Acar snaked through the security barriers in front of the ISAF military prison. The Russian and Chechen prisoners had arrived a couple of days ago, but the newcomers were quickly forgotten. There were already too many criminals that no one cared about. Too many Russian soldiers were caught red-handed in black-market activities. The few NCOs and the total absence of officers amongst the inmates merely continued tradition; it was left to the ordinary soldiers to do the dirty work. The prison was simply a reflection of the way things were back home.
It looks like another unbearably hot day, the prison warden thought as he looked at the fast-evaporating puddles created by the morning rain. He had just picked up the phone and was about to call for coffee when he spotted the Toyota Land Cruiser heading for the main gate. He moved closer to the window to get a better look and glanced at the fax on the table. A forewarning of the arrival of an important guest. As the car parked inside the prison walls, the warden could confirm that this was him. He hurried from the office towards the courtyard, where two prison guards stood immaculately to attention. Sergey Pustynikov shut the engine down and watched, in the rear-view mirror, the prison 88warden approaching – sweating like a pig as he charged towards the car. He allowed the warden to get all the way up to the car before he got out to embrace him, melodramatically kissing on the cheeks as Russian tradition called for.
‘Welcome, Major!’ the prison warden saluted, desperately trying to catch his breath as he looked at the newcomer in poorly concealed awe. He continued: ‘We have looked forward to your visit and are grateful to see an end to this awkward situation. Lunch has been prepared; lamb and, of course, Russian vodka!’ said the warden, stretching out his hand toward the prison’s main building.
Sergey Pustynikov allowed a grin to chase off his morning grumpiness. It was good to experience some military hospitality again, now that he was a civilian. He was still a soldier at heart, although the comforts of his daily civilian life had hooked him. And he had cursed the uncomfortable journey to Kabul. The two men chatted as they walked towards the buildings’ alluring shade and the mess hall entrance. Sergey’s remaining irritation evaporated at the sight of the meal lined up. He did not even wait for the warden to sit but dug into the lunch, letting the bunch of servers get him drinks and fruit. He picked up a piece of lamb and let the aroma hit his nose as he dropped it into his mouth and nodded at his host.
‘Nas zdrowia!’ the warden said as he raised a glass of vodka.
‘Nas zdrowia!’
‘I can assure you that our three friends have received exquisite treatment: separate rooms, TV and good food. Several times, I have had to put them in more humble quarters to avoid problems. But only during ISAF inspections of the prisoners. They were 89moved back immediately after the inspection team had left,’ he explained while wringing his hands.
Sergey Pustynikov shoved another lamb chop in his mouth and looked him straight in the eye.
‘Good,’ he answered while chewing on the remaining meat and gulping the rest down his throat as he continued: ‘You can be sure that my old comrade, Andrej Nitchenko, will appreciate your loyalty,’ he said, making sure the warden got the full extent of his words.
‘Now look at how heroes are celebrated in other places,’ he said with a forced smile and pulled a copy of a Danish tabloid from his bag, laying it on the table in front of the warden.
The front page was decorated with a photo of Kaare Strand being kissed by his wife.
‘The headline reads “Victory Kiss!” and underneath it says: “Danish soldier honoured by Queen Margrethe after fire fight in Afghanistan.”’
Sergey let the warden absorb the connotations of the front page.
‘Headings like “Russians Killed”, “Praise from the Defence Ministry”, “Kaare Strand: We Were Professionals”, “Satisfaction in the Coalition” and “Russia Apologises”; absolutely outrageous, right!’ hissed Sergey Pustynikov as he drummed his index finger on a photo of the Jaeger patrol on page four.
‘This is inexcusable,’ the warden groaned and shook his head. ‘It must surely be avenged?’
Sergey Pustynikov nodded and grabbed another lamb chop.
‘I get the gist,’ the warden muttered and raised his gaze from the paper. As he caught Sergey Pustynikov’s eyes, a sudden chill made the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
‘Are our three friends not joining us today?’ Sergey Pustynikov 90asked as he produced an envelope from his bag and tossed it to the warden.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ the warden stuttered, eagerly running his fingers through the fat wad of dollars the envelope contained.
A smug smile spread across the warden’s face, and he yelled a name. One of the uniformed guards promptly stood to attention at his side and saluted. The warden issued a brief order in Russian, and the guard turned on his heel to hurry from the room.
The warden downed his vodka shot, stood up, went over to Sergey Pustynikov and slapped him on his back. Before Sergey Pustynikov could react, the guard walked into the room accompanied by Shamil and his two brothers. The warden gestured smilingly for them to sit, but they ignored him, moving instead to embrace Sergey Pustynikov. The warden sat down and returned to the envelope with feigned interest. Lack of gratitude is only to be expected from primitive Chechen bastards, but it’s unacceptable in front of my guards, he thought, pushing the tabloid to the middle of the table.
‘That’s the pig!’ Shamil spluttered as his eye caught the tabloid on the table.
A hatred was lit in their eyes as the three brothers stooped forward to study the front page. Sergey Pustynikov commanded silence with a move of his hand.
‘This shows who our enemies are!’
The warden noted the tone with a chill of apprehension.
‘Our friends are many, and just like our friends here today, we can count on their support. Our enemies are like those lackeys of NATO, whose sole aim is to bring Russia to its knees. Our 91enemies are personified by this soldier!’ he continued, banging his fist hard upon the table.
‘Our enemies have agents within the Kremlin who allow themselves to be bought by NATO. Traitors that allow Russian soil to be splintered into independent republics. Gentlemen, to Mother Russia, to our friends – and to our future greatness!’
Sergey Pustynikov rose from his seat, his glass held high.
‘Nas zdrowia!’ the five men roared.
Sergey Pustynikov looked each of the brothers in the eye as he invited them to tuck in. Soon talking gave way to chomping, interrupted only by calls for more vodka. When they finally finished, Sergey Pustynikov made no bones about the task ahead and announced their departure. The warden accompanied all four men to the car. The atmosphere was tense as they rolled out of the prison gate. No one uttered a word until Sergey Pustynikov pulled over, after having distanced them from the prison. As the car came to a stop, he turned to face the three brothers in the back seat:
‘You do know that, although Andrej Nitchenko grieves for your loss, he is also furious that you lost the goods, right?’ he said callously.
They nodded in silence. The vodka slurred Sergey Pustynikov’s words, but they were clear about their task: cleaning up this fiasco.
‘He expects you to man up and compensate for the loss,’ he continued as he pulled back onto the road, concentrating on the pot-holed surface in front of him.
The three men inadvertently straightened their backs. We will demonstrate that we have our honour intact, Shamil thought. The ends justify the means, regardless of how violent that turns out to 92be. Shamil was exhilarated by the prospect. For many years, his band had subscribed to Wahhabism. The fact that this extreme fundamentalist sect of Islam originated from the Arabian Peninsula meant nothing. Because it had opened up funding from Saudi plutocrats. In the finest tradition of capitalism, seed money founded his business. For years, he and his men financed their activities by kidnapping people, regardless of nationality. All that mattered was that someone could pay for their release. Shamil first made it to the front pages of international newspapers when he and his brothers kidnapped a couple of British and Australian consultants working on modernising the telecommunication network in Chechnya. When it turned out that their telecoms company employer refused to pay the ransom, Shamil’s gang responded with the gesture that became their trademark – cutting off their hostages’ heads and leaving them by the roadside for the benefit of the international press.
The following years showed that Shamil had no equal when it came to brutality. He never shied away from torturing his hostages. Simply because he could. And he made a virtue of posting atrocious video recordings to the relatives. Often with a couple of the hostages’ cut-off fingers. His willingness to commit acts of brutality had made him infamous in Russia, and had brought about a lucrative partnership with certain powers in that country. Men to whom money meant everything and ethics and loyalty were mere commodities. Even up to the highest levels of the FSB, there was a willingness to do business. Hostage-taking and his brutality helped the Russian security agency label Chechnya a criminal state. Shamil’s train of thought was cut short by Sergey Pustynikov: ‘I promise you there awaits great assignments for 93Andrej Nitchenko and Mother Russia ahead of you. And I know that you will find pleasure in these. This time you will not fail,’ he said in a rasping tone, throwing the three men a glance in the rear-view mirror.
He turned on the car radio and concentrated on the crumbling road ahead. Failure is never acceptable, he thought, glancing again in the mirror. I would have shot them on the spot if it was down to me. Expertly, he avoided a couple of massive potholes and started whistling to the tune blaring from the speakers of the radio.