Featuring an exclusive postscript read by the author. Closely modeled on his NATO experience of war gaming future conflicts, War with Russia is a chilling account of where we are heading if we fail to recognise the threat posed by the Russian president. Written by the recently retired Deputy Supreme Allied Commander Europe and endorsed by senior military figures, this audiobook shows how war with Russia could erupt, with the bloodiest and most appalling consequences, if the necessary steps are not taken urgently. President Putin said, 'We have all the reasons to believe that the policy of containment of Russia which was happening in the 18th, 19th and 20th century is still going on....' And 'if you press the spring, it will release at some point. Something you should remember.' Like any strongman, the Russian president's reputation for strength is everything. Lose momentum, fail to give the people what they want, and he fails. The president has already demonstrated that he has no intention of failing. He has already started a lethal dynamic which, unless checked right now, could see him invade the Baltic States. Russia's invasion and seizure of Georgia in 2008 was our Rhineland moment. We ignored the warning signs - as we did back in the 1930s - and we made it business as usual. Crimea in 2014 was the president's Sudetenland moment, and again he got away with it. Since 2014 Russia has invaded Ukraine. The Baltics could be next. Our political leaders assume that nuclear deterrence will save us. General Sir Richard Shirreff shows us why this will not wash.
Release date:
May 19, 2016
Publisher:
Coronet
Print pages:
448
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THE INSPIRATION FOR this book came from the many good friends I made as a result of a number of trips to Latvia, Estonia and Lithuania. Not only have they shown me great kindness and warm hospitality, but they have shared their personal and family histories of the brutal period of Soviet occupation. The courage with which they regained their freedom in the dying days of the Soviet Union is nothing short of inspirational, hence the dedication at the front of this book. Those events took place more than a generation ago and have passed into history. But in the face of a resurgent Russia, once again a potentially existential threat on the eastern frontiers of the Baltic states and to all members of NATO, they must never be repeated.
But that inspiration needed a catalyst and this book would never have been written without Roger Field. It started at a Sandhurst reunion with a conversation about what I would do when I left the Army. With the irrepressible enthusiasm that has always been his hallmark, he urged me to consider writing. After what seems now feeble resistance, perhaps because somewhere within me I had always wanted to write, I gave in and this is the result. But Roger Field has been much more than agent and editor. A published writer himself, he brought a novelist’s eye to the project and I owe him profound thanks for his creative imagination, eye for detail and the rigorous red pen of his many suggestions, extensive additions and corrections that have gone far beyond the normal call of duty for an editor and agent. In addition, I owe Mark Booth of Hodder and Stoughton particular thanks. I am deeply grateful to him for the enthusiasm and interest he has shown from the start of the project, together with his wise, extensive and detailed advice, to say nothing of the time he has put into the project.
Much of what I write about is based on my own experience – and I plead guilty to simplifying the complex for the sake of the story. However, I have depended on professional advice from those who have operated at the sharp end, particularly at sea and in the air. Maritime advice has been freely given by a former colleague who wishes to remain anonymous, while the advice on air warfare has come from Henry Salmon, a former fast jet pilot.
While many of the characters and names in the events of 2017 are purely fictional, others are based on, or named after, individuals I have known. I am indebted to those who have generously allowed me to draw on their individual characteristics or to name fictional characters after them. I trust you will understand if I do not acknowledge you all individually.
The foundations of this project have been my family without whose encouragement, support and objective criticism the book would never have been completed. In particular, my loyal companions Delilah and Maisie, our two springer spaniels, have been instrumental in applying the adage ‘solvitur ambulando’ – ‘it is solved by walking’, which has overcome many an impasse. But more important than anything else, and utterly consistent throughout the nearly thirty-six years we have been married, the rock on which everything has been built has been my beloved wife Sarah-Jane, to whom I owe more than I can ever say. No thanks and gratitude can ever be enough for what she has done, and continues to do for me.
AFTER THE DARKNESS and bitter cold of the Ukrainian winter, spring is a time of optimism for the people of Kharkiv. And this Victory Day holiday afternoon was no exception. Warm spring sunshine set off the white walls and golden domes of Pokrovsky Cathedral. In Maxim Gorky Park, groups of students from the many universities in the city played football, or lay on the grass chatting, while extended families gathered to picnic and barbecue to celebrate the holiday.
In the city, the cafés and bars in Freedom Square were full of people making the most of the weekend and the weather. It seemed a long time since the 2015 Minsk ceasefire effectively froze the war of 2014–15. Since then, the provinces of Donetsk and Luhansk had become de facto Russian protectorates, now known to their Russian ‘peace-keepers’ as the province of Novorossiya. An uncertain peace prevailed, regularly broken by flare-ups along the front line between the Ukrainian army and Russian-backed separatists.
A lone man made his way through the groups of revellers, scanning the crowd as he walked. Unobtrusive at around medium height and in his early thirties, with close-cropped dark hair and a black, zip-fronted fleece jacket over a newly laundered white T-shirt, he moved with an easy, sinewy stride; a man used to covering ground with minimum physical effort, always keeping something in reserve. However, Anatoly Nikolayevich Vronsky was not enjoying the sun. A driven, utterly focused man, Vronsky accepted nothing but the best, and things looked as if they might be unravelling before they had even started.
First, his contact at the base had telephoned to warn him that the group he wanted had left earlier than expected. Then, ten minutes earlier, the idiot tasked to follow them had reported in that he had a blown tyre and had lost them on the outskirts of the city. Vronsky’s best guess was that they had to be heading here, the tourist part of town, which is why he was now searching Freedom Square for them, methodically breaking down into sectors the vast, café-lined square, surrounded by huge Soviet-era concrete buildings. Each sector had to be surveyed in turn; slowly, not rushing it, just as he had once been taught and how he taught those who now followed him.
There. At a pavement table: one woman and four men. Now he saw them, the group was easy to spot among the Ukrainians. Uniformly clad in jeans and polo shirts, the men sported the distinguishing mark of any American soldier, the crew cut.
Vronsky slowed his pace, relaxed his shoulders so that he was almost slouching and made his way to an empty table right beside them. As he waved to the waiter, he took out his mobile and made a couple of calls. Minutes later another man and an attractive, younger woman joined him. They shook hands and he kissed the girl on both cheeks, sat down and ordered coffee; a typical group of young Ukrainian professionals relaxing on a day off. Then the three of them argued about the most likely winner of that season’s Premier League: Dynamo Kyiv or Metalist Kharkiv. All they had to do now was wait.
The moment came when one of the Americans at the next table pulled out a tourist map, looked around to orientate it and placed it on the table. ‘Well, we’re obviously in Freedom Square,’ said one of the group, with a marked Texan accent.
It was what Vronsky had been waiting for. ‘Where are you heading?’ he asked, in faultless, American-accented English.
Surprised, the American turned and looked at him. ‘Hey, you speak pretty good English … you ever been to the States?’
‘Sure.’ Vronsky smiled. ‘I was at the University of Texas in San Antonio for a couple of years.’
‘You don’t say … that’s where I’m from!’ was the delighted response from the American.
‘Hey, you don’t say. Is the River Walk still the place for a beer?’
‘Sure … the best.’
‘We’d better celebrate then. I can’t offer you an Alamo, but let me buy you one of our local beers. Have you ever tried a white beer? Perfect on a sunny evening.’
‘Well …’ the American hesitated. ‘I guess one won’t do any harm. By the way, I’m Scott Trapnell.’
‘Anatoly Nikolayevich Vronsky,’ he responded and they shook hands. ‘I lecture in English at the University of Kharkiv. What are you guys doing here?’
‘Great to meet you, Anatoly,’ enthused the friendly American. ‘We’re US military. 1st Battalion, 15th Field Artillery, US Army. Here to train your army in how to use the AN/TPQ-36 weapon-locating radar. That’s the mobile radar system our government has given your guys to help track incoming artillery and rocket fire. I’m Master Sergeant Scott Trapnell and these guys are my training team.’
‘You don’t say, Scott. That’s amazing. We owe you guys so much! Without you here, well …’ Vronsky’s voice trailed off. Both men knew that it was only the presence of the American trainers that was stopping Russia from overrunning this part of pro-Western Ukraine.
‘So, where are you based?’ Allegiances confirmed, Vronsky picked up the conversation again.
‘We’ve been out at Chaguyev training camp, east of Kharkiv, for the past couple of months … We’re in town today for some R and R.’
‘I suspect you need it,’ Vronsky commiserated. ‘Being stuck out there must be boring and uncomfortable.’
‘Well, you know what it’s like.’ Trapnell caught himself, not wanting to complain in front of a friendly local, but Vronsky was right. That was pretty much all they did in private: complain at the conditions and count the days till they got back Stateside.
‘I do. I did military service too and those old Soviet barracks were dumps.’
At that moment the waiter brought the beer and they sat and chatted at the pavement table. Soon, General Order Number 1 – the rule preventing American military personnel from drinking alcohol while on duty or while deployed – was set aside and the Americans were able to relax for the first time in months; imagine themselves as simple tourists for a few moments, enjoy the sun and the exotic beer, and watch with obvious appreciation as long-legged, ash-blonde Ukrainian girls strutted past.
In no time the Americans were at the centre of a group of admiring Ukrainians, all keen to buy them beers, practise their English, and express their gratitude for what America was doing to support their beleaguered country.
Vronsky lifted his chair and placed it between Trapnell and his neighbour, the only female soldier in the group.
He turned to her. ‘Hi, I’m Anatoly. Thank you for what you’re doing for us.’
‘It’s a pleasure, Anatoly. And I’m Laura Blair. But please call me Laura,’ she replied, a typically open, friendly, pretty all-American girl. ‘I guess life has been very tough for you with the war and everything.’
Vronsky looked at her. ‘You’re not wrong … All war is dreadful but civil war is brother against brother, fathers against sons.’
‘What about the Russians?’ asked Blair.
‘Sure, they’re involved, but how can they not be? Ukraine and Russia are inseparable. Like twins joined at birth. The tragedy was the separation after Soviet times.’
Blair persisted. ‘But the Russians have invaded your country, broken the ceasefire, attacked your soldiers.’
‘If young, innocent conscripts, forced to fight against their will, is an invasion then yes, the Russians invaded. The Kremlin will tell you they were volunteers. Don’t believe that propaganda. The truth is everyone in war loses, is a victim. There are no winners. Everyone’s lives are blighted; young, old and always the innocent. It’s the women and children who suffer most … But enough of us and our troubles on such a beautiful day. Where are you from, Laura?’
Vronsky saw her look up at the sun and then at the happy crowds around them. She smiled. ‘Amherst, Massachusetts,’ she replied, ‘and you?’
Vronsky ignored the question. ‘Amherst? Home of the poet Emily Dickinson?’
‘Exactly. I’m impressed that you know. My dad was a janitor at Amherst Academy where she was at school. I guess you know about her from teaching English?’
‘For sure,’ said Vronsky, eyes softening, ‘and she’s one of my favourite poets. My time at school in the States left me with a love of American literature and a passion for Emily Dickinson. There’s a line of hers that has brought me through the dark times of the war …’
He leaned close to her ear and whispered:
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tunes without the words –
And never stops at all.
Blair was entranced, unable to trust herself to speak as tears formed in her eyes. At that moment she felt a very long way from home and, besides, no man had ever talked to her as Vronsky was doing now. She smiled and closed her eyes, anxious not to show the handsome Ukrainian how deeply his words had affected her.
Vronsky used the moment to steal a glance to his right. Anna Brezhneva, his attractive female companion, had already focused on another, younger American, Sergeant Jim Rooney. ‘I am study English at the University. I have girl friends who love to meet your friends.’ She put her hand on his arm and gave it a slight squeeze. ‘Is that good expression, Ji … im? You teach me if I say it bad?’
Rooney grinned. ‘I like this idea. And you say it real well …’
Vronsky looked around the group and knew it was time.
‘I tell you what,’ he suggested with a broad smile, addressing them all. ‘We have so much to thank you for. Why don’t we all have dinner together? My cousin owns a great restaurant not far from here and he’ll look after you like family. This is no tourist restaurant. This is where only locals go. You can’t come to Kharkiv and not try our local food. You won’t eat better holubtsi anywhere.’
The younger Americans looked at Trapnell for guidance. He hesitated, impressed at the offer but not quite sure.
Vronsky continued, ‘And, as our honoured guests, it is of course our gift to you.’
Trapnell looked at the others, who grinned back. It is a rare soldier who can refuse the offer of high-quality, free food. ‘Sure. Why not? But we can’t stay late.’
‘Don’t worry. There’ll be no problem. The restaurant is on the east side of the city and on the way back to your barracks. We’ll eat, have fun, and get you back to your base in plenty of time.’
Anna Brezhneva waved her phone at Vronsky and shrugged, as if she was asking him an obvious question.
Vronsky smiled. ‘Anna wants to know if you would like her to invite her girlfriends to make for equal numbers.’
The American men gave him a thumbs up, while Laura Blair sighed tolerantly.
‘Make the call,’ he said to Brezhneva, and she immediately starting talking into her mobile phone.
Vronsky summoned the waiter and demanded the bill. As he handed over 500 hryvnia, a couple of Mercedes taxis cruised past.
Brezhneva jumped up and waved them down. If the Americans noticed the fact they were the only two taxis in the square, then they gave no sign of being unduly worried.
Vronsky kept a fixed smile on his face, as he listened to the men discuss whether Anna’s girlfriends could possibly be any prettier than she was. What was it with foreigners? They knew he spoke their language, but surrounded by others who could not speak English, they seemed to forget that fact. He caught Laura’s eye.
She pulled a face as if to say sorry.
He smiled and nodded gravely in response. She was an intelligent and sensitive person and, in another life, he would have found himself warming to her.
Vronsky stood. ‘Shall we?’ he asked, as he helped Laura put on her jacket and indicated the two waiting taxis.
They all squeezed in. Unaccountably, once they had split up to do so, a big man got into the front seat of the second vehicle.
‘Don’t worry,’ Vronsky announced to the Americans. ‘He is here to make sure your friends are safe. There are some bad people in this city.’
Slightly heady from the unaccustomed beer and friendliness of their new friends, Rooney and Blair sat back in the taxi.
Vronsky ordered the driver to move off. Behind him in the rear view mirror he saw Laura tense. Perhaps his command had been that bit too sharp. Not perhaps what you would expect from a university lecturer. ‘As I said,’ he explained, ‘the restaurant is not in a tourist area and the driver was surprised we were going there. I had to tell him twice.’
Reassured, the Americans started chatting and pointing as the taxis pulled out into the evening traffic, heading down Ivanova Street before hitting the main road west, Pushkin’ska, on their way to the east of the city. Soon they had left the city centre, crossed the Kharkiv River and entered the grim suburbs. Vronsky sensed a growing apprehension and announced that he was ringing his cousin to confirm they were nearly there. The neighbourhood might be awful, he explained, but the food was superb and getting a table was not easy. Vronsky saw Trapnell smile and the others followed his lead and relaxed with him as he made his phone call.
Fifteen minutes later, the taxis pulled up outside a tall ‘Khrushchev’ apartment block, one of many built across the Soviet Union in the 1950s and designed to pack as many people as possible into as small a space as possible. If getting the Americans into the taxis in Freedom Square had been the riskiest part of the operation – one shout of alarm and the cars would have immediately been surrounded by inquisitive and hostile locals – this was the second most difficult moment. Vronsky did not need a problem here, where unfriendly eyes might witness what was to happen next. Although there was nobody on the street at the moment, people could well be watching from the surrounding buildings.
‘We’re here,’ he announced with a smile, stepping out of the car.
Trapnell looked up at him from inside the car and wound the window down. ‘Where’s the restaurant? What the hell are we doing here?’
Vronsky looked down at him, no longer the friendly university English lecturer. He needed the Americans to do exactly what he told them and that meant he was now cold-eyed, his voice ice-calm and ruthless. ‘Do exactly as I say. Come with us. Quietly. All of you.’
The Americans were aghast, shock taking over their faces as they began to absorb what was happening. With their eyes locked onto his, they did not see the four men who were now emerging from the ground floor of the apartment block.
Vronsky motioned to them to surround the cars. In moments the Americans were being hauled out of the vehicles, arms locked behind their backs, mouths gagged with gaffer tape, heads covered with blankets, and then dragged towards the building.
All but one.
Master Sergeant Scott Trapnell was a man apart. Not for him the interminable muscle building in the gym favoured by most American soldiers; small, wiry, seemingly the most unobtrusive of men, he was an Aikido sensei and black belt and trained obsessively. Instinctively, in the face of an attack, the long hours of Aikido practice kicked in. A quiet calm came over him as his assailant yanked him out of the car. Then, using the other man’s weight, the American dropped a shoulder and swung his assailant, applying the classic bent-armlock technique to turn his arm at the elbow and throw him onto his back and onto the road. As the man fell, his head snapped back against the tarmac with an audible crunch and he was silent.
The next man whirled to face him, hands up, ready for another such move. From his stance he was obviously well trained in martial arts.
Trapnell, wearing a sharp pair of leather cowboy boots for his big trip downtown, instead kicked him full force between the legs. Nothing subtle, nothing ninja, just a good, old-fashioned kick for goal, with all the force of his anger and betrayal that he could put behind it. ‘Fuck you!’ Trapnell screamed, as his boot connected with his balls.
The man dropped. Gasping. Eyes bulging in speechless agony.
Satisfied that the man was staying down, Trapnell looked around him and saw his fellows already being bundled away. For a moment, and with two men down, there was nobody to hold him on his side of the car. He ran. Hard and fast. And he was a good runner. Half-marathon was his speciality, but he was still very useful at a full sprint.
‘Get him!’ Vronsky yelled from the other side of the car. But there was no-one to get him.
The tower blocks around them were full of their enemies. In a few more seconds the American was going to start yelling for help. And that would bring people out onto the street, some with guns, who might help. The American would get away and the whole plan would be blown.
Without hesitation or remorse, Major Anatoly Nikolayevich Vronsky of the 45th Guards Spetsnaz Regiment reached under his jacket and, with the practised coolness of a Special Forces soldier, pulled out a PSS silenced pistol, issued only to Russian Special Forces, KGB, FSB and MVD. He took careful aim at the centre of the sprinting Trapnell’s back and fired two successive bursts of two rounds in quick succession at twenty-five metres.
Trapnell was bowled forward and over like a shot rabbit. He twitched a couple of times and then lay still.
Vronsky turned, no emotion on his face. There would be ample time for blame and punishment once they were safely across the border. ‘You two, fetch the body.’ He indicated behind him with his thumb. ‘Clear up any blood.’
‘Praporshchik Volochka.’ He pointed to the woman who had called herself Anna Brezhneva. ‘We are moving straight to extraction. Get the vans here now.’
FYODOR FYODOROVICH KOMAROV, the President’s Chief of Staff and regular judo partner, was below average height, stocky with the pale blue eyes and fair hair of a northern Russian. He was usually the most unruffled of men but he was troubled that morning. In line with his KGB training he was systematic, paid careful attention to detail, and took nothing for granted. He was also utterly single-minded, whether in his service to the President, or as a key player in the group of St Petersburg-based former KGB officers – known as siloviki – who had effectively taken over Russia from the reformers after Boris Yeltsin’s demise; men who bitterly regretted and resented what had happened to their beloved country ever since.
Komarov knew only one way: ruthless control. That was the old Soviet way. He also knew that the price of failure was high and that morning he had to manage the President’s reaction to yesterday’s kidnap of the Americans in Kharkov and the unanticipated death of Master Sergeant Trapnell.
Clutching his briefing papers and notebook to his chest, he knocked twice on the ornate, gilded double doors of the President’s office.
The doors were opened soundlessly by two soldiers in the ceremonial uniform of the Kremlin honour guard; tall, imposing and specially selected for their impeccable Slavonic looks, they were the men of the 154th Preobrazhensky Independent Commandant’s Regiment, the men who protected the President.
Komarov entered, paused momentarily, dipped his head in salute and then walked forward. The room was spartan, minimalist, the only concession to extravagance being the green curtains edged in gold and tied back with gold ropes. Behind the President’s chair there was only one decoration, the gold double-headed eagle of Russia on a red shield. The desk was huge but empty of any papers except, he noted, the report from Kharkiv. A long conference table jutted out at right angles from the desk towards the door.
Behind the desk sat the President; pale, bloodless face, high cheekbones, oval eyes cold, menacing and light blue. It was the face of a watchful fox with sparse, short, white-blond hair; a wiry, tough physique under his usual dark suit, plain navy blue tie and white shirt. Here was a man who worked out regularly and fought in the judo hall twice a week, described by his press spokesman as being, ‘So fit, he could break people’s hands when he shakes them … If he wanted to.’
However, his voice never failed to surprise Raskolonikov. For such an alpha male it was slightly high-pitched and nasal.
‘Why did they kill the American, Fyodor Fyodorovitch?’ the President demanded, using the formal patronymic. ‘The mission was to capture the group. I wanted them all alive on television so that I can show the world that NATO and the Americans are attacking our people from Ukraine. Not in body-bags with the Americans screaming terrorism.’
‘I agree, Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ Komarov replied, putting his papers on the table in front of his chair. ‘Typical of those Special Forces prima donnas. Always promising the earth, but when they cock up, they do it spectacularly. I talked to Colonel General Denisenko, Commander, Special Operation Forces Command, this morning and left him in no doubt of your displeasure.’
The President said nothing, which meant he was still assessing how he was going to react.
‘He tells me the Spetsnaz commander had no alternative once the American started running.’
The President frowned. ‘They should not have let him escape in the first place. Who was responsible?’
Komarov looked at the President. As an old and trusted associate he could say things others could not but he still had to be careful. ‘They underestimated the American. He was small but he fought like a devil. We now discover he was an Aikido expert.’
‘So I see.’ The President nodded at the file on the desk.
Komarov knew the President was a man who got into the detail and, as he had suspected, he had studied the report on the capture of the Americans.
‘And I see he destroyed any prospects of fatherhood for the man he kicked in the balls.’ The President smirked.
‘We can turn this to our advantage, Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ Komarov replied. ‘Our people can make much of his injury in the news bulletins. Insist the shooting was in self-defence.’
The President nodded agreement. ‘Who commanded the team? The report omitted that important detail.’
‘It was led by one of our best, Your Excellency, Major Anatoly Nikolayevich Vronsky, 45th Guards Spetsnaz Regiment. Awarded Hero of the Russian Federation twelve years ago for his gallantry in North Caucasus. Son of a Soviet tank officer who had to become a taxi driver to feed his family after the fall of the Soviet Union. He went as an exchange student to a US university after doing his military service. When he finished in America, he became a professional army officer before passing the selection process for Special Forces.’
The President was silent for a moment, his earlier anger dissipated. ‘A tricky operation, I accept, and Major Vronsky seems to have recovered from the initial setback in an exemplary fashion. He did well.’
He looked up at Komarov. ‘Convey my displeasure to General Denisenko. There must be no more mistakes if he is to remain as Commander of Special Operations Forces Command. Is that clear?’
‘Very clear, Your Excellency.’ Komarov would pass on the rebuke, but he knew the President well enough to see that he was secretly pleased. The execution of Trapnell would send a strong signal of Russian determination. ‘Your Excellency, may I now call the meeting?’ He passed an agenda and updated brief to the President, who nodded his agreement.
The double doors were opened by the guards and the President’s Deputy, the Foreign Minister, Finance Minister, Interior Minister, Defence Minister and the Chief of the Russian General Staff entered.
The President remained seated.
‘Sit,’ he commanded.
Komarov took his habitual seat as note taker at the foot of the table. From there he could see the President directly. The others took their usual places at the conference table.
They waited for the President to speak, faces strained, wondering who would be his first target. He was a man who applied the principle of divide and rule to his allies and subordinates as much as to his enemies.
They did not have to wait long. The President looked hard at the Defence Minister who, despite his background as a minor Communist Party functionary and never having heard a shot fired in anger, was resplendent in the uniform of a General of the Army, complete with the ribbon of Hero of the Russian Federation displayed prominently among the multiple other ribbons on his chest.
‘Alexandr Borisovich, I’ve read the report on the capture of the Americans in detail. I am not impressed that one was killed. We will turn it to our advantage but, be in no doubt, I will accept no more mistakes.’
The Defence Minister shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘Understood, Vladimir Vladimirovich. It will not happen again.’
‘I have also read the report on the situation in eastern Ukraine and am content that it remains relatively quiet,’ said the President, looking at Komarov for confirmation.
Komarov nodded and the President switched his laser-like stare to the Finance Minister, ‘You next, please.’
From his position at the end of the table Komarov saw the sweat on the back of the minister’s bald head. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard. ‘Vladimir Vladimirovich, it pains me to tell you that the economic position is getting increasingly difficult. American and EU sanctions continue to have a deeply negative effect on the economy—’
The President interrupted, ‘These are old excuses, Boris Mikhailovich. EU sanctions have been toothless since the Italians, Greeks, Hungarians and Cypriots vetoed them at the EU Summit last June. The EU remains deeply divided.’ He smirked, and then added, ‘My strategy of increasing the flow of refugees into Turkey by bombing civilian targets in Syria and so putting ever greater pressure on the EU has worked better than I ever thought possible.’
‘Of course, Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ continued the Finance Minister. ‘Nevertheless, the price of oil remains a problem. You will remember that my budget was based on a price of one hundred dollars per barrel, but the price has been consistently lower than that. There’s a glut of oil on the market following the easing in sanctions against Iran after the nuclear negotiations in Lausanne
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