Trump's Alaska summit with Putin concealed ExxonMobil oil deal whilst Ukraine war continues
Financial envoys and same-day oil decree reveal how corporate interests systematically undermine Ukraine sanctions
Donald Trump promised to end Ukraine's war "in one day." Instead, his 15th August summit with Vladimir Putin in Anchorage produced something else entirely: a backdoor oil deal that could finance the very conflict he pledged to stop.
Whilst cameras captured handshakes and ceremonial flourishes, Putin quietly signed a decree that same day reopening Russia's Sakhalin-1 project to ExxonMobil. The timing was no coincidence. Behind the diplomatic theatre, financial envoys from both sides were negotiating sanctions relief that could pump billions into Moscow's war chest—even as Russian missiles continued falling on Ukrainian cities.
This reveals the uncomfortable reality of how power actually works: economic interests don't pause for moral principles, and corporate profits often flow in directions that directly undermine official policy.
The money men
Forget peace negotiators—both sides brought financiers. Trump's delegation centered on Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent and Commerce Secretary Howard Lutnick, not seasoned diplomats. Bessent's inclusion was telling: in February 2025, he had pushed Ukraine to sign mineral deals without security guarantees, revealing his willingness to prioritise economic arrangements over traditional security concerns.
Putin's team was equally revealing. Finance Minister Anton Siluanov manages Russia's sanctions evasion strategy, whilst Kirill Dmitriev heads the Russian Direct Investment Fund—a vehicle designed to attract Western capital into Russian projects. Here's the catch: the RDIF has been under US sanctions since 2022, specifically to block Western money from financing Russian infrastructure.
Bringing Dmitriev to Alaska wasn't diplomatic oversight—it was a signal. Moscow expected sanctions relief as part of any deal. Dmitriev's curriculum vitae reads like a handbook for financial backdoor diplomacy: January 2017 meetings with Erik Prince and Anthony Scaramucci during Trump's first transition, establishing systematic channels between corporate interests and Kremlin policy.
When both sides pack their delegations with money managers rather than peace negotiators, you're not witnessing diplomacy—you're watching a business meeting disguised as statecraft.
The billion-dollar birthday present
Putin's timing was exquisite. On the exact day he sat down with Trump, he signed a decree welcoming ExxonMobil back to Sakhalin-1, the Russian oil project the company abandoned when sanctions bit hard in 2022. This wasn't coincidence—it was choreographed signalling.
The decree's terms are breathtakingly explicit: foreign companies can reclaim their stakes, but only if they actively work to dismantle the very sanctions designed to pressure Russia over Ukraine. ExxonMobil, which previously held a 30% stake worth billions, now faces a stark choice: profits or principles.
The stakes are enormous. In 2011, ExxonMobil's then-CEO Rex Tillerson signed a $500 billion partnership with Rosneft, personally blessed by Putin. The deal promised access to Russia's $8.2 trillion Arctic reserves, including billion-barrel discoveries in the Kara Sea. When sanctions forced American withdrawal in 2018, Russia lost the Western technology needed to exploit these vast resources.
Tillerson later became Trump's Secretary of State—establishing a template for how oil executives migrate into Russia policy roles. Now Putin is essentially offering to revive these colossal arrangements, but the price is systematic erosion of the sanctions regime that Ukraine desperately needs maintained.
It's a elegant trap: offer American companies what they lost, but only if they become lobbyists for Russian interests.
The impossible promise trap
Trump's "one day" war-ending boast was always fantasy, but it created real political pressure. Having promised the impossible, he needed visible action—regardless of whether it made sense. The Alaska summit became his attempt to demonstrate progress on an undeliverable timeline.
His ten-day ultimatum before the meeting—threatening harsh sanctions without peace prospects—essentially backed his own administration into a corner. Behind the dramatic rhetoric lay no new leverage, no secret mechanisms unavailable to previous presidents. Just mounting pressure to show results on an impossible promise.
This explains why Trump arrived with financial officials rather than seasoned peace negotiators. His actual strategy wasn't pursuing justice for Ukraine or accountability for war crimes—it was seeking economic arrangements that could be packaged as diplomatic progress. The gap between campaign promises and governing reality forced symbolic diplomacy that risked undermining the very sanctions Ukraine needed most.
When politicians promise miracles, they often end up trading principles for the appearance of results.
Putin's legitimacy laundering
For Putin, the summit was pure gold: international rehabilitation without giving anything in return. After years of isolation—ICC arrest warrants, diplomatic exclusion, systematic sanctions—he walked onto American soil as an honoured guest. Red carpet, presidential limousine, photo opportunities that Moscow's propaganda machine would treasure for years.
The asymmetry was stark. Trump needed concrete results to justify his campaign promises. Putin needed only the pictures. Every handshake, every moment of equal treatment, every gesture of respect fed directly into domestic propaganda showing that despite war crimes allegations and comprehensive sanctions, he remained a player on the world stage.
His refusal to hold a press conference or answer journalists' questions revealed the limits of his engagement. Even granted rare access to genuinely free media, he chose avoidance over accountability. The summit wasn't about dialogue—it was about legitimacy restoration through association with American power.
The timing was particularly galling. As Russian forces continued their daily bombardment of Ukrainian cities, part of the international community was literally rolling out red carpets for the man ordering the attacks. This demonstrated the persistent gap between accountability mechanisms and the practical politics of great power diplomacy.
The sanctions death spiral
The Alaska approach creates a template for dismantling sanctions through corporate pressure rather than legislative action. Each exception establishes precedent for the next, whilst democratic leaders face constituencies demanding both toughness on autocracy and accommodation of business interests.
If ExxonMobil returns to Sakhalin-1, other Western companies will follow. Why wouldn't they, if Washington signals approval? The result: billions flowing into Moscow's treasury precisely when Ukraine needs maximum economic pressure maintained. Oil and gas provide nearly a third of Russia's state revenue—making energy sanctions relief equivalent to war financing.
European allies face an impossible choice. If American companies resume Russian operations, European firms risk competitive disadvantage by maintaining stricter compliance. This threatens to fracture Western unity exactly when Ukraine needs it most.
The irony is devastating. Ukraine has spent enormous effort targeting Russian refineries and energy infrastructure, trying to degrade Moscow's war-making capacity. The Sakhalin revival would offset much of this damage, using Western technology and capital to restore the very capabilities Ukraine has fought to destroy.
It's a masterclass in how economic interests systematically undermine stated security objectives. Putin offers corporations what they want, knowing that their lobbying power will gradually erode the sanctions regime from within.
The real summit agenda
The Alaska meeting exposed the uncomfortable machinery behind modern diplomacy: economic interests don't pause for moral principles, and corporate profits often flow in directions that directly contradict official policy. Trump's impossible campaign promises created pressure for visible progress, whilst Putin needed legitimacy restoration without offering real concessions.
The result was a summit that failed on its stated objectives but succeeded in revealing something more important: how power actually works when cameras aren't rolling. Sanctions become negotiating chips, corporate lobbying undermines official policy, and authoritarian leaders exploit democratic politicians' need to show results.
Congressional opposition to sanctions relief remains strong, but administrative modifications—the kind Treasury officials can arrange without legislative approval—offer paths for corporate accommodation that gradually hollow out the entire pressure strategy. This creates systematic bias towards erosion as political pressure mounts.
The broader pattern should concern anyone who believes economic pressure can modify authoritarian behaviour. When corporate interests and stated security objectives point in opposite directions, the corporations often win—not through dramatic policy reversals, but through quiet administrative accommodations that achieve the same result.
Understanding this dynamic becomes crucial as similar conflicts emerge elsewhere. The Alaska summit wasn't just failed diplomacy—it was a masterclass in how economic interests systematically capture foreign policy, one corporate exception at a time. Unless democratic societies find ways to resist this dynamic, sanctions regimes will continue dissolving under pressure from the very constituencies they're designed to protect.