The recruitment of Poteyev took place in 1999, at the end of his posting. It was not by the CIA but by the FBI’s New York field office. Recruiting Russian intelligence officers inside the United States is the province of the FBI rather than the CIA. In general, the FBI’s job is to catch people breaking the law and the CIA’s job is to break the laws of other countries by stealing their secrets. One side is cops, the other robbers. They have different cultures and relations can be rocky. There was real tension in the late 1990s between the CIA and FBI over counterterrorism, but the relationship in New York on counterintelligence was tighter. New York—with the world of business as well as the UN—was a fertile hunting ground for the bureau’s officers seeking to recruit Russian assets and the FBI’s New York office was big enough to have a critical mass of counterintelligence expertise. “The New York field office is its own world—with its own worldview,” one former FBI counterintelligence officer explains. “Most New York agents believe the sun rises and sets in the New York office,” says another. With so many potential targets in the city, the office had experience and swagger.
The field office is housed at Federal Plaza, a few blocks from the site of the twin towers of the World Trade Center. The counterintelligence team in the late 1990s was housed on the twenty-sixth floor, part of the National Security division, which was headed by the larger-than-life John O’Neill. In 2000, he mislaid a briefcase for a few hours that contained details of counterterrorist and counterespionage cases (perhaps including that of Poteyev). The briefcase incident provided one more excuse for those who did not like his hard-charging style, and he left soon after for a job at the World Trade Center, where he died on September 11, 2001.
The FBI would have seen that Poteyev liked life in America. But that was not a reason to assume he’d be open to spying for the United States. He was pitched by the FBI to see if there was a chance he might turn. This was commonplace. And it had happened with him not just once but again and again. He had declined. But as his posting was coming to an end and he was about to return to Russia, something changed. He decided he was ready. Why? It seems to have been a mix. There was certainly money. Like others in Russia in the 1990s, his pension had been cut drastically. There was also some disillusionment at the way the SVR had acted back home, including on a personal level, failing to support him through some difficult family times, including the death of a relative. But there was also disgruntlement. He wanted to extend his tour in the United States, but his request had been denied by Moscow Center. Poteyev was not quite what is called a “walk-in”—someone who walks in off the street and offers him or herself out of the blue. Rather, it was as his time in New York came to an end that he changed his mind and indicated he was interested. The Russians believe he was recruited in June 1999. US officials will not comment.
It was precisely what had annoyed him—having to go back home—that offered a rich opportunity for the FBI. Tretyakov had defected and stayed in the United States, but the real prize was being able to run an agent-in-place in Moscow who could continue to work his way up the system and deliver secrets. That is what the FBI wanted and the risk Poteyev was willing to take.
To succeed, an intelligence organization makes sure the recruitment and running of an agent is on a need-to-know basis within its own corridors. There is a reason for that. And the Poteyev case was a prime example. Just as the FBI had, in the form of Poteyev, recruited a source inside the SVR, the SVR was at that time still running its own agent inside the FBI who had not been identified. Robert Hanssen was the man who had been dropping off secrets in the park on August 19, 1991, as the Moscow coup took place. A misfit who shared details of his sexual fantasies about his wife online, he began to spy way back in 1979. He had actually stopped in the wake of the coup and the end of the Soviet Union, but in 1999, he resumed contact with the SVR and began to provide more vital intelligence. If word had got around the bureau about the new recruitment, Poteyev may not have lasted long. The counterintelligence spy games of the Cold War had still not yet finished playing out.
As he landed back in Moscow, Poteyev would have known his new secret could destroy his life if it was discovered. He was heading for a double life and walking his own tightrope, one that he knew could end at any moment if he made a slip or—more likely—if someone else betrayed his secret to the SVR. But on his return, he received a dream posting—for him and his new American friends. He was to join the senior ranks of Directorate S. He would eventually become the deputy head of Department 4—the team responsible for running illegals in the United States, Canada, and Latin America. This was one of the most secretive, compartmentalized parts of the entire SVR. Only a tiny group of people was allowed to know the identities of illegals sent abroad, in order to protect them. Only three officers had access to the personal files of illegals operating in the United States. Poteyev was going to be one of them and he was in charge of their day-to-day operational management. This was a stunning success for his handlers—if they could keep him from getting caught.
RUSSIA’S SPIES WERE on the back foot. And at the same time that the United States was scoring a success with one veteran of the Afghan war, MI6 had managed something similar with another. And the fate of the two spies would ultimately be drawn together.
IN MADRID IN the summer of 1996, a rugged first secretary at the Russian Embassy was walking in a park with a businessman from Gibraltar. The first secretary was an officer of the GRU—military intelligence. His name was Sergei Skripal. The businessman was an MI6 officer operating under “natural cover.” The Russian had been spotted by the Spanish as someone who might be interested in money. He was first introduced to a Spaniard. They talked about going into business together, exporting wine to Russia. The Spaniard next introduced Skripal to the businessman, who would offer something more lucrative but also more dangerous. The lure was the promise that together they might be able to go into the oil business in Russia. But as Skripal prepared to return to Moscow at the end of his posting, the MI6 officer showed his hand and revealed what he was really after.
This was typical of the kind of pitches to Russians in this period. It would involve approaching someone and offering them a contract for consultancy or discussions about business. No secrets would pass. But after a while, it would be explained that this work was sadly at an end but there was another possibility—perhaps further business dealings of a more sensitive nature. This would require the individual being put in touch with someone more closely associated with the British government. If you pitch right away saying, “Do you want to pass secrets for money?” the answer will be no. But one step at a time, reeling someone in can be a lot easier.
By the middle of the decade, MI6 had reduced by two-thirds the amount of effort it put into spying against Russia and the former Soviet Union. But a sharp young officer, Charles Farr, had taken over Russian operations in London and made the case that MI6 needed to take advantage of the moment and recruit sources for the long term. The officer who met with Skripal was a prodigious pitcher of Russians; “a magic recruiter” is how one of his colleagues remembers him. Skripal proved receptive. The reason was simple—he liked money and did not have much.
Skripal grew up in Kaliningrad, a strategic enclave on the Baltic coast sandwiched between Poland and Lithuania. It was a closed military zone but near enough to the West for the young Sergei to pick up the tinny sounds of BBC World Service radio, which carried news of a more colorful world. His father had been an artillery officer and Skripal joined the elite Soviet airborne troop. He, like Poteyev, had been sent to Afghanistan at