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

FOUR

Across the ship telephones have been seized, radios disabled and Internet access shut down. But in the mess room, where the crew are being held – and unknown to the occupying Russians – a single telephone is still working. It’s a black plastic handset connected to the last functioning satellite link. The first activists to be pushed into the mess managed to hide the phone from the troopers and now it’s in the galley – the ship’s kitchen – where the smokers have converged to exhale up a ventilator.

Frank calls the Greenpeace office in London. He’s whispering in precise little sentences. He says there were twenty commandos, heavily armed, guns and knives, all wearing masks. The ship is being towed to Murmansk, he says, and it’ll take four or five days. Some of the troopers are talking about serious charges, time in jail, but he thinks that’s bullshit. Then he says he has to go, he doesn’t know how long they’ll have the phone for, and with that the line goes dead.

The trooper guarding the door shifts the weight of the rifle cradled across his chest, looks away then looks back again. Behind him more heavily armed men are stomping through the corridors, going from cabin to cabin, searching bags, drawers, tins, everything. They’re coming out carrying the activists’ books, computers, soap bags. Frank sees one of them clutching his bottle of Sailor Jerry rum.

Minutes pass, then hours. Groups form around card games. The smokers execute a complete takeover of the galley. Phil pulls the camera from his underpants and stashes it in the extractor fan. It’s a relief. There was a stiff plastic cable tie on the camera that was cut off diagonally and it was digging into his thigh.

Over on the Ladoga, Sini is sat on the edge of a bed in a locked cabin. She’s not seen Kruso since they were arrested. She’s been here nearly two days. The Russians have been pleasant enough, but she wants to be back with her friends.

Sini Saarela has been an activist since she was a teenager. For years she’s been scaling highly polluting fossil fuel infrastructure. Her mother would ask her, ‘Why does it always have to be you?’ and Sini would reply, ‘Who else is it going to be?’

She feels a strong connection to the Arctic, she grew up here, she spent time living with the Sami people in the far north and conducted forest mapping in Finland, Sweden and Norway. When someone asked her why she was joining the Arctic Sunrise she said in a soft melodic Finnish accent, ‘Because it’s our Arctic. Who are these Dutch and Russian companies, coming up here and messing up our Arctic? It’s humanity’s Arctic. It’s my nature, the nature where I grew up.’

There’s a knock on the door. It opens and an officer is standing above her. ‘Okay,’ he says, ‘you’re going back to your ship.’

She’s reunited with Kruso, she throws her arms around him but a moment later they’re pulled apart. A soldier gives them back their drysuits and life vests. They’re put into a RHIB and driven across the water to the Arctic Sunrise. As they come closer Sini sees there’s no one on deck to greet them. The Russians drive the boat alongside the Greenpeace ship. They order Sini and Kruso to climb the pilot ladder. And Sini’s thinking, I know I didn’t climb well yesterday, I wasn’t happy with it either. Okay, so the protest only lasted a few minutes, but was it so bad that there’s no one here to meet us?

But when she pulls herself up the last rung of the ladder she sees soldiers with heavy guns and balaclavas. And then she understands.

They’re taken down corridors, past masked men coming out of their friends’ cabins carrying bags and computers, and then they’re pushed into the mess room. There’s a moment of silence as they walk in, then the crew surges towards them, hugging them, some crying with relief. They’re together now. Together on the Arctic Sunrise. All thirty of them.

One of the troopers stands in the doorway and asks for silence. He announces that the activists are to be taken one by one to the laundry room to be searched, and asks for their co-operation. Quickly phones are slipped out of pockets and hidden under cushions. Phil eyes the extractor fan. He’s worried it will be searched and he’ll lose the footage. He doesn’t need to hide the whole camera, just the thumbnail memory card.

Surreptitiously he pulls off a boot. He pulls out the foam sole and with a kitchen knife he cuts a little slot in the heel. He strolls into the galley, looks over his shoulder then pulls out the camera. A commando is standing just two metres away from him, looking in the other direction. Phil’s heart is thumping in his ears. He takes a step to the side so his back is facing the trooper, then he slips the card into the sole, shoves the camera back in the extractor fan then bends down and pulls his boot back on.

A trooper enters the mess and folds his arms across his chest. ‘Okay, listen up! This is the deal…’ Phil spins around. The man is speaking in Russian but he’s got a translator standing next to him. ‘You will be allowed in here and the lounge. You will only be allowed in the corridor of this deck and the deck above. You’re not allowed to go outside and you’re not allowed to go into the hold. I know some of you have cabins there. I don’t care, you can’t use them. For now you stay in here. You don’t leave this room.’

‘Can we go out on deck to smoke?’

‘No, you’re not allowed to go out on deck. You’re only allowed in these two corridors.’

‘Can we see Pete, the captain?’

‘No, you cannot see the captain.’

‘Are we going to Murmansk?’

‘Yes.’

‘What will happen when we get there?’

‘I cannot say.’

‘Will we be able to go home?’

‘I cannot say.’

‘Is there anything you can tell us?’

‘I cannot say.’

In Copenhagen, Moscow, London and Amsterdam, Greenpeace staff are calling relatives of the crew. Some families express shock and horror, others sound like they were expecting this. In Amsterdam, Mimount Oulahsen-Farhat – Faiza’s mother – hears the telephone ringing. It’s a Thursday, she’s at home watching television. The man on the line says he’s from Greenpeace. He says the ship her daughter is on has been stormed by Russian soldiers. Everything is okay, he says. Everyone’s safe. When there’s more information he’ll contact her immediately. Mimount puts the phone down, stares at the wall and bursts into tears.

At just past 10 p.m. Moscow time, Russian state media reports that the Arctic Sunrise is being towed to Murmansk. Five thousand miles away in Washington DC the first protest is beginning, outside the Russian embassy. By the next morning there will be demonstrations planned or happening in thirty cities across the world.

On the Sunrise the night stretches out before them. Under the watch of armed guards the activists spread out across the mess, playing card games or lying on the floor under the tables. Only in the morning – more than twelve hours after the raid – are they finally allowed to leave. An officer stands in the doorway and reads out a list of numbers. ‘These are the cabins you are not permitted to enter. The others you can use. You can sleep now, if you want.’

They spill out into the corridor and retreat to the cabins. Frank tapes his computer memory stick to the bottom of the table in his cabin. Kieron hides his camera card in the light fitting in the ceiling. Fazia slips a mobile phone into the underside of a drawer. Alex slides hers into a bag of rice.

After a few snatched hours of sleep they start reappearing from their cabins and gather again in the mess. Dima passes three of the commandos in the corridor. They’re still masked but he can see their eyes are red, and they’re using the tips of their gloved hands to steady themselves against the wall. He can smell burnt alcohol on their breath.

The Sunrise hits some weather, she’s not the most stable ship and the troopers stumble down the corridors, seasick and hungover, guns slung over their shoulders. When the activists try to talk to them the soldiers are impatient and angry.

Dima tells the other activists he’s not worried about their situation, he says the rest of them should be as relaxed about this as he is. This is the third time he’s been arrested in these waters. The first time was in 1990 when it was still the Soviet Union. He says the ship will be taken to Murmansk, they’ll be held for a day or two, there’ll be some paperwork to complete then they’ll sail out of port and back to Norway, where they left from last week. And in the meantime Greenpeace offices around the world will be exploiting the media moment to the maximum. He’s been getting arrested on the high seas for a quarter century. This is nothing to get stressed about, says Dima. Best to just sit back and chalk it up as another great story.

The main threat now is boredom. The activists play endless games – chess, Scrabble, Pictionary, Mexican poker. Anything to eat up time. Pete Willcox, the captain, is allowed down twice a day for lunch and dinner accompanied by a guard before being taken back to his cabin.

Three days in and Frank is thinking these Russians are real professionals. Not arseholes. Just doing their job. A commando even helps Frank carry a tray with tea and cakes up the stairs, the commando’s face covered by a balaclava, a Vintorez special forces rifle slung over his shoulder and a handgun and a knife strapped to his thigh.

When the crew goes to bed a contingent of troopers prowls the corridors or stands guard outside the cabins. Camila Speziale wakes in the night needing the bathroom. She pushes open her door and finds herself face to face with a masked man cradling a rifle. ‘Hi,’ she says then eases past him and slips into the washroom. Two minutes later she walks past him again.

‘Hi again.’

‘Hullo.’

‘Goodnight then.’

‘Yes.’

The next day Camila tries to engage the soldiers in conversation, but her advances are met with surly monosyllabic replies. She resolves to orchestrate a detente. It’s four days after the boarding and she decides to make them pancakes. She prepares them with a chocolate and fruit topping. Dima tells her the Russian word for pancake is blini, then she approaches the guard at the mess room door.

‘Blini. Tasty. You want?’

‘Nyet.’ The trooper stands ramrod straight, his eyes staring over Camila’s shoulder.

‘Chocolate and fruit.’

‘Nyet.’

‘For you, blini.’

He looks down at her, smells the pancake, then looks away. ‘Nyet!’