Deception

by Edward Lucas

  The result was devastating. The intelligence service concerned went to great lengths to post its best and brightest young officers under carefully constructed diplomatic cover. They cheerfully did the worst jobs in the embassies they were assigned to, toiling over visa applications and stationery invoices in the hope of staying unnoticed. Had they worn neon lights flashing the word ‘spy’ they could hardly have been more conspicuous. The KGB knew just whom to watch. Often it waited for years before taking any action, allowing the targets to work diligently in the belief that their efforts were unseen. In fact they left a toxic trail over a web of contacts that the KGB could investigate at its leisure. To this day, the damage done by the dentist is unknown. Unmasked when some KGB records became available after 1991, he admitted everything and escaped prosecution. This KGB operation was a brilliant piece of work, done with the greatest difficulty in a well-protected NATO country at the height of the Cold War. The task now is much easier. Russians who live abroad, working in everything from finance to showbiz, are a force-multiplier for the regime back home. Even if few have access to secrets themselves, their friends, relatives, colleagues and sporting partners may do so.

  Monitoring the activities of émigré and diaspora groups that could pose a threat to the regime’s interests has long been an intelligence target for the Kremlin. It pays particular attention to those who previously occupied positions of power or influence inside Russia. Even if they are not formally defectors, it views them with great suspicion and monitors them aggressively. But ordinary émigrés too may be eavesdropped and recruited, either willingly or not. Some may end up serving just the narrow purposes of Russia’s intelligence services. Someone who works in the billing department of a mobile phone company, in a tax office, in a bank as Ms Chapman did in Britain, or in a credit-rating agency can help expose a fake identity being used by a foreigner on a visit to Russia, or assist in concocting one for Russian spies needing to work abroad. During the Cold War, for example, the KGB was able to recruit an agent in the London regional office of the motor-licensing authority. This enabled them to find out which cars were used by the spycatchers of MI5.

  The same insights are useful today. Does the Western businessman visiting Russia have a convincing credit history? Does his mobile phone number check out? What calls has he made? Does he have any frequent-flier cards? If so, what pattern of activity do they show? Does he pay taxes? If so, from which home address and on which sources of income? Someone with access to an immigration computer can check if records show any sign of previous globetrotting for the passport that this supposed international businessman presented at his hotel.

  Still more tempting targets are those in a position to obtain secrets or sensitive information. Even if they do not have the necessary access, they may know someone who has. In a lawless country such as Russia, it is easy to find ways of influencing them, either directly or through those that they care about. As a Canadian official put it after a spy scandal there: ‘They’re pretty good at applying pressure, by appealing to their patriotism . . . or by reminding them that Mother is still back home.’1 Such robust persuasion is easiest when émigrés actually visit Russia. The FSB can plant drugs or pornography, fake an allegation of rape, or concoct some other unpleasant difficulty, either against the victim directly, or against a relative or friend. The accused protests his innocence to grim-faced police who tell him to expect a lengthy stay in custody while the case is fully investigated. Without proper legal representation, facing scandal at home and possibly losing his job, the detainee is easy prey when an anonymous visitor in civilian clothes appears, explaining that the ‘misunderstandings’ will clear up in return for a little help. This cooperation can range from straightforwardly betraying secrets to more subtle tasks such as reporting on colleagues’ personal weaknesses, or simply providing anodyne information in order to test the source for later use.

  In some cases, the victim hurries home and reports the entire affair to his own country’s counter-intelligence service (one such agency is the source of the above outline of the FSB’s modus operandi). If that happens, the Western side may try to use the person to feed disinformation to the FSB, or to obtain more information about Russia’s wish list. Such instances are rare. Western spycatchers worry about how often such FSB approaches have been successful and unreported, and what may have happened as a result. The advantage of this kind of operation for the FSB is that its methods and officers are largely preserved: if the ‘pitch’ is unsuccessful and the source is never seen again, little is lost. If it works, the agent running can happen mainly or wholly inside Russia: after all, the target has completely convincing family reasons for visiting. Each time he visits, the screw can tighten a little. That is a lot easier than trying to recruit people in Berlin, London, New York or Paris under the noses of NATO counter-intelligence services.

  A good example of what appears to be the use of the diaspora for intelligence purposes is the story of Axis Information and Analysis (AIA). This outfit described itself as an ‘information agency that unites professionals having years of experience in collecting and analysing information about Asia and Eastern Europe’. It claimed to be focused upon ‘states that constitute a threat to regional and international security, as well as upon areas of ethnic and religious conflict’. Its main mission was to produce rather good information about defence, security and intelligence issues. A typical day’s headlines, on 25 February 2009, included items such as ‘Former Czech chief-of-staff works in company with person suspected of ties with Soviet intelligence’; ‘Estonian investigators pass opinion why did Herman Simm betray his native country’; ‘Attempt of bombing of synagogue in Ukraine not considered act of terrorism’ and ‘Russia has at least 500 secret service agents in Vienna 20 years after Cold War’.

  From 2005 I was a regular visitor to AIA’s website, www.axisglobe.com.2 The information was a clever mix of local media reports, seasoned with intelligent observations and occasional bits of first-hand reporting. It was topical, accurate, well presented and concise, if in slightly stilted English. So who was writing it? I had never met any of the people listed on the site as contributors, though after more than twenty-five years dealing with the region I would have expected to have heard of such evidently expert and well-informed colleagues. Nor had I met anyone else who had. Nor did Google show them as having any existence elsewhere. AIA said that some of its authors were still in government service and that they, and some other contributors, used pen names. It self-consciously added an air of mystery by claiming to use ‘journalists, ex-diplomats, and former officers of the special services of a number of Asian and East European countries’ [my italics].3

  The site did not require payment and had no advertising. My initial assumption was therefore that it was part of an information-warfare effort, aimed at planting skewed stories or disinformation in a seemingly credible wider stream of news. But intense scrutiny of the AIA output, even on the subjects I knew best, revealed no consistent pattern that supported this theory. The tone was pleasantly astringent towards the Russian services and their rivals alike. I took discreet soundings from intelligence professionals in the region. They turned out to be fans of AIA, with the same curiosity about its origins and purpose. The site was registered via an American hosting company, with all further details privacy-protected. I tried writing to the supposed editor, Michel Elbaz, and got an evasive reply in return. Eventually I gave up worrying and simply used the site as a handy compendium of news and analysis, assuming that it must have some kind of business model that I was too stupid to grasp. Had I looked a bit harder, I might have found some clues suggesting the opposite.

  The pace of contributions to the site slackened in late 2009 and it became inactive in 2010. It was still a useful repository for historical information – particularly as I was beginning to research this book. In mid-2010, the whole site went behind a pay wall, demanding a log-in and password but giving no indication of how to acquire one. Frustrated, I emailed Mr
Elbaz again, simply asking him to invoice me for access to the archived material on the site. Any normal company would have responded to that – at least to ask how much I was prepared to pay. AIA did not respond. This fired my interest again. If AIA was not trying to make a profit, someone had sponsored it. But who? And why? It had no visible do-gooding or academic affiliation. I started investigating more vigorously.4

  A bit more digging brought a real breakthrough: the identity of one of the AIA contributors. He turned out to be a colleague: Āris Jansons, a well-known Latvian journalist and an acquaintance of mine for nearly twenty years. He had worked at Radio Free Europe in Prague after the collapse of the Soviet Union. When its Latvian service closed in 2004, he returned to Riga to look for a job. In January 2006 he was browsing the web and noticed a mistakenly identified picture in an AIA story. He emailed the site to point out the error, and after receiving an initially dismissive reply from Mr Elbaz then received a rather friendlier letter offering him a job as the Baltics correspondent. Mr Jansons was intrigued. The money was good and, more importantly, the editorial quality was impressive. I have reviewed numerous emails between the two men, provided by Mr Jansons. Mr Elbaz’s brief to his new writer was a model of editorial professionalism. He gave a step-by-step guide to AIA’s needs. One priority was to avoid duplication with any other English-language source. Another was to use a snappy, and preferably intriguing, headline. Concision, relevance and topicality were vital. The only slightly puzzling aspect was an instruction to avoid any direct criticism of the regime in Uzbekistan. But that was hardly going to be a big deal for a correspondent in the Baltics. The first year went well, with generous pay and plenty of demand. Mr Jansons wrote excellent articles, under a pseudonym. After that, AIA began to plead poverty. Payments slowed and stopped. Eventually Mr Elbaz offered Mr Jansons shares in the company in lieu of pay, which he turned down. Mr Jansons found another job and apart from grumbling about his unpaid fees, thought no more of it: freelance life is like that.

  So what was AIA really? It was run by a Russian: Mikhail Falkov. He had emigrated to Israel – as it happens from Soviet-occupied Latvia – in the 1970s. He is the longstanding owner-editor of IzRus, a prominent Russian-language website there. He is also a former PR adviser to the controversial Israeli politician, currently foreign minister, Avigdor Lieberman, a Soviet-born immigrant whose hard-line approach (towards both Arabs and dovish Israeli officials) and fondness for the regime in Russia arouse considerable controversy.5 Mr Lieberman once worked as a nightclub bouncer. In April 2011 he was charged by the State Prosecutor’s Office with fraud, breach of trust, money laundering, and witness tampering; he denies all wrongdoing, and the case was pending as this book went to press. In the eyes of his critics, he has imported thuggish Soviet-style attitudes and habits into Israeli politics. Mr Falkov’s IzRus website in 2009 carried an article denouncing Israeli embassies abroad which could be seen to echo Mr Lieberman’s dislike of his own diplomats. It said they were ‘fertile ground for orgies, sex with minors, sexual harassment and bribery’ which was ‘hidden from the public’.6 There would be those who might see Mr Lieberman, and his sidekick Mr Falkov, as prime examples of how Russia exerts its influence in other countries.

  Mr Falkov declines to answer any questions about AIA’s finances, genesis and aims. It may well be that from his point of view it was indeed a purely business venture, which simply failed to gain the advertising that he hoped for. I am not accusing him of anything improper. But a few lines of text on the website give a tantalising hint of another explanation for its existence: suggesting a connection with the world of espionage, not of mere news. On the ‘about us’ section of the site, visitors were told:

  AIA is open to cooperation on a commercial basis with those who possess exclusive and current information on policy and security issues in the countries of Asia and Eastern Europe . . . AIA accepts orders for collecting and analysing information on any issue that concerns policy and security . . . [it] can be either supplied confidentially to the client, or appear on our website.

  That would be an unusual offer for anyone wanting to quash suspicion of involvement in espionage. It is possible that someone at AIA was hoping to act as a private intelligence broker. I have discussed the issue with people who think it likely that the outfit was operating on behalf of a government, wanting to flush out either sources of information, or demand for it. The ‘freelance news agency’ willing to pay generously for research material commissioned by anonymous clients was a staple of Cold War espionage: readers may recall George Smiley using it. The sort of people who read the published material on AIA’s website would have included those with an appetite – and a budget – for more sensitive information along similar lines. One explanation is that its website was designed, not necessarily with Mr Falkov’s consent or knowledge, to note the people visiting it, and perhaps to log details of their computers or even to plant viruses on them. Another is that its backers were interested to see what kind of orders came in: that could cast an interesting light on the behaviour and needs of government agencies. I do not find this completely convincing: no serious intelligence service would go shopping like this without thorough scrutiny of AIA, which would reveal its suspiciously flimsy structure. Another option is that it was an attempt by a government agency to spot potential sources of information. Any new contributors making themselves known to AIA would represent an interesting pool of potential sources. Those with access to real secrets could then be put on first consulting contracts and then developed, either directly or indirectly, as real agents if they proved useful. But the danger of a trap – a ‘dangle’ in espionage parlance – would be great.

  More likely in my view is that AIA was (not necessarily with Mr Falkov’s consent or knowledge) a counter-intelligence operation. Defence, security and intelligence officials in the ex-Soviet region are often demoralised, disgruntled and outright discontented by the corruption and futility of their jobs. It would be most interesting for the FSB, say, to know which of them would be willing to nibble at the carrot of discreet extra income from a foreign information agency. People vulnerable to a phoney temptation could also be open to an approach by a real espionage service. Such potential weakness is best known about in advance. Widely read by just the right people, Axisglobe’s site would have been a neat way of flushing out such potential sources. But its putative role as part of an active intelligence operation was probably quite brief. It established its credibility, reaped its harvest, and then drifted into decay. Its significance may have been chiefly the way that it combined, certainly not for the last time, the anonymity of the internet with the human resources that the Russian diaspora represents for the intelligence and security services in Moscow. On 7 June 2011 the site was bought by a Japanese blogger for $940. That at least was a commercial transaction.

  So far I have outlined much of the profile of Russian espionage: in cahoots with gangsters at one moment, bullying émigrés to cooperate at another, stealing industrial secrets the next, and turning to lobbyists and lawyers when that becomes necessary. This is bad enough for countries inside the EU and NATO. It is far worse for those on its fringes. I conclude this section with a detailed look at the frontline of Russia’s military-intelligence effort – the subversion, special operations and dirty tricks being practised in Georgia, a country that has challenged Russia’s claim to a droit de regard in the former Soviet Union. This idea is a central part of Russia’s foreign-policy thinking about its neighbours; nothing should happen that Russia does not know about, and nothing should happen that Russia does not consent to.

  Under the Tsarist empire from 1813 to 1917, briefly independent until 1921 and then part of the Soviet Union until its collapse in 1991, Georgia has a special place in the hearts and minds of Russian officials. They see it rather as Americans do Florida, a prized spot for recreation and the source of countless sentimental holiday memories. It is also a bastion of Russian influence on the Black Sea, and a bulwark against histori
c rivals for influence in the region such as Iran and Turkey. The idea that Georgia – an Orthodox Christian country – might want to head westwards, joining the European Union and even NATO, strikes most such Russians as preposterous effrontery, even if it is exactly what the overwhelming majority of Georgians want. Russia kept a military presence in Georgia, against the will of the republic’s authorities, until 2006, occasionally displaying military muscle in a show of force. But the real threat was not the demoralised and largely barracks-bound regular soldiers.

  So far I have mainly dealt with the direct heirs to the KGB, the FSB domestic security agency and the SVR foreign-intelligence service. But in Georgia’s case, another organisation is at work: the GRU military-intelligence service.w Georgian officials term it the ‘most aggressive and destructive’ of Russia’s three spy services. With around 12,000 employees,7 the GRU has maintained unbroken institutional continuity since Leon Trotsky created it in 1918 (and it draws on a long tradition of Russian military espionage going back to Peter the Great). Even in Soviet times, the GRU’s motivation was more patriotism than communist ideology. Its officers tend to come from the provinces rather than Russia’s metropolises, from humbler backgrounds than the elite spies of the SVR, and nowadays from more honest ones than the cronies and thugs of the FSB. Partly as a result, the GRU tends to stay clear of the dodgy money-laundering schemes and commercial shenanigans beloved of its sister agencies: it will take part when operationally necessary, but not out of simple greed. It is hard, for example, to imagine a GRU officer being involved in the swindles that led to the death of Sergei Magnitsky. The agency is also less subject to political interference than the SVR: it is directly responsible only to the defence ministry, which shields it somewhat from the feuds and machinations at the top of Russian officialdom. But its senior officers and people close to it run into trouble if they stray into national politics.8