by Mark McKay
As it was all in Russian, he had no clue as to what was going on. A man in uniform was called to the witness box and made a statement. Another man in a suit followed him. Then it was Veronika’s turn. She didn’t call anyone, just simply made a long and impassioned speech which got both boos and applause when she finished. Then the court was adjourned. The whole thing had lasted just under two hours. When they all met in a restaurant shortly afterwards, Veronika gave them a summary of events.
‘The man on my left was Glaskov. He is acting for the Russian Federation. His statement was in support of the charges of anti-government activity. As far as he’s concerned, spray-painting the Kremlin walls with anti-dictatorship messages is a direct attack on the validity of the Russian constitution. He called a security guard and asked him to give his testimony about apprehending the girls at the scene. They apparently showed no regret for their actions at the time. The second man was a prison psychiatrist, who basically reinforced the first man’s statement by saying that neither Russian woman had expressed any guilt over their actions. He hasn’t as yet assessed Louisa and Maria. And then Glaskov called for the full fifteen-year sentence to be upheld.’
‘What did you say?’ asked Marielle.
‘I argued that their actions do not constitute anti-government activity. Their anti-dictatorship slogans were not directed at the president or the government. They simply represent a statement about totalitarianism generally. They wanted only to express themselves freely, which they believe they have a right to do under article 29 of the present constitution. Their act has been blown out of proportion. I also argued that the sentence is excessive, given the fact that none of the girls have criminal records. I asked for the court to reconsider the offence and grant them clemency.’
‘Now what happens?’ said Nick.
‘Tomorrow, the judges announce their decision.’
‘What do you think that decision will be?’
‘I think,’ said Veronika, ‘that given the media interest in this case, it represents an opportunity for the Russian Federation to be seen as a just and considerate champion of human rights. And because of that, I expect the appeal to be successful.’
‘God, I hope you’re right,’ said Marielle. She had her hand on Nick’s arm and he felt the tension in her grip. There was nothing to be done now except wait for tomorrow.
‘I suggest you do some sight-seeing,’ said Veronika. ‘Take your mind off the appeal as much as you can. The Kremlin Palace is extremely beautiful. I recommend it.’
Lothar and Cornelia seemed taken with the suggestion.
‘We want to do another interview with you tonight,’ said Cornelia to Marielle. ‘So we have the rest of the day to spend here in Moscow. I think the palace is a good idea.’
Marielle agreed, reluctantly. ‘Yes, alright. Better than sitting in a hotel room all day.’
They ordered lunch, which was eaten in relative silence. Everyone seemed preoccupied with their own thoughts. Afterwards, they parted company with Veronika and made their way to the palace. Its opulent splendour certainly fulfilled their expectations. They could only hope tomorrow’s appeal verdict would do the same.
The next day at court went much as before. With one exception. Veronika had expected Glaskov to make his closing argument in support of the current sentence and then she would present her counter-argument. But before that could happen, Glaskov called another witness. Veronika was obviously taken by surprise and approached the bench with her objections. They were overruled, and Yulian Dubrovsky took the stand.
‘What the hell is he doing here?’ Nick whispered to Marielle.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. What can he be a witness to?’
Dubrovsky’s appearance unsettled them. He sat in the witness box and looked imperiously around the courtroom, until his eyes finally settled on the two of them. There was a shadow of a smile on his lips.
The prosecutor said something and Dubrovsky answered with a five-minute monologue. There were some mutterings in the audience, and the two Russian members of Beaver Rampage looked furious. Veronika was doing her best to keep a neutral face, but Nick thought she looked unhappy at this sudden contribution from the Minister of Culture. Once Dubrovsky had finished and gone, Glaskov presented his closing address. Whatever Dubrovsky had said had got Veronika fired-up; she gave another impassioned speech which had several people in the audience shouting their support. Then once again, the court was adjourned. A decision would be announced after lunch.
Veronika was in a foul mood when she joined them for lunch.
‘That shouldn’t have happened,’ she said. ‘That man Glaskov called was the Minister of Culture. He wasn’t even a witness, more of a soap-box orator.’
‘What did he say?’ demanded Marielle.
Veronika gave a long sigh of frustration. ‘He wanted to make a statement on behalf of the Federation. He said that although the government encourages free speech, it should be exercised with respect for authority. He added that from a cultural perspective, defacing the walls of the Kremlin with anti-government slogans is not the message that Russia wants to send to the world. And that people who undermine their cultural heritage should be punished accordingly. That’s what he said.’
‘Will that have any impact on the judges?’
Veronika shrugged. ‘I don’t know. In my closing argument I said that although the minister is entitled to his opinion, it doesn’t change the right of free expression. No crime has been committed. Now, we’ll see what the judges make of it.’
They went back to the courtroom after lunch. The place was even more crowded than it had been that morning. When the judges emerged, a man who must have been the clerk of the court stepped forward and started speaking in Russian. After a minute, he switched to English.
‘Because of the large number of foreign journalists and observers here today, the decision of the court will first be announced in Russian, followed by English, German and French. Thank you for your patience.’
When he’d finished repeating this in the other languages, there was silence. The four girls in their glass cage looked tensely at the bench. Louisa stole a glance at Marielle, who managed to smile back.
Then one of the judges began speaking. He went on for what seemed forever and then he must have got to the point, because the courtroom erupted. Most of those present who weren’t journalists or impartial observers seemed to be Beaver Rampage supporters. There was a lot of shouting and stamping of feet. The clerk of the court had to raise his voice to deliver the English version.
‘The women of the activist group Beaver Rampage remain guilty of subversive anti-government activity. However, in the hope that they may be rehabilitated, and in view of their past records, their sentences will be reduced to seven years.’
Marielle was stunned. Flash bulbs were going off and the noise in the room was increasing. The four girls were escorted from the courtroom, with the judges close behind. When Marielle stood up she leaned against Nick and he could feel her trembling.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
He took her by the hand and led her unprotestingly out of the building. Lothar and Cornelia remained inside, filming the reaction.
They walked back to the hotel. Marielle said nothing, just stared straight ahead, tears running down her face. She let Nick put his arm around her and guide her along. He finally got her back to her room.
‘Say something to me,’ he implored her.
She sat on the bed and stared up at him. ‘I’ve lost her.’
He tried to reassure her, telling her there would be further appeals. Amnesty would continue to push for their release. There would be diplomatic moves behind the scenes. None of it was getting through.
‘Leave me alone, please.’
‘Alright. But I’ll be back to see you in a couple of hours.’
She nodded. He left her alone with her desolation and went to his own room. They’d come all this way and achieved
nothing, it seemed. And there was nothing anyone could do to change that.
Veronika came by that evening. She was upset and somewhat depressed by the court’s decision. Marielle had stayed in her room and so Veronika and Nick found themselves in the hotel bar, drinking vodka.
‘So, what exactly happened in that courtroom, today?’ Nick asked her, after their third round of drinks.
‘The whole complexion of the appeal changed when our minister of culture showed up. He was making more than a statement. He was telling the judges that the government wants the girls kept in prison. And they listened.’
‘Like a show trial, you mean?’
‘Almost. Yes, almost like the old Soviet style of justice we used to be so fond of.’
They had a few more drinks and then Veronika had to be going. She gave him her card.
‘There may be another chance for an appeal. Things change here all the time. You might need me again.’
He wrote his contact details on the back of the card and gave it back to her.
‘Take this card and give me another one. If anything changes, call me. You will probably know before we do.’
She kissed him on both cheeks and left. He finished his vodka and returned to his room, wondering if he should look in on Marielle. But before he could act on that thought, there was a knock on the door. He answered it, to find two large men in suits staring at him.
‘Mr Severance,’ said one of them in heavily accented English. ‘You are to come with us.’
‘Who are you, exactly?’
‘Russian Security Service. We have some questions for you.’
‘Then ask me here,’ he replied.
‘We can’t do that. Please, come with us.’
The second man of the pair produced a handgun and casually pointed it in Nick’s direction. He looked at them both for a moment, weighing the options. Which he concluded were all in their favour. They walked him to the lift and stood either side of him on the descent to the lobby. As they strode quietly through the reception area and out the door to the street, he saw Lothar and Cornelia coming towards them. He saw the concern on their faces and then he was bundled into a waiting car and driven swiftly away.
Chapter 14
They drove past the FSB headquarters in Lubyanka Square and away from the centre of Moscow. Half an hour later they stopped in a street overlooking a railway yard. Nick had no clue where he was. The area was industrial and consisted of concrete warehouses set back from the road, with space for loading and unloading at the front. One of his escorts led the way towards the nearest warehouse and down a side alleyway. Nick followed, the second man bringing up the rear.
Once they were inside, they took the stairs to an office that overlooked a vast storage area. There were hundreds of wooden crates stacked on steel-frame racks. Empty forklifts and other moving equipment were lined up neatly at the far end, about 100 yards away. But there was no sign of anything human, at least not on the warehouse floor. When they reached the office and walked inside, they found one inhabitant.
‘Come in, Mr Severance.’
Nick was less than surprised to find Yulian Dubrovsky there. Seeing him seated behind a desk like this in an office like this, gave him an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu. His two minders closed the door and took up stations either side of it. Dubrovsky waved at a chair in front of the desk and Nick took a seat.
‘After what happened in London,’ said Dubrovsky, ‘you’re either very brave or very stupid to come to Moscow. Which is it?’
Nick shrugged. ‘A little of both, maybe. What can I do for you?’
There was anger in Dubrovsky, but he was keeping it in check, for now. He drummed his fingers on the table in a steady rhythm.
‘The drugs I was originally promised. Where are they?’
‘Not here. I’m not that stupid.’
The fingers ceased their drumming. ‘No, I thought as much.’ He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands in prayer position under his chin. Nick was reminded of a priest about to bestow a blessing on his congregation. But there was nothing holy about Dubrovsky.
‘I expected Ms Bach to be here for her daughter’s appeal,’ Dubrovsky continued. ‘I must admit it was a surprise to see you. Anyway, I’m sure I can come to some arrangement about the drugs with her. When she gets back to Germany she can take them to the Russian Embassy in Berlin. In return, I’ll leave her in peace. How does that sound?’
‘What makes you think she’ll agree? And what makes you think she knows where they are?’
‘I’ll take that risk. If she really doesn’t know, I can always ask you of course. Even if you are hard to reach.’
‘Meaning what, exactly?’
Dubrovsky smiled, he was getting to the good part. ‘Out there,’ he said with a wave of his hand, ‘is Yaroslavsky station. Trains go to Siberia from Yaroslavsky. You’ve been showing such an interest in our criminal justice system that I thought you should experience it for yourself. So I arranged an excursion.’
Nick felt distinctly uneasy. ‘An excursion to where?’
‘I thought you might like to see prison camp number 7, near Krasnoyarsk. It’s about 1100 kilometres east of here. Do you know the kind of men they keep at camp number 7?’ He was enjoying this. ‘Multiple murderers, rapists. The kind of men who when the death sentence was abolished, got 25 years instead. The kind of men who are locked up most of the day in a five-meter square cell and who can do nothing else but pace up and down it. They are constantly monitored; for signs of insanity, mostly. Don’t worry, you’ll be able to socialise with them at meal times. And you’ll have a cell all to yourself. How does that sound?’
‘I think I’ll pass, if you don’t mind.’
Dubrovsky did mind. ‘There’s a prison transport train leaving in one hour. The journey can take several weeks, by the way. The train makes lots of detours in order to pick up criminals before it arrives at camp number 7. Enjoy your trip.’
With that, he got up and walked out. The two security men, who may or may not have understood the conversation, did understand what they had to do. They motioned Nick to his feet with their drawn weapons and marched him out of the building. They bundled him into the car and drove to a windowless building on the railway side of the street. The entrance was an iron door with a barred grille at head height. When the first security man banged on the door it was opened by a uniformed police officer, who took delivery of Nick. A second police officer with a rifle watched as he was escorted to a cell and made to change into a prison overall. Then, with his hands cuffed behind him, he was prodded out of the reception area and out onto a siding, where a train waited. He clambered up the stairs as best he could, and once inside the carriage his cuffs were removed and he was placed in another cell. The carriage had ten cells, all occupied. It seemed as if they’d been waiting for him to arrive, because as soon as the cell door shut behind him, the train began to move.
He looked at his new accommodation. There was a blanket and a mattress in a cell measuring about eight foot by four. That was it. The carriage had no windows and if there was any form of ventilation, it wasn’t obvious. He was alone with nine other men in prison overalls, of various ages. The two or three he could see from his cell looked quite resigned to their predicament; they sat quietly on their mattresses, stone-faced.
He sat down, too. He tried to compensate for his rising sense of panic by rationalising the situation. He wasn’t a convicted criminal; surely at some point the prison authorities would become aware of that fact and wonder what the hell he was doing in their prison. Or did they just not care? Once he got to camp number 7 he was under no illusion that he’d be able to escape, either. They could hold him for years. He’d left his phone, his wallet and his passport at the hotel, so when he didn’t return and especially when he didn’t report in to Mariko, people would start looking for him. They’d probably think he was dead, though. The only possible way out of this mess was to get off this train before it arrived at i
ts final destination, but then what? He’d be in the Siberian wilderness, exposed to the elements and with no one around for hundreds of miles. At least it wasn’t winter. That was the only crumb of comfort he could take from the situation. In a locked cell on a train to nowhere his future looked at best bleak, and at worst, disastrous.
The mattress was hard but not uncomfortably so, and he slept in fits and starts. The morning brought the start of their daily routine. Each man was served a cup of weak tea and some porridge for breakfast. Then they were allowed to use the toilet. That involved being handcuffed before leaving the cell, being uncuffed before using the toilet, and being cuffed again for the return journey. The toilet was at one end of the carriage and two guards were in attendance at all times. Then you were free till lunchtime, when soup was served. The toilet ritual was only repeated in the evening, after more soup.
There was nothing to do except think. Nick spent a lot of time in meditation, using the method Katsu Oyama had taught him to build his internal energy and become aware of the energy around him. Maybe, he thought, if he could treat this whole episode as one long meditation retreat, he wouldn’t go mad. Only 25 years to go. The practice had its uses, though. If he could keep his awareness concentrated for long enough then he could build up enough energy and be ready to release it, like an explosion. But only if and when he had the chance to escape. He held on to that aspiration.
Four days later, they made a stop. They were taken off the train and when he got outside he could see what looked like a mini-concentration camp. Lots of barrack-like buildings surrounded by barbed-wire fences, with observation towers at each corner. And on all sides, nothing but forest as far as the eye could see. He didn’t think it could be camp number 7, but he wasn’t sure. They were marched into the place - prisoners from all the ten carriages of the train, and then made to stand in rows at attention while a roll-call was taken. He was surprised to hear his name called; the word ‘Severance’ pronounced with a thick Russian accent. He raised his hand and said ‘Da’ in response, just like the other prisoners.