“Our people poisoned Navalny”: Former FSB officer on surveilling opposition figures and running black ops in Russia and Ukraine

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“I believed I was serving my country”

I am Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Alexandrovich Fedotov, born on September 30, 1981, in Moscow. My father, Alexander Nikolayevich Fedotov, was a career officer in Russia’s FSB. He did not join the service through family connections. As far as I know, he was recruited while still at university. He rose to the rank of colonel, held a fairly senior position, and personally knew then–FSB Director Nikolai Kovalyov, as well as many others who began their careers in the Moscow office at that time.

I myself joined the FSB in 2003. I completed a 10-month training course at the Faculty for Executive Personnel Training on Bolshoy Kiselny Lane in Moscow. After that, I was assigned to the Moscow Directorate, to the department responsible for the Southwestern District. I worked there until 2009, when I transferred to the FSB’s Second Service at my own request.

At the Moscow Directorate, I mostly did routine work: monitoring rallies and checking addresses where members of armed groups might be hiding. Between 2004 and 2009, the Chechen issue remained one of the most pressing. Occasionally, there were incidents — weapons discovered or grenade explosions. All of that fell under my responsibility.

Over time, I grew tired of the routine. I wanted to do something truly meaningful for the country. I wasn’t interested in the opposition. Monitoring protests felt like a purely technical task — you show up, observe, write a report, and that’s the end of it.

I imagined that things were different at the central office — that they dealt with national-level issues, gathered experience from the regions, analyzed situations, developed recommendations, sent people on assignments — in short, carried out major work for the good of the Motherland. I sincerely believed in that when I transferred there. But the reality turned out to be completely different. And, I must admit, it surprised me a little.

“I worked on the same floor as Girkin”

The structure of the Second Service is as follows: at the top is Army General Alexei Semyonovich Sedov, with a first deputy holding the rank of colonel general. Below them are four key directorates: the Directorate for the Protection of the Constitutional Order (UZKS), the Operational-Investigative Directorate (ORU), the Organizational-Operational Directorate (OOU), and the Directorate for Combating Terrorism (UBT). In addition, there is a branch in Pyatigorsk (the Mashuk facility), where each directorate was represented by its own department. Separately, there is the Administrative Service — the secretariat and all document management, which handles day-to-day operations.

Sedov had an office in Lubyanka, but he hardly ever used it. That was the only link we had to the central building. We worked separately — in the tower (the Priboy facility) at 12 Vernadsky Avenue, Building 4. The structure itself had 24 floors plus technical levels. The lower floors housed the FSB’s Alpha special unit, while above them the secretariat and directorates were interspersed.

I, for instance, worked on the twentieth floor. Among the well-known figures nearby was Mr. Igor Girkin (Strelkov). He worked in the department dealing with Chechen issues and Islamic extremism. His office was one or two doors away from mine. We often crossed paths in the hallways. He was a peculiar person — in his office, a Cossack saber hung on the wall.

Initially, I was supposed to join the Fourth Department of the UZKS, headed by Sergei Vladimirovich Sharavanyants. According to preliminary agreements, I was to become an operative assigned to Moscow State University — a major university with thousands of students naturally draws the attention of the security services. That facility is still under the supervision of the FSB’s Second Service.

Officers of the APS work there — they’re career officers of the Second Service who hold positions within the university’s administration, typically as vice-rectors responsible for foreign students or in other administrative roles, depending on the staffing structure. Their task is to gather information inside the university, identify promising students for potential recruitment, and ensure that scientific research does not leak abroad.

Essentially, the full spectrum of operations is concentrated there — from counterintelligence to recruitment — based on the assumption that some of these students will eventually become political leaders or prominent figures in their home countries. Today, to be frank, the main focus is on preventing the admission of people oriented toward “European values.”

Ultimately, however, I ended up in the Third Department, under Viktor Vladimirovich Shamenkov. That department’s line of work involved youth and extremist organizations. It wasn’t my area of interest, and after a year I left and transferred to the Administrative Service. There were a few moments when I just felt like…like a piece of shit.

One such moment was a search at 27 Nakhimovsky Avenue, Building 4. Two women had been found with some brochures. Their door was cut open with a chainsaw, and a fire broke out. When one of them tried to open the door, the officer with the saw shouted, “F*** off, old lady! You should’ve opened up earlier!” Smoke, screaming, chaos. I had expected to see militants or at least strong athletic men — but there were only two terrified women. It was shocking to me.

So my decision to leave Shamenkov’s department wasn’t personal — it had to do with the nature of the work itself. Although, to be fair, I didn’t get along with him either. I’ve read that he’s described as a “staunch statesman,” a man of high moral principles. I don’t share that view. He didn’t like me, and I didn’t like him — mainly because he repeatedly asked me to drive his relatives to hospitals and tuberculosis clinics. I believed that as an officer, my job was to do my work, not act as a chauffeur.

I think he chose me to perform those duties for one simple reason: back in 2009, I was driving an Infiniti FX. At the time, it wasn’t considered especially expensive, but among his department’s staff, it was probably the best car.

Army General Alexei Sedov: directly connected to Putin

The head of the Second Service, Alexei Sedov, as far as I know, has a direct phone line to the top — to Vladimir Putin. When Sedov took over in 2006, he held the rank of major general. He advanced through the ranks unusually quickly. Within just a few years he became an army general. That kind of promotion is rare even for FSB directors, and Sedov, incidentally, wasn’t formally a deputy director.

He always arrived at work in the morning, by 10 a.m., and left only after the director, at around nine or ten in the evening. He practically lived at the office. His family seemed to be more of a formality. But he loved tennis and swimming. For a man in his seventies, he was in impressive physical shape.

My communication with him was limited to reporting current information. In my office, I had a separate phone line — one with no dial pad — which was used only to connect with him. When he called, he never greeted me. It was always the same: “This is Sedov.” His voice was low and growling, like a lion’s. He spoke very curtly, formally. He was a very tough man.

There was one incident in Dagestan — a militant had been shot. I tried calling Sedov at home, then in his car, but I couldn’t reach him. I wrote a report and handed it to the reception desk to be placed on his desk. But the staff there were afraid of him and held it back. Some time later, my phone rang: “What the f*** are you sitting there for?” He never personally insulted me, but his manner of communication was certainly inappropriate for an officer — let alone for a general.

I tried to explain: I had called his home, called his car, sent the report. He replied, “Why the f*** are you hiding behind that piece of paper?” That kind of tone was unfamiliar to me. All I could do was respond calmly: “Alexei Semyonovich, it’s not my fault your reception staff are afraid to hand you documents.” What followed were more shouts, so I put down the receiver. Five minutes later, the head of the Administrative Service burst into my office — despite being based on the ninth floor, while I was on the fourteenth. In the end, the situation was cleared up. I wasn’t disciplined, though Sedov didn’t consider it necessary to apologize either.

I also heard about another case. During a committee meeting, he reportedly yelled obscenities at a deputy minister, threatening to “have him jailed” and bringing up his property abroad. So yes, there’s no doubt that he’s capable of behaving in a coarse, abusive manner.

Sedov himself is a very wealthy man. At least, during that period, it was evident in everything he did. He often arrived in a personal vehicle: a new Geländewagen. His official car was an armored Mercedes-Benz S-Class W222 — the latest model at the time — with an armed FSB officer as a driver.

I remember that we were the ones who collected money to furnish Sedov’s new office. We were given bonuses, which we immediately returned — formally on a voluntary basis. As far as I know, this practice continued even after I left in 2015.

Understanding his influence, many people in the Second Service tried to take good care of him. I remember how, when Sedov broke his leg in a car accident while rushing to an Elton John concert in Moscow, the deputy head of the Administrative Service (and later its head), Igor Vladimirovich Churubrov, personally met him at the entrance, clearing a path so he wouldn’t slip on the snow.

The car with a flashing light, assigned to him as an Administrative Service officer, was also used for Sedov’s personal errands — and even to drive his wife (which, to put it mildly, was against the rules). Later, when Churubrov embezzled funds, Sedov didn’t allow him to be prosecuted. He now works at Sambo-70.

“Even Sobchak was under surveillance”

The Bolotnaya Square protests [in 2011–2012] didn’t exactly scare the authorities. They were more a source of surprise — at how many people were willing to take to the streets and openly express dissent. It was unexpected. Some individual officers sympathized with the protesters. I was among them.

Within the Service, a reorganization took place. Instead of six departments, there were thirteen. People were divided into narrower areas of responsibility so that each could focus more deeply on their specific tasks. Surveillance of opposition figures expanded after the protests — a wider circle of people was brought under operational control. The goal was to identify those capable of quickly organizing large gatherings.

Surveillance targeted everyone involved in opposition activity, without exception. Everyone was watched. Even Ksenia Sobchak was under observation — I can say that for certain because I personally received reports about her.

Personally, I don’t consider Ksenia Sobchak to be an opposition figure in principle — you can’t expect oranges to grow from aspen trees. She was monitored in terms of her movements: if she bought a ticket — for a train or a plane — it immediately became known. It’s highly likely that her phones were tapped. But whether she had security officers following her around 24/7, I seriously doubt. Sobchak’s case is special: she has direct connections to the authorities and is not a rank-and-file opposition figure. Therefore, the materials collected on her were “archived” more than they were actively used.

The situation was different for leaders outside Kremlin control — Alexei Navalny, Vladimir Kara-Murza. They were under truly close operational surveillance. That included both physical accompaniment and constant observation. Tracking a phone can only show a location on a map — it doesn’t reveal the details. You see the person entered a building, but which floor did they go to? Who did they meet? The phone shows they lingered for two minutes. But what happened during that time? Were documents or money handed over? Did they personally deliver something?

I think Boris Nemtsov was also under close surveillance. But, as is clear, that did not prevent them from getting rid of him. I am personally convinced that Second Service officers were not involved in his murder. The FSB as a whole prefers to work by other methods. When a person has a hole in their head, it’s obvious they were shot. There are no other explanations. But when poisoning is involved, especially if the toxin isn’t found, room for doubt remains. Some will believe the person was poisoned, others think they died on their own. That leaves space for maneuver.

At the time of Nemtsov’s killing, I reported to Sedov several times. In the evening I called him at his dacha. He picked up. “Alexei Semyonovich, Nemtsov has been killed on the Bolshoy Moskvoretsky Bridge.” I heard in reply: “Are you sure?” I answered, “Yes, I’m sure. I checked with the Moscow directorate. They confirm. I received the duty officer’s report from the FSB: Nemtsov has been killed.” Sedov asked several times more: “Are you sure?”

If he had known about a planned killing, I think he would have acted differently. Any other report, no matter how important, would have been met with a simple, “I understand, thank you,” before he hung up. This time, I heard genuine surprise in his voice. Does that provide a one hundred percent guarantee that he knew nothing? No. But I assess the probability that he knew about the plot beforehand as extremely small.

“Poisonings of Navalny and the others were coordinated with Putin”

The FSB prefers to eliminate opposition figures in ways that look like natural death. Being hit on the head with a brick in an alley — that is still a violent death. Blows leave visible marks. Poison, however, is often impossible to detect.

Poisonings are the remit of the Second — the “opposition” department of the UZKS, which operates together with NII2. Organizing a poisoning requires understanding how a toxin interacts with the human body and the environment (it evaporates faster outdoors), where to apply it (in a drink, on the skin, on clothing), what dose to use, and how to calculate it. Operatives themselves lack such knowledge, so specialists from the relevant units are brought in.

Decisions on poisonings are one hundred percent coordinated with Putin, because such actions inevitably attract international attention. Nothing like that is carried out without his approval. There are two possible vectors. The first: the decision is made personally by Putin and passed down. The second: an initiative comes from below as a recommendation — “if it isn’t done now, protest movements could grow in the future or political problems could arise on the international stage.” In either case, the final word belongs to Putin. He either gives the order or grants approval. The method and timing, however, are left to the executors. Putin is not a superman. Beyond that, it’s not even Bortnikov who handles things, but Sedov, because both belong to the St. Petersburg group anyway.

When I saw The Insider’s publications about the poisonings, I immediately recognized some of the people involved — “our people.” I had seen them. But there’s a catch. There are 24 floors in Priboy. We were on the twentieth, and they, for example, might have been on the eighteenth. If you haven’t met people personally, you encounter them only by chance — in the elevator, in the hallway, when they come to our Administrative Service for documents. That’s how the dissonance arises: you have a name and position in the directory, but you don’t know the face. Or vice versa — you remember the face, but don’t always know who the person is according to the lists.

Stanislav Makshakov: I don’t remember his face.

Oleg Tayakin (“Tarasov”): I saw him many times at the “Priboy” facility. There are two possibilities: either he’s an officer from the Second Department of UZKS or from NII2. A very distinctive character.

Alexei Alexandrov (“Frolov”): The photo looks familiar, but I’m not sure, so probably not.

Ivan Osipov (“Spiridonov”): I saw him multiple times at “Priboy.”

Konstantin Kudryavtsev (“Sokolov”): Yes, of course. I met him at the facility.

Alexei Krivoshchekov: He’s definitely one of ours. I remember him in the same shirt, but I can’t say anything special about him. I didn’t serve in the Second Department, so we hardly crossed paths. I know he got promoted and now heads one of the departments.

Mikhail Shvets (“Stepanov”): The face doesn’t look familiar.

Vladimir Panyaev: Yes, I know him. He was also promoted and now heads the 9th Department of UZKS — the one that oversees the Ministry of Health.

Roman Mikhailovich Mezentsev: Yes, that’s the right photo — a strong guy, quite bold. He was their main man. Mezentsev was head of the Second Department as of 2015 and probably remained so until 2020. Most likely he was promoted afterward. The First Deputy of UZKS, Sergey Nikolaevich Egorov, moved on to become head of the Organizational-Operational Department, and Nikolai Nikolaevich Mikhailov, who was deputy head of the Directorate, took his place. Therefore, it’s likely that Mezentsev is now deputy head of UZKS in place of Mikhailov. That’s how it works.

Alexander Alexandrovich Samofal: He left in 2024, but I don’t know where to.

Dmitry Anatolyevich Sukhinin: Most likely one of ours as well. I remember his face clearly. If the published biography is correct, he moved to APS in the medical line.

I should note, the people involved in the poisonings didn’t do it for money. There may have been some rewards, but mostly it was purely a career thing.

“The ‘annexation of Crimea’ was handled by FSB General Tatko from the Second Service”

When popular unrest began in Kyiv at the end of 2013, officers from the FSB’s Second Service were sent there. A key role was played by then Lieutenant General Alexander Evgenyevich Tatko, the First Deputy Head of the Service. In terms of authority, Tatko ranked above Alexei Zhalo, Deputy Head of the Service and Head of UZKS. As far as I know, no one was above Tatko there. In practice, he was the one directing all these processes.

Initially, the task was to help Viktor Yanukovych stay in power and handle the Maidan — in particular by involving militants from the Kharkiv's Oplot. Recommendations were given on how to act. But Yanukovych turned out to be a cowardly man — sometimes he gave orders to disperse protesters, only to immediately call the special units back. In the end, he couldn’t maintain control.

When it became clear that Yanukovych would not hold on, the decision was made regarding Crimea. Starting from November 2013, Tatko made three long trips there — each lasting about a month, with brief returns to Russia (for example, over the New Year holidays). After the last trip, a “referendum” was held, and he returned to Moscow for good.

It’s notable how Tatko’s trips were officially recorded. Normally, if someone at the level of First Deputy is absent from work, their absence is reported to the FSB duty office and then placed on Bortnikov’s desk: who is sick, who is on vacation, who is on a business trip. In Tatko’s case, there was a strict ban on recording his absence. Moreover, a complete illusion was created to make it look as if he was present at work. His official car with a siren would arrive in the morning, park in its usual spot, and leave in the evening — at around nine o’clock, when he normally left. Inside the office, an assistant and secretary remained, giving the impression that the boss was there. In reality, Tatko was directing operations in Ukraine at the time.

In Crimea, Yanukovych was involved, but the main reliance was on locals — for example, Sergey Aksyonov. Why him? Because he was a well-known figure in Crimea with a criminal past. It was impossible to place an outsider there. A “foreigner” couldn’t have held control. The effectiveness of the operation depended on local authorities.

The referendum was organized through the same city and district officials — essentially set up the same way as in Russia. People, in practice, had a choice: either leave for central Ukraine and give up Crimea, or accept that annexation was already decided and submit to the new authorities. Tatko’s role in this scheme was organizational and supervisory. The mechanism itself was simple and easy to establish. The executors were the same corrupt local officials. Ukraine at that time was a country with very high levels of corruption. I think it still is today (though perhaps things have gotten slightly better).

People were driven to vote by the combined regiments of the “Crimean defense” — essentially locals working together with mercenaries (who were not dressed in the uniform of the Russian Armed Forces). Most people just wanted to stay away from politics and stay home, because nobody knew what tomorrow would bring.

And certainly, the majority didn’t want these changes — not in this form — meaning when people say that all of Crimea “wanted to return to the motherland,” that’s not true. People were told: Crimea will become part of Russia in any case, and those who didn’t go to the polls will be placed on a special record. My colleagues literally used the phrase: “We gathered the people, drove them to vote.”

At that time, there was no formal documentation process in the Service — for one simple reason: no one wanted the referendum to be declared illegitimate based on any papers that were found later. From what I remember, envelopes marked “for your eyes only” were circulating actively. No one knew what was inside. Only the addressee had the right to open such an envelope.

Imagine if today someone got hold of a document on the organization of the Crimean referendum. For Putin, it would be a fiasco, a total failure. When all of this was originally planned, that possibility had to be prevented. That’s why the rules relied on verbal agreements: in person meetings and calls over secure lines.

Before becoming First Deputy Head of the Service, Tatko headed UBT. That directorate worked closely with Bashar al-Assad’s regime. UBT officers, as part of offsite operational groups (VOGs), operated in Syria, providing support to Bashar. Tatko was a real “dark horse.” Zhalo, by contrast, is well known: just search online, and everything is there in detail, even about his son, who died in Berlin. Zhalo is a public figure.

Tatko was useful precisely because he stayed in the shadows: little known, yet operating at a high level, knowing everyone, understanding the situation, and having real capabilities.

In person, Tatko is completely different from what one might expect — normal, well-mannered, well-spoken, always neat. Despite coming from the provinces, he had a strong character. He was strict, but unlike Sеdov, he was always polite. He addressed people formally, using first name and patronymic, and behaved with decorum. I’d say he was a genuine, proper FSB officer. There were rumors that later he went to Belarus –joining an entity affiliated with Rosatom.

“In Donbas, Girkin acted in coordination with the FSB”

About six months before the events in Crimea, Igor Girkin (Strelkov) left the FSB (but I don’t buy the version that he quit as part of the plan). At that time, he was working with businessman Konstantin Malofeev. Girkin is a man you can give a task to, and he will do everything in his power to accomplish it. Of course, in Crimea and later in Donbas, Girkin was cooperating with the FSB. I think this made it easier to coordinate with the on-site leadership, represented by Tatko.

Once the situation in Crimea and with the “referendum” became clear, the next question arose immediately: how to secure the new territory. The logic was this: a hotspot of tension had to be created in Ukraine to prevent the new government from immediately trying to reclaim Crimea. Perhaps Kyiv would have attempted to take back the peninsula right after annexation, but they lacked the capability to do it. In order to prevent even such an attempt, the “LNR” and “DNR” were established.

They were created by the same people who had previously taken part in suppressing the Maidan, in particular Yevgeny Zhilin and his group Oplot. In addition, there was another man — Roman Mikhailovich Matsulevich. He is listed in the Myrotvorets database (though without a photo). I knew him very well and considered him a friend — he visited my home, knew my family. Later, he seriously betrayed me, but that’s another story.

Matsulevich entered Crimea on behalf of Senator Franz Klintsevich’s organization — he was his official aide. The same people later took part in organizing the fighting in the Donbas. In one of our conversations, Matsulevich spoke openly about supplying mercenaries during the battle for Donetsk Airport, where Oplot also took part.

In Russia this is an entire industry: many people with combat experience are ready to take part in hostilities for reasonable money. Those funds, of course, were one hundred percent state-provided. Klintsevich can be described as a kind of operator in this process — the money and the organization itself ran through him. As a rule, mercenaries are paid in cash. The money is simply brought in and handed over.

“Every activist is already on the radar”

When it comes to the FSB’s Second Service handling opposition figures, it’s all about intelligence work. That means constantly summoning a person for questioning, conducting searches. Eventually, they break and cooperate.

Overall, monitoring activists works like this: before major, high-profile protests, they start working with individuals in advance. Officers may visit their homes, deliver prosecutorial warnings, or conduct preventive conversations. If there’s information that someone is unstable or likely to do something at a rally that the authorities don’t want to see, a case can be fabricated — on charges of hooliganism or other grounds. They might detain the person for several days.

For instance, there was Anastasia Vasilyeva, Alexei Navalny’s doctor. She was under a restriction order: she had to stay home during certain hours – say, from 10 p.m. until morning. In 2021, the task was to catch her violating this schedule. Traffic police would stop her car on her way home when she was forty minutes out: “Your vehicle is listed as stolen, show your documents, fire extinguisher, first aid kit.” A normal two-minute check could stretch to ten or fifteen minutes. Then, as soon as she resumed driving, she would be stopped a second time. Same questions, same delay. Eventually, she arrived home late — which was formally recorded as a violation of her restriction.

After 2020, a facial recognition system began testing in Moscow. It works like PARSIV: just entering a building is enough for you to be identified. This eliminated the need for officers to manually track people. In addition to video recording, mobile phone numbers were recorded at events, making it much easier to establish identities. The main focus was on activists — not those just standing in the crowd, but those giving speeches, shouting slogans, or gathering people around them.

From what I know, dossiers were compiled on these people. There were a huge number of them — I can’t give an exact figure. This was handled by the OOU, which houses the entire database fed by the UZKS. Documents also came in from the Centers for Countering Extremism (CPE). In other words, identifying specific individuals wasn’t fully the work of UZKS — the routine work mainly fell to the Interior Ministry units. It’s a large staff.

Everyone was accounted for — all the faces identified. Operational filming was conducted at every rally. These recordings were then analyzed to single out activists. From there, everything followed a well-established procedure. Before subsequent actions, CPE officers would visit these people, conduct preventive talks, and issue warnings. In reality, far more people were affected and registered than is generally assumed. Additionally, anyone writing to activists in prison automatically entered the information systems without exception, because those convicted under “terrorist” or “extremist” articles were also under surveillance while in detention.

“For everyone in the FSB, the war came as a surprise”

After the “Bolotnaya cases” and Crimea, seeing worsening relations within the team and widespread lack of decorum, I decided not to extend my contract — to leave when it expired: July 31, 2015. I didn’t stay until retirement. Three or four months before leaving, I submitted my report stating that I would not renew the contract.

About a month before my service ended, I had an episode at work: I felt dizzy and couldn’t stand up. An ambulance took me away. Later, at the Guta Clinic private medical center and the Central Military Medical Commission (CVVK), I was diagnosed with Ménière’s disease. I am deaf in my left ear, and sometimes I experience dizziness.

After officially leaving, I went through the CVVK (which is allowed within a year after leaving), received a medical report, and submitted a request to Bortnikov to have the reason for my departure revised — not “voluntary resignation,” but “due to illness.” The report clearly stated that the disease had developed during my service. Still, the request was denied. I was called in to Priboy to speak with the legal counsel, Alla Sosnitskaya, if I recall correctly (she was appointed at the initiative of Churubrov, the former head of the Administrative Service). She told me bluntly: “We’re not revising anything. You left – and that's it. You’re not getting anything.” I didn’t pursue legal action.

I still keep in touch with several colleagues across various departments. The decent ones share my views. For everyone, the war was unexpected. Even Matsulevich, who participated in the events in Donbas and was close to various mercenary groups, was taken aback. So I can say with confidence: some employees were opposed. But inside the system, you cannot influence anything. Your choice is either to take off your uniform and leave — which probably isn’t the worst choice — or stay and follow orders. People were against it, but they couldn’t oppose anything.

I hardly ever met true patriots. There’s a twisted kind of love for the Motherland. When someone says, “yes, I love my country, I know corruption is bad, but I have a family to feed,” is that really love for your country? I doubt it. There are many people who want to come off as honest patriots, but they aren’t. You might be surprised, but with some reservations, I would count someone like Girkin as a patriot. His line of work didn’t allow him to make money: he didn’t oversee banks or businessmen. His focus was extremists, terrorists, radical Islamists. You don’t earn much in that environment — it’s dirty work. And if you do it, you do it more out of conviction, out of some form of love for the Motherland. But love, like truth, is different for everyone.

“I had a criminal case opened against me in Russia”

In August 2021, I left Russia, because I understood the situation wouldn’t improve and that things were moving toward the tightening of restrictions and the curtailing of freedoms. I had some money saved for a house, and my wife and I were considering settling in another country. We traveled a lot — we were in Asia, Cambodia, and eventually ended up in Cyprus.

In 2022, I learned that my house in Russia was being searched and that a criminal case had been opened against me on charges of robbery. This goes back quite a ways. I have a friend, Pyotr Kapralov, who co-founded a company called LLC Khrom that produces industrial gases in the Vladimir Region. This company supplies xenon under government contracts to defense enterprises, including Information Satellite SystemsJSC, Mechanical Engineering Design Bureau Fakel, and the corporation VNIIEM.

In 2019, Pyotr had a conflict with his business partner, Mikhail Savinov. Savinov wanted to buy out Kapralov’s share at a minimal price — just 7 million rubles, a third of the charter capital — while the value of the gas stored in the company’s warehouses alone was estimated in the hundreds of millions. Pyotr simply took part of the gas from the warehouse in cylinders, thinking he could negotiate with Savinov afterward. But Savinov used his “connections” in the Vladimir Region, “motivated” them with money, and succeeded in opening a criminal case under the article for robbery. But how can you rob yourself? Pyotr was the owner. At most, he could have been accused of abusing his authority.

Then members of the LDPR party got involved on Savinov’s side. I asked my former friend Roman Matsulevich (who had organized mercenary trips to Donbas) to help Pyotr with a lawyer. Instead, he recommended a lawyer with an astronomical fee and suggested “resolving” the situation through his contacts in the LDPR and the governor of the Vladimir Region.

Formally, I became involved in this case because I was advising Pyotr and, via some messenger apps, allegedly managing the removal of the gas. In reality, I only received a single call from the team that was moving the gas. They found weapons at the warehouse alongside the cylinders and asked what to do. I advised them to call the police.

I am now wanted in Russia. Pyotr also left the country, but he was detained in Spain, and his extradition is currently being considered. In Russia, three members of the team who were simply transporting the gas on the owner’s orders were convicted, receiving prison sentences of 4 to 8 years. The gas itself is still missing.

Since then, I’ve received various threats multiple times. In Cyprus, a local criminal contacted me by phone. I was sent photos of my house. And later, attempts were made to track my location using phishing links.

Now I have a choice: either stay quiet or do something to fight back against the system — the system that refused to compensate me for my illness and then used its corrupt channels to block my return to Russia. I don’t blame specific people; I blame the system. And I want to show how things could have been done differently inside Russia in order to make a real difference. As for whether they kill me...at this point, what does it matter? After this interview, I’ll definitely be called a traitor. But I don’t see it that way. I swore an oath to the Russian Federation, not to Mr. Putin. And when I see what is happening to my country today, I believe I am still being true to that oath.