‘Tell me your objective in trying to infiltrate our intelligence. Who assigned you to the mission?’
‘I wasn’t trying to infiltrate anyone. And nobody gave me any mission. I’m just a journalist, who was unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘It all fits too neatly… What was your purpose in asking to look at the map and the aerial photos if you didn’t know where the rebel base was?’
‘I wanted to try and make things easier. I was sick of the torture.’ In reality you’d simply wanted to appear willing to help so they’d decide you were a hopeless case: Look, I wanted to help you, but couldn’t make anything out. It is only now that you realize what a hole you’ve dug yourself into. So you won’t be enjoying a swift death after all.
‘Ah, but we have detailed intelligence on you from our sources.’ You realize that these sources are Chechens. And you can even guess who they are. But you say nothing. ‘What’s more, we’ve intercepted a radio signal where an order was given to get you released at any cost. You must admit, they’d hardly get so worked up over an ordinary journalist. This might sound to you like good news, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up. We’ll only release you after you tell us the truth. You’re an intelligence officer, aren’t you?’ At that very moment, an FSB officer is spreading false information among your acquaintances that you’ve told your captors you’re one of Dudayev’s intelligence officers.
‘No. I’m a journalist. If the rebels are worried about me I expect it’s because they all know me. I was working among them.’
‘Yet you don’t know anything about them. I’m afraid that’s not how it works. At least tell us their names.’
‘They don’t use their real names. They all have call signs.’
‘What was your call sign?’
‘I didn’t have a call sign. Everyone called me by my name.’
‘What call signs were the rebels using? What about Gelayev’s special forces?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘What insignia do the special forces use? Do they have some kind of patches, distinctive headgear or something? How do they stand out from the other units?’
‘I don’t have a clue about patches or badges. They all look the same to me.’
‘All right. We accept that you might have forgotten certain things. But here’s where a little jab can come in handy. It’s terribly effective at curing forgetfulness. Now the guys here will help you to remember, while I’ll be on my way. As soon as you remember, you just call for me. Say the words, “Call him,” and I’ll be back. Careful not to overdo it,’ he addresses someone. ‘We still need him.’
‘Sure, I’ll sterilize the needle in a flame specially for him,’ someone answers.
When you hear the word ‘jab’, your blood runs cold. So they’ve decided to administer a truth serum. At this point you don’t know if they really exist, though much later you’ll discover that this whole idea of an infallible truth drug is no more than a myth. But right now you’re waiting for just such a jab. You’re expecting to slip away gradually to a state where you’ll lose control of your mind. They place your arms on the table. But why are they holding them down? And why both arms? The answer comes in an instant, when an insane pain shoots up like lightning from your fingertips… Shattering your brain into smithereens, it surges back down… And finding no escape route, it thrashes through your nerves, ripping and searing them… After the first wave, a second one strikes, still more raging. Red circles are dancing before your eyes. No, you don’t scream. You cannot scream. You wheeze. The pain has paralysed your breathing and clenched your throat in a burning spasm. It slowly turns you inside out. And you drift off into darkness… But there’s water. They always have water to hand. The cool, bracing liquid jerks you from your haven of darkness – back into the pain. But mercifully, such high intensity pain cannot endure for long. Were it to last just a little longer, you would die of shock. Your heart could not take it. And they know it. That is why they administer the pain in astonishingly precise doses. These are true professionals. And the source of this fiendish pain? Fine needles thrust under the nails of your index and middle fingers. Not too deep… Just a little beyond the white crescent. Perhaps there are people who could handle this particular pain more easily. But you nearly went permanently out of your mind. At least that’s how it felt.
‘So, do you remember?’ Through a fog you hear the voice of your invisible acquaintance. ‘You can go for now. Only try and remember. And when you do, call for me. You don’t have much time left. It’s better that you call for me, not the other way round. Take him to the cellar!’ They lead you away, not forgetting to give you a good beating in their usual manner, but at the cellar entrance the doctor catches you.
‘Come with me, my unfortunate friend!’ you hear the voice of your saviour, and you try to smile. He pulls off your blindfold; peering into your pupils, he shakes his head dolefully and sits you on the familiar stool beneath the canopy.
9
Today, on day five of your stay in Khankala, the Russian Army’s main base in Chechnya, they have stopped the torture. And you know that they won’t restart it. Not because you’ve told them the truth, not because your torturers have suddenly acquired a conscience. No. They won’t torture you for another reason. Because they mustn’t allow you to die. At least not yet… You find this more terrifying than the most sophisticated torture technique. Your journey so far may have been painful, but it was a known quantity. What comes next is a mystery. There’s no chance of things improving, so that means they can only get worse. And you cannot imagine anything worse than what you’ve been through… And so this lull terrifies you. The torture has almost killed you in any case. You couldn’t have taken much more. The fact that they’ve decided to put you on trial, offering you a phantom chance to defend yourself in Russian law, is immaterial. You understand perfectly well that you won’t live to see trial. It’s just that something’s clearly happened to make them change tactics. And you still don’t know what it is. Later you will find out. But for now you are talking to a courteous lieutenant colonel. He is enquiring after your health, asking whether there is anything you need and so forth. You’re not yet sure what to expect from this politeness and so you remain on your guard. Yes, you’re OK. You feel fine and there’s nothing you need. Your eyes aren’t blindfolded and the lieutenant colonel has introduced himself. It doesn’t matter that the name is made up, all the same he has introduced himself. Aleksandr, as he calls himself, is interested in how you got caught up in the war, how you found yourself in the rebel camp.
‘You see, I’m a journalist,’ you say. ‘It’s not for me to judge who is right and who’s wrong in this war.’ You try to act the impartial journalist. And he tries to pretend he believes you. ‘My aim was to witness the tragedy of my nation and then to write about what I’d watched. To tell people about the other side of war’s romanticism. I don’t want anything like this ever to be repeated, anywhere. History will judge whoever is guilty in this war, but nobody can bring back the dead. I was simply carrying out my job. And I was working in the rebel camp only because I was downright afraid of working with the Russians. Well, you can see for yourself how they’ve treated me.’ You say ‘they’, in a conscious attempt to remove the officer from the category of your torturers.