The Spies Who Loved One Another
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The S nonimmigrant classification is generally available to aliens who would otherwise be inadmissible to or deportable from the United States (for example, due to criminal convictions or certain problems with immigration status). The statute authorizes the Secretary of Homeland Security to waive most grounds of inadmissibility. The program is particularly useful for witnesses or informants who would otherwise be in danger in their home countries. It is also a substantial benefit for many other witnesses and informants who might not otherwise be able legally to enter or remain in the United States.
—S Visa Program—Eligibility
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When the Soviet Union fell in 1991, there were high hopes for the victory of democracy and an end to the Cold War. But there were a lot of unintended consequences. The new Russian government managed to be both ineffective and authoritarian. Attempts to institute a free market economy led to much privation and the rise of oligarchs taking over formerly state-run enterprises. Organized crime ran rampant. Outside observers started referring to the Russian Federation in terms of the lawlessness and wildcat capitalism of the old Wild West.
It was against this chaotic background that young Alexei Artamonov grew up, pursuing a career in the family business—state security. Both his parents worked for the KGB, his grandfather was an intelligence officer who interrogated prisoners in World War II, and his great-grandfather had been part of the Czarist secret police. The service Artamonov entered was a far cry from the KGB of the Soviet era, which had spied on foreign nations—and also on citizens at home. That agency was dismantled, and the FSB (Federal’naia sluzhba bezopasnosti or Federal Security Service) was tasked with counterintelligence, border protection, counterterrorism, and investigation of federal law violations. In American terms, the FSB covers the territory of the FBI, Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), Homeland Security’s Federal Protective Service, the National Security Agency (NSA), Customs and Border Protection, the Coast Guard, and part of the turf of the Drug Enforcement Administration. Although its officers don’t wear uniforms, the FSB is a military operation, and Artamonov rose to the rank of captain. He even met his wife through the service.
In addition to all its official duties, however, the FSB does some very important work off the books, providing krysha, literally a “roof”—cover for corruption and help in the transit and laundering of dirty money. Even before the rise of the oligarchs, black markets and corruption had been a regular feature of Soviet life. But the wide-open days of the nineties poured vast amounts of cash into a crooked system, and as political figures demanded their cut, they created a kleptocracy—government by thieves, for the thieves, and to the detriment of the national budget and economy. Cherny Nal, “black cash,” is sent to the financial centers in St. Petersburg or Moscow in enormous amounts. Ruble notes are shipped in cargo planes by weight from the big operators, and smaller operations deliver duffel bags full of cash by car.
Artamonov’s father foresaw a career in foreign intelligence for his son, sending him at the age of seventeen to the FSB academy, or “KGB high school.” Even before that, Artamonov had been sent to New York and Miami as an exchange student, to get to know the enemy and the enemy’s language. Instead, Artamonov discovered he rather liked the enemy. “It was completely different than Russia,” he was to say later, “an open world.”
The plan to have an international spy in the family went off the rails when Artamonov married his first wife—from outside the KGB. He graduated with a master’s degree in criminal law, and as a newly minted second lieutenant was sent to the counterintelligence side of state security, working financial crimes. Promotions came slowly, and Artamonov began to feel his career had stalled. He also saw golden opportunities in the private sector. As a financial watchdog, he’d already accepted bribes. It was pretty much an accepted system. As Artamonov put it, “Law enforcement agencies, intelligence, court system, government officials, business and criminal families have deeply integrated into each other and have organized as one large criminal syndicate.”
Everyone was out to get rich quick, and Artamonov went where the real money was, becoming deputy head of security at Creditimpex Bank. The name would suggest an import-export connection, but by 2005 the bank was mainly exporting billions, laundering money and moving it offshore. A big concern in a kleptocracy is keeping one’s ill-gotten gains from being stolen by a larger crook. He knew where the money was coming from: “tax evasion, concealment of illegal profit, bribery, hiding real beneficiaries, legalization of dirty money, and corruption.” After playing a shell game with odnodnevki and pomoiki, literally “ephemeral” and “trash,” companies, cash arrived at the bank and went out for fake loans or reinvestment schemes in Malta, Vietnam, the British Virgin Islands, and the Baltic states, where it would be parked or laundered.
Artamonov could make tens of thousands of dollars a month in fees, or “gratitude,” in addition to his regular salary. Similar gratitude ensured an “eyes closed policy” from the government. FSB contacts not only warned when an investigation might begin but participated in physically transporting money. In such a climate of greed, it was inevitable that Artamonov would overreach. “We got too greedy,” Artamonov admitted, and his associates turned on him. “The first I knew my bank accounts were frozen. Then the threats came.” His father called to warn that the only choice to resolve the situation was “the officer’s way”—to shoot himself—or his associates would do the job for him. Instead, Artamonov went for a third alternative, to flee for his life. He and his wife Victorya left Russia for the Dominican Republic, one of the few places that didn’t require a visa for people with a Russian passport and was out of the direct reach of the government. They left their savings and their lives behind.
As far as Artamonov’s parents were concerned, he had become an Enemy of the State, and a tremendous number of people who received that title ended up dead. In Russia, Serge Magnitsky, an auditor, discovered a huge tax fraud orchestrated by high police officials. He wound up being accused of the crime he’d uncovered and died in custody. Boris Berezovsky, the billionaire who had financed Vladimir Putin’s rise to power, fell out with the Russian leader, fled to London, and spent years propagandizing against Putin, only to end up deceased with an unproven cause of death. Alexander Litvinenko, a former FSB officer who defected with information about criminal corruption, was poisoned with radioactive polonium, suffering a lingering, painful death.
As exiles, Artamonov and Victorya faced a precarious future unless they came up with a Plan B. In the end they approached the U.S. embassy, offering information to the CIA. The idea was to trade Artamonov’s knowledge of connections between banks and criminal operations both in Russia and in the United States for a comfortable sum of money and a foreign passport to settle in Denmark or Switzerland.
Instead, after initially interrogating Artamonov and Victorya, the CIA transferred the couple to the FBI. A supposed island-hop to Puerto Rico turned into a trip to the U.S. mainland. Still, the prospects seemed good—the FBI offered a payment of $300,000 and a contract offering $7,000 a month for assisting with investigations. According to Artamonov, “The FBI assured us we would receive passports, social security cards, driver’s licenses. That we would get certified copies of our Russian qualifications to use in the United States so we could find jobs. The Virginia FBI office said we could have a green card within a year if we cooperated.” The Artamonovs can’t talk about the specifics of their work for the FBI—their contract obligates them not to disclose anything. But for five years, they helped the feds make headway against Russian mafia operations and money laundering in this country.
During that time, Artamonov went before a judge to change his name—to Janosh (for Janus, the god of beginnings and endings) Neumann (a “new man”). However, relations with the FBI became contentious. Neumann would give information only on illegal FSB activities. “I never set up anyone from the Russian intelligence,” he insists. His targets were “gangsters, criminals, guys who are dirty, guys who are corrupted.” Complaints circulated that his manner was arrogant. Certainly, he was not impressed with the U.S. security services. He mentions that their first CIA contact wore a wig that needed constant adjusting. As for the FBI, he compared it to “a second-rate soccer team.”
By this time, the Neumanns had been brought to Portland, Oregon. As Neumann puts it, “This is not at all what we imagined when we went to the Americans. We don’t have jobs, we don’t have documents. We live in a place we never even heard of before we got here.” As undocumented foreigners, they had to pay a premium for everything. It was prohibitively expensive to find housing. And simple stress had taken a toll on Victorya’s health, to the tune of more than six figures in medical expenses.
But they did their jobs, working undercover to identify financial mis-doing and smuggling aided and abetted by Russian security agencies such as the SVR (foreign intelligence) and GRU (military intelligence) whose work with organized crime groups dates back to the days of the old Soviet bloc, “using them in their interest,” Neumann explains, “specifically for dirty work and legalization of dirty money.” Despite blowing the whistle, naming names, uncovering corrupt schemes, and the fact that to his former security colleagues “I’m already dead,” Neumann still loves his homeland. “I defected from the system, not my country,” he insists.
After five years of service, the worst happened. The FBI ended the Neumanns’ contracts, which also meant an end for their visas as people cooperating with federal law enforcement. Neumann and Victorya no longer had Russian passports but could no longer stay in the United States. They had become people without a country and were exposed to retaliation from the criminal types they had exposed. When they attempted to apply for asylum, the immigration service rejected their appeal on the grounds that they were dangerous foreign agents. In other words, the experience that had made them invaluable to national security was used against them. As Neumann recalls his initial meeting with the FBI, “One of the first things they asked was, did you kill anyone? I was clear. No, never.”
One of the murkier issues revolved around torture, where Neumann’s command of English may have let him down. During the asylum interview, he was asked, “Are you doing anything physical? I said, not by myself. It’s not my job to do so. Of course, I know how this looks like. I know how to do this. But I never do this by myself.” To some, that sounded as though he asked questions during an interrogation and left the dirty work to others. Neumann and his wife insist that is not what he meant, but the interview ended disastrously. They lost their bid for asylum.
This result did not sit well with some of their more sympathetic contacts in the FBI. Even though Neumann and Victorya had stirred up a hornet’s nest by threatening to sue the bureau and by giving a long interview to a British newspaper, the Guardian, colleagues thought they hadn’t received their due. Maybe it was too much to hope for the splashy lifestyle that Hollywood painted for defectors. But Neumann and Victorya seemed to be living the American Nightmare—wrecked credit, crippling medical bills, foreclosure—and now they would just be kicked out of the country.
I have to admit, I found it very ironic when the FBI reached out to me with an official request for my services. Years before, a similar but unofficial approach had earned an internal investigation for the FBI agents who’d asked for my help. Times had certainly changed—the FBI was even talking about paying for my services. Although that notion evaporated, I could see that I was the last, desperate hope for this couple. The Neumanns were in a difficult legal position, going before an immigration judge for deportation proceedings. I faced a prolonged campaign of litigation and negotiation. From a legal standpoint, when the Neumanns were first brought to the United States by the CIA, they should have qualified for the PL-110 program, essentially witness protection for defectors, with asylum, security, and even living expenses covered. Failing that, they should have received an S visa, for aliens assisting law enforcement, from the FBI. It seems as though the Neumanns represented a turf dispute between the two agencies, and their most important need seemingly never was addressed. Since the Neumanns were no longer officially cooperating with the FBI, the grounds for an S visa were no longer available. Add in another layer of bureaucracy from the U.S. Customs and Immigration Service and the mess became even more intractable. Even when Senator Ron Wyden, a member of the Intelligence Committee, started asking questions, he couldn’t make any progress.
Neumann was frankly astonished at the situation. In Russia, state security is paramount. FSB officers could slash through red tape—and even laws—to achieve a security goal. In Neumann’s view, the government agencies had made false representations to him—fraud—and then trapped him in this country—unlawful imprisonment. Needless to say, the FBI was not eager to engage in a legal dispute. Not only would it be embarrassing for the bureau, but it would also be bad for business. Publicizing the case could well deter potential defectors with important information. Worse, it would reveal the FBI’s methods and procedures for helping people to defect, and even expose agents in place to danger.
The FBI was willing to play hardball, however, intimating that Victorya’s health history might be revealed in court, affecting her chances for employment. The bureau had obtained the Neumanns’ personal documents, passports, diplomas, and IDs for verification and had never returned them. Now, at last, they turned them over to me, with a written warning saying, in part, “acceptance of the attached materials may adversely impact the personal safety of Janosh Neumann and/or Victoria Neumann.” In addition, “the United States Government denies any responsibility or liability for the personal safety of Janosh Neumann and/ or Victoria Neumann.” That was certainly a shift from the opinion I’d been given at the outset of my involvement in the case. When I’d asked if the Neumanns were in danger, I was told, “there is a substantial risk, but it may be mitigated by time.”
In fact, with the revelations in the Guardian, the FSB showed it had not forgotten about its former operative. Instead of a treason charge, they went with bank fraud, claiming that Neumann had misappropriated a million and a half dollars. This Neumann dismisses as “a total lie,” an attempt to discredit him, pointing out that Creditimpex Bank lost its license in 2015, its owners officially called money launderers and criminals—although they continue to do business, apparently under FSB protection.
My job was to secure a safe residency in this country for the Neumanns, by suggesting strategies and guiding negotiations between Neumann’s and Victorya’s lawyers, the FBI, and ICE, with the help of Senator Wyden’s office. We succeeded in getting asylum for Victorya and a Grant of Deferral of Removal for Neumann. Thus, Neumann, Victorya, and their baby son will stay in this country. Both have received authorization to work, and Victorya has a clear path to permanent residency. Once she gets her green card, she can apply for a change in Neumann’s status.
After such a complicated resolution, I have to admit surprise at the sequel—a group of retired military and covert operatives has joined together in a fund-raiser for the Neumanns. Former Navy SEAL Michael Janke has offered Neumann and Victorya jobs as consultants for his film production company and is even arranging for housing in California. Neumann had previously found some TV work in Portland, appearing as a Russian heavy in the supernatural drama Grimm. Neumann appreciates the help, and the reason for it. “They are doing this for their country, for what they believe is right. They are fixing the mistakes of others who failed to do their jobs in the first place.”
I can understand some of his bitterness. To stick your neck out and come to a strange country in hopes of fighting corruption is hard enough. But when your newfound land can’t—or won’t—keep its promises, that must be a crushing blow. Worse, it has a chilling effect on others who might hope to trade important information for asylum in this country. Anyone willing to take possibly fatal risks to bring us warnings or intelligence should be welcomed vigorously, not confronted with an impassable line of bureaucrats. The Neumanns’ case may not show our treatment of defectors in a very flattering light, but it should be an object lesson for the future on how to show honest gratitude and project a strong message to other people out there who would want to help America’s homeland security issues here and abroad.