Nothing!

There's no one in Dagestan who wouldn't name Berezovsky as the main culprit of the war.

But what do you say to the constant questions:

"You there, in Moscow, can't you deal with him?"

Everyone, including the leadership of the Internal Troops, said that the border was practically open: hundreds of vehicles with weapons for the militants passed freely through Georgia and Azerbaijan. Helicopters without identification marks flew unhindered. And what? Also nothing! What were the militants counting on?

On the weariness of the people in Dagestan from the pervasive corruption of the authorities. Every position here is bought (getting a job in the police—5 thousand rubles, as an investigator in the prosecutor's office—50 thousand. I won't even mention the positions of ministers and vice-premiers).

It's a blessing that the people of Dagestan forgave the authorities their endless bribes—because being under the rule of an even more terrible evil was even harder for them, the people.

And also about our propaganda lies.

From TV reports, and already on the spot, from our military, we heard about bunkers, pillboxes, about various concrete structures, because of which the military operation dragged on for so long. But we walked around the entire village of Karamakhi—we didn't see any of this. The protracted operation, which cost many Russian soldiers their lives, was again due to the helplessness of our army.

Words fail me to describe what became of it...

One touching detail. How many times I heard:

"I feel sorry for the Russian boys—you only have one or two children in your families. But we have four or five. Let ours fight instead..."

I didn't know what to answer. I only hugged the people who told me this.

It was a difficult assignment.

For some reason, the image from Karamakhi kept coming to mind: a black cow with a shell-pierced flank, limping through the village, carefully avoiding dead cows.

...Now I simply can't recall why I failed to reach the combat zones in Novolaksky district the first time: either there was no opportunity, or someone didn't let me through.

But when — already with fellow deputy Alexey Arbatov and General Yuri Soldatenkov (then an advisor to the Minister for Nationalities) — I flew there a second time, I asked my old acquaintance Kurban to take us to Karamakhi, Chaban-Makhi, and Novolaksky.

We drove in his "Volga," with one "Makarov" for the four of us (it turned out that among local officials, including FSB personnel, a wild panic had erupted that day due to the unexpected disappearance of two deputies).

Every Dagestani village we drove past was guarded by local militiamen. We were allowed through only after a thorough document check. Sometimes the road was blocked by barricades of sandbags, although the "front line" was still very, very far away. And we understood: no foreign invaders would pass here.

Finally, we reached Karamakhi. Shots were still being fired here. Cannonade in the mountains.

Someone explained to us how to find the headquarters of General Lubenets, commander of the North Caucasian District of Internal Troops. The headquarters turned out to be on top of a hill. Our "Volga" got stuck in the mud, and we walked up, slipping on the wet slush.

The headquarters occupied a large tent. The general was incredibly surprised by such unexpected guests. We talked, drank tea... Then a scene occurred that, I imagine, was not very pleasant for the commander. He was called out of the tent; we followed him. Several local old men were waiting for him: "Comrade General," one of them, apparently the most respected, addressed him. "Carpets are being taken away, televisions are being taken away..." — "What carpets? What televisions?" the general asked, flustered. "They're loading them onto armor and taking them away..." the old man explained, adding: "They're also looting, you see..."

The general glanced briefly at Arbatov and me. "It's certainly not our guys, it's the army," and then immediately to the old men: "Exactly, I tell you, not our guys. We tear off the heads of our men for that," and to someone in his entourage: "Run, go sort it out!"

And when the old men left, he repeated to us: "We really tear off heads for that..."