Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family

by M. T. Hallgarth

  Winston’s brow had creased in a worried frown. “What will that mean?” he had queried, almost as if he was being asked to sign up to a contract with Satan.

  “Easy peasy,” I had promptly replied. “They need someone on the island they can count on. You take care of them – and they’ll take care of you. Be a bit like when you worked for Danny Boy – but they are bigger and meaner. Better to have them as friends than enemies.” I had added.

  “We’re cool, then” he had replied, a smile breaking though his tight thin lips.

  “Good,” I had said, then looking down at my watch. “You’ve got just under an hour to get us to our flight.”

  ***

  Judy had been kept locked up in one of the guest bedrooms.

  Her back had been turned towards me when I had entered the room, a long sliver of glass from the broken bathroom mirror in her hand. Dressed in a full length figure hugging emerald green dress, from behind she had looked tall and elegant, her long hair in beaded braids; it had only been when she had turned to face me that her condition had become blatantly obvious. With a welcoming smile on her lush dark lips, she had walked slowly, deliberately towards me, the jagged shard of mirror hidden behind her back. Her body language had said one thing, but her eyes had told me that she had intended to kill me – until I had uttered just three short words.

  “Phil sent me.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  The lady on the British Airways check-in desk, at Norman Manley International Airport, had expressed some concern about Judy’s condition – until we had convinced her that Judy had only been in her twenty-sixth week.

  Travelling back business class had at least meant that toilet access for Judy had been freely available, especially with the weight of the unborn child putting continual pressure on her bladder. Touching down at Gatwick, just before 9:00 A.M., the following morning, we had cleared immigration and customs and, well within the hour, had been heading on our way north along the M40, to the Manor.

  The original intention had been for Judy to have a couple of days rest before returning to the States – but her baby had other ideas. And, shortly after arriving at the Manor, Judy had gone in to labour. Early that evening, with Nicky and Patrick acting as ‘mid-wives’, Judy’s son had been born – and that had been that. In the autumn, with Deborah, Nicky and Patrick standing as proud godparents, he had been christened at a pretty Georgian church close to the estate, being given the name Jason – after Judy’s brother.

  With the completion of the refurbishment and renovation of the Lake House, a large substantial nine bed roomed Edwardian property, in the grounds of the Manor – Judy and Nicky, and their respective children, had moved in. And it had not been long before Judy had begun to establish her role within the Family. Judy had become our ‘documentation’ specialist, both hard copy and digital – she had become our ‘forger’. There is not a document in existence that Judy cannot replicate and make an exact facsimile of. Be it machine read or biometric: passports, ID’s, birth, marriage and death certification; personal documentation – there is not a document that Judy can’t create or duplicate. And, in conjunction with Nicky’s ability to hack into any government or private database, and her ability to create or change data, all of Judy’s documentation can be accredited and legitimised in terms of confirmable computer data and records.

  As well as providing support to others, Judy is also an accomplished assassin, focussing predominantly on those in the drug trade. While more than capable of using any weapon, Judy’s preference is to apply a close up and personal approach to her work. After either administering a drug overdose, or a measure of Chloral Hydrate, to incapacitate her Candidate, Judy would then ‘Burke’ them. Sitting on their chest, greatly restricting their ability to breath, Judy would then pinch the nostrils of the nose tightly closed, while pushing up the Candidate’s jaw and closing their mouth shut tight, with her other hand. This had the effect of simultaneously compressing the chest and smothering her Candidate…resulting in a death similar to that induced by a drug overdose – the respiratory system shutting down! On occasions, when working along with Nicky and Karen, providing a ‘party’ for a prospective Candidate, having incapacitating them first through drink or drugs, they would just sit on them!

  Mossad, please note – it doesn’t take a team of twelve to effect a suffocation!

  And, Winston? He’s cool, and still very much the ‘King’ of Kingston Town; due in part to his mastery and dominance over the other Jamaican and Caribbean gangs – and, in part, due to a little help from his ‘friends’, at Langley.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Colin, as named by Maaka – or ‘Colin the Cossack’, as nicknamed by Hughie – was once formally known as Vyacheslav Vissarionovich!

  It had been Ralph who had arranged my initial meeting with the Russians. Through Section 9’s Russian Desk, they had indicated that: ‘They had need of my services.’ Having first cleared their request, with Sir Richard I…, Ralph had then approached me as to my availability and also, more importantly, my willingness to get involved – especially after Bosnia. But, I had been mildly interested in what the Russians had wanted of me and had agreed to meet them – under the proviso of strict security provisions being in place, obviously.

  In her London Black Cab, one cold November morning in 1999, Tina and I had picked up Ralph from immediately outside the Embankment Office. Under his intermittent and often erratic directions, Tina had navigated and pushed her way through the dense busy London traffic, out to the leafy suburbs of Ealing. I had wanted to arrive at the location of the meeting early, at least half an hour beforehand, enabling me time to check the place out – but the Russians had got there first. A black Jaguar-Daimler Limo had been parked at the top of the tree lined road as we had turned into it, the occupants in the front seat, by their dress and demeanour, obviously FSB!

  Screened from the road by a tall wall and a bank of trees, the short drive had led into a big tarmac area in front of a substantial detached Victorian, three story house, with large double bow frontage. Tina had let Ralph and me out by a short flight of stone steps, which had lead up to a large, glossy black panelled entrance door. She had then turned the cab around and had gone and parked up opposite, so that she could have a clear uninterrupted view of both the front and side entrances of the building.

  From there, Tina could watch over us. Under the dash of her Black Cab, a Browning Hi-Power automatic – under her seat, a Uzi sub-machinegun.

  I had followed Ralph up the stone steps to the imposing front door, which he had knocked using a large brass knocker shaped in the form of a builder’s square and compass – he had only brought me to his Lodge! The door had been opened by a large built man, in his late fifties, his hair and beard bleached prematurely white by age. They had shaken hands with one another and exchanged greetings, and then our host had reached out and extended his hand to me. Ushering us into a large hallway, immediately in front of us had been a small bar and bar area, to our right an open door that led into a darkened billiard room.

  Our host had indicated to a closed door on our left: “Your guests are waiting for you in here,” he had said, in a slight Suffolk accent, tapping on the door and opening it for us.

  The door had opened up into a large majestic room, with tall ceilings and ornate fussy plaster cornices, a huge dark wooden Victorian fireplace and surround protruding grandly out from the opposite wall. On either side of the fireplace had been two large green leather wing chairs. The one facing the window, to the right of the fireplace, had been occupied. With a copy of the Financial Times held out directly in front of them, effectively obscuring their face, the chair’s occupant had not even acknowledged us. As we had moved further into the room, the reader had gradually come into restrictive view, a thick set elderly man, with a shock of thinning fine silver hair – unkempt and uncombed. Even when in the room, he had not acknowledged our presence – not once looking up from his paper. However, the other occupant of
the room had been far more convivial and bonhomie.

  “Ralph – it is so good of you to arrange this meeting,” he had said, getting up from his seat alongside a low table that had been set in front of the room’s wide bay window, holding out his hand towards Ralph.

  “Colonel,” Ralph had almost stuttered in reply.

  The smartly dressed Russian had then turned to directly face me. “Ah you must be….” His English had been clear, almost devoid of any discernible accent.

  “Yes – I am,” I had quickly interrupted him, taking his offered hand in mine…it had been cold – ice cold.

  “Thank you once again for arranging this meeting, Ralph,” the Russian had said, in a deep curt voice, turning to face my nervous Section 9 coordinator. “But, you understand that I need to speak in private, with my new friend.”

  “Oh – y-yes of course,” Ralph had flustered.

  “It is for your own good, Ralph,” the Russian had continued. “Otherwise I would have to ‘keel’ you,” he had added – deliberately overemphasising the word ‘keel’.

  Ralph’s jaw had dropped.

  “Joke, Ralph,” the Russian had promptly corrected himself on seeing the alarm that he had caused. “I was joking, Ralph. You are a good friend to me and I would never knowingly let any harm befall you.” he had reassured him.

  And that had sounded pretty genuine to me.

  “Please, be seated.” The Russian had politely motioned to a chair next to the low table, as Ralph had shuffled out of the room

  “Thank you,” I had politely replied, waiting for the Russian to take his seat before sitting down immediately opposite him.

  “Let me introduce myself,” he had offered, turning in his chair to better face me. “After all, I have the advantage. I know all about you – but you know nothing of me.”

  This guy was good – what better opening gambit can you make than to tell someone that you have the advantage over them.

  “I am Colonel Dmitri K…,” he had commenced with the introduction of himself. “I am a Colonel in the FSB, currently based in Russia, and currently responsible for counter terrorism there.”

  That had been something of an understatement. Not only had he been a Colonel in the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation, the FSB, but he had also held the equivalent rank in the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, the SVR; responsible for intelligence and espionage activities outside the Russian Federation, with close affiliation to the Russian Main Intelligence Directorate, the GRU. An ordinary Colonel, this man was most definitely not! And, within a few short years, he would be appointed to the rank of General-Major, heading up the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation and the Foreign Intelligence Service, here in the United Kingdom.

  “Preventing it – or aiding it, Colonel.” That had taken the smile from his thin lips – that had taken away some of his edge. “Joke, Colonel – I apologise for my crassness. Terrorism is never a joke, and I apologise for making light of it.”

  “I know you don’t take terrorism lightly, Martin – I can call you Martin – can’t I?” he had replied, his thin smile back. “That is why you are here. You may be in a position to be of great help to us.”

  Yes, I had been intrigued – but I had not wanted to appear so. “Of course – if I can be of help. But I don’t readily see how I could be of service to you.”

  “One of our Generals has been abducted by Chechen terrorists.”

  Indeed, back in the March, a Russian General, an envoy to Chechnya, had been kidnapped at the airport in Grozny, by Chechen terrorists.

  “The Kremlin’s ‘special’ Envoy – yes, I did read of it,” I had replied.

  “No – not him,” the Russian had been quick to correct me. “No, he was a General in the MVD – the General I am talking about is one of ours – an FSB General!”

  Now, that had been news to me.

  “He had gone to Grozny undercover, posing as an interpreter for a team of Australian telecom engineers,” the Russian Colonel had continued. “The Australians had taken over the contract from a British company; who had pulled out after four of their engineers had been murdered by Chechen terrorists, last year,” he had gone on to explain.

  “And his real purpose?” I had asked – he obviously hadn’t gone to Chechnya to act as either an interpreter or a telecoms engineer! “Surely not to spy on the Australians.”

  “No,” the Russian had smiled at my humour. “No, he had gone there, so he had thought, to rescue the MVD General – the Kremlins Special Envoy to Chechnya.”

  “A General to rescue a General – now that’s a bit of high risk strategy,” I had commented.

  “What strategy,” the Russian’s smile had turned into a distinct smirk. “Our FSB General had gone out there on what you might call a ‘whim’ – a flight of fantasy. He believed that he could succeed where others had failed. He thought that he could just simply go out there and find the missing MVD General.”

  “And now he’s been abducted, in the process.”

  “Yes, along with two of the Australians.”

  “When?”

  “Four days ago.”

  “And do you know where he is being held – your General?”

  “Oh – yes,” the Colonel had replied, leaning forward in his chair towards me. “He’s currently being held at a small remote farm, some twenty kilometres south-east from Grozny, up in the foothills.” From the inside pocket of his suit jacket; the Russian had taken out a sheet of A4 paper. Unfolding it, with his long slender fingers, he had placed it down on the table between us, turning it so as to face me. “Here,” he had said emphatically, pointing to an image on the paper.

  “And this is the farm where he is being held?” I had asked, looking down at a high resolution satellite picture of a scattered assortment of farm buildings, set in the middle of an open clearing that had been cut into the forested slopes.

  “Yes it is – well, at the moment it is,” he had quickly corrected himself. “Whatever we do we need to do quickly before they move him again – as they will do.”

  “So, how come you don’t just go in and get him out?”

  “On our past form, if we went in we would probably end up getting him killed – and a lot of our men, too.”

  My new Russian friend had been quite right. Every time that they had tried to affect a rescue in Chechnya, it had inevitable resulted in the hostages being killed out of hand, by their captors.

  “But you, Martin, on the other hand, have proven successes with your…your ‘special pickups’, as well as your ‘special removals’ – don’t you Martin?”

  “Do I?”

  “Oh, yes. Vietnam, Cambodia, Central America, the Middle East, the list of your ‘special pickups’ is endless…and quite respected – as are you’re ‘special removals’. So, will you perform this ‘special pickup’ for us? Can you go and ‘pickup’ our General for us, Martin?”

  This Russian FSB Colonel is nobody’s fool. I had thought to myself. “Your well informed, Colonel,” I had complemented him.

  “Well?”

  “How many guards are there?” I had asked, looking down at the satellite image, again.

  “Between three or four at the main building,” he had replied, using one of his long fingers to point to the cluster of buildings on the satellite image. “Plus there are generally two more guards, down here,” his finger moving down to point at a small building, situated at the edge of the tree line, about two hundred metres down a single track from the main farm. “Here they have a clear uninterrupted view down into the valley – they can see anything coming for kilometres around.”

  “So, we’ll just have to cut through the woods.”

  “We understand that the woods around the farm could be mined,” he had cautioned me.

  “Just have to tread a bit carefully,” I had replied.

  “So – you’ll undertake this special pickup for us. You’ll pickup our General?”

  “Yes. Howev
er, while I appreciate that time is of the essence – and there are certain things that I need, if I am to move quickly.”

  “Yes – of course,” the Russian had promptly replied, sitting back in his chair, appearing quite relaxed. “What are those certain things?”

  “Firstly, I would need accreditation to the FSB – the rank of Major.”

  The Russian had sat bolt upright in his chair. “Impossible,” he had almost stuttered.

  “I have accreditation of the rank of Major, with the British Intelligence Service; and I have level 5 security clearances, with the CIA,” I had explained. “So, I would require a similar level of accreditation to the FSB.”

  “That is quite impossible – that is completely out of the question to…,” the rustling of a newspaper had cut the Russian Colonel off in mid sentence.

  “ Dayte yemu yego – eto ne imeyet nikakogo real’nogo znacheniya,” the thick set, silver haired old man had said slowly and deliberately from his chair by the fire, momentarily dropping the paper nosily on to his lap. “Yesli yemu udastsya – togda my budem i daleye ispol’zovat’ yego. Yesli on ne – togda on budet mertv, i eto budet konets.”

  “Da,” the Colonel had directly addressed the old man in the armchair, who had immediately picked up the copy of the Financial Times from his lap and had started to read it again.

  “Yes, your accreditation to the FSB, with the rank of Major, will be done,” the Colonel had addressed me directly, turning back to face me, his face slightly flushed.

  I had no understanding of Russian at the time but instead had memorised, as best I could, what the old man had said to the FSB Colonel which, when roughly translated, at a later date, said something along the lines of: ‘Give it him – it is of no real consequence. If he succeeds – then we will make further use of him. If he fails – then he will be dead and that will be an end of it.’ The old man having been a Senior Executive of the Russian Federation Council for Defence and Security.