It is said that one’s alcohol tolerance diminishes with abstinence, but the tolerance demonstrated that night for Russian beer and vodka and Georgian wine is quite extraordinary. They inhale booze all night as they cluster in groups, holding hands and sharing stories.
‘Did you meet Popov?’
‘Oh, he was such an arsehole.’
‘He was crazy. He hated me. He had this thing about my potatoes.’
‘Your potatoes?’
‘Seriously.’
The bond that has grown between the women – especially Sini, Camila, Alex and Faiza – is striking. They hardly knew each other before they were jailed. They’d only been together ten days on the ship when it was stormed. Now they have their arms draped around each other’s shoulders, and they look inseparable.
As the party rages around him, Dima calls a number in Lexington, New York.
‘For so many years we were both very reserved people in different ways,’ says Pavel Litvinov. ‘At least towards each other. So it was one of the best conversations I had with my son for many years. There was so much warmth. We were always good friends, we always knew what was happening with each other, but we might not talk for many months. The last time I’d seen him was in California with my daughter, his sister, and we were happy to see each other, but then I would go to New York and he would go to Sweden and we hadn’t talked for many months. So it was so wonderful to talk to him, and such a relief. I told my wife that it was all totally worth it because I had the warmest conversation with my son for many years.’
THIRTY
Twenty-eight down, two to go. Only Phil and Colin are still in jail. Phil’s paperwork wasn’t completed in time on Friday afternoon and he was told he’d have to wait until Monday.
The freed activists spend their time sharing stories or speaking to husbands, wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, kids, parents and journalists. So many journalists. But they need to be careful. Their legal ordeal isn’t over yet. The lawyers say they’re still charged with a crime that carries seven years inside, the investigation hasn’t been dropped, they’re already being given dates to report to the regional Investigative Committee headquarters where they’ll be interviewed by senior officers.
This is only over when they get home.
When they’re not in their rooms they mingle in the café downstairs. Most aren’t ready to venture far from the hotel. Even when the café is largely empty, the other tables are often occupied by one of several middle-aged Russian men who all wear leather jackets and have Bill Gates haircuts. They love their iPads, these men. Always fiddling with them, holding them up, pressing the screen, taking photographs.
Pete notices scratch marks in the wood around the lock on his door. He’s pretty sure they’re new. In Frank’s room the plug sockets stop working, he goes downstairs to complain, reception phones a number and a moment later a man in a shiny leather jacket slips out of a cubicle in the lobby and skips up the stairs. Frank darts away and follows him. He watches the man walk into his room. Then, perhaps sensing he’s been spotted, the man exits Frank’s room and proceeds to walk into an adjacent broom cupboard and close the door. Frank waits. He can hear rustling from the other side of the door, the sound of switches being flipped, then the door opens and the man walks out. He nods at Frank, brushes past his shoulder and disappears around the corner.
Three days after Phil was told he wasn’t yet free, the activists are stood on the pavement outside the Peterville hotel. A car pulls up. Phil climbs out and holds out his arms, raises his eyes to the sky and says, ‘Look. Look at this. It’s a sky. A sky. And there’s nothing in front of it. And… can I just do something that I haven’t done? I’m coming back but…’ then he tears away and sprints down the pavement, and keeps running, and keeps on running until he’s lost in a crowd of Russian shoppers.
Oh what a load of shit. I hope I get bail. It would be unreal if I had to stay in this place. It would not be fair at all and that is for shit shoot and sure, but then again who am I? I am a nobody here. Nobody.
A week after his friends were released, Australian radio operator Colin Russell is appealing the extension of his detention. He’s taken to a cell and sat in front of a video-link screen, on which he can see a courtroom and his own face. As the hearing proceeds, he jots down his thoughts in a notebook, minute by minute.
I’m guilty till proven innocent and that is the short end of the stick, I think. But I cannot predict what will happen. The fuckers have asked that I stay longer. And there’s heaps of cameras and I’m not sure if they will help me or not.
I look at the court and I see three chairs, and there’s only one judge. There’s only one judge though, so it must not be too important. The press gallery is huge. Once again please, please, please, please grant me bail.
Universe, this is not fair and I’m in this joint. I need to be with my family, I need to be with my friends. We will see what happens I guess.
The judge addresses the court in Russian. Colin can see the moment of truth is coming. The judge stands up and leaves the courtroom, the audio on the link cuts out. All he can see is an empty high-backed black leather chair behind a bench.
The judge has been away for some time now so he’s thinking hard or shagging the clerk of the court on the desk in there. I wouldn’t put it past him. At least the courthouse looks clean and not like the last one.
The judge returns. He settles into the chair, lifts a sheet of paper and begins reading. He stops speaking and lays the paper on the desk. In Colin’s ear the translation catches up.
I’m free.
Despite the ruling of the ITLOS court, the Kremlin is still refusing to allow the crew to go home. The four Russians are allowed to be with their families in Moscow, but the others must stay in St Petersburg. Increasingly it feels like being stuck in an airport departure lounge where the planes never leave.
The biggest complaint from the crew is that they have to share rooms at the Peterville. After months in jail they want to choose when to have company and when to be alone, so everyone moves across town to the Park Inn Pribaltiyskaya, an ugly brown Brezhnev-era monolith that was built for a Soviet conference in the seventies.
Three weeks after their release they’re still confined to the city. Every few days they’re summoned to the Investigative Committee, where senior officers grill them with the same questions. Who was in the boat? Who was in charge? What part did you play in the terrorist attack on the oil platform?
Some of the thirty are becoming settled here, enjoying their freedom and each other’s company, piling into a hotel room in the evening to party until morning. But others are on the periphery of the group, factions are forming, the pressure of confinement and the uncertainty around the legal case means low-level bickering sometimes breaks into outright arguments.