November 1, 1993 – Moscow, Streets Near the Kremlin
The queues stretched around the block.
Alexei stood at a window in the Neva Bank Moscow branch, watching the crowds gather outside the government building across the street. They were ordinary Russians—old women in faded coats, young men in tracksuits, middle-aged couples holding hands like frightened children. All of them clutching the same thing: a small piece of paper that was supposed to be their share of the Soviet Union's wealth.
The voucher.
Lebedev appeared at his side, a stack of newspapers under his arm. "It's official. Every citizen gets one voucher, face value ten thousand rubles. They can use it to buy shares in state enterprises, sell it for cash, or trade it for—" he paused, "—whatever they can get."
Alexei scanned the headlines. PRIVATIZATION BEGINS! screamed one. YOUR SHARE OF THE MOTHERLAND declared another. The language was triumphant, optimistic, utterly disconnected from the reality of the crowds below.
"How many vouchers total?"
"One hundred forty-eight million. About ten trillion rubles face value." Lebedev's expression was calculating. "At the official exchange rate, that's about five billion dollars. But the street price is already collapsing. People are selling for fifty dollars, forty, thirty. Some are trading for a bottle of vodka."
"And we're buying?"
"Through Volodin, through two other fronts we've set up. So far, about ten thousand vouchers. Cost: about four hundred thousand rubles—roughly three hundred dollars."
Ten thousand vouchers. A tiny fraction of the total. But a start.
"Keep buying. Use every front we have. I want a hundred thousand vouchers by the end of the month."
Lebedev's eyebrows rose. "A hundred thousand? That's—"
"That's about point zero seven percent of the total. Enough to give us influence in a few key enterprises. Enough to start building real ownership."
"And the cost?"
"Whatever it takes. The ruble is losing value daily. Vouchers are assets. Assets hold value."
That afternoon, Alexei walked among the crowds.
The streets around the voucher distribution centers had become impromptu markets. Men with briefcases bought vouchers for cash, their rates scrawled on cardboard signs. Women sold bread and cigarettes to those waiting in line. Children ran through the crowds, collecting discarded papers, hoping they might be worth something.
An old woman approached him, her voucher clutched in trembling hands. "You buy? Fifty dollars? Forty? Anything?"
Alexei looked at her—wrinkled face, threadbare coat, eyes that had seen revolution and war and collapse. She was selling her share of the Soviet Union for the price of a week's groceries.
"How much do you need?"
She blinked, confused by the question. "Need? I need... I need to eat. My pension is nothing. The prices go up every day. Thirty dollars would feed me for a month."
Alexei reached into his pocket and pulled out fifty dollars. He handed it to her, then took the voucher.
"Fifty. For your trouble."
She stared at the money, then at him, then at the voucher in his hand. "But the sign says thirty—"
"The sign is wrong. Take it."
She took the money, clutched it to her chest, and disappeared into the crowd. Alexei watched her go, then looked at the voucher in his hand. A piece of paper. A share of a country. A woman's future, sold for fifty dollars.
He thought of his mother, dying for lack of forty thousand. Of his grandfather, selling his medals for a fraction of their worth. Of his father, dying for a country that was now being auctioned to the highest bidder.
The voucher felt heavy in his hand. He tucked it into his pocket, next to his mother's photograph.
Back at the bank, Lebedev had transformed the conference room into a war room.
Maps covered the walls, marking major enterprises across Russia. Oil companies, factories, shipping lines, mines. Each had a number—estimated value, voucher requirements, strategic importance.
"The key is concentration," Lebedev explained, pointing at the map. "A hundred thousand vouchers scattered across a hundred companies gives us nothing. A hundred thousand vouchers concentrated in five or six key enterprises gives us real influence."
"Which enterprises?"
Lebedev tapped the map. "Surgutneftegaz. Lukoil. Yukos. The big oil companies are the prize. Also some shipping lines, a few railways, port facilities. But oil is the future."
Oil. Always oil. Khodorkovsky knew it. Berezovsky knew it. Now Alexei was positioning himself to know it too.
"How many vouchers for a meaningful stake in Surgutneftegaz?"
"At current prices, about fifty thousand vouchers would give us two or three percent. Enough for a voice, maybe a board seat eventually."
"Then that's our target. Surgutneftegaz first, then the shipping lines. Use every front, every buyer, every resource. I want fifty thousand Surgutneftegaz vouchers by January."
Lebedev nodded, already calculating. "It's possible. The market is flooded. People are desperate. If we move fast, we can accumulate before the big players wake up."
"And when they do wake up?"
"Then we have a seat at the table. We're players, not spectators."
That evening, Alexei attended another business dinner—these events were becoming routine. The same faces, the same conversations, the same hungry eyes. But tonight, the talk was all vouchers.
Smolensky held court at one end of the table, boasting about his acquisitions. "Fifty thousand vouchers already! At an average price of twenty dollars! By the end of the year, I'll control a dozen companies!"
Averin nodded agreement. "The smart money is buying everything. Vouchers, shares, factories—it doesn't matter. In five years, it'll all be worth ten times what we paid."
Malkin was more cautious. "The market is irrational. Prices bear no relation to value. We could be buying into companies that are fundamentally worthless."
"Worthless now," Smolensky countered. "But when the economy stabilizes—"
"If the economy stabilizes."
Alexei listened, saying little. His philosophy was different from theirs. They were speculating, gambling on a future they couldn't predict. He was building, acquiring assets that would have value regardless of the economic chaos.
Averin noticed his silence. "What about you, Volkov? You've been quiet. Buying vouchers?"
"Some. Focusing on specific sectors."
"Which sectors?"
"Infrastructure. Shipping, railways, ports. The things that move goods."
Averin laughed. "Infrastructure? That's boring. The real money is in oil, in resources, in factories. Infrastructure is just... support."
"Support is essential. Without it, your oil doesn't move, your factories don't ship, your resources don't reach market."
Averin's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. The conversation moved on, but Alexei felt the shift in the room. He was no longer just the young banker from Leningrad. He was a competitor, with his own philosophy, his own strategy, his own vision.
November 5, 1993 – Neva Bank Moscow Branch, Alexei's Office
The voucher count reached twenty thousand.
Lebedev reported the numbers with satisfaction. "Twenty-three thousand, at an average cost of twenty-five dollars. Total investment: about five hundred seventy-five thousand dollars. Current market value of the vouchers: maybe six hundred thousand. But the real value is in the companies they'll buy."
"Which companies so far?"
"Surgutneftegaz: eight thousand. Lukoil: five thousand. Yukos: three thousand. The rest scattered across shipping lines and railways."
Twenty-three thousand toward the fifty thousand target. Progress, but not enough.
"The big players are starting to move," Lebedev added. "Khodorkovsky's people are buying aggressively. Smolensky has buyers in every voucher market. Prices are starting to rise."
"Then we accelerate. Use the bank's deposits—legally, with proper documentation—to fund more purchases. Leverage the real estate as collateral. I want fifty thousand by January."
"That's aggressive."
"That's necessary."
November 10, 1993 – Neva Bank Moscow Branch, Evening
Alexei sat alone in his office, reviewing the day's acquisitions. Another three thousand vouchers, another seventy-five thousand dollars. The pile was growing, but so was the competition.
He thought of Khodorkovsky, of Berezovsky, of Smolensky and Averin and Malkin. They were all playing the same game, chasing the same prizes. But they were playing for wealth, for power, for dominance.
He was playing for something else. Infrastructure. Foundations. A system that would outlast any of them.
The vouchers were just the beginning.