I’m tired - there was always somebody who tried to tell me who is Eduard Limonov. The same thing now, a fifty years old, mustached, sturdy-complexioned representative of the intern agencies. “Don’t you understand that he’s a CIA agent?”
Stop. All of this began a little earlier.
The back seat of a “Volga”, the head below the knees, the left hand squeezed by my own body, a bracelet is snapped on the right. Blows are pouring on the head and the kidneys.
“You have to be good with us, Dima. We have offered you. But you didn’t believe us.” Insinuatingly, like the serpent-tempter, delivers the FSB lieutenant-colonel “Andrey”, seating on my right - the deputy of Frolov - of San Sanich. This is a man with sharp features, with this kind of a hawk profile.
“Why did you call me “Chechen”, I’m fighting with them everyday. And you were so ungrateful.” And again blows on the kidneys and on the head.
“So what, we’ll drive him out in the woods and shoot him there?” - affirmatively asks the voice of a passenger from the front seat.
“Why is he silent? He decided to play partisan?” - and immediately follows a blow with something heavy on the occipital part of the head.
“It’s ok, he’ll be more talkative now”, sounds the perky voice of a young, blond Okhranka employee on my left. He takes a fire extinguisher in his hands and starts to hit me with it on the shin and the knee articulations like crazy. Apparently he misses a couple of times and hits me on the skull: “Strange, the Chechens would have been talking now.”
And he continues, with a greater zeal. Finally, he hits the kneecap three times in a row. On the third time I jerked back with my body. Harshly they pulled out my left arm and clicked the bracelet. Mistake.
Stop. In real fact everything started the 13 January at 9:10 PM, on the exit from the Bunker.
“Yur, would you give me a ride to the Arbatskaya and to George to the Frunzenskaya?” “All right.” Yura walks a little ahead and George behind.
Suddenly with the corner of my left eye I notice some movement. I turn around sharply and I see “the Chechen Andrey” behind George’s back. I remembered him by December the 11th - then he was directly taking part in the attack on our Bunker. He is one of the assistants of the chief of the department on the fight with terrorism and political extremism of the FSB in Moscow and the Moscow region, Frolov Alexander Alexandrovich.
“Police, stay where you are,” he commands in a low voice. I take a step forward in the hope of forcing my way to the Bunker. A shade from the right throws me off my feet and twists my hand.
I’m trying to escape and I resist as I can, hindering them from squeezing me into the car. The forces are not equal. The doors slam shut and we speed away in the direction of the quay. After a certain time we get in the woods. The doors wide open, the trunk too, on the roof - bottles of beer and champagne. Around 50 meters from there - the noise of a ring highway, the lights of the passing cars.
“Well, Dim, you didn’t want it the good way, we’ll have to do it like this”, - churrs “the Chechen Andrey. “Maybe we can fuck him with a wooden stick. There was one in the trunk”, - happily exclaims the blond youth. And right away he starts to undo my belt. “Wow - an officer’s!”
“Will you keep playing partisan or start to talk, - approaches the mustached Alexander Alexandrovich. No? Take this then!” And he hits me at the head with full speed. The blow arrives in my forehead. And another blow in my side. The leg is practically not supporting me, I fall on the left side to cover the hurting knee.
The subsequent menu - foot blows on the body and the head with persistent offers of collaboration. After a certain time they realize that a right understanding from my part is not observable. For the reinforcement of the understanding they decide to put a cellophane bag on my head. I bite the bag through and breath with my mouth. I wouldn’t have succeeded in breathing through my nose anyway, since it is broken and blood keeps pouring out of it, without coagulating. For ten minutes they look at me, then they understand that somewhere, something is wrong. They take off the bag and put another one on my head. I bite it through again. Blows are again pouring from all sides. Somebody among them was illuminated by an idea - to put two bags at the same time. Two, in fact, are very hard to bite through. I don’t have enough air, I suffocate, writhe in convulsions… The bag is taken off. “So, are we going to speak now? No?!” The procedure is repeated. Finally, they are sick of it. They lift me and put me on my feet. The youth still runs around with the idea of raping me either with the wooden stick or a beer bottle. The hawk face of the FSB lieutenant-colonel “Andrey” stretches in a smile. “No - first we’ll go talk a bit with Dima. Don’t even think of running away. If you’ll move - we’ll shoot you right there.” To run where?
My left leg I’m simply dragging along.
“Listen here, - squeals the mustached Alexandr Alexandrovich in a thunderous voice, - I won’t talk much. How I’m sick of you all! Were you part of a CPRF or a LDPR and nobody would have laid a finger on you. But no. I have enough of getting a rap because of you, morons. You’re too unpredictable. I don’t care about Grizlov, Kasyanov. I have enough of getting scold.” In all, these knights of cape and dagger have the mentality of policemen. They have the ways of district police officers: If only nothing could happen on my district.”
“So let’s go, Dima, let’s talk. It’s ten steps going there and back. If we don’t get an agreement, we’ll start everything over, - coos “Andrey”, - and then we’ll shoot you and bury you. And you will dig you own grave - not me, I any case!” - adds Alexander Alexandrovich.
We walk on the road with “Andrey”.
“You will go to me everyday with a report, you will inform us about all of your planned activities. Beginning with the pickets and ending with the, how do you call them, direct actions. And we will allow you to organize what we will like.” His arguments don’t suit me. One can’t serve God and Mammon at the same time. One can’t serve in Russia the sovereign and the nation at the same time. I have to make a choice. The sovereign’s people and the people of the nation enter another war. Freedom as death.
A foot blow in the stomach. And it all starts anew. The blows, the bags, the fire extinguisher on the knees. “Let’s shoot him in his fucking knee, - says the mustached Alexander Alexandrovich in a deep voice, - only then we’ll have to bury him for real.”
Once they undertook a forced stop: right on us on the country road was driving a “Gazelle”. They quickly picked me up, threw in the “Volga” again, sat themselves, drove back, let the “Gazelle” pass, turned back. During this hustle I recalled the words of the lawyer Sergei Valentinovich Belyak: “If you’re getting messed up somewhere, no matter where, scream as loud as you can, even if it doesn’t hurt.” When they pulled me out on the snow again I immediately took use of the lawyer Belyak’s advice and started to scream. To yell, to yell loud, like Tarzan. The time was getting close to midnight and their household was getting worried for the special agents. Frolov SanSanich was being interrupted by calls from his wives and mistresses. And they all remembered all of a sudden that at home they have relatives and kids… They worked me over for another little half hour, got set and drove away. First informing that it’s only the beginning of the conversation.
I was left alone in the empty woods near Moscow…
Dmitri Bakhur, Limonka №240