The Litvinenko Affair | Poisoned | 1
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Okay, Matt, do I have a story for you? Alice, I'm all ears. Okay, it's got everything. Conspiracy, corruption, murder, farce. That's quite a lot of things. Yeah, I know. It's quite a roller coaster. One of the reasons I also love this story is it's in London in the mid-2000s. This was my era. We're talking Nokia phones, MySpace...

My Humps by Black Eyed Peas. Absolute tune. Bootcut jeans. I think I still wear them. You shouldn't with your calves. You should be showing those off. But what I didn't know was that on the very same streets, the most unbelievable Russian spy story was unfolding. I can't wait to hear this. Well, buckle up. You are in for a ride. Let's go. It's 2.30 in the morning on an autumn night in 2006.

Inside a townhouse in London's Muswell Hill, Marina Litvinenko wakes with a start. She's 44 years old with clear blue eyes and neatly cut blonde hair. Usually she has an air of calm about her, but not tonight. She can hear her husband Sasha throwing up again. I feel a deep sense of dread. It's foreboding, isn't it? Marina sits up.

She can't remember him ever being ill. He's 43 years old and at peak fitness. He doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, but right now he can't keep anything down. His blonde hair is plastered to his face with sweat. He's doubled over in pain. Marina jumps out of bed and mixes a little magnesia and water, a Russian remedy, but he brings it straight back up. She looks at her watch. She called Dr. Prokaszczuk off hours ago. Where is he?

She and Sasha ate together the day he got sick. She cooked him his favorite dinner to celebrate six years since they escaped Russia. Those six years have gone so quickly. She still remembers the day their plane landed at Heathrow. She watched her husband walk up to a policeman in the airport. He could hardly speak English, so they practiced over and over the phrase he needed. I am a KGB officer. I am asking for political asylum. Only when they'd left the airport did she let herself relax.

Since then, she's worked hard to learn English and fit in with British life. They're settled now. She likes London. She feels safe here. When Dr. Brikashchikov arrives, Marina leads him straight to Sasha. He walks into the bedroom and stops dead in his tracks. He's staring at Sasha's grey, wasted face and sunken eyes. It's only a week since he last saw him, but he's almost unrecognizable.

There's only one thing that can make a Russian dissident deteriorate this fast: poison.

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From Wondery, I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. And this is British Scandal.

Now, Matt, from what I've read about you on the internet and on public toilet walls, it's safe to say you love a scandal. Oh, I don't think you can beat it. And I think we all do. Well, I couldn't agree more. Scandals encompass all the best things. Sex, money and power. We've got some amazing ones coming up. Phone hacking, the Iraq war and the incredible story of Litvinenko, which is where we're going to start. Matt, what comes to mind when I say to you, London grad?

Ooh, clever wordplay for starters. Thank you. I didn't coin it. Russian, dirty Russian money flowing into London, the Russian elite ingratiating themselves into the upper echelons of British society, and effectively the British authorities looking the other way. Yep, I would have put it as succinctly and as eloquently as that, so thank you. There's no doubt about it, Russian money and power has changed Britain. It's had such a huge influence, from the Salisbury poisonings...

influencing the Brexit referendum and doing the unthinkable, making Chelsea an even more hateable football club.

It's just a little sports joke. Lads, lads, lads. So in this four-part series, we will be telling the very strange case of Sasha Litvinenko, one of the most outrageous attacks on British soil by a foreign power, one that will put thousands of Londoners in danger, and one that posed a troubling question for the British authorities that stays with us today. If they let Russia get away with this, what might it do next? If you like a scandal, if you're not a fan of Chelsea Football Club, listen on.

This is episode one, Poisoned. Okay, let's go back a bit to Russia in 1998. 35-year-old Sasha Litvinenko looks round the door of a conference room in a Moscow hotel. Inside, the room is crowded with journalists. He looks back at the group of fellow FSB agents with him. They're all taking a big risk. Just to be clear for anyone who might be confused, we're not talking about the Federation of Small Businesses? I'm not, no, not on this occasion. Although, fingers crossed we will at some point. This FSB is...

what used to be the KGB? Exactly that, yes. It's the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation that came in at the end of the Soviet Union. Sasha takes a deep breath. He's been an agent for 10 years now, fighting the criminal gangs that dominate Russian life. They run the drugs trade. They're involved in everything from murder to extortion, kidnapping, blackmail and people trafficking.

He's put his life at risk countless times to bring them to justice. But today, he's facing an even more dangerous enemy. A few months ago, he went to see the new head of the FSB, his new boss. He told him he'd found evidence that the gangs were in league with politicians. His boss listened politely. Then days later, Sasha noticed he was being followed. His phone was tapped. His new boss's name? Vladimir Putin.

Right now, he's the head of the Russian security services, but some say he's destined for higher things. That's why Sasha's here today. He knows he has to let the Russian people know that Vladimir Putin is corrupt. Putin is allowing the FSB to be involved with criminal activity. The truth needs to come out. But talking to the press directly is a dangerous move. He watches as his colleagues cover their faces with ski masks or put on dark glasses. Not Sasha. He wants the world to see his face.

He walks into the room, followed by the others. They sit down behind a long table. Sasha begins. He and his fellow FSB officers have been asked to break the law. They've been told to take part in criminal plots. They refuse to be used as hired muscle. He pauses as he comes to the most explosive part of his statement. Once he says it, he knows his life will never be the same again. I was asked to kill Boris Berezovsky.

Okay, so Boris Berezovsky, he's one of these oligarchs that after the Soviet Union falls and communism partly recedes in Russia and they're selling off all these big state assets, he's one of the people that makes a lot of money in that period. Yes, old Boris did very well for himself. So Boris Berezovsky is famous in Russia. He started off as an academic. Then he goes into business in the early 90s, first buying up a car company, then one of Russia's main TV channels. But his big money came from oil. So he's a big man.

So he's kind of a Russian Rupert Murdoch, but with a car dealership and a stockpile of the world's most precious non-renewable energy source. I mean, really, he should be a millennial with all those flashes.

He's the ultimate entrepreneur and, you know, really would make a great TikTok star if he was in the right era. But, you know, time wasn't on his side. And as is always the case when anyone has a lot of power and makes a lot of money, it made him some enemies too. He's already escaped death once when his car was bombed in 94. And to take us back to our story, that's how Sasha met him. So he's the lead investigator on the case. And pretty soon, he and Berezovsky are political allies as well as friends.

The press are shouting questions over each other. Did Putin give the order? Who else is on the kill list? Are you concerned for your safety? Of course, Sasha is terrified, but he doesn't tell the press that. It's a gamble he has to take. The more publicity he can get, the more it'll keep him safe. He hopes. But it didn't keep him safe enough.

After that press conference, Sasha can tell he's being followed everywhere by plainclothes agents. He gets death threats through the post. At one point, a gang of thugs beat him so badly he can't walk for days. And then one day, Sasha gets behind the wheel of his car. He's about to start up the engine when police cars surround him and he's arrested.

Nine months later, Sasha Litvinenko sits in a prison cell. He counts the cockroaches skittering across the cement. While he's been here, he's sometimes managed to get his hands on a newspaper. They've been filled with lurid stories about him. Some accuse him of corruption. Others say he's suffocated his prisoners with plastic bags. It's hard to believe a few years back, he and Putin were equal-ranking FSB officers.

Sasha knows how good Putin is at getting rid of his enemies. Right now, he's the number one target. He hears the door of his cell rattle open. It's time. He slowly gets to his feet. Today is the day everything will come out. This is his day in court. He knows exactly what he's going to say. He stands up as the judge walks into the courtroom. Before Sasha has the chance to say anything, the judge pronounces his verdict. Not guilty. Sasha can hardly believe it. He's a free man.

A murmur of relief spreads around the courtroom. He grins up at Marina, sees the tears in her eyes. But suddenly he hears shout. A gang of masked men run towards him. They grab him, bundle him out. He's shoved into a van. "Who are you?" Then he blacks out. Sasha wakes up in another cell. This one is so small he can't even lie down. He can only stand or sit. He knows all he can do is wait.

After about 24 hours, he hears the door unlock. He's taken into an office. A prison guard sits him down. Eight months in high security. No visitors, no calls. And what had he been charged with? Stealing from a vegetable warehouse.

Well, just fruit and veg. Well, just fruit and veg to you, Matt. But that's someone's livelihood right there. Or actually just veg. There's no mention of fruit on the charge sheet. You've doubled the charge there. I mean, it does stink of a made-up charge, doesn't it? But yeah, you're absolutely right. For the next few weeks, he's brought into the office daily. The FSB interrogate him. They use these sessions to break him down. Sasha knows the game. They'll keep arresting him and finding charges. It doesn't matter how many times a judge declares he's not guilty.

Then one day, one of the guards whispers to him, you realize you could be poisoned here and no one can help you. That's when he comes to a decision. He needs to get out of Russia. Sooner or later, the courts will release him again. When that happens, he has to escape. And there's only one man who can help him. August 2000, Boris Berezovsky is in his summer house drinking coffee with Sasha Litvinenko.

The 54-year-old Berezovsky may be worth billions, but he still has the appearance of a Soviet-era bureaucrat, rumpled clothes, balding, with a perpetual frown. Sasha's come to Berezovsky for help. He and Sasha sit underneath Berezovsky's brightly lit aquarium in his gilded salon. Berezovsky loves his fish. He finds them soothing. Right now, though, his pulse is racing. He doesn't know if it's the coffee, his third in a row, or what Sasha is asking him.

Sasha has already sent his wife and son to Spain, but the authorities have taken away his passport. He can't leave the country. In the old days, Berezovsky would have picked up the phone to the president and told him what to do. But those days are over. It's the year 2000, and Putin has just become president of Russia. And he's intent on getting rid of anyone who can threaten his power. At the moment, it's all Berezovsky can do to hold on to his media channels and business empire.

He looks at Sasha. Helping this former FSB agent get away from Putin could be just the instrument of revenge he's looking for. It's a risk, but he makes a decision. Not to worry. I'll organise a new passport. He'll send his private jet for his wife Marina and son. They can then all take a transit flight to London. Sasha's blue eyes cloud with gratitude. Berezovsky waves it away. The minute Sasha leaves, Berezovsky starts making his own plans.

He's not necessarily any safer here in Russia than Sasha. He's been thinking about life in England for a while now, too. In fact, he's already bought the house, Stanley House on the King's Road in Chelsea, home to generations of aristocrats. It's cost him 10 million, but the lavish ballroom and 60-foot swimming pool alone are worth it. Not to mention its very own replica of the Elgin Marbles.

For those of us that aren't multi-millionaire Russian moguls, there's something so reassuring that they spend their money on such tats. I mean, a replica of the Elgin Marbles is...

It's like a rich man's version of a plastic Big Ben or plastic Eiffel Tower that you get on holiday. I'm wondering where you find the person that manufactures a replica of the Elgin Marbles. Yeah, how does that... What's that setting you back? What would you like for Christmas, Boris? Funny you ask, actually. I'd love a life-size replica of the Elgin Marbles. Oh, well, it's either that or a selection box. I guess everyone's got their problems, haven't they? Yeah.

But if Sasha Litvinenko or Boris Berezovsky thought that a mere relocation to another country was going to keep them safe, they were only part right. Because the fight with Vladimir Putin is about to move to London. And for Sasha, it will be a fight to stay alive.

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And this is a serious book by a serious man. This isn't...

Airport Lounge, Mills and Boone, Jilly Cooper. That's where the money's at. Horse riders getting ravished in barns. Descending for dummies. No, this is a little bit more serious than that, for sure. It's in fact pretty sensational. It's about a series of bombs that blew up a few Russian apartment blocks in September 1999, which you will definitely have heard about. It was a massive deal in the news. And at the time, everyone thought it was terrorists. It was connected to Chechnya. But Sasha's book...

That took a very different view. Yes, I remember this. And the suggestion is that Putin carried out the attack to make it look like a terrorist attack to justify a war with Chechnya. Now, at the time, I don't know if people would have been more or less likely to believe that. I think perhaps less likely seeing the way Putin has gone since with the broad view that we can take now many years later. It feels very believable. What a murky world. We'll jump back in.

As Sasha signs a copy of his book, he hears a familiar voice. He looks up and sees Anna Polyakovskaya. She's a neat woman in her mid-40s with steel gray hair and oval glasses that perch on the end of her nose. She's also the most famous journalist in Russia. An hour later, they're in the bookshop cafe drinking coffee. Sasha is desperate to know about the reaction back home. Anna tells him the word is that Putin is furious. He's ordered the book to be seized and pulped. Sasha's delighted. That's exactly what he wanted.

He knows Boris Berezovsky will be pleased too when he tells him. He has to keep the billionaire happy. After all, Berezovsky owns the house they live in. He pays the fees for his son's private school and gives Sasha a monthly allowance. This intel from Anna is one of the few ways Sasha can stay relevant. All of his other Russian sources are either out of the game, in jail or dead.

That itself would make you think twice. It just really underlines his courage in saying anything. Because even on smaller things, it takes a lot to speak out about things anyway in life. It's awkward for people to speak in a meeting. And yet, when he knows just that simple fact that they're either in jail or dead. I like that you're comparing this to doing a PowerPoint presentation. Yeah.

I was getting a more chilling vibe. But yeah, you're absolutely right. Standing up in front of your boss is quite scary. I'm not sure, and I speak for you as well, either one of us would be the sort of person that would publish a book about Putin had we been that close to him and already incarcerated. I'm nervous talking about this this many years on. You do raise a good point. LAUGHTER

But right now, Anna looks worried. She tells him that 12 months ago, she was caught by Russian soldiers in Chechnya, where she was covering a story. The soldiers tortured her for hours. Then they poisoned her and held a mock execution. I'm going to disappear for a while, till things calm down.

As she leaves, she looks him in the eye. Be careful. But Sasha's convinced he doesn't need to hide. He's safe in London. Putin can't touch him here. For the next few years, Sasha and his family are relatively safe in London. But that's all about to change. Sasha is going to discover how long a reach Vladimir Putin has. It's January 2006, four years later.

Sasha Litvinenko walks through the grand door of Blenheim Palace. It's one of the biggest country mansions in Britain, the ancestral home of the Duke of Marlborough and birthplace of Winston Churchill. Inside, a string quartet is playing. Hundreds of guests in black tie are drinking pink champagne next to a huge fireplace. It's Boris Berezovsky's 60th birthday party. He hasn't bought Blenheim Palace, we should make this clear. And for those of you that don't know Blenheim Palace...

It is a whacking great stately home. It is a classic British mansion. It is a National Trust property. It's thistles on a seat, isn't it? So you don't sit down. It's all of that business. What's that?

What's that? You know when you go around a National Trust property and they don't want you to sit on the chairs because you're just riffraff? Yeah. They put like a thistle or like a spiky dried flower on the seat so you don't sit on it. You just sit right on that, do you? No, I've never noticed. Maybe I'm... There you go. Next time you're on one of your tours of a National Trust property. I mean, I'm really showing that I'm sort of 34 going on 84 now, but... No, he hasn't bought it, but I suppose this is the equivalent of if you've ever...

rented a function room above a pub. This is the oligarch version of that. Basically, he's got friends in high places. In the centre of the room, Boris Berezovsky is surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers. To one side, Sasha waits for an opening to pay his respects.

He's worried. He and Berezovsky used to be close, but their friendship has changed recently. Sasha knows why, of course. He hasn't been able to give his old guardian anything useful on Putin. He's been desperate to prove he's valuable. Sometimes he's passed on gossip and rumours. It hasn't helped. Berezovsky got annoyed and cut his monthly allowance. If he can just talk to Berezovsky in person, maybe things will be better. But every time he gets near him in the crowd, someone else gets there first.

Sasha takes a canapé from a passing waiter. Russian caviar, of course. He shakes his head at the offer of a glass of champagne. He likes to keep a clear head.

He has to find another contact in Russia somehow, someone to feed him useful intel. And he needs to find a way to make money. And then he spots Andrei Lugovoy. This feels ominous. BFFs? Forever IDST? BFF, by the way, is not another arm of the Russian intelligence service. We've got the FSB, the BFFs, the LOLs. The WTFs. Watch out for them, guys.

Lugovoy is hard to miss. He has the muscular build of a soldier, but he's no meathead. He's charming too. Sasha watches as Lugovoy raises his glass in a toast. He sees Berezovsky laugh at something Lugovoy says. Sasha knows he and Lugovoy have a lot in common, both ex-military and anti-Putin. They both served time in prison. Sasha has heard rumors about him too, but Lugovoy is close to Berezovsky. That's good enough for Sasha. Right now, he'll try anything to get back in Berezovsky's good books.

It's October 16th, 2006, 1:30 in the afternoon, and Andre Lugovoy steps out of a black cab.

He's at the Best Western Hotel, Shaftesbury Avenue. It's ten months since he met Sasha at Berezovsky's party. Their business partnership together is taking off. They've been working with private intelligence companies that have sprung up in London in the wake of Russian money. Today they've got a meeting with Eranese International, a security firm with links to Gazprom, Russia's biggest energy company. It's potentially worth millions. But Lugovoy's not really here for the meeting. He's brought with him a small vial of colourless liquid.

He feels the breast pocket of his jacket where it's hidden. It hadn't been easy getting it through customs at Gatwick. He'd been stopped and questioned for 20 minutes. I'm here to see a friend. The official waved him through. That is a sliding doors moment where if that official stops him, has a word, notices anything about him. A bead of sweat, a kind of a shake, an edgy vibe. These officials are used to seeing people looking dodgy at airports.

I mean, if you've ever been through customs, they pull people aside that look perfectly normal to me. I admit to everything at that point. I'm like, I did it. I did it all. I've usually just got like a kind of like bag of nuts that I'm not supposed to have or something. And I'm like, please, I'm sorry. It's me. I've got nuts and a small vial of colorless liquid. Would you have an excuse ready? Would you, I mean, would you be like, oh, this is just perfume. Like, what would you, like, what would you say if they questioned you? Oh, that. Oh, it came with a suit. Yeah.

That's terrible. I couldn't do it. Get with the soup. That's just one of these things they do, isn't it? Oh, that's water. I get dehydrated. Lock him up. No trial. Taser him. Taser him. Can we establish that as a motif for this show? If you ever misbehave, taser him. That'd be on the merch. You've got high hopes. Get your taser him t-shirts. You've already got ideas above your station. Go to the website. You can get your taser him t-shirts and your small vials of colourless liquid. Taser him.

As Lugavoy walks into the lobby, he notices people are staring and whispering. He's phased for a moment, but he's sure they can't be staring at him. They would have no way to know what he's here to do. He's wearing one of his favorite suits, a shiny fabric with bright, bold checks. It cost him a fortune, and he's teamed it with a colorful shirt and tie and chunky jewelry.

I'd know nothing about fashion. Stop now. But I know that that is a terrible look. It's a lot. There's a lot going on. A lot of textures, a lot of colours. You expect them to want to blend in and just wear bland clothing. Just go to Debenhams and just get a pair of jeans. What's wrong with Blue Harbour? You know, a nice little polo shirt.

He brushes his hand over his pocket. The vial is still there, still safe. Hang on. This colourless liquid in the vial, what exactly is it? So do you want to know what it is? Yes, please. It is water. No, it's not. The liquid inside is polonium-210, which I've done the reading on, one of the most toxic substances on Earth, roughly 250 billion times more deadly than cyanide.

Cyanide would surely do the job. Well, exactly. I mean, you're really gilding the lily, aren't you? It's a bit stronger than cyanide. We've got something 10 times stronger. Higher, higher. 100 times stronger. More, more. Dave, you know that 250 billion? Yeah, go get it. See if he likes it. Hi, I don't suppose you've got anything like cyanide, but roughly 250 billion times more deadly, do you?

Basically, this is ridiculously risky. If the vial smashed, it could kill him and everyone around him. Of course, that won't happen. He's a professional. He's got a job to do. And it's nothing to do with a business meeting. He's here to kill Sasha Litvinenko.

But first, Lugovoy goes shopping. He's meeting up with his old army friend, Dmitry Kovtun, an athletic-looking man with short, cropped hair. Kovtun's also flown in from Moscow to help with the operation. They're due to meet Sasha at three o'clock that afternoon, so Lugovoy figures they have plenty of time to wander around Mayfair. Why don't they put this in Bond films, where they just go for a lovely afternoon shop? Bond's never got an hour to kill, which would be a good title for a Bond film. James Bond has an hour to kill.

Above all, though, Mayfair is home to a very expensive bespoke tailor and Lugavoy has just seen the perfect jacket. He walks into the shop with Cofton. An assistant dashes up. Lugavoy points to the jacket he likes. The assistant slips Lugavoy's own jacket from his shoulders. Lugavoy tells him to be careful. We don't want anything to fall from the pocket. Are you sure?

Are you joking me? I mean, the one thing that you can't do today is go jacket shopping. That's literally the only activity that you can't do before this. Yes. That and maybe, I don't know, fencing. I mean, if it's any clumsier, again, there's so many moments in this story where it could be different. But I love the idea of a clumsy spy who keeps needing extra polonium sent out. Not again. Andre. Who was it this time?

But don't give him your jacket. I don't care if he was cold. I put it in the cloakroom at Bungalow 8. What do you mean you gave her a jacket? Why were you having a date anyway? But gentlemen always give a lady a jacket at the end of the night. She wouldn't get an anus. At three o'clock, Lugovoy and Cofton take their large shopping bags and make their way up a narrow staircase. They're at the office of Eranese, the private intelligence company linked to Gazprom. The boss, Tim Riley, is waiting for them.

Sasha's also there drumming his fingers on the green baize table. Lugovoy holds out his hand to Riley. He introduces Kovtun as a security expert and they settle down to business. But Lugovoy's only half listening. He's working out how to get Sasha to take the poison. Can we get some tea? Tea? You English drink it all the time, don't you? Riley looks surprised, but he gets up and boils some water.

Lugovoy listens to Kovtun spin some line about using his contacts in Moscow. "It'll bring in millions of pounds," he says. Lugovoy knows it's rubbish. They'll be back in Russia soon, and Riley won't see a penny. Riley puts the teacups on the table. But Sasha doesn't want tea. He asks for a glass of water instead. Just then, Riley's phone goes. He mouths an apology and leaves the room. Lugovoy sees his chance.

He offers to get Sasha the water. He has the vial in the palm of his hand. He's practised so many times how to tip out the liquid, but now as he passes the water over to Sasha, his hand slips. He watches a few drops of polonium spread into the green baize table. Oh, I mean that, firstly, you've stained someone else's table. I know etiquette isn't the number one priority here. You're not getting your deposit back. It's all over my green baize table. What is a green baize table? I told you to use a coaster.

Sasha picks up the glass. He's about to drink when Riley comes back in. Sorry about that. Back to business. Sasha puts the glass down, starts talking about contracts. When they leave the meeting an hour later, Sasha's glass is still untouched. Lugovoy knows he's running out of time. An hour later, Lugovoy walks into a sushi restaurant with Sasha and his accomplice, Koftin.

He knows this might be his only chance. Suddenly, Kovtun steps in. Will you get me a fork? I can't manage with chopsticks. But Sasha doesn't move. Get it yourself. Lugovoy can see Sasha doesn't like Kovtun. Sasha lifts the plastic cover off and wraps his chopsticks. Lugovoy watches helplessly as Sasha eats his sushi. All of it. That's it. He's missed his chance. So now he's got a new problem. What's he going to do with a vial of deadly polonium?

A few hours later, Lugovoy is back at his hotel. He goes into his small en suite bathroom and pours the vial down the sink. Then he changes his clothes, shaves and puts on aftershave. He's ready for a night out in London. He's about to hit the town and he's totally radioactive. It sounds like a positive thing that young people might say. Oh man, you are totally radioactive. Is that because he meant to put on aftershave but he put on the polonium? LAUGHTER

Actually, sometimes when men have put on aftershave, they may as well be radioactive. It's toxic. Polonium, but it's in the air. Just after midnight on October the 16th, Andre Lugovoy and Dmitry Kovtun walk into Hey Joe's nightclub in German Street Mayfair. Music thumps as they make their way across the pink lit floor to a booth. Lugovoy looks around, sees his own reflection staring back from mirrored walls. Within seconds, a waitress dressed as a naughty nurse comes to their table.

Lugovoy scans down the champagne list. Prices range from £15 a bottle to £60,000. He orders at the cheaper end, hands the list back to the waitress. Their rickshaw driver, a young Polish guy, told them this is where Russians hang out. So here they are.

This is quite a place they've gone to. In the bathrooms, water spouts from penis-shaped gold tap. On the dance floor, there's a large bronze phallus. A phallus tap does not scream cleanliness, does it? Of all the things you don't want a tap shaped like, that's probably the last thing.

You'd never fully feel clean if that's what you'd washed your hands in. I'm not getting clean vibes from this club generally. I want to see some health and safety certification, really. Imagine explaining that to your mum as well. We've had the bathroom done. You're going to love the taps. I mean, she freaked out at the different coloured grouting. So what's she going to say about the tap?

And what's often missing when you're on the dance floor is, of course, a gigantic penis. People who do this stuff always think it's really edgy and provocative. I always just think it's really crap. It's quite carry-on, isn't it? It's quite camp. And they'll think it's dead edgy. Look at that, it's a massive penis. Yeah, but you just come across as sad. You're not this provocateur that you think you are. It doesn't make it edgy. You're not clever. It's base. Do you think the guy that made the replica Elgin Marbles also made the penis paraphernalia? Someone's got to polish that.

I'm not even lying. We do actually know from Cofton's ex-wife that he always wanted to be a porn star. So no wonder he likes it here. What a sad little man that that would be your desire or dream. Well, maybe Lugovoy isn't really into Hey Joes because the next thing that happens is he rings Sasha and asks if he fancies joining them. But Sasha isn't interested. He tells them he's in bed, not feeling well.

Lugovoy orders more drinks and pockets the receipt. His attempt to poison Sasha ends in failure. How's he going to explain this back in Moscow? Lugovoy will take another run at it on his next trip to London. Putin is stepping up his efforts to get rid of his enemies, businessmen, journalists. And next time, Lugovoy will leave no room for error.

This season, Instacart has your back to school. As in, they've got your back to school lunch favorites, like snack packs and fresh fruit. And they've got your back to school supplies, like backpacks, binders, and pencils. And they've got your back when your kid casually tells you they have a huge school project due tomorrow.

It's October 19th, 2006, and Sasha Litvinenko sits in the audience at the Frontline Club, a private members club for foreign correspondents in West London.

Tonight, it's hosting a panel to talk about the death of Anna Polakovskaya, who was murdered two weeks ago. I totally forgot that this had happened around the same time. So what happened to Anna? So she was ambushed outside her apartment block in Moscow, and she was shot four times once in the head. The brutality of it. No matter how many times you read back over this stuff, it is so brazen and so brutal. When

When the chair asks the audience for questions, Sasha raises his hand. He stands up and takes the microphone. He's happy to be on camera saying this. He's been Anna's friend for years. They met every time Anna was in London. He has no doubt who's guilty for Anna's death. Only one person can order the killing of a journalist of the caliber of Anna Polakovskaya. And that's Vladimir Putin. Sasha gets a round of applause and sits back down. Later at the bar, he sips a mineral water. Someone asks him, isn't he afraid himself?

He is afraid. But like Anna, he can't let fear stop him. And if one of the most famous journalists in Russia can be killed, then no one is safe. Even in Britain, he has to be on his guard. But at the same time, he's desperate to talk to other Russians. He's giving interviews to anyone who asks him. But he repeats the same thing over and over. Putin is destroying Russia. Putin's evil. He's a dictator.

Sometimes he catches people glazing over as he speaks, or they politely make their excuses when he starts again. It's getting to be all he can talk about, but he doesn't care. He has to keep warning people about Putin.

One week later, André Lugovoy touches down at Heathrow. It's been 11 days since his last visit, and now he has a new vial of polonium in his jacket pocket. He looks straight ahead as he passes through customs. No one stops him. He took extra precautions. This time, it's hidden in a pen.

It's incredible that they can keep getting this stuff through customs. Yeah, so it's worth pointing out that polonium isn't actually that easy to detect, even though it's so potent. If it's in a glass vial, it won't set off any of the radiation detectors. And at least he's hidden it in a pen this time. There's an extra layer of thought compared to his previous trip. Yeah, a little bit of preparation. That night, Lugovoy is sipping wine in the Palm Court Bar at the Sheraton Hotel.

It's an elegant room, Art Deco style, with Chinese screen paintings, vases and lamps. He's chosen it because it's usually quiet. But today, it's already getting busy. Nice to have him somewhere where there isn't a giant gold willy in the middle of the floor. Makes a change, doesn't it? You never thought you'd say that today. When Sasha turns up, Lugovoy can already see something's different with him.

Sasha's eyes are darting all over the place. Then he says he thinks he's being followed. Lugovoy isn't quite sure what to say, so he asks, who by? Then he tells Sasha he needs a drink. He orders him a pot of tea, orders himself another glass of red wine and a Cuban cigar for later. He asks about Sasha's wife and kid. Usually Sasha likes talking about his family, but right now he's not interested in small talk. He's quiet for a moment and then he leans forward.

Listen to me, Andre. None of us are safe. You need to look after yourself in Moscow. You worry too much. The waiter puts more drinks on the table, asks if they need anything else. Lugovoy waves them away. As soon as the waiter's gone, Sasha produces two orange SIM cards and hands one to Lugovoy. Use this when you need to contact me. Lugovoy knows how much Sasha needs him for intel, especially now that Polakovsky is gone. Why don't we go eat somewhere? We can talk business over dinner. Sasha stands up. Thanks, but I'm tired. I'm going to go to the hospital.

Don't forget to use the sim. Lugovoy watches him walk out of the bar. It's a disaster. Still no chance to slip him the poison. Lugovoy finishes his wine, goes up to his room, locks the door, goes into the en suite. He opens the vial, starts to pour it down the sink, but after three glasses of red wine, his hand isn't as steady as it should be. The vial slips out of his hand and onto the bathroom floor. Half its contents spill out. If he makes one mistake now, he's a dead man.

He grabs a towel and mops up the spillage, careful not to get any on his skin. His hands are shaking. He picks up the vial and puts it in the little pedal bin. He covers the vial with tissues and dumps the towel in the bath. He's still got one big problem. How the hell is he going to explain this to Moscow? A few days later, Sasha's wife Marina is in the living room of their home in Muswell Hill. She's trying to get Sasha to help their son with his homework. She knows Anna's death has hit him hard. It's hit them all hard.

She was fond of Anna too. But since Anna died, Sasha hasn't been sleeping. In fact, for the past two days, he's been manic, endlessly trawling through old footage of Putin. He's putting together a dossier, he says, for Berezovsky. She wants him to stop obsessing about Putin and concentrate on something else, even if it's only for an hour. Help your son with his homework. He's about to get up from his computer when something on a webpage catches his eye. He stares, transfixed.

Marina looks at the clip. Putin is talking to a group of tourists outside the Kremlin. He kneels down, shakes a young boy by the hand, chats with him a while, then pulls up the boy's shirt, kisses him on the tummy. Marina tries to close the laptop, but Sasha stops her. This is it. His eyes are shining. This time I've got him.

That night, Boris Berezovsky looks over his country estate. His English butler brings him a glass of Chateau Lafite Rothschild 48. I'd love to pretend that I know that bottle of wine. I'd love to sit and go, oh, great choice. It's an absolute beauty. You should try it sometime, Matt. Goes well with a bag of salt and a bit of crisps. He loves to sip it slowly and watch the sunset over his 30 acres of manicured lawn. His blood pressure has been sky high recently. In June, the Kremlin passed a law allowing terrorists to be assassinated, even if they're abroad.

He knows that includes him. You know what they say, one man's terrorist is another man's Chateau Latif Rothschild 48 wine drinker.

But he has a more pressing irritation. Sasha Litvinenko has been ringing him almost non-stop in the past few days. He hasn't had a minute's peace. Vladimir Putin is a paedophile. It's Sasha, yet again. He sounds stressed, almost manic. Berezovsky tries to be patient. What's your evidence? I've got proof I saw him. A clip from state television. He was standing outside the Kremlin. He pulled up a young boy's shirt and kissed his stomach.

Berezovsky can hear his own shallow breathing. Have you been taking something? I saw it on a clip from television. Berezovsky hangs up. He doesn't know what to do about this guy. His conspiracy theories get worse with every call, and every single one of them damages Berezovsky's legitimate fight with Putin. He's so irritated, he glugs down the wine in one go. His blood pressure has just got a whole lot worse, and his patience with Sasha has finally run out.

And so has Sasha's luck, because just a few weeks later, Andre Lugovoy is back in London again. And for Lugovoy, the third time is a charm. He can't go back to Moscow with another fail. Dmitry Kovtun is with him again. Head still full of porn dreams. He's shooting for the stars, Matt. But there'll be no wild nights at Hey Joe's this time. Lugovoy has brought his family with him, his wife, two daughters and his eight-year-old son. So he's taking his family on a kind of murder mini-break? Yeah.

where he's trying to combine a bit of family time with work. This is sort of the Russian assassin version of centre parks. It's just so weird, you go, I've got a city break coming up, or he says I've got to go to London on business, and his wife's like, well, look, you're always going away, so I really think you should bring me and the kids. Why do you need to travel so much as an insurance broker? Luke Avoy has booked his family into the Millennium Hotel in Mayfair.

When he walks in, he looks for security cameras. They cover most of the hotel. Most, but not all. There's one place that isn't monitored, the Pine Bar, a small wood-panelled room with pictures of racehorses and a revolving door onto the street. That's the place he'll poison Sasha Litvinenko. If Lugovoy times it right, he knows he should be finished for the football match tonight. Siska Mosko are playing Arsenal in the Champions League. He's got tickets. Just incredible that he's squeezing in

a football match. I'll do Phantom on the Friday night, I'll assassinate him at three, I can get to the Emirates by then and then I could take in a late night at Ronnie Scott's after that. First he takes the family sightseeing. He heads out with his wife and kids to Marble Arch, catches an open top bus for a tour of London. Later he calls Sasha who agrees to meet him at the Pine Bar, 4pm. At 3.45 Luke Voice settles down into the Pine Bar and orders a pot of tea and three cups.

He pours tea for himself and Kovtun. They drink it. When he's sure no one is watching, he takes the lid off the teapot and pours in the polonium. Then he heads up to the gents to wash his hands. When he gets back, he and Kovtun order two gins each and a cocktail. Then they wait. Sasha turns up just after 4pm. We thought you weren't coming. Lugovoy pulls out the chair opposite for Sasha to sit down. We're at global risk tomorrow. Here, have some tea. There's a little bit left.

He tries not to watch as Sasha pours the tea, adds the lemon, brings the cup to his lips, and drinks. It tastes a bit funny. Oh, the English never make good tea. He watches closely as Sasha sips again. And then again. There's enough polonium in the tea to kill him a hundred times over. Sasha's already drunk enough to make him a dead man walking. The rest of his days will be spent in agony. Suddenly, Lugovoy hears a child's voice. He looks up and sees his young son running towards him, followed by his wife and daughters.

Lugovoy knows if anyone even inhales a tiny particle of polonium, they will die. But if he breaks cover now, he's blown it. So he waves them over. He grabs his eight-year-old son. "This is Uncle Sasha." Lugovoy watches as Sasha ruffles his son's hair and shakes his hand. It was close, but he's made it. His job is done. He's poisoned Sasha Litvinenko. He's also just become the world's first nuclear terrorist.

This is the first episode in our series, The Litvinenko Affair. In the episode notes, you'll find some links and offers from our sponsors. Please support them by supporting them you help us offer you this show for free. Another way to support us is to answer a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all of our dramatizations are based on historical research.

If you'd like to know more about the Litvinenko affair, the text of the public inquiry presented to Parliament in 2016 is available online. We also especially recommend the books The Litvinenko File by Martin Sixsmith and A Very Expensive Poison by Luke Harding. I'm Matt Ford. And I'm Alice Levine. Karen Laws wrote this episode, additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our sound design is by Marcelino Villalpando. Our senior producer is Russell Finch. Our

Our executive producers are Stephanie Jens and Marshall Louis. For Wondery. Follow British Scandal on the Wondery app, Amazon Music or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to episodes of British Scandal early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey at wondery.com slash survey.