Ben Stewart - Don't Trust, Don't Fear, Don't Beg

Two floors above her, Dima pens a letter to his friends in Stockholm.

I can only speak for myself, since I am isolated from my comrades. But from my perspective, if our action and the follow-up we are living through will lead to the undermining of the Arctic oil companies, and to get people all around the world, and especially in Russia, to understand the reality and urgency of the crisis we are attempting to avert – well that’s well worth a few weeks or months or (sigh) even years behind bars. I am hoping that I can count on you, my friends and colleagues, to continue the campaign while the 30 of us are ‘enjoying’ this forced vacation.

As well as getting letters to and from the thirty, Fabien Rondal’s team is using legal channels to get supplies to the crew. Alex is delving through her second delivery, pulling out desiccated fruit and sliced-up cheese, when she comes across a curious object. She holds it up, examining it quizzically. She turns it in her hands. It’s metal with a handle and a stainless steel bar in a tight curl, and a plug at the end. Is this a hair curler? She plugs it in and examines it from every angle. It’s a fucking hair curler. She tosses it back into the bag. Really? I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, I’m in jail, there are things I need right now, lots of things, but curling tongs aren’t even near the top of the list.

The next day at the gulyat everyone is buzzing from the latest delivery of supplies, shouting over the wall, announcing to the other women what they’ve been sent.

‘I got nuts! Oh wow, I never knew nuts tasted so good. When I get out of here I’m going to eat more nuts.’

‘I got an orange.’

‘I got beans!’ Sini cries. ‘I’m so excited I got beans. I ate them all at once, they were great.’

‘I got peanuts and fruit,’ shouts Camila. ‘And I got a T-shirt. It’s got handprints on the front, it was made by my family, all my sisters and brothers. I’ve been wearing it all morning, it makes me feel like they’re here with me. I’m going to wear it to court, when we have the appeal.’

And Alex says, ‘Well, I’m annoyed. Out of all the things they could have sent me, I get curling tongs. I mean, how impractical is that?’

‘Really?’

‘Seriously?’

‘Oh my God,’ says Faiza. ‘They sent you curling tongs?’

And Sini says, ‘Alex, what do they look like?’

‘What do you think they look like? They look like curling tongs. A metal bar curled up, a wire, a plug. Curling tongs.’

‘Alex, I think that’s a water boiler. You use it to make tea.’

Silence.

‘Oh.’

Every day Phil’s cell is searched, his clothes are searched, he can’t hold the camera card in his boot for ever, he needs to get it out. He thinks about handing it to Mr Babinski, but he doesn’t yet know if he can trust him. It’s one thing to lose a letter, but there’s only one copy of this film in existence, and it could help him and his friends get out of here. And maybe Babinski has to pass through a metal detector to get out of SIZO-1. Instead Phil writes a note to Fabien Rondal and drops it into the Babinski channel.

When Thomas the Tank Engine’s friend Harold dropped by for tea on the 19th, I was there with a go-pro. If you want to see it, let me know how, who, etc. There is no backup. Really very important. Please don’t ignore this sentence Fabien. Looks exciting micro SD.

Why the hell Phil chose to adopt a code dependent on a working knowledge of 1940s British children’s literature, only he can explain. But nevertheless the Belgian Fabien Rondal sends an email to Mads Christensen in Copenhagen with a correct interpretation.

To me, it means that Phil was the one who filmed the boarding of the ship on Sept 19th. Now it seems to me that Phil is saying that he still has the micro sd card with him now (in the jail?) and that he asks us for advice about what he should do with it.

Plans for Operation Extraction are laid.

Phil procures a matchbox. He removes the tray and turns the matches out, then he gets another matchbox tray and cuts the sides off. Then he pushes that piece of card smoothly inside the first matchbox, so now it has a false bottom.

He starts carrying his matchbox with him wherever he goes in the prison, testing to see if it’s taken from him. He has a matchbox on him at gulyat and at searches, so the guards get used to the fact that he always carries this matchbox. He’s trying to cover every detail, he won’t leave anything to chance. Then he drops a note to Fabien through Mr Babinski.

Get a box of Russian matches and have someone in court for my appeal.

It’s 7 a.m. and the Room of Doom is filling up. From somewhere above, the team hears the sound of scraping soles dragging along the metal-grilled floor. Then a groan. The Greenpeace UK chief, John Sauven, is gripping the bannister. He closes his eyes and swallows, then breathes deeply. He’s a tall man with sharp blue eyes and grey stubble on his chin. He’s led the London office for seven years. It was his idea, back in that Turkish restaurant three years ago, to requisition a Greenpeace ship and sail north to challenge the Arctic drillers. He shuffles down the stairs to the Room of Doom.

‘John, are you okay?’

‘You look ill.’

‘Do you want some water?’

‘I… I went out with a Russian guy last night,’ says Sauven. His eyes are bloodshot, his skin is wet with sweat. ‘It was a former Kremlin adviser. I was pretty sure he was speaking for the Russian government, he was obviously very well connected. He told me he had fifteen minutes, that was all, so I met him at a hotel next to Buckingham Palace. I was… I… I was going to have tea with him but I got him a Duvel beer, it was strong and he really liked it so he wanted another one. Then he just started on the Scotch, and… and by the end of the evening we must have had about twenty-eight whiskies… God, I feel dreadful… We left at midnight then went back to his house to keep drinking. I was trying to get information from him, who he knew, how influential he was, whether he had any contacts within the Russian government that would be useful for us.’

He pauses. The team examines him with sympathy.

‘Christ, I feel sick… He said there’s this jockeying for power inside the Russian system. He said hardliners, people connected to Gazprom, connected to the military intelligence services, they want to see us punished. And… and there are people who are… you know, who are far more liberal, with connections to the West, who are concerned… Christ, I feel absolutely dreadful. You know, people concerned with Russia’s image in the world. They see the Arctic 30 as negative for Russia, that they can’t win this. Then he told me how pissed off Putin was when he was blamed for Pussy Riot. He got burned, he felt he was personally blamed. On the Arctic 30 he doesn’t want blood on his hands, he doesn’t want people to think he’s responsible, but if… if he’s blamed then he won’t back down, it’s just not his style. So when we want to go in hard we have to go after his economic interests. We’re doing the right thing with Gazprom. But Jesus, those Russians can drink. I haven’t been to bed yet, he kept me up all night, whisky after whisky. I think I’m still drunk.’

Sauven shakes his head then shuffles off towards the toilet, leaving in his wake the wafting scent of stale booze and a clutch of embarrassed subordinates staring awkwardly at their shoes. He’s spent the past few weeks meeting anybody he thinks can help the campaign. He doesn’t care who he has to speak to. He’s met the ex-CEO of one of the world’s three biggest oil companies, someone he’s sparred with publicly for years, and he’s met someone who knows Putin’s banker. He goes to art dealers who know the wives of oligarchs, and arranges meetings with the heads of hedge funds with Russian investments, seeking advice on how the new Russia functions.