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Chapter 20: The Devil’s Handshake

The meeting took place in a place of ghosts. A vast, derelict textile factory on the outskirts of Tver, its a cathedral of broken windows and rusting machinery, a tombstone for the Soviet industrial dream. It was the kind of place where a man could disappear.

General Dmitri Volkov of the FSB arrived alone, in an unmarked Lada. He wore civilian clothes. He felt the cold, hard weight of the Makarov pistol tucked into the small of his back.

Strelok was already there, a grey phantom emerging from the deeper shadows of the factory floor, two of his men flanking him, their AK-12s held at a casual low ready. Strelok’s face was a mask of scar tissue and cynical amusement. He looked at Volkov’s cheap coat and practical shoes with a thin, mocking smile.

“A General of the Federal Security Service,” Strelok said, his voice a gravelly rasp. “A long way from the Lubyanka. I feel I should have baked a cake.”

“I’m not here for pleasantries,” Volkov said, his voice flat. He had to force himself to stand his ground, to not show the visceral disgust he felt for this man—a mercenary, a warlord, a man who sold violence to the highest bidder. But he was also the only man in Russia who commanded a private army of thousands of battle-hardened killers who now hated the Kremlin more than he did.

“No, I suppose not,” Strelok said. “You are here because the guard dogs have decided it’s time to shoot the master. A noble sentiment. But you are dogs without teeth. We… we are the wolves. And wolves do not work for free.”

They stood in the decaying grandeur of the factory, a General of the FSB and a mercenary commander, and they negotiated the terms of a revolution as if it were a simple, brutal business contract.

Volkov was precise. He needed Strelok’s “Justice Brigade” to do two things: neutralize the FSO Presidential Security Service units at the Novo-Ogaryovo residence, and seize the primary broadcast tower at Ostankino. He laid out the intelligence: unit numbers, shift rotations, security protocols.

Strelok listened, unimpressed. “This is high-risk work. My men will expect a significant bonus. And hazard pay.”

“Your men will be paid,” Volkov said.

“Payment is not the issue,” Strelok countered, stepping closer. “The issue is the spoils of war. My men have a list. A list of certain… high-value assets they wish to acquire from the personal holdings of the men you will be arresting. Think of it as a form of spontaneous reparations.”

Volkov felt a surge of nausea. He was not a fool. He knew what that meant. A sanctioned rampage of looting and plunder. But he also knew he had no other cards to play. “A list can be provided.”

Strelok smiled, a humorless stretching of thin lips. “Excellent. And one more thing. My personal fee.”

“Name it.”

“I want the man who gave the order for Sector 17B. The air defense commander. I don’t want him arrested. I don’t want him put on trial. I just want him delivered to me. For a… debriefing.”

This was the devil’s handshake. The point of no return. Volkov knew that to give this order was to sanction a murder. To cross a line from which he could never retreat. He looked at the brutal, expectant face of the mercenary before him. This was the price of a new Russia. To save it from the current monsters, he would have to unleash a different kind.

“You’ll get him,” Volkov said.

Strelok’s smile widened. He spat on his palm and held out his hand. Volkov stared at it for a long moment, a gesture of pure, primitive vulgarity. Then, he spat on his own palm and sealed the deal. His hand felt dirty. His entire soul felt dirty.

The Discourse, 20: Pragmatism and the Morality of Unholy Alliances

Section 20.1: The Theory of the "Monopoly on Violence"
The negotiation between Volkov and Strelok is a stark illustration of a state losing one of its core, defining attributes: the monopoly on legitimate violence. A stable state is one in which only its official institutions (the army, the police) are permitted to wield organized force. The emergence of powerful, independent actors like Strelok's mercenary army signifies a critical stage of state decay. The state has not only lost its monopoly, but has become so weak that one of its own security organs (the FSB, represented by Volkov) must now secretly contract with a rival non-state actor to carry out its political objectives. This is not a partnership; it is an admission of institutional failure.

Section 20.2: The "Instrumental Rationality" of the Conspirator
Volkov's decision-making process is a case study in what the sociologist Max Weber called "instrumental rationality." This is a mode of thought in which an individual calculates the most efficient means to achieve a desired end, without regard for the ethical or moral value of either the means or the end itself. Volkov’s desired end is the overthrow of the regime. The most efficient means available is to ally himself with Strelok. The moral costs of this alliance—sanctioning looting, murder, and unleashing a band of killers—are acknowledged but are ultimately subordinated to the "rational" calculation that the alliance is necessary for success. This is the perilous logic that all revolutionary conspirators must eventually confront, where the pursuit of a perceived "greater good" requires them to adopt the very methods of the evil they are trying to depose.

Section 20.3: The Paradox of the "Warlord's Bargain"
The deal struck between Volkov and Strelok is a classic "warlord's bargain," an unstable pact that is often a feature of state collapse and civil war. The state-aligned actor (Volkov) needs the warlord's (Strelok's) military power, and the warlord needs the state actor's legitimacy, intelligence, and a share of the spoils. The paradox of this bargain is that it often solves an immediate problem (overthrowing the regime) by creating an even larger and more dangerous long-term one. Volkov is attempting to rid the state of a cancer, but the "chemotherapy" he is choosing to use is itself a highly toxic and potentially fatal poison. He is betting that he can control the "wolves" once they are let inside the city gates, a notoriously risky gamble in the history of revolutions.