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

TWENTY

Potatoes are bouncing off the walls like silver balls in a pinball machine. Sini is crouched in front of the window with a bag of them between her feet, occasionally glancing back nervously at the cell door then reaching down and selecting the smoothest and roundest of the hoarded vegetables.

The window is dirty glass, set back with a row of thick bars in front of it, and the only way to open it is to pull the ventilation lever which makes a narrow slit open sideways on. She thought she might be able to drop potatoes through that gap, but she can’t reach it. Instead Sini is bouncing them against the wall, trying to make them rebound at such an angle that they’ll ricochet through the gap and tumble into the courtyard below. But it’s impossible. Most of the potatoes are hideously shaped, they’ve been boiled then left to go cold so they have a springy quality that makes their flight utterly unpredictable. They rebound off the wall at obscene angles, sometimes hitting her in the face or landing behind her on the bunk.

For hours she bounces potatoes. But she can’t get it right. They won’t go through the gap. She leans back against the wall, slides down onto the floor and buries her head between her knees.

By now all the crew have radios and televisions in their cells. The radio plays soft rock classics, nothing to stir the blood, but the jingle soon feels familiar, even comforting – a glockenspiel playing the first few bars of ‘Midnight in Moscow’ by Kenny Ball. On their TV sets they watch euronews and the music channels, and sometimes Russian state TV.

There are three kinds of programmes. Documentaries about the FSB raiding someone, films about the FSB raiding someone, and soap operas about the FSB raiding someone. Frank sits for hours staring at the screen, flicking from channel to channel, watching uniformed officers bashing down doors in towns and cities across Russia, just like a young Vladimir Putin once did. He sees what’s happening here. It’s being reinforced all the time, how there are bad people out there and the state will protect you.

Camila is watching euronews when she sees video footage of the protest at the Prirazlomnaya. The voiceover is in Russian and she can hear the word ‘hooliganski’ repeated over and over. Then, rolling across the bottom of the screen in English, she sees the news ticker.

Camila’s heart jumps. She grabs her spoon and drops onto her knees in front of the radiator pipe. In the cell next door Alex is woken by manic tapping. Sini hears it too.

For a moment Alex and Camila thought they were getting out, but soon enough Sini convinces them this could actually be worse. They’re moving from the pantomime charge of piracy to something that might stand up in the court of global public opinion. Alex wraps herself in her purple ski jacket and hugs herself.

Across SIZO-1 the activists are reaching the same conclusion. That night the road buzzes with discussion and analysis. Hooliganism carries seven years in jail. Nearly everybody thinks the change of charge is bad news. They fear they’re being set up to get screwed by the Russian courts. Phil sits down on his bunk and writes an open letter, and the next morning he hands it to Mr Babinski.

Dima has visitors. Two men in sharp suits, not the cheap acrylic type worn by the investigators at the local FSB headquarters in town.

They’re standing in the middle of his cell, examining the contents of his shelves and the bags of food piled up in the corner, at the peeling green paint and the small barred window. Dima is watching them from his bunk. He doesn’t know who they are, but he’s been in jail long enough to know they’re trouble. Thirty seconds ago they opened the door and walked in unannounced. No greetings and no orders. Instead they merely closed the cell door and each took a step forward then put their hands on their hips.

Both guys are in their mid to late thirties. One is spindly thin. He has greasy hair that’s parted in the middle and sticks to his forehead, small red shaving spots speckle his neck, two deep crevices cut their way from his nostrils to his jaw, above which stand two bony cheeks that collapse into his mouth. Surrounding his thin lips are a few wispy whiskers – a failed attempt at a goatee beard, perhaps? He looks a little like a giant emaciated gerbil. The other guy is carrying some weight, sandpaper stubble, a thick helmet of brown hair that’s cut along a savagely straight fringe.

The men ignore the Russian prisoners and walk over to Dima’s bed. Gerbil kicks the leg of the bunk. It makes a metallic rattle.

‘Dimitri Litvinov?’

Dima sits up. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Come with us, please.’

Dima rubs his greying beard and eyes the men suspiciously. Then he swings his legs over and jumps down.

He’s taken from his cell to a small room containing a desk, three chairs and a huge portrait of Putin. One of the men locks the door, Dima is told to take a seat. The men sit opposite him. Dima’s heart is beating fast now. They’re quite obviously senior FSB officers, probably up from St Petersburg. Today has already seen a march in Moscow demanding the release of political prisoners. Twenty thousand attended – a huge number for a protest in Russia, where demonstrators can be plucked off the street and thrown in jail by a political police force empowered to act with impunity in defence of the President’s agenda. One of the columns on the march was dedicated to imprisoned environmentalists, with the focus on the Arctic 30. There was a fleeting, dismissive reference to the protest on the TV news. Is this what the men want to talk about?

Gerbil crosses his legs, explores the inside of his mouth with his tongue, lifts an eyebrow in a way that says, Well, here we are then.

‘How are you guys doing?’ says Dima nervously.

Gerbil nods slowly. ‘Good, Dimitri, good. How are you?’

‘I’ve been better.’

‘Yeeees, I can imagine.’ The man leans forward, sniffs, meshes his fingers together to form a two-handed fist. ‘Listen, now the piracy charge has been dropped we thought it was time we started talking. You and us.’

‘Okay.’

‘It’s getting serious now, Dimitri. We’re in the end game. The hooligan charge is going to stick, you’re looking at seven years, you know that. So we’d really like to hear from you, this time without any protocol’ – he means Article 51 of the constitution, the right to silence – ‘and it would be really good if you gave us some answers. To the questions, I mean. You know, about what happened out there.’ He waves a hand in the air. ‘We know most of it anyway, but just to get it confirmed. It’s your only chance of skirting that rap.’

‘Okaaay.’ Dima draws a deep breath. ‘And who are you, exactly?’

The man clears his throat. ‘Well…’ He smiles. ‘We’re the competent authorities.’

‘The competent authorities?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And what is your field of competence, exactly?’

His bottom lip protrudes for a moment as he shrugs. ‘This.’

‘And… what is this?’

‘Don’t you understand what I’m saying to you?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

‘We’re the competent authorities.’

‘You already said that.’

‘Dimitri, please, come now, stop messing around, stop playing these…’ his face creases, he touches his nose ‘… these childish games. Let’s just get the questions answered, okay? Better for everyone.’

‘I’m perfectly willing to answer any questions from the investigators.’

‘Ah, good.’

‘With my lawyer present of course.’

‘Aaaaah, the lawyers.’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Come come, don’t you understand what these lawyers are after? They want to keep you in prison for as long as possible, you know that, Dimitri. Paid by the hour. Making a lot of money.’ Gerbil taps the edge of the table with a finger. ‘How much do you make, Dimitri? At Greenpeace?’

‘It’s not about the money.’

‘Sure.’ He nods with faux sincerity. ‘Sure it’s not.’

‘Really.’

‘Well I’ll tell you, they make a lot more money than you do, those lawyers you’ve hired. A lot more. They really don’t want to get you guys out, not while they’re raking it in. Nooooo. So look, let’s forget about the lawyers for a moment and let’s talk about you, about what’s in your interests. We can make your stay here much more comfortable, a lot more comfortable than it is now. And all you have to do is answer our questions.’ He looks away. ‘It’s just for background anyway.’

‘My stay in prison is perfectly comfortable already, thank you.’

‘Well, you know, it could be much worse. Think about that, Dimitri.’

Gerbil pushes the chair back and stands up. His colleague does the same.

‘That’s it?’ Dima asks.

‘For now.’

The other cop unlocks the door. Gerbil tugs Dima’s arm and leads him out. Putin looks down, silent, inscrutable.