Putin's Labyrinth

But still they were not blaming Putin, and indeed shielded him by only citing events that had occurred before he took over the agency. They blamed the system, not the man.

Before the end of the year, they had their answer. FSB chief Vladimir Putin fired Litvinenko and the others for making “internal scandals public.”

Berezovsky stuck by Litvinenko and his men. The whistle-blowers continued to nurse the hope that they would prevail, and the relationship between Felshtinsky and Litvinenko warmed. The latter, prone to non-stop banter, “was glad to have me as a listener,” Felshtinsky recalled. They were opposites in physical appearance, as was apparent in the jacket photo of Blowing Up Russia, the book that they would later coauthor. Standing beside each other, the hulking Felshtinsky and the comparatively small, boyish Litvinenko reminded me of the broad-chested John Steinbeck and his diminutive Hungarian photographer, Robert Capa, in a snapshot taken during research for their classic Russian Journal. In the case of the two Russians, it was the smaller man who had the spellbinding stories to tell.

As Felshtinsky listened, Litvinenko described torture he witnessed during his months of service in Chechnya, including once when soldiers burned a Chechen captive alive over an open fire and another occasion when they flayed a Chechen man. A startled Felshtinsky wondered why he didn’t halt the outrages. Litvinenko replied that he couldn’t have even if he wanted to, and that if he had tried, his companions would surely have killed him.

Then and later, Felshtinsky heard Litvinenko defend himself against implied and direct accusations that he had blood on his hands. Litvinenko said he never broke any law, Russian or international. Felshtinsky interpreted this to mean that while he killed men in battle, as dutiful soldiers must do, he never tortured anyone, nor violated any other standard of civility such as the Geneva Conventions.

But Felshtinsky decided there was something over the edge about these whistle-blowers. Hearing them bicker, he thought they sounded much like the gangsters they were trained to round up.

Berezovsky was providing them with monthly stipends of $500 to $1,000, good pay for Moscow. But that wasn’t how the whistle-blowers—indeed, almost anyone around the oligarch—saw things. His retainers clung to the largely unsupported belief that anyone working for him inevitably would become rich, even super-rich. “When you are dealing with Boris, you are not thinking of tens of thousands of dollars, but hundreds of thousands or millions of dollars,” Felshtinsky said. “Even if you are getting enough or a lot, you are disappointed or getting angry at him.”

When one of the whistle-blowers angrily demanded a lump sum payment of $100,000, Litvinenko replied that “We didn’t do it for money.” After a few more rounds of similar sniping, everyone calmed down and the men recovered much of their optimism. Berezovsky was the key to promotions for all; the big money would come eventually. All they needed to do was push the oligarch harder.

Litvinenko himself thought so, too, until the moment, around three p.m. on March 25, 1999, when he was imprisoned.

The FSB charged him with beating up a suspect about two years earlier and planting bomb-making evidence to force the man to confess he was a terrorist. Litvinenko spent seven months in prison before being acquitted, then was jailed again, this time for three weeks. According to Death of a Dissident, Berezovsky obtained his release the second time by intervening with Putin.

One had to question Litvinenko’s judgment in pursuing the FSB corruption matter so assertively. For instance, if the threat against Berezovsky was so serious, why didn’t he call the oligarch at once and tell him the details? After all, he and the oligarch had developed “a special kind of loyalty” to each other, according to Death of a Dissident. And if the order to kill the oligarch was genuine, didn’t the whistle- blowers think it odd that no superior officer demanded to know whether it was being carried out? Perhaps one answer is that, like Nikolai Khokhlov, Litvinenko wasn’t satisfied with quietly saving a life. Rather than remaining behind the scenes, he had indulged a flair for the dramatic and an appetite for the public spotlight.

Almost everyone involved seemed to be looking out mainly for his own interests—the whistle-blowers hoping for enhanced status and more money, and Berezovsky seeking to tame the FSB and extend his political influence. When FSB boss Kovalev was fired and replaced by Putin, the dissidents saw it as evidence that “Berezovsky was winning,” Felshtinsky recalled. Instead, “Litvinenko was fired and imprisoned…. Put in was not Berezovsky’s friend, and Berezovsky was the last person who knew this.”

That Litvinenko was no longer safe seemed obvious. He began planning his escape from Russia. Felshtinsky’s recollection is that the two of them met at Litvinenko’s dacha after his release from prison. Felshtinsky and Berezovsky had recently discussed Litvinenko’s safety in Russia, and both figured it was time for him to leave the country. Now at Litvinenko’s dacha, Felshtinsky related the conversation to him.

“What will I do? Where will I go?” Litvinenko asked. Felshtinsky said he could help. During the early 1980s, difficult years when the border was closed after the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, he had run an illicit emigration scheme in which he charged Soviets $6,000 each to get out by marrying a Swede or a Finn. Given that he managed to settle people fairly easily during those years, he didn’t see much of a problem once Litvinenko got over the Russian border.

In the meantime, Felshtinsky said, give Marina some money, and tell her to depart separately and meet him—Felshtinsky—somewhere abroad. Berezovsky would help. Litvinenko agreed.

According to Death of a Dissident, Litvinenko had already decided to flee before his emigre friend suggested it. He had been doing his best to evade FSB surveillance, which he was certain was under way. But how would he get out of the country, since he had been refused a passport the last time he applied? He began studying a lengthy land route south.

Not too long after, Natalia Litvinenko—his first wife—had a rare visit from her former husband. He had some plans, he said. It had become too dangerous for him, and he was going to go live on an island somewhere, write a book, and live off the royalties. Did she think that was all right? If he no longer felt safe, she replied, he indeed should go.

A month after the meeting at Litvinenko’s dacha, Felshtinsky was back in Boston. His telephone rang. It was Berezovsky calling from London. “You know we have a common friend in Moscow?” the oligarch said in the vague way that former Soviets speak when they fear their phone is tapped. “Well, he’s no longer in Moscow.”

Felshtinsky understood instantly. Litvinenko had not taken long to act.

His first stop was the Russian Black Sea resort of Sochi, from which he took a steamer south to the neighboring republic of Georgia, a trip that didn’t require a passport. He traversed seaside towns before finally turning inland and reaching the Georgian capital, Tbilisi. He knew people there and could purchase a false passport.

Litvinenko needed to obtain asylum in a Western country if he was to be out of Russia’s reach. But where? One possibility was London. Another was Germany. Litvinenko had a sister there, and his father had other connections. The Berezovsky machine went into motion.

Berezovsky himself was in trouble with Putin at the moment. The strain had begun a half year earlier, soon after Putin won election as president. In Berezovsky’s estimation, Putin’s rise meant business as usual for him, meaning that he would maintain his profit-making enterprises and continue to exercise influence in the Kremlin.

And that’s how their relationship was initially. But quickly, Putin became offended by Berezovsky’s attitude, which smacked of entitlement. The billionaire argued forcefully against Putin’s plan to rein in much of the country’s power and transfer it to the Kremlin. Berezovsky’s television station, ORT, strongly criticized Putin’s performance during the 2000 Kursk submarine disaster. And, in an interview, Berezovsky had seemed to compare Putin to Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet.

Berezovsky had stepped out of line. The punishment would be Kremlin seizure of ORT, Putin decided.

In their final Kremlin meeting, recorded in Death of a Dissident and confirmed by Berezovsky, each seemed to regard the other’s behavior as betrayal.

“Tell me Boris, I don’t understand,” Putin asked. “…Why are you attacking me? Have I done anything to hurt you?…You are supposed to be my friend.”

“…You forgot our conversation after the election, Volodya,” Berezovsky replied, using Putin’s nickname. “I told you that I never swore allegiance to you personally. You promised to continue the Yeltsin way. He would never even think of shutting up a journalist who attacked him. You are destroying Russia.”