If you analyse the enemy’s behaviour and inaction, it gives reasonable grounds to suspect that we do indeed have a traitor in our midst and he has managed to warn them in time about the operation. Otherwise how can you explain the extra defences around the facilities marked for attack that were not there yesterday? How can you explain their dogged reluctance to engage in combat and enjoy the advantage of defence? How can you explain the silence at the enemy base just two kilometres from the site where you’ve been clobbering their comrades for hours? And all the Chechen police and special forces have been secretly holed up for the past two days in their barracks. That is, they too have already taken shelter behind concrete blocks, which the guerrillas cannot destroy without time and special weapons. But time is just what they don’t have. Nor do they have heavy artillery. And the existence of a traitor is later confirmed when, through his fault, one of the best unit leaders, who also takes part in this operation, is ambushed near his base and dies in an unequal fight. Later they work out who betrayed them. After that ambush he openly goes over to the Russian side. When the enemy fail to rise to the bait (perhaps they’ve finally seen through our scheme and aren’t going to fall for it this time), the guerrilla formation slowly begins their withdrawal. They depart in several directions, but the bulk of the fighters need to get back to the main base. To throw the enemy reconnaissance off the track, we wade through the river. We have to walk waist-deep in icy water for the several hours left until dawn. And as dawn breaks over the forest, reconnaissance aircraft appear. When they fail to find any obvious signs of the guerrillas, they drop their bombs on the forest roads and tracks and fly off.
Despite the minimal losses to the enemy, the operation proves a huge propaganda success. The daring attack by guerrillas on a village considered one of the most secure in the republic, and around which are clustered, in addition to those already mentioned, several other formidable Russian Army forces, has demonstrated the strength, ability and morale of the resistance fighters. And although this time we haven’t managed to lure the enemy into our trap, the operation nevertheless has a surprising result. It spurs the enemy towards a peace initiative. Not long after, a team of mediators makes contact with the Chechen side to sound out the possibility of negotiation. But as has happened many times before, this attempt is thwarted by the Russian security services, who have no interest in ending the war. After all, this war has made them all-powerful. And some bastard with an inferiority complex – for the secret police across the world generally attract this sort – is feeling like a superman and glorying in that sensation of power.
The time has come for the guerrillas to split up until they meet again for the next operation. Those who’ve gone legal return to their legal life, the others go to their bases. The group I’ve come with has to retrace their steps along the route they took. But I’m not going with them. My knee is injured, which means I can’t negotiate difficult mountain tracks and I have to take an easier route. But the only easier route goes through Russian checkpoints, which in turn pose an enormous risk. Unable to find an alternative, I decide to give it a shot.
When a man spends weeks in the autumn forest under almost constant rain, no matter how carefully he has prepared for this, he’ll always end up freezing and soaked. His only salvation is fire. And in the forest the benefits of fire are exploited to the full. We too made use of them. On a clear day we could only have a concealed earth oven, but on a foggy, overcast day we would light several fires at the camp. In any case the smoke wouldn’t be seen. We would dry and warm ourselves at these campfires; sometimes we just sat admiring the flames and chatting away. Of course we all absolutely reeked of smoke. The smell impregnated our clothes, hair and skin. Prepared for every contingency, I had in my rucksack a fresh set of civilian clothes, wrapped in several layers of plastic bags. I never once pulled them out to air, knowing only too well the effects of campfire smoke. And I was wearing a pair of leather hiking shoes. But here’s the thing: once while drying myself at the campfire, I inadvertently brought my feet too close to the fire and the tips of the soles got burnt and melted. Any fool at the checkpoint could guess where these shoes had been. To disguise them, I had to carefully trim away part of the sole, making them look as if they’d always been this ugly. At first glance, you wouldn’t notice, but if you looked more attentively…
I took all this into account while staying in the house of one of the fighters in the nearest village. Trying to wash away the smell of campfire, I spent several hours in the bathhouse, got changed into my civilian clothes and felt somewhat calmer. Before leaving in the morning, I doused myself liberally in aftershave. I decided to go by bus. After so much campfire smoke, my nose was immune and I thought I’d got rid of the smell. But I hadn’t. My suspicions were first aroused when the passengers on the bus kept looking me over. The smell of aftershave wouldn’t have elicited such attention. In Chechnya, plenty of men use aftershave; some practically bathe in the stuff. So it had to be something else. And that something could only be the aroma of ‘Forest Fresh’. Perhaps it would be a good idea to get off the bus right now… But, wise as that idea might have seemed, it wouldn’t have helped. It would have been dangerous to stay in the village until the smell of smoke had gone. At any moment there might be a ‘cleansing op’, with a predictable outcome for me and the hosts giving me shelter. So I decided to go on with my journey. The thought that people were maybe just staring because I was a stranger calmed me a little.
Having passed all the other checkpoints smoothly, we drove up to the main one: Checkpoint Caucasus on the border between Chechnya and Ingushetia, a checkpoint that had brought plenty of heartache to peaceful and not-so-peaceful civilians. To go through this checkpoint you had to walk (if you were male) along a narrow corridor of barbed wire in single file holding your passport out. It was still early morning and so the soldiers weren’t especially foul-tempered: they still had the prospect of making some money ahead. They could get nasty towards the evening, if they’d had slim pickings. I was standing in line as the two guys in front were showing their documents. And here the man behind me said something to me in Chechen. Lost in reverie, I didn’t hear him, but my thoughts were interrupted by the officer. ‘Speak Russian!’ he addressed my fellow passenger. ‘Or else I won’t understand.’
‘I wasn’t saying anything. Just commenting on the weather,’ he replied.
‘Maybe. But then you could have been saying, “Let’s attack now.” I mean, this guy stinks to high heaven of smoke, as if he’s straight out of the forest.’
At these words I turned cold. It took a monumental effort for me to preserve an air of unfazed surprise on my face: ‘Nonsense! It’s autumn. Well, everyone’s burning leaves in their gardens. Of course I’m going to smell of smoke. If I was straight out of the forest, I’d hardly turn up at your checkpoint.’ I smiled wryly, trying to keep my heart from leaping out of my chest.