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Pyotr Druganin was the youngest and most reckless of the men in the room. He’d bet heavily on energy and his empire was teetering on the verge of collapse. While the danger Chkalov posed flowed from his status and the respect he commanded, this man’s flowed from his desperation.
“Your government is bankrupt, Mr. President. Too cash strapped to even make payments to the corrupt local officials that keep your house of cards from collapsing. They’re pursuing their own interests now, squeezing my businesses, creating red tape that I pay you to cut though. And I’m not so easily blinded by glorious reports of your military exploits.”
Chkalov motioned for him to be silent but he refused. “You’re too polite, Tarben. Too diplomatic. We talk about our demands amongst ourselves like a bunch of frightened children. Now here we are. What better time to present them?”
“I don’t think—” Chkalov started, but Krupin spoke over him.
“Demands? I’m intrigued. Please go on.”
He expected the other men around the table to become uncomfortable but they displayed surprising resolve. Perhaps this had been the plan all along. Let Chkalov play the respectful general while the pup took on the suicide mission.
“Western sanctions must be removed,” Druganin said.
“And how do you suggest I achieve that?”
“Frankly, we don’t care. But most likely it will involve ceding some of your military gains.”
Krupin actually laughed at that. “You’re not serious.”
“I am, Mr. President. And that’s not all. The lifting of sanctions alone won’t be enough to stop Russia’s slide. We need significant free market reforms and a crackdown on corruption. You’ll also have to begin to decentralize your power. Russia is the largest country in the world and this isn’t the seventeenth century. It can’t be run for the benefit of only one man.”
Krupin stared at Druganin, but the man refused to look away.
“You can’t send Grisha for us all, Mr. President. We have the means to fight back. And we will use—”
“Enough!” Chkalov said, sensing that his young comrade was stepping over the line. He focused his hooded eyes on Krupin. “We’re all aware that you ordered the death of Dmitry Utkin for his opposition. And we find this understandable. His—”
“Are you giving me your approval, Tarben? Do you believe that because I agreed to meet with you that I now serve at your pleasure?”
Chkalov refused to be drawn into a fight. “Dmitry was incautious and his actions were counterproductive. I spoke with him about this on a number of occasions. We aren’t happy about what has happened, but we acknowledge that it was inevitable.”
“I care very little about what you do or do not acknowledge, Tarben.”
Again, the old man seemed not to hear. “Make no mistake, Mr. President. If this was the first shot in a war against us, it’s a war we are capable of fighting.”
The threat was completely unveiled and Krupin’s jaw clenched as he looked at the stoic faces around him. He seriously considered calling in his guards and having these men executed on the spot. The government would reabsorb their companies and throw their families into the streets.
But it was impossible. They wouldn’t have come here without taking precautions. Krupin was certain they had men inside the Kremlin—perhaps even among his most trusted advisors.
He couldn’t afford to underestimate them. A drop of poison, a disgruntled guard, a hidden explosive. It was almost certain that plans for his assassination were laid and that these traitors were already squabbling about who would replace him.
Silence descended on the room as Krupin considered his next move. For now, there was only one course. The oligarchs had to be put at ease. Then, when his power was fully restored, they could be dealt with.
“Can I assume that all of you are familiar with the Ghawar oil field in Saudi Arabia?”
Unsurprisingly, all nodded. It was the
largest in the world and, along with the others around it, responsible for the vast majority of Saudi Arabia’s output.
“As Tarben mentioned, the Saudis are increasingly committed to keeping oil prices artificially low. It harms them very little as it still provides plenty of income for the royal family. It is, however, extremely damaging to countries that aren’t governed by backward tribal monarchies. Venezuela and Iran, for instance. And, of course, Russia.”
“We’re aware of all this,” Druganin interrupted.
Krupin nodded impassively. This man would die first. Grisha would carve the flesh from his bones while his family watched.
“If I may continue. I intend to end all meaningful production in Ghawar and the surrounding fields permanently. That will significantly reduce worldwide supplies as well as removing Saudi Arabia as the world’s swing producer. In all likelihood, it will also collapse the monarchy and cause the country to descend into a civil war. The other small oil-producing states like the UAE and Kuwait will be threatened by the chaos on their borders, particularly from a strengthened ISIS, and this will significantly reduce their output as well. My economists expect oil prices to increase to as much as two hundred fifty dollars per barrel, which would translate to a tripling of gasoline prices. The U.S. will be forced to use its military to secure critical production areas at great expense to them—something that will further drag on an economy damaged by the sudden rise in energy prices. Russia’s budget deficit will turn into surplus almost overnight, which I will use for economic stimulus and the expansion of our military in order to reassert Russia’s influence in the region.”
Krupin rose from his seat and looked down at the men. While he had hoped that it wouldn’t be necessary to reveal this much of his plan, he enjoyed their stunned expressions and mute stares. “Can I assume that this will be satisfactory?”