A Call from the Shadows

The suburban towns ringing Grozny had been cleared of resistance. To the astonishment of the advancing Soviet armored columns, not one Chechen rebel surrendered. They died where they stood. The Soviet forces had promised to send every insurgent to hell—and on that day, they kept their word. Dudayev's fighters gave the Soviet tank division a grim title in bitter reverence: "Active Hell."

Back in Moscow, as General Secretary Yanaev disembarked at the airport and returned to the Kremlin, a long-awaited report awaited him. Defense Minister Yazov, eyes gleaming, handed it over in person. For the first time in days, Yanaev's furrowed brow relaxed. He allowed himself a rare smile.

"Comrade Yazov," he said quietly, "with this news, it feels like winter is finally giving way. Spring has come to Chechnya."

But his smile faded quickly.

"A short spring, perhaps. There are storms yet to come. If we don't manage this properly, it will seed future disintegration."

Yazov nodded solemnly, then briefed him on recent movements, including a particularly sensitive issue—the one that kept Yanaev awake at night. After completing the update, Yazov returned to his office. He had barely sat down when the phone rang.

The moment he picked up and heard the voice on the other end, his face darkened.

"Hmm… Understood."

Yazov jotted down a note, handed it to his assistant, and stormed down the hallway.

"Get me Genolanov from the KGB Technical Bureau—immediately. We're expecting a call to the President's office. I want the signal traced."

Startled secretaries and aides watched as the normally composed Defense Minister strode past them, face grim.

Inside the Kremlin, late afternoon

Yanaev was just settling onto his office sofa, exhaustion finally catching up with him, when a sharp knock pulled him back to reality.

"Come in," he said, voice hoarse.

Yazov stepped inside briskly.

"Comrade General Secretary, Kadyrov has made contact. He says he has urgent matters to discuss with you—personally. He'll call at 1500 hours."

Yanaev's eyes narrowed.

"That fox again. He couldn't stay quiet for long."

He adjusted his uniform, mind already racing.

"Did he say where he is?"

"No," Yazov replied. "He just asked for your secure contact number and said to expect his call."

Yanaev's expression hardened.

"Then we'll trace the source. Is Genolanov already on his way?"

"He's here," Yazov confirmed.

Soon after, Genolanov, director of the KGB Technical Bureau, arrived with a team and a suitcase full of tracking equipment. Despite its clunky appearance, it was the cutting edge of Cold War-era surveillance.

For the next hour, Yanaev sat in tense silence as wires were unfurled, dials adjusted, and antennas aligned. Finally, Genolanov nodded.

"We're ready. Once the call comes in, we'll begin tracing the signal."

The minutes dragged on, each tick of the clock amplified by the silence in the room. Then, precisely at 1500, the phone rang.

Yanaev picked it up.

"President Yanaev speaking."

A voice, calm and composed, replied:

"General Secretary Yanaev. This is Akhat Kadyrov, former Chief of Staff of the Chechen rebel forces. I'm grateful you could take my call."

Yanaev gave a silent nod to Genolanov, who immediately began the trace.

"Comrade Kadyrov," Yanaev replied coolly, "there is no such title as 'Chief of Staff of Chechnya.' You are, and remain, a Soviet citizen. Let's speak plainly—as compatriots."

Kadyrov chuckled softly.

"Good. Then allow me to be direct. And don't bother trying to trace this call. Even if you find the source, I'm not there."

Yanaev paused, exchanging a quick glance with Yazov and Genolanov. The latter simply shrugged, baffled.

"Fine," Yanaev said. "Then tell me what you want."

"The future," Kadyrov answered. "The future of Chechnya. When Dudayev is crushed—and he will be—how will Moscow rule? The old Soviet secretary model? Because this war will not end with his death."

Yanaev leaned forward, voice low but sharp.

"Freedom, yes. Independence? Never. If we grant it, it's a gift. If you attempt to take it, it's treason. And traitors are punished. That's the law of this land."

There was a pause. Then Kadyrov spoke again, more measured.

"On behalf of the Wahhabi faction, I apologize—for the blood spilled, the division caused. We want to return to the fold."

But Yanaev was unmoved.

"Words mean nothing without action. If you Sufis eliminate the Wahhabis, will you raise your own army? Carve out a state? Let me remind you: this party is secular. We are an atheist state. Any attempt to create a fundamentalist theocracy in the Caucasus will be crushed. If you dare to spread extremism, I will respond with bullets dipped in lard. Do I make myself clear?"

Kadyrov said nothing. The silence crackled on the line.

"The Soviet Constitution," Yanaev continued, "is non-negotiable. Anyone advocating for Sharia rule in place of Soviet law will be executed. End of discussion."

There was a long silence.

"Think on that," Yanaev said. "If you're ready to talk further—come to Moscow. My door remains open. Until then, take care of yourself, Comrade Kadyrov."

He paused, then added:

"You've burned your bridge with Dudayev. Watch your back. His Wahhabis won't forgive betrayal. Chechnya will need a leader with a spine. Don't die before you get the chance."

That, finally, drew laughter from the other end.

"Mr. President, you're a brutal man—but honest. Unlike your predecessor Yeltsin."

"Haha, you're not wrong," Yanaev chuckled. "If peace ever comes, we'd welcome a Caucasian comrade in the fold."

"If we reach that day, we will be friends."

The line went dead.

Yanaev turned to Genolanov.

"Well? Where did it come from?"

Genolanov exhaled.

"Turkey, sir. Somewhere near the eastern border. We couldn't pinpoint the device—he was bouncing the signal through multiple relays."

Yanaev sighed but nodded.

"He's good. But not perfect. The fact he reached out tells me he's thinking like a politician, not a rebel. That's a start."

Now all that remained was to wait—for General Rogionov's triumphant return, and for the next move in this high-stakes endgame called Chechnya.