by Eric Raynaud
The first was provided by the well-publicized expulsion from France, in April 1983, of forty-seven Soviet citizens, KGB and GRU members operating under various covers, as well as authentic diplomats.
This exceptional measure was in fact a retaliatory one. In January 1983, during a repair he was performing for the French embassy in Moscow, a French technician discovered a shunt on a teleprinter used to communicate with the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Paris.2 Five more devices—those were the Myosotis systems developed under Xavier Ameil’s management in his earlier Thomson years—were immediately checked. It was horrifying to discover that they had all been tampered with. Those ciphering machines had been in transit for forty-eight hours in Soviet territory in special sealed railroad cars, so-called “suitcase cars,” and were supposedly burglar-proof. They were not, however, KGB-proof. Starting in the winter of 1976–1977, the Russians had been reading in clear the content of every message transmitted to and from the embassy and the Quai d’Orsay.3
Informed of the situation, President Mitterrand refused to ignore the offense. In mid-March 1983, he asked Yves Bonnet, Marcel Chalet’s successor as head of the DST, for the list of KGB and GRU members operating in France. The list provided was especially comprehensive, since it was written by Vetrov. Out of the 160 names listed, Raymond Nart and his deputy Jacky Debain picked forty-seven. François Mitterrand gave them the green light. The banished people left France on April 5, 1983. The exploitation of the Farewell dossier in France had begun.
Wasn’t it a bit premature? The mole had disappeared from the picture over a year ago. How could one be certain this move would not be fatal to Farewell? The French obviously thought he was dead or had been uncovered.4
How is it possible to decide to fully exploit the information produced by a mole when there is no way to determine at what point in time the mole no longer risks the worst? It is now known that in the spring of 1983, the KGB had no concrete evidence yet against Vetrov. So either the DST had no doubt that Farewell had been executed, or Mitterrand’s desire to vigorously retaliate after the Myosotis scandal prevailed over any consideration for their best mole’s security; but the fate of the forty-seven Russians was sealed.
“The French expected complications, even the end of the friendly relations between our countries,” recalls Vladimir Kryuchkov.5 “Gromyko must be credited for having suggested retaliation, but his proposal was rejected. Andropov believed it was possible to maintain the good relations that existed between France and the Soviet Union, their degradation being beneficial to neither side. The French were quite surprised.”
The moment the Soviets learned about the expulsion, the first thing that came to mind was that there had been a leak. An investigation was initiated, not by the PGU internal counterintelligence this time, but by the KGB Second Chief Directorate (counterintelligence). Here again, the France department was not in charge of the inquiry, but Directorate A under General Rem Krasilnikov’s command was. The suspicion of this fearsome service was focused not only on current and former PGU operatives, but also on the staff of the France department within counterintelligence. So Yuri Motsak, Victor Tokarev, and many other spy hunters operating in Moscow found themselves in the same boat as intelligence officers. Casting a wide net, Vetrov was immediately listed among the main suspects.6
The expulsion of the forty-seven diplomats was such a sensational event that even the Soviet press could not keep it quiet. The fact was buried among other news and presented like an unfriendly provocation on the part of French authorities, but it was, nonetheless, reported. A Gulag informer, who was specifically monitoring Vetrov, waited for and reported Vetrov’s reaction at the news. An impulsive man, he could not help it: “Ah, the assholes! They burned me.”7
It was a remark that did not fool anybody in the KGB. But after all, the DST must have had, even without Vetrov’s help, a list of PGU officers operating in France—less accurate and less comprehensive, probably, but as impressive nevertheless. The KGB could start working from there, but the investigation was so wide that other pieces of evidence surfaced soon thereafter.
The death knell sounded in earnest for Vetrov a few weeks earlier, on March 28, 1983, while he was in the cattle car taking him to Siberia. It had just been decided to expel the forty-seven Russian diplomats. The minister-adviser Nikolai Afanasievsky, who actually was the KGB deputy resident in Paris (even if he denied it later), was summoned to the Quai d’Orsay. He was met by François Scheer, Claude Cheysson’s principal private secretary. Faced with the Soviet official’s protest, Scheer served him the “sledgehammer argument.” He showed him photocopies of a top secret document, the Soviet scientific and technical intelligence annual report for 1979–1980. Since the expulsion was clearly stretching the good diplomatic practices in force, the Quai d’Orsay had insisted the DST come up with “good stuff” to justify the measure. In the French side’s opinion, the nature of the document was one of the motivations for the Soviets to keep a low profile. With such incriminating evidence showing, among others, the signature of the new head of state and former KGB chief, Yuri Andropov, the Kremlin was well advised not to aggravate the situation.
Nonetheless, from a strictly technical standpoint, presenting such a document would have made sense only if the page had contained names of the individuals singled out for expulsion, or if it had been at least related to technological espionage in France. It contained none of that. In support of the presidential decision, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs simply wanted to demonstrate that the Soviets were involved in intelligence activities—as if it was not already well known.
However, this unwarranted and, in fact, pointless gesture had fatal consequences for Vetrov. Apparently, the French had dipped into a heap of documents to draw one with a chance to shock, stamped as it was with the VPK (Military Industrial Commission) header, signed by Leonid Smirnov, deputy prime minister and head of the VPK, and addressed to Yuri Andropov, at that time the KGB boss.
Unfortunately for Farewell, there were only very few copies of the VPK report. Like all classified documents, each copy showed the name of every person who had read it besides the author, the addressee, and the typist. Those names, along with the dates, were handwritten by each reader on the back of the first page, or on a separate sheet of paper stapled to the document. Moreover, this information was backed up by a record in a special registry allowing investigators to rapidly find all individuals involved, along with their functions and phone numbers.
From there, the rest was routine. Afanasievsky must have described the document to Nikolai Chetverikov, who was then the KGB resident in France, and he in turn transmitted the news to the Center. In Moscow, it took no time to put together a list of the people having had the VPK report in hand. This list could not have contained more than a few dozen individuals. Next to the names of ministers, directors, advisers, and other Soviet citizens beyond suspicion, Vetrov’s name, the name of a murderer serving his sentence in a prison camp, must have looked like Mount Fuji in the middle of a plain. With some help from the red tape, it took a few more months to find additional incriminating evidence against Vetrov. This takes us to the end of the summer of 1983, at which time he was back to Lefortovo after his stay in Irkutsk.
In France, Marcel Chalet was the first to denounce the imprudence of the expulsion measure.8 As stated, the former head of French counterintelligence (DST) had retired in November 1982. Before leaving his post, he had given his successor Yves Bonnet special instructions regarding the prudent exploitation of the Farewell dossier.
Clearly, the new DST director retained as a priority what had been a constant concern of the service even under Chalet, to drastically reduce the number of KGB operative officers in France. In his memoirs,9 Bonnet denied having caused Farewell’s downfall. He mentioned other causes, such as Vetrov’s imprudent correspondence, or Svetlana’s affair with the investigating magistrate. But we know that the magistrate was actually the hearing judge for the crime of passion.
Regarding the expulsion itself, Raymond Nart persisted in thinking that the chosen document could not lead to the identification of the source. During the meeting between François Sheer and Afanasievsky, as Nart specified, the doctored and postdated document remained in the hands of the Soviet diplomat only thirty seconds or so; it was impossible for him to identify the source since the attached notes with the signatures had been removed. When told that the mere nature of the document was enough to track back to Vetrov, Nart dismissed the argument out of hand and referred to the dilemma of exploiting the Farewell dossier: “Really, it was not for us to be the guardians of KGB secrets.”10
It goes without saying that a source is only useful to the extent it is possible to benefit from its disclosures. However, each measure taken to neutralize identified sources, expel or tail more closely enemy intelligence officers, or improve the protection of threatened infrastructures or projects runs the risk of blowing the mole’s cover. Using the information disclosed by an agent in place is juggling between the frying pan and the fire. Let’s not forget that during that same period the DST was still frozen in relative uncertainty about its mole’s fate. On the other hand, the treasure recovered in Moscow was very real.
Another point shows the DST’s blindness during this especially critical time: what about Farewell’s former handlers in Moscow?11 As one can easily imagine, the expulsion was followed very closely by the Ferrant family, who was still in Moscow at the time of those events.
The Ameils had been called back to France as early as December 1982. Nart, worried by their lack of diplomatic immunity, had first offered to provide them with diplomatic passports. Xavier had turned the offer down. In his opinion, this could have only attracted the KGB’s attention. Nart had then insisted that Thomson management speed up the repatriation of the couple from Moscow. For Xavier Ameil, this anticipated return to the fold was bittersweet because it also meant retiring from the company. For Nart, the main thing was to have successfully, and rather “naturally,” brought his amateur spy back home, unharmed. He then focused on the Ferrant case.
After Vetrov disappeared, the couple had continued to lead a “normal” life. When they learned in the fall of 1982 that Vetrov had been imprisoned for a crime of passion, their first reaction was not to panic and to keep trusting “Volodia.” “Well, he is clever,” they told themselves, “until someone realizes…”
In Paris for Easter vacation 1983, Patrick met with General Lacaze and Raymond Nart to take stock of the situation. Nart enigmatically informed him that the following week “things would happen.” Lacaze went on: “So, in principle, you’re not going back.” Patrick Ferrant was well aware that the planned expulsion would get the KGB’s attention; yet, he is the one who decided to return to Moscow.
Patrick and Madeleine had seriously debated the issue. “Is it reasonable to leave? Aren’t we throwing ourselves in the lion’s jaws?” Two factors contributed to their decision. Patrick looked at the situation from the manipulation angle. He believed that not going back to Moscow was admitting to his crime. Since Vetrov had lived in Paris, this would have inevitably put him in a tight spot with Soviet counterintelligence. At the time, though, the DST had no evidence that the KGB was suspecting a French operation. As Patrick Ferrant pointed out to General Lacaze, “There is no sign of activity around us.” The Ferrants’ sudden departure could be interpreted, on the contrary, as a confession in disguise.
For her part, Madeleine was looking at the practical side of the situation. “What are we going to do if we stay in France now?” she wondered. “We didn’t have a place to live; all our things were in Moscow. We had no contingency plan. Staying in France was a big material complication.” Even though such details may seem mundane compared with the risks the couple was exposed to, they always play a part when decisions must be made rapidly. “And after all, there were only three more months to hang in there, so the risks were limited. Honestly, we did not have the feeling of being in great danger,” admitted Patrick. He thus persuaded his superiors, and flew back to Moscow on April 4, but alone for now. It was decided that Madeleine would leave a few days later.
The Soviet diplomats were expelled the day after Ferrant’s return, on Tuesday, April 5. Madeleine called her husband from Paris to check on how he was doing. At the embassy, Patrick Ferrant acted surprised like everyone else. Many French diplomats expected to be expelled in retaliation for the events in Paris. “We even laughed the situation off. In the beginning, we were being silly,” remembers Madeleine. “We phoned one another: ‘So, what do you think, we’re going to be expelled? Are you packing yet?’ We were making fun of the whole thing between ourselves, but I had my reasons to think that none of it could be that funny.”
During the three months they had left before their official departure from Moscow, the Ferrants kept a low profile. They went about their business as usual, but quit traveling. They did not go out as much, to their daughters’ great displeasure, since it meant no more slumber parties with their little girlfriends from the Spanish embassy.
When July came at last, the embassy informed Patrick that they had not yet received the passports with the precious exit visa the Ferrants needed to leave the Soviet Union the next day. With some apprehension, Patrick rushed to the MID, the Soviet Ministry of Foreign Affairs, to get the passports himself. “I was ready to trample underfoot the first person who would have said nyet,” he recalls. Finally, after apologizing for his embassy’s mistake, Patrick received the passports, delivered by gracious functionaries.
The next day, the Ferrant family left Moscow in their car, en route for Vaalimaa on the Finnish border. On the Soviet side, the border post was surrounded by a security buffer zone; driving through was a moment of anguish for the couple and one of their five daughters. “The no-man’s-land, as it was called, was wire fences, barbed wires, and watchtowers over a forty-kilometer barren area, with nothing left but stones. It was truly impressive,” Patrick remembers. Keeping in mind the KGB’s expeditious methods Volodia had told him about, Patrick kept an attentive eye on the uninterrupted line of trucks going the other direction. Madeleine expected them to be arrested any moment, and she remembers this journey as a true nightmare.
Once at the border post, they had to deal with more red tape requiring Patrick’s skills to handle the overzealous border guards. The Ferrants eventually left the Soviet Union on July 2, in late afternoon. “What a relief that was,” remembers Madeleine.
For them, the adventure ended here. After this spectacular baptism by fire, Patrick went on to new missions and was rarely kept informed about the developments of his first case, or about the use that was made of the precious information he had transmitted.
As they admitted afterwards, the Ferrants’ exit from Russia was “touch and go.” This is easy to believe, with the expulsion of Soviet diplomats being the first incriminating evidence against Vetrov, although indirectly still.
Nothing, indeed, involved the former officer by name. The DST must have had its own list, and he was not the only one to have studied the VPK report. Even his clumsy exclamation, “They burned me!” could be attributed to a misinterpretation of his words.
It was Vetrov himself, actually, who provided the investigation with the first irrefutable proof of culpability.
He was constantly preoccupied by the fear that Svetlana might have to progressively liquidate their possessions. He intended to return to an untouched apartment-museum, with every single painting or piece of furniture still in the exact same place.
As is often the case with criminals, it was his petty concerns and greediness, added to his presumptuousness, that caused his downfall. Vetrov viewed himself as very bright—much brighter, he thought, than those acting against him. He knew that letters were opened in prison as well as in the Gulag, but he had found a secure way to send a letter to his wife.
He wrote it in prudent terms. Vetrov tells Svetlana that he will stay in the Gulag for a long time. She must, theref
ore, contact the French—she knows whom. The French are indebted to him, and it is their turn to help his family now. In June 1983, Vetrov gave the letter to an inmate who was about to be released and had promised to mail the letter to his wife once outside. Thus, the message would escape the camp postal check and would not be opened—or so Vetrov thought. It did not occur to this formerly brilliant operative that the mail could be intercepted at his home address. The story turned out to be even shorter: Vetrov’s companion took the letter straight to the camp management before leaving.
The investigators working on the case now had enough to expose the mole. The strongest proof of his culpability was obtained before he was transferred back to Moscow. In the “competition” between Vetrov and the DST to see which would provide more evidence against him, the next step was truly the coup de grâce, and it was delivered by French counterintelligence.
Let’s backtrack a little. During the operation, Farewell had given Patrick Ferrant a list of Western agents on the Directorate T payroll. The list was handwritten. As a precaution, Vetrov did not want to use the typewriter at his office, and he did not have one at home. The agents belonged to various countries, and the French, probably in the person of President Mitterrand, had decided to share this information, critical for the NATO alliance, with the affected states, each one receiving the relevant portion of the list. Since this information, in certain cases, could lead to lawsuits, allied governments received original documents, with the names of the moles and comments handwritten in Russian.
The listed moles were immediately investigated by counterintelligence services in their respective countries. Some were arrested on the spot. Unfortunately for Vetrov, one of those services was penetrated by the intelligence agency of a socialist country. The mole photographed the section of the handwritten list, which then found its way to KGB counterintelligence.