That was about it.
“Good-bye, Boris Abramovich,” Putin said.
“Good-bye, Volodya,” said the oligarch.
The two never spoke again. By the time Litvinenko decided to flee, Berezovsky was already an exile living in Europe.
It was vindication for Felshtinsky. Berezovsky’s relationship with his political consultant had gone through a rocky period, mainly because the oligarch felt that Felshtinsky didn’t understand the changes that had transformed Russia in the last two decades. But now, Berezovsky wanted Felshtinsky to serve as his man on the ground, and get Litvinenko to safety. The oligarch instructed Felshtinsky to come meet him in London. Working as a team, they would spirit Litvinenko into Munich via commercial flights and even private planes if needed. Berezovsky provided $10,000 in cash to be funneled to Litvinenko.
At this point, Marina and her six-year-old son, Anatoly, learned for the first time what was going on. Her husband had left Moscow saying he was going to visit his father in the Caucasus. Later, he had called to suggest that she take a vacation in Spain. It was left to Felshtinsky to go to Marina and explain the escape plan.
He began to shuttle between the husband in Georgia and the wife in Spain. Arriving in Tbilisi, Felshtinsky found Litvinenko in a petulant state. He now had Berezovsky’s cash, along with an authentic-looking Georgian passport, and wanted to go straight to the U.S. embassy. He threw a tantrum when Felshtinsky refused to take him there. Berezovsky had ordered that they stay away from the Americans—the oligarch wanted no one to know of the pair’s presence in Georgia, worried in particular that the episode would be associated with one of his longtime business partners who had a reputation for criminal connections.
Litvinenko would have none of it. “If we don’t go to the American embassy, I’m going back to Moscow,” he said defiantly.
Finally, Felshtinsky relented. Okay, we will go, he said, but on one condition—that you never tell Berezovsky. Litvinenko agreed.
Felshtinsky held several meetings at the embassy. The American diplomats were mainly interested in gauging Litvinenko’s usefulness as an intelligence source. Did he know any Russian agents operating in the United States? Or Americans operating for the Russians? Beyond that, the diplomats seemed in no hurry to move things along.
Felshtinsky and Litvinenko became increasingly nervous. For security purposes, they carried several cell phones, including one with Felshtinsky’s Boston number. But only his Russian phone worked in Georgia—and it began to ring. Acquaintances in Moscow were calling, having noted the absence of the entire Litvinenko family and concerned that something was amiss. Felshtinsky worried that it had become too dangerous to remain in Georgia.
He and Litvinenko rushed to the airport and boarded a fourteen-seat luxury Fokker jet rented by Berezovsky in Paris. On the tarmac as the pilot prepared for takeoff, Felshtinsky heard his cell phone ring. It was the American embassy in Tbilisi.
“Call me in an hour,” Felshtinsky said, notwithstanding that they would be in the air at that moment. Then Berezovsky called. Felshtinsky briefed him. In line with the original plan, he said, they were headed for Munich.
“I think you should go to Turkey, not Munich,” Berezovsky replied.
That did not go over well with Litvinenko. Turkey was a nether-world that swallowed up all manner of people. It sounded like Berezovsky intended to abandon him, and he insisted that they head for a Western country— Germany, he said.
Felshtinsky handed the phone to Litvinenko.
Berezovsky went to work on him: I’m not going to abandon you. We just need more time to figure this out.
Berezovsky had a commanding manner. It also mattered that he was financing the escape. Even Litvinenko, prone to argue with anyone, didn’t challenge him too vigorously. Finally he told the billionaire that he trusted him, and switched off the phone.
But then he resumed bargaining with Felshtinsky. Litvinenko would go to Antalya—the Turkish resort region that Berezovsky had in mind—only if Felshtinsky dropped him off, then flew at once to Spain to retrieve Marina and Anatoly.
By now Litvinenko was under tremendous stress, and the arrival of his family the next day with Felshtinsky didn’t ease him that much. He was suspicious of certain men he saw in the hotel lobby. “I know these people,” he insisted. “They are FSB. I know them from Chechnya.” He was sure they were preparing to kill them. Felshtinsky ignored him. He thought that was Litvinenko’s game—using staged nervousness to get what he wanted, which could range from checking into a new hotel, to going to a new city, or simply attracting attention.
Whichever was the case, Felshtinsky was losing confidence. A month earlier, he had thought it would be easy to arrange asylum for Litvinenko. The obvious route was the Americans, but so far that wasn’t working. In Tbilisi, the U.S. embassy had seemed more interested in bargaining for information than rescuing an FSB defector. Berezovsky’s camp had made Felshtinsky even more anxious by suggesting they rent a yacht and sail into international waters—they could wait at sea while asylum was arranged. But Felshtinsky thought that could leave them exposed to an attack, with no escape route should Putin learn their location.
Now Berezovsky dispatched an additional adviser, Alex Goldfarb, to the mission. Goldfarb had an unusual talent for public relations. While still a Soviet citizen in the 1970s, this microbiologist came to be known by Western journalists as a conduit to Moscow dissidents. After the Soviet breakup, he ran the Moscow office of the Open Society Institute, an organization established by hedge fund billionaire George Soros to promote democracy in formerly communist states. Berezovsky eventually hired him to run a foundation that financed anti-Putin political activities. With Goldfarb, it was often difficult to determine where the truth ended and the propaganda began. But if you wanted something to happen, he was your man.
Felshtinsky and Goldfarb began instantly to quarrel. Goldfarb’s first suggestion was that Litvinenko be brought to American diplomats in Turkey, accompanied by a lawyer to protect his interests. Felshtinsky thought this was a terrible idea after their Tbilisi experience, but couldn’t let slip that they had defied Berezovsky’s instructions and already gone to the Americans.
“It’s an idiotic idea,” Felshtinsky said.
Goldfarb said he would dispatch a lawyer.
“If you are going to send in a lawyer, you might as well go yourself, because I’m not going to go with a lawyer,” Felshtinsky replied. He announced that he was leaving, causing Litvinenko to become even more alarmed and his wife to sense betrayal. Felshtinsky had deliberately escalated the argument out of dread that this mission was going very wrong. But his departure would turn out to be a welcome development. While a nice guy, he was not an operator of Goldfarb’s caliber.
Within hours after Felshtinsky left, Goldfarb and the Litvinenko family were on the road to the capital, Ankara. There, they met with diplomats at the U.S. embassy—but again, no one seemed prepared to make a deal.
That night, Litvinenko went into his familiar routine. He called Goldfarb’s attention to a fellow in the hotel lobby. “They’re here already…. We have to get out of here,” he declared, identifying the manas an FSB agent. Goldfarb took Litvinenko seriously and hustled the family out of the hotel. They drove all night to presumed safety in Istanbul. Along the way, Litvinenko stepped up the drama. He directed Goldfarb to stop the car and wait ten minutes to see whether anyone was following them. “I won’t go alive,” Litvinenko said. “If the Turks turn me in, I’ll kill myself.”
Was there a genuine danger? One couldn’t tell, Felshtinsky had said of Litvinenko. And even if you knew he was bluffing, and kept saying to yourself, “He is bluffing, he is bluffing,” Litvinenko was a very good actor, and it was hard to be absolutely sure.
Felshtinsky, back in Boston, received a call from local CIA agents. Could they come meet with him? Before long, a man and a woman showed up at his door. “You left Tbilisi without talking to our friend who was expecting to meet with you,” one said.
“I was trying to check how quick you are,” Felshtinsky replied, remembering the snippet of phone conversation moments before taking off from the Tbilisi airport. He explained what was going on in Turkey. “We left Tbilisi because it’s dangerous, and it’s more dangerous in Turkey.” Could these agents help rescue his Russian friend? “It’s difficult,” the U.S. agents said simply. “It’s difficult.”
