The first indirect signs appeared a few days before the expulsion. Penitentiary Service officials began visiting political prisoners. Typically, it was the prison colony head or regional service officials who started suggesting—sometimes insisting or demanding—that we sign a petition for presidential pardon. At this point, it became clear that some diplomatic process was underway.

The prison colony head visited my cell. After I handed him some statements, he skimmed them disinterestedly before asking, “Why haven’t you submitted a pardon request to the President?” At first, I thought he might be mocking me—implying my complaints were as futile as asking for clemency. Despite him being serious, I replied firmly, “I won’t write any requests. It’s pointless—Putin himself put me here.”

The next day, the deputy head of the regional penitentiary service arrived—I was under his supervision. He started confronting me directly: “I was informed that you refuse to sign a pardon request. Why?” I said, “Because I’d have to write to Putin. I consider Putin a war criminal, expect no mercy from him, and won’t ask for any.” He was amused: “Your opinion of him is irrelevant. You must use every opportunity given to you.” Which was quite strange.

I said, “Listen, a pardon request is a right, not an obligation. Let’s drop this—there’s no way to convince or force me to sign. It’s absolutely unacceptable to me.” And that’s how the conversation ended.

On Saturday, an officer came and said the prison head wanted to see me in his office. On the way there, they led me past the colony gates. The gates opened, and I was practically shoved into a prisoner transport vehicle. They didn’t let me gather my belongings or warn me about anything. They probably thought I might resist or something. That’s why I was still in prison attire [after the exchange]. Unlike most other political prisoners who were given some time to prepare—some got half an hour, others 20 minutes—I was afforded no such luxury. They essentially used trickery and cunning to remove me from my cell and push me into this bus.

It quickly became clear we were heading to Moscow—this was a special transfer. Because it’s quite close to Smolensk [where the prison was located]. As we drove, various thoughts crossed my mind. I wondered if this might be a new criminal case, if there would be an interrogation at the Investigative Committee, or if I was being transferred to a pre-trial detention center for some investigative actions.

When we arrived at Lefortovo, they didn’t announce anything either. They drove me—and others, I believe—to the entrance of an isolation ward and ushered me inside. I asked, “Where are we?” They replied, “You’re in Moscow. That’s all you need to know.” But I caught a notice board that read “Pre-trial Detention Center No. 2 of the Russian Federal Penitentiary Service.” And I know that’s Lefortovo. So, thanks to my observational skills, I figured out where I was.

They put me in a cell—small, two-person cells. There was nothing in it: no TV, no refrigerator. They took all my belongings: took my socks and gave me some local ones. They replaced my pants because they didn’t like mine. They took away the badge I had in the prison colony. So I hardly had anything to begin with. They took away the last of my possessions, so to speak. And all I had left in the cell was toothpaste and a toothbrush. They even refused to let me shower, although it’s required by the internal regulations. They didn’t allow me to exercise. And, of course, I began to suspect that this was likely about an exchange.

On one hand—yes, you’ve been brought to Lefortovo. So they might charge you with treason now, or organizing some extremist community, or they’ll come up with something else. But we clearly existed outside the legal field: we weren’t given what detainees in pre-trial detention are entitled to. And when I asked a facility employee about my current legal status, he said, “Legally, you’re still in your colony—you’re a convict in your colony.”

There was, however, one concession from the isolation ward management. I asked for something to read, saying, “Look, they didn’t let me pack, I don’t even have a book with me, I’ll go crazy with boredom here. I don’t know how long I’ll have to be here. Give me at least something to read.” And they brought me Andrei Sakharov’s memoirs. So for all those days before the exchange, I sat reading Sakharov’s accounts of Solzhenitsyn’s exile, Bukovsky’s exchange... So in that respect, they certainly showed a fair sense of humor.

The more time passed, the more convinced I became, based on circumstantial evidence, that this was about an exchange. For example, they categorically refused to let me out of the cell under any pretext. I tried to be cunning. I’d say I needed to see a doctor—they’d bring the doctor right to the cell. I’d demand exercise time—they wouldn’t let me out. Why? Probably because there were people I knew in neighboring cells, we might start shouting to each other, and I could somehow get my bearings.

They’d say, “Be patient, everything will be resolved by Thursday or Friday”—“What will be resolved?”—“Well, you’re not supposed to know yet.”

So, guessing what was happening and disagreeing with the exchange, I wrote a statement addressed to the head of the pre-trial detention center: according to the Constitution, a person with a Russian passport cannot be expelled from Russia if they don’t agree to it. I wrote the statement. I handed it to the prison head, several employees came running, saying, “What do you think you’re doing? Whether you agree or not... What does that mean in practice?” I said, “In practice, it means you’ll have to use force to expel me from the country because your actions are illegal.”

Well, they took that into account. They presented us with the fact only before loading us onto the bus that took us from Lefortovo to Vnukovo-3 airport. When the time came and the FSB convoy came for me, these guys grabbed my arms quite roughly and led me onto the bus first. In fact, there wasn’t much opportunity to resist.

I had considered the option of tearing up my passport, like Maria Kolesnikova did [in Belarus]. But they apparently considered that option too, because they only handed me my passport on the plane. And it was quite funny because it was an old passport. When I was preparing for a search, I had legally “lost” it. It had been replaced with another one that the investigators didn’t get. When they handed me the passport, I realized it was invalid. And in very poor condition too. So it even looks invalid. And tearing it up would be pointless because it’s already all torn up.

Anyway, they led me onto the bus first. I sat for about ten minutes waiting for the others to appear. And one by one, they started bringing in other political prisoners: Andrei Pivovarov, Kara-Murza, Orlov, and so on. As each new arrival boarded, I watched the door, hoping to see Alexei Gorinov among them; in vain, he never appeared.

They drove us to the terminal, unloaded us onto the plane, and FSB officers sat next to us. They behaved quite nicely. They did use some threats. But they didn’t use much force, although they could have. At one point, Andrei Pivovarov got into a conflict with them, and they started pressing him. I tensed up because it seemed like they might hit him, and I even tried to intervene, saying, “Guys, let’s all take a breath.” But then the situation more or less calmed down. And the further we flew from Russia, the calmer it became. At some point, they even allowed us to talk to each other and walk around the cabin.

An FSB officer who introduced himself as Georgy sat with me. He even took off his mask and at one point started talking about his combat experience. I asked him a lot about the war in Ukraine. He talked about participating in combat operations, about the spring-summer offensive and heavy losses, about Ukrainian drones that are now being deployed, and so on. But at the same time, he was, of course, a radical supporter of continuing the war. I asked him how he assessed the likelihood of negotiations. He said he assessed it as not very high and really hoped there would be no negotiations unless, I quote, “the assholes from the Ministry of Defense screw everything up.”

I don’t know how much to take these words at face value, but that’s the source. And, of course, it was a strange situation where it wasn’t the FSB officer trying to get information from you, but you asking questions and him telling you something. And it was a big surprise to me that he turned out to be so talkative.

But they also didn’t hesitate to issue threats. Despite their formal and outwardly correct behavior, they underscored that they viewed us as enemies. “Don’t get too comfortable abroad, Krasikov might make another trip to Berlin—or wherever the Motherland sends him.” Yeah, there were threats, but they didn’t sound brutal. They would drop these casually, almost nonchalantly. Like: “We understand you want to return. And of course, you can return—like Navalny. And we’ll arrest you again—like Navalny. And you’ll meet your end—like Navalny.”

Editor: Dmitry Tkachev