Ukraine’s prosecution service has dismissed eight people named in connection with an anti-corruption probe into the alleged protection of scam call centers, acting Prosecutor General Anton Kovalskyi reported. His office is also running internal checks on several officials linked to the case. A separate probe covers the trip abroad of his predecessor, who left Ukraine in September.
Ukraine’s main prosecution service is auditing itself while the country’s anti-corruption agencies investigate an alleged scheme run from inside it. The National Anti-Corruption Bureau (NABU) and the Specialized Anti-Corruption Prosecutor’s Office (SAPO) allege that a PGO official set up a criminal organization in mid-2025. They say it drew in serving prosecution employees and unofficial associates, took bribes for leaving scam call centers alone, and laundered the proceeds. The investigation is called Operation Carthage.
A probe from the outside, an audit from the inside
Ukraine’s main prosecution service is auditing itself while the country’s anti-corruption agencies investigate an alleged scheme run from inside it. The National Anti-Corruption Bureau (NABU) and the Specialized Anti-Corruption Prosecutor’s Office (SAPO) allege that an official of the Prosecutor General’s Office (PGO) set up a criminal organization in mid-2025. They say it drew in serving prosecution employees and unofficial associates. The group allegedly took bribes for leaving scam call centers alone and then laundered the proceeds. The case is known as Operation Carthage, Espreso reported.
Dismissals and polygraph tests
Seven of the eight dismissed people worked at the PGO, Kovalskyi said. Separately, four people were removed from administrative posts, including the heads of the IT department and the cybercrime directorate. Kovalskyi said 24 prosecutors took polygraph tests. The results went to a commission running an internal investigation. He wrote that trust in the prosecution service would be restored not through announcements of change but through consistent, balanced decisions and concrete results.
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The internal probe concerning former Prosecutor General Ruslan Kravchenko covers his trip abroad. Investigators are checking whether he followed established procedure and how the business trip was organized. Kravchenko left Ukraine in an official car on the night of 13–14 September, Ukrainska Pravda reported, citing law enforcement sources. He explained his departure as an official trip to Lithuania.
On 14 September, Kravchenko announced he had signed a notice of suspicion against NABU director Semen Kryvonos. That evening, his own office said Kryvonos had never been properly served and that the register entries were cancelled.
On 15 September, lawmakers backed Kravchenko’s resignation 317–0. Two days later, President Volodymyr Zelenskyy assigned Kovalskyi the duties of prosecutor general by decree. Before that, Kovalskyi headed the Khmelnytskyi Oblast Prosecutor’s Office.
Two Carthage figures under internal review
The PGO completed an internal investigation into Aidyn Khudiiev, a former deputy department head, Kovalskyi said. Its findings will go to the Qualification and Disciplinary Commission of Prosecutors, and the PGO abolished his post. SAPO prosecutor Mykola Karas told a court hearing that detectives seized $50,000 at Khudiiev’s workplace during the Carthage searches.
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The PGO is also investigating Serhii Kropyva, former deputy head of its international cooperation department. NABU detained him on 4 September, the first day of the operation. The internal probe looks at whether he used his powers for private interests and interfered in other prosecutors’ work. The PGO’s General Inspectorate has filed a disciplinary complaint against him with the same commission, and his post was also abolished.
Lithuania plans to deploy up to 100 soldiers to support border guards along its frontier with Russia's Kaliningrad Oblast, Defense Minister Robertas Kaunas said on 7 October.
Lithuanian Interior Minister Martynas Katelynas has described the deployment as a preventive measure linked to possible Russian mobilization and a recent incident on the Latvia-Belarus border, where masked, armed escorts tried to push a group of migrants into Latvia. Katelynas said Lithuania could face people trying to avoid mobilization and seeking asylum.
Kaunas said he had granted permission to use Lithuanian soldiers to strengthen border protection for the next several weeks.
“The order starts being implemented immediately,” he wrote on Facebook.
Russia denies a new mobilization
The Kremlin denies a new mobilization is coming. In early September, Russian President Vladimir Putin called reports of one "complete nonsense" and "an information attack on Russia." Ukraine's military and foreign intelligence services say Russia's General Staff has prepared a scenario to mobilize 600,000 people over 2026 and 2027. On 28 September, President Volodymyr Zelenskyy said that "in effect, the Russians have already begun additional mobilization."
Frontier-station patrols for a couple of weeks, possibly longer
On 8 October, the Lithuanian army said soldiers were being brought in to help the State Border Guard Service from that day. A company-sized unit was planned for the assignment, initially for two weeks, with the option to extend. Soldiers will patrol with border guards in frontier-station areas, while mobile patrols, mobile observation posts, and military police crews may be added as needed. The army described the deployment as preventive and a normal form of interagency cooperation.
Kaunas had told LRT TV the soldiers would stay until 16 October. On the morning of 8 October, he said the deployment "was supposed to start" overnight and that he would check with the army. On 8 October, the Lithuanian army said soldiers were being brought in to help the State Border Guard Service from that day. Kaunas also said that “on the Kaliningrad side” there were no physical barriers, unlike the border with Belarus.
Lithuania says its border guards are stretched
On 8 October, Katelynas said the border guard service’s capacity was insufficient, with shifts growing while officer numbers were not increasing. He said the threat level had not changed. In a Facebook post the previous day, he said the situation at Lithuania’s border was calm and there was no reason to panic. He said Russia was planning mobilization after the elections and that Lithuania may face people trying to avoid it and seeking asylum.
Lithuania's State Border Guard Service had turned back 1,693 people trying to cross illegally from Belarus this year and about 26,300 since the migration crisis began, as reported by ELTA on 8 October. Katelynas said 43 migrants tried to enter southern Lithuania last week and were turned back.
An annual conference on foreign information manipulation opened in Vilnius this week with a sensitive question on its agenda: Can the United States be considered a threat to Europe’s information space?
And the question caused a diplomatic incident.
EU DisinfoLab’s annual #Disinfo2026 conference, held in Vilnius on 7 and 8 October, brings together researchers, journalists, civil society groups, technology specialists and policymakers working on “foreign information manipulation and interference”, known as FIMI in EU jargon.
The programme was to look at moving beyond analysis of disinformation to practical responses, including disruption, deterrence, and litigation.
But shortly before the conference several of its government supporters withdrew their official backing.
The Lithuanian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Global Affairs Canada (GAC), and the European External Action Service (EEAS) all disappeared from the conference’s list of sponsors.
The dispute centred on a panel entitled “USA as a FIMI threat: acknowledge, adapt, push back”.
According to the published programme, the session asked how the European counter-disinformation community could build resilience without Washington and what solidarity should look like in a fractured transatlantic relationship.
Reuters reported that the US State Department had lobbied Canada and European allies over their support for the conference.
Three US officials familiar with the matter and correspondence reviewed said American officials had contacted counterparts in Lithuania, Canada and France.
And the US diplomats persuaded the Canadian and Lithuanian foreign ministries to distance themselves.
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Lithuania’s parliament on Tuesday took the first step toward lifting a ban on the deployment of nuclear weapons in its territory, a move that comes after President Trump said he’s considering establishing a permanent US military base in the country. One hundred and six members of Lithuania’s 141-seat unicameral parliament, the Seimas, voted to advance […]
Russia will use nuclear weapons if Nato tries to blockade Kaliningrad. That was the blunt warning from the Kremlin last week. In truth, this is an empty threat against an invented danger. Russia’s nuclear bluff is worn out from overuse, and Nato has no such intention.
But the outburst does signal something useful: Russia’s sensitivity about Kaliningrad.
The northern half of the former German territory of East Prussia is the Kremlin’s last great trophy from the Soviet victory over Hitler in 1945.
Like many trophies, it is less impressive on close inspection. Kaliningrad is an artificial creation, from its name (after the war criminal Mikhail Kalinin) to its population (imported after ethnic cleansing) and its southern border (a crude straight line, of the kind European colonists inflicted on African countries).
Now Moscow’s grip on this exclave — an island of Russian territory sandwiched between Poland and Lithuania — is increasingly fragile. Not because anyone will sever the precarious air, sea, and land routes that keep it supplied, but because of Russia’s all-too-real, corrupt, authoritarian, and incompetent system of government.
The weakness of the Russian system, aggravated by the cost of the disastrous war in Ukraine, makes holding on to Kaliningrad unsustainable: economically, socially, demographically, and politically.
Outside commentary mostly misses this, depicting Kaliningrad as a fortress from which Russia can menace its neighbours.
It is more realistic to see it the other way round, as Russia’s greatest strategic vulnerability: an Achilles’ heel.
The name poses an implicit question: do you really believe that Kaliningrad will still be under Moscow’s rule by the middle of the century? It looks increasingly unlikely.
BISC will this week convene 20 experts for crisis simulations examining how Kremlin rule might unravel, and how neighbouring countries could, would, and should react.
The causes are imaginary, for now. But an environmental disaster, a breakdown in fuel supplies, or a public-health emergency, such as the one now unfolding in Siberia, are all entirely possible in Russia’s current ramshackle state. Decision-makers will have to react to the resulting refugee flows, pollution, and humanitarian needs.
We do not yet know the BISC study’s outcome: as with military ‘war games’, the aim of these exercises is to test how different scenarios play out. We hope the conclusions will be useful for those who deal with these dilemmas in real life.
Next up will be a book, Fragile Fortress, to be published later this year. Edited by the British Russia-watcher Christopher Peters, and written by local and foreign experts, it explores topics including memory politics, economic weaknesses, internal repression, and the state of public opinion. The main message: Kaliningrad survives only thanks to economic subsidy and political support from Moscow.
These efforts could hardly be more topical.
While the Kremlin blusters about a threat from Nato, social media scare stories depict supposed Russian invasion plans to be launched from Kaliningrad, with maps showing thick red arrows piercing the Suwałki Gap, a strategic stretch of land which links Poland and Lithuania.
But as the book’s military chapter shows, such an attack is impossible in current (or likely) conditions. Russia has almost no ground forces left in Kaliningrad: they have all gone to Ukraine. Nor does the Russian air force there have the kind of airfields and hangars needed for a real war.
Nato, especially since Sweden and Finland joined the alliance, is overwhelmingly dominant in land, sea, and air in the region: a point underlined by its recent surveillance exercises in the region.
In short, the nuclear bluster is irrelevant. Nobody is menacing Kaliningrad from the outside. And the real question is when and how, but not if, the Kremlin will lose it in the end.
Six million people. That is the total combined population of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania—fewer residents than live in greater London. Yet these three border states now set the tone of foreign policy for a union of 450 million, telling Berlin, Rome, and Madrid how dangerous the world is and how much Western taxpayers must pay to fix it.
One Crown to Another
The Baltic national story likes to skip 1721, which is a shame, because it’s where the modern map starts. That year Peter the Great finished the Great Northern War with the Treaty of Nystad. Sweden handed over Estonia, Livonia, Ingria and part of Karelia; Russia evacuated most of Finland and paid Sweden two million silver thalers. Historians still argue about what the money was for. Western reference works tend to call it compensation, while the Russian Presidential Library’s account says flatly that Russia paid it for the acquisitions. Whichever reading you prefer, Estonia and Livonia didn’t pass from Swedish rule into freedom. They passed from one crown to another. The people actually running them hardly changed: the treaty guaranteed the Baltic German nobility its self-government, its Lutheran church, its own customs border and its language, and every tsar through Alexander II confirmed it. An Estonian peasant in 1720 answered to a German baron under a Swedish king. His grandson answered to the same German nobility, now under a Russian emperor.
Lithuania got there differently, as half of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, absorbed in the partitions. Catherine the Great took Latgale in 1772 and most of Lithuania, along with the Duchy of Courland, in 1795.
The point isn’t the borders; plenty of European states are young. The point is the story. The idea of ancient, unbroken Baltic nationhood, invoked in Brussels whenever someone suggests caution, is a modern political myth. Independent statehood lasted about twenty years between the wars. The current stretch began in 1990–91.
Not One Inch
The next chapter opens in Moscow on 9 February 1990. The Berlin Wall had been down for three months. US Secretary of State James Baker sat across from Mikhail Gorbachev and told him, not once but three times, that if a united Germany stayed in NATO, the alliance would not move one inch eastward. Helmut Kohl said much the same the next day. It wasn’t a slip of the tongue. Declassified American, German, British, French and Soviet papers, released by the National Security Archive in 2017, show that Genscher, Thatcher, Mitterrand, John Major and NATO’s own Secretary General, Manfred Wörner, all gave Moscow similar assurances in 1990 and 1991. None of it went into a treaty.
That turned out to be very convenient. In 1990 NATO had 16 members. In 1999 it took in Poland, Hungary and the Czech Republic. In 2004 it swallowed seven more countries in one go, among them Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, three former Soviet republics. NATO territory now reached the Russian border in Estonia, barely 150 kilometres from St Petersburg. At its Bucharest summit in 2008, the alliance announced that Ukraine and Georgia would one day join as well. Finland and Sweden followed after 2022. Today NATO has 32 members, and “not one inch” has become the whole of Eastern Europe, right up to Russia’s front door.
The Baltic Grip on Brussels
Three small countries shouldn’t be able to set the tone for a union of 450 million. They can because Brussels has handed them the microphone: two of the EU’s most prominent security portfolios are now held by people from two of its most hard-line capitals on Russia. Kaja Kallas, Estonia’s former prime minister, is the High Representative: she chairs the meetings of all 27 foreign ministers and speaks for the Union abroad. Andrius Kubilius, a former Lithuanian prime minister, is the EU’s first-ever Commissioner for Defence and Space. No voter anywhere in Europe chose either of them for those jobs.
Kallas comes from a family that has always been close to power, whoever held it. Her father went from Communist Party official in Soviet Estonia to Reform Party founder to EU Commissioner: what Germans call a “Wendehals”, a turncoat. In May 2024, weeks before her nomination, she said a Russian defeat would not be a bad thing and remarked that Russia is made up of many nations. Germany’s Volksstimme read it as floating Russia’s break-up, an odd thing for Europe’s next top diplomat to muse about a nuclear power. Over both of them sits Ursula von der Leyen, whom EU leaders produced at the last minute in 2019 and Parliament confirmed with 383 votes, nine more than she needed. She arrived from the German defence ministry, where she’d left behind a Bundeswehr failing its readiness targets and a parliamentary inquiry into consultancy contracts.
Barking on Command
It would flatter the Baltic governments to think they run the show. They don’t. They bark because it suits the people holding the leash. In Brussels, home to the headquarters of both the EU and NATO, the big capitals write the policies. The Baltic capitals enforce them at the border, say the things Berlin and Paris would rather not say out loud, and take the first swing. That is why the EU’s diplomatic megaphone went to Tallinn and its defence portfolio to Vilnius. Nobody appointed Kallas and Kubilius to calm things down.
Kaliningrad in 2022 showed how it works. Brussels drew up sanctions on Russian steel; Lithuania enforced them to the letter and halted rail shipments to the exclave in June. Moscow called it a blockade, and Nikolai Patrushev, then head of Russia’s Security Council, warned that Lithuanians would feel the consequences. Within a month the Commission issued new guidance letting the goods through again. Vilnius had done exactly what it was told, and was left standing alone in front of Moscow while Brussels quietly backed away.
Three years later it was Estonia’s turn. Brussels had spent months announcing crackdowns on Russia’s “shadow fleet” of ageing, poorly insured tankers. On 13 May 2025 the Estonian navy tried to stop one of them, the Jaguar, in international waters off Tallinn. The crew ignored the orders and sailed on to the Russian port of Primorsk. Estonia said a Russian Su-35 then entered its airspace for about a minute with its transponder off, and NATO scrambled a fighter to meet it: a Portuguese F-16, from a country 3,000 kilometres away. Nobody fired, this time.
Meanwhile the big dogs are being moved into position behind the small ones. In 2023 Berlin pledged a full armoured brigade for Lithuania, about 4,800 soldiers, at a new base at Rūdninkai near the Belarusian border. It formally began operating in 2025 and is due at full strength by 2027. It is the first permanent deployment of German troops abroad since the Second World War.
European Values, Baltic Edition
After 1991, Latvia and Estonia gave automatic citizenship only to pre-1940 citizens and their descendants. Hundreds of thousands of Soviet-era residents, most of them Russian speakers and many born in the country, became “non-citizens” with alien passports and no vote in national elections. Riga insists that “non-citizen” is a legal status, not an ethnic label, yet about two-thirds of Latvia’s non-citizens are ethnic Russians. UN and OSCE bodies criticized the system for years. At the start of 2026, non-citizens were still 8.7% of Latvia’s population, by the Latvian government’s own figures.
It has got tighter since 2022, not looser. Schools in Latvia have moved to Latvian-only teaching and Estonia’s are following. Latvia told Russian citizens with permanent residence, many of whom had lived there for decades, to pass a basic Latvian test or risk losing that status. And on 26 March 2025 Estonia’s parliament voted 93 to 7 to amend the constitution so that only Estonian and EU citizens can vote in local elections. On paper it covers all non-EU nationals. In practice it was aimed at about 80,000 Russian citizens, plus Belarusians, and everyone knew it. Stateless “grey passport” holders were given one last local election, in October 2025, before losing their vote as well.
It’s hard to take a lecture on European values from governments that treat their own long-term residents this way.
Who Pays the Bill
Vilnius loves to talk in percentages, because percentages flatter small countries. Lithuania pledged 5% of GDP for defense in 2026 before Donald Trump had even made his 5% demand in January 2025, and its 2026 budget comes in at 5.38%. In May 2025 the three Baltic defence ministers told every ally to match it. In June, at The Hague, NATO made 5% its target for 2035.
Forget the percentages. Look at the money. Lithuania’s entire 2026 defense budget is €4.79 billion. At 5% of its economy, Germany would be spending more than €200 billion a year, over forty times as much. Even the core 3.5%, before the extra 1.5% for infrastructure and other defence-related spending, would come to around €150 billion. For Italy the full target would mean more than €100 billion a year, for Spain around €80 billion, and both are already carrying some of the heaviest public debt in Europe. The Baltic states set the bar; the big economies get the bill.
Spain, at least, had the nerve to say no. Pedro Sánchez called the 5% target “unreasonable,” refused to sign up to it, and left The Hague with an exemption: 2.1% of GDP and not a cent more. Trump called Spain “a very low payer.”
Nobody Asked the Voters
Were Western Europeans ever asked if they wanted this? Only by pollsters. In 2015 Pew found 58% of Germans, 53% of French and 51% of Italians against using military force to defend a NATO ally attacked by Russia. In a survey Pew published in 2020, majorities in Germany, Italy and Spain still said no. Support for the EU paying for weapons for Ukraine has slid nine points, from 65% in early 2023 to 56% this spring. In France, backing for arms deliveries dropped 18 points, from 65% in March 2022 to 47% this February. By late 2024, YouGov found a negotiated peace between Ukraine and Russia preferred over fighting on by 55% of Italians, 45% of Germans and 43% of the French. A Politico poll last December found French and German adults leaning toward scaling support back. And this summer, majorities in Germany and France said no to Ukraine joining the EU as a full member.
That isn’t Germany, France, Italy or Spain itching for a wider war. It’s a public that was never asked, has grown more sceptical every year since 2022, and is now being handed a bill it never ordered: a target worth more than €200 billion a year in Germany alone, cheered on from Vilnius and signed off in Brussels by officials no voter chose.
When the Money Runs Out
The Hague deal has a review built in for 2029. My prediction: by then, Spain won’t be the only country saying no. The money ran out years ago; what’s being spent now is borrowed. Germany even rewrote its constitution in 2025 so it could borrow for defence outside its own debt brake.
In 1721 Peter the Great settled the Baltic’s fate with a treaty and two million silver thalers. Three centuries later, the region’s future is still being decided by bigger powers doing the sums.
So, are Europe’s smallest nations dragging the continent into war? Not on their own. They do the barking; Brussels holds the leash. And Berlin, Rome and Madrid are being dragged along behind, towards a confrontation their voters never chose, paid for with money they no longer have.
Maybe that is the one hopeful part. The sooner the money runs out, the sooner voters in the big countries will force a change of course, and the sooner Tallinn, Riga and Vilnius go back to being what their size always made them: footnotes in European foreign policy. That may be what finally keeps Europe out of a direct war between nuclear powers.
Senior officials in Italy and France have denied claims that their governments were warned about possible Russian drone attacks launched from containers carried by merchant ships in the Mediterranean Sea.
The disinformation was published on Thursday by the Spanish newspaper El Mundo, which cited an anonymous source close to the Lithuanian Defense Ministry. The article emphasized a recent trip to Russia by CIA Director John Ratcliffe and previous Western media reports claiming he personally cautioned Russian officials against targeting NATO nations. Moscow has denied having such intentions.
Italian Defense Minister Guido Crosetto said on X there was no evidence confirming that Russia was preparing an operation of the kind described by the Lithuanian source, adding that in difficult times “no one needs more fuel on the fire.”
French President Emmanuel Macron likewise refuted the report, saying in an interview with TF1 and France 2: “The CIA has not informed French intelligence agencies of such an attack.”
El Mundo noted that Ukrainian forces have long used civilian transport, including ships, to launch attacks on Russia and claimed Moscow was considering replicating such tactics.
Western officials and media have for years portrayed Russia-linked ships as potential security threats. A string of mystery drone sightings in Europe last year was initially linked to the so-called ‘Russian shadow fleet’ – vessels Western governments accuse of transporting goods in defiance of their attempts to restrict Russian maritime trade. None of the incidents was publicly proven to have been linked to Moscow.
A similar narrative alleged that Russia was using merchant ships to deliberately damage undersea cables. Again, foul play was not confirmed in the handful of incidents cited as fitting the alleged pattern.
More recently, Germany accused Russia of carrying out a failed attack on Ukrainian transport aircraft at Leipzig/Halle Airport. Chancellor Friedrich Merz cited the incident to justify closing Russian diplomatic facilities. Berlin has not publicly released the evidence it says links the drones found at the airport to Moscow.
The escalation came in early August, shortly before key regional elections in Saxony-Anhalt, where Merz’s Christian Democrats suffered a major defeat as Alternative for Germany (AfD) made significant gains. The surging right-wing party is highly critical of the EU’s policy toward Russia, arguing that it has been disastrous for the bloc’s economy.
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