While Russia burned in the fire of the 1998 financial collapse, someone launched a machine that, five years later, would become the de facto currency of the Russian-speaking internet—and remain a mystery to intelligence agencies on two continents for a quarter of a century.
🔥 November 20, 1998—three months after the default, when millions of Russians lost their savings in collapsed banks and the dollar overnight jumped from 6 to 21 rubles—the first WebMoney transaction took place online. No press releases, no founders with faces in photos. Just a digital wallet, operating atop the ruins of the banking system. In a country where people feared keeping money in banks and hauled cash on trains across the country in −20°C and blizzards, a system appeared that allowed instant transfers—through a computer screen. The creator launched a reverse "Marshall Plan": the first thousand users were given 30 WMZ (pegged to the dollar), the first sellers—100 WMZ, and for successfully inviting a friend—3 WMZ. Tens of thousands of dollars in seed capital, injected into an economy where money had stopped meaning anything.
⚡ By December of that year, news of every new seller accepting WebMoney was published as separate notes on the homepage—there were so few. But within a month, they had to switch to group announcements: the system was growing exponentially, despite the minuscule internet penetration outside Moscow. The first to connect were those who lived online: ISPs, hosting companies, web studios, banner networks. By the end of 1999, WebMoney was accepted by nearly all online businesses. In major cities, the first exchange agents appeared—real people in offices, ready to turn digits on a screen into crisp bills. The system became the nerve center of money transfers for Russian programmers who had left to chase the dot-com boom in America: WebMoney allowed them to instantly send earned dollars home, bypassing banks that no one trusted anymore.
🏗️ Technically, WebMoney was a stroke of genius disguised as primitivism. The system ran on WM identifiers—pseudo-anonymous numeric codes not directly tied to passport data. Each user received a set of "wallets"—WMZ for dollars, WMR for rubles, WME for euros—titular units backed by real assets through a network of "guarantors." Guarantors—independent companies in different jurisdictions—accepted deposits in real currency and issued the equivalent in electronic units. But no single guarantor controlled the entire system. This was a distributed trust network a decade before blockchain: each node was responsible for its segment, but the collapse of one didn’t kill the whole ecosystem.
🔐 The built-in arbitration system worked like a judicial mechanism without courts. Users could build reputation through the attestation system—a network of verifiers confirming the reliability of counterparties. Escrow services allowed freezing funds until deal conditions were met, creating trust between strangers in a country where contracts weren’t worth the paper they were written on. By 2000, WebMoney was ubiquitous among Russian internet users—not because it was convenient, but because it was the only fast and cheap way to transfer money. The banking sector simply couldn’t keep up. A branch opened in Minsk under the leadership of Oleg Bunas, and the system stepped beyond Russia. Yet the company was officially owned by WM Transfer Ltd—an offshore structure with no public beneficiaries, managed through a network of nominee directors.
🛡️ The WebMoney Keeper Classic app for Windows became the subject of scandal in 2006, when security researcher Chris Kaspersky discovered that the program installed a low-level device driver with direct access to I/O ports and interacted with the hard drive directly via ATA commands, bypassing the operating system. This was either a paranoid level of protection—or a paranoid level of control. The system operated as if its creator feared not hacking, but precisely identification. Every update, every patch was released without a specific developer’s signature. The code was closed. Technical documentation was in Russian, which slowed the spread of information to the West and gave the system years of lead time before regulators caught on.
⚖️ June 2013—the Ukrainian government raids the office of a local guarantor, seizes computer equipment, and freezes ₴60 million ($7.5 million) in accounts. Ukraine’s Ministry of Revenues and Duties calls WebMoney an "illegal system," suspected of money laundering and tax evasion. The National Bank of Ukraine states the system has no license to operate in the country. Ukrainian transactions are blocked. But a week later—suddenly, without explanation—operations resume. In March 2015, a court unfreezes the Ukrainian guarantor’s accounts. Later that year, the National Bank of Ukraine and Oschadbank enter partnerships with WebMoney.UA. What happened behind the scenes is unknown. But the pattern is clear: the system withstood state attacks thanks to its distributed architecture and legal invulnerability.
🎯 In May 2018, the National Bank of Ukraine removes WebMoney.UA from the register of domestic payment systems—the company lands on the sanctions list of the National Security and Defense Council of Ukraine. Another strike. Another survival. Because the Ukrainian segment is just one node in a global network. In November 2015, the British subsidiary WebMoney Europe Ltd receives an FCA license to issue electronic money within the European Economic Area. This is legitimacy. This is stepping out of the shadows. But on January 1, 2021—after Brexit—the company severs all agreements with WME wallet holders. The European branch shuts down. The legal structure is rebuilt again so regulators can’t trace it to the root.
💣 February 11, 2022—the Central Bank of Russia revokes the license of JSC "Bank KKB", the guarantor and settlement bank for WebMoney’s ruble wallets. Funds in the system on KKB’s accounts are frozen. Operations with Russian wallets halt. This is the hardest blow in the system’s history: the regulator reached the guarantor of the largest segment. But WebMoney doesn’t disappear. The company continues operating through other nodes in the network. In March 2019, the system introduces video identification for clients—a step toward regulators. In 2019, Sberbank connects WebMoney to its instant transfer ecosystem: clients can transfer money from cards to wallets by phone number. Burger King in Russia integrates QR code payments via WebMoney. The system becomes part of the legal economy—but its creator remains a ghost.
🕵️ WM Transfer Ltd is registered in offshore jurisdictions. The list of directors changes like gloves. Not a single public interview with the "founder." Not a single document leak leading to a real person. In 2005, an official history of WebMoney appears in Russian—without the creators’ names. In 2011, Vladimir Sharko, director of international business development, gives an interview—but talks about the system, not its father. Who wrote the first line of code? Who designed the architecture? Who made the decision to launch in the midst of default? Unknown. The company has processed trillions of rubles in transactions, has over 50 million users, operates in dozens of countries—and no one knows who stands behind it.
🌐 The system survived the 2013 raids in Ukraine, the 2018 sanctions, the 2022 guarantor collapse—and continues to operate. In early 2020, WebMoney reported 45 million registered accounts and 300,000 active weekly users. Over 100,000 stores accept payments through the system. The commission is 0.8% of the transaction amount, max €50. This isn’t a startup, isn’t an experiment—it’s a working infrastructure worth billions, created by an anonymous architect. Russian and Western intelligence agencies have tried to uncover the creator’s identity—unsuccessfully. The legal structure is designed like a matryoshka: each level is protected by the next, each company in the network is a nominee owner, behind which stands another company, behind which is an offshore entity, behind which—nothingness.
🔗 WebMoney anticipated Bitcoin by ten years. Pseudo-anonymous identifiers instead of names. A trust system through verifiers instead of a centralized bank. Escrow mechanisms for deal protection. Titular units backed by real assets, like stablecoins before the term existed. But unlike cryptocurrencies, WebMoney operated in a jurisdictional vacuum, relying on no central bank license in its early years. This was a shadow financial system, grown from post-Soviet chaos and becoming legitimate just enough not to be destroyed, but not enough to reveal its creator.
💼 In the age of blockchain and decentralized finance, WebMoney looks archaic—but it remains alive. In 2019, a Google Insights study showed a surge of interest in the system amid financial crises. When banks collapse, people return to what worked in 1998. The system survived default, sanctions, regulatory attacks, technological revolutions—and still processes payments. It uses apps for Windows, Android, iOS, Windows Phone, and Blackberry. It’s integrated with major banks. It accepts QR codes in restaurants. But behind it all—there’s a ghost.
📌 Today, in 2026, WebMoney remains an active system, though its market share has declined with the rise of Yandex.Money (now YuMoney), Qiwi, and banking apps with instant transfers. According to TNS data from 2014, WebMoney was one of Russia’s largest electronic payment processors by user count. After the KKB guarantor collapse in 2022, the system lost part of its Russian segment but continued operating through its international network. In March 2019, video identification was introduced—a concession to regulators, but not a revelation of the creator. The technology evolved: from low-level drivers in Keeper Classic to mobile apps and integration with FPS (Fast Payment System). But the main mystery remains unsolved: Who created WebMoney? Where are they now? Are they even alive? Researchers of the shadow economy and crypto-anarchists study the system as proof that absolute anonymity is possible even when managing a public business of planetary scale. This isn’t just a payment system—it’s a living experiment on the boundaries of state control and privacy in the digital age.