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

TWENTY-NINE

Frank feels joy surging through his body, to the tips of his fingers and toes. It washes over him like a cleansing shower. He takes a deep breath, smiles and starts packing his bag, but as he glances at Anton his cellmate looks back at him and Frank can see he’s wishing it was him. Outside his cell the governor of Kresty is standing in the corridor, watching him through a gap in the open door. The man says something in Russian to the guard, and the guard turns to Frank and says, ‘You put in a request to see the cathedral?’

Frank looks up.

‘What?’

‘You asked to see the cathedral.’

‘Yeah. Yeah I did.’

‘You are religious?’

‘I’m a Catholic, sort of. But I was so amazed by the architecture here. You have to understand that my cell window in Murmansk looked out over razor wire and a guard tower. Here it looks out onto this wonderful dome.’ He grins. ‘Shame I’ll never get to look around.’

‘But you put a request in?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘The governor, he wants to know if you still want to see it?’

Frank stands up straight.

‘The cathedral?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well I’d love to, my friend. But I’m afraid I’m leaving you now.’

‘You want to go, before you leave?’

Frank glances at the governor. He wants to get out of this place as soon as he can, it’s finally happening, some nights he thought he’d be in prison for fifteen years and now he’s standing on the cusp of freedom. But still he hears himself saying, ‘Okay, sure, yeah, let’s go see the cathedral.’

‘Finish packing. I take you.’

Frank stuffs his possessions into the bag, zips it closed, swings it over his shoulder and nods. ‘Let’s do it. Let’s see the church.’

They walk him down hallways and up stairways until they’re standing before a grand wooden door. He walks through it, then they pull the door shut behind him and let him wander around, all alone. He’s surrounded by icons. A gold altar. Huge silver candelabras. And all inside a prison, like booty. It’s absolutely beautiful. Stunning, he thinks. He can see the faded colours of a fresco. He looks up and sees the entire working of the bell system. The silence is odd. The size of the space feels strange to Frank. He hasn’t felt space like this for months. It’s disorientating, like it’s hard to balance and he could fall over. It smells of dust, decay and dry, rotting timber. Every so often the door creaks as the guards look in and check he isn’t stealing something. And eventually they tell him his time is up.

The moment has come for Frank Hewetson to leave jail. He draws a deep breath and nods. He takes a last look, runs a hand through his blond hair then strolls over to the guards. They pull the wooden door closed behind him, he slaps one of them on the back and says, ‘Okay, brother. Let’s do it.’

Meanwhile, Pete Willcox is in a car on the way to the hotel. And he’s worried. He thinks he’s about to be blamed for what happened. He’s as nervous as he is excited. Nervous about meeting the others. A captain’s first job is the safety and welfare of his or her crew. By sailing them to the Prirazlomnaya oil platform he thinks he nearly screwed up the lives of thirty people. The car pulls up outside the Peterville. He throws his bag onto his back and climbs out. Sini, Alex and Camila rush forward and throw their arms around him.

‘Pete, we missed you.’

‘We love you, Pete.’

It’s one of the best moments of Pete Willcox’s long, eventful life.

Back at the courtroom the final bail hearings are wrapping up. The last of the activists to be brought to court are Dima, Roman and Phil. In Irvington, New York, Pavel Litvinov watches footage of his son standing in a cage addressing the judge in St Petersburg. Forty-five years earlier, Pavel stood up in a similar cage in a Moscow courtroom and delivered a speech that resonated across the Soviet Union.

‘There was never any question for me whether I would go to Red Square or not,’ he told the judge that day. ‘As a Soviet citizen I deemed it necessary to voice my disagreement with the action of my government, which filled me with indignation… This is what I have fought against and what I shall continue to fight against for the rest of my life.’

Now his son is standing in a courtroom cage before another Russian judge. Despite bail being granted in the earlier cases, the Investigative Committee is forcefully arguing that Dima should remain in jail in case he absconds. Could Helmet-hair and Gerbil have arranged for him to get the same treatment as Colin? Dima grips his hands around the metal bars and clears his throat.

‘We sailed into Arctic waters in September to bear witness,’ he tells the court. ‘To tell a story. We came to tell a story about the risk to the global climate and the Russian environment from opening up Arctic oil fields to companies such as Gazprom, Shell, Rosneft, Exxon and others. It would be unthinkable and irresponsible of me not to use the opportunity of this criminal trial to tell that story now. I want a trial. I want to be able to speak to the authorities and society of Russia, to the global media, to explain that our journey to the Prirazlomnaya was not an act of hooliganism or disrespect for society. Instead we were sounding an alarm, a warning of imminent danger.’

Camera shutters click, TV crews jostle, Dima squeezes the bars of the cage and stares squarely, defiantly at the judge.

‘I was proud of him,’ says Pavel. ‘I was proud of everything he did. I felt we gave him the right values and I loved that he was devoted to something more important in his life than making money.’

The judge retires for half an hour then returns to deliver the verdict. Dima is granted bail. He lowers his head in the cage and nods. Roman and Phil are also told they will be freed. They’re all taken back to Kresty, where Dima and Roman are told to prepare for immediate release. But Phil’s paperwork hasn’t been completed and he won’t be freed yet. Dima packs his huge pink bag, throws it onto his back and picks up his towel. Stitched into it are the words ‘SAVE THE ARCTIC’.

The guards take him down the hallway, where he meets up with Roman. Then they’re taken to the governor.

‘I have a gift for you,’ the man says, pushing something into Dima’s hand. Dima looks down.

‘A fridge magnet. Wow.’

‘Made in Kresty,’ says the governor. ‘It has a picture of the prison on it. And the cathedral.’

Dima nods uncertainly. ‘Nice. Thanks.’

‘And look,’ says the governor. ‘It has writing on it. A message.’

Dima brings the fridge magnet up to his face. He pushes his circular steel-rimmed spectacles up his nose and focuses. Stamped along the bottom he sees the words ‘Freedom to the freed and heaven to the saved’.

‘That’s… that’s fantastic. Thank you.’

Dima and Roman are taken to a counter. They’re just minutes away now, they just have to sign for the possessions that were taken from them when this whole thing started. Then they’re taken over to a steel door. On the other side is freedom.

It’s a sea of cameras, bulbs flashing, shouted questions. Dima holds up the towel and tells the throng of reporters, ‘It is wonderful we are out but it is still not over and we have a lot to do. They say the Prirazlomnaya will start drilling in December so we haven’t won yet. It’s just one step towards victory. But it feels so good to breathe the air of freedom, no question. We are out so it is a step forward for justice. But we know that the Arctic is still under threat, so the struggle will continue until we stop the destruction.’

In Hamburg, the campaign’s legal chief Jasper Teulings is sitting in the public gallery at the International Tribunal for the Law of the Sea, waiting for the ruling. He’s nervous, the room is packed. He’s sitting next to Kumi Naidoo, prodding him in the ribs as the Japanese chair reads out the ruling in English.

‘…the Russian Federation shall immediately release the vessel Arctic Sunrise and all persons who have been detained upon the posting of a bond or other financial security by the Netherlands.’

Did Putin know the ruling was coming? Is that why they’re already free? The choreography of the moment seems advantageous to the Kremlin – Russia’s oh-so-independent judicial system freeing the thirty before a tribunal of foreign judges forces the issue.

They’re nearly all out now. They’re pouring into Fabien Rondal’s room to lay their hands on phones, laptops, anything that allows them to contact their family and friends. But Faiza Oulahsen – the 26-year-old climate change campaigner from Amsterdam – is stood on the pavement outside, alone. After so long in isolation she’s finding the wave of unfamiliar experiences uncomfortable. Lights, traffic, three people talking to her at the same time, the fact that she can actually make a phone call. When she speaks to her family and friends she tells them they’re not allowed to call her, she’ll call them when she can cope with it. That first day she feels like isolating herself again. She needs space and peace to adjust.

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.’