The Spy Who - The Spy Who Putin Poisoned | The Exchange | 2

Episode Date: October 29, 2024

Sergei Skripal is easing into retirement with a side hustle as a MI6 agent, and enjoying the Spanish seaside. Meanwhile, the KGB’s successor, the FSB, is on the hunt for traitors after a tip-off from a mole inside Spain’s intelligence service.Listen to The Spy Who ad-free on Wondery+ in the Wondery App, Apple Podcasts or Spotify. Start your free trial by visiting wondery.com/links/the-spy-who now. See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge full seasons of The Spy Who early and ad-free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app. This episode contains references to torture and suicide. Please be advised. Spring 2004. A military hospital in Moscow. Irina Berlatov follows a military doctor along the sterile corridors. Several weeks earlier, FSB officers arrested her husband, Yuri, for spying.

She hasn't seen or heard from him since. But now she's been told that after his interrogation, he was brought here for a psychological check-up. She looks at the doctor. Is he safe? Is he well? Has he asked for me? The doctor ignores her questions. Irina hurries along behind him,

trying to keep pace with his longer strides. She cranes her neck to steal a glance at the clipboard he is checking. He is through here. The doctor leads Irina into a hospital room. Inside is a single bed. Yuri! No! Irina's face turns white. Yuri is lying on his back on top of the bedsheets.

His eyes are half open. There are black and purple bruise marks around his neck. Signs of a violent struggle. Irina rushes to his sides and puts her ear to his mouth. She hears and feels nothing. His chest is still. And when she puts her hand to his cheek, it feels cold and rubbery. Her husband has been dead for some time.

Irina sinks to her knees at the bedside as her tears fall and splash on the linoleum floor. She feels faint at the cruelty of the situation. She'd been led to believe her husband was alive. Nobody prepared her for this. The doctor watches her grieve with an impassive expression, while waggling a pen in his right hand. He died this morning. Suicide. Irina glances at the doctor with a mixture of incredulity and hatred in her eyes. Suicide.

Her eyes dart toward the bruises on her husband's neck Then back toward the doctor Who pretends to lose himself in his notes Those bruises They are finger marks The doctor does not look up from his clipboard I am sorry for your loss Irina goes to hold her husband's lifeless hand As her hand touches his

Irina realizes her late husband's fingers are missing. She cannot help but check the wounds. Whoever cut them off used a quick and sharp knife. Irina runs from the room. Mrs Berlatov, come back. We need you to sign the paperwork. Irina ignores the request and runs blindly through the warren of corridors, desperately trying to find her way out. Whatever crimes her husband committed in Spain, he had at least been a conscientious man. He would often caution her, if anything ever happens to me,

take the first flight to Spain and claim political asylum there. There's no time to pack. She can buy clothes and a toothbrush in Madrid. She just needs to collect her daughters from school and get to the airport. From Wondery, I'm Raza Jafri, and this is The Spy Who. In the last episode, MI6 recruited GRU officer Sergei Skripal in Spain. Vladimir Putin became Russia's president, and Russia's secret police, the FSB, interrogated Yuri Berlatov, after a mole in Spanish intelligence outed him as a spy for the West.

But Berlatov wasn't the only one exposed. The Spanish mole also let the Russians know that Western intelligence had recruited another unnamed GRU officer in Spain. So now the FSB is after that unknown traitor. This is episode two, The Exchange. October 2004, Izmir, Turkey. Sergei Skripal sits in the kitchen of a safe house on the Aegean coast. It's five years since he retired from the GRU, but he still works for British intelligence. He studies the face of the MI6 officer sitting across the table from him, a man whom he knows only as Stephen. How did Yuri die?

They claim it was suicide. Of course they did. His wife thinks they strangled him. Perhaps the interrogation got out of hand. No, this was premeditated. They cut off his fingers. Poor Irina. Apparently, Yuri attempted to strike a bargain by naming high-ranking GRU officers

who had siphoned off official funds. That'll be a long list. Well, his mistake was to name General Patrushev, the director of the FSB. Madness. He's one of Putin's closest allies. The two men sit in quiet contemplation. Then Skripal leans forward why the fingers though? not sure maybe because he was a thief or maybe they just wanted to shock her and ensure the news travelled

and sends a message to every Russian intelligence middle manager and their dog about what happens to those who talk for a few shekels Skripal bristles not all of us are so unimaginatively motivated. Yes, sorry. Look, we think it's time to pull you and your family out. The risks have become too grave. Skripal sits back in his chair with an air of defiance.

No. Yuri did not know I was a spy. He could not have given me up. I'm not under surveillance. Disappearing is as good as confession. My children would lose their lives. Stephen looks skeptical. How can you be certain you're not under surveillance?

How can you be certain you aren't under surveillance? You know as well as I do, it's a sixth sense. Besides, the FSB has no reason to suspect me. I'm retired, remember? So, I'm returning to Russia. Okay, but be careful. They cannot easily extract you from Moscow. Two months later.

In the western suburbs of Moscow, Sergei Skripal locks his apartment door and takes the lift 17 floors down towards street level. Out of habit, he checks up and down the street, looking for men sitting in parked cars or other signs of surveillance. He then heads in the direction of the local militia post in the next block. The firearms license for his.22 caliber pistol has expired and he needs to get it renewed. Skripal knows even the smallest slip-up can cause a domino run of consequence. Skripal turns to see a blue minivan accelerating down the road towards him.

He moves to run, but he's not as young and fit as he used to be. The van screeches to a halt beside him. Masked men jump out and run at him, grabbing at his arms. Get off me! Get off me! One of the assailants is holding a camcorder and recording everything that's happening. Skripal tries to shield his face from the camcorder. His special forces instincts kick in. He lowers his chin and tries to free his right arm

so he can strike his assailants. Skripal tugs his arm free, but before he can land his first punch, somebody hoists his jacket over his head from behind, forcing his arms close to his body. He feels a forceful shove as the men bundle him into the van and make him sit on the wooden bench fixed to the floor. Skripal catches his breath, feeling for the first time the pain of the blows he has sustained to his kidneys during the scuffle. He finally manages to pull his jacket down. His eyes begin to adjust to the murk in the back of the van. One of the masked men speaks. We have you now, Drazer. At the Lefotovo prison in eastern Moscow, a guard escorts Skripal from his cells to an interrogation room. The guard jangles his keys loudly. It's a signal to other

officers that a prisoner is being moved and to warn them to keep other prisoners out of sight. Skripal surveys his insalubrious surroundings. Fluorescent lights buzz and blink overhead. The interrogation room is bare except for a wooden table, two chairs and a grey safe. On the far wall is a calendar stamped with the logo of the FSB, Russia's domestic security agency. Ziz. Skripal does as he is told and awaits the arrival of his interrogator. He thinks of the thousands of people

who have been interrogated in this room before him and what happened to them afterwards. He wonders what the FSB has on him. Who gave him up? What will happen to him? He glances at his fingers, clenching and unclenching them. Ah, I see you've made yourself comfortable. The FSB interrogator smiles at Skripa,

then takes a seat on the other side of the table. So, we start. Tell me about your time in Madrid. Who were your friends? What did you spend your time doing? How did you spend your money? Skripal looks to see if there is a clock on the wall. Please.

We have all the time in the world. Begin at the beginning. Skripal begins to answer the interrogator's questions, making sure to give lots of detail about unimportant things and very little on more sensitive topics. As the interrogation proceeds, Skripal has a dawning realisation that the FSB has no concrete evidence against him. This is nothing more than a fishing exercise. Perhaps they received a tip-off from a disgruntled or jealous colleague, but whoever gave them his name failed to provide proof. Then, midway through one of Skripal's

meandering answers, the interrogator pulls from his briefcase a sheaf of papers. Please, take a look at these bank statements. Skripal sits up and turns his head for a better look. They show that, for several years, you have received a monthly income of $3,000. Who is sending this money to you, and for what purpose? Skripal tries to remain impassive, even as his body floods with adrenaline. He didn't think the FSB would find the Spanish bank account where he keeps the money MI6 pays him. He has not touched the money, but, month by month, it has accrued into a significant sum. He is certain that the money is untraceable.

It has reached Skripal's account via a series of shell companies that will lead nowhere useful. He has a cover story for the payments too, but rather than bluster through an explanation that he might later regret, he decides to play for time and remains silent in the glare of the FSB interrogator's attention. August 2006, Moldovia, Russia. 600 kilometres east of Moscow. Skripal, clothed in the dark blue scrubs of a convict, watches the thick forest flash past the window as his train thunders through the isolated countryside. It's been 18 months since Skripal's arrest and incarceration.

During that time, he's shared a cell with a man accused of murder while being subjected to constant interrogations. Skripal's answered most of the FSB's questions truthfully. The souvenir of the English cottage was a gift from a British businessman. He had used the invisible ink they found in his apartment to teach junior GRU officers about secure communications. With time, and encouraged by his wife's regular visits, Skripal had grown confident that the FSB lacked the evidence they need to prosecute. Then, several days ago, he was put before a judge and sentenced to 13 years in a labour camp. It's a significant stretch, but an endurable one. He knows that once he

arrives at the remote penal colony, he will be placed in medical isolation, a quarantine period to check for infectious diseases. It will also serve as a psychological airlock between his past life and the violence and hierarchies of the prison camp. Yet, as the forested countryside flashes past the window, he feels oddly at peace. As soon as he received his sentence, the anxiety left his body. There will be no more surprises, just a sentence to endure. All that is left to do now is survive.

After the years of subterfuge, paranoia and uncertainty, the simplicity of his new mission is liberating. Three months later, Whitehall, London. In the Cabinet Office briefing room, Home Secretary John Reid has called an emergency meeting with the heads of MI5, MI6, the Metropolitan Police and the Atomic Weapons Establishment. Earlier today, the Russian defector and former FSB officer Alexander Litvinenko died from radiation sickness. He had been admitted to a London hospital three weeks earlier after drinking tea that had been spiked with radioactive polonium. Reid addresses the room with a grave expression. Litvinenko's death bbed accusation that Putin ordered his murder, how credible is that? Couldn't it be some rogue faction in Russian intelligence?

Or maybe organized crime? MI6 chief John Scarlett clears his throat. While those possibilities cannot be ruled out, Polonium-210 is not easy to obtain, store and move around, even in Russia. It does rather smack of a state-sponsored operation. But that would be a major escalation. And to use a radioactive substance that leaves traces all over London and puts public safety at risk seems clumsy. We should make clear to the Russians that we expect their authorities' full cooperation with the police investigation into this matter. I'm Secretary. This is, of course, more MI5's remit.

But I do feel the best way to protect the public would be to issue a firm condemnation and consider real sanctions. Kremlin-backed hitmen cannot be allowed to hunt with impunity in our capital. Any of our towns and cities for that matter. We will of course condemn this publicly and demand Russia's full cooperation but we also need to establish the facts. We have been striving to improve relations with Putin and Russia in general. It would be foolish to rush to action if the Kremlin is willing to cooperate with the investigation. We both know how this will go sir. The Kremlin will willing to cooperate with the investigation. We both know how this will go, sir. The Kremlin will agree to assist us, then obstruct the investigation. They will offer to

supply intelligence, then block requests for information. They will promise to facilitate interviews with suspects, then delay and complicate our investigation. And when we find the culprit, as we surely will, they will refuse to extradite him. We still have to be certain who is behind this. 2007, Moscow. Sergei Skripal's wife, Lyudmila, enters the apartment block where she now lives alone. She sees the doors to the lift are already open. Inside, a neighbour who she used to be close to jabs at the button for her floor.

Anya, so good to see you. The woman in the lift ignores Ludmilla. Since Sergei was tried and convicted, the Skripal family has been ostracised by neighbours and former friends. They fear being tarred by association. Ludmilla goes to enter the lift, but the woman refuses to make space for her. Can I get in, please? The woman says nothing, and without making eye contact,

presses the button to close the lift doors. As the lift rattles up the building's spine, Ludmilla sighs heavily and takes the stairs instead. While banishment has been painful, loneliness is the least of her current worries. After Sergei's sentencing, the FSB emptied the family's bank account and froze her husband's pension. Not knowing how she will afford basic groceries has become a daily pressure. There is money in the account in Spain, but Ludmilla knows that if she withdraws any of it,

it would make her complicit in her husband's crimes against the state. Sergei did leave a number for her to call in times of need, but she suspects her phone is bugged and her movements closely monitored. If, as she suspects, it is a British number, she too could be arrested. Inside her apartment, Ludmilla sets down her bag and places her keys on the sideboard, beside a pile of unopened letters. The apartment is cold and empty,

the walls warped with damp, the linoleum floor stained brown. She long ago sold most of her belongings to pay the bills. Only sentimental items remain. Next to the souvenir of the English cottage rests a framed photograph of her son, Sasha. He is taken to drinking since his father's arrest. Ludmilla's face breaks into a smile at the sound of her daughter's voice. Julia, when are you coming to see me? Ludmilla's expression falls again. No, don't fret.

I didn't miss my appointment. There is some good news. The cancer has not spread, but they may have to remove my womb. Don't cry, Julia, my precious. Please. The hardships will soon pass, and they will make way for blessings. Please.

June 2010, the United States of America. On a hot summer afternoon, Tracy Foley and her husband are celebrating their son's 20th birthday at their home in Cambridge, Massachusetts, just across the river from Boston. They've just got back from a buffet lunch at a local Indian restaurant. Now the family are back home and toasting Tim's birthday with champagne. When Tracy isn't ferrying her children to soccer games, she works as a real estate agent. Her husband, Donald Heathfield, is a Harvard graduate

and a consultant for major corporations like General Electric and T-Mobile. For more than two decades, they've lived as a typical middle-class family. But their lives are a lie. They're really Russian spies who stole their American identities from dead children. Tracy puts down her champagne glass, wondering who it could be.

FBI! Raise your hands! Don't move! I said raise your hands! 200 miles away, a police interview room in lower Manhattan. Anna Chapman checks her watch again. She's a Russian spy with a mane of flame-red hair who poses as a New York realtor. But she suspects her new Russian handler is an undercover FBI agent. So she's trying to flush him out by bringing a fake passport he gave her to the police. Chapman jumps as the door flies open and a female FBI agent storms in. Stay right where you are. At that same moment, FBI agents bundle Michael Zatoli and Patricia Mills into a police car outside the couple's home in Arlington, Virginia. Like the others being arrested today, they are also part

of a network the FBI dubs the illegals, a group of Russian spies who pretend to be everyday Americans. Inside the couple's apartment, an FBI investigator opens a safety deposit box he found stashed there. Inside the box is $100,000 in new $100 bills, passports in false names and covert communications equipment. By the end of the day, the FBI will have arrested a total of 10 Russian illegals. Spies who operate without diplomatic cover and pose as everyday people. For the FBI, it's a day of triumph, the long-awaited climax

to one of the largest counterintelligence investigations in US history. And now, the spies they've captured have furnished the West with a valuable set of bargaining chips. And in his cell in the Mordovian penal colony, Sergei Skripal lays on his bed, unaware that a series of arrests

8,000 miles away has set him on a collision course with Vladimir Putin. To be continued... Leon Panetta, director of the CIA, places a call to Mikhail Fradkov, head of the SVR, Russia's foreign intelligence service. Mikhail, how are you? No, I don't want to hear it. You know, we've been watching them for months. We know their real names. We know who trained them.

Mikhail, I want you to know that we're aware that they're your people. Panetta places the phone on speaker and looks at his CIA colleagues seated around the table. The Americans wait in silence for Fradkov's response. Finally, he answers. Yes, they're ours. Panetta and his colleagues cover their astonishment. It's unprecedented for a representative of Russian intelligence to admit guilt in this way. Panetta increases the pressure.

If we prosecute, or rather when we prosecute, it will all come out. Photographs, videos, messages. It will be embarrassing for you. Panetta waits for a response. but Fradkov says nothing. Look, we would like to work out an exchange. You have some people we want. We have some people you want. Why don't we all free up some selves? Panetta braces himself for a rejection. Okay, draw up your list. Then let's talk again.

Panetta leans back in his office chair and lets out a long whistle. The call went better than he expected. It's not quite a full admission of guilt, but the Russians are open to a spy swap. But now the Americans have a new problem. They do not have 10 people they want freed from Russian prisons. In fact, there are just two names on the CIA's list. Exchanging 10 spies for two won't do.

They need to find a way to even the scales of this spy swap, or the imbalance will make the US look weak. Panetta looks at his team. There we have it. The swap's on. But we need more names. Someone get MI6 on the line. Two days later, the IK5 penal colony, Mordovia, Russia. It's a boiling hot summer day and life inside the Mordovian prison has slowed down in the oppressive heat. Skripal is dozing on his bed when he's woken by the arrival of a guard. Up. Skripal sits up and wipes the sleep from his eyes. The guard throws an empty bag onto the bed beside him. Your things, put them in this. Now! Skripal hurriedly packs his belongings into the bag. A toothbrush, a book,

a spare pair of shoes and a plastic pot containing some medicine prescribed to him by the prison doctor. On his bed, Skripal makes a separate pile of items he knows are likely to be removed from him if he is transferred to another prison. Food, magazines, cigarettes. His cellmate will find the pile whenever he returns to the cell. In the four years since he arrived, Skripal has grown close to the men he has come to refer to as his prison family. It's good to leave a parting gift, he thinks. You never know when you might run into a former cellmate.

He picks up the bag and addresses the impatient guard. So what is happening? Why are you moving me? Perhaps you've been taken to another camp for good behaviour. Or maybe for bad behaviour. Who cares? Skripal is made to wait outside the prison's main office for an hour. Time that only compounds his unease. Finally, a warrant officer appears. Sergei Skripal?

Yes. They're here. You are headed back to Moscow. Skripal recognises the black sedan as the type that the FSB uses. He sits back and enjoys the smooth comfort and scent of the leather rear seat. After years of sleeping on a hard and worn mattress, the seat feels impossibly luxurious. The car pulls away.

The driver says nothing. After several hours, the vast expanse of Russian countryside begins to give way to the dense sprawl of Moscow's suburbs. Skripal notices more cars on the road, babushkas shuffling along the pavements, statues of former leaders and revolutionaries. His heart lifts until, finally, the car pulls into the street in front of Lefotovol prison,

the place where, years earlier, Skripal underwent his first arduous interrogations. In the rearview mirror, Skripal catches eyes with the driver, who finally addresses his passenger. Don't look so miserable. You've won. They're getting you out. The next day, Vienna. You've won. They're getting you out. The next day, Vienna. Skripal, still wearing his prison clothes, walks down the steps of the aeroplane that has brought him to the Austrian capital. He and three other prisoners have been flown here from Moscow, and they're about to be

exchanged for the ten Russian spies found living as American citizens. Guards escort Skripal and the others onto the Boeing jet parked alongside. In his hand, Skripal clutches the small but weighty bag that a man from the CIA handed him when he boarded the plane in Moscow. He was told not to look at its contents until instructed to do so. At the top of the staircase, Skripal ducks into the plane and finds a smiling FBI man waiting to greet him. Welcome aboard, Sergei. Skripal looks momentarily surprised that the FBI officer knows his name. Then he remembers. You're safe now. Open the bag whenever you're ready. Skripal sits and peers into the bag. Inside he sees a fresh pair of underwear, a soft drink, toiletries and a tracksuit. Keep looking. Skripal reaches his hand in and feels

a smooth piece of cool glass. He pulls out a small bottle of scotch whiskey. The FBI officer grins at him as the other prisoners pull out their own bottles. So you can toast to freedom. The plane takes to the air and flies west across Europe, headed toward a stopover in RAF Bryse Norton in Oxfordshire, England, before it continues on to America. As it reaches cruising altitude, the FBI man approaches along the gangway. He sits down in the seat beside Skripal.

We'll soon be stopping in England. MI6 will take you from there. The officer notices Skripal's lack of apparent enthusiasm. It'll be a big adjustment, I know. But a welcome one, I'm sure. Skripal's dour expression does not change. What about my wife?

Don't worry, it's all been agreed with the Russian government. The arrangements have been made. She'll join you soon, and then you'll start your new lives together. I see. After six years in prison, Skripal is a free man, with an official pardon from Russia's president and a new life awaiting him. Still, he cannot help but wonder if it would have been better to serve out the rest of his sentence

and then to make a life in his home country, whose customs he knows and whose streets play backdrop to his memories. Skripal looks out of the window at the lights of an unfamiliar city far below. The next day, Moscow. At a party to welcome back its ten spies from America, Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin raises a toast. Welcome home. I'm sure you will all have an interesting and bright future.

Despite the setting, the newly freed illegals look tired and beleaguered. The Russian government and state media might be celebrating them as master spies, but their missions ended in failure. Some of them had been living undercover as Americans for so long, the thought of starting a new life in Russia feels daunting. Still, as the cameras flash and Russia's elite raise their glasses, they raise smiles and play their expected roles in the performance. Putin quietly hands his unfinished drink to a passing waiter

and makes for the exit accompanied by his bodyguards. As he reaches the door, a TV crew filming the event live moves in for a question. Prime Minister, do you have a message for Russia about our heroes? Putin can't contain his fury at the exposure of these deep-cover spies. Yes. A person gives his whole life for his homeland and then some bastard comes along and betrays them. How will he be able to look into the eyes of his children, the pig? Whatever they got in exchange for it, those 30 pieces of silver they were given,

they will choke on them. Believe me. The reporter looks momentarily taken aback by the ferocity of Putin's reaction. And he will punish these traitors? This isn't something to be decided at a press conference. but I can say this. Whoever gave up our people will have to hide their whole lives. They will no longer be free to speak with others, to communicate with their loved ones. Putin stiffens his back and shoulders. Let me make myself perfectly clear. The person who chooses a traitor's fate will come to regret that choice a thousand times.

Before the reporter can ask a follow-up question Putin turns on his heels and strides out of the building to the car that will return him to the Kremlin. Wondery Plus subscribers can binge full seasons of The Spy Who early and ad-free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app. From Wondery, this is the second episode in our series, The Spy Who Putin Poisoned. A quick note about our dialogue. We can't know everything that was said or done behind closed doors,

but our scenes are written using the best available sources. Some scenes or conversations have been created for dramatic effect. We've used various sources to make this series, including The Skripal Files by Mark Urban and Spy Swap by Nigel West. The Spy Who is hosted by me, Raza Jafri. Our show is produced by Vespucci, with writing and story editing by Yellow Ant for Wondery. For Yellow Ant, this episode was written by Simon Parkin and researched by Louise Byrne. Our managing producer is Jay Priest.

For Vespucci, our senior producers are Natalia Rodriguez and Philippa Gearing. Our sound designer, Matt Peaty. Rachel Byrne is the supervising producer. Music supervisor is Scott Velasquez for Frizz and Sync. Executive producers for Vespucci are Johnny Galvin and Daniel Turkin. Executive producer for Yellow Ant is Tristan Donovan. Our producer for Wondery is Theodora Louloudis. And our managing producer is Rachel Sibley.

Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Chris Bourne, Morgan Jones and Marshall Louis.