So here it was, the very thing I’d been expecting and dreading. A rather thinly disguised attempt to recruit me. But at least I wasn’t facing an ultimatum, as many others were. Not yet, at any rate…
‘Well, I wouldn’t exactly say I have clout among them,’ I said, trying to buy time. But my brain was not functioning well today. All my carefully prepared answers vanished from my mind. As it turned out, this was no bad thing. You simply cannot have a ready answer for a proposal like that. Unless, of course, you are an intelligence professional working for the enemy.
‘Trust me, we know what we’re talking about. You have enough clout in their eyes.’
‘As you know, my home was destroyed. I don’t have any paid work. I’ve got no end of everyday problems that only I can sort out. So my answer is yes, I agree to your plan. But on one condition. Issue me an official ID from your agency and pay me a salary. Take me on as an FSB officer. Then I’ll go to the mountains and, openly working as an FSB agent, I’ll try to talk the rebels into ending their resistance. There’s no way I could work undercover. I just wouldn’t know how.’
‘But if you work openly, you could be killed.’
‘No, they won’t kill me. They all know me. I’ll take care of my own safety.’
The officer looked at me long and hard, then sighed and said, ‘You’re too clever to be given an ID, a mission, and money into the bargain.’
‘Then at least give me a document to say I’ve been through the filter camp.’ These documents were given to everyone who’d passed through the camp.
‘No. We only issue them to people whose innocence has been established. But we know perfectly well who you are. And don’t forget we’re not actually talking about releasing you without charges. We’re just thinking over the different options.’
And that was the end of their attempt to induce me to cooperate. The polite FSB officer had no further ‘talks’ with me. I was to learn what had triggered this conversation a few days later.
15
I’d been unexpectedly brought out to the yard, where a man in civilian clothing asked me a number of meaningless questions. As the guard led me back to the cell, he leaned over me and whispered: ‘You should pray, mate. They’re deciding whether to release you. I genuinely hope you make it out of this hell.’ Dazed by what he’d said, I completely forgot to thank him for this good news. My sensation was something like that of a man wounded in action as he’s coming round from an anaesthetic. Hard on the heels of the awareness that you’re alive comes a savage pain… And you don’t know whether to rejoice at your revival. All hope of surviving had died in me and I felt released from all my debts to everyone, even to life itself, so the sudden promise of life came as such a powerful shock that my cellmates took fright when they saw me. They decided I must have been informed of the death sentence. The news was so surprising that it completely knocked me off my feet. I’d have handled the death sentence far more calmly, as it was the logical outcome I’d been expecting. So it seemed joyful news could also be upsetting. After thinking it over, I decided that it had to be the latest trick of the special-service agents and my old friend the colonel from Khankala: they were spreading disinformation. They were hoping to ruffle my composure with this shocking news. And once I’d lost control of my spiritual state, it would be all too easy to become putty in their hands. Having settled on this interpretation and extinguishing all hope again, I calmed down.
But a few days later the door of my cell opened and an officer called out my name and that of my friend. We stood facing the wall with our hands raised, as required by the regulations, and replied. ‘Take your belongings and leave the cell!’ he said. Such an order could mean a number of things: that we were simply being moved to another cell, or transferred to a prison, or perhaps we were even going to court for trial. I had no idea if condemned men take their belongings to their execution, but I decided that wasn’t what was happening. So they had to be taking us some place for more interrogation. With some new masters of the torturer’s art. Or else they were transferring us. And surely they wouldn’t execute my friend. The cold truth was they could shoot people at whim, and they shot people for far less, but I managed to convince myself he was safe from execution. In the corridor we were joined by another prisoner; then they loaded us into an armoured personnel carrier and drove us towards our unknown destination.
In around twenty minutes the vehicle came to a stop. The noise from outside suggested we were in a town. There was a large crowd shouting. It sounded like some kind of rally. But why would they have driven us to a rally? My two fellow prisoners were watching spellbound through the slits in the armoured personnel carrier, and they joyously announced we were in the centre of a town and our relatives were among the protesters. I gave no response at all. Our unknown companion couldn’t restrain himself and he called out from the vehicle to someone, but the soldiers shut him up. Irate, I turned on him, telling him to be a man and show some restraint. Rather sheepishly he went quiet. Well, if they were going to silence you anyway, then why not simply hold your tongue in the first place? To my mind it was more humiliating to shout and then be shut up by the soldiers than simply to stay quiet. Soon they took us from the APC and pointed out where we should go. I looked in that direction and saw my comrades, in full combat gear and armed. Trying to walk with a calm stride, though without much success, we went towards them – catching sight briefly of two officers walking past us – and we fell into their arms.
And only now did it hit me: we were free! I immediately began a mental conversation with the colonel who’d promised me death. ‘It’s all over, Colonel. You lost. You cannot kill me now. Even if you set up an ambush on the road, you wouldn’t be killing me. Even if I die this very minute, it won’t be you who’s killing me, Colonel. You didn’t keep your word. I got out alive. For you, Colonel, I’ll live for ever. You lost. You were weaker.’ My conversation was cut short by a barrage of questions from our friends about our physical and psychological state.
We drove from the town to our freedom in a convoy of cars carrying delegates from peace talks with the Russians. We came to a village in western Chechnya, but we had to travel further. The Chechen command had carefully chosen a route into the mountains that was more roundabout but less risky. They said they’d received intelligence about an ambush set up by Russian special forces in the Argun ravine along the route they’d initially planned. In the company of loyal friends, we set off on horseback into the mountains, riding along remote forest paths towards our comrades. At first after my release, the joy at feeling free – not at being saved, because they could still kill me now, but specifically at feeling free – was so powerful that I feared for my sanity. I was afraid that my heart might not be able to take the strain. Although why should I fear for my heart and mind now, when they had survived the strain of the torture at the filter camp? After we’d been riding for about an hour, the first signs that the torture had taken its toll appeared. My entire body began to ache; gradually the dull, nagging tenderness turned into a pain as fierce as during the torture. And slowly the feeling of joy was supplanted by a pain that for a long while continued to plague us, especially at night, along with the dreams of the filter camp.