The haunting true story of a hardworking British businessman who became mired in the deadly, corruption-laden nightmare of Russia’s current prison system—and lived to tell about it, thanks to a love affair that kept his hope alive and the efforts of family and friends in Moscow and in London.
A twenty-first-century Midnight Express, Tig Hague’s powerful memoir brings to light the brutal machinations of Putin’s Russia—a world where the smallest mistake can land you in a frightening, Kafka-esque system, and where those in charge turn a blind eye to the law. Tomorrow You Go Home is the story of an ordinary man on an ordinary business trip who rapidly began to wonder if he would ever have his peaceful life back again.
Departing London for Moscow in July 2003, Hague said good-bye to his girlfriend and prepared to meet with clients in a country that was supposedly undergoing radical reform. Once the plane landed, Hague realized he had left a small amount of hash in the pocket of his jeans—an oversight that would bring him face-to-face with the reality of contemporary Russian justice. He was refused a translator, denied contact with the British Embassy, and while awaiting trial was beaten by guards in prison. His $50,000 payment to lawyers was no match for fabricated evidence, and before long he was serving a lengthy sentence in a frigid labor camp, where the work nearly cost him his eyesight and ruined his health. The only saving grace were regular visits from his girlfriend, who traveled to be with him and eventually married him in the prison. Taking its title from the favorite taunt of Hague’s prison guard, Tomorrow You Go Home provides a chilling glimpse into the still-desperate conditions behind the “former” Iron Curtain.
Moscow
Thursday, July 17, 2003
The bump and skid of the wheels woke me up with a jolt as we touched down at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo 2 airport. I squinted through the window at the watery gray clouds enveloping the skies over the Russian capital. It was just after six Moscow time, three hours ahead of the UK, and my aching body was telling me it was actually three in the morning and this was no time to be starting a day. My bum was numb and my head thick with sleep, or the lack of it, after a fitful night squirming in my uncomfortable Aeroflot seat. My mouth was dry and sticky but my water bottle was empty and I was just going to have to wait until we passed through Customs. I was still paying for the stag party and wedding over the weekend, and this was one business trip to Moscow I could’ve really done without. Garban Icap, though, didn’t become “the world’s largest derivatives broker” by letting one of its junior brokers cancel three days of meetings with leading clients just because he had a dog of a hangover.
Half asleep, I tidied up my notes, snapped my briefcase shut, and sank into my seat as the plane began to taxi slowly back toward its docking bay. I stared out of the window, thinking of Lucy yesterday morning back in bed at Mum’s house when I nuzzled into her warm neck as she dozed under her mop of wavy brown hair.
“Sweetheart, how am I going to spend four days without you?” That was the last thing she’d said and I smiled as I recalled it.
It usually takes about an hour, or sometimes two, to reach the front of the passport and visa queue at Sheremetyevo 2, and there’s always pushing and shoving as people start to lose their patience. I was one of the first into the Arrivals building and I reached the man in the booth in a personal best time of thirty minutes—only to be told I hadn’t filled in my form properly. I was dispatched with a grunt and a wave of the hand to join the back of the queue and I was annoyed that I couldn’t quickly scribble out a new form there and then, which would have taken under a minute. I rolled my eyes, sighed loudly and sloped off like a naughty schoolboy.
I glanced anxiously at the clock on my mobile. Time was getting a little tight. I needed to get through the terrible Moscow traffic to my hotel for a shower, a shave, and a change of clothes before I headed off to the first meeting of the day. I hadn’t touched my razor for three days, and what with my puffy, black-ringed eyes, I didn’t want to be shaking hands with some of our most important clients looking like a Chechen separatist on the run, albeit one dressed in a smart light-blue shirt and a pair of tailor-made dark trousers.
The queue I rejoined after filling in a new form had become something of a scrum and I elbowed and shoved as politely as the next man to reach the booths, but by the time I finally made it into the baggage reclaim area I was one of the last passengers left in the cavernous gray hall. There were just a few bags left on the carousel, but my large black suitcase wasn’t among them. It was sitting on the floor with two or three other cases. Weird. What was all that about? Running late, I walked quickly toward the screened-off Customs area with my two Duty Free bags, dragging the case behind me.
A dozen or so officials wandered around in a variety of uniforms, while roughly the same number of passengers shuffled toward the exit. No one was smiling. Just beyond the screens, a set of electronic glass doors opened into the Arrivals area and I headed straight for them, craning my neck to see if I could spot my driver for the trip. It always gave me a small thrill to come through into the concourse and see a man holding a board with my name emblazoned across it: TIG HAGUE!
I was dimly aware that there was a group of other passengers over to my left, but I just kept walking, thinking nothing of it. I was about five yards from the door when a man started shouting in Russian. I turned around. He was shouting at me. I didn’t understand what he was saying, but he was waving his hands around and pointing to the back of the queue. “Am I ever going to get out of this shit-hole?” I muttered to myself. Everyone was being asked to put their bags through an X-ray machine. I had never seen luggage being scanned on the way out of an airport. Then I remembered the previous week’s news story about the twenty people who’d been killed by two female Chechen suicide bombers at an open-air rock concert in the city. Fair enough. Besides, the queue was moving fairly fast and I’d be away in a couple of minutes.
The middle-aged official who took my bag was the same one who pulled me up just as I was about to head through the automatic doors. He looked like he’d been there all night. He was very small, no more than about five foot two, and he had dark greasy hair, big bloodshot eyes, skinny arms, and the expression of a man who just wanted to get home and put his feet up.
As my suitcase emerged on to the rollers from the other end of the scanner, he pointed to my two Duty Free bags, one containing a box of Marlboro Lights and another of Marlboro Reds, a pen, and some perfume, and the other, two bottles of whisky; presents for my clients. I handed them over to him, knowing that that was the last bureaucratic obstacle I had to hurdle. Within seconds, I’d be through those doors. He peered inside the bags and said something in Russian. I shook my head and looked quizzical. “I’m sorry, pal, but I don’t understand Russian,” I said in English, smiling.
He replied sternly: “Two whisky, two cigarettes, NO!”
That amount had never been a problem on previous trips and I told him that, even though I knew he wouldn’t understand. He looked around the room and over his shoulder, leaned toward me, and rubbed his fingers and thumb together. I didn’t twig that he was inviting me to bribe him. I thought he was asking whether I was carrying large sums of cash in my luggage. The Russians are very strict about how much money you can take in and out of the country; when you fill in the visa form on arrival you have to declare how much cash you have and what credit cards you are carrying. I had about five hundred U.S. dollars—two months’ wages for this guy but hardly enough to put me in smuggler class.
I was too tired, too rushed for protracted negotiations, and I said in a “fuck-you-just-get-on-with-it” kind of way: “No! . . . I . . . no . . . have . . . money. Me-No-Money!”
He didn’t like that. He stabbed a finger at my suitcase and then at the metal inspection table at the end of the scanning machine. “Oh, for God’s sake,” I mumbled and lifted the large black case on to the table. He spun the case around and snapped it open while fixing me with an icy stare. Half a dozen officials stood nearby chatting among themselves. Dozens of people milled around beyond the glass doors and I hoped one of them was my driver.
He started taking out my clothes, piece by piece, hanging them up on the screen behind him. He was in no hurry now, and showing me that. I was the last passenger left in the hall. All my clothes were on hangers so I could put them straight into the wardrobe at the hotel. He hung up a couple of shirts and T-shirts. Then he picked up my jeans.
I froze.
Excerpt from TOMORROW YOU GO HOME by Tig Hague © 2008.
Published by Gotham Books, a member of Penguin Group (USA).
All Rights Reserved.
