Selling the War to the Russians
A portrait of the man tasked with selling Putin's war on Ukraine to the Russians - and a chilling prediction for the future
As Vladimir Putin's soldiers shoot their way into the Ukrainian capital Kyiv, the man whose job it is, more than any other, to sell the war to ordinary Russians is a square-jawed journalist in his sixties called Dmitry Kiselyov.
Four years ago I spent several hours drinking champagne with him at his Black Sea villa as he described his path from Westward-looking democrat to diehard Russian nationalist.
It is a journey that, in many ways, mirrors that of his boss.
When I was Moscow bureau chief for the Daily Telegraph in the early years of Putin's rule, the former KGB officer seemed to genuinely believe that friendly relations with Washington were possible.
After the 9/11 attacks on the US he was the first foreign leader to phone George W. Bush and offer his sympathies.
His message was clear: Islamic terrorism is a global scourge. I have been fighting Muslim radicals in Chechnya for years. We are in this together.
Nearly two decades on, George W. Bush's tenure is ancient political history. But Putin is still in power.
And in the years since he has morphed from little-known leader of a one-time superpower to embittered, aging autocrat and global menace.
This week, upping the ante, Putin suggested that if Finland or Sweden decide to join Nato he might launch military action against them.
As Putin's position has hardened, it is Kiselyov who has been tasked with selling his evolving vision inside Russia.
And so - in the interest of better understanding this narrative - I have watched Kiselyov's two-hour Sunday-night show for the last several weeks.
While each episode has been a little different, constants have included long mocking segments about Joe Biden, Boris Johnson and other western leaders.
Kiselyov has a distinctive, almost idiosyncratic, style. He speaks slowly and clearly and his tone moves between acerbic, persuasive, outraged and sneering.
Between reports from correspondents on the ground - in London, New York and elsewhere - he offers analysis and historical clips.
One such clip was shaky footage showing a bloodied Col Gaddafi being beaten by a mob of gunmen after he was found hiding in a drainpipe.
The camera then cut to Hilary Clinton's delight when she is shown footage of Gaddafi's dying seconds. "We came. We saw. He died," she crowed.
Even for a relative neutral in the America vs. Gaddafi conflict it makes for unattractive watching.
Kremlin insiders have told western journalists that Putin is obsessed by the footage of Gaddafi last minutes and has watched it dozens, even hundreds, of times.
Putin perhaps fears that his fate could one day be similar. He will certainly hate the spectacle of mob violence bringing down a once all-powerful leader.
Another regular in Kiselyov's show is Volodymyr Zelensky, the Ukrainian president, back when he was an actor playing the president.
The hit series was a comedy and he was expected to look goofy and unfit for office and Russian television has delighted in replaying scenes that show his excelling in that endeavour.
Once in a while Kiselyov really goes to town.
Not long after Russia seized Crimea back in 2014 - a move that incidentally allowed Kiselyov to continue enjoying the villa he owns on the Black Sea - he did a piece to camera arguing that the organs of homosexuals should be burned or buried, to ensure they were never used as transplant material.
In another, replete with dramatic graphics, he talked about Russia's ability to turn the USA into radioactive dust.
By the time I watched the most recent episode, last Sunday, the tone had hardened yet further.
There were "revelations": a Jeep blown up by a "Ukrainian terrorist"; blurred images of bodies being dug up from "newly-discovered" mass graves; the accusation, entirely untrue, that the Russians of the Donbass had been subjected to genocide by Ukrainian fascists.
The day I met Kiselyov the man who has been tasked with selling Europe's new war was wearing pink shorts. We sat on his gargantuan sundeck staring out over the Black Sea.
He was in effusive mood, enjoying the summer sun. He began with a tour of his wine cellar. "I have my own sommelier," he told me and a photographer I was travelling with.
I had taken a translator, but I needn't have bothered. Kiselyov speaks excellent English. During the late years of Communism he worked for the Norwegian section of Radio Moscow. He later married a westerner.
"I believed in western democracy back then," Kiselyov told us, as we sipped his champagne.
"As chief editor in the 1990s I would explain to my young employees about the standards of the BBC. I told them: give people the facts, and let them make their own judgement."
"But later I realised that it was all a myth. The BBC tells us what to do, how to live and who to vote for."
I asked him about the comments he made about nuking the United States. "Russia is the only country that has a nuclear balance with the US," he said. "I just reminded people about this fact. I think it was an anti-war message."
At one point as we chatted Kiselyov paused.
"Do you think the champagne is too warm?" he asked, indicating what was still a half-full magnum of the stuff. We were on our third glass by now and it tasted pretty good to me.
"Definitely warm," he decided. He picked up the bottle and ostentatiously poured the remaining liquid through the metal grating of the deck into the earth below. Then he fetched a fresh, perfectly chilled, magnum.
The gesture - at once conspirational, grandiose, wasteful and crass - stayed with me long after the words of the interview had faded.
When we finally left Kiselyov's villa that summer evening, arms crammed with gifts - champagne, fruit and home-made honey - I staggered to a waiting taxi. In the cab I found myself caught up in the warm afterglow of it all.
But the next day I awoke with a hangover. And around lunchtime Kiselyov called my translator's mobile phone. "How did I do yesterday?" he asked her. "Was I ok?"
As Kiselyov rounded-off his two-hour slot last weekend, I switched off my television. The follow-on programme was called "Moscow. Kremlin. Putin." But I had had enough for one night.
I reflected on the journey that had led so many of the Russian elite down the path towards hatred of the west and a belief that conflict with it was inevitable.
"If war comes we will probably all destroy each other,” Kiselyov said. “But we have one big advantage. We believe in life after death. Life on earth is important to Russians, but our spiritual lives matter far more."
“Will there be war?” he added. “It's the west's choice. I like Westerners. I was even married to one. But America has an irresponsible policy. I’m afraid it won't end well.”