Return to Babylon

By Arkady Povzikov

Set in Chechnya, Return to Babylon is a plot-driven psychological thriller based on a true story, presents an emotional tale about a man who lost his reason to live, but found the strength to get it back. Brain-washed at a young age, 26-year-old Anvar, has experienced more than most in his lifetime. After being wrongly accused of murdering his stepfather, he escapes from prison with the aid of Chechen colonel, who sends him to militant camp in Pakistan. Anvar carries out assignments for the world’s criminal elite including the colonel who formulates a plan to secure funds for a coup to free Chechnya from Russian domination. Angry and confused after making life-altering discoveries, Anvar rebels against terrorist’s ideologies and puts his life in jeopardy after he refuses to follow orders to kidnap the son of a wealthy Siberian woman, Tatiana with whom he falls in love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468574111

Arkady Povzikov

Arkady was born in Leningrad in the former Soviet Union. After finishing high school and the industrial College, he served in the Soviet Army. He spent his spare time writing poems and short stories, searching for a plot where he could express his feelings and his views of life. His first book “Goodbye to the Nevsky” was published in Toronto in 1987. His second book “The Purpose” was published in Moscow in 2005. The third book “The Thirteenth Apostle” was published in 2008 in the United States and China. “Return to Babylon” was published in 2012 in the United States. “Requiem” was published in 2013 in the United States. Arkady resides in Toronto, Ontario working on another book.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

GEORGIA, BATUMI. APRIL 2010.

For mid-March, Batumi was unusually warm. Colonel Kerim Daderov and Anvar Ramzan were standing outside on the balcony of the Sheraton Hotel, observing the early tourists who were down at the beach near the Black Sea. The colonel expected a warm meeting between old acquaintances, but he received nothing of the sort. The conversation flowed poorly. They exchanged meaningless words, examining each other as if they had been introduced just moments earlier.

The colonel imperceptibly glanced into Anvar’s face, trying to find the features of the teenager whom he had rescued nine years ago.

The last time the colonel saw Anvar was in August of 2001, in a holding cell. Accused of murdering a Russian officer, Anvar was facing a 15-year sentence in a hard labor camp.

The trial agitated Chechnya; people went out into the streets of Grozny demanding the release of the young hero. The Chechen Liberation Front tasked the colonel with helping Anvar escape.

The hero looked no older than 14, even though he was a man of 18 years. He glowered at the colonel; he was ready to die, to never surrender. Only once he understood that he was free did he mutter words of gratitude for days on end.

Nine years had transformed Anvar beyond recognition; the person standing next to the colonel was a poorly shaven man with a scar on his temple, his eyes projecting an intense, cold stare, but given an impression of an intelligent man.

The colonel hoped that the food and wine would loosen Anvar’s tongue. He sighed in relief when a waiter came into the room holding a platter of pleasantly smelling lamb kebabs, vegetables, and bread. The young waiter got his tip, bowed, and left. The colonel poured some Armenian brandy and raised his glass.

To our meeting! I hope it will mark the start of a new friendship, he said solemnly.

Anvar nodded slightly but said nothing. They remained standing as they drank and concluded the traditional Caucasus toast with a firm handshake. The colonel opened a box of Cuban cigars and offered one to Anvar. He was the first to break the silence.

So tell me, how have you been all these years?

What exactly do you want to know? Anvar said, while casting a glance in the direction of a desk where a thick folder lay. The colonel followed his gaze.

You’re quite observant. You’re right, I did collect some fragments of your biography, and I have to admit that they are quite impressive. He walked over to the desk, picked up the folder, and opened it.

Let’s see what’s in here: September 2001, Pakistan, Lashkar militant training camp. Then you were sent to Afghanistan in November. You participated in the battle for Kabul and Tora Bora where you were wounded. Was it serious?

My left foot. The bullet went right through it. Anvar said

The colonel nodded and continued: I guess that’s why you were dispatched in December to Lebanon under the command of Major Abu Rashid. I had the pleasure of meeting the head of the military intelligence school. He is a knowledgeable man with tremendous experience in international espionage. Correct?

You might say that.

Right. And how long were you in Lebanon?

A little over six months.

The colonel nodded again in approval. The major states in his report that you were his best student.

I’m flattered, said Anvar, grinning.

"You should be—just listen to what he wrote about you:

‘Lieutenant Ramzan has shown himself to be an intelligent and inventive commander, capable of making quick decisions in particularly difficult circumstances,’ the colonel said, But, from my more reliable sources, I found out how the major made use of his young lieutenant which, I have to say, was very impressive.

Anvar looked at the colonel for a long time, trying to figure out how much the man across the table knew about him. His knowledge seemed substantial. A broad smile spread over the colonel’s face, and he said, Here is the best part: The major states in his report that you were responsible for transferring large sums of counterfeit American bills and Euros. Is this true?

It is, if he said so.

Why are you so modest? You must be proud of having participated in a huge financial operation. My head was spinning when I read about it in the paper. I even saved the article! The colonel pulled out a piece of creased newsprint that he had previously ripped out of a full page. ‘The bills, which had been manufactured in Chechnya, were printed so professionally that they almost undermined the economy of several European nations.’ This is work of the elite, my friend!

Anvar shrugged his shoulders and said, I was just a conveyor.

The colonel gave him a long, attentive look and poured some more cognac in the glasses.

I think you’re too modest, my boy. Let’s drink a toast to you!

They drank. Half a bottle of cognac made no difference. Anvar remained terse, listening more than he spoke, and did little to advance the conversation. The colonel decided to take his time as well. He was looking for a way to get closer to Anvar.

I see that you’re not up for conversation today. I understand you haven’t fully recovered from your last injury. In his report, the doctor who treated you in the Beirut clinic suggested you get rest. I’ve been thinking, why doesn’t my good friend Anvar take a short vacation, which he is well deserving of?

What kind of vacation? Anvar stared at the colonel suspiciously.

Have you ever been to the Ritz Sanatorium?

Never heard of it, where is it?

Just about 150 miles away from here. It’s a beautiful place, one of the nicest in the world! Just imagine mountains, a lake, pines, clear air, and a quiet atmosphere. You’ll love it! Rest up and gather your strength.

Thank you, Colonel. You are very kind, but I cannot accept.

Why not? Please, don’t offend me. You and I are not strangers. I would be very happy to help you.

I really don’t know what to say…

Just say yes. The colonel took a yellow envelope out of his briefcase. Here is $10,000 US, a small advance for an upcoming contract, as well as new papers, and a voucher for the sanatorium. We’ll talk business when you get back.

Two weeks later, Anvar was interchangeable with any other tourist. His eyes took on a new sparkle, he looked well rested and rejuvenated, and even his scar appeared to have shrunk.

Now I see you are ready for a serious conversation, said the colonel, satisfied.

He took a bulky folder with the inscription Old Rus out of his briefcase and placed it on the table.

Please sit down. Tell me are you familiar with this Siberian corporation?

I only know that my cousin Mahmud served as chief of security there.

Then let’s start from the very beginning.

The colonel extracted a photograph of a young brunette from the folder.

An attractive woman, no? This is Tatiana Volynski, the president of the company. She belongs to one of Russia’s wealthiest circles.

Is she the type to refer to herself as a ‘New Russian’? said Anvar mockingly.

Not quite. As they say in the West, Volynski is an heir of ‘old money.’

Is that sort of thing still possible in Russia?

Believe it or not, it is. Moreover, Volynski has an impressive lineage. She is the great-granddaughter of Russian aristocrat, Alexander K. His father participated in the Decembrists’ uprising in 1825 and was exiled to Siberia. Alexander K. managed to do well and became the owner of rich gold mines. I believe his gold served as the starting capital for the company, which, by rough estimates, is currently worth around a billion dollars. Impressed?

Anvar whistled expressively.

The colonel smiled, satisfied. You can probably see where I’m going with this.

You want to get at her money?

I would call it an expropriation of Volynski’s excess funds to benefit the Chechen Liberation Front, which arranged for your escape from prison. Do you remember?

I do.

Excellent. Now the Front needs your help. We want to free Chechnya from Russian dominion. A vicious battle is ahead. We need money, money, and more money. You and I have been tasked with getting it from Tatiana Volynski. There is only one way to do this. Would you like to take a guess?

Does she have children?

Yes, right to the point! An 8-year-old son—but I must admit that kidnapping the boy will be far from easy. Volynski’s house and the entire area surrounding it are outfitted with the latest surveillance technology. The boy cannot take one step without an armed escort. But I have thought this through, and there is a solution; however, in order for it to work, you must infiltrate Volynski’s house.

How do you intend for that to happen?

We’ll have help from our man, Rafa Arkanov. According to the back-story I’ve developed, you’ll be his nephew. Don’t worry about the exact details of your relationship; Rafa lost his entire family during the bombing of Grozny. Now he lives in the small town of Shali. Have you ever met him?

Anvar cast a quick glance at the colonel. Rafa Arkanov. As a child, Anvar had seen a photograph of a man that his mother had kept in her dresser. The inscription on the back read: To my darling Mila, from Rafa. Was this the Rafa the colonel was referring to, perhaps? He decided not to ask. He shook his head.

You will meet him later. The thing about Rafa is that he is an army friend of Ken Gavril–the chief of security at Old Rus Corporation.

The colonel took out a second photograph.

Here he is, the company’s eyes and ears. Ken is smart, suspicious, and incorruptible. There are six men in his crew, all veterans of the Afghan war of ‘88, like him. You’ll find a detailed description of him in my notes. But our main target is Tatiana Volynski. All of your attention must be focused on her. And so, Volynski. She is 32-years-old, and emigrated to Canada with her mother as a child. Knows English fluently. Returned to Russia at age 23. Became president of the company after her grandmother died. Tatiana is a smart and practical woman. The company output grew 20 per cent over the course of her leadership, but her private life has been far from successful. She lived in seclusion for five years after her husband’s death, and only during the last few years did she begin to develop intimate relationships; one of which was with a well-known figure in Moscow’s business circles. This was a source of much aggravation for Ken, who is hopelessly in love with her. The relationship lasted for a few years, but Tatiana did not stay with him. The reason? It clearly wasn’t money. I suppose she hasn’t found a man she can fall in love with, or perhaps she still holds onto her husband’s memory.

The colonel tapped his finger on the yellow folder.

This is everything that we’ve managed to gather on Volynski, including a description of her interests, habits, her favorite food and drink, even what flowers she prefers.

It must have been difficult to gather all that information, Anvar noted.

Don’t forget, I am a former officer of the Soviet Army. Those idiots taught me well, to their own peril, the colonel said with a laugh. He took out a third photograph.

Are you familiar with this man?

Anvar peered at the photograph.

Sasha Komarov? The one who died on the plane with Mikhail?

Well done, good memory. Yes, it’s him, Tatiana’s husband. Look carefully. Does he remind you of anyone?

Anvar glimpsed at the photograph for a minute or so.

He looks a little like me.

A little? You are his exact copy. Note you both have fair hair, green eyes, and a similarly shaped face—especially the firm chins. The only more noticeable difference is that you are taller than him, but that’s more advantageous, if anything.

You wish to make use of my resemblance to Komarov?

The plan is dependent on it.

Are you sure you haven’t overestimated my abilities? Bigger men have gone after Volynski, said Anvar smugly.

Not at all. Think about it…to Volynski, it will be as if you have walked out of one of her photographs. She can touch you, hear your voice, talk to you. And besides, your relationship won’t last long. It should take no more than a month to kidnap the boy.

The colonel paced around the room, stopped in front of Anvar, and stared him directly in the eyes. The Front is counting on you. You will not be forgotten. Imagine the cloudless sky of Cyprus, or one of the Caribbean islands.

CHAPTER 2

IRKUTSK, SIBERIA. APRIL 2010.

Sorting out his mail upon his return from St. Petersburg, Ken found a letter from his wartime friend, Rafa Arkanov, whom he had not seen since 1989. Reading the crooked handwriting with some difficulty, Ken smiled as he recalled the loud and expressive Rafa. He wrote in a jumbled fashion, jumping to a new thought without completing his previous one, and started every other sentence with: My dear friend.

Rafa’s letter made him happy, but it also brought back sad memories. It had been 20 years since the end of the war in Afghanistan, but the former combat buddies had not seen each other since. Only four had returned home from their former platoon, and what’s worse, two had died in 2001: Sasha Komarov, who had saved an airplane from disaster, and Mahmud Alli, who was trying to hijack it.

Setting the letter aside, Ken walked up to the wall cabinet, took out a photo album, and stared for a long time at a photograph taken two weeks before the end of the war. They had been taken away from the front lines after a battle. The smiling faces of friends looked at him, their glasses raised. Rafa, who had received a package from home, had suggested that they spend Sasha’s birthday outdoors. Canned food, several slices of homemade sausage, and a round loaf of bread lay on a piece of tarpaulin draped on the ground. Sasha was sitting on the far right, and Rafa was peeking out from behind his shoulder, holding a bottle of wine. That night, by the fire, Sasha read them his essay, An Endless Day. Four days later, they were sent to the front lines. After another battle, the platoon ceased to exist due to the low number of survivors.

Ken closed the album, walked up to the desk, and picked up the receiver. Rafa stunned him with his effusive stream of words. The years had passed, but his friend had not changed. He peppered Ken with questions, interrupted the answers to ask new ones, talked about his life, repeated himself, complained about lack of employment, and finally, relayed his request to help his nephew find work in Irkutsk.

How old is he, and what does he do? Ken asked.

He is 26 and a personal trainer, Rafa responded.

A personal trainer? That’s interesting—it could be a good idea. Let me talk it over with my boss, and I’ll call you soon.

Rafa’s phone call was really well timed, thought Ken. He and Tatiana were both worried about her eight year old son. Alex had changed ever since he started playing video games. Ken was against buying them, but Tatiana could not resist her son’s insistent requests. Now she regretted it.

These weren’t simply games—they mirrored a disturbing reality. The heroes in more violent storylines were bloodthirsty villains with whom children identified. This, as it did in Alex, inspired dangerous behavioral patterns. A child could equate success with the hero’s actions—this could include looting stores, shooting civilians, or stealing cars. While playing, Alex’s eyes would grow red with tension, and Tatiana grew genuinely frightened. It proved impossible to attempt taking the game away from her son; he threw tantrums, screaming and crying, and threatened to run away from home. Tatiana decided to leave him alone for the time being, but hoped he would eventually get bored of his games. But instead, such games consumed all of his free time, and Alex began to ignore his schoolwork. Ken was hopeful that a personal trainer could help. How did he not think of it sooner? Being active and playing sports would motivate Alex to ditch his bad habits and improve his physique. Tatiana would be pleased.

CHAPTER 3

IRKUTSK, SIBERIA.

Anvar drove up to Volynski’s house expecting to see an enormous mansion, similar to those he had seen in Dubai or in Saudi Arabia, but he was disappointed. It looked no more than 6000 to 7000 square feet, unattractive from the outside, and clearly very old – Volynski had probably inherited it from her ancestors, as the colonel had mentioned. Is this how one of the richest oil company owners in Russia lives? he thought. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, those who became multimillionaires over night lived in the most luxurious mansions. Was Tatiana Volynski too modest, or was she just trying to hide her wealth?

As he parked his car, Anvar looked around. The huge grounds were surrounded by a tall metal fence and lined with trees. There was a guard booth next to the large gates. A man in a leather jacket walked out of it, approached the gate, and looked at Anvar inquisitively.

I’m listening, he said. After finding out that Anvar wanted to see Ken, he asked him to wait.

Several minutes later, a tall, black-haired man of muscular build, with high cheeks bones, a typical Russian facial feature, walked out of the house. Anvar recognized the security chief. He was dressed in a stylish suit with a white shirt and a blue silk tie. Waving his hand amicably, Ken invited him to follow his lead. Inside, the house gave off a more favorable impression. It had a great, spacious front hall decorated with antique furniture, which was lit up by a bronze chandelier with polished crystal that hung from the ceiling. Anvar noticed the expensive wood floors with granite and the paintings by well-known Russian artists that covered the walls. He recognized the works of Mikhail Nesterov and Isaac Levitan. He had become familiar with the artists a few years ago when he was looking to purchase artwork for his boss, who had decided to decorate his mansion. Anvar did not get to see anything else; they walked straight into Ken’s office, which was located on the first floor. The room resembled a regular office: light-colored wood furnishings, a couch, and two armchairs. An enormous desk stood in the center, topped off with several telephones and a computer. The folders on the desk were neatly arranged. The tidiness and order suggested that the owner of the office was pedantic, which corresponded with the colonel’s description.

Glancing around the room, Anvar thought that perhaps his cousin Mahmud had sat at this desk ten years ago. On the wall was a portrait of the man Anvar recognized as Sasha Komarov. He had only seen him once very briefly, but this was a memorable face. It was something about his eyes; they were kind and at the same time, they showed determination. Anvar smiled. If I resemble Sasha, what sort of eyes must I have? They’re certainly not as warm, he thought.

Ken invited Anvar to take a seat in an armchair and sat down opposite him. He read Anvar’s resume carefully, looking up from time to time to examine the candidate, unsure of who was sitting before him.

Is there a problem? Anvar asked.

Ken finally put his resume and passport aside.

No, everything is fine. So tell me, how are you related to Rafa? Is it through your mother’s side or your father’s?

Through my mother’s.

She is his…?

His cousin.

Right. How old is she?

My mother’s dead. She was 38.

Sorry to hear that. How did she die? During the war?

After the war. She had a heart problem.

Is there a history of heart problems in the family?

I don’t know. My mother’s relatives died during the first Chechen war.

What about you father?

I don’t know anything about my father he died before I was born.

So Rafa is your only relative?

The closest one to me.

"Did he raise you?

No, he did not. I was 18 when my mother died. That’s when I joined the military.

So you served in the army? Ken gazed at the scar on Anvar’s temple.

Spetsnaz—Russian special forces.

"What a coincidence, Rafa and I also served in the Spetsnaz during the war in Afghanistan in the late 1980s.

Isn’t it though? Anvar thought.

And what did you do after the war? Ken asked.

I got a job at a sports club teaching martial arts to kids.

So they can fight terrorists? Ken smiled crookedly.

Anvar shrugged but said nothing.

Don’t take it seriously I was joking. It’s just a job, of course, but on the subject of terrorism, what do you think about the situation in Chechnya nowadays?

It’s much better than it was before. People are tired of wars. They trust our government, which is responsible for a number of good reforms. Personally, I have great hope for my country.

I want to believe it, but all you hear about lately are constant terrorist attacks: Chechnya, Dagestan, Ingushetia. Don’t they understand that the Russian Federation is good for them?

You’re talking about extremists; they have their own understanding of freedom.

Freedom! What do they know about freedom? They take everything they can from Russia and stab her in the back.

Listen, Ken, I understand that you’re upset with the problems in the Northern Caucasus, but please don’t forget that I am Chechen myself. Let me assure you that not all Chechens are terrorists, Anvar said, looking straight into Ken’s eyes. He disliked his comment and his entire perspective. This was more of an interrogation than it was a friendly meeting with Rafa Arkanov’s best friend.

Their conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door. Tatiana Volynski walked into the office with her son. Volynski looked younger than she did in the photograph—she could pass for 25 or 26. She was dressed in jeans that hugged her figure and a t-shirt. Anvar noticed that she had a resemblance to Selima, a girl he had once loved. Both were slender, above average height, and had small chests. Her hair color and style were different though. Volynski had wavy chestnut hair bound with a blue band, while Selima’s had been straight and black, always draped over her shoulders. Volynski’s beauty was less striking and eye-catching than Selima’s, whose look was that of a bold young woman. Volynski was more lady-like with softer facial features, and her attentive green eyes were telling—she had experienced much more than most even at her young age. She looked at him with interest and extended her hand. He thought he saw her eyelashes tremble lightly.

"Say hello, Alex. Anvar