The man says he’s going to the toilet then disappears. A few minutes later he’s found wandering alone along a corridor. Eventually he leaves. And from that moment onwards the Moscow team discusses sensitive issues on an outdoor balcony. They’re convinced they’ve been bugged.
In Copenhagen the executive director of Greenpeace’s Scandinavian operation, Mads Christensen, has been handed leadership of the global campaign to free the arrested activists. Christensen is forty-one years old, the son of a cinema owner, a graduate in political science and the only national leader in the Greenpeace world to have started in the actions department – the team that organises and executes protests. Two years ago he jumped into the water in front of an icebreaker to delay its journey to join Shell’s exploratory Arctic drilling operation off Alaska. He is tall, slim, with blond hair and black, thick-rimmed glasses.
Straight away it’s clear to him that Greenpeace is in ‘deep, deep shit’. This is going to need an international campaign of indefinite length. He spends a day putting a team together, recruiting experienced staff from across the organisation, and the next morning they walk away from their old jobs and devote themselves to the release of the Arctic 30.
Christensen’s first, most urgent task is to get organised in Murmansk before the Sunrise docks. The crew is going to need more than just lawyers. Appointed to lead the ground team is 38-year-old Belgian Fabien Rondal, a Russian-speaking former roadie for Rage Against the Machine.
‘You need to get there as soon as possible,’ Christensen tells him. ‘We’re thinking the ship will be there Tuesday or Wednesday and we need you and your team in place before then. I can’t tell you when you’ll be able to come home. Nobody knows what happens next.’
SIX
Alex Harris pulls a mobile telephone from the bag of rice in her cabin where she hid it, and dusts it down. She looks over her shoulder then turns it on and watches the screen. Nothing. It’s taking for ever. She shakes the phone. Still nothing. Then the screen lights up and her heart leaps as she sees one bar of signal.
It’s five days since commandos stormed the Arctic Sunrise and now, finally, there is a dark shadow on the horizon. Land. The working phone in the galley has long since died, but the mobiles they hid in the cabin are getting reception. Alex dials a familiar number and hears it ringing. Her parents can barely believe they’re speaking to her. Breathlessly they tell her there are camera crews on the doorstep and pictures of her in the newspaper.
The crew take turns to call their parents, their partners and kids. They tell them they’re okay, that this will soon be over. Frank telephones the London office. He says the soldiers were flown in specially from Moscow, these guys aren’t amateurs, they were operating under specific orders. ‘I’ve been on a lot of actions,’ he says, ‘but this feels different. This isn’t good. The Kremlin’s up to its neck in this.’ But then he says, ‘Something’s happening, I’ve got to go, I’ll try to call again.’ And the line cuts out.
They’ve come to a halt. The Arctic Sunrise is anchored and the coastguard vessel ties up alongside. A Russian officer – a new guy – walks into the mess room with a translator. ‘Okay, listen up! You people are going to be taken off the ship in two groups and interrogated, so prepare to leave. Two groups, fifteen people then fifteen people. Group one, you have five minutes to get ready.’
‘What should people bring with them?’ asks Dima. ‘People don’t have their documents. You’ve confiscated their papers.’
‘It’s cold, so you should wear warm clothes. But you’ll only be gone for a few hours, so don’t bring too much. And don’t worry about your passports, you won’t need them anyway.’
Sini asks, ‘I have to take a medicine. How much of it do I need to bring?’
‘You should bring enough for one full day. Twenty-four hours. You’re not going to need it for that long, but just to be sure.’ The interpreter translates his words, then the officer adds, ‘Actually, just to be safe, bring enough medicine for three days. I’m sure you won’t need it, but still, bring it for three days.’
Dima has well-attuned bullshit antennae and right now they’re twitching. He’s been around long enough to know when he’s being lied to. He goes to his cabin and packs everything. He packs all his clothes, pants, all his T-shirts, underwear, socks, a thick book and extra chewing tobacco. Everything. All of it in the big pink bag he brought from Sweden when he boarded the Sunrise. And now he’s thinking, shit, I’m going into one of the most homophobic countries in the world with a huge pink bag, from a ship with a rainbow on the side. Great.
The first group of fifteen is taken up onto the deck. It’s the first time they’ve been outside for days. The ship is swarming with armed uniformed men, they’re covering every inch of railing, dozens of eyes stare at the activists as they shuffle along the deck. The first fifteen are transferred to another, smaller ship that’s also heaving with soldiers. The journey takes forty-five minutes, and when they pull into Murmansk dozens more armed men are waiting for them on the jetty.
It’s dark now. Raining. Faiza Oulahsen – the young climate campaigner from Holland – looks around. The port is decrepit, with rusting cranes towering over an old bus parked up with its door open. A hand touches her shoulder, she turns around, a woman in uniform is facing her. The woman says, ‘You can wait on the bus if you’d like to.’ Faiza shakes her head. She hasn’t felt the wind on her face for five days and she’s savouring the rain and the cold, stiff breeze.
It’s the last time she’ll feel it for a very long time.
When all thirty have been brought to land they’re ordered to board the bus. They gingerly take seats then watch it fill up with soldiers who sit next to them, behind them, in front of them. The soldiers’ faces are covered by black masks with little holes for their eyes and mouths. The bus is old and smells of metal. They can taste it.
By now the video journalist Kieron Bryan is worried. He has a reporter’s eye for detail and since they docked he’s counted 300 uniformed men with guns. Some from the FSB, some from the police, some from the army. There were at least sixty on each ship – the Sunrise and the Ladoga – and another sixty on the ship when they were transferred to land. Maybe 150 meeting them at the port. Kieron stares through the window at the old Soviet-style buildings and feels a potent charge of fear building in his legs. After a few minutes the bus comes to a stop outside a huge, well-lit building surrounded by scores more camouflaged rifle-wielding men.
Camera flashes burst through the windows. On the pavement, among the military contingent, the crew sees people wearing Greenpeace T-shirts, arms aloft, fists clenched. It’s Fabien Rondal and his team. The Belgian was tipped off by a local journalist that the crew would be brought here. There are claps and shouts of support, the prisoners make V for Victory signs through the window, then they’re pulled out of the bus and pushed through the gauntlet of lights, cameras and guns, and into the building.
The thirty are quickly processed through a metal detector (keys and cash were liberated long ago, phones were left on the Sunrise). Phil nervously waits for the camera card in the sole of his boot to beep, but he passes through the machine without setting it off. They’re led up a flight of stairs. Two men in shiny suits are standing at the top. As the activists pass them the men grab their arms and shake their shoulders and in Russian they say, ‘I’m your lawyer! Don’t sign anything! Demand to see your lawyer! Don’t sign anything! Demand to see your lawyer!’