Instead of a Foreword:

UNFORESEEN CONSEQUENCES

I learned that Sasha Litvinenko was in Turkey from the oligarch Boris Berezovsky.

A call woke me up in the middle of the night on October 20, 2000. Cursing myself for forgetting to turn off my mobile phone in the evening, I felt for it and pressed the button.

• Hello, - Boris said. - Where are you?
• In bed, at home in New York.
• Sorry, I thought you were in Europe. Is it night there?

I looked at the clock.

• Four in the morning.
• Well, sorry, I'll call back later.
• No, go ahead, what happened?

Boris was calling from his home in Cap d'Antibes in the south of France, where I had recently visited him on my way back to New York from Moscow. By that time, he had already completely fallen out with Putin, resigned his seat in the State Duma, and announced that he would not return to Russia. The conflict between him and the President over control of the ORT television channel was in full swing.

• Do you remember Sasha Litvinenko? - Boris asked.

A year before that, FSB Lieutenant Colonel Litvinenko became famous throughout Russia by declaring at a press conference that his superiors had ordered him to kill Berezovsky. After that, he was kicked out of the agencies and spent about a year in Lefortovo. I met him shortly after his release at Boris's Moscow office.

• Yes, I remember Litvinenko, - I said. - That's your KGB guy. A very nice man for a KGB guy.
• Well, he's in Turkey, - Boris said.
• You woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me that?
• You don't understand, - Boris said. - He ran away.
• How did he run away? Wasn't he released?
• They were going to lock him up again, and he fled while under a travel ban.
• Good for him, he did the right thing, - I said. - Better in Turkey than in Lefortovo. Although, sitting in Lefortovo is better than in Turkey. I hope he's not in prison?
• No, he's not in prison; he's in a hotel in Antalya with his wife and child. He wants to go and surrender to the Americans at the embassy. You're our old dissident, and an American to boot. Do you know how it's done?

The Last Time Dissidents Ran

"The last time dissidents ran to the American embassy was about fifteen years ago," I said.

"Soon they will start running again. So what do you advise?"

"I don't know, I need to find out. I'll call you back by evening our time."

1995

I had met Berezovsky five years before this. At that time, I was managing a large American scientific project in Russia. Every time I came to Moscow, I visited Boris at the "club"—the reception house of his company "Logovaz" on Novokuznetskaya Street, where "all of Moscow" crowded, and the bar offered the best red wine in town. They said it was brought from his own vineyard by Boris's closest partner—the Georgian Badri Patarkatsishvili.

Boris was interesting to me not only as one of the main protagonists of the grand drama of Russian politics of those years. I was attracted to him by the commonality of our origins. We were the same age and came from the same circle—the Moscow scientific intelligentsia. However, a quarter of a century ago, I became interested in politics and, after several years of dissident activity in the circle of A. D. Sakharov, left for America—as it seemed, the land of unlimited opportunities, to resume my scientific studies. As for Boris, he—a capable mathematician—remained in Russia and also succeeded in science. But then the revolution of 1991 occurred, and unlimited opportunities opened up—who would have thought!—in Russia. Boris became fabulously wealthy, becoming the first major importer of cars, and then an "oligarch"—a super-successful participant in the scandalous privatization auctions of the mid-90s. Berezovsky played a key role in Yeltsin's victory over the communists in '96—he organized a consortium of oligarchs who financed and managed the election campaign.

It was at this time that his conflict with the special services began. At the height of the election campaign, Yeltsin's head of security, General Korzhakov, and FSB chief Barsukov tried to stage a coup—to persuade the president to cancel the elections, dissolve the Duma, and ban the Communist Party. Boris was one of those who convinced Yeltsin to stay on the democratic path. The confrontation between the oligarchs and the generals in Yeltsin's inner circle ended with the defeat of the latter and the resignation of Korzhakov and Barsukov.

However, after Putin came to power, Boris Berezovsky's star faded from the Kremlin sky. The influence of the special services in the Kremlin increased sharply. A crackdown on press freedom began, a redistribution of the state structure—the construction of an authoritarian "vertical of power," and the war in Chechnya resumed. Boris, who was a member of the Duma, his TV channel, and several newspapers openly criticized the policies of the new president. The turning point was the "Kursk" submarine disaster. After Putin's actions during the tragedy were sharply criticized on ORT, the President demanded that Berezovsky hand over control of the channel to the Kremlin. Having received a refusal, Putin gave the command to Boris's long-time enemies—the special services—to "press" him to the full extent. By the time his night call woke me up in New York, Boris Berezovsky had become the "first political emigrant" of post-Soviet Russia.

A few hours after Boris's call, I was entering the White House office in Washington, where I had an appointment with an old acquaintance—a Russia specialist who worked as one of President Clinton's advisors on the National Security Council.

"Second floor, left corridor," a dark-skinned policeman muttered, glancing briefly at my passport.

Conversation Transcript

"I have ten minutes for you," my friend said, getting up from the table and extending his hand toward me. "The elections are in two weeks, and, as you understand, nobody gives a damn about Russian problems right now. Well, what is this urgent matter of yours that can't be discussed over the phone?"

I told him about Litvinenko.

"I'm thinking of flying to Turkey and taking him to our embassy," I said.

"As an official, I must tell you that the American government does not engage in poaching employees of Russian special services or encouraging defectors," he replied. "As your friend, I'll say—don't get involved in this business. This is a matter for professionals, which you are not. It can be dangerous. Do you know what a chain of unforeseen consequences is? By getting involved in this, you won't be in control of the situation; one thing will lead to another, and there's no telling where it will take you. So my advice to you is—go home and forget about this whole story."

"But what will happen to Litvinenko? [handwritten note in margin: When then]" I asked the stupidest question, remembering Sasha's agitated voice on the other end of the line. [handwritten note in margin: ??]

"That's not your problem," my friend replied. "He's a big boy; he knew what he was getting into."

"Well, okay, but if he does come to our embassy, what awaits him?"

"First of all, they won't let him in. There's serious security there; Ankara is not Copenhagen. By the way, what documents does he have?"

"I don't know."

"Secondly, if he does manage to get in there, he'll be talking to consular staff, whose job," he smiled, "is to let no one into America."

"But he's not exactly an ordinary applicant for a visitor visa," I said.

"Well, if he manages to prove that, then maybe he'll be spoken to by..." he paused, searching for the right word, "...other people. In principle, they could put in a good word for him, but that will depend..."

"On what he offers them?" I guessed.

"You're catching on."

"I have no idea what he could offer them."

"Well, you see, I told you that you're not a professional," my acquaintance smiled. "Better forget about all this."

"And what if we take a public stance? Hold a press conference?"

"For the Turkish press?" my friend smiled.

"Fine, I understand everything. I'll think about it. If I do decide to go there, I'd like someone here to be aware, just in case. After all, I am an American citizen."

"We have a free country; you buy a ticket and you go," he said. "But you're right, if something happens to you, it wouldn't hurt if they knew about you at the embassy. Do you have any acquaintances at the State Department?"

Document Excerpt

• Got it, N.

N. was one of Madeleine Albright's advisors on Russia.

• You know N.? That's great. Call him.

• Bye, - I said. - Good luck in the elections!

N. was in a meeting. He only called me back towards evening. I briefly explained the situation to him and asked for permission to call in case of an emergency development of events in Turkey.

• Call, of course, at any time, - he said and gave me his home phone number.

My next visit was to the CBS television company in New York, where I had another good acquaintance, producer Harry; at one time I had helped them make a program about a tuberculosis colony in Tomsk.

• A defector in Turkey?! - Harry started pacing the room in excitement. - I'll send a camera to the embassy! Will he give us an interview before he goes in? But it has to be an exclusive! Oh, how great! Will he expose the whole Russian network to our guys?

• Wait, wait, Harry, not so fast. He won't expose any network, he's not a spy, he's a cop [ment]. And no cameras are needed. I just wanted to warn you just in case. You never know what might happen. Now, if the Russians kidnap him or the Turks start extraditing him, then send a camera. But for now, not a word to anyone about this.

• Okay, okay, I promise. But couldn't you take a portable camera with you and film him before you go in there—an exclusive, okay? God forbid he gets shot there—that would be a story! I'm joking, I'm joking.

• Some jokes you have. I'll take the camera, just teach me how to use it.

The next task was to explain my plans at home. My wife Svetlana was not thrilled with the idea of going to Turkey to hand over a fugitive Russian lieutenant colonel to the American embassy.

• You've lost your mind, - she said. - The Turks will put you in prison—how will I bring you packages there?

• Why would they put me in prison?

• You don't even know this man. Maybe he's a bandit, or a murderer, or he was sent himself to kill Berezovsky. Then you'll end up being the one to blame.

• Svetlana, have you heard of the presumption of innocence? Doubts are interpreted in favor of the victim. What if he's not a bandit or a murderer—if he's returned to Russia, they'll twist his head off.

• Let Boris get him out himself. Have you read "The Big Ration"? It's all written there. Everyone around got shot, while the oligarch is somehow uninvolved.

• "The Big Ration" is creative fiction, a dramatization so people buy the book better. By the way, Boris didn't ask me for anything. This is my own idea—to go to Turkey.

• But explain anyway, why on earth are you rushing there?

• To be honest, I don't know, I just can't help myself. I feel that if I don't go, I'll regret it later. Unspent adventurism.

Excerpt

• "Then I'll go with you. If they shoot you there, I want to be present. Besides, I've never been to Turkey."

To the uninitiated, the Litvinenkos, staying in a small seaside hotel, looked like typical vacationers, of which there are tens of thousands in Antalya. The fit head of the family, who took morning jogs along the embankment, his pretty wife, covered in a two-week tan, and a mischievous six-year-old child aroused no suspicion among the locals, for whom the Russian tourist is a source of prosperity and the main engine of the local economy. By the time of our arrival, they already felt like old-timers, happily acting as guides and interpreters of local customs.

• "Do you know what he's shouting?" Tolik Litvinenko began explaining to Svetlana when the midday cry of the mullah, carried by amplifiers from the minaret, rang out. "He's shouting 'Allahu Akbar!' so they pray to the Turkish god."

And yet, looking closely, one could notice that the stresses of recent months had taken their toll on the fugitives. This was evident in the searching looks Sasha gave every new person who came into view, in Marina's tear-stained eyes, and in the restlessness of Tolik, who was constantly trying to attract the attention of adults.

• "Do you think the Americans will take us?" was Sasha's first question.

• "First we need to get to them," I replied. "Show me your documents."

Turkey is one of the few countries where citizens of most states, including Russia, can enter without visas, or rather, obtain a visa upon entry by paying 30 dollars. Marina and Tolik entered Turkey with ordinary Russian foreign passports from Spain, where they had gone on a tourist trip. Sasha's document was fake; his real passport had been seized during a search. He showed me a passport from a country bordering Russia (at Sasha's request, I won't name it), with his photo but a different surname.

• "Where did you get it?" I asked in surprise.

• "What, did you forget where I worked? The guys made it. Better to have a hundred friends than a hundred rubles."

• "Well made. But how can you tell it's you?"

• "Here," he showed an internal Russian passport, a driver's license, and an FSB veteran's ID.

• "Tell me, have your curators in Moscow already discovered your absence?"

• "Yes, I called; they've been in a panic and looking for me for a week now."

• "You called from here, so they know you're in Turkey."

• "I called using this," he showed a calling card from an English company. "It goes through a central computer; the call can't be traced. Though, I don't know."

• "You shouldn't have called."

• "Listen, I had to let my old folks know I'm okay. I didn't tell anyone I was leaving. And Marina called her mother, said she was in Spain with Tolik. To hell with them, the bastards, they're hunting us like hares!"

Conversation Summary

Marina, Svetlana, and I looked at each other. This was the first emotional breakdown in several hours of conversation, but it was clear how much effort it took Sasha to remain calm.

"In general, we must proceed from the fact that they know you are abroad. Tell me, if, for example, you robbed a bank or killed someone, how quickly could they put you on the wanted list?" I asked.

"Fast enough, but they won't give Interpol an obvious fake. First, they need to glue together a serious case and tailor it to me so that it looks plausible."

"So, we have a few more days."

We drove to Ankara in a rented car, not daring to take a plane—you have to show passports there, and we decided it would be better if Sasha's fake name didn't get into the airline's computer. It was a cloudless night with a full moon. We sped along an empty highway through a rocky desert, and Sasha told me stories from the life of cops so that I wouldn't fall asleep at the wheel.

Meeting with Joe in Ankara

In Ankara, at the Sheraton Hotel, Joe was waiting for us—a small, mustachioed New York lawyer, a specialist in refugee rights, whom I had persuaded to stop by Ankara for a day from Europe, where he had business. After listening to Sasha, Joe said:

• "You can only apply for political asylum in the USA while on US territory. The embassy is not suitable for this. While abroad, you can apply for a refugee visa if you believe you are being persecuted in your homeland for religious, political, or ethnic reasons. At the same time, there is an annual quota for refugees, which is always overfilled. Therefore, you have to wait months, and sometimes years, to enter. And you, as I understand it, have no time."

"He understands correctly," Sasha confirmed after hearing the translation.

"In the past, Soviet dissidents, and not only dissidents—simple defectors—were let into America right away," I said.

"Well, that was the Cold War," Joe countered. "In principle, there is such a form of entry—out of turn—which we call 'parole,' when a visa is given for reasons of 'public interest.' This requires a decision at the top of the State Department or in the White House. Do you have connections?" he asked me.

"I have connections, but there are elections now; they have no time for us."

"In any case, I recommend that you formally apply for a refugee visa so that the documents are already in the system, and then let them wait here, while you go to the States and try to push through a 'parole' for them."

"I don't want to stay in Turkey," Marina said.

"Yes, they deport from Turkey without any problems," Joe said. "Mainly, people seek political asylum from Turkey, not in Turkey."

"Tell him it won't come to deportation. As soon as our people find out I'm here, they'll come themselves and rub us all out right here in the bar," Sasha said.

"Joe, after all, Sasha is a GB officer, not some Jewish repatriate. They really will rub him out."

Conversation Transcript

"On this matter, I can tell you in confidence," said Joe, "that the CIA always has a supply of blank 'green cards'—that is, permanent residency permits. You just need to write in the name. If they need a person, within a few hours he ends up in Washington, bypassing all immigration procedures. But this is a deal. You give them the goods, they give you cover. You have to decide: either you are a victim of tyranny, or a trader of secrets. It's hard to combine the two."

"Sasha, do you have secrets for sale?"

"The main secret is who in the Office [FSB] takes how much and at what rate. What secrets do I have, think for yourself? I can hold another press conference. About how the FSB blew up residential buildings to blame it on the Chechens. Or tell them who killed Listyev, if they're interested."

"And who is Listyev?" Joe asked.

"A Russian who was shot, it's irrelevant to the case," I said.

"And do you happen to have an American who was shot?"

"There is an American, Paul Tatum, remember? I know who whacked him."

"Who is he?" Joe asked.

"The owner of the Radisson Hotel in Moscow, he was shot by unknown persons in the city center," I explained.

"That's better. Could poor Paul have a connection to intelligence, to the CIA?"

"Hardly," Sasha said. "It was a business dispute. A contract killing. But our guys participated in it."

"Not suitable for the CIA," Joe said. "But we can organize a story in a newspaper about this, to make it easier to get 'parole'. Like, there's a man sitting in Turkey who knows who killed an American citizen. In general, your main problem is a lack of time. If he were already in the States, with such material I would get him asylum in about three weeks. If he were in Moscow, in about two months we could organize 'parole' and a refugee visa out of turn."

"What if he just gets on a plane, flies to New York, and surrenders to the police?"

"To get him on a plane, he needs an American visa. If he enters the States without a visa, for example by swimming, then it's an illegal border crossing, and they'll put him in jail while his case is being sorted out."

"Everything is clear," I said. "So, the plan is this. We go to the embassy, file a petition, and try to organize the press. Then we'll get 'parole'. Everyone agree?.. Silence is a sign of consent. Joe, thanks for the consultation, see you in New York."

Next Morning

The next morning Svetlana went on a reconnaissance mission. Upon returning, she said:

"They are waiting for you at the consulate at exactly one o'clock in the afternoon. I explained everything to them, and they somehow understood everything too quickly. It feels like they knew about you. In short, you're going without waiting in line to the American Citizen Services department."

Before going to the embassy, Sasha told on camera the story of his life, the reasons that prompted him to seek asylum in the USA, and what he knows about the murder.

Document Transcription

...American Paul Tatum. The film was handed to Svetlana, and she headed to the airport with instructions to deliver the film to the CBS editorial office in New York. After seeing Svetlana off, Sasha, Marina, Tolik, and I headed to the embassy.

Passing a long line of Turks standing along the fence under the supervision of two police cars, we approached a glass booth. I pulled out my American passport. They were indeed expecting us. A polite young man in a shirt and tie said something to a Marine, and the latter, after taking our mobile phones and my passport, issued us guest passes on iron chains.

"I am the consul," the young man stated his name. "Welcome to the Embassy of the United States. You have an interview scheduled. May I take your documents, Mr. Litvinenko?"

We were led through an empty courtyard; the escort dialed a combination on a digital lock, the iron door opened, and another Marine led us into a strange windowless room with soundproofing panels. In the middle stood a table with chairs, and a fan spun under the ceiling. A video camera lens looked down at us from above.

Sasha and I exchanged glances. Obviously, this was that very soundproof booth, inaccessible to eavesdropping, that I had read about in spy novels.

As soon as we were seated around the table, the door opened, and another American in glasses, looking about forty, entered.

"This is Mark, my colleague, second secretary from the political department," the consul said.

Everything was just as my Washington friend had said, I thought: people from the consulate and "other people."

"I'm listening, Mr. Litvinenko," the consul said. "How can we help you?"

From then on, everything proceeded exactly according to the lawyer's script. Sasha repeated his story and asked for asylum in the US for himself and his family, and the consul said roughly what Joe had told us: we understand your situation and sympathize with you very much, but asylum is not granted in embassies. As for a refugee visa, the review takes time; please fill out the application, we will, of course, try to speed up the process, but decisions are made in Washington; leave a phone number where you can be reached.

I said that I would try to get a "parole" for them in Washington, where I have connections.

"That is reasonable," the consul agreed.

Despite the fan, it was hot in the booth; I felt thirsty. Tolik grew quiet, sensing that something very important was happening. Large tears rolled down Marina's cheeks.

"Given Mr. Litvinenko's specific situation," I said, "there are grounds to fear for their safety. Could they be housed in some safe place for the duration of the case review, for example, where embassy staff live?"

"Unfortunately, we do not have such a possibility."

"Which hotel are you staying at?" Mark, who had been silent until now, suddenly joined the conversation.

"At the Sheraton."

"In whose name is the room booked?"

In my wife's name

"In my wife's name," I said. "She has a different surname."

"We know," said Mark. "She was with us this morning. I think you are exaggerating the danger. The Sheraton is an American facility. Besides, we are in a Muslim country: there is a danger of terrorist attacks here, so security at the Sheraton should be taken seriously. I would like to have a few words with Mr. Litvinenko in private." And, anticipating my question, he added in Russian: "We won't need a translation."

Sasha nodded, and we left the booth. Then the consul took us to the guard post, returned the documents and, wishing us success, said goodbye...

A few minutes later Sasha appeared. In general, he held up well, although he was pale.

"Well?" I asked when we got into the taxi.

"Nothing. This guy is fully in the loop. He asked if I knew this person or that person. Most of the people he asked about, I don't know personally, although I've heard of them. He asked if I had anything that might interest them. I said no. He asked if I intended to sit quietly or speak publicly. I said I would speak out, I want to write a book about the explosions. He said: 'I wish you success, that's not our department.' That's it."

Our dinner that evening was a sad sight. Tolik was being cranky, Sasha was silent, thinking about something, Marina and I kept up a conversation on abstract topics. The next morning we were supposed to part ways.

Suddenly Sasha said: "They're already tailing us. See the guy with the newspaper at the bar counter? He was sitting in the hall on the floor, and then he came down here. Let's check now."

He got up from the table and went to the toilet. The guy turned so that he could see the toilet door. Sasha came out of the toilet and headed for the foyer. The guy moved again to keep him in sight.

"With surveillance like that, I would have been fired from my job long ago," Sasha said, handing me a newspaper he had bought at a kiosk to make his walk look natural. "Here, read this."

I glanced at the front page. It was a local English-language newspaper, the "Turkish Times." A half-page headline read: "Raid on Russians." The article reported that there were two hundred thousand Russians in Turkey with expired visas, involved in prostitution and the smuggling of illegal immigrants to Western Europe; the authorities were catching them and deporting them to Russia. "How inconvenient," I thought. "It's a good thing Sasha doesn't read English."

"Do you think he's alone?" I asked.

"Alone, otherwise he wouldn't be running after me from the floor to the bar. At night, no more is needed—where are we going to go from the hotel? They probably spotted us at the embassy. If they watch the embassies, they definitely must have spotted us. We need to get out of here."

We looked at each other and said simultaneously: "It's a good thing we didn't return the car."

"Marina, take the key to Alik's room from him, but discreetly," he said. "Go upstairs, as if you and Tolik were going to sleep, pack your things, move everything to Alik's room on the eighth floor and wait for him there."

The Calculation

The calculation was that if the observer was indeed alone, he would hang on Sasha's tail, and Marina's movements would remain unnoticed.

Marina yawned and, saying, "Well, guys, see you tomorrow," dragged the sleepy Tolik with her to the elevator. About fifteen minutes later, Sasha and I went up too. The guy in the bar remained in his place.

• "Take Marina and head to the garage," he commanded. "As soon as you're ready, call me from the mobile."

Sasha got off on the seventh floor and went to his room. I got off on the eighth and, having gone down the stairs, cautiously peeked into the hall of the seventh floor. The guy from the bar was already there reading a newspaper. I went up to my room. Marina was reading, a dressed Tolik was sleeping in my bed.

It took two elevator trips and a quarter of an hour to move all the things and the sleeping Tolik to the car. When everything was ready, I called Sasha. Three minutes later, our car shot out of the underground garage of the "Sheraton" hotel and moved in a direction unknown to ourselves, as we didn't have a map of the city. I looked at my watch. It was half past one in the morning.

• "Do you think we got away?" I asked Sasha.

• "Devil knows! If he was alone, then we did, but in the city it's impossible to tell. Once we get out on the highway, it will be clear."

• "If only I knew which way to go," I said.

At the intersection stood a group of yellow taxis. A flock of drivers, huddled by the first car, was heatedly discussing something. I stopped the car.

• "How do I get to Istanbul?" I asked in English. "Istanbul, Istanbul!"

A long explanation in Turkish followed. I explained to the taxi driver with gestures that I would follow him—let him lead us to the Istanbul direction. Half an hour later, having paid the taxi driver, we set our course.

• "Stop the car for a moment," Sasha asked me after a sharp turn in the highway. "Wait for ten minutes... So... Seems like there's no one, let's go further."

We drove most of the way in silence. The cheerful mood of the previous night's trip was replaced by gloom.

• "I won't be taken alive," Sasha suddenly said. "If they start extraditing me, I'll kill myself."

I looked in the mirror. Marina and Tolik were sleeping.

• "Sanya, don't stress," I advised, remembering a book on popular psychology. "Try to think in a positive direction. Otherwise later, when everything works out, it will turn out that you were worried for nothing."

• "Do you have a plan of action?"

• "Get to Istanbul, check into a hotel and get some sleep. And then think."

• "Do you want me to take the wheel?"

Chapter 11

• No, I don't want to. They'll stop us, and you have one name on your license and another in your passport. They'll notice immediately.

With dawn, a thick fog appeared. Judging by the mileage, we should have already entered Istanbul, but ahead was only a thick milky wall. Perhaps the Turkish taxi driver played a mean trick on us and sent us in the opposite direction? Besides, we were running out of gas. I drove and thought about how my Washington friend was right—I was being carried into the unknown by a foggy stream called "unforeseen development of events," and who knows where we would find ourselves an hour after we stalled on an empty highway without gas, and the police drove up to us and checked our documents.

For the first time in the five days since Boris's late-night call, I had time to think about my wife's question, which I had brushed off in New York: why on earth was I rushing off to Turkey? It wasn't just a thirst for adventure. Rather, it was nostalgia for the past, an opportunity to go back 25 years to when, under different circumstances, I myself had to experience what Sasha must be feeling now—an intoxicating mixture of inner freedom and the boundless vulnerability of a person who has challenged a repressive system, and here he is—not crushed, alive, and maybe even about to leave the monster looking like a fool! This feeling of victory over one's own fear, forgotten during the years of American prosperity, had been slumbering in the back of my mind for a quarter of a century, since the time in gloomy Moscow of the 70s when I distributed Solzhenitsyn's books and passed information about political prisoners to Western correspondents. Boris is right—soon dissidents will again start running to the American embassy, and desperate boys will be retyping samizdat. The KGB monster did not die and is gaining strength again, having sucked blood in two Chechen wars. How could I miss the chance to measure my strength against it once more?!

Suddenly, a green banner floated out of the fog: "Kemal Atatürk Airport - Istanbul," and two hundred meters later, the long-awaited gas station appeared.

Following a proven method, we took a taxi driver who brought us to the Istanbul Hilton hotel. Having taken a room with two bedrooms, we barely crawled to the beds and collapsed into sleep, hanging a sign on the door: "Please do not disturb."

By five o'clock in the evening, having slept and tasted the delights of the Turkish bath in the Hilton hotel's sports club, we gathered for a council. By this time, I had managed to call the State Department and hear in response: "Mr. N. is away, he will be back tomorrow, what should I tell him?" I also called Berezovsky, going out into the foyer so that Sasha and Marina would not hear the conversation.

• Do you think your acquaintance will help get the "parole"? - Boris asked.

• To be honest, I doubt it, - I replied. - N. is a formal person and will not go against the rules, although he treats me with sympathy. If something happens to me, then he will, of course, help, since I am a US citizen. As for Sasha, it is necessary to clearly document the "public significance" of his entry, and I see only one possibility—he says he knows Tatum's killers. But the bureaucracy works slowly; we are talking about weeks. We could try to arrange an interview for Sasha in the "New York Times"; this would certainly facilitate getting the "parole." But if we go public, Russia will immediately demand his extradition, and we will have to explain ourselves to the Turks. Especially since Sasha is breaking Turkish law by being here with a fake passport. By the way, it's unclear which passport the Americans will put a visa in, even if we get the "parole." In the fake one, or what? There's a different last name there.

• And do you think they were really following you in Ankara?

Chapter 12

• I think so, yes.
• Then they could demand extradition from the Turks at any moment.
• They won't find us if we sit tight. The problem is that I can't stay here for long, and Sasha's nerves are on edge.
• Maybe rent a yacht and let them sail in neutral waters?
• And then what? Sail forever like the "Flying Dutchman"? In a big city, at least you can get lost, but you can't hide on a yacht. Sooner or later, you'll have to go ashore somewhere and present documents.
• So what should we do?
• I have a plan, - I said, - but I won't tell you yet; who knows who might be eavesdropping on you.

My plan was simple. If, in order to request asylum in the USA, it is necessary to be on American territory, then we need to buy a ticket to any country that allows entry without a visa, with a layover in an American airport, and request asylum during the layover. I went online. It turned out that Barbados and the Dominican Republic do not require visas for Russians. "Hooray," I said, "tomorrow we fly to Miami." But it was not to be. A call to Delta Airlines brought disappointment. Even for a layover in the USA, a transit visa is required. Without it, they won't let you on the plane.

But we had already seen the light at the end of the tunnel. I went back online and began studying the schedule of morning flights to Western Europe. I knew for certain that in Europe, transit within the airport is allowed without a visa. After some time, I said:

• Guys, where do you want to go? To France, Germany, or England?
• I don't care, - Sasha said, - just as long as we get out of here as quickly as possible.
• I don't care either, - Tolik said.
• I want to go to France, - Marina said.
• I think it's better to go to England after all. There, at least, I'll be able to explain who you are.

The next morning, a strange company appeared before the Turkish Airlines check-in counter: a bearded American who spoke Russian, without luggage but with a passport riddled with dozens of stamps from all sorts of countries; a beautiful Russian woman with a nervous child and five suitcases; and an athletic-looking man with citizenship of an insignificant state—wearing dark glasses despite the overcast weather and scanning the airport crowd with a professional gaze. "I wonder what he thought," flashed through my mind when I caught the gaze of a Turkish policeman lingering on our group. "He must have decided that Sasha is my bodyguard."

We checked in for a flight departing for London, with a layover at Heathrow airport for Moscow. Registration went smoothly, but at passport control, the border guard took an interest in Sasha's passport. We were standing in different lines, and the three of us had to wait on the inner side while he turned Sasha's document over, examined it from all sides, and put it under ultraviolet light, which lasted about three minutes. Finally, he slapped a stamp into it and waved his hand: "Go through!" We made it, I thought.

There were five minutes left until departure. We were racing through the half-empty airport at full steam.

Incident at the Airport

"Is that it? Everything?" a beaming Marina asked.

And then I saw them. Two Turks of a specific appearance were following us, trailing a few meters behind. It was impossible to be mistaken; they were the only ones moving at the same speed as us, as if we all made up one team.

"Do you see?" I asked.

Sasha nodded.

"They latched on at passport control."

"It's your passport," I said.

"Yes, but nobody saw it."

"Except the Americans."

"Damn," Sasha said.

We ran to the boarding gate. Boarding was already ending; we were the last ones. Our "escorts" sat in chairs in the empty hall and stared at us, not at all embarrassed. A girl in a Turkish airline uniform took our tickets and passports.

"Everything is fine with you," she said to me, "but you don't have a British visa," and she looked inquiringly at Sasha and Marina.

"They have a direct connection to Moscow," I explained. "Here are the tickets."

"And where are the boarding passes for London – Moscow?" she asked.

"We will get them in London."

"Strange," the girl said. "Why are you flying through London when there is a direct flight Istanbul – Moscow?"

"We always fly through London; we shop at the duty-free there, they have great stores," Sasha managed to say.

"I cannot let them on the plane. I need permission from management," the girl said and spoke a few words in Turkish into her radio. "My colleague will take their documents to the office for the manager to look at. Don't worry, we will hold the flight."

Sasha stood there, pale as death. One of the escorts left, following the Turkish girl. The second one continued to watch us imperturbably. I took Tolik by the hand and went to buy him some candy at a nearby stall. About ten minutes passed. At the end of the corridor, two figures appeared: the girl and our Turk.

"Everything is in order," she said, handing the documents to Sasha. "Have a safe trip!"

We rushed into the boarding bridge.

Before takeoff, I managed to call my ex-wife in London and ask her to urgently find the lawyer George Menzies, whose son Duncan is in the same class as my son.

"I will be in London in three hours," I said. "A person is flying with me who will need a lawyer."

Chapter 14

• "Did you understand what happened?" Sasha asked.
• "Yes, the Turks escorted us to the plane and ensured our boarding."
• "And they had my fake last name in their computer. Which could only have been given to them by the American embassy. What does that mean?"
• "It means the Americans told the Turks about us, and the Turks decided it would be better if we rolled out of Turkey," I said. "No man, no problem."
• "It means: it's good we got out of there," Sasha said. "The Turks could have decided otherwise, and I would be flying to Moscow right now."

That same evening, after many hours of interrogation by the British authorities, we were eating sandwiches at Heathrow Airport. Suddenly, the phone in my pocket rang.

• "Is this Mr. Goldfarb? Calling from the State Department in Washington. Mr. N. will speak with you now."
• "Alex?" I heard N.'s voice. "You called yesterday. Where are you?"
• "I'm in London. My acquaintance just requested asylum from the English."
• "From the English? Well, wonderful—let them deal with it. But they're telling me they lost you. That you disappeared from the hotel in an unknown direction. So, everything worked out? Well, I wish you success."
• "Sash, do you know who was tailing us at the hotel in Ankara?" I asked. "The Americans. They lost us."
• "What suckers!" he said. "I wouldn't have gotten away from our guys."

The Book's Significance

A year and a half passed, and now an email message from London lit up on my computer screen: "Alik, read this!" Sasha's book manuscript had arrived. I opened the file... and couldn't tear myself away until morning. And suddenly I realized what the ultimate meaning of my trip to Turkey and all the subsequent unforeseen consequences was.

There are books that, without being high literature, leave a mark no less deep than economic shocks or turns in major politics. Such books overturn public consciousness. These witness-books explain simply and clearly to people what actually happened to them. And people's eyes are opened. And the course of events changes. And historical memory is created. Such books include "Journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow", "The Diary of Anne Frank", and "The Gulag Archipelago". Litvinenko's "LPG - Lubyanka Criminal Group" belongs to such books. If this book reaches the Russian reader today, it will be able to change the course of events in the country. If it doesn't reach them... then at least our descendants will be able to find out how it happened that the twilight we naively took for dawn actually turned out to be the beginning of a long cold night.

New York, June 2002.

Table of Contents for the book "LPG (Lubyanka Criminal Group)"

How to order the book

15

They would take one of their previously convicted agents and put him on the wanted list as a person who had committed an especially grave crime. After that, they would identify an office where a large amount of "black" money was flowing. The agent's task was simply to enter this office. And say to the secretary: "I would like to meet with so-and-so." — "On what matter?" — "I'll tell him personally." His task was to stay in the premises for about five minutes.

As soon as the agent enters the office, a few minutes later the militia bursts in, everyone is detained, and documents are checked. Naturally, the firm's management asks: "What happened? What's the matter?" — "Well, a man wanted for a mass of murders is hiding here at your firm." Everyone, naturally, is outraged: "But he's not one of ours. We don't know how he got here." The militia says sternly: "Everyone says that. It would be strange if you said you knew how he got here."

And a search begins for the purpose of establishing physical evidence. Naturally, they find unaccounted-for cash. "And what is this money?" they ask. "You understand, it's like this and that." The result: the money is either split, or they just take it all and leave. And who is going to file a report? The cash is "black," after all. It's a proven method, works flawlessly...

In 1991, ideology "evaporated." And state security was left without a master. Like a dog. All of this began to ferment and boil. No one cared what was happening there.

But the ownerless KGB-FSK-FSB automatically continued to collect information. And information is a commodity! Whoever has the information has the power. With it, one could resolve issues in the market, pressure competitors. And the FSB entered the market—covertly, unofficially, but it entered.

When the first capitals appeared, force became necessary for their protection. The courts weren't working, nor were the laws. How can a business operate without courts and laws? If a partner screwed you over, a creditor didn't pay, a supplier cheated you—who do you complain to? Not to mention primitive racketeering, which you have to protect yourself from. Thus, force also became a commodity; there was a demand for it. "Kryshas" [protection rackets] emerged. First bandit ones, then militia ones, and then our guys figured out what was what, and the competition began between the bandits, the cops, and the Office [the FSB]...

Previously, they trained terrorists for the event of war in various countries. Now I don't know what for. Spetsnaz in the tax police, in the militia, in water transport, in the militia for the protection of the metro, in customs. Everywhere. Everywhere you spit, there's spets, spets, spets [special forces].

My grandfather laughs and says: "In Nalchik before the revolution, there was one policeman and one prosecutor, and there was order. But now there are so many different departments, everyone in uniform, with IDs, but there's nowhere to file a report."

Special forces were created in order to go to "strelki" [gangland showdowns]. I had information about the "Vityaz" unit. Officers go out to a bandit showdown, and the soldiers stand there in civilian clothes. They are brought out for mass [intimidation]. Then each soldier is given twenty dollars: "Go to

Document Excerpt

Section 1

He is happy. Released from the unit, dressed in civilian clothes, given twenty dollars—what else does he need? But he doesn't know that the officers at this time are participating in a criminal showdown where tens, hundreds of thousands of dollars are being divided.

...An officer cannot come alone. And they are healthy, strong, shaved-headed. Dress any special forces soldier in civilian clothes, and he looks like a bandit. There he stands, everyone looks at him, as if a bandit group has arrived. But in reality, these are soldiers on leave. No one checks their documents...

Section 2

...After '95, the fight against terrorism moved from the criminal plane to the political one. In '96, I was appointed head of the department for searching for terrorists placed on the international wanted list. Documents arrived regarding the former chairman of the Georgian KGB, Igor Giorgadze. He was suspected of organizing an assassination attempt on Shevardnadze.

I had an agent who was on good terms with Giorgadze's brother, David. I met with him personally. When the papers on Igor arrived, I established his location through the agent. And he even invited me to the bathhouse, saying, "If you want, let's go together." I went to the deputy head of the department, Mironov, and reported:

• Ivan Kuzmich! I found Giorgadze; he's wanted for terrorism. We can detain him tonight and hand him over to the Georgian side.

Mironov looked at me as if to say: what, have you completely lost your mind?

• Don't touch him, don't go near him! This is big politics, and there's no reason for you to detain him...

Section 3

...I heard how a general of the internal troops, who fought in the first Chechen war, said: "To this day I cannot understand why the decree to suspend military operations was signed. It was a betrayal of the army."

The general did not know how much that decree cost.... The entire Russian army was in shock. After all, in fact, the Chechens then, in the summer of 1995, had been driven into the mountains, and they had lost command of their troops. The militants were going home. There was no communication, nothing. Victory had effectively been won. And then a decree is signed, the troops are withdrawn and given the chance to restore their strength, resources, and capture Grozny.

In short, when the Chechens were driven into the mountains and their situation became catastrophic—money was demanded from Dudayev... for the suspension of military operations. Through Basaev. Several million. And Dudayev paid: he had no choice. After that, they decided to simply screw over the Chechens. Take the money, but not suspend the military operations.

Then Basaev seized Budyonnovsk...

Incident Details

• When Kovalev, the director of the FSB, was on a business trip in Chechnya, Umar Pasha arrived there and said that people were ready to hand over Basaev and point out the place where he would be meeting someone.
• "Give us forty thousand dollars."
• Kovalev said: "No, give us Basaev first."
• Then Umar Pasha said: "He might not be alive. He might be killed."
• Kova

lev: "Give him to me even dead, then I'll give the money."
* Umar agreed.
* They arrived at some trailer. "There," they said, "is Basaev, but it's dangerous to go in there."

They shot up this trailer with assault rifles and machine guns. Then they dragged the corpses out of there. Basaev was not among them. They were some peasants. Seven or eight corpses were pulled out. Kovalev said: "If I had given the money, then what? Basaev isn't there."

They buried them and left. And Kovalev was glad that he didn't give the money. And he kept reproaching Umar Pasha: "You ask for such money, some peasants were shot, but no Basaev?" And Umar replied: "They shot too early. We should have waited. He would have arrived"...

Ryazan Operation

• Why did the FSB try to blow up a house specifically in Ryazan?
  • Because the Ryazan Airborne Division is fighting in Chechnya and airborne units were supposed to start an operation there.
  • On the one hand, they were preparing an explosion to show that it was terrorism, and on the other, to set the paratroopers against the Chechens, to kindle a sense of revenge in them.

After all, what is a city where a cadet studied for four years?
* It means they have wives from Ryazan, relatives, friends.
* For any paratrooper, this is a cradle. He arrived as a beardless boy, and there they made a man out of him. And he is proud of this all his life.
* In Ryazan, he was given a blue beret and a telnyashka [striped undershirt].
* For any paratrooper, an explosion in Ryazan is a personal insult.

There must have been a mass of employees there who were used blindly:
* Installers, drivers, even explosives experts who prepared the bombs.
* After all, they were not warned in advance what all this was for.
* And those who hid the loose ends after the failure in Ryazan? Dozens of people were involved there. Someone among them must show up. At least one person! I believe that he will appear...