Вил Мирзаянов - State Secrets - An Insider's Chronicle of the Russian Chemical Weapons Program

Another pleasant change was the morning walk. We went up to the roof of the jail accompanied by a security guard. There were isolated walking areas on the roof. We could see roads through the crack between the concrete slabs, so we could figure out where the jail was located.

On February 2 ndmy lawyer came to see me. He understood from my appearance that my situation had improved, and I expressed my warm gratitude for all his efforts on my behalf. We talked about the court session that was scheduled for the next day. Asnis again asked my permission to petition for my release from jail. Natalia Gevorkyan, the famous journalist from Moscow News , told him confidentially that Zoya Korneva, Chair of the Moscow City Court, was completely puzzled by my reluctance to file this petition and exclaimed, “Just what is he doing?”

According to my defense attorney, many journalists and democratically-minded lawyers disapproved of my actions and thought of them as showing overt disrespect for the court. This is why he asked me to consider everything and to make a reasonable decision, especially since he thought I had achieved the effect I had wanted.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t do that. The judges needn’t feel that I was beginning to cave in and had changed my opinion of them. It was difficult in jail, but it would be much worse later, when they hid me away in a prison camp for many years. We parted, expecting to meet in court on February 3 rd. However, something happened that changed our plans.

Right after breakfast on February 3 rd, I was ordered to prepare for the trip to court. After the search and a long wait I was put into a vehicle which greatly resembled a bakery delivery van. Inside there were iron cages on both sides divided by a narrow walkway. I was put into one of them. I’m not a large man, but I could barely squeeze into it, back-end first. There was an iron seat. It was terribly cold and I could only stand up bent over half way, because my head touched the top of the cage. As we left the prison, I felt that the day was exceptionally cold. Later I was told that the temperature outside was minus 28 Celsius (about minus 18.5 Fahrenheit). The van remained there for about 20 minutes, and then it moved out. By that time I had become completely frozen. The whole cage was made of iron sheeting and a killing cold was seeping in through the walls and the floor, penetrating and percolating throughout my body. The knitted woolen socks I brought with me didn’t help at all. I tried to move in some way and it helped a little, but not for long. In such a predicament only valenki (felt boots), a sheepskin coat, and fur-lined mittens could help. That is how the security guard, who was sitting with his gun near the door, was dressed.

Our van stopped in at some places along the way, and we collected new prisoners from various Moscow jails to transport them to the courts.

Finally, it was our turn and we approached Kalanchevskaya Street, not far from Kazan Train Station, where the Moscow City Court was then located. By that time I had only one wish left. I wanted to find myself anywhere where it was warm, and as fast as possible, because I had grown entirely numb. The van made a sharp turn to the left and stopped. I heard a lot of voices. People were shouting, “Mirzayanov – the pride of Russia! Shame on the Communist tyrants! Free Mirzayanov!” I could see people through the van door holding placards.

I couldn’t read them, but I did see my last name on one of the placards. One of the security guards cried hysterically at the top of his voice, “Get your cameras out of here! Take them away, I am telling you, or I will break them!” Judging by the outcries, there were a lot of people there and nobody was going to give in. Apparently many security guards kept their workplace a secret and didn’t want to be recognized in pictures published in newspapers or in television broadcasts. There were also some more serious reasons, which I will write about a bit later.

About five minutes passed and the guard didn’t allow me to be taken out. Finally, the senior guard commanded, “Close the door. Let’s go!” I understood that they were supposed to take me back to prison. The car drove around somewhere for a while, and then it turned back sharply. I realized that the security guard had decided to trick the people who were waiting for me, and we were going back to the court again. In fact, we soon entered through the back courtyard of the building. No voices could be heard this time. The security guards’ trick had worked.

I was told to leave the cage, and they immediately handcuffed me. There were no steps to get down to the ground. With handcuffs on and feet that I could hardly control because they were completely frozen, it was incredibly difficult to descend from a height of about a meter to the slippery ice that covered the yard near the court. I fell, hitting my right side and my head. When I stood up, they immediately dragged me to the door, which led to the basement of the building. A guard with an automatic rifle was standing at the place where the staircase made a bend, and he examined me fiercely. I walked along the corridor past the guardroom, and through an open door I could see the captain in a dirty uniform with a red armband on his sleeve talking on the phone. A few military men sat smoking on the sofa. I was ordered to turn to the wall and stand there. The officer came up to me and bawled, “Last name?” I answered. A guard took off my handcuffs and commanded, “Let’s go!”

We went along a corridor with a lot of shabby gray doors, and I found myself in the little holding cell of the Moscow City Court. It was freezing there too, but not so dreadfully cold as in the iron cage of the van. I took off my shoes and started jumping to get my feet warm. Soon they were burning hot and started hurting terribly. In my student days in Moscow, I used to travel back and forth every day between my institute and the dormitory on the trams which were really cold in the winter. From those times I remembered that the burning pain was a good sign. It meant my feet were not frostbitten.

It got a bit better and I was no longer shivering. My teeth stopped clattering. Someone looked through the peephole and said something. I saw that it was a young soldier who was asking, “Need some weed?” I didn’t understand, but just in case, I answered “No.” I also added that I wanted to go to the toilet. But the soldier moved away and I heard him asking someone else his strange question. Soon he returned, opened the door, and told me to follow him. The guard was standing in front of some open doors. I could smell the peculiar stench of a public toilet. The guard gave me a sign that I should go inside this dark and unspeakably dirty room. When I came out of the toilet, he took me to the headquarters where an officer told me to stand with my face to the wall as he handcuffed me. Then I was taken somewhere upwards accompanied by four guards. Two young soldiers were holding my hands by the handcuffs, while the other guards were in front of and behind me.

We moved along the corridor on the first floor, and when we reached the spacious front stairway leading to the second floor, I saw a large crowd of people with placards, photo journalists, television crews, and reporters. I had met some of them several times before. People were shouting, “Shame! Free Mirzayanov!” “Mirzayanov, we are with you!” “Why don’t you struggle with the bandits?” The guards stopped in the middle of the stairs, bewildered by the deafening cries of the demonstrators and blinded by endless photoflashes. Both young soldiers grabbed my hands with all their might, and it hurt like hell. I couldn’t control myself and said to one of them, “Whimperer, stop squeezing my hand or you will get a smack in the face!” Of course I would never be able to do that.