Litvinenko had been an FSB officer who became a strong critic of the Kremlin — a rare, almost unique, phenomenon because, as his tragic fate shows, this scary successor organisation of the KGB does not let go of anyone, and it requires extraordinary courage to fight it. He told his story in his book The Gang from Lubyanka, published both in Russian and in English in 2002. As an officer fighting organised crime, he noticed again and again that criminals' tracks led to the top echelons of the country's rulers. He alerted his superiors, only to be told each time: "Don't get involved." But he did, and after being ordered to commit a murder, he organised a TV press conference (in 1998, before Putin came to power, Russia was still free enough to allow that). He was arrested, spent a year in prison, then after his release received threats to his family and fled abroad. A brief account of all this formed part of the BBC interview of 2002. The honest urgency of Litvinenko's voice in this interview and in the Frontline Club speech convinced me and many others that he was certainly not a "nobody", as the official Russian line portrayed him, with the implication that in that case there was no motive to kill him. "He was a victim, but not a martyr," the editor exclaimed. "It is your programme that makes a martyr of him." 

I, however, thought that Litvinenko had been made a martyr by those who had murdered him. This view was expressed by several contributors to my programme: Bukovsky; the former MI6 double agent Oleg Gordievsky; and the leader of the Chechen government in exile, Akhmed Zakayev. All these people had known Litvinenko well and could speak about his views, his beliefs and his last days. I also interviewed a pro-Kremlin pundit, the Director of the Institute of Political Studies Sergei Markov, and a member of the Security Committee of the State Duma (Russian Parliament) Gennady Gudkov, who both gave the Russian official point of view on Litvinenko ("oligarch Berezovsky's sidekick") and on his murder (different theories, including the involvement of Boris Berezovsky, rogue FSB officers, Chechens and self-poisoning, were aired).

The known facts and the official line had been well represented by the Russian Service in the three weeks between Litvinenko's murder and my programme going on air, complemented by some cautious suspicions, usually translated from English-language sources. None of the Russian speakers who shared Litvinenko's stance on the Kremlin had been interviewed by the Russian Service, although they had given numerous interviews to BBC programmes in English. Neither Bukovsky nor Gordievsky nor Zakayev was interviewed by the Russian Service on Litvinenko. The only time that Russian listeners to the BBC could hear these prominent figures talking about Litvinenko, as well as Litvinenko's own voice when he was no longer alive, was in my programme, which, after its first two transmissions, was never allowed to be broadcast again or accessed via the BBC's website. 

Why did this happen? There are theories, which seem plausible, about a phone call from the Kremlin or the Russian embassy or some direct pressure from Moscow, but these can't be proved. However, I am convinced that the reason for the programme's suspension must have been the deep-seated fear that is firmly instilled in all former Soviet functionaries and overwhelms them each time they contemplate deviating from the official line. Of the three senior managers who read the script of my programme before it went on air, two were former Soviet functionaries, both in their fifties and with vast experience of working as journalists within the Soviet propaganda machine. They had made it into key positions at the BBC, and the head of the Russian Service, herself British by birth, found herself sandwiched between the two — the aforementioned Russian Service editor and the executive editor of the region (the next level up). The command from Moscow may have come from within, ringing in the editors' heads and hearts.