(continued)

In late September, the Other Russia coalition holds their national convention in a renovated theater hall in Izmailovsky Park, on Moscow's eastern fringe, to nominate a presidential candidate for the upcoming election. Their choice will stand zero chance of winning, but will be symbolically important in flying the flag of opposition to the Kremlin's increasingly authoritarian rule. Delegates come from all over the country and are an eclectic mix: Kasparov-allied liberal intelligentsia mingling with hardcore nationalists, broke war veterans, and—most of all—droves of Limonov's punk-rock kids. Though Kasparov is eventually named the presidential candidate, he actually has relatively few supporters in the hall. Instead, his nomination comes as the result of an agreement worked out with Limonov, whose followers could swing the vote in any direction.

When Putin took power in 1999, Limonov became one of his earliest and fiercest critics. "Why would I support this KGB schmuck who weaseled his way into power?" he says.Kasparov, whose name is far better known in the West than Limonov's, hit international democracy-activist superstardom this year. Not only is he the neocons' Nelson Mandela (the Wall Street Journal's nutty op-ed page has named him contributing editor), but American liberals love him for his wit and charm, and because he criticized the Bush administration for backtracking on promoting democracy in Russia.

But in reality, Limonov provides most of the organizational force behind Other Russia: His 15,000 or so loyalists consist largely of young artists, intellectuals, skinheads, anarchists, and other outsiders. In the past, the group incorporated fascist and ultranationalist elements into both its platform and presentation, and embraced some questionable allies—one of Limonov's most despicable episodes came during the Balkan conflict when he fired automatic weapons down on the city of Sarajevo from a mountain encampment shared with accused Serb war criminal Radovan Karadzic. But the party now hews to a straight leftist political line on most issues, playing down its aggressively nationalistic stances. Putin's cynical use of nationalist rhetoric to manipulate public sentiment was partly responsible for the shift. "We live in a truly despotic regime," Limonov says. "This government is cruel to the poor and the vulnerable. Its only ideology is nationalism. Our left-wing views are much closer to those of the masses. If we were allowed to operate in a free society, I am sure that we would become the most popular party."

But what seems to animate Limonov's legions of loyal followers most is his philosophy of "Russian Maximalism": going for broke to free oneself and one's nation from all forms of oppression. For the young punks, this means raging not only at the Kremlin, but also at the out-of-control consumerism that has taken root in this newly rich nation. You can see their fanatical enthusiasm in their suicidal political stunts, like the time they egged a prime minister while he was voting in an election, or when they took over the Health Ministry office and trashed portraits of Putin until FSB commandos arrived and kicked the shit out of them. Hundreds of them have seen the inside of Russia's jails.

Limonov's opposition to Putin is not new. When Putin took power in late 1999, the writer became one of his earliest and fiercest critics. "We were practically the only group to oppose him from the start," he says. "Why would I support this KGB schmuck who weaseled his way into power? It was obvious for us, but at the time, many liberals supported him." Within two years Limonov was in jail and being vilified on state television. The state's case grew out of a series of unbylined articles in Limonov's party newspaper advocating occupation of northern Kazakhstan with a private army to set up an ultranationalist Russian state.

In the summer of 2003, he was unexpectedly paroled, thanks to the intervention of some powerful friends in parliament. Shortly after his release, my mobile phone rang: "Mark! It's Eduard! I'm out of that fucking prison and back in Moscow. So let's meet! It's been a long time!" He was as cheerful as ever and full of fighting energy—as if he hadn't been stuck inside one of Russia's infamous overcrowded, tuberculosis-infested cells for two and a half years. During his incarceration, he had written eight books.

His release was an important moment for Russia's underground opposition. He'd fought the czar and won. The National Bolshevik Party's ranks suddenly swelled with thousands of young followers, across Russia's 11 time zones. To them, Limonov was a real-life Fight Club rebel, always ready to put everything on the line. Violence and incarceration seemed only to fuel his sense of purpose.

But this morning, in June, bound for St. Petersburg, everyone is nervous as we climb into a black Volga and head off toward Mayakovsky Square. Limonov is sandwiched between two hefty bodyguards in the backseat, while I ride shotgun. At 7 a.m., we link up with Kasparov and his entourage, who are rolling in expensive white SUVs. The traffic looks bad and the chess champ wonders aloud whether it's a sign—or even a Kremlin plot to make us miss the plane. But there will be nothing like that. This time, I'm the only one detained, while the two leaders of Other Russia are waved onto the airplane with their bodyguards, a film crew from 60 Minutes trailing behind. (They're working on a profile of Kasparov, which in its final form will not even mention Limonov.) In the end, I'm allowed to join them just minutes before the plane takes off.

The protest in St. Petersburg goes off without incident. When the speeches and chants are finished, there's a palpable sense of letdown. Democracy protests are supposed to lead to evermore dramatic confrontations with authorities—culminating either in martial law or popular revolution. But in Russia's case, the dynamics have already changed too much, and that narrative simply doesn't fit.

Kasparov's rhetoric about a Ronald Reagan–inspired liberal revolution seems downright silly in a nation where Putin enjoys more than 70 percent approval and anti-Americanism and anti-liberalism run deep. His candidacy for president will fall apart in December 2007, when the Kremlin requires that Other Russia hold an officially sanctioned nomination in a large public event hall—an impossible requirement since the owners of every such facility in Moscow are too frightened to rent to the party.

Limonov, by contrast, has always shown his mettle as a political activist by quickly adjusting to real-world circumstances.

Over the course of several conversations in November and December, he describes to me an incredibly audacious and media-savvy scheme to expose Putin and Russia's subordinate parliament. It's the kind of stunt that will make the capillaries in Putin's eyes pop in anger and give a jolt of energy to the opposition movement. But he makes me promise not to disclose any details, fearing what the Kremlin will do to stop him. Kasparov's press spokesperson slips up and gives a hint while her boss is still in jail in November, saying that since Putin's legislature won't pass democratic laws, a united opposition front will pass them instead.

It's not clear if Putin is even aware of this mysterious plan, but—coincidence or not—a new crackdown seems to be underway with the arrival of winter. Shortly before a major Other Russia protest in Moscow on November 24, a 22-year-old activist is bludgeoned to death near his home. Shortly before, he had called another opposition activist from his mobile phone and reported that he was being followed by secret police. At the protest itself, Kasparov is arrested and held for five days. ("I wouldn't recommend Russian jails to anyone," he tells me darkly when I reach him after his release.) Meanwhile, Limonov is the target of a new court order. A criminal case seems to be in the works, alleging that the writer continues to operate the now-banned National Bolsheviks.

I ask Limonov what he thinks the Kremlin's reaction will be when he goes public with this mysterious and provocative new plan. "I don't think they'll be too pleased," he says, not betraying much emotion. "Maybe they won't kill me, maybe they'll just arrest me. Anyway, we'll find out soon."




This article is from the April issue of Radar Magazine. For a risk-free issue, click here

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