Question

The videotape ended.

Dudayev stared at the black TV screen, as if it still flickered with images of fire, retreat, and execution.

The room was silent. The body of the unfortunate commander lay cooling on the floor, blood soaking into the carpet. Dudayev waved absently, and two guards dragged the corpse away like a forgotten prop.

Across from him sat the Arab mercenary commander—arms crossed, eyes guarded.

"This is not the ending you promised me," Dudayev said flatly.

The Arab gave a dry, diplomatic smile. "Accidents happen. It was a miscalculation. Next time—"

"Next time?" Dudayev snapped, standing abruptly. "There won't be a next time. We lost the entire company. The commander was captured. They filmed it. This"—he waved the tape—"isn't just evidence of our failure. It's a declaration of war by the Sufi sect. My own people now believe I tried to assassinate their spiritual leader."

He paced the room, fury bubbling just beneath the surface.

"If this rift deepens, the Wahhabis and Sufis will tear each other apart. Moscow won't need to lift a finger. We'll destroy Chechnya ourselves."

The Arab leaned forward, voice steely. "Then let's finish what we started. Eliminate the Sufis. Kill them all—father and son. We'll handle the rest."

Dudayev hesitated. A part of him knew the path he was being dragged down. But he was already ankle-deep in the blood of this alliance. And turning back would mean being devoured by both sides.

"Do it," he said at last. "Bring me their heads."

Just then, the phone rang.

Dudayev picked it up. The voice on the other end was unmistakably calm, cold—and familiar.

"This is Kadyrov. I'm still alive."

Dudayev's grip on the receiver tightened.

"I saw your little gift," Kadyrov continued. "Your plot has failed, and you've lost the last shred of control. You want to talk about power? You have none left to lose."

Dudayev's voice was low. "You think you can strip me of legitimacy with a single videotape?"

"No," Kadyrov said. "But you did that yourself. When you let foreign fanatics dictate Chechnya's future, you became a puppet. A servant of Wahhabis. Not a leader of the people."

"You're calling me a traitor?"

"You're worse. You've turned Chechnya into a proving ground for foreign zealots. We won't stand for it. The Soviet army is no longer our enemy. You are."

There was a long pause.

Then, Kadyrov added quietly, "We are done praying. Now, we act."

The line went dead.

Dudayev slowly placed the receiver down, breathing heavily. His hand trembled as he turned back toward the Arab.

"You heard him. Do whatever it takes."

Aftermath: A Political Earthquake

The Sufi faction's sudden pivot stunned the Chechen public. Kadyrov's team released a heavily edited version of the videotape, rephrasing "house arrest" to "assassination attempt." The subtle manipulation ignited fury.

For the first time since the war began, Chechnya wasn't just fighting Russia—it was fighting itself.

Secular and moderate commanders withdrew from Dudayev's ranks overnight. Units defected. Former loyalists issued neutral declarations or openly sided with Kadyrov. The Sufi sect's influence ballooned. Kadyrov, without lifting a finger, had achieved parity in strength.

But he didn't attack.

"We will not strike the Russians," Kadyrov declared. "We will not strike Dudayev. For now."

He let his silence become strategy—waiting while his enemies turned on each other or crumbled under international pressure.

In the Kremlin

Yanayev sat in silence as the latest intelligence report was read aloud. A rare smile crept across his face.

"So the internal fracture came seven years early," he murmured. "That boy... he listens."

Now, the strategy was clear. Let Dudayev bleed. Let the Wahhabis become pariahs. And when the time came—when the dust cleared—Moscow would enter the scene not as conqueror, but as peacemaker.

The future of Chechnya would not be forged by bombings or tanks.

It would be negotiated in back rooms, over tea and silence—between men like Yanayev and Kadyrov.