In the late 1990s, Russian companies began mass-hiring for positions like "PR director" and "director of public relations." Behind this Western terminology, however, lay an entirely different reality: classic Public Relations barely functioned at all, and the real value of such employees was determined by their connections within the halls of power — what in the West is called Government Relations (GR).
PR as facade, GR as substance
In Western business practice, Public Relations means managing a company's reputation through work with the media, building a positive image, organizing events, and developing communications with various public groups. A PR specialist needs skills in writing press releases, organizing press conferences, crisis communications, and working with journalists.
Government Relations is a separate field, concerned with building relationships with government bodies, lobbying for a company's interests, and taking part in shaping legislation. In the West, it is a distinct profession, requiring a deep understanding of political processes and the legislative system.
In 1998 Russia, these two functions were formally combined into a single position, but in practice only the GR component mattered. Connections to power, the ability to "settle a matter with a phone call," access to the right offices — that is what was genuinely required of a "PR director." The classic work of dealing with media and the public remained window dressing, needed to keep up appearances with the Western standards of corporate governance that Russian business was actively borrowing at the time.
Why classic PR didn't work
Several factors made classic PR ineffective in late-1990s Russia. First, the legal framework was extremely unstable and contradictory. Laws changed rapidly, often contradicted one another, and their application depended not on the letter of the law, but on administrative leverage.
Second, the media was under the tight control either of major financial-industrial groups or of regional authorities. An "independent press" was more the exception than the rule. Whether an article about a company got published depended not on the quality of its press releases, but on arrangements made at the level of the publication's owners.
Third, the very nature of Russian business at the time called for confidentiality, not visibility. Most operating schemes fell into a gray, or outright black, zone. Attracting public attention was the last thing companies wanted. Far more important was maintaining good relations with the tax inspectorate, the fire marshal, the sanitary-epidemiological service, the police, and the prosecutor's office.
"The right surname" mattered more than an MBA
Under these conditions, the key selection criterion for a "PR and GR director" was not professional qualification, but the candidate's background. "The right surname" — the daughter or son of a senior official, an intelligence-service general, an influential regional leader — was worth more than any Western degree.
Such an employee brought the company not press-release-writing skills, but their father's address book, with direct lines to the right people. Their value was measured not in the number of media placements, but in their ability to settle matters with inspecting agencies, speed up a license, or arrange the "right" court ruling.
Companies openly sought out such employees. Job postings, of course, listed "PR experience," "English proficiency," and "media relations skills." But real selection happened on entirely different criteria: whose child you were, what connections you could bring, whom you had access to.
Sveta and her father: "Vasilich's daughter"
The novel's character Svetlana Vladimirovna is a typical example of such a "PR and GR director" at a late-1990s Russian company. Roman Peskov ironically calls her "Vasilich's daughter," underscoring that without her father's connections, she is nobody. Her professional value rests entirely on her background, not her competence.
An SVR major general: a servant, not a crook
Sveta's father is a major general of Russia's Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR), retired since 1991, after the mass layoffs that followed the collapse of the USSR. Formally he is a retiree with rather modest property: a three-room apartment in Yasenevo (a district traditionally home to intelligence officers) and a family treasure in the form of a VAZ-2107 car body mounted on a VAZ-2104 chassis (a "Zhiguli 'four' in a 'seven' body").
This modest property was not the result of poverty or failure — it was the typical estate of a Soviet KGB-SVR general of the era. These men served their country honestly, did not steal, did not take bribes. After their country dismissed them as a result of the "democratic reforms" of 1991, they went to earn a living in commercial structures. But they did not betray their country — they simply sought a way not to feel poor in the new economic reality.
Following Soviet habit, they put the money they earned in commercial structures into a bank account, and didn't flaunt their wealth. The general kept driving the same "Zhiguli," kept living in the same three-room apartment in Yasenevo. For him, this was the norm — modesty, inconspicuousness, discretion.
A seconded officer
In reality, Sveta's father worked under the system of intelligence officers seconded to commercial structures. This practice had deep roots in the Soviet system, and took on new life in the 1990s. Formally "retired," such generals in fact continued to serve as a link between business and government structures, providing security for enterprises, monitoring financial flows, and settling matters with inspecting agencies. For more on this system, see the separate article: "The FSB's Apparatus of Attached Officers."
Sveta's father was a colleague and comrade-in-arms of Yevgeny Primakov — the man who headed the SVR from 1991 to 1996, then served as foreign minister from 1996 to 1998, before becoming chairman of the Russian government on September 11, 1998. His connection to the future prime minister made the general an extraordinarily valuable asset for any commercial structure.
The Transaero example: a sphere of interest for Primakov's team
A characteristic example of SVR-seconded officers working within commercial structures can be seen in the airline "Transaero." This company, founded in 1991 as Russia's first private airline, fell within the special sphere of interest of Primakov's team. Seconded SVR officers at such firms performed several functions: monitoring financial flows, maintaining ties to government bodies, resolving administrative problems, and ensuring the interests of certain circles within the business were respected.
Tellingly, after Yevgeny Primakov's death in 2015, "Transaero" ran into insurmountable difficulties very quickly, and was liquidated that same year. Losing its political cover and connections at the highest level proved fatal for a company that had operated successfully in the Russian market for nearly a quarter century.
A paradox of perception: Sveta doesn't understand her father's power
The tragicomic situation was that Sveta herself did not understand her father's real value. She saw a "retired general with a three-room apartment and a Zhiguli," and envied the daughters of other officials — those whose fathers held posts as deputy ministers, department heads, governors.
Sveta considered "fortune's favorites" the young women whose fathers were embezzlers and corrupt officials of the new type — those who actively siphoned off budget funds, built cottages, bought foreign cars, and sent their children to study abroad. Against this backdrop, her father, with his modest apartment and old "Zhiguli," looked like a failure.
This was a characteristic paradox of the 1990s: society came to see crooks, not honest people, as successful. Someone who stole a million from the budget and built themselves a mansion was seen as a winner. Someone who served their country honestly and earned a modest salary was seen as a loser. The value system had turned upside down.
Sveta had no idea how much her father actually earned within commercial structures. The general, following the rules of tradecraft and Soviet habit, never let his daughter in on the financial details. She saw only the three-room apartment in Yasenevo and the "Zhiguli" — and drew her own conclusions about her father's "lack of success."
What she failed to grasp was the main point: her father's administrative leverage, his SVR connections, and his access to Primakov's team were worth immeasurably more than the ostentatious wealth of embezzlers' children. That value was simply invisible, never displayed, working in the shadows.
August–September 1998: the SVR team's revenge
The events of August 1998 radically reshuffled the balance of power in Russia. On August 17, a default occurred — the government announced the ruble's devaluation and its refusal to pay domestic debt. This marked the collapse of the economic policy pursued by the "democrats" and "young reformers" who had governed the country since 1991.
On August 23, President Yeltsin dismissed Kiriyenko's government. After two failed attempts to confirm other candidates, on September 11, 1998, Yevgeny Primakov — the former head of the SVR, foreign minister, a man from an entirely different world — was appointed chairman of the Russian government.
This was the revenge of the security establishment, of the intelligence-service crowd. Those who had spent seven years in the shadows since the "victory of democracy," considered has-beens, were suddenly back in the saddle. The "democrats" and oligarchs, who had seemed all-powerful, lost their standing. People from the security services returned to power — and a new era began.
For Sveta's father and his fellow officers, this meant a dramatic strengthening of their position. Their "commander" had become prime minister. Their connections, their administrative leverage, their access to the real levers of power took on an entirely different significance. What had seemed, for seven years, an anachronism and a relic of the Soviet past, suddenly turned out to be their greatest asset.
Perhaps Sveta, through her father, sensed these changes before others did. Hence her confident manner, her "airs of a society lioness," her sense of herself as "fortune's favorite." She did not yet fully understand what had happened, but she felt, intuitively, that the wind had shifted, and that from now on it would be her father and his colleagues who set the rules of the game.
Conclusion
The story of Sveta and her father is the story of how the system of power and business actually worked in late-1990s Russia. Formal titles like "PR director" concealed the real substance — operating through administrative leverage and connections within the security services. Classic Western-style PR was window dressing; the real value belonged to people with "the right surnames" and access to the right offices.
The paradox of the era was that crooks and embezzlers were seen as successful, while honest servants of the state looked like losers. But August–September 1998 showed that real power belonged not to those who stole a million and bought a mansion, but to those who had worked quietly in the shadows for seven years, maintaining their connections and waiting for their moment.
When that moment came, it turned out the three-room apartment in Yasenevo and the SVR general's "Zhiguli" were worth more than all the cottages and foreign cars of the New Russians put together. Because behind that modesty stood a real force — a team of people who knew how to run the state, and who never lost touch with one another.