The Defense Minister shifted uneasily in his chair. “Understood, Vladimir Vladimirovich. It will not happen again.”
“I have also read the report on the situation in eastern Ukraine and am content that it remains relatively quiet,” said the President, looking at Komarov for confirmation.
Komarov nodded and the President switched his laser-like stare to the Finance Minister, “You next, please.”
From his position at the end of the table Komarov saw the sweat on the back of the minister’s bald head. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard. “Vladimir Vladimirovich, it pains me to tell you that the economic position is getting increasingly difficult. American and EU sanctions continue to have a deeply negative effect on the economy—”
The President interrupted, “These are old excuses, Boris Mikhailovich. EU sanctions have been toothless since the Italians, Greeks, Hungarians and Cypriots vetoed them at the EU Summit last June. The EU remains deeply divided.” He smirked, and then added, “My strategy of increasing the flow of refugees into Turkey by bombing civilian targets in Syria and so putting ever greater pressure on the EU has worked better than I ever thought possible.”
“Of course, Vladimir Vladimirovich,” continued the Finance Minister. “Nevertheless, the price of oil remains a problem. You will remember that my budget was based on a price of one hundred dollars per barrel, but the price has been consistently lower than that. There’s a glut of oil on the market following the easing in sanctions against Iran after the nuclear negotiations in Lausanne two years ago. Iranian oil is pushing prices even lower. That means we are losing around forty billion dollars a year because of sanctions and around ninety to one hundred billion dollars a year because of the low oil price. On top of that, the increase in defense spending has put a huge strain on the budget.”
The minister removed his spectacles, polished them with a white handkerchief and summoned up his resolve. “Vladimir Vladimirovich, there is no other way to describe the economic situation than very difficult.”
“What are my economic options?” demanded the President.
“In economic terms it is simple. Unless the price of oil goes back up, which no economist believes it will in the near future, we either have to cut spending or raise taxes to keep the deficit down to our projected zero-point-six percent of GDP. And if we don’t do that, we have no option but to borrow at increasingly expensive rates, which will only make the situation worse. The ruble is losing value. The forecast for growth from the Central Bank is zero and GDP is static at best.”
The President reflected silently and looked at Komarov with a raised eyebrow.
This was a moment the two men had rehearsed the day before. “I suggest we ask the Interior Minister, Vladimir Vladimirovich,” Komarov responded. “The economic picture is important, but it is the impact on your popularity which remains the key.”
The President turned to the Interior Minister, a man born in a remote village in the heart of Russia, near the River Volga, who, despite his rural origins, had made his career as a Moscow policeman. After rising through the ranks of the Criminal Investigation Department, he had eventually became Moscow’s Chief of Police through peasant cunning and driving ambition, before being appointed Interior Minister. On his way he had uncovered, and now held close to his chest, the secrets of the most powerful, including the President. Behind the gray, close-cropped hair and the broad peasant face, the Interior Minister maintained a tight grip on the levers of power.
“Boris Vadimovich, what impact is this having on public opinion?” demanded the President.
“Vladimir Vladimirovich, you know better than anyone the resilience of the Russian people. We know how to suffer and even take pride in being able to endure the hardest conditions. But even the most resilient are beginning to tire of high prices, the shortage of consumer goods in the shops, the…”
“Don’t give me that,” the President interrupted, voice dripping sarcasm. “You can’t call a few shortages hardship! What you describe may affect the Moscow middle class, but it is irrelevant to people in the heartland of Russia. Our people.”
“Vladimir Vladimirovich, you are, of course, correct,” the Interior Minister said. “But people are no longer as tough as in Soviet days. They have been spoiled. The middle classes have traveled abroad for holidays and know what they are missing. But to hell with them! What does concern me is increasing unemployment and increased levels of poverty among the jobless.”
The President waved a hand in dismissal. “This is a fact of Russian life. It sets us apart from the softness and excesses of the West. But what about the so-called opposition? They can hardly call themselves credible if, two years later, no one has yet emerged to take that agitator Boris Nemsov’s place.”
Komarov saw the Interior Minister frown and decided to support him. “I regret, Vladimir Vladimirovich, that his killing two years ago created a martyr and a focus for those who dare to oppose you.”
“It had to be done,” the President snapped back. “He was a dangerous and destabilizing figure.”
“Of course,” Komarov equivocated. “But the minister is correct in highlighting the threat his name still poses. The memorial to him where he was killed is regularly cleared away by the police, but it is always replaced.”
“I won’t have it!” The President was getting annoyed. “The bridge is to be guarded and anyone daring to replace the memorial is to be arrested!”
“It will be done, Vladimir Vladimirovich,” said the Interior Minister, who then turned to look squarely at the Deputy President. “Don’t forget I counseled against the liquidation, but others thought differently. If he had been left alone, he would have burned out on drink and women.”
“Enough!” directed the President. “We must give the people pride in Russian power… as we did when I took over the Crimea three years ago. That is the way to restore morale and to neutralize the opposition.”
“Exactly right, Vladimir Vladimirovich!” the Deputy President exclaimed loudly.
“Thank you, Viktor Anatolyevich. I take that as your support,” the President said drily to his deputy.
Komarov liked the Deputy as much as he liked any man at that table. He was a former Ambassador to NATO and knew the West well. On the face of it he was a charming, open internationalist, a fluent English speaker married to a beautiful former Russian pop star. He gave the impression of being one half of a star couple, who wowed the Brussels dinner party circuit with their glamour and ability to set even the stuffiest diplomatic dinner party alight with their dancing. In reality, the Deputy President was a hardline nationalist, very much one of the siloviki, appalled by the collapse of the Soviet Union, humiliated by the accession of the Baltic states to NATO, and determined to re-establish Russian power in its traditional “near abroad” by whatever means were necessary.
“You, Vladimir Vladimirovich,” said the Deputy, “you alone have restored Russian pride after the disastrous end of the Soviet Union at the hands of that traitor Gorbachev. Your leadership has restored Russia to the status of a great power after the chaos he caused. The economic position may be difficult, but now is the time of opportunity, the time for boldness!” He slammed his hand on the table for emphasis.
The President gestured at him to continue.
“The West may have great economic capability, but they think only of social welfare. They have forgotten how to stand up for themselves. I know from my time as your Ambassador to NATO that this is an alliance which is all talk and no action. But, nevertheless, it continues to pose a danger to Russia. It continues to encroach on our borders and its long-term strategy of encirclement of the Motherland is plain to see.”