Farewell (9 page)

Faced with such a desperate situation, Vetrov called his two closest acquaintances in Paris. Albert Gobert responded as a faithful and generous friend, offering to buy him a new car, but this would be noticed right away. Jacques Prévost found the solution, by having the old Peugeot repaired quickly and properly. He claimed that the repairs exceeded by far the price of a new car.
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Regardless of who paid the bill, Thomson or the DST, these were the facts. With all the reservations we have about this story, one thing is clear: Prévost saved Vetrov’s career.

But why should such a trivial accident, with no physical injury and no casualty, gain so much importance? In the Soviet system, it was easy to predict the embassy’s reaction, and this was bad news for Vetrov. A Soviet citizen was expected to be sober and to respect the laws and customs of the country in which he/she was living. A fortiori, KGB members were duty-bound to serve as an example to their fellow compatriots. In spite of the excellent relations between Vetrov and his resident, a misdemeanor as serious as a DUI car accident, moreover with an embassy car, would have caused him to be sent back to Moscow immediately, and maybe to be barred from going abroad later on. Krokhin could have covered up for him if the accident had happened during a mission, but not on private time. Besides, he had already covered up for Vetrov on the occasion of the slightly suspicious business deals mentioned earlier.

Two more clarifications are needed regarding this car accident.

First, Vetrov was an ace driver. All intelligence officers were trained as professional drivers. The members of the KGB residency were quite a sight when returning to Paris on Sunday nights, after a day in the countryside. They would race against one another, each trying to prove to the others that he was the best driver of the group. They kept changing lanes, zigzagging between cars in heavy traffic, passing cars by crossing the solid yellow line or driving on the sidewalk.

Vetrov was way above this crowd of semiprofessionals. One day, Soviet car racers were supposed to take part in a race for regular cars on the Formula 1 track in Monaco. A driver fell ill. Vladimir was offered to replace the sick driver in order not to weaken the team. It is therefore highly improbable that Vetrov had the car accident from lack of driving experience or to show off. Furthermore, the road was dry that day.

Needless to say that it was not the first time Vladimir drove after a few drinks. The life of a trade delegate is made of cocktail parties, rich meals washed down with plenty of wine, and drinks at virtually every meeting. With his strong build, Vetrov could take alcohol, and drinking without getting drunk was part of his training at the “school in the woods.” Being a KGB member, he had to control himself. And lastly, that evening Vetrov was supposed to drive to Montsoult. It was only twenty-four kilometers away, but it was a bigger deal than going back to Rue de la Faisanderie after a dinner party, not to mention that he could have run into colleagues. The last thing he wanted was to come face to face, under the influence, with the head of the trade mission, with whom he had rather chilly relations.

That said, we have yet to admit that it might have been in Vetrov’s interest to minimize the drinking that happened that evening. There was the risk that Svetlana would remind him about this episode each time he wanted to drive after a drink or two too many. Vladimir may have made up this whole story for his wife’s consumption in order to cover the fact that, maybe, he hit the lamppost because he was intoxicated.

Many details are not right here. Why did the car that hit Vetrov’s Peugeot disappear? There was no jointly agreed statement or exchange of contact data for insurance purposes, and nobody called the police or an ambulance, although Vetrov lost consciousness, according to him. Was his car hit by hooligans who did not stop for fear of getting in trouble? Or was this accident a setup?

The KGB officers who had access to Vetrov’s case file were inclined to believe this interpretation. However, let us not forget that very often organizations, like individuals, unconsciously attribute to others their own reactions in a given situation. The KGB undoubtedly would have taken advantage of a chance accident to approach a recruiting target, even put together such an operation from beginning to end.

This was not the case with the DST, which, unlike the KGB, was not a state within a state. In all likelihood, not only was the DST not the instigator of the accident, but, as it turned out, was informed about it only much later, for good reasons.

Jacques Prévost carried on with the smooth-running exchanges of favors between the DST and Thomson, keeping the French intelligence services up to date about what his Soviet trade partners were up to. Yet, he carefully avoided transmitting this valuable information, probably fearing the use the DST could make of it against Vetrov. Prévost told Nart about the car accident much later, after the Vetrovs had already returned to Moscow. Once back home, his partner was no longer exposed to the risk of being approached for recruitment by the DST, which was not allowed to operate outside of France, and in this way Prévost preserved the business interests of Thomson.

Probably to compensate for having slightly bent the rules, Prévost described at length the frame of mind Vetrov was in before his departure: “He is not himself. He told me he liked the French way of life too much, for his wife and his son, too. And then he broke into tears. In short, he does not want to go back.”
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Prévost realized later how right his decision was not to inform the DST immediately. After he did, Nart attempted to convince him to offer Vetrov the help of the French government. “If he wants to stay in France, tell him that we’ll take care of it. But try to stay as neutral as possible. There is his family. We don’t know what they think about this. The decision has to come from him.”

One of the golden rules of the profession is never to let the first contact of a target make the recruiting approach. Recruiting can fail, but the relationship must be preserved. For this reason, at some point in time “a friend” would appear who would make the overture and disappear in case the deal fails.

To be specific, Svetlana recalls, Jacques Prévost introduced to Vetrov a man named “Pierre,” a former rugby man, a member of the national team. He certainly had the stature of one; he was tall, athletic, very muscular. Good-looking, he was not without charm. The KGB is certain that he belonged to the French intelligence service.

On the French side, they insisted that no formal action was undertaken by any of the DST agents. Prévost told us that this man was simply a friend of his, named Jean-Paul, who had no link whatsoever with the world of espionage. He still denies vigorously that his friend ever worked “for the services.” Jean-Paul B. was in charge of sales in the radiotherapy division of the company, and the translator of this book was his interpreter in Paris during negotiations with heads of Soviet hospitals.

The Vetrovs thus went out for dinner two or three times with this “Pierre” and Jacques Prévost. Those were purely friendly gatherings. One evening, for instance—it was March 6, 1970, Svetlana remembers because she kept the restaurant menu—the Frenchmen took the Vetrovs to the Franc Pinot, a restaurant-cabaret located on the Saint-Louis island, on the river Seine. They mentioned that the place counted Salvador Dali among its regular patrons. Just the day before, the artist had dinner there in the company of a few pretty women. He used to enjoy watching them dance on the floor while he stayed at his balcony table.

Later on, when they were by themselves again, Vladimir ended up admitting to Svetlana, with detachment, “Jacques helped me to have the car repaired. In fact, they are offering for me to defect.” Svetlana could not believe her ears. Stunned, she then found out that “Pierre” and Prévost went as far as taking Vetrov to Parly II, a residential suburb west of Paris, to show him around, explaining that was where they could live if they decided to defect instead of going back to Moscow. Vladimir had turned down the offer, but it was not too late to change their mind. Everything he had seen in France for the last five years, all the thinking he had been doing, the comparisons he made between both systems, all of it seemed to bear fruit.

Prévost presented this story with a much more nuanced slant. One day, answering Vetrov’s repeated complaining about his return to Russia, the Thomson executive told him, “Well, if you don’t want to go back, all you have to do is to stay here.” Vetrov, who must have understood perfectly the nature of the proposition, protested vigorously that it was out of the question, mainly because of his family, the relatives living in Russia, but above all because of Svetlana.

Yet, as he was recounting this offer to his wife, he seemed to seek her advice. Today, Svetlana believes that had she said yes at the time, the Vetrovs would have “chosen freedom,” as the expression goes. However, she was too attached to her country and her relatives. She said no. This issue never came up again between them. As we will see later, this attachment to their native country was largely shared by Vladimir, but, obviously, the possibility of seeking political asylum crossed his mind. Everything suggests that Vetrov was probably trying to test Svetlana. Had his wife’s reaction been more favorable, the answer to Prévost’s suggestion might have been different, and Vladimir Vetrov’s destiny would have followed quite a different path.

Nart, to this day, doubts that such an offer was ever made to Vetrov. If Vetrov had decided to stay in France, the scandal would have been considerable and would have discredited Prévost forever in the USSR. This was neither Prévost’s style nor in his interest or the company’s.

There is no need to explain why Vetrov omitted to report the approach to his superiors as was his duty to do so. Their reasoning was easy to imagine. “Not everybody is approachable. If the French tried to recruit you, it’s because you gave them reasons to.” For Vetrov, this would have meant losing all chances to operate in a Western Bloc country. At best, he could still be assigned to a residency in Africa or in Asia. At worst, he would have to stay in Moscow forever. For a PGU member, this meant the end of his career.

Had the DST understood this flawed reasoning of Soviet intelligence, its mission would have been much easier. It would have been enough to approach systematically any identified intelligence officer. If he turned down the offer, he had to leave; if he went along, he had to collaborate or operate as a double agent. This would have been a win-win situation for the DST.

After the failed approach, Raymond Nart simply updated Vetrov’s file in the central database of the service. This was in fact a simple index card (we were still years away from computers and digital files) summarizing the history and basic information regarding the target. Before filing the dossier, Nart wrote an additional note in red: “If target reappears or asks for a visa, inform immediately R23,” the internal name code of Nart himself.
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In fairness to Prévost, it must be said that if Vetrov could have good memories of his relations with the French, it is also thanks to Prévost’s skillfulness, which does not preclude the possibility of friendly feelings toward his Soviet partner. After the car accident, and regardless of the approach attempt, Vetrov’s gratitude toward Prévost was absolute. Their friendship, which up to then was based only on business relations, acquired a deeper dimension, especially in Vetrov’s eyes.

Before returning to Moscow, in his affectionate style, he did not hesitate to tell Prévost, “Jacques, I am perfectly aware of what you did for me. Be sure that I’ll never forget,” and adding solemnly, “Yes, you have my word, I’ll repay you someday.”
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The Vetrovs returned to Moscow at the end of July 1970 after a usual-length stay for a KGB officer. Vladimir rushed to visit his father, who recently had a stroke. Slouched in an armchair, Ippolit Vasilevich did not recognize his son. He died on August 10.

At the PGU, Vladimir was assigned to Directorate T, specializing in scientific and technological intelligence. This directorate was relatively recent, created in 1967, when Vetrov was still in France.

If not dazzling, Vladimir’s career at the KGB was quite respectable. Krokhin submitted his name for an important medal because of the recruitings he achieved in France. An order of the Red Star or of the Red Flag often rewarded fruitful services of an intelligence officer abroad.

Curiously, Vetrov received none. During his stay in Paris he was promoted to lieutenant colonel, as could be expected considering his age and seniority. There was no decoration. Since nominated officers in the list usually automatically receive their medal, Vetrov felt he had been treated unfairly, and he was offended. The PGU might have heard about his overly free behavior and about the Vetrovs’ lavish lifestyle in Paris. In any case, this decision cannot be attributed to the DST’s attempt to approach Vetrov; had the KGB had the faintest suspicion, it would have dismissed Vetrov on the spot.

More disappointments were awaiting him. When he returned to Moscow, Vetrov left behind numerous advanced targets in addition to the agents he had formally recruited. In short, this meant that many of his French contacts were already conditioned by Vetrov and about to accept collaboration with the KGB. His newly arrived colleagues, who only had to deliver the coup de grâce to targets he had already found, tracked, and brought down, all received prestigious medals while they were still operating in France. Vetrov was sickened by this state of affairs.

He even said in exasperation, “How stupid of me not to go for a PhD! I’d be leading the quiet life of a professor, teaching at university. Why on earth did I have to get involved in that business?” In fact, Vladimir was ranting and raging mostly to be comforted by his wife. His difficulties were temporary; his anger was just fits of bad temper. At the time, he was still far from being disgusted by the KGB.

He was aware, though, that the climate was changing at the Center. His successors in Paris were different from him. He did not get his post by pulling strings in high places. By the end of the sixties, posts in the West became the nomenklatura’s exclusive domain. As a general rule, members of KGB residencies abroad were covered by diplomatic immunity. Therefore, the profession of intelligence officer, though dangerous in theory, was no longer harmful to your health or your life. The most serious sanction against a diplomat caught red-handed in an espionage case was expulsion from the country. Moreover, the benefits of living in Paris, London, or New York were many. After the Foreign Affairs and the Foreign Trade positions, the crowd of privileged sons, sons-in-law, and nephews went after the KGB Intelligence Service. At the PGU, the atmosphere was degrading quickly.

Vetrov’s resentment was not that deep. Once he got over the insults associated with his return from France, his natural energy came back. After all, he still had fifteen years or so ahead of him to perfect his career, and he was still an operative who could expect additional assignments abroad.

To Vetrov, this was proven by the fact that he was not part of the Lubyanka staff, having received a new cover job. He was now assigned to the Ministry of Radio Industry (Minradioprom), a successor of the State Committee for Electronics where he was working before going to France. Although its focus was on military electronic equipment, the ministry maintained official contacts with foreign countries. On November 19, 1970, after taking the vacation time he had left and finalizing the paperwork putting an end to his association with the Ministry of Foreign Trade, Vetrov became chief of the foreign department of the Directorate-General for Economic, Scientific, and Technical Relations. He oversaw all the contacts with capitalist countries for his new employer. At the same time, he continued to regularly report to the KGB headquarters. As far as his department was concerned, this job was just a pause between two missions abroad.

When transferred back to Moscow from Paris, in December 1970, Vetrov was awarded an Honor Diploma with the KGB emblem, the Sword and the Shield. The document is signed by the head of scientific and technical intelligence and by the Communist Party committee chairman. They express their deep gratitude to Vetrov for his impeccable service over many years and wish him a successful career advancing the interests of the Great Homeland.

The ministry was located on 2nd Spasonalivkovsky Lane, behind the French embassy. Vetrov resumed his routine as a Soviet bureaucrat. He arrived at his office at nine and left at six.
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The foreign relations department of a ministry was highly coveted by the nomenklatura. For example, the two men Vetrov made friends with among his colleagues were not just anybody. Anatoli Kirilenko, in charge of socialist countries, was the son of Andrei Kirilenko, a member of the Politburo. Vladimir Maximov (Max) was lucky enough to have married the daughter of Piotr Dementiev, minister of aeronautics.

Max became Vetrov’s very close friend. He was a good guy, but he lacked character. Although he was getting along fine with his wife, marrying the daughter of a Communist bigwig had destroyed him. At home, he was pathetic. Everything around him belonged to his wife. Everything he achieved was due to his father-in-law, who did not refrain from reminding him about it at every opportunity. Maximov dreamt of getting a position abroad to free himself from the heavy-handed tutelage of his father-in-law, the minister.

Whether or not as a direct consequence of all those frustrations, Max was an alcoholic. In his company, Vetrov started drinking more. In the Brezhnev era, in most Soviet organizations, drinking parties—on the eve of official celebrations, on the occasion of a birthday, or simply to drink to a career promotion—were almost an institution. More and more often, Vetrov came back home tipsy.

He even started an affair with a secretary at work, but he still controlled the situation and his impulses. As soon as Svetlana learned about it, he broke up with his lover and pleaded for his wife’s forgiveness, “kissing my hands and my feet,” she recalls. She required a written and signed commitment promising her not to have extramarital affairs ever again.
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This episode illustrates Svetlana’s role in the couple and the hold she had on her husband.

In Moscow, as in Paris, the Vetrovs did not blend in the Soviet crowd.
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Their apartment, located in one of the most upscale districts housing the Soviet nomenklatura, was luxuriously furnished and decorated. A Louis XV desk, an eighteenth-century marquetry armoire, and other antique furniture could be seen in the living room. Walls were covered with antique paintings. While the Vetrovs could not afford paintings by old masters, all the canvasses on the walls were of an excellent artistic level and chosen with taste. Having received academic training in the humanities, and an art lover, Svetlana spent a lot of her time in antique shops, looking for valuable objects.

Well rated by the KGB, Vetrov is on the right track. Vladik, dressed in Pierre Cardin designer clothes, inspires the same confidence as his father.

Vetrov’s comfortable monthly salary was approximately five hundred rubles. Their purchases were rather expensive; the Louis XV desk cost twenty-five hundred rubles, and the armoire thirty-seven hundred rubles. Yet, the couple always came up with the money they needed for each of those acquisitions. This could be explained in part by the fact that they had an account in Vnesheconombank (Bank for Foreign Economic Affairs).
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On the other hand, officially, the Vetrovs could not have saved that much money when they were in France. By comparison, one of the individuals interviewed for this book, who had spent seven years in Paris at the KGB residency, told us that he had not been able to accumulate more than fourteen thousand rubles during that time. In his opinion, though, this was a huge amount of money. This leads us to believe that part of the Vetrovs’ wealth had a hidden origin.

In the winter of 1971, Stanislav Sorokin, Vladimir’s colleague during his entire stay in Paris, together with his wife, ran into the Vetrovs in a huge furniture store on Lenin Avenue in Moscow. The Sorokins were hesitating in front of a three-panel mirror they thought was too expensive at one hundred and eighty rubles. They looked around the store while thinking it over. They stopped in awe in front of a complete bedroom set. The pieces of furniture were white, which, at the time, was as extravagant as a white grand piano or a white Mercedes. The price was exorbitant, around three thousand rubles. At that moment, they saw the Vetrovs coming their way.

“Great stuff!” said Vladimir after having greeted the Sorokins. “Do you like it?”

“Not bad,” conceded Svetlana.

“You want us to buy the set?”

Svetlana shrugged.

“OK, that’s settled, we’ll take it!”

In a March 2007 interview, Sorokin told Kostin that he remembered this episode for years to come. This was the overall impression left by Vetrov on his former colleagues of the Paris residency. It was like a leitmotif: “Vetrov made a tidy little sum with all his dealings in Paris!”

However, besides the small amount of capital they built in France, there may be another valid explanation of the Vetrovs’ financial resources. The largest Soviet art collections owe their existence to individuals who knew where to buy low and where to sell high. For instance, one could get a piece of artwork for next to nothing from a defenseless old woman, from the impoverished daughter or wife of a painter, actor, even of a top-ranking civil servant. The artwork would then be sold back to a nouveau riche eager to invest his illegal rubles, which could not be spent overtly. With each object they handled, collectors received a more than comfortable margin, perfectly legally. There were plenty of clever ways to make money. One had to become a regular at the Moscow antique shops, the number of which could be counted on one hand. Their managers were too happy to put aside a beautiful piece of furniture or a fine painting, and to call a loyal client who knew the ropes; especially since they were rewarded, too. The system was mutually profitable. When a private individual brought in an object he or she wanted to sell, the shop expert gave a minimal estimate for the object, or even a figure significantly below the real value. Then, without putting the object on display, the store staff would sell it to a regular client who would compensate them generously in cash.

We are deliberately spending some time reviewing these various points because they are not mere details. On the contrary, they allowed us to invalidate, among other things, the version that, later on, would be widely shared by PGU personnel, spreading the rumor that Vetrov would have been from the very start, as early as during his Paris days, a well-paid agent working for the French intelligence services.