Chapter 306 The Martial World is Full of Scammers: First Come, First Served
Capitalists are willing to forgo rest for the sake of money.
As evening fell and people rushed home from work, Wang Xiao and Ivanov boarded a car heading to the suburbs.
The torrential rain did not wash away the dust of this forest city; on the contrary, the long-neglected roads were full of potholes and puddles.
Ivanov complained, "It would be better to build roads than churches. God is everywhere, not just in churches."
He was referring to the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour, which was planned in 1812, construction began in 1839, and it took 44 years to complete, becoming a landmark of Moscow.
Then in 1931, Stalin ordered the cathedral to be bombed. In the later Soviet period, believers used it as a way to resist the Soviet Communist Party and wanted to rebuild the cathedral, and began to raise funds from the public.
Moscow Mayor Luzhkov accepted the idea and included it in Moscow's construction plans.
The budget for this reconstruction plan is reportedly between $150 million and $300 million.
Good heavens, Moscow's terrible public roads clearly need this money more.
The bodyguard joked with his boss, "Only God knows whether a plan is a plan or not."
In the past, Moscow and other Soviet cities had countless construction projects, and it was not uncommon for construction to be abandoned halfway through due to changes in leadership or changes in leadership.
Wang Xiao can't be this God either.
She said that she knew very little about Moscow before she traveled through time, and it was impossible for her to know whether such a rebuilt cathedral existed.
To put it bluntly, whether or not this cathedral exists, it doesn't change the fact that Moscow also fell after the red flag was lowered.
The afterglow of the setting sun reflected an almost blinding light onto the puddles.
Even if it was unwilling, the sun had set and its time was over.
Ivanov asked her curiously, "What are you looking at?"
"It's nothing." Wang Xiao shook his head, then changed the subject, "I was thinking, Yura has really changed a lot."
The last time I saw him, he was still a walking firecracker, a typical human ETC (Electronic Toll Collection) device, always ready to argue with anyone he met.
In such a short time, he's already transformed from a bulldog into a male fox spirit.
It is evident that people's nature is not something that can be changed easily; given the right conditions, they can all be changed.
Ivanov snorted, "They asked for it."
After the president attacked the White House last year, the president's faction did not unite because they had defeated the enemy.
The world is bustling with activity, all for the sake of profit; the world is bustling with activity, all for the sake of profit.
Without a common enemy, everyone else is an enemy.
The Russian Federation is currently in a tripartite balance of power.
On one hand, there is the market-driven liberalism represented by Chubais and Gaidar, who dominated Russia's privatization process.
On one side is state capitalism, represented by Moscow Mayor Luzhkov. Simply put, government officials act as stewards of the state, designating owners for assets.
Unlike the first two groups, who were government officials, the third group consisted of the emerging bourgeoisie, the new urban elites. They came together and formed a new power.
Now, in this three-way game, each party is openly and covertly fighting for its own interests.
Under these new circumstances, how could Yura, who was always ready to fight back, continue to have such a fiery temper?
Not only Yura, but also Wang Xiao and Ivanov, need to place bets again.
After all, in Moscow, and even throughout the Russian Federation, pure businessmen simply cannot survive.
Especially after they directly broke ties with Tax Police Major General Punonin.
“Chubay is doomed,” Ivanov sighed. “Someone has to be held responsible for failed reforms, and he is the perfect scapegoat.”
Although he still thinks of him as an idiot, an idiot who made Russia more chaotic.
But is Chubais's responsibility the sole reason Russia has reached this point?
A storm was brewing, and everyone ran to find shelter, but he was left behind, becoming the most heinous of all.
Wang Xiao reached out and covered his eyelids. The setting sun was like blood, burning fiercely with a final madness that could almost sting one's eyes.
She closed her eyes slightly and said in a low voice, "I also think he will lose the argument with the mayor."
She sighed, "It's because he didn't stand firmly on the president's side like the mayor did in the power struggle between the president and the parliament."
Now, it's time for the president to repay his allies.
Ivanov's sigh grew louder. Look, this is Russia.
Whether officials can hold onto their positions and fulfill their duties depends not on their work abilities, but on their relationship with the president.
This country, having overthrown the Soviet Union, seems to be returning to the Tsarist era.
so--
“Let’s donate to the cathedral,” Ivanov said, stating an amount. “How about $50,000?”
This number isn't small on its own, but compared to the cathedral's budget, it's just a drop in the ocean.
So we used it as a test, to show goodwill to the mayor.
What's next? It all depends on how this mayor, who has received honors as a Soviet chemist and a Russian Honored Chemist, reacts.
Hopefully, he will be a pragmatic, technocratic official, just as rumored.
Wang Xiao nodded: "Okay."
She never minded using money to pave the way, but she refused to be treated as a wallet.
Don't expect to get a single penny out of her pocket if you can't offer an equal reward.
The potholes on the road acted like speed bumps, forcing drivers to slow down and try to avoid splashing mud and water onto pedestrians' clothes.
So even though the factory wasn't far away, just on the outskirts of Moscow, by the time the car reached the factory gate, dusk had already fallen, like blueberry jam being made by Moscow's old ladies, spreading across the entire birch forest.
Only near the tree roots, where the setting sun dipped below the horizon, could barely retain a sliver of golden light.
It was like a comforting gesture.
This comfort was far too weak to even illuminate the factory's iron gate.
As the rusty iron gate emerged in the twilight, it resembled a wound that refused to heal, stretching across the edge of the birch forest.
The two double iron gates were half-open, and the light was so dim that they got out of the car and got closer before they could see the metal lettering "Moscow Third Protective Equipment Factory" hanging above the gate.
The word "protection" was even covered by ivy.
The factory manager had run out of the gatehouse to wait as soon as he heard the car approaching.
The veteran guarding the gate remained unmoved, continuing to drink his vodka bottle as if nothing had happened.
However, judging from Lyuba's keen sense of smell, he wasn't drinking vodka, but rather a homemade beverage made from moldy rye bread. This was much cheaper than vodka.
Ivanov warmly shook hands with the factory director and apologized, "I'm sorry, the roads in Moscow are really difficult to travel."
The factory director, dressed in blue overalls with his elbows worn smooth, reached out and shook hands with Ivanov, saying in a pun: "Of course, the roads are difficult all over Russia."
He made an inviting gesture, gesturing for the guests to follow him.
It was completely dark, but only a few lights were on in the factory, making the room gray and casting large shadows everywhere.
The heavy machinery lay silently in the workshop, like corpses that had been dead for who knows how long and could not yet be buried.
The evening breeze carried the mournful sound of the birch forest through the broken window, as if it were weeping for them.
"This production line," the factory director said, pressing his palm against the giant vulcanizing tank, his fingertips tracing the mottled bronze plaque that read "Designated Production Unit by the USSR State Planning Commission," "was responsible for the anti-static protection of electronic equipment for the 1980 Moscow Olympics."
His voice echoed in the empty factory, startling a few rats hiding behind the control panel. "Back then, the gloves we made for timing systems and communication base stations had a surface resistance controlled at 10Ω. Even American journalists used our protective covers for their cameras."
Ivanov swept his flashlight across the impregnation tank, where the remaining coating was covered with dark green mold.
The workshop was covered in dust and so dirty that it was impossible to walk on it. Forget about producing anti-static gloves; even if it were a cotton glove factory on a collective farm, the manager would have been fired long ago and sent to dig potatoes.
However, the factory manager seemed completely unaware of this, and even pulled out a crumpled technical manual from his pocket, the gold lettering on the cover of "Special Process for the National Defense Industry Commission" had peeled off.
“Back then, we even produced intravehicular gloves for the Mir space station. The formula was provided by KGB Labs—” He suddenly lowered his voice, as if mocking himself or talking to himself, “Now KGB is gone, the formula is worthless, and the equipment is scrap metal.”
Wang Xiao's gaze swept over the wall of honor. The "National Quality Product Award" of 1983 and the "Order of the Red Banner" for the Chernobyl disaster relief in 1986 were covered in dust. Only the "New Russian Innovation Award" of 1991 was still brand new, with Luzhkov's signature clearly visible in the lower right corner.
It is unclear whether he issued the award in his capacity as a chemist or as a leading figure in Moscow.
Ivanov wasn't interested in honors; he wanted actual production capacity: "Space station? Even with KGB, my dear factory manager, do you think this place can still produce the antistatic gloves they need?"
"Of course," the factory manager said confidently. "As long as the power is on, the vulcanizing tank can be adjusted to a vulcanization temperature of 150°C, so production can begin at any time—"
He licked his lips. "What we lack are orders and the funds to purchase raw materials."
His eyes were fixed on Ivanov, his right hand touching his left elbow, and he said earnestly, "Sir, I believe these are not problems for you."
The factory manager spread his arms wide, like a bird about to take flight, and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, look! You have money and a market, and we have factories, technology, engineers, and workers. This is exactly the factory you've been looking for."
Ivanov smiled enigmatically. "So, will this place become our factory?"
“Of course!” the factory manager said decisively. He licked his lips again and announced the figure, “One million US dollars, no rubles required. As long as you put up one million US dollars, the factory is yours.”
Ivanov seemed unable to believe his ears, standing there stunned for a full two seconds before bursting into laughter, his words tumbling out in broken sentences: "Sir, my dear factory manager, you must be joking. Do you know how big the Kuznetsk Steel Plant is? It's more than ten times the size of this place!"
This medium-sized factory dares to ask for an exorbitant amount, demanding $1 million, which is equivalent to $1 million rubles!
The factory lights were far too dim.
Moscow's power supply is extremely tight, and factories like these that have already stopped operating are basically at the bottom of the supply chain.
However, the dim lighting saved the factory manager at this moment; at least Wang Xiao and Ivanov couldn't see any sign that he was blushing.
His voice sounded quite calm: "Of course, I know it all too well. Factories in Moscow are different from anywhere else. In other places, government officials would beg this businessman to participate in the auction of the factory. But Moscow is different. Mayor Luzhkov told us that the factory is a national treasure and cannot be sold for nothing."
Ivanov simply kicked out, "If that's the case, then forget it. A gentleman doesn't take what others love. Please keep your moldy factory."
The factory manager immediately shouted, "Sir, please don't try to buy other protective equipment factories. It's a waste of time. The city government won't initiate the shareholding reform process, and the factory will absolutely not be privatized."
He revealed a reserved yet cunning smile, "Only we can get Mayor Luzhkov to sign the documents."
He made a gesture and gave a meaningful smile. "A smart person like you should know that it would be no harm to you to have a good relationship with the mayor."
Ivanov turned his head, his smile deepening with sarcasm: "What? Is this a pledge of allegiance?"
The factory manager shrugged, instantly transforming from an old Soviet factory manager into a broker in the new Russia: "Interpret it however you like, after all, none of that matters. What matters is that with this million dollars, the factory is yours."
The evening wind lashed against the dilapidated window, as if the remaining shards of glass were an eyesore. It struggled and tore at them desperately, trying to remove all the glass.
Ivanov smiled: "Then, one million US dollars..."
Before he could finish speaking, the sound of leather shoes shattering on broken glass came from outside, accompanied by a strong male voice: "A million-dollar order, okay, we'll take it."
Almost as soon as he finished speaking, the man had already run into the workshop.
Good heavens, what a pathetic fellow.
He looked as if he had just been pulled out of the water and hadn't had time to dry; his hair was matted together, resembling dried plums. His leather shoes left wet footprints with every step.
He winked at the factory manager and gestured with one finger.
In industry slang, this means 10% profit.
The disheveled man turned his head and smiled at Wang Xiao and Ivanov: "Don't worry, gentlemen, we will complete the order as soon as possible."
But when his gaze focused on Ivanov's face, he instantly looked surprised: "Hey! My friend, and my beautiful Miss Wang, what are you doing here?"
Ivanov only recognized him at this moment, and his surprise was no less than his own: "I should be asking you that question, Ovechkin. Why aren't you producing your clothing in Westwater Town? What are you doing at the glove factory, with a $1 million order?"
The last time he saw Ovechkin was more than a year ago.
After buying the factory from the widow of a Chinese businessman, Ovechkin became a legitimate leather clothing manufacturer.
He had a geographical advantage and knew which products were most popular in Moscow.
Now, not only in wholesale markets, but also in emerging container markets, his leather jackets sell the best.
That's why Ivanov was puzzled: "You were doing so well, why did you want to change careers?"
Ovechkin wanted to hug him, but when he raised his hand, his clothes were still dripping wet, so he had to give up.
Good heavens, he was so unlucky. He had just arrived at the airport when he was caught in a downpour and didn't have time to find shelter.
"Hey, leather garment production depends on the season; it's not like we do this all year round."
Ovechkin awkwardly withdrew his arm and explained, "I can't let the workers be idle and not earn money."
Township and village enterprises are characterized by the fact that employees earn money for each day's work, and there is no situation where wages are paid even when there are no orders.
Even if Ovechkin wanted to be a generous boss, he couldn't break the rules of the trade, otherwise the entire industry would ostracize him.
So at the end of last year, he opened up a new battlefield, introduced the production technology of antistatic gloves from Moscow, and took engineers to Xishui Town, Jiangbei Province, to open another glove factory.
Now, not only Ivanov, but even Wang Xiao's eyes widened: "Antistatic gloves? You produce antistatic gloves?"
“Of course!” Ovechkin said proudly. “We’ve already started mass production. All the lighter factories in Jiangbei Province use our anti-static gloves. And now, our customer base is still expanding.”
He winked at them, "If you want it, I can give you the best price. If you don't like the labels, you can use the ones from the Third Protective Equipment Factory. Right?"
He even acted like a close friend, wrapping his arm around the factory manager's neck and whispering in his ear, "Ten percent profit."
At this moment, he was no longer worried that his wet clothes would wet the factory director's neck.
Because he was the one who delivered money to the Third Protective Equipment Factory.
That's great.
His special trip back to Moscow wasn't solely due to the unbearable summers north of the Yangtze River. He had another purpose in returning: to expand his market.
Since the Third Protective Equipment Factory has already ceased production, it should retain its previous customers.
This trip was definitely worthwhile; look, a $1 million order has arrived!
Ivanov, who had received special treatment, looked displeased, his voice colder than the June rain: "Sir, my factory manager, can you give us a reasonable explanation? You're selling the same product to two different people. How many people are you planning to sell your antistatic glove technology to?"
Ovechkin's bright smile froze on his face. His eyes widened in disbelief, and he exclaimed in shock, "What? You're going to produce antistatic gloves too?"
Ivanov's face was frosty: "It seems things are hard to say now."
"No, no, no," the factory manager quickly emphasized, "My sir, technology is technology, and a factory is a factory. Besides, you see—"
He broke free from Ovechkin's arm and gestured to the entire factory, "We don't just have one production line, and the corresponding technical levels are different. The graphite emulsion soaking method is the lowest level, used for small factories in China."
Ovechkin snapped, "Hey! That's not what you said back then!"
“I’m just telling the truth.” The factory manager was thoroughly annoyed by this uninvited guest. “This is more than enough for you. But Mr. Ivanov is different; he needs something more advanced. Our graphite microsheets and carbon fiber laminated with conductive fibers can be applied in the aerospace field.”
Seeing that Ivanov did not refute the other party, Ovechkin panicked.
Are you kidding me? The Russian market for antistatic gloves isn't that big.
If Ivanov and Miss Wang directly take over the Third Protective Equipment Factory and start producing antistatic gloves, how will the gloves produced in Xishui Town penetrate the Russian market?
He doesn't need such powerful peers.
Seeing that the factory director was still boasting about his advanced technology, Ovechkin blurted out, "Alright, factory director, stop bragging."
He popped each of the beautiful soap bubbles the other person blew.
"Your T-300 grade carbon fiber is used in the military industry, for missile warheads, and costs as much as $120 per kilogram. Who can afford that? Moreover, you have no experience in civilian production at all."
"The wet spinning equipment you mentioned is not precise enough, with fiber diameter fluctuating by ±20%, and it requires the use of highly toxic solvents, which were banned in the Soviet Union."
"You mentioned chromium naphthenate antistatic agent. Honestly, have you ever mass-produced it? If you have, how did you solve the chromium pollution problem at that time? Don't try to fool people with laboratory results."
Just kidding! When he introduced the technology to Jiangbei to produce antistatic gloves, didn't he initially want to introduce advanced technology and get it right the first time?
But after conducting research, he discovered that all these beautiful dishes were just for show; he couldn't actually eat them.
This time, the factory manager was exposed to his face, and even the dim light could not hide his flushed face. He tried to save face: "But our graphite micro-flake technology is more advanced than graphite emulsion immersion technology. The surface resistance is 10Ω, while graphite emulsion can only reach 10Ω."
"Give me a break," Ovechkin said, showing him no mercy. "Your graphite flake machines were imported from East Germany, and East Germany doesn't even exist anymore; the factories went bankrupt long ago. Your own machinery has been dismantled, leaving only empty frames. How can you possibly make graphite flakes now?"
The factory manager, his face flushed, desperately insisted, "We can make it ourselves; it's just equipment from East Germany."
Ovechkin waved his hand impatiently: "Come on, you can do far too many things yourselves."
He smiled at Ivanov and Wang Xiao, afraid that the two would be misled, "Don't believe their nonsense. When it comes to bragging, they are all experts. You must not buy this factory. Apart from the factory buildings, almost all the usable machines here have been sold off. It's just an empty shell."
Ivanov was so embarrassed he wanted to dig a hole and crawl into it.
Look at his homeland, from researchers to factory directors, it's full of swindlers, treating them like monkeys.
Wang Xiao touched his nose and looked up at Ovechkin: "So, can the antistatic gloves produced by your factory meet the needs of electronics factories such as color TV factories and refrigerator factories?"
“Of course!” Ovechkin smiled broadly and whistled happily. “You are welcome to visit the factory. A surface resistivity of 10Ω fully meets the production requirements of an electronics factory!”
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Does anyone still remember Ovechkin? [Let me see]
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