Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family

by M. T. Hallgarth

  The short trip back to the Russian military base, close to the border with Chechnya, had been in complete silence…not a word – not a whisper. However, the helicopter’s technician had kept stealing the odd furtive glance over towards me, quickly averting his gaze back down on to the floor of the cabin, whenever I had caught him looking. With a text book landing, the pilot had brought the large attack helicopter down at a designated area, some distance away from the main buildings and the hangers of the base. Waiting there had been two cars: a silver coloured tired looking Lada Samara; with Australian diplomatic plates; and a large jet black Mercedes S Class – without plates! As is procedure, the technician had exited the Hind first, securing the cabin door as he had done so. Two men, dressed in light coloured slacks, short sleeved white shirts and short blue ties, had moved from where they had been standing next to the Lada, and had approached the helicopter, their clothes and hair being blown about in the downdraft from the Hind’s idling rotor blades. One of the Australian captives, the younger of the two, judging by the sparse mousey down of his beard, had been the first out through the door. The other, the elder, his beard growth far more pronounced and darker, had paused at the open doorway of the helicopter, and had turned back to look directly at me.

  “Thanks – Mate,” he had said, his voice breaking with emotion. “Thanks.”

  The Russian FSB General had not been so quick to exit the helicopter. Instead, he had sat back relaxed, a slight smile on his square face as he had waited for the Australian hostages to get into the Lada, with their two embassy officials, and drive off. Then he had got up from his seat and had moved over to the open doorway. Stopping at the doorway, he too had looked back towards me.

  “Thanks – Mate,” he had said, his crude Australian accent tinged with Slavonic articulation. “Thanks – Mate,” he had repeated, giving me a knowing wink and a grin, just before jumping from the helicopter and making his way over to the waiting Mercedes.

  He had been met by Colonel Dmitri K…, looking slender and resplendent in his full dress uniform and high fronted peaked hat. The Colonel had come to attention and had saluted his General, who, in turn, had reached out and had shaken his subordinate’s hand, simultaneously slapping him on the shoulder with his other. A ritualistic kiss, then both men had slipped into the rear seat of the Mercedes, the black car wafting silently off in the direction of the main buildings of the base. No such luxury for Starshina, Vissarionovich and myself – we had to walk.

  We had been allocated a barracks all to ourselves, away from the main complex. As I walked in through the door of the austere building, I had caught a reflection of myself in a full length mirror, which had stood at the end of a line of iron framed beds.

  No wonder I had gotten so many strange looks!

  I had been covered in blood. From head to toe – drenched in the stuff. The black tracksuit had obscured and masked a lot of it, but my face, head and hands had been covered in blood. Dried and flaking, it had given me all the appearance of a slaughter man – a butcher…which, I suppose, to all intents and purposes, is exactly what I was.

  “I think that I could do with a shower, Starshina, Vissarionovich,” I had remarked as I had approached closer to the mirror. With my face stained by the dark hue of the dried blood, it had highlighted the whites of my eyes – extenuating the fixed staring look of them.

  Hence, the frightened look on the faces of captors and captives alike – I looked like some demon brought up from the very depths of hell!

  “Yes, Major, Sir,” the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major had agreed with me. “You would put the fear of God into Satan himself,” he had added, giving a little chuckle.

  The shower room had been situated next to the latrines, at the end of the barrack hut. With no less than eight showers heads, we had both been spoilt for choice. I had positioned myself between two of them, swivelling their heads to point directly down on to me, and had hit the spring loaded push valves to turn them on. I perhaps should have waited for the hot water to come through first – cold showers are something in the past for me. Eventually the spray had warmed up and I had soaped myself down. Blood had even soaked through the material of my tracksuit, colouring my body and legs in its blush of colour. For awhile, after cleaning myself free of the gore, I had just stood there, allowing the warm cascade of the water to ease my muscles and cleanse my skin. It had been then that I had idly looked across at the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major, standing under a shower head, on the other side of the shower room – his broad back turned towards me.

  His back had been almost entirely covered with the one tattoo – the blackness of the ink in vivid stark contrast to his pale white skin. It had been a scene. In the centre of a large stone circle, a circle constructed completely out of tall rectangular shaped grave stones, had been the detailed images of three figures. The image in the centre of the group, naked from the waist up – had been kneeling, their arms bound tightly behind them. Standing immediately in front of them had been another figure, also stripped to the waist; both hands firmly clasped around the pony tail of the bound and kneeling man, lifting the hair up clear from their naked shoulders, exposing the vulnerable neck and, in so doing so, keeping the head of the condemned still. Behind the kneeling figure had stood the dark outline of a third man – a broad bladed scimitar in hand, poised ready to strike the head from the man kneeling captive, in front of them.

  “The Executioner,” I had uttered in surprise. I had heard of the tattoo and its significance…those who wore the tattoo of the ‘Executioner’ – were generally executioners, by profession.

  “Da – Yes, Major, Sir,” the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major had admitted, turning round to face me.

  There had been more tattoos on his front – all in crisp black ink. On the top of each shoulder, an eight pointed star, each point of the star shaded black on one of its edges. In the centre of his chest, a single head of black rose – above the rose, on each breast, a large bird in flight. There had been other tattoos lower down on his stomach and hips, but a sense of reserved discreetness had dissuaded me from looking down further – although I did notice that he also had star tattoos on both knees. The crispness of the black ink had been significant. These had not been the dark blue urine fixed inks of prison tattoos. No, these tattoos had been deliberate and intentional – these tattoos had purpose and meaning.

  “Mafiya?” I had questioned, for the symbolic tattoos on his body had given clear indication that he had indeed been a member of the Russian Mafia.

  “Oh – no, Major, Sir,” he had quickly replied, a sheepish grin on his face as he had wrapped a towel around his middle. “But, sometimes, it is easier to enter a nest of Vipers if you share the same skin.”

  There had been considerably more to this Spetsnaz Sergeant Major than at first met the eye – literally.

  A loud knock on the barrack room door had interrupted our discussion and the Sergeant Major, towel securely fastened around his waist, had gone down the length of the barracks to answer it. I had gone to my bunk, where my Kalashnikov had laid across the top of the blanket – you can never be too sure who may come a knocking! The conversation at the door had been brief and totally unintelligible to me. The very next thing, in had trooped half a dozen men wearing white catering trousers and jackets, aprons and small white chefs hats. The first one had carried a white table cloth, condiments and cutlery and, on reaching the large bare trestle table in the centre of the room, had proceeded to lay the table with the cloth and cutlery. The next man had carried in a pair of wine glasses in one hand and shot glasses in the other. From the pockets of his apron, he had produced several small sealed jars and had placed these on the table, too. He had been followed by two men, each man carefully carrying a large round platter, which had a tall silver domed cover on top. An enclosed deep silver bowl, and a tray covered by a white linen cloth, had been brought in by the next man. The last man had carried two bottles in either hand, their necks tightly clenched in the firm grip of his large hands
. These bottles he had placed carefully down in the centre of the table. As each man had left, they had stopped at the door of the barracks, turned, and had come to attention as they saluted.

  “With the complements of the Colonel,” the Spetsnaz Sergeant Major had explained. “He thought that we might be in need of some refreshment, after out ‘busy’ day.” Having said that, he had picked up one of the bottles, a bottle with a pale green and white label containing a clear liquid. Spinning off its screw top, he had proceeded to fill both of the heavy based shot glasses with its contents “Cheers,” he had said, handing me one of the glasses. “Bottoms up – as you say.”

  “Cheers – bottoms up,” I had echoed back. I generally prefer to sip my vodka but, when in Russia, do as the Russians do – and I had knocked it straight back.

  “Good – Major, Sir?” he had asked me.

  “Yes – it is very good,” I had replied as he had quickly poured me another. “But it would taste all that much better if you did not address me as ‘Major, Sir’ – I much prefer my friends to call me ‘Martin’,”

  “Yes, Major, Sir – I would very much like do that,” he had nodded. “I shall now call you Martin. And you must call me ‘Vyacheslav’ – if you can,” he had laughed.

  They had prepared a veritable feast for us. Taking the tall domed cloche covers from off the platters had exposed trout, golden and crisp, with butter melting down the sides, stuffed with red and black caviar. Accompanying the trout had been a raft of potatoes, cut thin, lightly fried in oil with onion, and then sautéed in parsley and garlic – delicious. The linen cloth had covered a small tower of Bublik, a traditional Russian dough bread formed into rings, similar in shape to a bagel, but much bigger in diameter and thicker – and a bit chewier too. I had poured us each a glass of red wine, but it had been cheap Bulgarian Merlot and had tasted very tart until I had mixed it half and half with the vodka – then it had tasted much, much better. Having devoured our trout and potatoes – and several more glasses of vodka infused wine, Vyacheslav had removed the lid from the last dish, revealing a bowl full of boiled short plump sausages.

  “You like hotdogs, Martin?” he had asked me.

  “Yes – I like hotdogs,” I had replied back.

  Taking a ring of the Bublik bread, Vyacheslav had broken it into four pieces, and then had torn each individual piece open with his thick podgy fingers – despite having massive hands, the short thick digits on the end of them had seemed to be totally out of all proportion and keeping to the rest of him. From out of the deep silver bowl, into each of the opened pieces of dough bread, Vyacheslav had placed a thick fat sausage – a Serdelki; I had been later informed – and had passed one of the ‘hotdogs’ over to me.

  “Scuse fingers – as you Briteeesh would say,” he had quipped – adding: “But my fingers are probably a lot cleaner than the cutlery.”

  Removing the tops of the small glass jars had revealed an assortment of various relishes and mustards. I gave my ‘dog’ the full works: a layer of mustard followed by layers of tomato, onion and sweet green gherkin relish – scrumptious. So, much so, that I had two more. Even the tart Bulgarian wine had started to taste much better – not needing so much vodka to make it palatable – leaving more of the clear grain spirit for us to drink as it should be…neat and straight back. Despite the length and intensity of the day, even with the all the food and the copious amounts of alcohol, I did not feel in the least tired – quite the opposite. As always, after successfully completing a piece of work or taking part in an extraction or combat mission, I had felt exhilarated, every sense and being of me heightened and stimulated – but, at the same time relaxed and at peace with the world and myself.

  Contradiction in terms, maybe – but that is the real me!

  We had talked – and talked…and talked. The Russian Spetsnaz Sergeant Major, who at midnight would become a retired Russian Spetsnaz Sergeant Major, had poured out to me all his aspirations – all his hopes, fears and doubts for the future. Yes, he would miss the military institution that had so rigidly structured the last twenty years of his life – but, at the same time, he had looked forward to the uncertainty that the future might hold and the excitement of being free to choose his own destiny, and the satisfaction of living his own life. It had been then that I had told him about the Family. I had explained to him how we had been structured; how each member of the Family had been their own agent, able to decide and determine what they did – able to pick and choose what work they undertook. Free individuals, who functioned within the full support of the Family and, who in turn, would reciprocally support the Family and it’s collective. I had talked to him, at some length, of those who had made up the Family – their unique individual characters and foibles. Finally, I had then told him of the ‘Manor’ itself, describing in detail its beauty and intrinsic charm, its acres of parkland, woodland and lakes. Then I had put the question to him.

  The Russian had emotion in his voice. “I would dearly love to become part of a Family, such as yours…to belong to a Family – but would my Colonel allow it?” he had questioned, thoughtfully. “What do you think my Colonel would say, Martin?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  The Colonel had said ‘Yes’– as it so happened.

  Colonel Dmitri K…had not even batted one of his ultra thin eyelids when I had put my proposition to him, regarding his Spetsnaz Sergeant Major.

  “Yes, that is a most excellent idea,” he had commented, sitting on the other side of the barrack room trestle table. “Do you not think so, Starshina, Vyacheslav Vissarionovich…retired,” he had added, turning to address the former Spetsnaz Sergeant Major, standing easy next to me, his arms neatly folded behind his back.

  “Yes indeed – Colonel, Sir,” he had answered. “With respect, Colonel, Sir – I think it is indeed a most excellent idea.”

  “Good – then we consider the matter to be formally agreed between ourselves,” the Colonel had gone on in a matter of fact way. “All your paper work will reflect that you have retired honourably and are entitled to your full special enhanced Spetsnaz pension.”

  “Thank you – Colonel, Sir,” the former Spetsnaz Sergeant Major had replied, gratefully.

  “And, as for you – what can I say?” This time, the Colonel had directed the focus of his small tight eyes directly on me. “You come here – poach one of my best Sergeant Majors and upset my General.”

  “How so – how did I upset the General?” I had queried.

  “You had made him feel most uncomfortable and uneasy,” the Colonel had continued. “Apparently, you went charging into the barn covered in blood and carnage; like some common butcher. The General did not know if you were going to free him or cut his head off.”

  I had smiled – so had the Colonel.

  “I had to explain to the General that it had been ‘my’ entire fault. That I had not provided a silenced weapon for you – and that you had to resort to crude barbarity with your knife.” The Colonel had paused and had pushed a large, highly polished pine box across the table, towards me. “Open it,” he had directed me.

  Inside the polished pine case had been a pistol – a rather odd looking revolver. I had taken it from its case and had handled it – studying it intently. Housed underneath its integral laser sight had been the revolver’s short barrel, giving it a rather peculiar look and appearance. Nevertheless, the balance had felt fine, despite only having short narrow pistol grips. It had also seemed to be of a relatively small calibre.

  “Ammunition?” I had asked.

  “I think that you will find that these will fit,” he had replied, pushing a plain rectangular cardboard box over to me.

  The box had contained ammunition. Small 7.62mm calibre rounds…five rounds to a circular clip – several of these clips neatly packed in the purpose shaped polystyrene base of the cardboard box. But these clips had not been your conventional ‘speed loaders’.

  “The ammunition is a bit on the small side,” I had remarked,
pulling a clip from out of the box and examining it carefully.

  “They may be small – but they are perfectly silent,” the Russian FSB Colonel had replied, a thin smile crossing his narrow angular face. “It is an OTs 38 Stechkin silent revolver,” he had gone on to explain. “It takes special designed ammunition that is of the captive piston type; all the propellant gasses are contained within the case. So, no flash…and, most definitely – no bang!”

  “And this is for me?” I had asked, without needing to ask.

  “Yes,” had come the quick reply. “The General was most emphatic that the next time that you do any work for us, be it special pick-ups – or ‘special removals’…,” he had paused slightly to gauge my reaction to his reference about ‘special removals’, and then had continued: “The General was most insistent that we should provide you with the proper tools for the job. We have our professional high exemplary standards to keep and maintain – and he doesn’t want you going round butchering any more people…that is, unless we expressly ask you to do so.”

  “I beg your pardon, Colonel.”

  “Joke, Major,” the Colonel had smiled further. “The General is truly delighted with what you have done for us, and hopes that we can work together in the future. The gun is a gift to you in grateful appreciation.”

  “Then, please thank the General, for me,” I had replied, placing the silenced revolver carefully back into its carrying case. “I am sure that I will make very good use of it.”

  Which I have.

  ***

  Vyacheslav and I had flown back to the UK the same day, by scheduled flight…our weapons following on the very next day – by Russian diplomatic pouch!

  On return to the Manor, later that evening, I had introduced Vyacheslav to the rest of the family. Maaka had insisted on re-naming him straight away; his Maori tongue had found it totally impossible to navigate its way round the demanding phonetic pronunciation of the Russian’s name. So, Vyacheslav had been renamed ‘Colin’ – later to be nicknamed ‘Colin the Cossack’, by Hughie. As Maaka had taken it upon himself to re-name our new Family member – I had also entrusted him with the responsibility for taking care of the Russian, and to ensure that he had settled down to Family life, at the Manor. Maaka had installed the newly named Colin into West Lodge, sharing the ample accommodation of his gate house home with the Russian. And, in turn, I expect that it had been Colin who had introduced the Maori to horses – a passion that they both fervently share.