Red Bottom Line

By Kevin Maney

A captivating journey to the tumultuous 1990s Soviet Union. In "Red Bottom Line," an impetuous American, Jeff Teneson, dives into Moscow's precarious business landscape to try to make his fortune. He winds up caught between ex-KGB agents and ambitious locals Maxim and Natasha. As love complicates chaos, determining who the true heroes and villains are becomes a challenge. Based on the author's firsthand observations during the Soviet Union's dismantling, this novel weaves fiction with true history, depicting a period of uncertainty and deprivation. Thugs rule the economy, Boris Yeltsin leads disastrously, and anything can happen—often in quirky and funny ways. Experience the roller-coaster ride through this unique moment in history, where Jeff's quest for success becomes a wild escapade, blending suspense, romance, and humor against the backdrop of a changing nation. "Red Bottom Line" is a thrilling tale that captures the essence of a nation in transition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350937480

Kevin Maney

Kevin Maney is a best-selling author and award-winning columnist for Newsweek. Kevin co-authored, with TIBCO CEO Vivek Ranadive, The Two-Second Advantage: How We Succeed by Anticipating the Future...Just Enough. It was a 2011 New York Times bestseller. Kevin also wrote the critically-praised biography, The Maverick and His Machine: Thomas Watson Sr. and the Making of IBM. His first book was 1995’s Megamedia Shakeout, one of the earliest books about all media going digital. Kevin has written for USA Today, Conde Nast Portfolio, Fortune, The Atlantic, and Wired, and has often appeared on radio and television. He lives in New York.

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AUTHOR’S NOTE

In the late 1980s and early 1990s, I covered the breakup of the Soviet Union for USA Today, traveling to the region often. In 1991, I wrote a novel – a funny, quirky thriller based on what I’d seen and experienced, titled Red Bottom Line.

As a book-writing rookie at the time, I had no idea how to get it published. I sent it to a few editors and agents and never heard back. So, I stuck a printout of the novel in a drawer, and later moved it into a plastic bin.

A couple of years ago, I was having a conversation with my daughter, Alison Maney, about the book. I wrote it when she was an infant. She asked if she could read it. But before she could do that, I had to find it. I knew I had the printout somewhere. Since it was originally written on some long-defunct word processing software and saved on a floppy disk, I certainly wouldn’t have a digital copy. I poked around my storage unit in the Bronx, and found the printout secured in Tupperware.

I told Alison that I wanted to read the book first. I was prepared to find it embarrassing, in which case I was just going to throw the whole thing out. I picked up the pages and started reading, and – honestly – was surprised to find that it’s really good. I felt proud of my young self the writer, and frustrated with my young self who so easily gave up on publishing the work.

I sent it to Alison, who is very well-read and is a journalist and editor. Alison enjoyed it, but sent me notes (as only a daughter can do) on how to make it better. Her suggestions were good ones, and I took some time to edit the book – but only light touches. I’d say the novel is still more than 95% what I originally wrote.

To test whether I was delusional, I gave the edited version to a handful of smart, worldly friends who I knew would tell me the truth about the book. The reviews that came back were all positive, and my friends encouraged me to publish the book. So, here we are.

Now I guess that makes Red Bottom Line a historical novel…actually written amid the history.

Kevin Maney

New York, 2023

CHAPTER 1

The stewardess bent low and held a tray of typical Aeroflot drinks in front of the passengers sitting in the three seats on the left side of row. The liquids in the plastic glasses came in three colors: neon yellow, brownish orange and pink. The jet bounced through some turbulence and all the drinks rolled around in their glasses like heavy motor oil. The man in the aisle seat and the woman in the middle seat next to him – the only two Americans on board the February 12, 1977, flight from Moscow to Kiev – looked at each other and made faces.

Care for another fine Russian refreshment made entirely from materials not found in nature? the man said to his traveling companion.

Oh, why, I’d love to, but I’m trying to watch my weight. I’ll pass.

The stewardess didn’t budge. She looked as if she hadn’t smiled since the last time she played jump rope.

Nyet, the American woman said, shaking her head for emphasis.

The Russian in the window seat reached across the two Americans and chose one of the orange concoctions. The stewardess, still stone-faced, moved on to the next aisle. The American man nudged his friend.

Barbara, ask him if he’d rather have a Pepsi.

No way! You ask him.

Me? I don’t know Russian. You can speak it a little at least. You’ve been over here a lot longer than I have. Just tell him, ‘My friend Will here wants to know if you’d like a Pepsi instead of that glass of ceiling paint.’

Barbara Roselle giggled and put her hand on Will’s. He’d been liking his Soviet assignment for PepsiCo far too much, she thought. He went around handing out bottles of soda as if they were magic genie lamps, apparently figuring that if he could stay here long enough and hand out enough bottles of Pepsi, he could single-handedly open a market to Western products that had been closed for three decades. Barbara, who had four years in the U.S.S.R. with Occidental Petroleum under her belt, wished Will were right, but knew he wasn’t.

All right, I’ll ask him, Barbara said, smiling. But this is absolutely the last time, OK?

Mmmmmaybe.

She thought a minute to get the words straight, then turned to the man in the window seat, who had polished off half of his glass of orange drink. Quietly, not wanting to draw the attention of any other passengers, she said, "Prostite, tovarishch, ne hotite li Pepsi-kolu?" Excuse me, but would you like a Pepsi Cola, comrade?

The man looked at her closely. It had been obvious to him from the moment they all took their seats that Barbara and Pete were Americans. Both were in their early thirties and wearing Western business clothes. The blue and red in Barbara’s dress were colors that East Bloc garment factories never churned out. Anything brighter than dull mustard was rarely available in any Soviet shop. And Will’s gray wool suit stood out against the baggy linen and polyester outfits that draped even high Soviet officials. The Russian in the aisle seat had stayed scrunched into his corner, ignoring those two from a nation that was supposed to be his enemy. But Barbara’s offer touched a chord.

Pepsi? the man said.

Da, Pepsi.

The man smiled, showing off a wide mouth of mostly rotted-out teeth. "Spasibo."

All right, Will, you’ve got another customer.

Hey, works every time, Will said as he fished a five-inch-tall cola bottle out of his carry-on bag, which he’d left in the aisle the way everybody else did.

"Pozhalsta!" he said to the man as he handed him the bottle.

The man showed Barbara and Will one more glimpse of that dental work. The Russian patted Barbara’s hand, which was sitting on their shared armrest. Then the two Americans watched as the man — with only some effort — pulled the cap off the bottle with his bare hand.

That was not a twist-off, Will said.

Barbara laughed and put her head on Will’s shoulder.

You know, I can’t tell you how happy I am that I found you here, she said. I’ve had more fun with you in the past couple of months than in the entire time I’ve been here so far. She leaned closer to his ear. Of course, it helps that it’s the only sex I’ve had in the entire time I’ve been here.

Hold it! You told me it was the best sex you’ve had here.

Well, I didn’t lie. It is the best. It’s also the only. But I know it’s pretty damn good. Barbara discreetly tickled Will’s crotch.

Yeah? How good?

Good enough that I can’t stop thinking about it?

I have an idea.

What’s that?

You ever try getting it on in a Russian jet?

Barbara nuzzled close to Will. You can’t be serious, she said. Can you? If they catch us they’ll probably throw us out the hatch.

Well, we’ll just have to make sure they don’t catch us. I’ll go first. I’ll go to the bathroom in the front, on our side of the plane. Give me a few minutes and then follow me. Just give the door a light knock and I’ll let you in. Nobody will have any idea. What do you say?

Mmmmm — I don’t know. Somebody could see us — or they’ll see us come out. Don’t you think this could be dangerous?

Dangerous? Not a chance. Embarrassing, at worst. C’mon. Just follow me in a few minutes. OK?

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but all right.

Will pushed himself out of his seat and headed toward the front of the plane, which looked to him pretty much like most passenger jets in the West — one long tube with three seats on each side of a narrow aisle. Although, thanks to communism’s ideals of equality for all, there certainly was no first-class section. Will was walking toward the bathroom that, in the U.S., would likely be reserved for first class passengers.

The Russian in the window seat pointed toward the front of the plane and started explaining something to Barbara. She tried to pick up the web of Russian syntax and words, sort them out, figure out what he was saying. Something about a Communist Party member.

"Nomenklatura?" she asked.

"Da. Da." He kept talking. She caught on. A candidate for the Soviet Politburo was on the flight, and he was sitting in the front seats. That’s where they’d often sit so security agents could easily seal off that section to protect their man. Will would probably get turned back before he got anywhere near the bathroom.

The Russian’s voice dropped a notch as he leaned toward Barbara. He explained that the candidate they’re riding with is a reformer, someone who wants the U.S.S.R. to be better friends with the Americans. The candidate, he said, has many enemies.

Barbara and the man heard a commotion in front, but they couldn’t see past a divider a few seats up. Then Will came bounding back toward them.

Holy shit! Some clown up there nearly knocked me down.

You OK?

Yeah. He jumped up and gave me a hard shove and started babbling something in Russian. I gave him a shove back and I thought I was going to get killed. About five other Russian guys jumped up and came toward me. I don’t know what the hell is going on.

Barbara giggled. You sure know how to show a girl a good time, she said. Our friend here was just telling me that there’s some party bigwig up there. A Politburo candidate or something. Sorry about that.

Will looked at the Russian, who just shrugged and took another gulp from his Pepsi bottle.

Well, no sense in letting the Communist Party get in the way of some good old American fun, right?

I don’t know, maybe it’s not a good idea now. What do you say we wait?

Will leaned down and whispered, That would take all the adventure out of it. Same plan. Back bathroom. Bye.

He took off down the aisle. Barbara stayed in her seat, feeling nervous. She shared a smile with the Russian. She looked around to see if anyone was watching — if anyone could tell what they planned. No one seemed to be paying attention. She glanced at her watch. It was 9 p.m. Dark outside. They were just about in the middle of the route from Moscow to Kiev, over some wasteland that was once peasant farms. Barbara took a long breath. She started sliding out of her seat. She said in English, I think I have to go, too. The Russian just nodded and smiled.

Both bathrooms were occupied. Now which one did he say? The one on the right or the one on the left? She knocked on one. Will called out in a sing-song voice, Who is it?

Someone who’s going to kill you in about two seconds.

The door opened a crack. In that case, we don’t want any, Will said.

C’mon! I don’t want to fool around.

Will flung open the door, grabbed Barbara’s arm and pulled her inside. I thought that was exactly what you came back here for.

You are a complete nut case. I should’ve left you sitting there by yourself in the National hotel dining room, trying to figure out whether you really wanted to eat that gray piece of fish on your plate.

I know. And I probably would have had to spend the rest of my time in Russia living on borscht and ruining all my business meetings because I’d be farting all the time. You’re my savior.

Will reached around Barbara and pushed the bolt to lock the door. Their bodies were pressed close together in the tiny confines — no bigger than a shower stall yet packed with a toilet, sink and cabinet. The plastic door of the cabinet was set up to dispense paper towels, soap, tissues and toilet paper, but each hole was a yawning disappointment. Not a single scrap of paper or piece of soap were in any of them. Half of the white fluorescent light over the sink was burnt out. The mirror was coated with a dull, dusty grease.

Will brushed Barbara’s hair back and framed her face in his hands.

It really stinks in here, Barbara said.

Wow, do you know how to be romantic. You just say the right few words, and — BANG! — the atmosphere turns electric.

I’m sorry. I’ll hold my breath or something. Really. She pulled Will’s face to hers and kissed him deeply.

Her mind drifted far away from that little flying cesspool. She was in Will’s arms. That was all that counted. To an American, an assignment in the Soviet Union in that day was a ticket to frustration. The creature comforts were only a part of it. Any semblance of Western style was completely missing. The telephones didn’t work most of the time. Using the make-up that was available was about like smearing colored paste on your face. Fruits and vegetables were unheard of, despite any pull you might have with party officials. On the streets of Moscow, it never mattered whether it was one of those bitter winter days when even your breath seemed to freeze in mid-air, or an easy summer morning when the few trees and flowers around the concrete city bloomed like weeds between the cracks of a sidewalk. Either way, Muscovites would turn up their collars and avert their eyes when an American walked by. They wouldn’t talk. They wouldn’t smile. Some obviously thought you were an invader, a person with dangerous ideas, someone who could only be in Moscow to try to undo whatever good the Communist Party had achieved. Others, their faces said, I would like to know you, but I cannot. They were afraid. And it not only made business hard, it made life hard. If she had known all of that before she ever agreed to work on Occi’s Soviet business, she probably would have never taken the assignment. But at the time it sounded romantic. Grand Russia. Exotic Russia. The Kremlin. The onion-domed cathedrals. The caviar. It all turned to hell.

Until Will. He was kissing her neck as one hand unhooked the buttons on the top part of her dress. A smelly, filthy bathroom on a Soviet jet staffed by stewardesses who radiated all the warmth of a family of wart hogs was suddenly the most romantic place she’d been in all of the Soviet Union. She loosened Will’s tie, opened his shirt and ran her hands up and down his bare chest. Will unsnapped her bra and cupped her breasts in his hands. His mouth worked its way down from her neck.

Will, Barbara said, almost breathless, how are we going to do this?

He pulled the skirt of her dress up over her hips. Here, hold this, he said. He slipped his hands into her pantyhose and slid them down to her ankles. He stood, lifted Barbara and set her on the small counter next to the sink. The pantyhose dangled from her ankles. He pulled them off, then let down his pants and shorts. Barbara pulled him in close and wrapped her legs around him. They kissed again.

The bathroom was filled with heat and motion. Barbara and Will could not contain themselves. They forgot that anyone may be outside. They moaned. They said each other’s names. Will bumped into the door. Barbara kicked the toilet seat. They both crashed their shoulders into the empty front cabinet panel.

It fell to the floor with a great clunk. They stopped.

Barbara giggled.

Holy fucking shit, Will said, gawking at the hole in the wall that the cabinet had covered.

Oh, now you’re going to get worried, Barbara said playfully.

Will had gone completely white. Barbara, don’t fucking move.

Will, what’s the matter? You have me scared.

Look in there.

She followed Will’s eyes, which hadn’t left the hole in the wall. Inside was something white with wires coiled around it.

What is it? she asked.

He looked hard at the woman in front of him. Barbara, I think it’s a bomb.

Oh God, Will.

The Russian holding a Pepsi in the window seat, the Politburo candidate and his guards and the others in the plane only heard a pop, much like the top coming off the cola bottle. It was the last thing they heard. The tail section whooshed away and the rest of the plane broke up. The metal, the luggage and the people were scattered across the forests and farmlands of the Soviet countryside.

Vladamir Zolkovich is staring at the second hand of his watch. As it sweeps past 9:20, he leans back in his chair, glances around his Moscow apartment and scratches his bushy red beard. Another anniversary — number fifteen.

He can’t help piecing it all together as he’s done so many times. Some of the story comes from the lone, miraculous survivor of the crash, a woman who happened to be closely watching the Americans out of curiosity — a woman who had to disappear soon after. The rest comes from reports, other agents and his own constant research into the disaster he created. Over and over he assembles the details so they mesh into something real. He likes the part about the Americans best — maybe because they’re kind of exotic. He didn’t know they were on the flight until later, when Zolkovich’s commander got migraines worrying it would become an international incident.

Looking back, Zolkovich wonders if he was that much different then. His beard was short and neat compared to now. His body was a lot trimmer. That night, he was dressed in a suit — the shirt and blue jacket soaked with sweat — sitting in this same chair at this same time, filling a small glass from an open bottle of vodka on the table next to him. It was, he was convinced then, the best way to do it. Aeroflot planes crashed with alarming regularity. Soviets joked that if the airline ever ran a Western-style ad campaign, the theme would be, We’ll get you there on time — or not at all.

Hardly anyone but the victims’ families would even know about it. Such news was never reported in the papers or on TV or radio, like it is today. The world outside would certainly never have a clue.

Zolkovich that night downed his vodka in one fast swallow and ran through the reasoning. It was the best way to get rid of a meddling Politburo candidate who was beginning to be a political problem for Yuri Andropov, head of the KGB. The agency had been his life-long employer and his ticket to a comfortable life. He needed only look around at his apartment – a two-bedroom flat for one lonely, single man. Families with four children, two grandparents and a spinster aunt couldn’t get an apartment that size. Certainly not one with a telephone, too. A secured-line telephone, at that. Or oriental carpets. Or a West German-made stereo system.

But even back then, it bothered him — for probably one reason more than any other. He remembers pouring another glass of vodka, setting the bottle back on the table, and picking up a framed photograph he had pulled out of his cabinet earlier. It was his graduating class from Moscow’ s Suvorovskoe Uchilishche — the Suvorov Military Academy, where Zolkovich attended high school like his father before him. One boy stood out vividly. Viktor Yuchenko, frozen in his beardless, pimple-faced high school days, stared back at Zolkovich. They sat next to each other in many classes. Zolkovich passed a test or two by copying off Yuchenko’s paper. They played together on the school’s basketball team. Zolkovich went on to the KGB and had stayed there for the nearly 20 years since the photograph was taken. Yuchenko coursed through the Soviet military, then settled into a job as a special services guard for high-ranking Soviet officials. Yuchenko that night was surely lying smashed and crumpled next to the Politburo candidate somewhere between Moscow and Kiev.

Zolkovich takes a long breath. Since that day he has often wondered how many other Yuchenkos were on that plane. How many good Russian families who had never done anything wrong in their entire lives sat in their homes holding photographs of people who walked onto an airplane and then disappeared?

The phone rings. Zolkovich downs his glass of vodka and picks up the receiver.

I should be shot, Zolkovich says hoarsely into the mouthpiece.

Vlodya! Why say such a thing?

It is his mother. He hates that nickname.

Vlodya?

Yes, yes, Momma, I’m fine. I was just getting a little down about some things.

You think too much. Always have. Can you come for dinner?

No, I’m sorry. I have a lot of work to do...

Oh. Is it interesting?

Yes. It’s my company, remember? The business I just started?

There’s a long pause on the other end.

I never understood your work, Vlodya.

Zolkovich smiles. Me neither, Momma.

CHAPTER 2

Maxim, come here. You have to see this.

Maxim Ivanovich Rutskin stares a couple seconds more at the one greasy sausage in his tiny refrigerator and quickly looks at the rest of the food inside: a plastic bag of milk, half a container of sandwich butter — that delicious mixture of half butter and half some unknown whitish substance — leftover corned beef with what looks like rust on it and a handful of other odds and ends. He steps back and closes the door.

It takes Maxim about five strides to go from the kitchen, past the doorway to the apartment’s one bedroom and over to the TV set in the living area. His wife, Tess, is kneeling close to the tube with their two-year-old daughter, Linda.

Look at this, Tess says. It’s absolutely amazing. The TV hums with the sound of high-voltage electricity barely under control inside the box. At first, Maxim is more interested in figuring out whether that noise is any different than usual — wondering if this is the instant his TV will explode like many eventually do.

But the TV seems safe. On screen, behind a veil of snow and an occasional flip of the picture, is a home. Maxim and Tess have never seen one like it in person. The living area in the picture seems to go on forever. One area is for fancy, carved-wood chairs and a dining table, another for fat, comfortable sofas, another for more chairs and a TV set. In the scene is a young boy, now sitting at one of the tables, opening up a book.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a house like that, Tess says. Most people in America have houses like that.

A strange-looking brown puppet with a huge nose comes bounding into the TV scene. The boy in the scene says, Hey Alf, I just can’t get this physics homework. A Russian translation pops up across the bottom of the screen.

Linda jumps to life. She touches the TV screen and yelps, Alf!

What is this? Maxim says.

"Some American television program. They’ve been running it for a few weeks now. I think it’s just called Alf. That’s the name of that thing there. I just watch it for the house. But the puppet is Linda’s favorite."

Another American show in his home. Maxim wonders for a second if he made a mistake convincing his family it was all right to give his daughter an English name. Maxim was hoping for a boy so he could name him Paul — after Paul McCartney. But it was a girl, so he named her for McCartney’s wife, Linda.

Back where I come from, says Alf the brown puppet, physics is recreation. It’s fun! It’s even better than video games, racketball or kick-the-asteroid.

Maxim doesn’t even look at the Russian translation on the screen. He knows English very well and can speak it almost without an accent. Still, he turns to his wife and says in Russian, What are... then switches to English, video games and racketball?

Tess shrugs. Linda hits the screen with her