Chapter 304 Moscow Summer: Someone is Stealing State Secrets
June in Moscow is far from cold and gloomy; it's warm and bright. When Wang Xiao got off the plane, she felt like she had come back to life.
There was no way around it; even though she was the boss, she couldn't lie and claim that Wuzhou Freight Company's planes were top-notch.
Are you kidding me? It's exclusively for middlemen; their only goal is to transport as much cargo as possible, with safety being the sole requirement, and comfort being completely out of the question.
In such a cabin, one can sit comfortably and coexist peacefully with cargo and people; this is already something to boast about.
So Wang Xiao and Ivanov aren't short of money, why can't they choose a better flight? Why torture themselves like this just to appear approachable?
That's not true at all.
The reason they choose to fly with their own company when they have the option is the same as a school principal eating in the cafeteria.
School canteens where school leaders don't cook special meals for students generally have a guaranteed food quality.
In order for his shipping company to operate smoothly, what's wrong with the boss enduring the strong smell of Russians gathering in the summer?
At most, I'll just take a few deep breaths of the fresh air of the forest city of Moscow when I get off the plane.
He came back to life.
The June wind blows from the Moscow River, carrying the smell of diesel fuel and the fragrance of lilacs.
Like its trams, the city, with the creaking of the rails, heads towards the distant horizon where blue skies are covered by forests.
Ivanov stared at the tram and suddenly asked, "Where do you think it's going?"
This is clearly not a matter of municipal construction, but a philosophical one, one that can be elevated to the level of the future of the Russian nation.
So Wang Xiao just blurted out, "I don't know. The world is a giant makeshift operation. Everyone's just going with the flow, dealing with problems as they arise. We don't know where to go next, so we'll just keep going with the flow."
Ivanov laughed heartily: "Watermelon rind, good way of putting it. We are the ones who supply watermelons to Moscow."
More than 80% of the watermelons currently on the market in Moscow come from their farms on the outskirts of the city.
This is his home turf.
After getting off the plane, the boss didn't go back to his villa to rest, or even go to the commercial street next to Red Square to sit in his office and enjoy a pot of Georgian tea. Instead, he went straight to the container market.
This is their new golden goose; they will rely on its golden eggs to advance other projects.
The workers in Moscow were quick to act after receiving their wages.
In winter, this place consists only of containers and a glass hall.
But now, behind the green leaves, the shadows of brick and wood houses can be seen.
The rumbling of the excavators and the shouts of vendors in the market mingled, neither able to overpower the other, so they simply coexisted peacefully.
People of all skin colors and clothing moved about the market. Everyone was extremely busy—eyes fixed on the displayed goods, hands frantically stuffing sausages and potatoes into their mouths, and mouths constantly chewing vigorously.
Even the most elegant ladies abandoned dining etiquette; they, they, everyone was too busy to eat slowly and carefully, and couldn't even spare five minutes for a proper meal.
Because these distributors and middlemen, known as chelnoki (shuttle merchants), often travel overnight from other places by long-distance bus to arrive at the container market in the early morning to wait for it to open.
The goods in the market were almost all packed in iron frames, piled up as high as trees, forming a steel forest.
The merchants, like squirrels, darted through the forest, selecting items such as shirts, t-shirts, jeans, carpets, watches, shoes, hair dye, sweaters, and cassette tapes.
Then, before the Moscow sun disappears behind the Kremlin, they squeeze back onto long-distance buses or trains, carrying their goods bought from the market in their hands and on their shoulders, to sell in remote areas.
When they arrived at the entrance of the container market, the cleaners who had been cleaning immediately surrounded them and quickly began to unpack the goods for the passing merchants—cardboard boxes for loading goods, and foam protective pads for shoes and video recorders.
By throwing away all that packaging, merchants can have more space in their vehicles to carry more goods.
The service is free, with no wages or tips, but the cleaning ladies at the market are very enthusiastic about it.
Because discarded packaging can be reused, it can be sold for money.
Why don't merchants just remove the packaging from their shops and keep it to sell for profit?
Firstly, there isn't enough space to stack packaging.
Secondly, there aren't enough people to do this.
Thirdly, this is the rule of the market.
The vast container market is like a small kingdom, where everyone has their own role and rules.
The income from selling packaging is an important source of extra income for the cleaners, and no one else is allowed to take it away.
If you drive any further, the car can't get in. No matter how wide the lanes were originally designed, they can't withstand the surging crowds.
The car could only circle around the container market.
Ivanov deliberately rolled down the car window and took a deep breath of the market air.
The pervasive smells of sweat, leather, plastic, and metal, along with the putrid odor emanating from the garbage cans that hadn't yet been towed away, all blended together to create the smell of money.
Money is a person's courage.
This is true throughout history and across the world.
Ivanov smiled with satisfaction, like a fully charged, lifelike robot.
He rolled up the car window again and gave the order: "Let's go."
The bodyguards secretly breathed a sigh of relief.
The boss's behavior just now was far too audacious and reckless. You have to understand, this is Moscow, Moscow in 1994, a Moscow plagued by shootings and explosions.
They certainly didn't want to face the horrific scene of their employer being shot in the head on their very first day back in Moscow.
The car slowly drove out of the container market.
Looking at the crowd queuing outside, Wang Xiao blurted out, "Toilets, we need to build more toilets, especially women's toilets."
Originally, the ratio of men's to women's public toilets in the container market was 1:1.
Strictly speaking, this plan is very much in line with the actual needs.
Although there are women who frequent toilets, the main force of merchants is still men. Even if women spend much more time using the toilet on average than men, a 1:1 ratio is sufficient.
But now the situation seems to have changed. There are many more female merchants in the market, so there aren't enough toilets.
“Teacher, nurse, officer,” Ivanov slowly announced his identities as a traveling merchant.
How interesting! What is honey to one is poison to another.
In this country, the more people who would otherwise never have joined the ranks of shuttle merchants, the better their business becomes and the more money they make.
However, at the same time, it also acts as a barometer, accurately recording the complete collapse of the Russian economic system.
The government is no longer able to organize enough production to maintain everyone's basic living needs.
Oh no, this is terrible.
It was so bad that Ivanov didn't hesitate to buy a watermelon at the market.
This is practically the only fruit that the poor people of Moscow can eat throughout the summer, besides the berries in the forest.
If you don't eat watermelon, where do you get the watermelon rind?
Without watermelon rinds, what will this country step on to rush towards the unknown future?
As soon as the truck left the container market, someone jumped up and waved vigorously, shouting, "Hey! Ivanov!"
Yura completely disregarded his handsome image, jumping and leaping around like a big monkey, desperately trying to attract attention.
When the car pulled up to stop, he simply reached out and knocked on the window, complaining, "You damn thing, you actually remember to go back to Moscow?!"
The car window rolled down, and Ivanov, equally annoyed, asked, "What are we back for? To watch our First Deputy Prime Minister and the Mayor of Moscow play tennis? Who won?"
This is a metaphor.
The First Deputy Prime Minister refers to Chubais, the "father of privatization" in Russia, whose economic stance is undoubtedly to implement full privatization.
The mayor of Moscow, Luzhkov, was once an ally of the former, but now the two are on opposite sides, locked in a fierce confrontation.
So everyone watched like they were watching a tennis match, watching both sides swing their rackets back and forth.
The focus of their dispute was Moscow's large state-owned enterprises.
At a press conference on February 11, the mayor vowed that Moscow would never implement a nationwide privatization plan, saying that such an act was "like a drunkard selling everything he owns on the street to buy alcohol." (Note ①)
The deputy prime minister then retorted, saying that high-ranking officials were unwilling to implement privatization because they did not want to lose the assets they controlled, which were the foundation of their more than ten years of rule.
On March 23, the Deputy Prime Minister announced that 50 factories in Moscow would be auctioned off publicly.
On April 1, the mayor abruptly halted the process of registering the company as a joint-stock company, a crucial step before privatization could take place.
If it can't continue, what's the point of the auction?
This is why Moscow's privatization plan has been put on hold.
Yura looked embarrassed and muttered, "Trouble, you see, we always run into all sorts of trouble, don't we?"
Ivanov gestured to him in refusal: "Hey, my friend, you should solve these problems yourselves."
No matter how resolute his attitude was, Yura persisted, stubbornly squeezing into Ivanov's car.
He even gave Wang Xiao, whom he had always disliked, a polite smile for this.
Wang Xiao felt that he would be better off not smiling at all; a smile would only make him seem more insincere.
Yura, who had already successfully boarded the bus, didn't care what the lady thought of him. He just tried to play peacemaker, saying, "Hey, my dear Ivanov, why bother? You know that's the kind of guy Punonin is. He's an authority, he's a benchmark, he's the role model for all of us bastards. He won't bow down."
Ivanov refused outright: "Stop! If that's all you wanted to say, then please get off the bus."
Yura was so afraid of being kicked off the bus that he completely disregarded his image as a high-ranking government official and grabbed Ivanov's arm, leaning his whole body against him.
Well, seeing this, Wang Xiao felt he could simply and openly say, "I wish you happiness!"
Even though she and Yura didn't get along.
Ivanov saw her amused expression in the rearview mirror and struggled desperately to free his arm from Yura's embrace, but he couldn't shake her off no matter what he did.
Wang Xiao laughed heartily. Her only regret was that she couldn't eat watermelon in the car; otherwise, she would definitely have been a proper watermelon-eating spectator.
After a long and difficult drive, the car finally arrived at Red Square and parked downstairs in the shopping district.
Tsk tsk, if they continued driving for another half hour, Wang Xiao was worried that Ivanov's shirt would be in danger and he would have to put on a striptease in the car.
Yura, who had crumpled the man's shirt into a dried-up mess, showed no remorse and continued to try to persuade him: "Ivanov, you know that guy Punonin, he's regretted it a long time ago, but he'd rather die than say it."
Ivanov was fed up and directly told her to leave: "My dear Yura, has the Russian Federation government collapsed? Have you lost your job? If the answer is no to both, then shouldn't you go back to work?"
Yura brazenly declared, "That's my job: to keep you on good terms so that Russia's reforms can move forward."
He did not lie, nor did he abuse his power for personal gain.
Soviet law was practically meaningless, and so is Russia's. No legal provision can compare to a leader's single word.
He has sobered up from the enthusiasm he had when he first graduated from university and has come to see the real Russia clearly.
The law is useless in this country. To push something forward, you have to rely on personal relationships and mutual assistance among groups.
This sounds terrible, but no matter how bad it is, he can't give up.
Because this is his homeland, their homeland.
Everyone else can be pessimistic and discard them like worn-out shoes, but they alone cannot.
Yura hugged Ivanov's arm tightly again, pleading, "My dear friend, forgive Punonin, for the sake of Russia."
Ivanov had never encountered such a difficult character. Of all the girlfriends he had dated, none were as delicate and weak as Yura.
Frustrated, he dragged the koala upstairs, finally managing to roar, "It's all because of Russia, so I absolutely cannot forgive him!"
In Russia, homosexuality is not accepted by the mainstream.
Pedestrians on the commercial street and shop assistants all stared curiously at the two large men pulling and tugging at each other.
Wang Xiao realistically kept her distance from them.
The wives of gay men are such tragic figures; she doesn't want to be misunderstood at all.
The assistant in charge of liaising with the researcher had already run downstairs, ignoring the male boss who was still talking endlessly with Yura, and reported directly to the female boss: "Mr. Markov has arrived."
Wang Xiao nodded, leaving his partner and his friends behind, and went upstairs by himself.
What should she do? She couldn't just forcibly separate them.
Markov is a middle-aged man with a receding hairline; his head should be quite cool in the summer.
Like most Russians, he didn't smile much. Sitting on the sofa, he showed no interest in standing by the window and looking out.
Upon seeing Wang Xiao, he merely nodded indifferently, then pushed out two thick file folders, saying succinctly, "Madam, everything you requested is here."
Even if freshly ground coffee and freshly cooked snacks were served to him and he ate them, it wouldn't soften his voice in the slightest.
Wang Xiao reached out and took the file bag, opening it as he made a request: "Please give a brief introduction to the progress of anti-static technology."
Mr. Markov drank his tea, his voice still dry and monotonous, as if reciting a memorized text: "Precision instruments such as satellites and missile guidance systems require strict anti-static measures, so the Soviet Union developed technologies such as conductive fibers and anti-static coatings. The electronic components of nuclear reactor control systems have extremely high anti-static requirements, which has driven the research and development of high-precision anti-static materials."
This aligned with Wang Xiao's speculation. She nodded, expressing her interest, and gestured for the other person to continue: "Anything else?"
And then there's a whole bunch of data.
Soviet carbon fibers, such as УКН-5000, have a tensile strength of 5 GPa and better electrical conductivity than Toray's T300 from Japan.
The diameter of nickel-plated copper fibers reached 0.05 mm in 1985, with a surface resistivity as low as 10 Ω.
In the 1980s, in response to the U.S. "Star Wars" program, the Soviet Union reduced the static decay time of antistatic gloves from 2 seconds to 0.3 seconds within 5 years.
Good heavens, it's no exaggeration to say that Wang Xiao felt that gloves produced like this would be a complete waste if used in a refrigerator and color TV workshop.
She asked, "Could I see a sample of the gloves?"
Markov shook his head: "Production is not our job; it's the task of the supporting factories."
Wang Xiao pressed further, "Then, which factory produces these?"
Given the collapse of Russia's industrial system and the fact that many factories have stopped operating, she emphasized, "It's fine if they produced it before."
Before Markov could answer, hurried footsteps sounded downstairs, the kind of rhythmic, thumping footsteps.
Wang Xiao instinctively ran to the window and looked down.
A black sedan was parked on the street, inconspicuous.
This commercial street is full of luxury cars, and it's not uncommon to see them with government license plates. Their customers are mostly the emerging middle class.
What caught people's attention was the person getting off the vehicle. Major General Punonin, fully armed, stepped out of the car. As the door closed, he looked up and met Wang Xiao's gaze.
In that instant, Wang Xiao agreed with Ivanov's assertion—Moscow was indeed a cold and gloomy city. Even though it was beautiful June, a June when flowers bloomed throughout the city.
She didn't force a smile, nor did she need to.
Because Punonin's gaze was fleeting, he quickly looked away and focused on Ivanov's face.
The latter couldn't bear the humiliation any longer, so after Wang Xiao went upstairs, he simply dragged Yura into the car. At least that way he wouldn't become a free clown on the street.
He got out of the car, frowned at Punonin and his menacing tax police, and gave a mocking smile: "What do you want, my lord? Are you here to audit taxes? Oh no, that's not your job. You're here to seize assets, aren't you?"
Yura hurriedly got out of the car and quickly stood in front of Ivanov, trying to say something amicable: "Hey! Hey! My dear Ivanov, you know, that's not what our friend meant."
Ivanov pointed at the tax police, his smile growing even more sarcastic: "So, my dear Yura, please tell me, what does this mean? Does having afternoon tea really require such a grand fuss? Our Major General is indeed of high rank and great power; his procession is quite impressive."
Yura gave a wry smile.
Normally, he would have retorted, "You, Ivanov, also have a large entourage when you go out, with a whole motorcade leading the way. Even the president's outings can't compare to your grandeur."
But now, he still had to appease Ivanov, so he could only humbly say, "You know, the security situation in Moscow is terrible right now. Shootings, car accidents, poisonings—they're using every method you can and can't even imagine."
Ivanov scoffed, "That shouldn't be used on our tax police major general at all. Aren't their targets businessmen like me, greedy merchants who steal state property?"
Yura was practically begging him to kneel down, constantly winking at Punonin, "Hey! Brother, say something, I'm trying my best to help you."
The June wind, carrying the fragrance of flowers on the balcony, ruffled Punoning's hair.
He slowly and methodically adjusted his gloves; heaven knows what kind of gloves he was wearing in the sweltering summer heat.
He stared at Ivanov like a hawk, a slight smirk playing on his lips, and finally spoke: "We have received a report that someone is trying to steal state secrets."
Yura was so shocked she almost jumped up, her voice stammering, "Wh...what state secret? Hey! Punonin, you know, what happened before was just a misunderstanding. The misunderstanding has long been cleared up, Ivanov didn't..."
Punonin raised his hand to stop him from continuing: "The past is the past, and the present is the present. We just received intelligence that someone is stealing top secrets from the national aerospace industry."
Wang Xiao stood by the window upstairs and could only hear snippets of conversation, such as words like "stealing secrets."
She was unaware of Punonin's specific accusations; all she felt was a sense of absurdity, an absurdity of having the wrong script.
What does Punoning feel like to him now? He's like the domineering CEO in a third-rate CEO novel, who goes into a rage after his little wife tries to escape.
He abused his power for personal gain, using every means to harass and block his young wife, breaking her wings so that she would obey him and continue to be his kept woman.
Well, no wonder novels about high-ranking officials are a variation of novels about domineering CEOs. People's thought processes are quite similar, aren't they?
That's how I see it, and it feels a bit unfair to Ivanov.
The latter sneered: "State secrets? Aerospace industry secrets? My God, what nonsense are you spouting? Does this country have any secrets? What secret could be bigger than the king being a donkey? And that secret is common knowledge."
Punonin had no intention of engaging in a verbal battle with him. He simply pointed to the window and his gaze returned to Wang Xiao's face: "Here, this lady is stealing Russian state secrets."
He smiled at Wang Xiao, his tone threatening, "Madam, I advise you not to jump out of the window. Your leg is probably not suitable for breaking again. Besides, you may not have the same luck as last time."
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Note ① is a direct quote from the original text.
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