Then there was the polonium. Senior figures argued that the use of polonium demonstrated that Moscow had nothing to do with his death. As Sergei Lavrov, Russia’s foreign minister, put it, why make a spectacle? Lavrov told the Trud newspaper: ‘Why would the intelligence services spend millions [on polonium] in order to send to kingdom come a former rank-and-file agent, whose absurd accusations against them have long ceased to be taken seriously?’
These statements made a kind of sense – if the aim of Litvinenko’s murder was to make a spectacle. They were less persuasive if Litvinenko’s assassins – and those in Moscow who sent them – had assumed the poison used to murder him would never be found. These were early days. But to the inspectors – now encamped in the Radisson Hotel, overlooking Europe Square and the frozen Moskva, from where cruise boats depart in summer – this seemed the most likely version.
The British police force is an egalitarian organisation, with a fine disregard for rank when it suits. The team in Moscow included senior officers from the Yard’s SO15 counter-terrorism unit: Chief Superintendent Timothy White and Inspector Brian Tarpey. White dealt with the embassy and the Russian authorities; Tarpey was in charge of day-to-day operations. There were three Russian-speaking constables. The investigators took with them standard police equipment: recording devices, tapes, notebooks.
The next morning, 5 December, they headed to the Russian prosecutor’s office. The building in Tekhnichesky Lane is in the same part of town as Lefortovo Prison, the FSB pre-detention and investigation centre where Litvinenko spent eight months in jail. The area on the east side was once Moscow’s foreigners’ quarter. The young Peter the Great held all-night drinking parties there with his Swiss mercenary friend and mentor Franz Lefort.
Waiting in the prosecutor’s office was a high-level Russian delegation. It included Russia’s deputy chief prosecutor Alexander Bastrykin, later promoted to head the investigative committee. He was one of the men linked to the Russian mafia in Spain by Grinda, the Spanish special prosecutor for corruption and organised crime. It also included senior investigators, the head of the legal assistance division, and other specialists. Twelve people in all.
This, surely, was a good sign?
The detectives, however, soon found that the Russian authorities intended to manage all parts of the investigation. Bastrykin announced a series of rules. Scotland Yard wouldn’t be allowed to question witnesses directly. Russian officials would do that. The British side could submit questions – in writing and in advance. Scotland Yard’s tape equipment wasn’t needed; only the Russian side would be permitted to carry out audio recordings. ‘I found that a little bit strange,’ Tarpey said.
This initial meeting set the tone for what followed. Over the next two weeks the Scotland Yard team found itself in a bizarre and sometimes ridiculous bureaucratic pantomime. ‘We were very obviously being railroaded into a situation where we had little or no control,’ Tarpey said. He reluctantly agreed to the prosecutor’s conditions. The Kremlin’s apparent goal was to give the impression of cooperation – while sabotaging the investigation where necessary.
Moscow was insisting that Lugovoi and Kovtun, Litvinenko’s assassins, were actually victims. In reality, both men were fine; they, after all, hadn’t ingested radioactive polonium. The Russian authorities claimed that their condition was ‘rapidly deteriorating’. This might be the only opportunity to talk to them.
Kovtun was being ‘treated’ in Hospital No. 6, a Moscow state clinic. The clinic was named after a USSR deputy health minister, Avetik Burnazyan, who helped to develop the Soviet atomic bomb. It specialised in radiation victims. Some of those affected by the Chernobyl disaster were sent there. The building – a Lego-like seven-storey block – is in the capital’s Shchukino district, on a street of Khrushchev-era apartments and lime trees. Nearby is a wooded park with a lake and natural spring, from where pensioners fill plastic water bottles; this would shortly become my Moscow jogging route.
The detectives set off for the hospital, following a lead Russian vehicle. It drove at high speed – and then seemingly got lost. Tarpey was informed that only one of his officers – Russian-speaking constable Oliver Gadny – would be allowed to see Kovtun. After two hours in heavy traffic they arrived at the federal clinic. It was 8.45 p.m. The official in charge, Vadim Yalovitsky, said that under Russian law a witness couldn’t be questioned after 10 p.m.
Gadny was ushered inside. He met the hospital’s chief doctor, Konstantin Kotenko, who appeared nervous, and discussed with the Russian investigator Alexander Otvodov the list of questions. The mood between the sides was ‘cold and suspicious’, Gadny said. The constable donned a protective suit. He was escorted into cabinet number eight.
There was Kovtun – dressed in cream-coloured pyjamas and wearing a paper face-mask and a blue plastic head covering.
Kovtun seemed tired but not visibly ill. Kovtun’s hair might have been shaved off but it was difficult to tell, Gadny thought. He had dark rings under both eyes, two bags under the right, one under the left. He was almost blind in the right one – an injury going back to a brawl with Russians, according to his ex-wife. His breathing was normal. In his notebook, Gadny wrote: ‘KOVTUN was a white male, with (yellow) tanned skin; aged mid thirties; with brown eyes, full brown eyebrows and full eyelashes.’ And: ‘He had a 5 mm round pock-like scar on the right side of the bridge of his nose.’
It seemed Kovtun was unperturbed by the accusations against him. He offered a ‘look of resignation bordering on boredom, particularly when being addressed by the Russian prosecutor,’ Gadny said.
Otvodov asked the questions in a rapid, stern manner, speaking clearly and loudly.
Kovtun described seeing Litvinenko in the Millennium and said that he and Lugovoi were with him ‘for half an hour’. On first meeting they had hugged, as is the Russian custom. After leaving the bar, they chatted for eight minutes near the hotel entrance, Kovtun said. Litvinenko’s poisoning was a mystery, he added.
OTVODOV: What do you know about the reasons for Litvinenko’s illness?
KOVTUN: About this I do not know anything.
OTVODOV: Do you know about polonium-210? Do you know anything about this substance?
KOVTUN: Now I know, yes. Polonium is a radioactive isotope, with which one can be infected through respiration or food. Its half-life is a period of 130 days. I know no one who knows more details about this subject.
OTVODOV: Did you have anything to do with this substance?
KOVTUN: I never had anything to do with polonium.
After ten minutes, the chief doctor announced the interview had to end imminently. Gadny protested and was allowed to ask a couple of questions. Then:
OTVODOV: How are you now?
KOVTUN: Very nervous. I feel serious weakness.
OTVODOV: What is the matter with your hair?
KOVTUN: I shaved it bald. Don’t pay any attention to that.
And that was that. The party left and went down a corridor to a small conference room. There they were tested for alpha radiation. An older doctor waved a scope – a kitchen-roll-sized tube with a flat circular plate – over Gadny’s skin. The detector made an irregular high-pitched beep. There was no contamination. The constable left the hospital. It was dark. He rejoined his colleagues, who had been waiting in the car park. Back at the embassy, he photocopied his notes and put them in a tamper-proof evidence bag.