THE EYES HAVE IT

Angus Roxburgh met the gaze of the toughest man in Russian politics. But hard stares, he predicts, won't solve the problem of Chechnya

I THINK I understand why Alexander Lebed has had such success, compared to his predecessors, in negotiating with the rebels of Chechnya — and perhaps why he was given the job in the first place. It is because of his prodigious ability to intimi- date and outstare his opponents, turning them into gauche, stammering, embar- rassed imbeciles.

He tried it on me once, so I can imag- ine exactly the posture he must adopt when dealing with these gun-toting sepa- ratists: knees aggressively apart, jaw set like a boulder, just a hint of derision on his lips, and the eyes — the ultimate weapon in his arsenal — locked like a heat-seeking missile on to his interlocu- tor, unblinking, almost expressionless — and terrifying.

It was about a week after his appoint- ment as national security adviser that Mr Lebed granted me a television interview. Not wishing to upset a former general whose troops had once massacred rebel- lious Georgian demonstrators with a vari- ety of gases and sharpened spades, we turned up long before our ten o'clock appointment. But he, being military, arrived at ten on the dot and was none too pleased to be asked to wait for five min- utes while we set up lights, tripod and camera. He briefly wrapped his great para- trooper's paw around my effete jour- nalist's hand, then stuck a cigarette in a

'We may have to hurry this working breakfast, sir. It's almost time for your business lunch.'

long, tortoiseshell holder, put it in his mouth and sat brooding while we made our preparations.

Small talk, I thought. I need small talk, quick. So I said, 'Very nice of you to give the BBC an interview. So many Russian politicians these days only want to speak to CNN.' He just looked at me blankly, his mouth making slight chewing movements, and said nothing. After a few seconds I added, wearing that ridiculous engaging grin one dons to put nervous interviewees at their ease, 'Do you ever listen to the BBC?'

`Nyet,' came the growl. The interview lasted 30 minutes, and not for a single second of it did Mr Lebed remove his eyes from mine. I felt like a rabbit caught in car headlights. I did not dare look at the notes on my lap. This man is scary, I thought. He has just lost the presidential election (he was eliminated after winning 14.5 per cent of the vote in the first round), but he wants more power.

He was argumentative: he countered my first question, about his desire to have the post of vice-president reinstated, by saying he had never said such a thing in his life, and then went on to lecture me on why the post was absolutely essential. He was confi- dent: 'Yeltsin won't get rid of me,' he said. 'He needs me, because he's tired — very, very tired.' How prescient.

And he was, as ever, master of the inscrutable one-liner. I asked him how he planned to deal with all the mobsters and crime bosses he'd pledged to fight. 'God', he replied, 'created big men and small men.' I tried to assert myself by sitting up straighter in my chair. 'And Colonel Colt created his revolver to give them equal chances.' He smirked. I smirked back, com- pletely baffled. So you think you're clever, I thought. But are you? Or does your sharp-wittedness mask a deep emptiness? I wasn't sure. But I had no doubt that this man was going to change the face of Russian politics. lIe seemed to flout every convention. A mili- tary man who wore a pepper-and-salt tweed jacket. A newcomer in politics who dared to usher President Yeltsin to his chair moments after being appointed by him. A man who instantly turned his Secu- rity Council from a mere co-ordinating body into one which gave him executive power over the army, interior minis- trY, security service and foreign affairs. A man capable of persuading Mr Yeltsin to sac some of his closest confidants and not afraid to criticise his powerful adversaries in public. But also a man who seemed to shoot from the hip, often having to retract his statements within minutes; a man with the kind of simplistic solutions beloved of the military but at which a politician baulks ('I'll end the Chechen war in 25 minutes , that kind of thing).

Most remarkable was the way his arrival was welcomed by Russia's liberals and democrats. He may be a bruiser, they seemed to believe, but his heart was in the right place. His chance to prove whether it was came a couple of weeks ago, when President Yeltsin gave him full powers to solve the Chechen crisis. He himself sus- pects that his enemies in the Kremlin (General Kulikov, the interior minister he wants to sack, and Viktor Chernomyrdin, the prime minister who has seen his posi- tion as second-only-to-Yeltsin usurped) gave him the job in the hope that he would 'break his neck on it'.

It may not be how he imagined things would turn out. Chechnya was a minor ele- ment of his pre-election platform; law and order and the fight against organised crime figured much higher. Yet now his entire career hangs on the thread of Chechen peace. He is currently the only person charged with solving the problem. All other agencies and commissions that dealt With it have been disbanded.

He holds his talks with the Chechen chief of staff, Asian Maskhadov, on the second floor of a huge, red-brick villa owned by the millionaire director of a cement factory in the village of Novye Atagi, south of Grozny. In the sunny court- yard below, women prepare lavish meals for him of zhizhig galnash — homemade Pasta served with boiled beef and a watery garlic sauce. Dishes of potatoes, meatballs, flat bread and sliced water melon go up the carved wooden staircase, empty dishes come down. Federal troops and rebel fighters guard the gates together. Long hours pass in the broiling heat. Local peo- ple huddle in groups, hands clasped, wait- ing for the puff of white smoke that will

bring peace. They know Mr Lebed is their last hope, but no one knows exactly what he is offering.

Before the election, he criticised the entire war in the region as madness — and bungled madness at that. He spoke of allowing the Chechens to decide their fate in a referendum. That offer is almost cer- tainly at the heart of his negotiating stance, but it exposes Mr Lebed himself to mortal political danger. For one thing, the Russian constitution does not provide for secession, so it would have to be amended. Secondly, the Chechens would clearly vote overwhelmingly for independence if given the chance, and that would oblige Mr Yeltshi and his men to make a huge climb- down. What on earth was the 20-month war for and why have tens of thousands been killed, if in the end you give the Chechens back what they had in the first place?

Mr Lebed appears to have found an ingenious solution. He is asking the Chechens to bury their ambitions for just five years. By then Mr Yeltsin will be gone and Mr Lebed (he hopes) will be presi- dent, with all the power at his disposal to amend the constitution. The five-year break would also allow the devastated Chechen economy to be at least partially restored — something the Chechens themselves could never achieve if they broke away at once.

In Moscow, they know the implication of this all too well: it could set in motion the disintegration of the Russian Federa- tion. Mr Lebed's biggest battle, bigger than the one in NovSte Atagi, may yet be 'You'll love this place — it's the best fish restaurant in London.' with his opponents in the Kremlin. Last week he said, 'I foresee attacks [on me] from hurrah-patriots and hurrah-democrats . All those who disagree with me and my signing of this agreement can complain about me at any level up to and including the President and God Almighty. But the war will be ended. Those who try to hinder that will be removed.'

Including God Almighty, one suspects, if He dares to disagree.