The rats are perennial, they’ll exist till the end of times, wealthy and miserable, in the wild or in prison, through any shift in power or regime change, be that capitalism or communism, and nothing will ever alter them as they can adapt to any environment and their world of invisible omnipresence is well protected by their God, and no one would get out of His hand since their God is money.
Why do I know so much of the Intelligence? It must have been from between the bed sheets and not only this much. Victor returned to Moscow after a few years work as a financial expert. He was more of a moneyman than a special service agent, even more he was of a swindler. He became a raider like so many others in those years. He used to have both good strokes and failure in bank seizures, in which he lost money. I imperceptibly turned to be just the same like him.
These books are written from an adventurer’s perspective. There are no good guys since those good guys have no chance of attracting a female. Women want bastards.
Why read my books? I’ve got the undeniable strength of being a Russian author, which means, I’m writing of the Russian Intelligence without much fiction.
Of course these are just mere fiction novels, the kind of multi-twist mind game, yet I’m describing the events the way they could have had a touch on me in reality. So these books actually represent my might-have-been, by seizing which I could have lived a number of alternative lives. Understandably, one life is just enough for me, by behind would hardly stand more adventures. I’m writing about things that I find interesting, I’ve only read a few books of spy fiction, for the most part they are deadly boring.
I was born in Moscow. I studied at the Moscow State University at the Philosophical faculty. I got a PhD in philosophy and stayed without work and without money. The financial crisis began. Some years I was looked for a work, but took it easy. I was a securities trader in an investment company by chance. And then came the default in 1998. I was without work again.
This was my best time. I became the financial middleman of off-market private transactions. I had nothing. I had been looking for too-big deals. But then there was a time that it was quite possible for me to be the middleman in the sale of a Libyan oil tanker or the sale of aircraft abroad. I got sick of conducting multi-million dollar transactions and lost all sense of reality.
I met Victor. Capturing the bank was in my sights. The insider of the bank was its vice-president. I write about his capture almost unchanged. Before leaving, he left me his three passports… So I do not know his real name. There were no closed doors for him. He had friends from the federal agency for government communication and information and from the board of directors of Deutsche Bank. All kinds of people.
Years passed. Victor is long gone. And there are fewer middlemen.
I feel myself to be on the way out. My whole generation is on the way out as well; those who are described as robbing the country.
I like those who robbed the country, and I’m pleased about how it was done. They were really talented financiers, nothing worse than the financiers on Wall Street. They left the country and took the money with them.
Since then, Moscow’s air did not smell of millions any longer. But it seemed to me, it was still in the depths of my house between a pile of white shirts. Now there are no more financial middlemen. The young have gotten jobs first. They receive a salary at the end of the month, and seem to have already forgotten the smell of crazy millions. It’s like being drunk. There’s a dizziness from it… They did not want to breathe this air. They did not want to poison their lives. They earned their money. They had wives, children, dogs, and cars, which it was necessary to care of… Their heads have overflowed with thoughts of petty cash.
Then the middlemen were old. And I stayed with them. Therefore, the heroes of my novels are in their sixties. To the former friends who stayed in the stock market I became infected. No, I just died. And I have been smelled of sweet cadaveric decay. It seemed to me that I was among the dead. And it felt really bad for me as a living being. But I shared their way of thinking. I was the same as they were; ridiculous and old-fashioned, useless clutter, rubbish. Market garbage. My friends were precisely the same as middle-aged gentlemen.
Sometimes I catch a strange look directed towards me, but then forget about it. The metropolis cleaned me from their memory. There was no need to be as nice as kind people who talk with clients and colleagues daily. I had a different way of talking. My talking always led to a deal. And if it didn’t, I would give the finger and immediately forget the useless person as if shaking off dust. And that’s all.
I have nothing to regret. I had nothing to blame myself for. Dogs wouldn’t blame themselves for their dog’s life, would they?
I could not return to the stock market. It has changed. Brokers, buyers, and sellers have been changed. They all grew up a little. They have got each other for 0.1 percent interest, ready to set their ass to everyone at 0.5 percent, and would sell their own mother at one percent. I could not do that. The market has kicked me out as garbage.
And the old, among whom I used to be, are gone. The reality of small money has burned out people all around me as fire burns wood. Sometimes it seems to me that I have gone mad, that I live in the world turned inside out. Sometimes I would like to be like anyone… to have a rest, eat, dress, buy a car…
But I can’t do it. It would be a living death.
It seems to me I would lose days and years and would end up in devastation and poverty. And I would lose the scent of money, and the skill… so I clung to the sale of oil, diamonds, and bank guarantees, though I’m sure that it was simply thin air and there was nothing behind it. Sometimes I woke up and thought that all was not with me. But I lived and breathed the air of millions. It was my life. In my life I gained money from thin air. Emptiness is a magnet for me.
Now I have got nothing. I do not care. I like my life. I like to go for millions. It’s impossible to stop me. I might have to be put down like a mad dog.
And I still have a sense of money. I can smell the street’s air and say that the market has changed. It smells as sharp as the smell of fresh bread from a bakery in the frost.
If you love the TV series “The Americans”, you’ll like my books.