Hong Kong variety show: The mastermind behind the scenes is emerging.

May 26, 1988, Hong Kong Island, conference room on the top floor of the Golden Harvest Building.

The room was filled with smoke, and the ashtray was piled high with seven or eight cigarette butts. Lu Chen, Cheng Yiyan, and Ma Zhihua—several key figures from Jiahe Financial Group—were all gathered here, their eyes fixed on the satellite TV in the corner of the conference room.

On the screen, a Soviet presenter is reading something in a slow and solemn tone. The background is the Kremlin conference hall in Moscow, where the audience is filled with middle-aged and elderly men in dark suits, each with a different expression.

Cheng Yiyan didn't understand Russian, but he could read the expressions on the faces of the people in the audience. He asked in a low voice, "Boss, what are they saying?"

Lu Chen didn't answer, but stared at the screen until the host finished reading the last sentence and the camera cut back to the studio. Only then did he slowly say, "It's approved."

There was a moment of silence in the conference room.

"The Supreme Soviet of the USSR has officially passed the 'Cooperative Law of the USSR,'" Lu Chen leaned back in his chair, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. "From today onwards, the USSR allows privately owned cooperatives to own assets, set their own prices, hire employees, and even directly establish joint ventures with foreign companies to engage in foreign exchange settlements."

Cheng Yiyan sat up abruptly, a large patch of ash falling from his cigarette onto his trousers without him noticing. Ma Zhihua, trembling, took off his gold-rimmed glasses, rubbed the lenses vigorously with a handkerchief, stared at the screen for a long while, and then turned to Lu Chen.

"Boss...it's done?"

Lu Chen smiled slightly, picked up the cup of iced tea, and took a sip: "Everything is ready."

The Soviet Law on Cooperatives was one of the most decisive pieces of legislation in Gorbachev's "economic reforms." It was the first law to grant cooperatives the same legal status as state-owned enterprises.

Before this law, all economic activities in the Soviet Union were tightly controlled by state planning; after this law, private enterprises, commercial banks, and even gray underground money laundering channels, all disguised as "cooperatives," gained a legal basis.

In other words, the time has finally come for them to make their move after months of meticulous preparation.

Lu Chen put down his teacup, picked up the phone on the table, and dialed an international number.

The phone rang twice before being answered, revealing Victor Morgan's deep voice: "Lu?"

"Mr. Victor," Lu Chen leaned back in his chair, "the Cooperative Law has been passed."

There was a second of silence on the other end of the phone, followed by a soft chuckle: "I've been waiting for this day for a long time."

"Me too," Lu Chen said, "but I believe it's worth it."

"Me too."

Hanging up the phone, Lu Chen put down the receiver and looked out the window. On the surface of Victoria Harbour, a cargo ship was slowly passing by, leaving a white contrail.

He suddenly felt that this route was heading towards Moscow.

……

In the height of summer in Kyiv, even the breeze along the Dnieper River carries a hint of heat.

In the First Heavy Machinery Plant of Ukraine, the plant manager Vasily Ivanovich stood in front of the tall window of his office on the third floor, a half-burnt "Java" brand cigarette between his fingers.

Amidst the swirling smoke, the thin financial statement on the desk stood out starkly—boldly displaying the balance of "470 million rubles transferred."

Four hundred and seventy million rubles—enough to buy half of Kyiv's heavy industrial zone. However, to Vasily at this moment, it was merely a string of meaningless printed characters—because it meant "allocation of rubles."

The so-called "allocated rubles" was merely a virtual indicator used for book settlements between state-owned enterprises within the Soviet system. For example, if factory A allocated a batch of special steel to factory B, the higher-level department would transfer a sum of money between the two factories' accounts, and this sum was called the allocated rubles.

It cannot be used to pay the wages of thousands of employees in the factory, nor can it be used to purchase imported diesel engine parts on the black market. Even the dilapidated cement road outside the factory gate, which has been under repair for three years, can only be left to its own devices because the allocated quota cannot be withdrawn.

Ironically, despite having hundreds of millions of dollars in assets lying in its accounts, the factory is gradually becoming paralyzed due to a lack of working capital and foreign exchange imports.

The bureaucrats of the Moscow State Planning Committee were still talking about "planned balance" in thick documents; but Vasily, who was on the front line of production in Kiev, knew very well that the gears of the entire system had jammed.

It's only one step away from collapse.

Just as Vasily was so distressed that he wished he could smoke ten cigarettes at once to get lung cancer and die, there was a gentle knock on the office door.

"Come in." Vasily stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

The door opened, and a young man in a perfectly tailored dark suit walked in. He had blond hair, blue eyes, and well-defined features. He was elegant and exuded a sophistication that seemed completely out of place in this dilapidated Soviet factory.

"Comrade Vasily Ivanovich?" the young man said in fluent Russian, a warm smile on his face. "Hello, I'm Markus Krause, a client manager from the Eurasian Prosperity Commercial Bank. I had an appointment with you before."

Vasily remembered.

Eurasian Prosperity Bank – a foreign bank that was recently approved to be established in Moscow and Kyiv, is said to be backed by top European and American financial groups.

Two days earlier, the bank had sent an official letter to the factory, claiming they had a way to solve the First Heavy Machinery Plant's predicament. Vasily was skeptical at the time, but now that the factory was desperate, he agreed to meet with them, hoping for the best.

"Please sit down." Vasily gestured to the chair opposite him, his gaze sweeping over the other person.

"Thank you." Klaus smiled and placed an elegant leather briefcase on the table, opened it, took out an agreement with a gold-edged logo and bilingual terms, and gently pushed it in front of Vasily.

Then he took a bottle of fine Scotch whisky from his briefcase, unscrewed the cap, and poured Vasily a glass.

"Scotch whisky, twelve years old." Krauser gestured, "A friend brought it from London, Comrade Vasily, would you like to try some?"

The amber liquid rippled gently in the glass, and the aroma of malt filled the office.

Vasily swallowed hard and couldn't resist taking a big gulp of wine.

The fiery, pungent liquor slid down his esophagus into his stomach, causing his pores to open and his previously tense brows to finally relax a bit.

"Mr. Krauser," he put down his glass, his gaze falling on the agreement, "let's be frank. What exactly is your plan?"

Klaus smiled slightly. He leaned forward slightly, clasped his hands on his knees, and said in a deep, seductive voice, "Comrade Vasily Ivanovich, you should know the state of the Soviet Union. Believe me, if these 400 million rubles allocated to the factory aren't put into operation soon, they'll soon turn to ashes along with the existing system."

Vasily's eyelid twitched.

"But if you'd like," Marcus picked up his glass, took a sip, "to transfer them to a specific account at our bank, everything would be different."

"Allocated to you?" Vasily's eyes narrowed slightly, and he took another large gulp of strong liquor, scoffing, "That's called illegally misappropriating state funds, and it's punishable by death."

Marcus chuckled softly. His laughter carried a confident air of complete control: "That's all in the past, Comrade Vasily."

He placed his glass back on the table, leaning forward slightly: "This is the era of Comrade Gorbachev's new thinking and 'reform.' And our bank possesses a special permit from the highest levels for cross-border financial and trade settlement."

"Once you sign this agreement and transfer these rubles to our designated domestic supply chain project—" Marcus tapped lightly on the agreement, "within three days, after deducting a reasonable handling fee, we will directly deposit an equivalent amount of readily withdrawable cash rubles into the account of your factory's subsidiary business services company."

He looked up at Vasily: "At that time, the workers' wages, the funds for upgrading equipment, and even your and the management's bonuses—will not be a problem."

"?!"

Upon hearing this, Vasily's hands trembled violently, and the amber-colored liquor in his glass sloshed and spilled onto the white document paper, leaving a small dark stain.

Turning worthless "allocation quotas" into real "cash rubles"? This...

"Not only that," Marcus leaned forward slightly, lowered his voice, and threw out his most lethal bargaining chip, "if you need even greater security, we can also use a special import foreign exchange permit to exchange this cash ruble for US dollars on the international foreign exchange market under the guise of purchasing imported equipment. We can open a private bank account for you in Geneva or Zurich, so the funds can be directly offshore."

Outside the window, the birds in the yard were chirping merrily, sounding particularly noisy on a midsummer afternoon.

Vasily sat behind his desk, looking at the agreement on the table, at the bottle of whiskey, and at the smiling young German man across from him, his mind in turmoil.

On one side was a rigid, inflexible, and doomed planned economy. On the other side was a financial channel that could give him millions of dollars in overseas assets overnight.

Vasily thought of the rusted machines in the factory workshop, the workers who hadn't received their full wages for three months, and the bureaucrats in Moscow sitting behind piles of documents, who were good for nothing but reading from scripts.

Finally, he remembered the countless nights he had spent in that office.

"Hoo..." Vasily didn't ask another question. Instead, he pulled off the cap of his pen and heavily signed his name on the transfer authorization form.

Then, he took out the steel seal of the First Heavy Machinery Plant from the drawer, dipped it in ink, and stamped it next to his signature.

"It's a pleasure to work with you, Comrade Vasily." Marcus smiled and extended his hand.

"It's a pleasure working with you." Vasily gripped the hand tightly, a wide grin spreading across his face.

……

One evening in July, Kyiv.

In countless Khrushchev-style buildings throughout the city, white or colored Ruby brand televisions were broadcasting CCTV's evening news as usual. The announcer read lengthy industrial and agricultural reports in a standard Moscow accent, his voice as flat as if he were reading a menu.

Ivan Gavrilovich, a well-known black market tobacco and alcohol dealer in Kyiv and deputy manager of the state-run Fourth Farmers' Market, was sitting cross-legged on a worn-out sofa, trying to glean some black market business opportunities from the news reports.

He was holding a glass of imported whiskey he'd secretly taken from the warehouse, taking large gulps. No one knew that behind him in the room was a safe filled with 40,000 rubles in cash, amassed from recently reselling meat ration coupons and embezzling payments from vegetable farmers.

In recent days, the empty shelves on the streets and the soaring prices have left Ivan both excited and anxious.

He was excited because the black market business was booming and his "stock" always fetched a good price; he was anxious because this large box of musty-smelling rubles was becoming less and less valuable every day.

The meager interest rates offered by the national savings bank were, in his opinion, not even enough to feed a beggar; and if he were to exchange all of it for US dollars on the black market, the exchange rate would be driven down to an extremely low level by those real Russian mafia bosses, causing him considerable financial pain.

Just as he was racking his brains, the television screen suddenly changed.

A rare, even "brutal" commercial clip appeared on television.

The images lack the lengthy propaganda typical of the planned economy era. Instead, they feature opulent European-style marble bank lobbies, mountains of US dollar bars and gold, and magnificent close-ups of the Zurich and London skylines.

Immediately afterwards, several lines of bright red, glaring characters appeared prominently in the center of the screen, accompanied by the announcer's extremely loud and inflammatory voice:

"Eurasian Prosperity Bank! Created with the full support of top Western financial consortia, and guaranteed by foreign capital!"

"25% annual interest rate! Three times that of the national savings bank!"

"Enjoy free access and the highest interest rates, allowing your savings to beat inflation!"

Ivan initially thought he was drunk and rubbed his eyes in disbelief.

25%!

It's important to understand that the interest rate offered by the state savings institutions to depositors was at most a little over two percent. In the Soviet mindset, deposit interest rates exceeding 3% were unimaginable.

This suddenly appearing "Eurasian Prosperity Bank" has raised its interest rate to 25%! If you deposit 10,000, you'll get 2,500 a year! If you deposit 40,000, you'll get 10,000 a year!

Ivan's breathing became rapid. He sat up abruptly, staring intently at the television screen, wishing he could etch every single word of that "GG" into his brain.

……

It wasn't just Ivan's family. That night, the entirety of Kiev—no, the entire vast S. Veeran Empire—was engulfed by this frenzy.

The next morning, from the area around Moscow's Red Square and Lenin Square in Kyiv to the streets and alleys of Leningrad, Tashkent, and Minsk, the five major core cities of the Soviet Union were suddenly covered with huge colorful posters of the Eurasian Prosperity Bank.

The slogan "25% annual interest rate" was plastered all over utility poles, bus stop signs, and even next to the windows of state-owned department stores.

Many young people dressed in uniforms distributed gold-embossed propaganda posters in crowded squares or commercial streets, shouting slogans such as "Guaranteed by Western Capital" and "Defeat Devaluation".

Passersby were stunned as they walked past them, then began to whisper among themselves, and then more and more people crowded around to grab the flyers.

This frenzy completely ignited Ivan's greed.

He had spent half his life as a black market dealer, saving up 40,000 rubles, living in constant fear—afraid of confiscation, fear of devaluation, and fear of being ripped off by gang leaders in exchange rates.

Now, a door opened before him: a foreign bank, 25% interest, and free deposit and withdrawal.

More importantly, he had inquired around and found out that the bank had a very strong background, and even some state-owned enterprises had reached cooperation agreements with it.

"Ivan," his henchman urged him tremblingly, "you've put all the money you made on the black market into a bank? This is a foreign bank, what if something goes wrong..."

"You know nothing about finance!" Ivan spat, a greedy and smug smirk playing on his lips. "I've already asked around; they're backed by top European and American conglomerates, making money in US dollars. Why would they do this if they weren't trying to open up the market!"

He patted the tin box that had appeared out of nowhere: "Get out of here! This is my chance to turn my life around and become a tycoon!"

The following morning, before the glass doors of the Eurasian Prosperity Bank's Kyiv branch even opened, a queue had already formed outside, stretching three blocks down the marble steps. Men, women, and children, carrying suitcases, bags, and cash, crowded together, their eyes fixed expectantly on the still-unopened door.

Carrying a heavy travel bag, Ivan, with his muscular build and fierce determination, squeezed his way to the front of the crowd.

At nine o'clock in the morning, the glass doors opened. The crowd surged in like a tidal wave.

Under the watchful eyes of the sweet saleswoman in the lavish hall, Ivan triumphantly poured the black money from the box onto the counter.

Bundles of rubles were unfurled and piled up into a small mountain. The sales clerk paused for a moment, then smiled even more warmly and began counting them.

The money counting machine whirred and swished, and with a crisp sound, a high-interest deposit certificate stamped with a bright red seal and a promise of a 25% annual interest rate was pushed in front of Ivan.

Ivan clutched the deposit slip tightly, his grin stretching almost to the back of his head.

However, what he didn't know was that on the second floor of every Eurasian Prosperity Bank, all the traders were working frantically.

Ivan's ill-gotten gains were quickly packaged up within minutes of landing at the counter, exchanged for US dollars through black market rates and special authorization, and then continuously transferred to offshore accounts overseas under the guise of trade settlement.

The numbers on the deposit slips gleamed in the Kyiv sun. The rubles deposited had long since been converted into US dollars, flying across the Dnieper River, across the Black Sea, and into the silent vaults of Zurich and Geneva.