Grishin maintained a palatial private office on the topmost of those three floors. Floor-to-ceiling, east-facing windows offered him an unobstructed view of a loop of the Moskva River, the centuries-old Arbat District, the Kremlin’s redbrick walls, and much of the sprawling metropolis beyond. On good days, he savored the view.

Today was not such a day.

Grishin glowered down at the report he’d just finished reading. Irritably, he scrawled his signature across the last page, closed the folder, and tossed it onto a growing stack of similar documents. Early on in his quest to amass wealth and power, he’d learned the importance of closely monitoring the decisions made by his subordinates. Staying near the top of the heap in Russia’s chaotic, ever-churning business and political climate required an almost infinite capacity for hard work and careful attention to even the smallest details. As a result, senior managers across his far-flung corporate empire were expected to provide weekly summaries of their operations—production costs and profit figures, personnel moves, interactions with federal, local, and foreign officials, consumer feedback, and a host of other useful data.

Unfortunately, none of the reports he was studying now made pleasant reading. For months now, persistently low world oil and natural gas prices had been wreaking havoc with Russia’s economy, which depended heavily on the energy sector. More than a sixth of the nation’s GDP came from oil and gas, along with half its government revenues, and more than two-thirds of its export income. Because of depressed prices affecting those industries, incomes were down, unemployment was sharply up, and the broader economy was sliding fast toward a severe recession. And aware of the growing strains on government finances, foreign creditors were increasingly reluctant to lend money to Moscow except at exorbitant interest rates.

Grishin’s frown deepened. The worsening slump threatened both his own personal wealth and Russia’s political stability. In the past, his fellow countrymen had proved willing to surrender their freedoms in return for a measure of prosperity and security. The current government’s increasingly obvious failure to live up to its end of that bargain was dangerous. Already, there were protests and demonstrations in the streets of Moscow, St. Petersburg, and other large cities. They were peaceful so far, but the slightest spark could turn them violent. Worse still, there were unpleasant rumors that the Kremlin might soon be forced by its fiscal woes to cut pay and pensions for the armed forces and the police. And if unrest spread through the two strongest pillars of the state—the military and law enforcement—Russia’s ruling elites could lose their grip on power in the blink of an eye.

The oligarch had no illusions. Although he had been one of the earliest and strongest supporters of his nation’s authoritarian president, Piotr Zhdanov, he knew the Kremlin leader would not hesitate to sacrifice even his closest allies to save his own skin and position. “Lightening the sleigh”—throwing the weak overboard for the wolves to devour first—was an old and cruel Russian tradition. Under serious threat, Zhdanov would eagerly seize the opportunity to toss the mob a scapegoat or two. And during an economic crisis, blaming the nation’s troubles on “criminal capitalist billionaires” was an obvious play.