Don't Trust, Don't Fear, Don't Beg: The Extraordinary Story of the Arctic 30

TWELVE

Frank is standing in a small room with brown walls in the depths of Murmansk SIZO-1. In front of him is a Russian man dressed in full camouflage fatigues, a peaked military hat and heavy eighteen-hole combat boots. The man is wearing Reactolite glasses, the ones that turn into sunglasses when it’s bright. At his side, swinging from a finger, is a thick black baton.

He is the prison’s resident psychologist.

Frank bites his lip and eyes the stick then slowly, cautiously, he lowers himself into a chair opposite the shrink. The guy looks like he’s about to be deployed to Afghanistan. Frank’s thinking, please, my friend, this is not a good look for a psychologist. You need to do something to soften your image.

The man sits down, lays the truncheon on the table, shuffles some papers then looks up. Frank scratches his nose. The man nods.

‘You happy?’

‘Not really.’

‘You scared?’

‘Sometimes, yes.’

‘You want to… to harm Frank?’

‘Do myself in? No. Not yet.’

‘You like food here?’

‘It’s okay,’ says Frank. ‘I’m still alive.’

‘People in cell, they good?’

‘They’re fine. Fine.’

The man nods. He jots down some notes then points at Frank and says, ‘You, two-two-seven.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Two-two-seven,’ says the psychologist.

‘That’s a cell?’

‘You, two-two-seven.’

‘It’s a non-smoking cell?’ asks Frank. ‘I said I wanted a non-smoking cell.’

‘Two-two-seven. Smoking? Smoking?’ And the psychologist sucks on an invisible cigarette then points at Frank.

Frank shakes his head. ‘No, no. No cigarette. I want a non-smoking cell. Are you saying two-two-seven is non-smoking?’

‘Two-two-seven.’

‘Yes, my new cell. Non-smoking. Let’s go and look at it, let’s go and look at two-two-seven right away.’

‘Go?’

‘Yeah, let’s go to the cell.’

So off they go, the psychologist leading Frank down the corridor, his baton swinging at his waist, his boots stomping into the floor, the sound echoing down the hallway. But then he stops outside Frank’s cell, the one he’s just left.

‘No no,’ says Frank. ‘This is not two-two-seven.’

‘Uh?’

‘Not two-two-seven. Two-two-seven is downstairs.’

He points at Frank. ‘You. Two-two-seven. You.’ He lifts the baton and jabs it into Frank’s stomach, prodding him backwards until he’s inside the cell, then the psychologist pulls the door closed. Frank’s nostrils fill with the smell of cigarette smoke and wet laundry. The sound of stomping boots fades to silence. He stands in the middle of his cell, scratching his head, confused.

A few hours later a swarm of officials bursts in – five guards, a guy in a suit, a translator. And the one in the suit says, ‘You must take this.’ It’s a charge sheet, it says he’s officially accused of piracy under Article 227 of the Criminal Code of Russia. And right then Frank realises what the psychologist was trying to tell him.

He feels exposed. Very, very exposed. The psychologist was telling him he needs to get mentally prepared because piracy is ten to fifteen years. Frank is sure the guy was pointing at him and him alone, that he’s being singled out for Article 227. They found his laptop, he thinks, and they probably found the flash card with the protest plan on it. He left it on the ship. He downloaded everything from the laptop onto the stick and taped it under the table in his cabin. But it’s the FSB, isn’t it? The KGB. They’ve found it, of course they have. Oh Christ, why did he even keep that memory stick? Why didn’t he just throw it through a porthole into the sea? Then he remembers why, and the realisation makes him punch the wall and stifle a sob. That memory stick. That stupid fucking memory stick. He’s going to lose contact with his kids because of that damn memory stick, and the only reason he didn’t throw it overboard was because he had all his receipts copied onto it and he thought his boss would bollock him if he came back from Russia and couldn’t do his expenses.

Yeah, the FSB have found it. And they’ve probably gone on Google and worked out that he’s occupied oil rigs across the world. And now they’re going for the ringleaders. They’re going to let everyone else go free, but him and Dima and Pete are going down for piracy. That’s what’s happening here. And now he’s not going to see his kids for fifteen years. They won’t know who he is. They’ll think he put his job before them. He’ll be an old man by the time he gets out, his kids will be strangers. And Nina, his partner, she isn’t going to wait for him. Why would she?

Frank starts pacing up and down the length of his cell. He lies down, gets back up, starts pacing again then stops, gets a book out, starts reading it but doesn’t take in the words. His boy will be twenty-eight, his girl will be in her thirties. He’ll be a stranger to them. He slams the book shut. He can’t concentrate, he jumps back down and starts pacing again, breathing hard, scratching his head and chewing his nails, tapping his foot, sitting down then standing, pacing and pacing and pacing and not finding anywhere in the cell that’s a good place to be. He’s close to the edge now. Getting close.

Yesterday he started making a deck of cards using a pen and paper and a razor blade he snapped from a shaver. He cut fifty-two squares and meticulously drew each card. He thought if he could play patience then he could get through the days here. And now he stops pacing and retrieves the cards from his shelf, lays them out and tries to focus. Boris looks over at him.

‘What you doing? What is this?’

‘Cards.’

The Russian jumps down from his bed. ‘Cards? What do you mean cards? No, no, no. Nyet, nyet. Kartser. You go to kartser. Me too.’

Kartser. It’s the cooler. The punishment cell. And Boris is saying if you get found with those then we’re all shafted, we’re all going to the cooler. So the cards get put away, ten o’clock comes along, the lights go down, the road starts cooking. Frank writes a note to Dima.

Ten minutes later there are three thumps on the wall. Boris pulls in the sock and hands a note to Frank.

Frank’s kneeling on his bed when he reads Dima’s note. It takes a moment for its full meaning to sink in. He’s not being singled out. It’s not just him. He scrunches up the note in his hand and falls forward on the mattress then pulls the sheet over his head. He’s wasted so much energy fighting the fear, thinking it’s just him, but now the panic has passed. A minute later he’s gently snoring into the pillow.

A stranger is standing in the doorway of Roman Dolgov’s cell holding a clipboard. A chubby little man with a bushy moustache. He’s not in uniform, instead he’s wearing a shiny blue acrylic tracksuit.

‘You,’ he says. ‘Stand up.’

‘I’m sorry, who are you?’

‘Popov. I’m the governor. The new chief. Arrived today. I’m in charge. And you are…’ He glances down at his clipboard. ‘Dolgov. One of the pirates, yes?’

Roman stands up. ‘No. I’m not.’

The man appears surprised. He consults his clipboard again then looks up. ‘Oh, I think you are.’

‘Have you read the law? The law on piracy?’

The man scowls. ‘Of course I have. You think they let someone run a place like this if they don’t know the damn law?’

‘I think you’ll find that law is not applicable to us.’

The man’s mouth screws up. His nostrils flare. ‘I think you’ll find I don’t give a fuck what you think. You probably think you’re going to be a handful for me. Well let me tell you, I’ve dealt with a lot worse. You lot are pussycats compared to my usual stock.’

‘That platform was not a ship. It’s attached to the seabed. Legally you can only commit piracy on a ship.’

The man nods over Roman’s shoulder. ‘But those bars are bars, and really that’s all that counts.’

He smiles, and Roman sees the flash of a gold tooth.

‘And the law is the law, no?’

‘Look, arsehole, I really don’t want to have you here for a year before you go to the labour camp, but it’s not looking good for you. And as long as you’re here, I’ll be here too. Best if you get used to the hierarchy, eh?’

And with that he raps his clipboard with a pen and swings the door closed.

SIZO-1 has its own code of ethics. A prisoner never sits down on a cellmate’s bunk. But the first thing Popov does when he bursts into Andrey’s cell is to sit on his bed and bark, ‘Why the hell did you bring these people to us?’

‘I’m sorry, who are you?’

‘I’m the governor of this place. I run this prison.’

‘Right.’

‘Why did you bring them here?’

‘To whom are you referring?’

‘The foreigners. You’ve got an American, a Brazilian, Argentines, Frenchies. Six British. Six! Why the hell bring them to Russia, eh?’

‘It was actually the authorities who brought them here.’

Popov snorts and rolls his eyes. ‘Well we don’t need that sort in Russia. Damn foreigners. What use do we have for Americans and all that lot, telling us what to do?’

A few minutes later Alex’s cell door opens. She stands up. A man walks in. He’s wearing a blue tracksuit. He looks around. Then suddenly his expression freezes, his eyes narrow, he points at the waste bin and explodes with rage. He’s screaming in Russian. Alex flinches. She looks down and sees some leftover bread she threw away. Her feet shuffle backwards but a moment later she pulls back her shoulders, takes a step forward and shouts, ‘I don’t speak Russian, okay? I don’t understand what you’re saying.’

The man sniffs. He jabs his finger at the waste bin and yells in her face. Alex feels her legs shaking. ‘It’s not a problem with my hearing,’ she says. ‘I just don’t understand Russian.’ The man lifts his chin and stands on his toes, trying to look down his nose at her, but he’s not tall enough. Instead he’s standing before her like a ballet dancer affecting the demeanour of a dying swan. He spins on the ball of his foot and flounces through the open door. A moment later it slams closed.

By the time the road is up and running, the arrival of the new governor is all anyone can talk about. The Russians say he’s been transferred from a prison in the north Caucasus, where he presided over separatist rebels from Chechnya and Dagestan. Rumour has it he ran a strict regime but got so many death threats he had to be moved.