Rostov-sur-Don welcomed us with sunshine. And with four or five FSB agents. Wearing jeans and Turkish leather jackets, they crowded themselves near exit of railway carriage. They been looking elsewhere, but not looking at us. As we descended onto Rostov’s soil, one of them innocently asked Mishka: “Are you one named Eduard, aren’t you?” Mishka, my bodyguard, said “No, I am not.”
Then Colonel Tutunnik arrived, walking carefully amongst mud. Rostov’s railway station was under reconstruction. We left the station. On our way at least three teams of militiamen were busy checking passersby’s documents and belongings. Tutunnik put his hand on my shoulder, his three + three colonel’s stars were offering some protection.
But not from FSB surveillance. When, the very same evening, we went to sauna, our official army car was followed by white Zhiguli. When, late at night, drunk, we left the sauna, white Zhiguli escorted us back to Colonel Tutunnik’s apartment building—in neighborhood called “Bulgarka,” because it was builded by Bulgarian construction workers. Germans have paid for officers’ apartment buildings, so neighborhood is also called “Nemetskaya sloboda” [German settlement].
The very next day, the trial of Colonel Budanov have started at Kirov District Court. We went there with Colonel Alyokhin, who is press secretary to General Troshev, commander-in-chief of Northern Caucasus army district. Alyokhin is also my fellow countryman—we are both from city of Kharkov, from neighborhood Turenka.
Gazetny pereulok, where court is located, was totally surrounded by militiamen. But about one hundred representatives of people somehow have managed to infiltrate militia’s cordons. About dozen of Rostov’s National Bolsheviks were amongst them. They were holding a slogans: “Liberty to hero Budanov!” and another one: “Let’s purge all Ichkeria, according to Beria!” The last one was so successful that next day the lawyer Abdulla Khamzaev, representing family of victim, dedicated to our slogan 15 minutes of his 40-minutes speech. He was outraged.
First day’s court proceedings have lasted only 75 minutes. It was impossible to get into building, not speaking of a courtroom itself. Colonel Alyokhin was only one wearing an army uniform on all of Gazetny pereulok. Army as always demonstrated its cowardliness in civilian life. Apart from my National Bolshevik boys, Budanov was supported Russian National Unity and by old babushkas. One of them was very aggressive; she said to American human rights activist, a woman named Deitch: “I wish your head will lay on the ground!” I was impressed. As I am sporting a gray beard nowadays, so I had an opportunity to walk unrecognizable amongst crowd and listen to them. They behaved as probably Americans have behaved at trial of Lieutenant Calley (you remember the guy, who killed entire population of My-Lai village in Vietnam): angry at Vietnamese as at Chechens.
FSB been busy with me the entire time. Especially when I decided to walk around the city. Mishka is good at watching them. We have identified amongst others: agent “Borman” (as we started to call him), agent “Square Head,” agent “Student,” etc.
On January 28, I have met with General Troshev at his residence at Main Headquarters of Northern Caucasus Army District. I couldn’t take Mishka with me, so I left him sitting in army car near headquarters building. He said later that surveillance team was visibly shaken by the fact that “subject”—me—naturally and easily sneaked into heavily guarded army headquarters. They probably started to dream about unveiling terrible conspiracy between Chairman of National Bolshevik Party Limonov, General Troshev, and Colonel Robert Denard. Why Denard? Because on February 8, my friend (he also now a friend of Mark Ames) French writer Thierry Marignac was detained at Sheremetyevo airport, some papers and magazines were confiscated, as well as letter from me to Colonel Denard. No, it wasn’t an accident. Translator was available and waiting at 6 a.m. for Thierry Marignac.
In Moscow I live as under microscope lens: my telephone been tapped for about a year, my relationships are under surveillance. But when I go to other cities they use “naruzhka,” as street surveillance is called. I feel myself as a very important person, FSB spends so much money on me. Did I dream about such a life when I was a boy? No, never. I didn’t dream about anything like that even during my years in Paris as a controversial, politically uncorrect writer.
On my last day in Rostov-sur-Don they have lost me. It happened in following manner. At 10:30 in the morning Mishka and I have left Colonel Tutunnik’s apartment, our bags in hands. Nose to nose, we met the agent “Student” (this was his first appearance), who was walking straight at us. I even thought that he wanted to talk. Near a bus stop agent “Borman” turned his face away from us as we boarded a bus. Two stops later, agent “Student” suddenly appeared at bus entrance and innocently placed himself next to us. In order to meet “our” bus two stops later, he must have drove a car as a jet fighter. Why he was in such a hurry? God knows why. About three bus stops later, we have descended from bus and walked straight into the building where Colonel Tutunnik and his friend from Ministry of Interior were waiting for us. Then we went to a backyard where we boarded a civilian car with a tinted windows. When a few minutes later we emerged from the backyard, invisible behind the car’s tinted windows, nobody followed our car. So, free from surveillance, we went to Cossack city of Novocherkassk. It was purely a tourist trip: we went to local Don Cossack museum, then to cathedral where al famous Cossack White Army generals (Kaledin, Denikin, and others) were communicating with a God in the beginning of the 20th century. Then we have dined in a dirty roadside cafe.
In the evening, three army colonels and half a dozen National Bolsheviks have come to say a goodbye to us at Rostov’s train station. We were all standing in the deep mud. No “Borman,” no “Square Head,” no “Student” were present. At least we didn’t see them. I wonder what they have written in their reports.