The Wolf of the Caucasus

Ramzan Kadyrov stepped through the heavy wooden door without knocking.

His boots echoed lightly on the tiled floor, and his eyes landed on his father—Akhmad Kadyrov, seated in a worn armchair, staring at nothing. The older man's jaw was tense, his lips drawn in a hard, brooding line.

"Father," Ramzan said calmly, sitting across from him, "I heard Dudayev and his men are growing restless. Word is, there was shouting in his office. With you."

Akhmad didn't answer immediately. He rubbed his temples, eyes shut, as if trying to massage away something far heavier than a headache. Finally, he exhaled.

"Yes," he said flatly.

Ramzan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Sixteen years old, and already too sharp for his age. He had tasted guerrilla warfare in the forests of southern Grozny and bloodied his hands in ambushes. His ferocity had drawn Soviet attention—and his father's pride.

"Dudayev continues inviting Wahhabi fighters," Akhmad said. "He believes they'll help us win the war. But it's not just about winning, Ramzan. These people… they want to turn Chechnya into another Riyadh. And this land doesn't belong to them."

"Not to them," Ramzan agreed. "But it does belong to Sufis. Our people. That's what you mean, isn't it?"

Akhmad glanced up, surprised, then gave a weary smile. "You've grown sharper than I thought."

"You raised me to see it clearly." Ramzan didn't blink. "And if you keep opposing Dudayev like this, you won't be on the battlefield. You'll be in a basement."

His father scoffed. "You think they'll try to assassinate me? I'm the spiritual leader of half of Chechnya. Killing me would light a fire they can't control."

"No. They won't kill you," Ramzan said. "They'll put you under house arrest. Quiet. Efficient. They'll take your loyal troops, throw them into the meat grinder against the Soviets, and when we're spent, the Wahhabis will be all that's left standing."

Akhmad's smile faded.

The silence that followed was long and heavy. For the first time, the idea didn't seem far-fetched. Kadyrov had always believed in his own indispensability. But even spiritual authority could be strangled—so long as the knife was hidden behind a robe and a prayer.

Finally, he muttered, "So what would you do, if you were me?"

"Resign your position. Quietly. Before they move," Ramzan said, his tone calm, clinical. "Withdraw our forces. Pull them back to our territories. Issue a neutral statement. No more speeches about independence or war. Let Dudayev and his zealots fight the Soviets on their own."

Akhmad frowned. "Retreat? And do nothing?"

"No, we wait," Ramzan said. "We wait while they burn. Wahhabis, Dudayev's men, the Soviets—let them gut each other. Then, when they're exhausted, we return. Moscow will want a Chechen partner to stabilize the region. If we're intact and unified, they'll turn to us."

"And if the Wahhabis win?"

Ramzan gave a small, cold smile.

"Then we approach the Soviets ourselves. Offer to split Chechnya. One loyal republic under Moscow. One lawless theocracy tearing itself apart. Moscow won't resist. A divided Chechnya serves their interests."

Akhmad stared at his son.

So young. So ruthless.

But there was clarity in Ramzan's plan. Ruthless logic, yes—but one built on survival. Influence. Legacy.

"You will be a greater man than I ever was," Akhmad whispered, half to himself.

He reached forward and patted his son's head—a rare gesture of affection from a man hardened by war. Ramzan remained still, letting the gesture pass like a torch being handed from one generation to the next.

Then the boy stood. His voice was measured, but purposeful.

"I'll go inform the guards. Tighten security. And… if you allow it, Father, I'd like to set a trap."

Akhmad looked up.

Ramzan's eyes glinted with something more than defiance—they held intent.

"A trap," he echoed. "What kind?"

"One that will leave the Wahhabis speechless," Ramzan replied, already halfway to the door. "And the rest of Chechnya… watching."

"What situation?"Akhmad Kadyrov asked, voice low with a hint of caution. Though proud of his son's cunning, he worried—Ramzan was just sixteen. A misstep now could cost them everything.

Ramzan smiled and squeezed his father's shoulder with a confidence that was both reassuring and unnerving."Relax, Father. Remember how I predicted Dudayev would try to move against you?" He leaned in, voice dropping. "We're going to let him."

Akhmad narrowed his eyes. "Let him?"

"Yes. We stage a trap. Let his men think they're ambushing us. Let them come with their daggers in the dark—and then we catch them. Alive if they can talk. Dead if they can't." He leaned back, stretching lazily like a predator after a meal. "And when the sun rises, we'll deliver their heads to Dudayev. Let's see how he explains an assassination attempt on the spiritual leader of the Sufis."

Kadyrov frowned, wary. "And if nothing happens? If they don't come?"

Ramzan chuckled. "Then we call it a training exercise. A drill. A game. Either way, we win."

His father was silent for a long moment. Then, flatly, "You bastard." But there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

"How do you even know when they'll come?" Akhmad added. "Do you expect me to sit here waiting to be shot every night for a week?"

Ramzan shrugged. "Better to do it soon. Tonight, maybe. Ten days at most. The longer we wait, the more chance we lose the element of surprise."

Akhmad tilted his head, assessing him. "One more thing. If they do come—what will you do to them?"

Ramzan turned toward the door and called:"Captain of the Guard."

The door opened. A grizzled man in a wool uniform stepped in and stood at attention. He had followed Akhmad through forests, uprisings, and Moscow betrayals.

"Sir?"

Ramzan answered before his father could."Double the guard. Quietly relocate my father to a secure site tonight. No one outside the inner circle is to know. If they come—" he paused, his voice now like ice over steel—**"—kill them all. Except a few who might talk. Chop off the others' heads and send them to Dudayev's doorstep. Let that be our message: the Sufis are peaceful—but we are not afraid to kill."

The captain's brow furrowed. But he nodded."Understood."

Akhmad watched his son carefully, the moment stretching into silence.This boy—no, this young wolf—had moved from student to strategist before his eyes. There was no hesitation in him. No trembling conscience. Ramzan thought of loyalty, legacy, and blood—all in equal measure.

For the first time, Akhmad felt something new: not only pride, but curiosity.If this son of his ever came to rule Chechnya, what kind of country would it become?

And then, finally, he said what he had not dared to say before."You'll be better than I ever was."

Ramzan didn't answer. He simply nodded and turned toward the window, where night had already begun to fall across the mountains. Somewhere out there, knives were being sharpened, and letters sent.

But the wolf was ready.