volkov. It's a different game here."
He left as quickly as he had come. Alexei sat in silence, processing what had just happened.
Ivan appeared in the doorway. "Two million dollars?"
"Two million."
"That's serious money."
"That's serious trust. Berezovsky doesn't put money anywhere without knowing exactly who's holding it."
Ivan nodded slowly. "This changes things."
"Yes. It does."
September 28, 1993 – Neva Bank Moscow Branch, Alexei's Office
The month-end report was impressive.
Deposits: three point one million dollars, including Berezovsky's two. Loans: eight hundred thousand. Real estate holdings: three buildings now, with two more in negotiation. The Moscow branch alone was generating more business than anyone had predicted.
Lebedev reviewed the numbers with satisfaction. "We're ahead of schedule. Way ahead. If this keeps up, Moscow will be our flagship within a year."
"And the risks?"
"Managed. We're still conservative – forty percent reserves, careful lending, thorough vetting. Berezovsky's money is clean, as far as we can tell. His businesses are legitimate, his reputation is solid."
"For now."
"For now. That's all we can ever say."
Alexei nodded. The bank was working exactly as intended. Not just as a safe home for their money, but as a tool for growth, a platform for influence, a foundation for everything to come.
He thought of his grandfather's lessons. Power respects power, not weakness. The Moscow branch was power. Not the kind that came from guns or threats, but the kind that came from controlling money, from being essential to the new class of Russian capitalism.