“But Alison’s situation might be even worse than that,” Charlotte said.
As the days passed my colleagues and I learned more about Alison, Gagik and Mkritch from news coverage. I also felt increasingly distanced from Alison. Stories written in a familiar journalistic formula turned Alison into someone barely recognizable — she seemed more a character in a murder mystery novel than a real person. I pieced her story together from what I read.
Alison and Gagik lived in Chiswick, a neighbourhood in West London not far from Heathrow Airport. Gagik worked as a swimming pool attendant. In the Soviet Union he had been involved in an art venture with Mkritch.
Alison helped Gagik launch business ventures in London. They shipped clothes and computers to the Soviet Union through companies they set up, Alga International and Orient Line. I remembered my own shopping deprivation and that urge to buy when goods appeared in shops. Alison and Gagik’s businesses could succeed, but so many others had the same idea that competition would be intense.
I read that Ruslan was thirty-eight and Nazarbek, a boxer and very fit, was twenty. The papers provided more details. In the days immediately following Gagik and Mkritch’s arrest, articles described the Chechens’ lavish lifestyle. I sat at my desk with a cup of coffee from the canteen downstairs scarcely able to process what I read, so fantastic did it seem.
Ruslan and Nazarbek bought a centrally located penthouse in Marylebone, not far from Madame Tussaud’s and the Sherlock Holmes Museum, for £750,000 in cash. They purchased furniture at Harrods. One bed bought there cost £9,000. Ruslan and Nazarbek’s cash resources exceeded anything that I had imagined — their source of wealth must have been Chechen oil.
Their dining habits seemed equally extravagant. Some restaurant bills totalled £2,000. One waiter quoted in a news article said the brothers tipped him £100 for a meal. They also allegedly hired expensive prostitutes, several in one night.
My mind wandered a lot at work during those early post-arrest days. I joined huddles with my colleagues in the hallways. We shared information that we read and tried to understand what had happened. I wondered how Gagik reacted. Was he jealous? Did he want a life like that? What did he learn translating for Ruslan? What shocked us most, though, was information about Ruslan’s secret agenda in London, a mission to purchase two thousand Stinger anti-aircraft missiles. Some Russians in our unit considered this misinformation deliberately planted in newspapers. Others believed it, but could not agree on a motive for the purchase. My knowledge lagged behind that of my Russian colleagues, who had learned about Stingers during the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. I did not know much about these weapons, so I researched them to learn more.
I collected news articles and documents about Stingers and stacked them on the floor beside my bed. Charlotte had returned to Bosnia, so I had the room to myself again. For several evenings I lay on the floor with a highlighter pen in one hand and flipped through the material. This research interested me more than my day job, where I often clock-watched, unable to adjust to the humdrum pace of desk work, bolting from the office at 5 p.m. sharp.
I initially focused on U.S. sources as Stingers originated in the United States. They are about four feet long and designed for portability. In various accounts, fighters carried Stingers and propped them on their shoulders to shoot down planes and helicopters. Heat-seeking guidance systems and ultraviolet detection that locked on targeted aircraft meant that even a fighter with average aim could score good hits. Stingers now circulated on the black market and knock-offs were also being manufactured.
I thought at once of General Dudayev in Chechnya. Russia had tried to intervene in Chechnya when it sent troops in by plane. The Chechens encircled the plane and trapped the soldiers. General Dudayev, with his airforce background, would understand better than most the enormous strategic advantage for his own forces if they could be armed with Stingers to counter any Russian advances by air.
But the vast number of weapons did not make sense. I only understood the size of the deal Ruslan tried to negotiate after more research. One report said that the United States had manufactured about fifty thousand Stingers since 1981. This meant that Ruslan, from tiny Chechnya, tried to buy the equivalent of 4 percent of all U.S.-made Stingers in more than a decade.
Then I tried to calculate the value of the deal. The U.S. report said that Stinger missiles sold for $200,000 on the black market in Pakistan. A purchase of two thousand Stinger missiles could have cost as much as $400 million, though knock-offs or a bulk order might have reduced the price. No matter what the discount, this deal involved a huge amount of money.
At work no one quite forgot about Alison and Gagik but, with daily deadlines, our focus shifted, time passed. I flew home to Canada for summer holidays. I stayed with my parents at our cottage in Québec. Deborah and our brother, Mark, joined us. Cousins who owned cottages close to ours dropped by. Babies bounced on knees. This next generation still caught me by surprise. I could not believe that a cousin I had grown up with was now old enough to have kids.
When our cousins left, we bought plates and glasses in from the verandah. My mother and Deborah went back out with books. My father and Mark watched tennis on TV in the living room. I went down to the dock for a swim. Chester, uninvited, came along. I would have to swim quickly. If he caught up, he would try to retrieve me. When I finished swimming, I floated in an inflatable dingy that my father had bought. Chester jumped on board. We drifted quietly until he spotted a fish and leaped out. This time I did not tip but floated on, water lapping against the boat, sleepy in the warmth of the sun. It was hard not to be seduced by thoughts of coming home. I would return one day, just not now. When my holiday was over, I flew back to London.
In October 1993, exactly one year after I had moved to London from Kiev, Gagik was in the papers again, this time for his sentencing. My colleagues and I followed these developments through news articles and read more details in that grizzly murder mystery that I could scarcely believe was Alison’s life, and wished was not.
Court documents said that after Gagik learned about the Stinger negotiations, he contacted Mkritch. Reporters described Mkritch as an agent for the Armenian KGB. This was confusing terminology since the KGB technically did not exist anymore. The reporters confirmed that Alison had helped Mkritch obtain a visa and find an apartment, but indicated that she did not know of his security service ties or anything about the murder plot that unfolded between Gagik and Mkritch. I felt relieved when I read this but also felt badly — she had really been used.
At work no one had time to digest all the news, so we swapped details over coffee in the canteen. I learned that Ruslan accused Gagik of stealing £20,000 and also read that Ruslan planned to pass some or all of the Stingers onto Azerbaizhan, then involved in a conflict with Armenia. Both Gagik and Mkritch were Armenian. I wondered if personal allegiances contributed to their motivation.
Once Mkritch arrived in London, events proceeded quickly. Mkritch said in a police statement that he met with Ruslan and asked him to abandon the missile deal. Ruslan refused. Mkritch then contacted his bosses in the security services. They ordered Ruslan’s assassination. They anticipated this could spark a blood feud, common in Chechnya, so they also wanted Nazarbek killed as a precautionary measure. Otherwise he would try to avenge his brother’s death.
I kept a binder filled with information on the case. One article quoted Mkritch telling police, “The murders were planned by the KGB. I had no choice but to obey the KGB. They would have harmed my family.”