From the SWAP: A Secret History of the New Cold War by Drew Hinshaw and Joe Parkinson. Copyright © 2025 by Drew Hinshaw and Joe Parkinson. Published by Harper, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

In the third week of March 2023, Vladimir Putin dialed onto a video call and reached for a winning tactic he had been honing since his first weeks as president. He approved the arrest of another American.

By then, Russia’s president was running the world’s largest landmass from a series of elaborately constructed, identical conference rooms. As far as the CIA could tell, there were at least three of them across Russia, each custom-built and furnished to the exact same specifications, down to the precise positioning of a presidential pencil holder, engraved with a double-headed eagle, the state symbol tracing back five centuries, on the lacquered wooden desk. Neither the 10 perfectly sharpened pencils inside nor any other detail in the windowless rooms, with their beige-paneled walls and a decor of corporate efficiency, offered a clue to Putin’s true location.

Russia’s president refused to use a cell phone and rarely used the internet. Instead, he conducted meetings through the glow of a large screen monitor, perched on a stand rolled in on wheels. The grim-faced officials flickering onto the screen, many of whom had spent decades in his close company, often were not aware from which of the country’s 11 time zones their commander in chief was calling. Putin’s staff sometimes announced he was leaving one city for another, then dispatched an empty motorcade to the airport and a decoy plane before he appeared on a videoconference, pretending to be somewhere he was not.

From these Zoom-era bunkers, he had been governing a country at war, issuing orders to front-line commanders in Ukraine, and tightening restrictions at home. Engineers from the Presidential Communications Directorate had been sending truckloads of equipment across Russia to sustain the routine they called Special Comms, to encrypt the calls of “the boss.” The computers on his desks remained strictly air-gapped, or unconnected to the web. Some engineers joked nervously about the “information cocoon” the president was operating in.

But even from this isolation, the president could still leverage an asymmetric advantage against the country his circle called their “main enemy.” One of the spy chiefs on the call was proposing an escalation against America. Tall, mustachioed, and unsmiling, Major General Vladislav Menschikov ranked among one of the siloviki, or “men of strength” from the security services who had risen in Putin’s slipstream. The president trusted him enough to run Russia’s nuclear bunkers and he played ice hockey with his deputies.

Few people outside a small circle of Kremlinologists had heard of Menschikov, head of the First Service of the Federal Security Service, or FSB, the successor to the KGB. But everybody in America had watched the spectacular operation he had pulled off just a few months earlier. An elite spy agency under his command orchestrated the arrest of an American basketball champion, Brittney Griner. Hollywood stars and NBA legends including Steph Curry and LeBron James demanded President Joe Biden ensure her swift return, wearing “We Are BG” shirts on court. Menschikov helped oversee her exchange in a prisoner swap for Viktor Bout, an infamous Russian arms dealer nicknamed “the Merchant of Death,” serving 25 years in an Illinois penitentiary.

This account is based on interviews with former and current Russian, U.S. and European intelligence officials, including those who have personally been on a video call with Putin, and the recollections of an officer in the Russian leader’s Presidential Communications Directorate, whose account of Putin’s conference call routine matched publicly available information. Those sources were granted anonymity to discuss the sensitive details of the president’s calls.

Trading a notorious gunrunner for a basketball player was a stunning example of Russia’s advantage in “hostage diplomacy,” a form of statecraft that died with the Cold War only for Putin to resurrect it. In penal colonies across Russia, Menschikov’s subordinates were holding still more Americans, ready to swap for the right price. They included a former Marine, mistaken for an intelligence officer, who had come to Moscow for a wedding, and a high school history teacher whose students had included the CIA director’s daughter, caught in the airport carrying medical marijuana. Disappointingly, neither of their ordeals had yet to bring the desired offer from Washington.

Menschikov’s proposal was to cross a threshold Moscow hadn’t breached since the Cold War and jail an American journalist for espionage. A young reporter from New Jersey — our Wall Street Journal colleague and friend Evan Gershkovich — was flying from Moscow to Yekaterinburg to report on the increased output of a local tank factory. If the operation went to plan, the reporter could be exchanged for the prisoner Putin referred to as “a patriot,” an FSB officer serving a life sentence in Germany for gunning down one of Russia’s enemies in front of a Berlin coffee shop called All You Need Is Love. The murderer had told the police nothing, not even his name.

From the moment Putin gave his assent, a new round of the game of human poker would begin that would see a cavalcade of spies, diplomats and wannabe mediators including oligarchs, academy award-winning filmmakers and celebrities seek to help inch a trade towards fruition. The unlikely combination of Hillary Clinton and Tucker Carlson would both step in to advance talks, alongside the Saudi Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman, Turkey’s President Recep Tayyip Erdogan, former Google CEO Eric Schmidt, and Rupert Murdoch, the media mogul who would wrestle with whether to fly to Moscow to personally petition Putin.

All told, CIA officers would fly thousands of miles to orchestrate a deal that would come to encompass 24 prisoners. On the Russian side: hackers, smugglers, spies and Vadim Krasikov, the murderer Putin had set out to free were all released. In return, the U.S. and its allies were able to free dissidents, westerners serving draconian sentences, former Marine Paul Whelan, and journalists that included the Washington Post’s Vladimir Kara-Murza, Radio Free Europe’s Alsu Kurmasheva, and our newspaper’s Gershkovich.

Looking back, what is remarkable is how well it all went for the autocrat in the Kremlin, who would manage to outplay his fifth U.S. president in a contest of taking and trading prisoners once plied by the KGB he joined in his youth. An adage goes that Russia, in the 21st century, has played a poor hand well. The unbelievable events that followed also raise the question of how much blind luck — and America’s own vulnerabilities — have favored the man in the “information cocoon.” The prisoner game continues even under President Donald Trump, who in his second term’s opening months conducted two swaps with Putin, then in May discussed the prospect of an even larger trade.

It is a lesser-known item of the Russian president’s biography that he grabbed his first American bargaining chip just eight days after his March 2000 election, when the FSB arrested a former naval officer, Edmond Pope, on espionage charges. It took a phone call from Bill Clinton for the youthful Putin to pardon Pope, an act of swift clemency he would never repeat.

Twenty-three years later, on the videoconference call with General Menschikov, Putin was in a far less accommodating mood. He wanted to force a trade to bring back the FSB hitman he privately called “the patriot” — he’d been so close to Krasikov, they’d fired rounds together on the shooting range. Some CIA analysts believed he was Putin’s personal bodyguard. In the previous months, before he approved Gershkovich’s arrest, three Russian spy chiefs asked the CIA if they could trade Krasikov, only to hear that rescuing a Russian assassin from a German jail was a delusional request of the United States. Days before the call, one of Putin’s aides phoned CIA Director Bill Burns and asked once more for good measure and was told, again, the entire idea was beyond the pale.

Menschikov’s officers would test that point of principle. His men would arrest the reporter, once he arrived in Yekaterinburg.

It was just after 1 p.m. in The Wall Street Journal’s small security office in New Jersey, and Gershkovich’s tracking app was no longer pinging. The small team of analysts monitoring signals from reporters deployed across the front lines of Ukraine and other global trouble spots had noticed his phone was offline, but there was no need to raise an immediate alarm. Yekaterinburg, where the Russia correspondent was reporting, was east of the Ural Mountains, a thousand miles from the artillery and missile barrages pummeling neighboring Ukraine. Journal staff regularly switched off their phones, slipped beyond the reach of cell service, or just ran out of battery. The security team made a note in the log. It was probably nothing.

A text came in to the Journal’s security manager. “Have you been in touch with Evan?”

The security manager had spent the day monitoring reporters near the Ukrainian front lines, or others in Kyiv who’d taken shelter during a missile bombardment. But he noticed Gershkovich had missed two check-ins and was ordering the New Jersey team to keep trying him. “Shit,” he texted back, then fired off a message to senior editors.

The Journal’s headquarters in Midtown Manhattan looked out through a cold March sky onto Sixth Avenue. Within minutes, staff gathering in the 45-story News Corporation Building or dialing in from Europe were scrambling to reach contacts and piece together what was happening in Russia. The paper’s foreign correspondents with experience in Moscow were pivoting from finalizing stories to calling sources who could locate their colleague. One reached a taxi driver in Yekaterinburg and urged him to stop by the apartment where Gershkovich was staying. The chauffeur called back minutes later, saying he’d found only dark windows, the curtains still open. “Let’s hope for the best,” he said.

Though there were still no news reports on Gershkovich’s disappearance nor official comment from Russia’s government, the data points suggested something had gone badly wrong. The Journal scheduled a call with the Russian ambassador in Washington but when the hour came was told, “He is unfortunately not available.” The problem reached the new editor- in-chief, Emma Tucker, who listened quietly before responding in a voice laced with dread. “I understand. Now what do we do?”

Only eight weeks into the job — in a Manhattan apartment so new it was furnished with a only mattress on the floor — Tucker was still trying to understand the Journal’s global org chart, and had met Gershkovich just once, in the paper’s U.K. office. Now she was corralling editors, lawyersand foreign correspondents from Dubai to London onto conference calls to figure out how to find him. A Pulitzer Prize finalist and Russia specialist on her staff made a grim prediction. If the FSB had him, it wasn’t going to be a short ordeal: “He’s going to spend his 30s in prison.” And when editors finally located the Journal’s publisher to inform him of what was going on, they hoped it wasn’t an omen. Almar Latour was touring Robben Island, the prison off the coast of Cape Town, South Africa, where Nelson Mandela served 18 of his 27 years of incarceration.

There was a reporter nobody mentioned, but whose face was engraved into a plaque on the newsroom wall. Latour had once sat next to Daniel “Danny” Pearl, the paper’s intrepid and gregarious South Asia correspondent. In 2002, the 38-year-old was lured into an interview that turned out to be his own abduction, and was beheaded on camera by Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, a mastermind of the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001 — leaving behind a pregnant wife and a newsroom left to report the murder of their friend.
Paul Beckett, the Washington bureau chief and one of the last reporters to see Pearl alive, had thought of him immediately. He managed to get Secretary of State Antony Blinken on the phone. America’s top diplomat knew exactly who Evan was; just that morning he had emailed fellow administration officials the reporter’s latest front-page article, detailing how and where Western sanctions were exacting long-term damage on Russia’s economy. It was an example, Blinken told his office, of the great reporting still being done in Russia.

“Terrible situation,” Blinken told Beckett, before adding a promise America would pay a steep price to keep: “We will get him back.”

The Biden White House’s first move after learning of Gershkovich’s arrest was to call the Kremlin — an attempt to bypass the FSB.

The arrest of an American reporter was a major escalation and if National Security Advisor Jake Sullivan could reach Yuri Ushakov, Vladimir Putin’s top foreign policy specialist, Sullivan hoped he could convince Ushakov to step back from the brink. At best, he assessed his odds of success at 10 percent, but this was a crisis that seemed likely to either be resolved with a quick call or drag on for who knows how long, and at what cost.

“We’ve got a big problem,” Sullivan told Ushakov. “We’ve got to resolve this.”

The answer that came back was swift and unambiguous.

“This is a legal process,” Ushakov said. There would be no presidential clemency — only a trial, and if Washington wanted a prisoner trade, they were going to have to arrange it through what the Russians called “the special channel.” In other words, the CIA would have to talk to the FSB. Sullivan hung up, and his team braced themselves to brief the Journal: the newspaper was going to need to be patient.

The White House was trapped in a rigged game, facing the crude asymmetry between the U.S. and Russia, whose leader, in power for a quarter-century, could simply order foreigners plucked from their hotel rooms and sentenced to decades on spurious charges. Griner, the basketball champion, hadn’t even returned to the basketball court in the three months since her exchange for “the Merchant of Death,” yet already, the Russians had scooped up another high-profile chip.

The CIA and its European allies had been quietly trying to fight back in this game of human poker. They had spent enormous energy tracking and rounding up the Russians Putin valued most: deep-cover spies, or “illegals,” who spent years building false lives undercover, taking on foreign mannerisms and tongues. Norwegian police, with U.S. help, had nabbed an agent for Russia’s GRU military intelligence agency, posing as a Brazilian arctic security professor in Norway’s far north. Poland had arrested a Spanish-Russian freelance journalist: His iCloud held the reports he’d filed for the GRU, on the women — dissidents and journalists — he’d wooed across Central and Eastern Europe. It had taken the spy service of the Alpine nation of Slovenia, known as Owl, nearly a year to find, then jail, a carefully hidden pair of married spies, pretending to be Argentines running an art gallery — sleeper agents working for Moscow’s SVR foreign intelligence agency. Not even their Buenos Aires-born children, who they spoke to in fluent Spanish, knew their parents’ true nationality or calling.

Yet for all that work, none of these prisoners worked for the agency that mattered most in Russia and ran the “special channel” — the FSB. Putin himself had once run Russia’s primary intelligence agency, and now it was in the hands of his siloviki, the security men he’d known for decades who included Menschikov. There was, the CIA knew, only one prisoner the FSB wanted back: Krasikov, the FSB officer serving life in a German prison.

America was stuck. Every stick it could beat Russia with was already being wielded. The world’s financial superpower was drowning Putin’s elite in sanctions, and almost every week Sullivan authorized another carefully designed shipment of weaponry to the battlegrounds of Ukraine, whose government complained bitterly it was being given just enough to perpetuate a war, not enough to win. And yet America’s government had to worry about the conflict tipping into a nuclear exchange.

What else is there in our toolbag? Sullivan asked himself. We’re doing everything we can. But the game was rigged. Which is why Putin kept playing it.