President Vladimir Volkov was ex-KGB and had earned the name “Little Wolf” on account of both his small stature and terrifying presence. What he lacked in height he more than made up for with a blood-chilling ferocity; the Little Wolf was a predator whose bite was much worse than his bark.

Petrov wiped his brow and took several deep breaths. He still felt sickened by his own feebleness but had been pinned by the President’s mesmerising gaze. Those eyes—almost colourless and unblinking. He just knew his legs had been shaking. Damn him for having better information sources than he did. Petrov remembered the chilling exchange and again felt a wave of nausea pass over him.

“Russia is a giant hungry bear, Petrov. It must be fed constantly so it slumbers and remains docile. If it is not it will grow weak and get eaten by another hungry bear, or it will rear up and tear its masters to pieces before devouring them.” The President stood close and looked at different points on Petrov’s face, watching the beads of perspiration fatten and then slide down his cheeks and neck to disappear into his tight, yellowing shirt collar. Petrov stood mute, not knowing whether he should respond to the cryptic little analogy or simply nod. He decided to do neither.

“Do you know what we must feed our hungry bear, comrade Petrov? What the Americans feed theirs, or the Chinese or the Europeans . . . Oil, lots of oil; the very blood of the earth. Tell me, how much oil do we have locked away in the soil beneath our feet, Petrov?”

Petrov didn’t like where this was going. “About sixty billion barrels, President Volkov.”

“And how much do the Americans have?”

Petrov stood a little straighter, “Less than a third of that of Mother Russia, comrade President.”

“And if the Americans run out of oil before us, that is a good thing, da? But what will happen if Russia runs out before America? What will our giant bear do to us, dear friend Petrov?”

“Impossible, with their rate of consumption and volatile relationship with the Middle East, they will be using horse-drawn carts within twelve years.”

“I see. How much oil do you think they will find down in Antarctica, comrade?”

“What? They would never touch it; they are signatories to—”

“Svoloch! They are already on their way now!”

Petrov, bludgeoned by the ferocity of the Russian curse, had an urgent need to use the bathroom. He suddenly felt very small before this man who only came up to his nose and he wanted to be out of this room and his presence immediately. The President brought his face even closer to Petrov’s until he was no more than an inch from his nose. The cold grey eyes bored deep into Petrov’s very core.