After a good half hour’s drive, Sergey Pustynikov pulled up in front of a large warehouse. The black Mercedes looked incongruous next to the dilapidated building with its crumbling, grey concrete and dirty windows. Sergey Pustynikov clearly had no second thoughts about parking his status symbol in these surroundings, marred by broken windows and primitive graffiti. Here, he had the last word on what could be stolen and who could be mugged. Instinctively, he squeezed the key fob and headed towards a tired-looking metal door in the large warehouse. As the four men entered the building, it was apparent that the storage facility had not been in use for a long time. Garbage was strewn all over the place, and the floor was covered in droppings from pigeons flapping in and out of the broken windows near the ceiling. Sergey Pustynikov was clearly no stranger to this place and led them straight towards the wall furthest away where, as they got closer, a massive metal door materialised from the gloom. With his fist clenched, he pounded the door four times in quick succession, and after a few seconds, the door swung open, and a shaven-headed, broad-shouldered man with a gun in his hand beckoned them to enter. Sergey Pustynikov greeted the fearsome guy with a nod and stepped through the opening.
The room was spartan but efficiently furnished, like a military 122command post. One of its bare concrete walls was partly covered with newspaper clippings. The Chechen brothers headed for a table by the wall, where a group of men were gathered. The men were not outspoken but had an aura of confidence about their role and what was expected of them. Along the opposite wall, several green wooden boxes were stacked up. Shamil went over to the crates and noted approvingly that they contained a well-assorted selection of hand grenades, automatic rifles, and a few mines. Shamil picked up an AKS-74U compact assault rifle and held it as if judging its weight.
‘It was developed for the Special Forces, back in the day,’ he said with an air of approval. He turned to Sergey Pustynikov and continued: ‘With its thirty-round magazine, the light but highly effective 5.45-calibre ammunition and a length of just fifty centimetres with the stock collapsed, it’s a very compelling choice,’ he continued as he inserted a magazine and cocked the automatic rifle.
‘Here, we will plan our revenge against the state of Denmark – giving it a choice between “everything coming up roses” or “falling on its sword”. If the Danes want to play ball, they must pay compensation equal to the goods lost. Otherwise, they can add another name to the list of dead Danish soldiers,’ Sergey Pustynikov proclaimed and pointed accusingly at the newspaper clippings on the wall.
‘His actions have made him an enemy of our cause, and only the ransom payment will secure his release. His fate lies in your hands. If our demands are not met, you have a free hand to avenge your fallen brother in a traditional Chechen manner,’ he continued as he walked to the wall and tapped his index finger on a photo of Kaare Strand on a front page.123
The statement was just to Shamil’s liking. He had fostered the idea of the hostage-taking, and Sergey Pustynikov had not been slow to seize the opportunity as a way of bringing about Andrej Nitchenko’s political agenda. And all without the hassle of handling the narcotics on the Russian market. Shamil smiled at the thought that Sergey Pustynikov, behind closed doors, had assured him that, once the ransom had been paid, he would get the hostage. In order to administer a proper Chechen revenge. He was musing on how long the hostage would be able to survive the torture; the line of thought was intoxicating. The machine gun’s stock and the smell of weapon oil took him back to his youth, to the southern Chechen town of Argun and the five-storey apartment block. If anyone had asked, the neighbours would have said that Shamil was a quiet boy. No one would have guessed that, twenty years later, he would be heading up a band of Chechen terrorists. The eldest of a family of five, Shamil had left home at the age of seventeen to join the Russian airborne forces. The first time he was home on leave, the neighbours had seen a proud young man in his handsome uniform – with the blue-and-white striped T-shirt visible under his military jacket. The striped T-shirt commanded respect, a sign that he belonged to a Special Forces unit. The stream of pictures from the Soviet propaganda machine made sure everyone in the village knew that.
The pride, however, had vanished as quickly as morning dew in the first rays of sun when Russian troops were sent into Chechnya. He had promptly deserted his parachute regiment and taken up a more lucrative career – one that the brutal war had opened his, and his fellow Chechen countrymen’s, eyes to. The following five years turned the quiet teenager in the Russian Army into an infamous 124Chechen terrorist, with unspeakable acts on his conscience. His contacts in the Russian military had provided him with an array of extraordinary business opportunities.
He was also proud of the Black Widows. They were his brainchild. An army of lost women – who could live only in shame and extreme poverty within Chechen society – impacted significantly on the battlefield. As they had lost their husbands in the war or were the victims of gang rape by Russian soldiers, they were fearless and sought only martyrdom. He had come upon the idea as a tribute to his late aunt, Kava Alkhanov. At eighteen, she had killed herself and several Russian soldiers as she calmly walked into the Russian barracks in the Chechen town of Alkhan-Kala early one morning. Under her traditional, loose-fitting attire, she had strapped an explosives belt. Once in the barracks, she detonated the explosives. Her courage and determination had been a constant source of inspiration to him. When pupils at School Number Fifty in Grozny were interviewed for the Russian paper Izvestija, they unanimously named her Chechnya’s true heroine of freedom. He had been proud as only a Chechen could be.
Sergey Pustynikov’s voice dragged Shamil back into the room: he put the automatic rifle down and joined the others leaning over a large map unfolded on the wooden table; they were already busy planning their mission. The map was of a Danish town. Soon, I can avenge my brother and remove the blemish on my honour brought about by that fiasco in Afghanistan, thought Shamil. The idea of revenge made the blood rush through his veins, and unwittingly he clenched his fists so hard that his knuckles turned white.