As I got closer, I realized something was seriously wrong. I put Elena on speakerphone and she translated for me. Languages are not my thing — even after ten years, I still spoke only taxi Russian.
The conversation went around and around. I watched like a spectator at a tennis match, my head bouncing back and forth. Elena said at one point, «I think it’s a visa issue, but the agent isn’t saying». Just then two uniformed immigration officers entered the room. One pointed at my phone and the other at my bags.
I said to Elena, «There’re two officers here telling me to hang up and go with them. I’ll call back as soon as I can».
I hung up. One officer picked up my bags. The other collected my immigration papers. Before I left with them, I looked to Alexei. His shoulders and eyes drooped, his mouth slightly agape. He was at a loss. He knew that when things go bad in Russia, they usually go bad in a big way.
I went with the officers and we snaked through the back hallways of Sheremetyevo-2 toward the larger, regular immigration hall. I asked them questions in my bad Russian, but they said nothing as they escorted me to a general detention room. The lights there were harsh. The molded-plastic chairs were bolted to the ground in rows. The beige paint on the walls peeled here and there. A few other angry-looking detainees lolled around. None talked. All smoked.
The officers left. Sealed off behind a counter-and-glass partition on the far side of the room was a collection of uniformed agents. I chose a seat near them and tried to make sense of what was happening.
For some reason I was allowed to keep all my things, including my mobile phone, which had a workable signal. I took this as a good sign. I tried to settle in, but as I did, the story of Jude Shao reregistered in my mind.
I checked my watch: 8:45 p.m.
I called Elena back. She wasn’t worried. She told me she was preparing a briefing fax for the British embassy officials in Moscow and would fax it to them as soon as it was ready.
I called Ariel, an Israeli ex-Mossad agent who worked as my company’s security adviser in Moscow. He was widely considered to be one of the best in the country, and I was confident that he could sort out this problem.
Ariel was surprised to hear what was happening. He said he’d make some calls and get back to me.
At around 10:30 I called the British embassy and spoke to a man named Chris Bowers, in the consular section. He had received the fax from Elena and already knew my situation, or at least knew as much as I did. He double-checked all my information — date of birth, passport number, date my visa was issued, everything. He said because it was Sunday night, he probably wouldn’t be able to do much, but he would try.
Before hanging up, he asked, «Mr. Browder, have they given you anything to eat or drink?»
«No», I answered. He made a little humming noise, and I thanked him before saying good-bye.
I tried to make myself comfortable on the plastic chair but couldn’t. Time crawled by. I got up. I paced through a curtain wall of cigarette smoke. I tried not to look at the vacant stares of the other men who were also being detained. I checked my email. I called Ariel, but he didn’t answer. I walked to the glass and started talking to the officers in my poor Russian. They ignored me. I was nobody to them. Worse, I was already a prisoner.
It bears mentioning that in Russia there is no respect for the individual and his or her rights. People can be sacrificed for the needs of the state, used as shields, trading chips, or even simple fodder. If necessary, anyone can disappear. A famous expression of Stalin’s drives right to the point: «If there is no man, there is no problem».
That’s when Jude Shao from the Forbes article wedged back into my consciousness. Should I have been more cautious in the past? I’d gotten so used to fighting oligarchs and corrupt Russian officials that I had become inured to the possibility that, if someone wanted it badly enough, I could disappear too.
I shook my head, forcing Jude out of my mind. I went back to the guards to try to get something — anything — out of them, but it was useless. I went back to my seat. I called Ariel again. This time, he answered.
«What’s going on, Ariel?»
«I’ve spoken to several people, and none of them are talking».
«What do you mean none of them are talking?»
«I mean none of them are talking. I’m sorry, Bill, but I need more time. It’s Sunday night. No one’s available».
«O'kay. Let me know as soon as you hear anything».
«I will».
We hung up. I called the embassy again. They hadn’t made any progress either. They were getting stonewalled or I wasn’t in the system yet or both. Before hanging up, the consul asked again, «Have they given you anything to eat or something to drink?»
«No», I repeated. It seemed like such a meaningless question, but Chris Bowers clearly thought otherwise. He must have had experience with this type of situation before, and it struck me as a very Russian tactic not to offer either food or water.
The room filled with more detainees as the clock passed midnight. All were men, all looked as if they had come from former Soviet republics. Georgians, Azerbaijanis, Kazakhs, Armenians. Their luggage, if they even had any, was simple duffel bags or strange, oversize nylon shopping bags that were all taped up. Each man smoked incessantly. Some spoke in low whispers. None showed any kind of emotion or concern. They made as much effort to notice me as the guards did, even though I was clearly a fish out of water: nervous, blue blazer, BlackBerry, black rolling suitcase.
I called Elena again. «Anything on your end?»
She sighed. «No. And yours?»
«Nothing».
She must have heard the concern in my voice. «It’ll be fine, Bill. If this really is just a visa issue, you’ll be back here tomorrow. I’m sure of it».
Her calmness helped. «I know». I looked at my watch. It was 10:30 p.m. in England. «Go to sleep, honey. You and the baby need the rest».
«O'kay. I’ll call you straightaway if I get any information».
«Me too».
«Good night».
«Good night. I love you», I added, but she’d already hung up.
A flicker of doubt crossed my mind: What if this wasn’t simply a visa issue? Would I ever see Elena again? Would I ever meet our unborn child? Would I ever see my son, David?
As I fought these dire feelings, I tried to arrange myself across the hard chairs, using my jacket as a pillow, but the chairs were made for preventing sleep. Not to mention I was surrounded by a bunch of menacing-looking people. How was I going to drift off around these characters?
I wasn’t.
I sat up and started typing on my BlackBerry, making lists of people I had met over the years in Russia, Britain, and America who might be able to help me: politicians, businesspeople, reporters.
Chris Bowers called one last time before his shift ended at the embassy. He assured me that the person taking over for him would be fully briefed. He still wanted to know whether I had been offered food or water. I hadn’t. He apologized, even though there was nothing he could do. He was clearly keeping a record of mistreatment should the need for one ever arise. After we hung up, I thought, Shit.
By then it was two or three in the morning. I turned off my BlackBerry to conserve its battery and tried again to sleep. I threw a shirt from my bag over my eyes. I dry-swallowed two Advil for a headache that had started. I tried to forget about it all. I tried to convince myself that I’d be leaving tomorrow. This was just a problem with my visa. One way or another, I’d be leaving Russia.