Invisible Middlemen: The Hidden Hands Holding Up Putin’s Russia
The Silent Architects of Russia’s Political Stability
In a far-flung Russian province, the fate of a local factory or a street protest often hinges not on direct orders from President Vladimir Putin, but on the intervention of a lesser-known figure: the regional governor or security chief quietly pulling levers behind the scenes. These are Russia’s “invisible middlemen” — the network of regional bosses, enforcers, and fixers who translate the Kremlin’s wishes into local reality. They rarely make international headlines, yet they form the backbone of what Russians call the sistema, or “the system,” the opaque web of informal power that underpins the country’s formal governance. On paper, Russia is run by a rigid top-down “vertical of power” emanating from Moscow, but in practice, real power flows through these shadowy networks and personal relationships. Sistema is a fusion of official hierarchies with informal influence – the secret glue that holds Russia’s economy and society together, even if it often operates in absurd or corrupt ways.
This system’s survival depends on a cast of mid-level actors spread across eleven time zones, acting as mediators between the Kremlin’s centre and Russia’s vast periphery. They include provincial governors and city mayors, local chiefs of the Federal Security Service (FSB) and police, influential bureaucrats, and well-connected businesspeople who grease the wheels of the state with money and favours. These figures, usually invisible to outsiders, ensure that Moscow’s edicts don’t remain mere words on paper but are implemented (or quietly adjusted) on the ground. In return, they siphon upward loyalty, information, and resources, keeping the Kremlin apprised of local realities while maintaining a degree of order. In essence, they are the go-betweens who make the sistema run, working through informal understandings that everyone in the chain, from Putin’s inner circle down to the village police chief, implicitly accepts.
Two decades ago, in the chaotic 1990s, many regional governors were barons in their own right, ruling their regions like personal fiefdoms. The federal centre was weak, and some governors defied Moscow openly. Putin’s reign changed that: he methodically tamed the regions, recentralising power and binding these local strongmen into his vertical. Gubernatorial elections were abolished in 2004 (after the Beslan tragedy) and later brought back in a tightly controlled form; many independent-minded governors were replaced with younger technocrats or former security officers loyal to Moscow. By the late 2010s, the position of governor had been downgraded to that of a glorified middle manager, a Kremlin nominee whose job was to manage the region on behalf of Moscow. Their autonomy in finances was slashed, most regional revenues are now sent to the federal centre and trickle back through opaque transfers, forcing governors to constantly lobby (or beg) Moscow for resources. This fiscal dependence keeps even the richest provinces in check: no region can grow wealthy or powerful enough to challenge the centre when its purse strings are held in the Kremlin’s hands. Governors today know they serve at the pleasure of the president; if they underperform or stray from the party line, they can be sacked or shuffled out in the next round of Kremlin rotations. The Kremlin routinely purges or “reshuffles” regional leaders to pre-empt any local stagnation or disloyalty, ensuring that any ambitious governor remembers that he is a tenant, not the owner, of his office.
Yet paradoxically, weakening formal regional power has only made informal influence more crucial. A governor with scant legal authority or an independent budget must rely on personal networks—ties to Moscow, connections with local elites, a talent for backroom deal-making—to govern effectively. He becomes, in effect, the ultimate middleman: beholden to the Kremlin yet entrusted with keeping his region stable. The Kremlin benefits because a governor so dependent on Moscow is unlikely to bite the hand that feeds him. But the region benefits too (at least in the short run) because an adept governor can persuade Moscow to send extra funds or overlook local quirks. This is the unwritten contract of Putin’s sistema: loyalty and results in exchange for patronage and protection. And it generally works—until it doesn’t. A vivid example came in 2020, when the Far Eastern region of Khabarovsk exploded in protest after its governor, Sergei Furgal, was arrested on old murder charges. Furgal had been an unusually popular governor, elected against the Kremlin’s wishes, and locals saw his ouster as a blatant override of their voice. For weeks, tens of thousands marched in Khabarovsk’s streets demanding Furgal’s return, in one of the largest regional protests in modern Russian history. The Kremlin’s response was telling: Putin promptly replaced Furgal with a loyalist from Moscow, essentially telling the region that the system, not the voters, decides who’s in charge. The protests eventually ebbed, faced with Moscow’s intransigence, few believed sustained dissent would prevail, but the episode revealed both the power and the limits of these middlemen. When a local leader became too independent, the sistema reasserted itself, at the cost of some public outrage. In general, however, such open confrontations are rare. Most governors toe the line, never allowing tensions with the centre to reach such a boil.
Sergei Sobyanin, who has been the mayor of Moscow for a long time, represents the type of loyal, effective manager preferred by the Kremlin. Born in Siberia, he is noted for his snow-white hair and a reputation for technocratic efficiency. In 2010, Sobyanin was selected to replace a former Moscow mayor who had lost favour with Putin. His appointment wasn't a product of meritocracy; rather, it stemmed from his loyalty to Putin and his adeptness at manoeuvring through power structures. Since then, he has been “re-elected” in meticulously organised votes. Under Sobyanin’s leadership, Moscow has experienced a significant transformation, featuring new parks, restored Soviet-era boulevards, and advanced transit systems. These enhancements have improved life in the capital and strengthened Putin’s legitimacy with the urban middle class. At the same time, Sobyanin maintains a subdued political presence on national controversies, consistently supporting Kremlin positions and carefully avoiding any rebellious actions. He exemplifies the quintessential sistema insider: he makes Moscow appealing yet never allows it to overshadow the Kremlin. By providing concrete benefits to the people of Moscow while remaining completely loyal, Sobyanin solidifies the regime’s stability from the ground up. He illustrates how a mid-level player, using a combination of formal power and informal insight, can reinforce the entire power structure.
If Sobyanin is the archetype of the polished technocrat, Ramzan Kadyrov in Chechnya represents the opposite: the feared warlord-cum-governor, whose power rests on guns and loyalty rather than good governance. Chechnya, a small republic in the North Caucasus, was the site of two brutal separatist wars in the 1990s and early 2000s. Today it is quiet—“the most peaceful place in Russia,” Kadyrov absurdly boasts—and that peace is maintained not by democracy or development, but by an unsparing deal between Kadyrov and Putin. Kadyrov, still only in his 40s, has ruled Chechnya for over a decade with an iron fist, presiding over a “fully authoritarian regime deeply intertwined with the Kremlin.” He commands a personal militia (the Kadyrovtsy) accused of widespread human rights abuses, and tolerates no dissent. In return for his absolute loyalty to Putin, he receives lavish federal subsidies (Moscow heavily finances Chechnya’s budget) and remarkable leeway to run Chechnya as he pleases. Putin essentially subcontracted Chechnya’s pacification to Kadyrov: Kadyrov crushes any separatist or insurgent stirrings, and Putin spares Chechnya from federal interference, even indulgently allowing Kadyrov to promote Islamic piety and his own personality cult. This arrangement has kept the region stable—no small achievement after the chaos of war—but it rests on personal trust and fear. It’s an extreme manifestation of the sistema: a personalised patronage bond masquerading as a regional government. Kadyrov’s power is highly informal (anchored in clan ties and loyalty of armed men) yet also integrated into Russia’s formal state (he is, after all, a regional head under the constitution). The dangers of this setup became apparent whenever questions arose about Kadyrov’s future. Observers openly wonder what would happen if Kadyrov, who has occasionally hinted at health issues, were to die or be removed. Because his regime is built entirely on his personal ties to Putin and on his personal grip over Chechnya, any break in that chain could unleash instability. Chechens have known no authority other than Kadyrov’s whim; a sudden power vacuum could reignite the very issues that led to war. The Kremlin, too, would face a quandary: finding another local strongman as effective (and ruthless) as Kadyrov would be daunting. In this sense, Chechnya under Kadyrov is both a pillar of Putin’s overall order and a potential powder keg – a microcosm of the trade-offs inherent in rule by sistema. It is stable until, one day, it isn’t.
The model of control in Chechnya highlights how informal networks underpin formal authority. The grand mosque in central Grozny, named after Kadyrov’s father, and the towering portraits of Vladimir Putin on the streets are visible symbols of the patronage pact that keeps the republic in line. Kadyrov himself is often flamboyantly loyal – posting Instagram videos swearing fealty to Putin – yet he operates with near-total autonomy within his domain. In a very different fashion, other regions across Russia are also managed through local understandings rather than just laws. Each governor, even without Kadyrov’s private army, cultivates his own local network: the business leaders, elders, or clan figures whose support helps keep the populace quiescent. In ethnic republics like Tatarstan or Dagestan, for example, governors (or presidents, as Tatarstan until recently called its leader) must balance Moscow’s demands with local traditions and elite interests. They often act as cultural brokers too, ensuring that local languages or customs are respected enough to prevent resentment, all while affirming their loyalty to the federal center. These unwritten compromises are part of the sistema’s fabric.
Running parallel to the civilian hierarchy of governors and mayors is a quiet hierarchy of security chiefs – the siloviki (men of force) who wield enormous clout behind closed doors. Every region has an FSB general or colonel in charge of state security, as well as police chiefs, National Guard commanders, and prosecutors. They don’t hold public rallies or win votes, but they can make or break any local official under them by initiating (or halting) investigations. In the sistema, they serve as both enforcers and informants. They keep an eye on governors and local elites, ensuring no one in the province steps too far out of line or poses a political threat. If whispers of disloyalty or independent ambition arise, a case of corruption might suddenly surface to sideline the offender — a tactic used often enough to be a credible deterrent. At the same time, these security middlemen report directly to their chains of command in Moscow, giving the Kremlin a direct line into each region that bypasses the governor. In practice, a wise governor must have the local FSB chief on his side; if not, his tenure may be short. The symbiosis is such that many governors are themselves former security officers, fluent in the culture of cloak-and-dagger. Putin has often appointed ex-generals and ex-spies to governorships precisely because they can be trusted to prioritise security and loyalty above all. This intertwining of formal administrative authority with the informal might of the security apparatus is a hallmark of the sistema. It blurs the line between governance and covert control. The local FSB head, unseen by the public, might wield more true power than the governor who cuts the ribbons — and both understand the rules of their collaboration, even if nothing is ever written down. Together, they manage the delicate balance of allowing just enough local initiative to keep things running, but not enough to let regional power become truly autonomous.
Economics, too, has its middlemen. Russia’s political order is also upheld by economic intermediaries who connect the centre’s wealth to the provinces. Many are not household names, but their influence is felt whenever a factory gets a lucrative state contract or a regional budget is quietly padded with “sponsorship” from a friendly company. Oligarchs often play this game: a billionaire with Kremlin ties might be informally assigned to “curate” a certain region — investing in local infrastructure, propping up failing industries, even paying for local holiday celebrations — to keep the region stable and its elite loyal. In return, that oligarch gets political protection or other business favours. Likewise, powerful local business figures become conduits in the patronage network: they deliver jobs and money to the region (earning public gratitude and influence), but also funnel a share of profits upward as kickbacks to Moscow-connected officials. This is the economy of favours metastasised into what one scholar calls “pyramids of kickbacks,” where every deal or contract feeds the network above it. A construction project in a Siberian city, for example, might involve an intricate chain of payoffs — from the local permitting officer to the regional boss to a ministry in Moscow, each taking a cut, each therefore invested in the project’s continuation and the political status quo. While this sounds corrupt (and it is), it also serves as social cement. It ensures that local bigwigs and Moscow’s emissaries are bound together in shared self-interest. Honest entrepreneurs who avoid the sistema tend to be sidelined or leave; those who join know the unwritten rules will protect them. In this way, the sistema co-opts the economy: genuine competition or transparency is sacrificed, but in its place arises a network of dependencies that keeps money flowing and prevents sudden breaks. Officials in charge of distributing funds and contracts wield enormous informal power , and the sistema rewards them for keeping the machine oiled, not necessarily for being efficient or fair. This is why a mid-level oil executive or regional bank manager, hardly known outside their region, might be a linchpin of political order: he ensures that teachers get paid on time (perhaps thanks to a quiet Kremlin subsidy), that local elites get their cut, and that no one important agitates for change. In return, he can enrich himself under the system’s protection, so long as he stays in his lane. It’s a system of mutual benefit and mutual complicity.
The importance of these middlemen has only grown with the pressures Russia has faced in recent years, notably the war in Ukraine since 2022 and the unprecedented Western sanctions that followed. As the Kremlin plunged into a costly and controversial conflict, it leaned heavily on regional networks to mobilise resources and maintain public support. Governors suddenly found themselves as wartime intermediaries, expected not only to enforce loyalty but to actively contribute to the war effort. Even before Putin declared a “partial mobilisation” in September 2022, many governors were busy forming local volunteer battalions to send to the front. By that summer, some 40 such regional units had been raised across Russia, effectively grassroots armies created by governors under the banner of patriotism. To fund and staff these, governors diverted regional budget funds and enlisted the help of local businesses. Some offered cash bonuses to men who signed up; others promised that the families of volunteers would be looked after. This was all unofficial (the volunteers, on paper, were just eager citizens), but everyone understood the reality: the Kremlin wanted more troops, but preferred that enthusiasm (and cost) to be generated locally. Once mobilisation was official, the role of governors became even more pronounced. They acted as the face of the draft in each region, coordinating the military commissariats and even appearing in videos to explain the necessity of sending reservists to war. When confusion and panic erupted, such as draft papers mistakenly going to the wrong men or far-flung villages being disproportionately emptied of fighting-age men, the governors had to absorb the fury. They became a buffer between Moscow and the people, containing protests and calming frustrations so that discontent did not spiral. In parts of Dagestan and Yakutia, where resistance to the draft flared, it was the local leaders and security chiefs who confronted the angry crowds, promised to relay their concerns, and thus defused the situation before it became a direct challenge to Putin’s authority. In dozens of cases, furious relatives of conscripts besieged governors with complaints; the governors, in turn, often pleaded helplessness but vowed to do what they could, which in effect meant persuading Moscow to smooth the roughest edges of the mobilisation.
Once soldiers from every corner of Russia were fighting (and dying) in Ukraine, the invisible middlemen took on another vital task: managing the social fallout of war. Casualties were mounting, and it fell on regional authorities to quietly pay out compensation to families and arrange funerals with honours, ensuring that grief did not morph into anti-war protest. Governors stretched their budgets to offer extra insurance payments and incentives, even in poorer regions, effectively bribing their own constituents to stay loyal and keep quiet. They also played propagandist-in-chief locally: organising patriotic rallies, emphasising local heroes who died “defending the motherland,” and sometimes spinning conspiracy theories to explain away setbacks. The war blurred the lines between domestic governance and military endeavour. In one extraordinary arrangement, each Russian region was “assigned” a part of occupied Ukraine to sponsor and rebuild — a policy Moscow called patronage for restoration. Suddenly, governors from central Russia or Siberia were twinned with towns in Donbas or Zaporizhzhia, sending construction crews, supplies, and “humanitarian aid” convoys to support the war-torn areas. Ostensibly acts of goodwill, these efforts also allowed regions to take part in the imperial project, binding them symbolically to Moscow’s war. Some of these convoys were mainly for show or propaganda, but others had a practical side: there were allegations that under the guise of humanitarian aid, certain goods and equipment were being funnelled to the Russian military at the front. Who managed all this? The mid-level actors: vice-governors, local businessmen, engineers, all coordinating with the military behind the scenes. Through such schemes, the Kremlin turned even far-off provinces into stakeholders in the Ukraine campaign, relying on the sistema’s web to extend its reach.
Meanwhile, the avalanche of Western sanctions that followed the invasion put the sistema to a new test. When foreign companies pulled out and imports dried up, it was often regional entrepreneurs and officials who scrambled to find alternatives. For instance, if a western auto plant in a provincial city shut down, the local governor might broker a deal for a Russian or Chinese firm to take over, saving jobs and signalling that Moscow “has it under control.” Import substitution — a dry term for a desperate scramble — became a local affair as much as a national one. Middlemen arranged grey-market routes for goods, using their personal networks in places like Turkey or Central Asia to buy sanctioned components and smuggle them in. In this cat-and-mouse game, deniability and informality were key. An official decree in Moscow can’t explicitly instruct someone to violate sanctions, but a quiet phone call from a Kremlin aide to a governor, and from the governor to a trusted trader, can achieve the same result. Regions with specific industries (say, aircraft parts or microchips) were tasked with coming up with “creative solutions,” and many did, often through sheer networked hustle. The West has started to notice these activities and has even targeted some regional actors with sanctions of their own. A handful of governors and local powerbrokers have been blacklisted internationally, a recognition that they are enablers of Putin’s policies. The EU, for example, eventually sanctioned people like Kadyrov and Sobyanin for their roles (Kadyrov for raising his own Chechen units for Ukraine, Sobyanin for facilitating mobilisation in Moscow). Still, most mid-level actors remain nameless to the outside world and largely untouched, allowing them to continue their workarounds. The sistema, in effect, provides shock absorbers throughout the country: when sanctions hit, it is these middlemen who absorb much of the impact, finding ways to keep the trucks running, the lights on, and the public fed — thereby preventing economic pain from translating into political unrest.
Why does all this matter? Because it reveals the real source of Putin’s political resilience. Western caricatures often paint Russia as a one-man show or focus solely on Putin’s inner circle of oligarchs and generals. But the durability of the Russian regime owes much to this lower tier of loyal operatives. They are the reason the Moscow government can be at war, and yet Russia’s far-flung regions remain mostly calm and functional. They are why, despite a stagnant economy or unpopular policies, there isn’t upheaval in the streets of most Russian cities—local grievances are managed and mollified before they coalesce into national crises. These middlemen act as both facilitators and firewalls: they implement Moscow’s commands, but also filter them, buffering the population. If potholes get fixed or a new clinic opens in a remote town, a mid-level official likely made it happen (and earns the credit, which he duly shares with his patrons). If anger is rising — over corruption, or conscription, or inflation — the same official can channel that anger safely, perhaps by scapegoating a subordinate or stage-managing a small protest to let off steam, all the while keeping the Kremlin insulated from blame. Putin’s approval ratings have often been higher than those of regional officials; this is by design, as the sistema lets presidents play good czar to the governors’ bad boyars. For ordinary Russians, it’s convenient to blame the local bureaucrat for problems and appeal to the distant president for redress. In truth, both are part of the same system, working in tandem. But the perception that “if only Putin knew, he’d fix it” remains a cornerstone of regime stability. And many times, Putin does swoop in on cue — firing a hapless governor or scolding an official on television — to reinforce the myth. The sacrificed middleman fades away, another is installed, and the cycle continues.
However, this intricate system also harbours potential vulnerabilities. It is robust under pressure, but when it fails, it can fail suddenly. The very fact that so much rests on informal deals and personal loyalties means that if those loyalties ever waver, the entire structure could wobble. Imagine a scenario where multiple key governors, sensing the central authority weakening, start freelancing—hoarding revenues, refusing untenable orders, perhaps even sheltering opposition. Or consider if a figure like Kadyrov, with his private army, ever openly defied Moscow; the resulting crack could be dangerous. The sistema has few rules for orderly succession or disagreement. It assumes everyone stays on script. When surprises happen (like Furgal’s maverick popularity, or a sudden economic crisis that Moscow can’t immediately mitigate), the response is often ad hoc and heavy-handed. Over time, this could accumulate public frustration or elite disillusionment. Moreover, the reliance on middlemen can breed complacency at the top — a false sense that “all is well” because the reports from the regions are rosy. In truth, those reports are curated by the very networks that want to keep the centre happy. If reality diverges too far from what the sistema chooses to show, the Kremlin might be caught off guard by a crisis that its middlemen can no longer contain.
As Russia navigates the uncertain aftermath of the Ukraine war and deepening economic isolation, all eyes naturally turn to Putin. But perhaps we should also be watching these lesser-known actors, the cogs in the machine, the invisible middlemen. They have been essential to maintaining Russia’s political order, stitching together a vast and diverse nation under a centralised power through informal means. They are the regime’s strength — the reason Russia did not fragment in the face of past turmoil and why it can prosecute a war despite international sanctions. And yet, they might also be the regime’s Achilles’ heel. A system that depends so heavily on personal loyalties and local fixes can unravel if those loyalties shift or those fixes no longer suffice. In the end, the sistema is only as strong as the countless human links in its chain. Understanding Russia’s political resilience and its potential fragility means looking beyond the Kremlin’s grand facade and paying attention to those hidden hands at work in the provinces and bureaucratic corridors. The future of Russia may well be decided not just by what happens in Red Square, but by the choices of these grey, unglamorous power-brokers who, for now, hold the keys to the kingdom.