Dagger in the Caucasus

[Zak]

​

Location: Nazran, Republic of Ingushetia, Russian Federation
Date: August 29, 2006
Time: 8:42 PM

The rain came down in thin, cold sheets, hissing quietly as it struck the cracked pavement of the old city quarter. The faint smell of damp concrete and burned motor oil hung in the air as dim yellow light spilled from broken streetlamps that flickered uncertainly in the wind.

In the shadow of a long-abandoned textile warehouse, Malik Yevloyev stood motionless beneath the crumbling arch of a doorway. His dark eyes scanned the alley, a narrow, forgotten vein of Nazran where no police patrols ventured after dusk unless they expected trouble. The walls around him were scarred by old bullet holes and faded slogans left from the chaotic years after the First Chechen War. Above him, on the wall in peeling paint: "Ингушетия будет свободной!" - "Ingushetia will be free!"

Under his coat, hidden from view, lay the latest issue of the Congress Bulletin, an illegal, typewritten document freshly copied in the basement of a safehouse three blocks away. On its worn pages: the manifesto of the newly organized Ingush National Congress, declaring the rejection of Moscow’s authority, denouncing the Kremlin’s "colonial occupation," and calling for full independence through "any means necessary."

Footsteps echoed, cautious, hurried. From the far end of the alley appeared Aslan Buzurtanov, barely seventeen, his face pale in the streetlight, damp hair clinging to his forehead. His breath misted in the cold as he approached Malik.

"You're late," Malik muttered, pulling him into the shadow of the arch. He passed the folded manifesto into the boy’s shaking hand.

"Give this to Umar. He’s waiting near the factory on the Sunzha River, midnight sharp. No delays. And no phones, you understand? No calls. Not even to your brother."

Aslan nodded nervously. His eyes darted toward the street, where an old black Volga sedan sat idling for too long at the curb with its driver watching. Malik's jaw tightened. Moscow's agents were everywhere now with FSB operatives in civilian coats, local collaborators paid in rubles or safety. The slightest slip could bring the midnight knock on the door... or worse.

"Tell Umar this too," Malik added, his voice lowering to a whisper. "The Russians reinforced the southern districts this morning. Two new patrols, plainclothes. And they've begun checking the oil refinery workers again and are looking for sympathizers. Someone in the Congress is feeding them information."

He stepped closer, his breath hot against Aslan's ear. "If this rat isn't found... the whole movement is doomed before it even draws its first real breath."

Aslan swallowed hard but said nothing.

Somewhere beyond the city’s edge, in the dark foothills toward Chechnya, there was the sudden crackle of distant gunfire. Not unusual anymore. Skirmishes flared along the border often now with small rebel bands slipping across the mountains, testing Russian positions, gathering arms. Malik's gaze lingered on the hills, where war could be smelled in the wet air.

"Go," he ordered softly. "And remember, no one outside the Congress knows about the vote tomorrow. If Moscow gets wind of it, Umar and all of us are finished."

Aslan turned and ran with his footsteps fading into the wet night.

Malik remained in the shadows a moment longer, watching the black Volga as it slowly pulled away from the curb, its taillights vanishing into the gloom. His hand drifted beneath his coat, fingers curling around the cold steel of a Makarov pistol tucked in his waistband.

This was no longer about quiet resistance. The first shots of the Ingush struggle for freedom had already been fired in secret valleys and silent basements.

Soon... they would echo across all of the Caucasus.

 

[Zak]

The black Volga rumbled slowly down the rain-slicked street, its wipers scraping against the cracked windshield in steady rhythm. Inside, the smell of cheap cigarettes and cold leather filled the cabin.

Behind the wheel sat a local man who was silent, nervous, hired by the hour and wise enough to keep his eyes forward and mouth shut.

In the backseat, obscured by the gloom and smoke, sat Major Viktor Sokolov, Federal Security Service, his face lit dimly by the green glow of a radio receiver on his lap. Thin, severe, dressed in civilian clothes but unmistakably military in posture. His gloved fingers toyed idly with a plain metal lighter, flicking it open and shut as he listened to the soft static of the encrypted channel.

"Contact confirmed... Yevloyev met the courier. Alley behind Kirova Street. The package changed hands. Possible handoff location by the Sunzha River. Factory district."

The voice crackled from the earpiece. Sokolov smiled thinly.

"Tell the team to be ready. Midnight. But no arrests yet. Let the worms gather. We want the nest... not the stray rats."

He snapped the receiver shut, pocketing the device as the driver glanced nervously into the rearview mirror.

"Relax," Sokolov said softly, catching his eye. "You’ll get your rubles for tonight. Unless, of course, you’ve been speaking to these ‘freedom fighters’... like the baker we visited yesterday."

The driver stiffened, knuckles whitening on the wheel. Sokolov chuckled and leaned back against the cracked leather seat, eyes drifting to the window as Nazran's empty streets rolled by.

The city felt on edge tonight, wound tight as wire. Somewhere far to the south, the faint sound of automatic fire echoed in the hills, where the border with Chechnya bled freely and men vanished in the dark. But here, in the heart of Ingushetia, the war was quieter. Whispers. Secret meetings. Printed papers. Names passed in secret.

And one name mattered most now.

"Malik Yevloyev."

Sokolov's thin smile returned. The face on the worn dossier in his briefcase was a rebel leader once thought dead in the Chechen wars. Now alive, stirring ghosts of independence once more.

His radio hissed again.

"Confirmation. The courier is headed east toward the Sunzha district. Alone."

Sokolov’s fingers curled. Foolish boy. They always sent the young ones to carry messages. So easy to break, to bend. So easy to make them talk.

"Follow him," Sokolov ordered. "No contact. Not yet." He flicked his lighter again, flame dancing in the dark. "Let the Congress gather. By dawn... there will be no more secrets in Ingushetia."

---

Elsewhere...

Aslan ran along the narrow lanes, heart hammering against his chest, soaked to the bone by the freezing rain. The pamphlet, Malik’s warning, pressed against his ribs, damp inside his coat.

But in the pit of his stomach, fear grew.

Someone had been watching the alley. He had seen the glint of glass behind the wheel of the Volga. Malik’s words returned like a whisper of death: “FSB agents are everywhere…”

For a moment, Aslan slowed with doubt gnawing at him. Should he run straight to Umar? Was the factory safe? Or had the enemy already marked the Congress for slaughter?

His hand brushed the hidden phone in his pocket with a foolish risk Malik had forbidden.

But what if it was already too late?

Aslan glanced down the dark street toward the river district—toward the place where freedom or ruin waited in the cold, silent factory.

The decision pressed on him like a stone.

---

In the night sky above Nazran, the clouds thickened. Thunder rumbled distantly over the Caucasus mountains as the storm gathered strength.

The first act of rebellion was ending.

And the night was only beginning.