"It's pointless to go without Nadyr, and he's not in the city. He's in the mountains now."

The next morning—"He's in Nalchik." Five hours later: "He'll be here tomorrow." Tomorrow: "He'll arrive in the middle of the day." I started to get a little angry, although after all my long years as a journalist, I should have gotten used to endless waiting and long, tedious journeys.

"Can't we take a single step without this Nadyr?" I nervously asked Bagautdin.

"It will be difficult, very difficult," he replied despondently. And indeed, Nadyr Khachilaev was a significant figure for Dagestan. A representative of a wealthy clan (his brother, for example, was then the Minister of Fisheries), he—a former athlete—managed to become the chairman of the Union of Muslims of Russia, outplaying a representative from Tataria through clever intrigues.

I remember how struck I was by his house when I first visited. What a house—a veritable fortress! A towering fence, numerous guards, high-vaulted ceilings like in a castle, walls adorned with weapons, people, old and young, constantly scurrying about, women rustling in their dresses somewhere in Nadyr's vast estate. And, most importantly, an atmosphere of some mystery, frozen in the air.

In short, quite a house!

"Where is this damned Nadyr?" I wanted to ask the huge, wardrobe-like guard who opened the door in the fortress wall. But I asked, of course, politely.

"He knows, he knows... Just wait a little longer..." a young man, introducing himself as Nadyr's assistant, said softly.

But waiting any longer was impossible: the journalist guys were already suffering from impatience, and I was getting angry.

"That's it! We're leaving today!" I told Bagautdin, and he sighed resignedly... He called someone, another car arrived so that our whole crowd could fit.

Dagestani blockpost, blown up bridge, bypass road, another blockpost, Chechnya...

It was already getting dark...

"No, we won't make it today... It's dark... We won't find anyone... And anything could happen... Maybe we should go back?" Bagautdin asked, or rather, dispiritedly requested.

"Well, guys? What do you say?" I asked my companions.

"Whatever you say..."

The TV crew managed to film a panorama: a column of tanks passing about two kilometers from the Chechen blockpost, and the blockpost itself—a dilapidated structure, and an old man who passionately, gutturally, switching from Russian to Chechen and from Chechen to Russian, tried to convince us why Russians should not prevent Chechens from living as they wished. Finally, that boy with three "Shmels," who told us how easily Russian tanks were hit—he should still be sitting at a school desk, but where is that desk? (By the way, he categorically refused to be filmed until his commander allowed it. The commander tiredly nodded: "Film him, they're not from the FSB...")

Then we—in the same procession—turned back. The destroyed bridge, the bypass road, the police checkpoint...

The heavy southern twilight was already falling. There was silence: no roar of cannon fire, no scream of diving "Sukhoi" jets... It was slushy and nasty, as it always is in winter in the Caucasus.

On the outskirts of Khasavyurt, we stopped at a roadside market:

"Let's have something to drink! We need to relieve the tension!" Bagautdin suggested.

"But you're observing Uraza!" I reminded him of the traditional Muslim period of strict abstinence.

"My mullah acquaintance allowed me to drink after five!" Bagautdin explained.

"Was the mullah probably a Komsomol district committee secretary before?"

"Something like that..." he replied carelessly.

I also remember how Bagautdin sternly asked an old woman selling vodka:

"Is it fake?"

"Fake, fake..." the old woman gently confirmed.

"Give me the real stuff!" Bagautdin demanded just as sternly.

And right then, from under the counter, appeared the real, genuine, authentic stuff...

There was no particular mystery in the market traders' astonishing honesty, it turned out: according to Bagautdin, they would be punished if, God forbid, they passed off counterfeit vodka, meaning cheaper vodka, as genuine. Naturally, by a "fine," as my companion explained...

Then, having already left Khasavyurt, we stopped on the roadside, laying out our simple meal on the hood of a Zhiguli, in Russian tradition...