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.”
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.