somehow he had self-mastered the alchemy of finance and banking, of international business.
The nation was not at all prepared for its overnight lunge into capitalism. But Alex was not only ready he was hungry.
With killer instinct, he rushed in and applied for a license to exchange foreign currency. The existing licenses had been
granted by the government of the Soviet Union; whatever permissions or licenses had been endowed by that bad memory were insolvent,
not worth spit. Anyway, the spirit of the day was to privatize everything, to disassemble the suffocating state bureaucracy,
to mimic the West.
After a swift investigation, it turned out Alex’s banks were the only functioning institutions with adequate experience and
trained executives, and with ample security to safeguard what promised to be billions in transactions. Not only was the license
granted, Alex ended up with a monopoly—every dollar, every yen, every franc that came or left Russia moved through his exchange
bank. Cash flooded through his vaults. Trainloads from every direction, from Western companies scrambling to set up businesses
in the newly capitalist country, and from wealthy Russians pushing cash out, trying to dodge the tax collector and hide their
illicit fortunes overseas.
Millions of fearful Russians lined up at the doors to park their savings in Alex’s bank, which happily exchanged their shrinking
rubles for stable dollars or yen or deutsche marks, whatever currency their heart desired, and let them ride out the storm.
Overnight, Alex and his senior executives were setting the national exchange rates for all foreign currencies. Heady power
for a young man, not yet twenty-five years old. Also, quite happily, a gold mine.
Alex took a slice of every ruble shuttled one way or the other, only two percent, but as the mountain of cash approached billions,
he scraped off millions. Then tens of millions.
He saw another rich possibility and promised twenty percent interest to any Russian willing to park their savings at his bank
for one year. Reams of advertisements flooded every TV station in Russia. A striking female model was used for certain pitches.
She wiggled her pliant shoulders and gyrated her sinewy hips, and in a seductive whisper purred that her boyfriend was a sexy
genius: his money was earning interest. Who knew it only took a little interest to get laid? To appeal to a different segment,
a handsomely aged couple stood against the backdrop of a decrepit wooden cottage and in tearful voices thanked Alex’s bank
for ensuring their retirement funds were not only safe but actually growing by the day. Then, flash a year forward in time,
and the same old couple were shown climbing sprightly into their gleaming Mercedes sedan parked in front of a charming seaside
dacha.
It was unheard of. No Soviet bank ever advertised. None offered interest, not a single kopeck. Wasn’t it enough that they
protected their customers’ money? Why should any bank dish out the bucks for its own generosity?
The commercials were vulgar and the promise of interest bordered on criminal negligence, the Soviet-era bankers growled among
themselves and to whatever reporter would listen to their gripes. But twenty percent? Okay, one or two percent, maybe; but
twenty? Konevitch would pay dearly for his bluster—he’d be bankrupt before a month was out.
Millions more investors lined up at the door. Billions more rubles flooded in. Alex took the deluge and hedged and bet it
all against the unstable ruble, then watched as inflation soared above a thousand percent. At the end of a year, the investors
took their twenty percent cut and considered themselves lucky indeed; at least their life savings hadn’t melted into half
a kopeck as happened to millions of miserable others. The remainder of the spread went to Alex. Nearly ninety percent of every
ruble in his savings bank was his to keep. He cleaned up.
And as the
The nation was not at all prepared for its overnight lunge into capitalism. But Alex was not only ready he was hungry.
With killer instinct, he rushed in and applied for a license to exchange foreign currency. The existing licenses had been
granted by the government of the Soviet Union; whatever permissions or licenses had been endowed by that bad memory were insolvent,
not worth spit. Anyway, the spirit of the day was to privatize everything, to disassemble the suffocating state bureaucracy,
to mimic the West.
After a swift investigation, it turned out Alex’s banks were the only functioning institutions with adequate experience and
trained executives, and with ample security to safeguard what promised to be billions in transactions. Not only was the license
granted, Alex ended up with a monopoly—every dollar, every yen, every franc that came or left Russia moved through his exchange
bank. Cash flooded through his vaults. Trainloads from every direction, from Western companies scrambling to set up businesses
in the newly capitalist country, and from wealthy Russians pushing cash out, trying to dodge the tax collector and hide their
illicit fortunes overseas.
Millions of fearful Russians lined up at the doors to park their savings in Alex’s bank, which happily exchanged their shrinking
rubles for stable dollars or yen or deutsche marks, whatever currency their heart desired, and let them ride out the storm.
Overnight, Alex and his senior executives were setting the national exchange rates for all foreign currencies. Heady power
for a young man, not yet twenty-five years old. Also, quite happily, a gold mine.
Alex took a slice of every ruble shuttled one way or the other, only two percent, but as the mountain of cash approached billions,
he scraped off millions. Then tens of millions.
He saw another rich possibility and promised twenty percent interest to any Russian willing to park their savings at his bank
for one year. Reams of advertisements flooded every TV station in Russia. A striking female model was used for certain pitches.
She wiggled her pliant shoulders and gyrated her sinewy hips, and in a seductive whisper purred that her boyfriend was a sexy
genius: his money was earning interest. Who knew it only took a little interest to get laid? To appeal to a different segment,
a handsomely aged couple stood against the backdrop of a decrepit wooden cottage and in tearful voices thanked Alex’s bank
for ensuring their retirement funds were not only safe but actually growing by the day. Then, flash a year forward in time,
and the same old couple were shown climbing sprightly into their gleaming Mercedes sedan parked in front of a charming seaside
dacha.
It was unheard of. No Soviet bank ever advertised. None offered interest, not a single kopeck. Wasn’t it enough that they
protected their customers’ money? Why should any bank dish out the bucks for its own generosity?
The commercials were vulgar and the promise of interest bordered on criminal negligence, the Soviet-era bankers growled among
themselves and to whatever reporter would listen to their gripes. But twenty percent? Okay, one or two percent, maybe; but
twenty? Konevitch would pay dearly for his bluster—he’d be bankrupt before a month was out.
Millions more investors lined up at the door. Billions more rubles flooded in. Alex took the deluge and hedged and bet it
all against the unstable ruble, then watched as inflation soared above a thousand percent. At the end of a year, the investors
took their twenty percent cut and considered themselves lucky indeed; at least their life savings hadn’t melted into half
a kopeck as happened to millions of miserable others. The remainder of the spread went to Alex. Nearly ninety percent of every
ruble in his savings bank was his to keep. He cleaned up.
And as the
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