Zabelin took me aside and whispered to me. ‘Nicolay, I put in a word for you with someone I know; he’s called Captain Nosov,’ he said, looking at me sternly. ‘He’s an old friend of mine, an expert saboteur. You’ll be on his independent team. Do what he says, and if you’re lucky, you’ll go home alive and in one piece.’ Then he shook my hand. Before leaving, he told us all to go to hell, an old Russian saying for good luck.
Half an hour went by and then a soldier came in, with three new uniforms. They had the paratroopers’ insignia printed on them, and naturally they came with the blue beret so loved and sought after by every paratrooper. He brought army boots too, which weighed at least a kilo each. Another soldier set down three knapsacks identical to the ones in which they had brought our provisions, and said:
‘You have to wear uniforms because during the trip you’ll be with the paratroopers. Put your clothes in these backpacks, and when they leave you to your units you can put your civvies back on.’
I put on the uniform and looked at my reflection in the window. I didn’t like seeing the gear on me – it seemed unnatural. My comrades, however, were amused by the situation. They adjusted one another’s berets, struck model poses, as if they were getting ready for a party or an award ceremony.
We had a few hours’ flight to Chechnya. On the plane with us were soldiers who belonged to other units in the paratrooper force. They were joking, laughing, shouting, talking about the political situation and the war. To buck up their courage, they said the Chechens were ‘a bunch of fags – they can’t even keep their guns up’. Another threw out some serious insults towards the Arabs.
I would soon discover that in this war, for the sake of practicality – and thinking back on it now, it’s a very shameful thing – all our enemies were called ‘Arabs’, whether they were Chechens, Muslims, Afghans, Taliban, terrorists, or fighters who had sided with any political creed. The word ‘Arab’ was the way we indicated the enemy.
There were two lieutenants next to me who seemed not to give any weight to the ruckus. They let the soldiers talk, and the atmosphere was upbeat, almost party-like.
We landed at night. They separated me from my comrades and pointed me to the armoured car headed for the mobile immediate-response unit, where the team of saboteurs under Captain Nosov was stationed.
I sat on top – sitting on the roof was known as riding the armour – along with a group of soldiers I didn’t know. As the car made the long journey in the dark, I realised that the others were speaking to me with some disdain. They were part of a special group from the Ministry of Internal Affairs, and evidently I, the newcomer, was not welcome.
The first thing I noticed when we got to the base – and this would sink in over the days to come – was that everything worked opposite to the way it did at boot camp. There was no light to be seen at the checkpoint, there was no sign of recognition for entering vehicles – I only realised that we had arrived because in the dark I saw three soldiers cupping their hands to try to conceal their cigarettes. Smoking at the checkpoints was prohibited, especially at night – the risk of being spotted, even from a distance, was extremely high.
They took me to an ugly building, a military container for the transport of supplies that had been turned into a sort of cabin, with a small window and a rough-hewn wooden door. They handed me over to a soldier in civvies carrying a cut Kalashnikov with a folding stock. He put away my papers, and without even glancing at them, handed them back as soon as we were alone.
‘My name’s Pasha, but everyone calls me “Moscow”. You’re with us. Come on, put your stuff on the bunk in the back and take off that uniform, I’ll give you a jumpsuit. Have you got trainers?’
I looked at my papers in disbelief. According to regulation, all documentation regarding soldiers had to be kept in the office of the unit to which we were assigned. Giving them back to a soldier was strictly forbidden. So I introduced myself and immediately asked,
‘Hey, what’s the story with the documents, why did you give them to me? Where’s the secretary?’
He looked at me as if I were from another planet.
‘Who am I supposed to give them to, babyface? We haven’t got offices or secretaries, so everyone’s his own secretary around here. We’re saboteurs, a mobile unit. Today we’re in one place, tomorrow in another. We’re independent, get it?’ he said, chewing on a hunk of black bread. The smell of burned grain was overpowering and it reminded me of kvass, a drink that my grandmother made. ‘Follow me,’ Moscow said, before I could respond.
The cabin was full of men in everyday clothes – some were sleeping, others eating or chatting. I was surprised by the number of weapons lying around – there was a Kalashnikov at the foot of every bunk, and there must have been at least twenty more stacked against the wall, not counting the rifles that some of the men were holding. On the ground lay crates full of new cartridges, still covered with a thin coat of grease, and a crate with several hand grenades. Other ammunition was scattered around, along with a couple of rounds for RPG-7 grenade launchers. In one corner there was a stack of bulletproof vests, modified just like Zabelin had taught us in boot camp; they were short, with the bottom cut off in front so you could move your legs more easily and use the sides as pockets for ammunition. From two normal jackets you could make one good one, and at chest height, in the hand-sewn pockets, you would always insert a double set of iron plates.
I would soon learn that the saboteur base never stayed in the same place for long, and from time to time they would put us with units that needed our assistance. In the intervals between one operation and another we would sleep in the place we called ‘home’, that is, the temporary barracks, where the only things we never ran out of were weapons and ammunition, which were scattered everywhere and even got mixed up with our food.
Moscow led me to the back of the base. Next to a tumbledown wood cabin, there was a steel vat filled with water, and a pole with the flag of the Russian Federation, just like the one I had seen in the propaganda video, was attached to it. From the vat, you could see a man’s head, half-submerged, making bubbles as he breathed out of his nose.
‘Ivanisch, the new guy’s here . . .’
The head in the water lifted and I saw the face of a man in his forties, clean-shaven and with the expression of someone who wants to steal something. It was Captain Nosov, and in a very calm, low voice, one of those voices that can frighten you, he asked me:
‘So, you’re the hotshot delinquent? Zabelin has told me a lot of things about you . . .’
I was surprised, because I had no idea what Zabelin could have written about me, but I gave an affirmative response all the same.
‘That’s me, Comrade Captain!’
Nosov looked me straight in the eye.
‘Forget all that “Comrade Captain” crap. Here, we’re just one big family, call me Ivanisch.’
‘All right, Ivanisch . . .’
‘How is that old Zabelin?’ he asked me, as he kept working in the vat. ‘Has he gone completely deaf yet?’
I didn’t know what he meant; it was as if we were talking about two different people. ‘Deaf?’ I asked, confused. ‘He hears everything just fine. He’s good, actually. He said to tell you hello.’
The captain gave me a serious look.
‘Boy, I was side by side with Zabelin in Afghanistan for a long time. In Kabul they tried hard to destroy us, and after a bomb went off he nearly lost his hearing. As the years have gone by it’s got worse. Shit, don’t tell me you didn’t notice!’ he concluded, smiling.
Images of Zabelin as I had seen him in the three months spent in training camp flashed through my head.
‘I really didn’t, I didn’t notice. I’d never have thought,’ I replied.