Caspian Sea in the east to the Black Sea in the west, bisecting the Eurasian isthmus that separates the two bodies of water.
After the fall of the Soviet Union, Georgia managed to emerge with its independence, while others stayed under the Russian umbrella—some by choice and Chechnya by the jackboot of Vladimir Putin.
Georgians and Russians never got along (although it was a supreme irony that Joseph Stalin was born in a Georgian village), and it was inevitable that this mishmash of ethnic pockets and arbitrary borders would ultimately generate friction.
A pocket of Russians residing in Georgia along its Caucasus border in a region called South Ossetia didn’t care much for Georgian rule, so in 2008 Putin seized the opportunity to invade South Ossetia and send a message that NATO membership for Georgia was not a good idea.
After the ceasefire, transit between Georgia and Russia through the north-south Ossetia conduit came to a standstill, and Georgian traffic into the other Russian republics along the northern Caucasus border halted as well. But over time, the higher level of security waned and was replaced by complacency, particularly at the remote mountain passes as traffic resumed in a trickle.
Kabardino-Balkaria was a “republic” within the Russian Federation, which meant—on paper at least—it enjoyed semiautonomous status from Moscow. But the border guards were from the Russian interior ministry and reported to the Kremlin. However, the Russian interior troops were recruited from the local populace, and in view of the fact that Kabardino-Balkaria had an 87 percent unemployment rate, they were a bit more supple in terms of their loyalties.
Basayev and Matsil were counting on this as the Skoda truck pulled to a stop by the guard shack, which was a dilapidated wooden hut with greasy windows. A young soldier wearing a long coat against the cold and with a rifle slung over his shoulder came out to the driver’s side. Without speaking, Matsil handed him the two forged Russian passports.
He said, “A moment,” and took them into the shack.
The terrorist and the spy sat in silence in the cab until the soldier returned and motioned for them to come inside.
Not a good sign.
The two men entered the shed, Basayev keeping his hand on the concealed Beretta in his jacket pocket.
They were led to an older sergeant behind a desk. Basayev watched Matsil try unsuccessfully to conceal his nerves. But one look at the sergeant made Basayev’s confidence increase. He let go of the Beretta and let his hand dangle at his side.
The sergeant was pushing forty, and his skin had a florid color that matched his bloodshot eyes. Clearly, this was a man at the dead end of a career in a posting on the dark side of the moon. Basayev sensed he would use a routine border crossing as a mechanism to increase his self-importance. But that sort of bureaucrat usually had vulnerability as well, and it was clear what this man’s weakness was.
The sergeant looked at the computer screen, then at the passport, and then at Basayev.
“The photographs in the database and on the passport do not look like you.”
Matsil glanced at Basayev as he casually replied, “I have a beard now. I did not then.”
The sergeant typed on the keyboard. “Place of birth?”
“Baksan,” he replied easily.
“Purpose of travel in leaving Kabardino-Balkaria and entering Georgia?”
“Freight hauling. Picking up a load in Tbilisi.”
“What kind of load?”
“Machine parts.”
“What kind of machine?”
“I believe it is used for some sort of automobile part manufacturing.”
“What company?”
“It will be on the freight bill of lading we pick up in Tbilisi. Now, if you don’t mind, sergeant, my colleague and I are in a hurry.” He put his hand into his left jacket pocket and withdrew two gold ingots, placing them on the desk in front of the soldier. “One for you, and one for your private, in return for your trouble in expediting our
After the fall of the Soviet Union, Georgia managed to emerge with its independence, while others stayed under the Russian umbrella—some by choice and Chechnya by the jackboot of Vladimir Putin.
Georgians and Russians never got along (although it was a supreme irony that Joseph Stalin was born in a Georgian village), and it was inevitable that this mishmash of ethnic pockets and arbitrary borders would ultimately generate friction.
A pocket of Russians residing in Georgia along its Caucasus border in a region called South Ossetia didn’t care much for Georgian rule, so in 2008 Putin seized the opportunity to invade South Ossetia and send a message that NATO membership for Georgia was not a good idea.
After the ceasefire, transit between Georgia and Russia through the north-south Ossetia conduit came to a standstill, and Georgian traffic into the other Russian republics along the northern Caucasus border halted as well. But over time, the higher level of security waned and was replaced by complacency, particularly at the remote mountain passes as traffic resumed in a trickle.
Kabardino-Balkaria was a “republic” within the Russian Federation, which meant—on paper at least—it enjoyed semiautonomous status from Moscow. But the border guards were from the Russian interior ministry and reported to the Kremlin. However, the Russian interior troops were recruited from the local populace, and in view of the fact that Kabardino-Balkaria had an 87 percent unemployment rate, they were a bit more supple in terms of their loyalties.
Basayev and Matsil were counting on this as the Skoda truck pulled to a stop by the guard shack, which was a dilapidated wooden hut with greasy windows. A young soldier wearing a long coat against the cold and with a rifle slung over his shoulder came out to the driver’s side. Without speaking, Matsil handed him the two forged Russian passports.
He said, “A moment,” and took them into the shack.
The terrorist and the spy sat in silence in the cab until the soldier returned and motioned for them to come inside.
Not a good sign.
The two men entered the shed, Basayev keeping his hand on the concealed Beretta in his jacket pocket.
They were led to an older sergeant behind a desk. Basayev watched Matsil try unsuccessfully to conceal his nerves. But one look at the sergeant made Basayev’s confidence increase. He let go of the Beretta and let his hand dangle at his side.
The sergeant was pushing forty, and his skin had a florid color that matched his bloodshot eyes. Clearly, this was a man at the dead end of a career in a posting on the dark side of the moon. Basayev sensed he would use a routine border crossing as a mechanism to increase his self-importance. But that sort of bureaucrat usually had vulnerability as well, and it was clear what this man’s weakness was.
The sergeant looked at the computer screen, then at the passport, and then at Basayev.
“The photographs in the database and on the passport do not look like you.”
Matsil glanced at Basayev as he casually replied, “I have a beard now. I did not then.”
The sergeant typed on the keyboard. “Place of birth?”
“Baksan,” he replied easily.
“Purpose of travel in leaving Kabardino-Balkaria and entering Georgia?”
“Freight hauling. Picking up a load in Tbilisi.”
“What kind of load?”
“Machine parts.”
“What kind of machine?”
“I believe it is used for some sort of automobile part manufacturing.”
“What company?”
“It will be on the freight bill of lading we pick up in Tbilisi. Now, if you don’t mind, sergeant, my colleague and I are in a hurry.” He put his hand into his left jacket pocket and withdrew two gold ingots, placing them on the desk in front of the soldier. “One for you, and one for your private, in return for your trouble in expediting our
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