Soviets

The most troublesome issue facing Yanaev now was mediating the conflict between Chemezov and Victor. Although Chemezov was nominally Victor's superior, both men were his indispensable lieutenants—linked by shared loyalty but divided by approach. Chemezov oversaw official arms exports and maintained the veneer of state legitimacy. Victor, by contrast, operated deep in the gray zone—managing covert arms revenues and harvesting intelligence under the convenient cover of being an infamous "merchant of death."

So when Victor reported that the American firm Sikorsky was preparing a deal to sell Black Hawk helicopters to China—only for Chemezov to immediately obstruct it—the entire issue exploded into a shouting match in Yanaev's office.

Victor, never subtle, accused Chemezov of blocking a strategic opportunity based on arrogance and ignorance. For instance, he reminded Yanaev, it had been his underground networks that had smuggled C-4 and detonators to a battered Irish Republican Army—crippled after Thatcher's crackdown. He'd even suggested where to plant the explosives for maximum global attention. What happened to London after that wasn't his problem.

And when the Gulf War stirred fury across the Middle East, Victor had quietly fanned the flames—funneling weapons into the region and arming religious militants who now saw the West as the enemy.

"I'm telling you, Comrade Victor," Chemezov said furiously, "I've never even heard of this supposed deal. If you're here to parrot made-up stories for some client's benefit, then you are responsible for misleading the Kremlin."

"'Made up?'" Victor's voice rose sharply, his patience gone. "I've lost too many men in combat zones to be lectured by an air-conditioned bureaucrat who's never seen blood. You have drivers and escorts—my people have body bags."

Chemezov paled, but Victor didn't stop. "You want to know why they call me the merchant of death? Because every time I go into a war zone, more than half of my escorts don't come back. I don't play politics—I provide hard intelligence to protect the motherland. Not to impress paper-pushers like you."

"Enough. Both of you, shut up." Yanaev's voice cracked like a whip. The room fell silent.

He turned to Victor. "Where did you get this information?"

Victor shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "I have a paid informant inside Sikorsky. The tip came through a long-standing client—he asked me to trace certain Sikorsky technologies. The Black Hawk deal was part of what I uncovered."

Yanaev narrowed his eyes. "And the source is solid?"

Victor gave a thin smile. "Unless he's ready to spend the rest of his life in a federal prison, yes. The last man who lied to me? He died in the Sahara, and no one ever found his body."

Victor shot a side glance at Chemezov. "Some people wouldn't survive more than two chapters in a war novel."

"You—!" Chemezov lunged forward, only to stop when Yanaev raised a hand.

"Let me ask you this, Victor—do we have any helicopters that can match the Black Hawk?"

Victor's expression sobered. "Unfortunately, no. None of our current models have the Black Hawk's high-altitude performance. But the Mi-17 is our best bet. It's well-suited for plains, and with some modifications, it can operate effectively in mountainous terrain."

He added, "Our advantage isn't performance—it's economics. The Mi-17 is proven, rugged, and cost-effective. It's two-thirds cheaper than a Black Hawk, with solid transport capacity and wide deployment. If we offer a complete maintenance package and include spare parts in the sale price, we might have a real chance."

"Interesting." Yanaev leaned forward. "So we offer replacement parts, bundled pricing, and free maintenance for the first two services?"

Victor nodded. "Exactly. We can't win on glamour, but we can win on pragmatism."

Yanaev turned to Chemezov. "Good. Victor, go to Kazan Aviation Plant as our envoy and pitch the deal. That facility's been half-dead since last year—this could revive it."

Victor shrugged. "I'll try. But we still don't know if the Chinese will go for it. I deal in intelligence, not diplomacy."

"You have a new assignment, then," Yanaev replied coldly. "Fly to Beijing. Meet with their military procurement officers. I'll authorize Chemezov to liaise with our own diplomats and keep the Foreign Ministry in the loop."

Chemezov, still stiff with frustration, hesitated. "But we just sold them 24 Mi-17s last year. Won't this seem like we're pushing too hard? They might reject us outright."

Yanaev tapped the table. "Then make them an offer they can't refuse. It's not about pushing—it's about proving we can meet their long-term strategic needs better than the Americans can."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.

"In the end, they need reliable partners. If the West turns cold, we must be the ones waiting with open hands—but clear eyes."

"Last year?" Yanaev slapped his forehead. He had nearly forgotten. Closing his eyes, he paused to recollect. Then he said slowly, "Those were standard Mi-17s. This year, we tell them that every helicopter we offer is specifically modified for high-altitude operations. These are different machines—built to withstand the rigors of plateau terrain. We already completed the development. There's no need to waste time or money on R&D."

It was clear now—Yanaev was doing everything in his power to sabotage the potential deal between China and the United States. The Americans wanted to stall Sino-Soviet ties. Yanaev's answer was simple: Not on my watch.

"Understood. I'll carry out the General Secretary's orders." Victor nodded, adjusted his coat, and turned to leave. Only he could come and go from the Kremlin's inner sanctum without restriction. A ghost in the hallways of power.

Chemezov, still unsettled, looked at Yanaev. "Comrade General Secretary... why agree to Victor's request? He's a private arms dealer, not a state official. To be blunt, neither of us can be certain of his loyalty anymore."

Yanaev didn't respond immediately. Instead, he asked Chemezov a question that seemed almost rhetorical.

"Why is it that the five permanent members of the UN Security Council are also the top arms exporters in the world?"

Chemezov blinked. "I… I'm not sure I follow."

Yanaev leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Because in war and peace alike, power flows through the barrel of a gun. But power must remain plausibly deniable. That's why people like Victor exist—not just for us, but for Washington, London, Paris, and Beijing. He is our shadow operator. A necessary one."

He continued, voice quieter but sharper. "When we needed to fund the second Chechen war—with what money, Chemezov? Where did it come from, while our economy was gasping for air? Not official budgets. It came from gray revenue streams—arms shipments, proxy trades, off-book exports. Men like Victor turn rusted scrap into hard currency."

Chemezov was silent, eyes lowered.

"You think I trust him completely?" Yanaev gave a dry laugh. "The KGB has a full surveillance team monitoring his every transaction, every contact. A man who swims in money and shadows is always one step from betrayal. But that's the point—we know that, and we control it."

Yanaev's tone hardened. "That's why I handle Victor personally. You stick to your official duties. Procurement. Logistics. Regulation. You're clean, Chemezov—and I want to keep it that way."

Chemezov nodded stiffly, humbled. There was nothing more to say.

After a pause, Yanaev rested his chin in his palm, staring at the worn map of Eurasia on the wall. His voice, though softer, cut just as deep.

"The only difference between us and the Americans," he said, "is that they move arms for their corporate syndicates and political donors. We do it—for the survival of the people."