Editor’s note (updated December 2, 2025): This article was originally published on November 28, 2025. It has been updated to reflect the resignation of President Volodymyr Zelenskyy’s chief of staff and chief peace negotiator, Andriy Yermak, after anti-corruption investigators searched his home as part of the Energoatom / “Midas” probe.
As Ukraine braces for another dark winter, its own reporters and anti-corruption detectives are forcing a reckoning with energy networks that fed both corruption at home and opportunity for Moscow.
By Carlos Taylhardat | 3 Narratives News | November 28, 2025
This article is built entirely on Ukrainian media investigations, watchdog reports, and official Ukrainian documents, not Western wire services.
On a cold November night in Kyiv, the lights flicker in a newsroom before they flicker in an apartment block.
Air raid sirens have become part of the workday soundtrack. Editors at Ukrainska Pravda and Hromadske are cutting another story on Energoatom, Ukraine’s nuclear energy company, while Telegram channels buzz with rumours: new tapes, new names, new raids, maybe even a resignation in the president’s office.
For years, investigative reporters like Mykhailo Tkach worked under surveillance cameras, burned-out cars, and crude threats, documenting how pro-Russian politicians, oligarchs and state managers carved out private tollbooths inside Ukraine’s energy system. Those stories now have a name: Operation “Midas.”
NABU (the National Anti-Corruption Bureau of Ukraine) and SAPO (the Special Anti-Corruption Prosecutor’s Office) describe Midas as a 15-month investigation into a high-level kickback scheme around Energoatom contracts, with alleged payoffs of 10–15% built into deals that should have fortified the grid against Russian attacks. The case reaches across ministries and state companies and touches people close to President Volodymyr Zelenskyy.
For most of the world, Midas is just a headline: a corruption scandal in a country at war. Inside Ukraine, it feels like the latest battle in a much older conflict, a war over whether the state belongs to its citizens, or to the networks that have fed off it for decades.
What Operation “Midas” Actually Is
According to official statements and detailed reporting by Ukrainian outlets, Midas centres on a simple, brutal business model.
Detectives say that from 2024, a group of current and former officials, together with intermediaries and business figures, built a “tollbooth” around the state nuclear operator Energoatom and other energy-related structures. Suppliers were allegedly told to hand over 10–15% of each contract’s value or face blocked payments, loss of status as a contractor, or even pressure via Ukraine’s mobilisation system.
At the heart of the scheme, NABU and SAPO documents and Ukrainian reporting place businessman Timur Mindich, a long-time partner of Zelenskyy in the “Kvartal-95” entertainment empire, alongside former state managers and figures from the energy sector. Journalists at Hromadske, TSN, Ukrainska Pravda, 190 today, and others have pieced together how Mindich’s influence migrated from television studios to tenders and appointments in energy and construction.
In the secretly recorded conversations that NABU began to publish in November, participants speak in codenames. Ukrainian media have identified “Carlson” as Mindich, “Tenor” as Energoatom’s security chief, and “Rocket” as a former deputy head of the State Property Fund and one-time assistant to ex-MP Andriy Derkach — a veteran of energy politics who later became notorious in pro-Russian influence operations and is now under sanctions and wanted in Ukraine.
In 2025 alone, prosecutors say, the group attempted to skim up to the equivalent of $100 million from energy-sector contracts, including those linked to protective structures at nuclear sites and equipment for the army. Ukrainian broadcasters have reported that investigators collected more than a thousand hours of wiretaps, attended tender meetings and traced money flows through shell companies and property deals.
On 10 November, NABU launched coordinated searches:
- At Energoatom’s headquarters and several regional units;
- In offices and homes linked to senior energy and infrastructure officials, including then–energy minister Herman Halushchenko’s circle;
- In multiple Kyiv properties connected to Timur Mindich.
By the time detectives arrived at his building on Hrushevskoho Street, Mindich was gone. As Schemes and Radio Svoboda documented, he crossed the border in a VIP minibus a few hours before the raids. NABU later confirmed it is examining the circumstances of his departure and potential leaks inside law enforcement.
Further searches and court filings revealed another disturbing detail: in a “back office” used by the alleged network, investigators found hundreds of “profiles” — dossiers on officials, MPs, security officers and investigative journalists, compiled with an eye toward pressure or blackmail. Among the names, Ukrainian media say, were reporters from projects like Nashi Groshi and other well-known investigative outlets.
Then, in late November, came the shock that pushed Midas fully into political territory: NABU and SAPO searched premises associated with Andriy Yermak, Zelenskyy’s powerful chief of staff and lead peace negotiator. Ukrainian outlets, including Ukrainska Pravda, reported that some of the Midas recordings may refer to him obliquely, though no formal suspicion has been announced. Within hours of the searches becoming public, Zelenskyy announced that Yermak had submitted his resignation as head of the President’s Office and as chief negotiator in U.S.–Ukraine talks. Yermak has publicly denied wrongdoing, said he is cooperating fully with investigators, and later told Ukrainian media he intends to serve at the front.
At this point, three overlapping stories emerge. One belongs to the independent media and activists who feel they have finally forced the system to confront its own reflection. Another belongs to the state, which insists it is reforming itself while trying to fight a major war. The third is quieter: the story of Ukrainians trying to survive winter under attack, on a grid that some of their own elites treated as a cash machine.
Independent Media’s War
For Ukraine’s investigative journalists and press-freedom advocates, Midas is not a surprise. It is the long-anticipated crest of a wave that began a quarter of a century ago with the disappearance of a single reporter.
In September 2000, journalist Heorhiy Gongadze, founder of the online outlet Ukrainska Pravda, vanished. Weeks later, his decapitated body was found in a forest. Secret recordings emerged that appeared to capture then-President Leonid Kuchma and security officials discussing how to “deal with” the troublesome journalist. The “cassette scandal” helped ignite mass protests and turned Gongadze’s name into a symbol of what journalism could cost in Ukraine.
Ukrainska Pravda survived its founder and grew into the country’s central political news site — a place where presidents still get nervous when they see their names. Around it, an ecosystem formed: Schemes: Corruption in Detail (a joint project of Radio Svoboda and public TV), Slidstvo.Info, Bihus.Info, Nashi Groshi, and others. Each cultivated its own style of evidence gathering: company registries, drone footage of villas, airport spotters watching private jets.
For readers new to our Ukraine coverage, this strand of reporting connects directly to our earlier work on the war’s shifting alliances, including our feature on Trump’s threat of 100% tariffs on Russia and his proposal to send NATO weapons to Ukraine.
Into that universe stepped a young reporter from Dnipro: Mykhailo Tkach.
At Schemes, Tkach’s investigations focused on the “invisible geography” of power — where officials and businessmen really met, who flew to Moscow, who drove to country estates in the middle of the night. In 2017, his team followed the private jet of Viktor Medvedchuk, the pro-Russian politician and Putin associate. At Kyiv’s “Zhulyany” airport, black-masked guards blocked the crew’s car and pushed them around as they tried to film. The National Union of Journalists and watchdogs like Detector Media condemned it as obstruction; prosecutors opened a case, but accountability was slow.
The threats became more intimate in 2020. Tkach noticed an odd patch on his apartment ceiling. When he inspected the attic above, he found a narrow, precisely drilled hole above the spot where he worked. IMI, TSN, Radio Svoboda, and others reported on his suspicion that someone had attempted to install a listening device. Days later, a car used by the Schemes team was set on fire at night. Once again, media organisations described it as an act of intimidation.
Rather than retreat, Tkach moved closer to the centre of power. In 2021 he left Schemes and took over the investigations department at Ukrainska Pravda. There, he and his colleagues began to track a new set of figures: not just Medvedchuk and the old pro-Russian guard, but a quieter group around the new president — including businessman Timur Mindich.
As early as April 2020, Tkach’s pieces showed Mindich leaving the President’s Office on Bankova, slipping into cars that never appeared in official schedules. Later, he reported that Zelenskyy had celebrated a birthday in one of Mindich’s Kyiv apartments, a detail that sounded like gossip at the time, but later became a crucial marker of their closeness.
After NABU revealed Midas, Ukrainska Pravda published a series often referred to as “Mindichgate.” The stories reconstructed the alleged network’s meetings, court rulings and money trails. In one widely read essay, Tkach described a group of presidential friends and allies who, he argued, risked becoming the “new svynarchuky”, a reference to the Poroshenko-era defence procurement scandal that helped bring down the previous government.
The reaction, he later told a forum organised by the Institute for Coverage of War and Peace and Detector Media, was intense. Tkach described the pressure on him and the UP newsroom after the Mindich investigations as unlike anything they had seen in years, a mix of smear campaigns, legal threats and informal warnings.
At that same forum, however, something else became clear. NABU and SAPO leaders themselves acknowledged that without public protests, in particular a loose grassroots group nicknamed “people with cardboard signs,” who had been standing outside state buildings for months with hand-drawn posters demanding action on Mindich and protection for anti-corruption bodies, Operation Midas might never have made it out of draft form.
From the perspective of independent media and activists, the Energoatom raids, the exposure of the “List 527” dossiers, and the searches linked to Yermak are not accidents. They are the result of years of work in which cameras, court filings and cardboard signs combined to push the system into doing what it promised on paper.
The fear in this camp is not that Midas will go too far. It is that it will stop just short of where the most powerful interests begin.
The Government’s Wartime Balancing Act
Inside the presidential administration and Cabinet, the story looks different. Officials see themselves as trying to keep a country alive under one of the most intense military campaigns in Europe’s recent history, while confronting the ghosts of Ukraine’s past.
In their telling, the existence of NABU, SAPO and the High Anti-Corruption Court in their current form is itself a sign of progress. Many of these institutions were created after the Maidan revolution of 2014, but their independence and powers have been renegotiated repeatedly. Zelenskyy’s team points to reforms adopted since 2019, new appointments, competitive selection procedures, and international experts on commissions as proof that they have strengthened, not weakened, the anti-corruption infrastructure.
When the first Midas tapes became public, Zelenskyy told Ukrainian journalists that a president “at war cannot have friends” and vowed that everyone involved would be punished. He reportedly told his party’s MPs that he had not been aware of the specific schemes around Energoatom and that anyone who had used his name as cover would regret it.
In this narrative:
- The fact that NABU ran a long undercover operation without informing the President’s Office until late in the process is framed as an example of institutional independence, not as sabotage.
- The rapid suspensions and resignations of figures implicated in energy-sector cases — including senior officials linked to Energoatom and infrastructure — are presented as proof that the state is willing to act on what investigators uncover, even under bombardment.
- Feedback from Brussels is crucial. European officials have made anti-corruption reforms a condition for deepening integration and assistance. By moving forward with Midas, the government argues, Ukraine shows that it is serious about meeting EU standards.
The Yermak episode is the most delicate point of tension between this worldview and the one held by independent media. With his resignation now official, it has also become a test case for how far the “no sacred cows” principle really reaches into the president’s inner circle.
To Zelenskyy’s supporters, Yermak was the architect of many of Ukraine’s wartime successes: coordinating weapons deliveries with Western capitals, negotiating prisoner exchanges, managing presidential visits and communications. Even after his resignation, they note that he has not been formally charged, that he publicly acknowledged the searches, and that he says he is cooperating fully.
Within this frame, many in the administration long saw attacks on Yermak as political: long-standing opponents and hostile Telegram channels had been calling for his dismissal for years. Now that he has stepped down, some officials still argue that his departure was driven as much by politics and pressure from allies as by legal facts, and worry that removing a key negotiator on the basis of suspicion rather than court decisions may have pleased Moscow’s propagandists as much as Ukraine’s reformers.
At the same time, the administration insists that there can be no return to the era when powerful figures were untouchable. For Zelenskyy’s team, accepting Yermak’s resignation while the investigation is still at the pre-trial stage is presented as proof of that principle. The message from Bankova has become a kind of mantra: there will be “no sacred cows,” but there must also be “no theatre” — meaning that the real test is what the High Anti-Corruption Court ultimately rules, not who is shouted down first on television.
For this narrative, Midas is less a morality play than a stress test. Can Ukraine prosecute wartime corruption in its most sensitive sectors without collapsing the political and military chain of command? Can it show Western partners that it is serious about clean government without handing Moscow an easy talking point about “chaos” in Kyiv?
Winter, Wires, and a War on Two Fronts
This last layer of the story does not unfold in committee rooms or studios. It is written in electricity bills, generator fumes and the sound of drones over transformer stations.
Russia has openly targeted Ukraine’s power system since the start of the full-scale invasion, striking thermal plants, substations and in some cases, infrastructure connected to nuclear sites. Each winter, Ukrainians brace for new waves of attacks on what officials call the “energy front.”
Energoatom sits at the centre of that front. Its reactors generate more than half of Ukraine’s electricity. Its engineers work with international partners to maintain nuclear safety under wartime conditions. Its procurement decisions determine whether critical systems are hardened properly or left vulnerable.
When Ukrainians read, in outlets like Hromadske, TSN, and Suspilne, that contracts for protective structures and equipment may have been skimmed through a 10–15% tollbooth operated by insiders, the scandal cuts deeper than ordinary anger at graft. It triggers an older fear: that their state might still be rotten in the exact places Russia is trying to break it.
At the same time, press-freedom monitors like the Institute of Mass Information have recorded more than 800 incidents in which Russia has targeted media and journalists since February 2022. These range from shelling TV towers and newsrooms to murdering or abducting journalists, hacking n
