Conspiracy

Dzhokhar Dudayev was one of the most misunderstood leaders in Chechnya's turbulent history.

An atheist among zealots, he wore the cloak of Wahhabism like borrowed armor—useful, but never his own. For Dudayev, religion was a tool, not a truth. Jihad was not divine justice, but political calculus. He draped himself in sacred rhetoric to ignite the fires of rebellion, knowing full well that his beliefs were closer to Marx than Muhammad.

But it was a dangerous game.

By empowering Wahhabi factions to unify the armed resistance, Dudayev alienated the powerful secular Sufi base led by Akhmad Kadyrov. The alliance had always been uneasy—suspicion, resentment, and ambition bubbled beneath the surface. Now, with every concession to the Wahhabis, fissures grew into fractures. Soldiers clashed in alleys. Commanders sabotaged each other's operations. Even Dudayev's own orders were being questioned.

Still, the war had to continue. The dream of independence demanded it. So Dudayev made the coldest calculation of all: sacrifice Kadyrov.

Let the Wahhabis devour him. Let them consolidate power, even if temporarily. Better a united army under zealots than a fractured rebellion.

It was poison, but poison he needed.

The Wahhabi clerics embraced this shift eagerly. In smoke-filled rooms they plotted Kadyrov's fall. Dudayev even summoned his old ally and now Vice President, Aslan Maskhadov, from the front. If anyone could be trusted to do this cleanly, it was the cautious, compliant Maskhadov.

They wouldn't kill Kadyrov—that would fracture the Sufi base and ignite civil war. But a quiet house arrest, under the guise of internal security, would do the trick.

When Maskhadov entered the office, he was surprised to see Dudayev slouched on a couch, not hunched over a sand table or barking into radios as usual.

"Maskhadov, my friend," Dudayev said, forcing a tired smile. "How have you been?"

The informal greeting put Maskhadov instantly on edge. There was no mention of the front lines, of the war effort—just a personal query laced with something unspoken.

He sat cautiously. "I've been... holding the line. President Dudayev, may I ask—how did you know it was me at the door?"

Dudayev chuckled bitterly. "You're the only one left who bothers knocking."

He leaned forward now, eyes sharp.

"Let me ask you something, Aslan. What do you think of our Chief of General Staff, Kadyrov?"

Maskhadov hesitated. This was no idle question—it was a test. He chose neutrality. "He's a formidable commander. The spiritual leader of the Sufi faction. A cornerstone of our resistance."

Dudayev's gaze hardened. "And what if that cornerstone begins to crack? What if he's already turned? Sold us out to the Russians?"

He tossed a copy of Pravda onto the table. The headline read:"Moscow Open to Talks with Enlightened Chechen Leaders."

Maskhadov didn't need a translator. The implication was clear.

"I… think we must be careful not to misjudge our own," he said cautiously. "There are many who would benefit from sowing discord between us. Perhaps there are—"

"Enough!" Dudayev snapped. "Spare me your ambiguity. I need loyalty, not philosophy. I need to know—will you do it?"

The room froze.

For a moment, Maskhadov felt the frostbite of betrayal creeping into his lungs. He wanted to protest, to defend Kadyrov, to demand proof. But he also knew what was at stake. The troops didn't answer to him—not really. They answered to mullahs, warlords, foreign clerics. The revolution was no longer unified. It was a feudal state wearing the mask of a republic.

And he was just the Shogun—a figurehead caught between clans with real power.

After a long pause, he bowed his head.

"I will do it," he said softly.

It was not duty that moved him, but fear. In a war of wolves, neutrality was suicide.

Dudayev leaned back, exhaling. "Good. We'll move soon. Kadyrov won't see it coming."

Maskhadov sat in silence, his fingers twitching slightly on his lap. The office, once a familiar place of consultation and camaraderie, now felt like a velvet-lined trap.

He had no real power. No loyal brigade. No personal battalion. Just a title—and the slow erosion of dignity.

"Very good, my friend," Dudayev finally said, rising with a rare smile. He clapped a hand on Maskhadov's shoulder like a father praising a reluctant son. "I'm glad you made the right choice. The Chechen people will remember your loyalty."

Maskhadov forced a chuckle. "Haha…"

But his smile faded as quickly as it formed. He turned toward the window, watching the dull sky above Grozny as gray clouds passed like silent witnesses.

Was this really the right choice?

He drew a shallow breath, then asked in a low voice, "When will the operation begin? If you're serious about this, speed is critical. The longer we delay, the more likely the Russians—or Kadyrov—will act first."

Dudayev leaned in, dropping his voice. "Tonight."

Maskhadov turned back sharply.

"That soon?"

"That's why I needed your commitment now," Dudayev said, tightening the belt on his coat. "You're in charge of the Presidential Guard. You know better than anyone how critical their discipline is. If they falter, if they leak... tonight's operation will collapse before it begins."

It suddenly clicked.

Maskhadov's heart sank.

This wasn't just about his support. Dudayev feared his guard most of all. If Maskhadov had refused earlier—if he had even hesitated too long—his very existence might have been deemed a liability.

His eyes flicked toward the corner of the room—and froze.

A shotgun, barely visible in the shadow. Loaded. Within reach.

Had Dudayev prepared for a different outcome?

Maskhadov felt the sweat form along his back.

Then, as if to confirm his suspicions, Dudayev picked up the weapon casually, resting it over his shoulder. "One more thing," he said while heading for the door. "I'll be taking personal command of the Presidential Guard tonight. You should stay here and rest. By tomorrow… all of this will be behind us."

He didn't wait for a reply.

The heavy door creaked shut behind him, leaving Maskhadov alone with the dim light and the ticking of the wall clock.

For a long time, he paced the floor, each step echoing off the stone walls like the pendulum of fate swinging closer.

He stared at the door where Dudayev had disappeared, then muttered under his breath, bitterly:

"So this is house arrest."

He looked toward the bookshelf—once filled with military treatises and revolutionary writings—and now feeling like part of a stage set for betrayal.

"If you're replacing Kadyrov's command with force," he continued quietly to himself, "how long before others meet the same fate?"

His eyes narrowed.

"And don't forget, Dudayev... Kadyrov's son, Ramzan, is no lamb. You may have removed the father—but the son will remember everything."

But of course, no one was left to hear him.

Only the silence.

Only the ticking clock.

Only the shadow of tomorrow, creeping closer.