The Spy Who Was Left Behind

by Michael Pullara

  * * *

  And that’s how I came to be standing in front of President Mikheil Saakashvili asking that he grant the Woodruff petition and release Anzor from prison. It had seemed like a pretty good idea when I first raised my hand. After all, the fact of telephone justice appeared to be widely acknowledged among the public. But it is one thing for the public to suspect improper influence by the executive; it is another thing altogether for the president to admit it.

  Implicit in my request was the assumption that the president and not the local judge would decide Anzor’s fate. It was an explosive allegation. It presumed that there was no judicial independence and that all authority lay in the hands of the president. The fact that this was true was irrelevant. It was politically impossible for the president to publicly engage the substance of any plea to circumvent the judiciary. So he evaded my request by characterizing it as an insult to Georgian sovereignty.

  His response was sly, clever, and terrifying. He shouted, the crowd cheered, and I tried to appear inoffensive and unthreatening. Suddenly the tirade was over: The audience leapt to their feet and began applauding madly for the young president. He barely acknowledged the ovation. His attention was fixed on reprimanding the functionary who’d handed me the microphone. After that, he was gone.

  Altogether his remarks had taken more than two hours. As a consequence, none of the other speakers made their presentations. If my brain had been functioning, I would have found it mildly ironic that Misha’s disingenuous rant had prevented Carolyn from talking about her success in establishing an independent judiciary in Georgia. But as it was, my mind was a jumble of self-criticism. The three-mile walk back to Lali’s house was a blur. I played and replayed the interaction in my mind. I muttered my analysis and excuses and generally worked myself into a frenzy. Try as I might, I could not escape the conclusion that Saakashvili’s wrath would fall not on me but on the helpless Anzor Sharmaidze. I had made a mistake. And I didn’t know how to fix it.

  * * *

  Three days later, the regional judge issued her ruling. Apparently, Misha didn’t want to reopen Anzor’s case. The decision ran to seven single-spaced pages. It summarized the arguments made by the prosecutor general and adopted each of them in turn: The Batiashvili affidavit was inadmissible because it didn’t identify which of Batiashvili’s two deputies saw the police plant a shell casing from Anzor’s confiscated rifle; the FBI documents were inadmissible because they did not identify the specific individuals who supplied the information to the special agents; the FBI memorandum stating that (in the hours immediately after the murder) there was no bullet hole in the car was erroneous because FBI photos (taken several days later) clearly showed the presence of a bullet hole in the rear hatch; the US pathologists’ opinion that Woodruff had been shot in the back of the head was disproved simply by looking at the obvious entry and exit wounds depicted in the autopsy photos.

  On page five the judge turned her attention to the handwritten witness statement of Tamaz Tserekashvili. In his affidavit, the guard from the Natakhtari Drain had averred that he heard a woman scream about murder, saw a mortally wounded man in the back of a white Niva, and observed three guardians sitting on the side of the Old Military Road trying to fix their car.

  “Regarding the Tserekashvili affidavit,” the judge wrote, “the prosecutor stated that the petitioners have presented—not a witness statement by Giorgi Tserekashvili—but a witness statement by someone called Tamaz Tserekashvili. Even if the petitioners could manage to pass off Tamaz Tserekashvili as Giorgi Tserekashvili, the Tserekashvili affidavit would have to be rejected because Giorgi Tserekashvili gave a statement to the investigators the day after the murder. In that statement, Giorgi Tserekashvili said that he remembered in detail the time of the crime: it occurred shortly after he began watching a film (“Lazare”) that started that night at 22:00. Giorgi Tserekashvili’s sworn statement (in which he mentions that it was dark when the crime occurred) is supported by the testimony of El. Vardiashvili and other witnesses who happened to be near the water pump station at that time.”

  The regional judge’s finding was illogical: The fact that one witness (named Giorgi Tserekashvili) testified one way did not prevent another witness (named Tamaz Tserekashvili) from testifying a different way. There was nothing in logic or law that required that Giorgi and Tamaz be the same person. After all, the Woodruff petition was all about finding new evidence—and Tamaz was certainly new.

  But as far as I could tell so were Giorgi Tserekashvili and El. Vardiashvili. I had never heard of either one of them. Vice Consul Lynn Whitlock had not mentioned them in her daily summary of the Sharmaidze trial. Attorney Tamaz Inashvili had not mentioned them in his defense of Sharmaidze or in his conversations with me about the facts. None of the investigative reporters mentioned them in their stories about the murder. And the young prosecutor had not mentioned them in either his written filings or his oral argument regarding the Woodruff petition.

  Nevertheless, the judge had mentioned them. Apparently, there were two more eyewitnesses to the events surrounding the Woodruff murder. The fact that these witnesses had not been disclosed to the defense or called to testify by the state suggested that their evidence was problematic to the prosecutor general. And that made them more than a little interesting to me.

  However, the judge’s decision made clear that evidence known to the police but not disclosed to the defense was not “new evidence” for purposes of reopening the Sharmaidze case. That meant that even if I could find Giorgi Tserekashvili and El. Vardiashvili they wouldn’t help me win my case in court.

  But my Georgian education had taught me I was never going to win my case there anyway. I would win my case if and when the president decided it was in his best interest to give me what I wanted. In the meantime, I needed to keep my case alive in the courts so that when the time came Misha would have a vehicle to reopen the Sharmaidze investigation. However, all my attempts at persuasion and pressure would be aimed not at the judiciary but at the executive.

  I drafted an appeal to the Supreme Court requesting review and reversal of the regional judge’s decision. This filing assured that the case remained pending and that I as counsel remained pertinent to the process. But that filing only solved my procedural problem. I needed a new strategy: a carrot-and-stick approach that promised to reward the president if he did the right thing and to punish him if he did not.

  Clearly, I did not possess such powers on my own. But Saakashvili’s near-total dependence on the United States made him susceptible to pressure from the West. I just needed to figure out how to generate that pressure.

  In the meantime, my urgent concern was protecting Anzor. I had challenged the president because I assumed that as an American I was untouchable. But I had forgotten that I was not the only person at risk: There was an innocent prisoner whose life I pretended to care about. And my foolish arrogance could easily get him killed.

  CHAPTER 12

  * * *

  “YOU NEED TO GET THAT FILE”

  Thomas Goltz had already heard about my face-off with Saakashvili. A Georgian acquaintance had written him to say that I was now radioactive. “Since that Q&A with our president, whenever people hear about the Woodruff case, they don’t have any desire even to meet with Mr. Pullara,” he reported. “Everyone loved the president’s answer to him—that Georgia is a sovereign nation just like the US or any other country. The simple fact is, there are so many other important issues in Georgia today, no one really cares about a guy who was killed back in 1993 or another guy who’s been in prison for more than 10 years.”

  I had called Thomas for comfort and guidance. The more I thought about it, the more I regretted my encounter with the president. I was genuinely afraid for Anzor’s safety, and Goltz was the only American I knew who understood the Georgian mind.

  I was especially interested in his thoughts about Misha’s dependence on the US. “It’s his Achilles’ heel,” Goltz said. “Saakashvili can poun
d his chest about Georgia’s sovereignty, but—when Bush comes to shove—he’s going to do exactly what the US tells him.”

  “But that doesn’t really solve the problem,” I said. “How do I get the US to exert pressure on a country that most people have never heard of?”

  Thomas was silent for a moment and then chuckled. “We need CBS 60 Minutes to do a story about this,” he said.

  That’s how I came to be in New York City in January 2005. Thomas contacted 60 Minutes producer Peter Klein and generated enough interest in the story to justify a meeting—provided that I pay my travel expenses to Manhattan. I didn’t mind: People take you more seriously if you’re willing to put your own money into something.

  Peter and I met for lunch and talked for two hours. I barely touched my soup and salad: I was busy telling my story. It was by now much rehearsed and had a very particular rhythm, but Peter kept pulling me off-script with well-timed and well-conceived questions. I finally finished my narrative and steeled myself for a lecture about the practical difficulties of getting a Third World story on an American broadcast.

  But Peter took the conversation in a completely different direction.

  “Let’s do it,” he said. “We’ll go to Arkansas; we’ll go to Tbilisi; we’ll go to Washington, DC. Bob Simon can be the correspondent. He likes to do stories about the intelligence agencies—and he’s gonna like to do this story.”

  It took a moment for me to respond. I’d been struck dumb by the ease with which Peter could make a decision to change my life. I had expected it to be much harder.

  As we were parting, I asked Peter whether I needed to keep his decision a secret from the Georgians. “You can tell them 60 Minutes is coming,” he said. “It may encourage them to keep Anzor safe.”

  I looked at my watch and did a quick calculation. It was 3 p.m. in New York and 11 p.m. in Tbilisi. If I hurried, I could still reach Lance Fletcher by telephone.

  He answered on the fourth ring but gave no hint whether I had awakened him. He listened without interruption while I gushed. The numbness had given way to excitement.

  “We need to tell the Georgian government,” I said. “We need to warn them that the American news media is interested in Anzor. We need to give them a reason not to hurt him.”

  I paused to breathe and give Lance an opportunity to congratulate me.

  “Let me think about it,” he said. His tone was flat, noncommittal, final. It was not at all the fulsome response I had expected. But none of that mattered. Because he did think. And he did tell. And he did warn. And sixteen days later President Saakashvili announced his intention to reexamine the conviction of Anzor Sharmaidze on the basis of new evidence.

  “The Prosecutor’s Office intends to reopen the murder case of the American diplomat,” he told his national security council. “I have discussed the issue with the prosecutor general. We want to carry out an open and transparent investigation of this case.” He concluded his public remarks by directing his government “to cooperate with the American lawyer.” A few days later the Supreme Court dutifully reversed the regional judge’s order and reopened the case of Anzor Sharmaidze.

  I had won the first round. The prosecutor and I were going to reinvestigate the Woodruff murder and reexamine the evidence of Anzor’s guilt.

  But success left me with more questions than answers. In my experience, the only thing more perplexing than a loss I can’t explain is a victory I can’t explain.

  I contacted Peter Klein to inform him about Saakashvili’s announcement. “Congratulations,” he said. “But there’s a problem: CBS isn’t going to renew 60 Minutes Wednesday for next season—and that means I’m not going to be able to do the story.”

  He said a few nice words—that we should keep in touch, that he admired what I was doing—but the final message was unequivocal: I should try to get the story produced somewhere else because it wasn’t going to be produced on CBS.

  From start to finish my relationship with 60 Minutes had lasted eighteen days.

  I sat in my office for the better part of an afternoon trying to understand all that had happened. I had solicited the American press—not as a part of some master plan but as a last-ditch effort to save Anzor from the consequences of my incompetence. When Saakashvili learned that 60 Minutes was going to publicize in America his injustice in Georgia, he did justice in Georgia.

  I appreciated the extraordinary response, but it seemed out of proportion to my phone call. There had to be more to the story, I thought. And there was. A few weeks later Saakashvili made another announcement: George W. Bush was coming to Tbilisi.

  I heard it on the evening news and laughed out loud. In an instant, all the metaphors became real: By involving American news organizations, I had inadvertently expanded the Georgian chessboard. By proposing to tell Anzor’s story to the American public, I had unwittingly threatened Saakashvili’s Achilles’ heel. And by doing it all just before George W. Bush’s visit, I had accidentally maximized my leverage.

  Mikheil Saakashvili had shown me the one way I could move him: American news coverage about Saakashvili at a time when Saakashvili needed a positive image in the US. And presumably, the more desperate his need, the more he could be moved. But at almost the same moment that I learned the lesson I lost the lever. CBS was not going to do a story. This meant I had two big tasks in front of me: first, to work with the prosecutor general to reinvestigate the murder of Freddie Woodruff, and second, to find a Western journalist who could publicize the plight of Anzor Sharmaidze at a moment when Saakashvili needed positive press in America.

  I found help with both tasks from my client, Georgia Woodruff Alexander. I had called her to report on the loss of CBS.

  “Gosh, Michael,” she said. “If you need a reporter, why don’t you call that Jamie fella—the one that did the movie about Freddie.”

  It had never occurred to me that someone had done a movie about the murder of Freddie Woodruff.

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “He made a video of the barmaid, Marina Kapanadze, and talked about how she might have been involved in Freddie’s murder.” I got a copy of the movie: a documentary with the titillating title Sexpionage: The Honey Trap. It was the story of KGB “swallows”—nubile young women recruited to tempt and entrap diplomats, businessmen, and soldiers. The Cold War narrative featured (for the most part) giggly Russian blondes who were a decade past their prime; sinister intelligence officers who sold human flesh to buy secrets; and hapless Westerners who’d been caught between them. But one part of the film was distinctly different: grainy footage of a buxom waitress standing behind an ornate wooden bar. The production values suggested that the video had been obtained surreptitiously and without the woman’s knowledge. But I immediately recognized the woman. It was Marina Kapanadze.

  I contacted Jamie Doran at his home in England. We made plans to meet in Washington, and I spent the intervening two weeks trying to learn about him. An Irishman from Glasgow, he began making television documentaries in 1994. In addition to Sexpionage, he had produced a three-part series on the USSR’s first nuclear bomb and a biography of Yuri Gagarin. The content of these three films suggested that Doran had a measure of access to Soviet intelligence. It was, I thought, a relationship that could come in handy.

  We met in the lobby of his hotel. I identified him from a picture I’d found online: brown curly hair, ruddy complexion, a slight paunch. He wore loose-fitting slacks, a wrinkled shirt, and a corduroy sport coat. His smell arrived before he did—a miasma of stale beer and cigarettes. I came to recognize it as his unconscious calling card.

  “Let’s find a pub,” he said, “someplace I can have a beer and a fag.”

  There was a Guinness-style pub within easy walking distance. We settled into a booth and Doran began to drink, smoke, and talk. He had just returned from Afghanistan, where he had purchased an interview with the Uzbek warlord Abdul Rashid Dostum. He told me how he sat knee-to-knee with the notorious general and (by dint of Gaelic charm and
intellect) gained the psychopath’s grudging respect. He told me how he had been recruited by MI6 and invited to try out for the Manchester United Football Club. And he told me how he had secretly recorded Marina Kapanadze in the Piano Bar—and her reaction when she learned about it.

  “She didn’t seem upset,” he said. “She laughed, flirted with me, told me to stay until closing. She said she’d give me the best sex of my life.”

  His eyes sparkled. It was obvious that he enjoyed telling this story.

  “But as she was locking up, four men came in. They grabbed me, frog-marched me down to the lobby. My bodyguard—a guy from the local mafia that I’d hired to protect me—was down there. He confronted them, told them that if they killed me it would be a matter of honor: He’d have to kill them and their whole families.”

  He paused. He seemed to be gauging my interest, my acceptance. Whatever he saw, it made him smile.

  “The next day was my birthday,” he said. “When I woke up and realized that Marina hadn’t killed me, I felt born again.”

  It was an odd interview. Doran spent a lot less time on my story than on his own—almost as though he was trying to convince me of his status and stature. Nevertheless, it was entertaining. Just then my cell phone rang. I stepped outside to take the call. It was my client, Georgia Woodruff Alexander.

  “Michael,” she said, “I just talked to somebody that Freddie used to work with, somebody from the CIA. I told him about what you were doing and he said you should call him. He’s driving to California now, but he said he’d meet with you if you want.”

  “What’s his name?” I asked.

  “Bob,” she said. “Bob Baer.”

  In my office, within arm’s reach of my desk, was a bookcase. On the second shelf wedged between dozens of other books were two paperbacks that I’d read not more than six months before. They were first-person accounts of the life of a former CIA operations officer, Bob Baer. The nonfiction books had been optioned by Hollywood and were on their way to becoming a major motion picture staring George Clooney.