The Spy Who Was Left Behind

by Michael Pullara

  “GRU was doing this kind of thing back in 1993,” he said. “And I think there’s a seventy-five percent chance that they killed Woodruff. Someone from SVR would have called them and asked for a favor. GRU wouldn’t have even known why they were killing him. They would have just done it.”

  “Who?” I said. “Who would have called GRU?”

  “It’s hard to say,” said Lekarev. “It would have been organized through Igor Giorgadze. He was Group Alpha and loyal to Moscow. As for who made the request, there weren’t very many people who knew about Ames. My guess would be Ames’s handler, Victor Cherkashin.”

  Lekarev was quiet. He seemed to be waiting for me to say something, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. Finally, he spoke.

  “Why don’t you ask him?” he said. “He’s in town promoting his book.”

  It was not an idea that had ever occurred to me: to make a cold call to a foreign espionage agent and ask him if he had instigated the murder an American CIA officer. But I’d done sillier things over the course of this adventure, so I decided to give it a try.

  Mousia made the initial contact. She’d gotten Cherkashin’s phone number from his literary agent. She told him a little bit about my project in Georgia. He agreed to meet us at the Moscow Art Theatre the next morning. It was an inspired choice of location: the place where Konstantin Stanislavski developed method acting—the subtle art of pretending to be sincere and emotionally authentic. It was mildly ironic that a master manipulator had chosen this particular venue as our meeting place.

  We entered through the side door. A custodian was waiting to let us in. He pointed us to a staircase leading to the basement.

  Cherkashin was waiting for us in the bar: a semicircular cave with banquette seating for a dozen. He was sitting on the near end by the privacy curtain—an unremarkable septuagenarian in a black suit, white shirt, and unfashionable tie. My first impression was of a grandfather. I thought he might have peppermints in his pockets.

  Jamie took the lead. He launched into a game of “Small World”—naming KGB officers he knew or had interviewed. I couldn’t tell whether he was trying to put Cherkashin at ease or to establish his own substance and credibility. But the retired KGB officer was already comfortable and he seemed to have taken Jamie’s measure with a glance.

  The Englishman was still talking, but Cherkashin was looking at me.

  “I know the Woodruff story,” he said. “I’m sorry that he’s dead, but we did not kill him.”

  He spoke perfect English. The accent was faint, the timbre warm and genial, and the volume low enough to pull me forward in my seat. He had used words and sound for effect and had taken control of the room with a single sentence. It was a strangely familiar experience.

  And then I saw it: Jamie and I had been managed this way once before, by CIA officer Bob Baer. In that instant I made a decision. I did not have the skill to play games with this grandmaster. I would therefore relate to Cherkashin in the same way that I related to Baer: I would be forthcoming, honest, and humble.

  This was a formidable man. And I would treat him with respect.

  “The FBI did two investigations of the murder,” I said. “The second investigation focused on the possibility that Woodruff was killed in order to protect Aldrich Ames.”

  It wasn’t really a question; more of an invitation. And Cherkashin studied me for a moment before he accepted.

  “No,” he said, “killing Woodruff would not protect Ames. Woodruff was a field officer—a nose that provides information to a brain. And in this case, the brain was at CIA headquarters in Virginia. If we wanted to protect Ames, then we would have had to kill Milt Bearden.”

  It was an illogical deflection. Bearden was chief of the Soviet/East European Division—a position two levels above Woodruff in the CIA organization chart. Killing him would not protect Ames because Woodruff would still know (and be able to report) any compromising statements that Ames had made.

  “The FBI suspected that Ames may have inadvertently betrayed himself while out drinking with Woodruff,” I said. “They hypothesized that Woodruff was assassinated before he could return to the US to prevent him from reporting that information.”

  “Impossible,” he answered. “As I recall, Woodruff was scheduled to depart Georgia less than three weeks after Rick left the country. So there simply wasn’t enough time to make a plan and execute it. We just couldn’t move that fast.”

  This was a truly unexpected defense: Russian intelligence could not have murdered Woodruff because even with twenty-one days lead time they did not have the necessary efficiency or competence to do the act. This excuse was so inane that it made me wonder whether Cherkashin was working hard to make me think that Russia was not involved or working hard to make me think that it was.

  “Ames’s history of betrayal is pretty strong evidence that he would sacrifice Woodruff to save himself,” I said. “It wouldn’t be the first time that he caused someone’s death.”

  “Rick is not a bad man,” Cherkashin said. “When we first began working together, I told him that I wanted to keep him safe and that—in order to accomplish that objective—I needed to know the names of anyone with whom I should not share his information. He thought about it for a few minutes, took out a piece of paper, and wrote down a list of people for me to avoid. But he never intended to cause anyone’s death. It was simply good tradecraft.”

  Cherkashin was leaning forward; his elbows were resting lightly on his knees; his hands were moving gently in the breeze of his words. It was a sincere and emotionally authentic performance. But the script was a lie.

  Whatever else might be said about Aldrich Ames, he was not stupid. As an experienced intelligence officer, he knew that the people he identified to the Russians would be arrested, tortured, and executed. But for the perfidious Ames, the math was simple: They would die so that he could live (and make money).

  Irrespective of his posture and prose, Cherkashin’s message was clear: If Ames caused Woodruff’s death in an effort to keep himself safe, it was simply good tradecraft.

  “I think about Rick very often,” he said. “I’m sorry that he ended up as he did. I wish there was something I could do.”

  Cherkashin sighed and sat back. He seemed truly discomforted at the thought of Ames’s circumstances: life in federal prison without possibility of parole. His brow was slightly furrowed, his eyes sad and a little moist, his lips pursed and turned down at the ends. It was all too perfect. And I wondered how far he’d carry it.

  “Have you tried to contact him?” I asked. “Have you written?”

  He tilted his head, shrugged his shoulders, and smiled wistfully. “No,” he said. “I do not have the necessary information.”

  Unbeknownst to Cherkashin, I’d been in communication with Ames. We’d exchanged a few letters about my project and his visit to Georgia. Not surprisingly, Ames claimed to know nothing that could shed any light on the murder.

  “I can give you his address,” I said. “You could write him.”

  It was as though I’d given the man an electric shock. His back stiffened, his eyes widened, his hands shot out in front of him defensively—palms forward, fingers spread, ready to push away an assault.

  “No, no, no, no, no,” he said. “Thank you, but no.”

  The mask had slipped aside—and in the process given me a lens through which to interpret the remainder of the matinee. He quickly recovered himself and began the leaving ceremony. “You’re doing a very noble thing,” he said. “I just wish there was more I could do to help.”

  “Perhaps there is,” I answered.

  He raised his eyebrows and turned his head slightly. He was inviting me to tell him more.

  “I would like to interview Igor Giorgadze,” I said.

  His expression changed immediately. The grandfather was gone. In his place was a hard-as-nails KGB officer.

  “What is that to me?” he asked. The tone was sharp. This was all business.

 
Giorgadze had been appointed director of Georgia’s information and intelligence service following the country’s defeat in the battle for control of Sukhumi. In 1995 he was implicated in the attempted assassination of Eduard Shevardnadze and fled the country. Since then he had been prominently featured as a fugitive on Interpol’s Most Wanted List and as a commentator on Moscow’s news programs.

  “The Americans and the Georgians present themselves to the world as champions of justice,” I said. “But I believe that they have knowingly and intentionally perpetrated a great injustice against Anzor Sharmaidze. I need to talk to Mr. Giorgadze in order to prove both Anzor’s innocence and the fact of American and Georgian hypocrisy.”

  Cherkashin was sitting back, listening. His eyes were veiled, his face without expression. His hands were resting on his stomach. He drummed his fingers. Twice.

  “This is interesting to the KGB,” he said. “Go home. We’ll call you.”

  “Here in Moscow we stay at—”

  “We know where you stay,” he interrupted. “Go home. We’ll call you.”

  Over the next several days Jamie and I waited by the phone at Mousia’s house in the woods outside of Moscow. When no call came, I flew home to Texas and Jamie flew home to England.

  Shortly after my arrival in Houston, I reached out to Milt Bearden, the division chief that Cherkashin had identified as the brain at CIA headquarters in Virginia. He was nonplussed by my report.

  “Why would Victor want to kill me?” he asked. “What did I ever do to him?”

  The call came ten days later. It was from Cherkashin’s daughter, or at least a woman who claimed to be his daughter.

  “We’ve arranged a meeting with the person you asked about,” she said. “You are to rendezvous with your contact at nine a.m. on Friday at Domodedovo Airport. And don’t be late: You have a plane to catch.”

  The time allowed was too short for me to get there from Houston, but just enough for Jamie to fly in from London. He and Mousia arrived at Moscow’s second busiest airport on time and were met by a man who identified himself only as an associate of Cherkashin.

  “Give me your cell phones,” the man said. He removed the battery from each device and returned the lifeless gadgets to their owners.

  “You can have the batteries back after we return,” he said. “Now follow me.”

  He led them around security and directly to a departure gate. A counter agent saw him coming and opened the boarding door just for them. No one asked to see their boarding cards, which was fortunate because they didn’t have any.

  Two-and-a-half-hours later they landed in the Black Sea city of Sochi.

  There was a van waiting for them on the tarmac. They took it north past a waterpark, a half-dozen grand spa hotels, and a sanatorium, then the driver turned left and they entered the seaport. He parked the van next to an oceangoing motor yacht and pointed his passengers toward the gangplank.

  “There,” he said. “Go there.”

  The trio clambered aboard, and thirty minutes later the ship was under way. Jamie, Mousia, and their mysterious companion headed due west.

  It was dark when the captain asked Jamie to come to the bridge. He wanted the Western journalist to see the navigational instruments so he could verify the ship’s location.

  “We’re in international waters,” the captain said.

  As if on cue the lookout announced the presence of a ship directly astern. It was another oceangoing motor yacht. The helmsman began gunning the engines and the crew scrambled to link the two vessels. After the ships had been lashed together, a catwalk was laid between them. A stocky man in a black suit, red tie, and orange life preserver walked across.

  “I am Igor Giorgadze,” he said. “I understand you want to talk to me.”

  They conducted the interview in the ship’s salon. Jamie asked questions and Mousia translated. They filmed the whole thing and when it was over gave me a copy of the video.

  Jamie’s first query was the obvious one. “Why are we meeting in the middle of the Black Sea?”

  Giorgadze glanced up and to the right. This was a question he had prepared for and he was remembering the answer. “There are people who wish to do me harm,” he said. “They want to criticize and embarrass any country that gives me sanctuary—and I don’t want to put any country in that position.”

  “Isn’t it true that you’re living in Russia under the protection of the SVR?” said Jamie.

  “I have good relations with the SVR,” Giorgadze said. “And I also have good relations with the special services in Turkey, the US, and throughout South America. But no one is supporting or protecting me. If they were, I wouldn’t have to wait eleven years to return to Georgia.”

  “Who is it that wants to harm you?”

  Giorgadze’s eyes narrowed. The muscles around his mouth tightened slightly.

  “The president, Misha Saakashvili,” he said. “He has offered five hundred thousand US dollars to anyone who gives information about my location. And he has a group of killers who are searching for me.”

  “Why would Saakashvili want to kill you?”

  “I am a competitor,” he said. “Shevardnadze believed that Georgia needed to ally itself with the US, and Saakashvili is fulfilling that policy. I have a different vision. I believe that Georgia should be the Switzerland of the Caucasus—good relations with all, alliances with none.”

  “The Georgian government claims you attempted to assassinate Eduard Shevardnadze,” Jamie said. It wasn’t really a question; more of a declarative statement intended to provoke a response. And it did.

  Up to now, Giorgadze’s hands had lain folded in front of him. His voice had been soft, his cadence measured, his sentences punctuated with thoughtful pauses. But this reply was different. The former KGB general looked down and to the right before speaking; words came out of him with strength and confidence, and he gestured by chopping at the air with a stiffened right hand.

  “I am offended by this accusation,” he said. “At that time, both the US and Russia agreed that Shevardnadze should be president of Georgia. So assassinating him would have been stupid. To which of the Great Powers would I turn for support after I killed their beloved Silver Fox? But the worst part, the most insulting part, is that the Georgians accuse me, Igor Giorgadze, of unprofessionalism.”

  I stopped the video and watched the diatribe over again. Giorgadze did not look like an outraged man nearly so much as he looked like a man pretending to be outraged. It was a tell, a change in a poker player’s behavior that gives a clue to the hand he is holding.

  This was, I suspected, how Giorgadze acted when he was lying.

  “I can prove that I did not try to kill Shevardnadze,” he continued. “I was trained in Department Thirteen of the First Chief Directorate of the KGB—executive actions, assassinations, wet works. I am an expert in these things. The Georgians say I tried to kill Shevardnadze. But Shevardnadze is not dead. As a result, the only reasonable inference is that I did not try to kill him. Because if I had tried, he would be dead.”

  “But why would Shevardnadze accuse you if you did not do it?” Jamie asked.

  Giorgadze smiled. It was like someone had flipped a switch. In an instant his affect changed completely. He was once again composed, reflective, and spontaneous.

  “Let me tell you a joke,” he said. “Shevardnadze and his young grandson were on a balcony overlooking Tbilisi when the old man asked the boy what he wanted to be when he grew up. ‘Babua,’ the boy said, ‘when I grow up I want to be president of Georgia!’ A few seconds later Shevardnadze called to his wife. ‘Nanuli, come quick!’ he said. ‘Our poor grandson just fell off the balcony and died!’ ”

  The big man chuckled. He liked his joke.

  “This was democracy under Shevardnadze,” he said. “If he identified you as an opponent, then you would be oppressed, arrested, murdered. I was an opponent—a serious candidate to replace him as president—and so he turned on me.”

  “Wh
at about Freddie Woodruff?” Jamie asked. “Were you behind his murder?”

  The switch flipped again. It was his tell—not anger, but pure aggression.

  “I did not know Freddie Woodruff and I was not involved in his murder,” he said. “In August 1993 I was working in the Ministry of Defense—trying to identify Gamsakhurdia sympathizers that were still in the government.”

  “Then why did Shota Kviraya accuse you of arranging the murder on orders from Moscow?” Jamie asked.

  “Because of Shevardnadze,” he answered. “He did it to discredit me. But it is not a serious theory. There is no proof to support it.”

  “And what about Mkhedrioni?” said Jamie. “Were you involved with them?”

  “Jaba Ioseliani was the number two man in the country,” said Giorgadze. “I worked with him in the government but had no other association with him or his organization. Everybody knew that Mkhedrioni was half-criminal. But we were on the same side of the barricade—and that was all that mattered at the time.”

  “So if you did not kill Woodruff,” said Jamie, “who did?”

  “Woodruff’s death was nothing more than an unfortunate accident,” he answered. “That is the official verdict and the only one for which there is any evidence.”

  “Do you feel any shame that Anzor Sharmaidze is in prison for a crime he did not commit?” asked Jamie.

  Giorgadze did not object to the assumption of innocence implicit in the question. The switch had flipped again. It was the sober, reflective professional who answered.

  “There are many such people, in jail for crimes they did not commit,” he said. “And I am sorry for that. But that is how Georgia was working at the time—and that is how Georgia is working today. Look at the death of our late prime minister, Zurab Zhvania. Everybody knows that he was murdered and everybody knows who did it. He was a rival to Saakashvili, so Saakashvili eliminated him. Nevertheless, the government insists on telling us that he died from bad air and bad sausage.”

  I watched the video several times and came away with two conclusions: