Another answers, ‘So let him look. That’s all he can do now. His time is up.’
You listen to them and realize they don’t intimidate you. Well, they don’t really need to. They have already earned their reward. They are simply discussing the reality of what lies ahead for you. During a rest, as we get closer to their side, one of them gives you a second, more thorough search and finds a capsule which has got stuck in your pocket. He opens it. He finds the piece of paper with the numbers. He looks into your eyes. The commander asks, ‘Well, what’s he got there?’ He winks at you, tearing the paper into little pieces with the words, ‘Nothing.’ You are grateful to your enemy for having understood you. For understanding that you are doomed. And as one warrior to another, he shows you respect in your ill fortune.
3
Before long you are delivered to the base of the 245th Motor Rifle Regiment near Shatoy. They tear the blindfold from your eyes and a colonel begins the interrogation. It is what is known as a ‘high-speed interrogation’, applied while you are still in shock. The colonel is holding your passport and press card in his hand; inside the passport is a photo of President Dudayev taken a month ago and dated. And he has your notes and some new poems written in your native Chechen and in Russian. The broad-shouldered, heavily built colonel looks you in the eyes and asks,
‘Are you a combatant?’
‘No. I’m a journalist.’
‘Who is your commander?’
‘I don’t have a commander. I’m a journalist.’
‘A journalist, carrying a weapon? If you’re a journalist, then why are you armed?’
‘There’s a war on.’
‘Where do you work?’
‘You can see from my ID.’
‘You’re a combatant!’ He’s no longer asking but telling you.
‘No.’
He steps forward and strikes your face twice with his elbow. In hand-to-hand combat, an elbow strike at close range is considered one of the most powerful blows. He knows this. You know it too. Your hands are tied behind your back. You sneer at him. That makes him see red. He grabs an assault rifle from one of the soldiers and fires a burst near your feet: ‘Are you a rebel? Answer!’
Looking him straight in the eyes, you answer: ‘No.’
Then he fires a single round into your right foot. The bullet goes straight through. Leaning slightly forward, you look silently at your foot, then look into his eyes. You do not feel intense pain yet. Just a smarting in your foot. You are still detached and contemplative: ‘Have you had a good think?’ you hear the officer’s voice. ‘Oh, I can shoot higher, you know… Do you have any idea of the agony?’
You notice the assault rifle is pointed at your groin and you shrug your shoulders. ‘Well, that’s it. I’ve lost,’ you say, merely for the sake of replying. You are worried about the state of your guide and friend. He is still blindfolded, and he needs to hear your voice, otherwise he might think they’ve killed you and do something stupid.
‘Want to die a hero, you bastard?’ the colonel continues. His voice is creepily quiet. ‘I can kill you and there’ll be nothing to pay! “Attempted escape”…’
You notice the hand holding the assault rifle is trembling from barely constrained rage. For some reason you take in the fact that he is left-handed. ‘Yes I know,’ you say. ‘But do I look like a hero to you?’
A brief silence fills the air. ‘No. It would be too kind to kill you here. Your death will take place somewhere else. And it’ll be a slow and painful death. Dress his wound and tie him to the post!’ the colonel ends his monologue. They blindfold you and, striking you with their rifle butts, they lead you away. To be bandaged, as it turns out. After dressing your wound, they slip your hands, which are bound behind your back, over a post and leave you waiting in the hot summer sun for a helicopter. You have no shirt on – they stripped you of it upon arrival – plus your wound is bleeding, and as a result you are unbearably thirsty. Someone approaches and whispers quietly in your ear, ‘If you want to avoid problems, keep quiet about some of the weapons you were caught with.’
This offer suits you fine, so you say, ‘Agreed. What shouldn’t I mention?’
‘Don’t mention anything except the RPG-18 and the hand grenades.’
‘OK. Only don’t blab,’ you say, knowing full well it is one of the original thirteen who has decided to conceal some weapons and sell them back to your comrades. He leaves in silence. Hearing somebody’s voice nearby, you ask for water. The reply comes: ‘Want some water? Here!’ And you’re punched in the solar plexus.
Almost at once you hear the sound of a blow and a voice: ‘You bastard! Beating a guy when he’s tied up! If you’re a real man, untie his hands; he’ll rip your eyes out! Look pal’ – addressing me – ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t shield you from the colonel, but that scumbag will leave you alone now.’
It is the voice of your unknown ally who hid the paper with the codes from his commander. You say, ‘Thank you! For everything.’
‘I’m afraid there’s no water. If they bring any before the helicopters arrive, I’ll make sure you get a drink,’ he promises, walking away.
You realize that what’s happening to you now is just a gentle limbering-up for what is to come. You know that you will die. And you’ll die slowly and painfully. Nobody will be compassionate enough to release you with a blessed bullet. Everything you’ve done up till now ostensibly to save your skin – denying that you were a combatant, agreeing to keep quiet about the weapons – was done in pursuit of the one goal that matters to you: bringing closer the moment of death, so the torture will end quicker. Yet you also know the torture you’ll undergo will purify you of all sins and you’ll stand before God with a shining face. Perhaps the torture will even purify your torturers of their sins. You are a fatalist. You will have to travel through hell for an eternity in order to reach your paradise, your peace, that is so near at hand. That’s what you are hoping. You are so tired. God is merciful, after all. He does not sentence people to serve their time in hell twice. So what now? Now there’s nothing for it but to wait. Wait for the helicopters to come for you, bringing… Not just your death. No, something more horrible still. So you wait. And standing in the fierce summer sun you quietly recite the verses from the holy Quran which you are capable of recalling. You recite mechanically, not really reflecting on the content. Here is the drone of the helicopter… It is time. So they didn’t bring you any water. They say that a dying man gets terribly thirsty. And how badly you’ll yearn for that sip of water.