For Directorate S, children posed a dilemma. In the Cold War, if one half of a couple remained in Russia there were special boarding schools for the children of illegals. In one case an illegal spent seventeen years abroad. His wife remained in Russia and his son would be brought to meet him in a Western European country the illegal could visit. This was “so that the boy saw what a worthy father he had,” Yuri Drozdov, a head of Directorate S, later said. “But a tragedy happened. The son, on vacation at camp, drowned, and the father came to the funeral for a day. One day.” That was all the time that was possible while retaining his cover before he had to return to the West.
Heathfield and Foley hid their old selves from those around them—including their children. They spoke little of their early life. Every family has its own quirks, and no one has grown up in another to know what is entirely normal and what is odd. At one point the children said they remember meeting people they thought were grandparents on vacation somewhere in Europe. When asked if they were speaking Russian, Alex replied, “I was really young, I have no idea.” Timothy says he remembered seeing them every few years until he was eleven. “If I had seen them when I was older, I would have realized that they don’t speak English—they don’t seem very Canadian.” The children would get Christmas presents from these grandparents. They were told they lived in Alberta, Canada. Photos showed them with snow in the background. It was really Siberia.
The life of an illegal involves sacrifice. Contacts with family back home were limited. The couple’s parents only learned of the arrival of their grandchildren weeks after the births. The parents had to send letters to a mailbox in Moscow, where they could be encoded. Sometimes when Heathfield and Foley were abroad and could meet KGB and then SVR officers in person, they would get an original handwritten letter. Once it was read, it had to be destroyed. Every three years or so they might be able to meet their family on a trip but there could be no promises about when it might happen again. Bezrukov’s father would die while he was undercover. He only learned about it weeks later. There was no way he could go to the funeral. “You must have a strong a core,” his wife would say. She missed the chance to pay last respects to her sister before she died. “It is a heavy burden for an average person. You have to be very strong and very certain you are doing the right thing.”
The parents were also prepared for questions from curious Americans. In the Soviet Union, citizens were given vaccine injections in a different place than Americans and it left a scar. Elena—now Ann—would try to keep the scar covered. She would have to explain she had grown up in an African or Asian country where it was done like that. In the Soviet Union, dentists also used a kind of cement filling for teeth that would never be used in America or Europe. The same excuse—early years spent in the developing world—would cover for that. Every detail mattered. When their predecessor, Konon Molody, had been caught in the United Kingdom, one thing that gave him away was the fact that he had not been circumcised. A doctor recalled that the real Gordon Lonsdale, born in Canada, had been.
For illegals, a double life meant long hours. There were full-time jobs to hold down plus the normal struggles of family life. And then there was the second career as a spy, seeking out contacts and composing messages to Moscow Center. Every time an operational act had to be carried out—a letter marked with invisible ink that had to be posted, a signal site checked—an illegal would have to spend at least two or three hours on foot and on public transport carrying out a surveillance detection route to make sure they were not being tailed. The couple was disciplined about never speaking Russian in the house. “Heathfield does not know Russian,” Bezrukov would later say of his old self. “If you wake him up in the middle of the night, he doesn’t speak it.” Nor would they discuss anything operational—just in case there was a bug. The same went for talking in their car. If they did need to talk, they would go for a walk in the park, often taking the kids with them; later they would go jogging together. Their old selves were buried deep. To adapt to the life in a foreign country, you have to give up everything you had from your childhood, “forget it, get rid of it,” Foley later said. “Otherwise, you will suffer from nostalgia. Any mention of Russia, Russian music, Russian speech in the street, throws you off the balance and provokes memories.” They created false memories drawing on real people or events and transferring them onto new people and Canada. At some level, they began to believe these were true and that they had indeed lived a different life. But there was always the knowledge in the back of your mind that one day something might happen that would knock you off your tightrope and send you tumbling down.
In August 1995, the family sold off the business and house and moved to Paris, where Heathfield studied for a master’s degree in international business, living in a small flat near the Eiffel Tower. The same year that they left Canada, Alexander Poteyev, now an SVR officer on the rise, moved to New York. For now, he was a loyal member of the Russian intelligence service despite all the problems his country was enduring.
From afar, Heathfield and Foley could read the news about the turbulence back home in Russia in the 1990s. In their absence, their homeland was changing rapidly. These were difficult years as the country struggled to come to terms with its new status and economic crisis. Everyone was on the make, including the spies. Organized crime began to emerge, settling its scores with violence. A few sharp-eyed Russians bought up shares in privatized industries and accumulated huge wealth. They would become known as oligarchs. In the wild-west capitalism of the 1990s, wealth and power were tightly bound and a gun to the head settled disputes.
In the early evening of June 7, 1994, a remote-controlled bomb detonated as Boris Berezovsky’s Mercedes drove away from his office. The driver was killed but the target survived. A mathematician by training, Berezovsky had started a car dealership but then moved into everything from oil to TV to airlines. A brooding and pugnacious character, he would become the first among equals of the oligarchs and a power in the land, always ready to scheme and plot. A sandy-haired, serious-minded, thirty-one-year-old FSB officer named Alexander Litvinenko was assigned to investigate the assassination attempt. Litvinenko had been recruited into the domestic arm of the KGB in the late 1980s. In 1991, he had been sent to Moscow to work on organized crime. That gave him an education in how the security services had intertwined themselves in the new chaotic, corrupt, freewheeling economy. As well as investigating the Berezovsky assassination attempt, Litvinenko was also ordered to report back on the oligarch to the FSB. Later that year, a brutal conflict broke out in Chechnya and Litvinenko was sent to work on counterterrorism. His and Berezovsky’s paths would cross again a few years later. At one point the chaos was so bad that Boris Yeltsin looked as if he might lose the 1996 election—to, of all things, a communist. Yeltsin arranged a secret deal with the oligarchs. They would throw their money and influence behind his campaign in return for stakes in the vast state-owned natural resource industries and also more influence. Berezovsky organized the deal and became deputy head of the national security council in the wake of the election. As the decade came to an end, his power