The interview was published when I was already in Lefortovo Prison.[89] Oleg was pressured and even interrogated in the Investigation Department of the MB RF. However, he wasn’t afraid to publish this material, although this article wasn’t supposed to see the light of day, according to the calculations of the Chekists, because it was confiscated and was among the material evidence exhibits of my “crime.” But that was later…
On October 22, 1992, my friend Edward Sarkisyan woke me with an early morning telephone call. Edward said that a few people identifying themselves as KGB agents rang his doorbell and had demanded he open his door. Fortunately, Edward refused and called the police because at that time, criminal gangs roamed the city posing as policemen and KGB. They were forcing Muscovites to open their doors, then robbing and killing them.
Later that morning, with my sons off to kindergarten and school, I was getting ready for my usual trip to the street market near the Sokol Metro Station, where I was selling jeans and sneakers to support my family, when my doorbell rang. I asked who it was, and the answer was devastating, “We are from the Ministry of Security. Open the door!” I remembered Edward’s call earlier that morning, and at first I thought that it was a strange coincidence of fate, so I shouted, “Get out of here at once! I am calling the cops!” To sound more convincing, I added that I had an axe and would defend myself. And indeed, I called the police.
Meanwhile, I already guessed that these people really were from the MB RF, and that they had come to arrest me. They were knocking more insistently, and I was dialing up Mironov and Englund.
I had just enough time to call to the journalist Englund from the Baltimore Sun and tell him that the KGB had come to get me.[90] From behind the door I could hear these men tell my wife Nuria that they were arresting me because of the article in Moscow News. Outraged, Nuria shouted that they were mad, that someone couldn’t be arrested for a newspaper article. At this point, I realized they had already shown Nuria the arrest warrant. As the verbal volleys escalated, the local police arrived and demanded that I open the door immediately. Then they threatened to break it down. They advised me that police in the West would not be so patient. It was clear I could not stall until the media arrived. So, I opened the door because I did not want to have it broken by force.
The apartment was instantly so full that nobody could even move. Some sturdy guys settled comfortably into the kitchen, and one of them handed me an arrest warrant that said my apartment would be searched. I stood calmly, suddenly amazed at the simplicity of the proceedings. My only worry was Nuria, who was very upset and angrily venting at me, telling me they were tearing up the place and that I would have to clean up the mess. Trying to save the apartment from being torn to bits, I complied with a sharp command to produce everything that had to do with the Moscow News article, showing them where my manuscripts, scientific articles, and different papers were kept.[91]
The senior KGB officer ordered me to get dressed, and a few minutes later we left with two agents walking in front of me, two behind, and another two holding me by the arms. I felt like a big-time gangster in a movie. I made a wise crack that the officers shouldn’t hold me so tightly, because I could easily poison them all, and to my amusement they loosened their grip. They put me into a yellow Zhiguli that took off along the Highway of Enthusiasts, and then the motor died as the car was crossing the tramway tracks right in front of a tram. Two of the burly escorts jumped out to push the car as I started joking that they weren’t even properly prepared to capture a state criminal. Glaring back at me, the lead officer said they had lost their form a bit lately, but he assured me that it would all come back. Looking out the window as the Zhiguli passed GOSNIIOKhT, I knew as it turned to the right near the Aviamotornaya Metro Station that they were taking me to the notorious KGB prison, Lefortovo.
Lefortovo Prison
In Lefortovo I was immediately taken to the second floor of a thoroughly guarded three-story building that housed the Main Investigation Department. A young, tall, and slightly overweight blonde man with bright blue eyes “took me in” upon receipt into one of the offices off the long corridor. He declared that his name was Victor Shkarin and that he would be in charge of my case.
Investigator Shkarin briefly explained the reason for my arrest and solicitously asked me if I had any complaints. He did his best to demonstrate proper and polite behavior. After a brief formal procedure for establishing my identity, I resolutely refused to say anything or give any testimony without the presence of a lawyer. Probably this was a trifle theatrical, but it seemed to me that it was the best way to proceed, since many of our dissidents described their arrests with details like this in their memoirs.
Right away the captain started calling for a legal consultation. It was obvious that the system worked smoothly and everything was anticipated. He told me politely, “We will have time for everything.” He made it seem as if we were working for the same company and pursuing some common cause.
I was sitting in Investigator Shkarin’s small office for a long time, while we waited for the lawyer. The room was furnished with three chairs, a huge safe, a wardrobe, and a writing table with a squeaky computer.
I didn’t know yet what hardships were in store for me. Investigations, another arrest, imprisonment, closed legal proceedings, and long days full of bitter disappointment – all of this would blend into a long terrible ride in the Maelstrom.
I was getting over my original overwhelming apathy and started taking action. First, I asked for a pen and paper to write a declaration and protested against my detention. I wrote that I would go on an indefinite, dry hunger strike until the moment of my liberation.
The investigator read the text, but he didn’t react. Once more I declared that I would not answer any questions or participate in the interrogation without the presence of a lawyer. At that time it wasn’t easy for me to hire a lawyer, because I had no money. I felt anxious about causing a huge loss to the family finances, when life was so tough and every kopeck counted. I was particularly sorry for my sons, whom I had doomed to perpetual poverty. In despair, I even thought about why it hadn’t happened to me before they were born, when I wasn’t so vulnerable. Now, I could only count on the free services of the public defender.
The investigator quickly typed up the “detainment transcript”, where my rights were mentioned along with the reasons why I was under suspicion. It was written in the transcript that I was detained at 12.15 P.M., on October 22 of 1992.
Later Investigator Shkarin set about finishing up the “transcript of interrogation of the suspect”, because an elderly man with a beat-up old suitcase joined us. He introduced himself as a lawyer from Legal Advice Office N 150, Leonid Grigorievich Belomestnykh.
I seized the moment when Shkarin stepped out, to ask the lawyer to call my wife and give her the message that I had gone on a hunger strike. I was certain (how naive I was!) that if the Belomestnykh told my wife about this, I could ask him to defend my interests in the future. Skipping ahead, I can say that Belomestnykh didn’t fulfill my request, but I can’t rebuke him. At the end of the day, I am sure that he was at least a temporary KGB employee.
Finally, we started with the interrogation proper. I wasn’t so detached and unfeeling about it then, as I am these days when I am describing what happened. Probably I was a bit wound up and too obstinate. Shkarin said I was accused of revealing state secrets in the article “A Poisoned Policy,” which was in violation of Article 75, Part I, of the Russian Criminal Code. We got down to business after I agreed to answer in Russian (Tatar is my first language) and accepted Shkarin as the interrogator and Belomestnykh as my lawyer, even though I knew that any attorney that the KGB provided would not work in my interests.
90
When Englund and Mironov went outside to drive to my apartment they couldn’t find Englund’s brand new car. It was stolen, despite the special police checkpoint with a guard for this compound where mostly foreigners were living.
91
Neither these items nor my doctoral dissertation contained any classified information, chemical formulas, or codes.