As well as covert operations – ‘outings’ – Colin also provides Family members with close support and backup on work related assignments. He is not as assassin, himself – or he chooses not to think of himself as one – although sometimes, in our line of work, roles do tend to blur and merge into one another.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Karen…the last edition to the Family – and, most probably, our very last!
We had first met Karen in the April of the following year, the start of a new Millennium, and the start of the first of many work assignments that Colin and I have undertaken for the FSB and the GRU. Karen, a field agent with the SVR RF, the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, had been our main contact in Chechnya.
Born in 1976, in a small hamlet just a few kilometres north of Grozny, in Chechnya…her father was Chechen born, and Muslim – her mother Russian born, and Russian Orthodox. Despite her mother converting to Islam, the local populace had never forgiven Karen’s father, a small scale poultry farmer, for marrying an infidel and non-believer. Disgraced, he had been expelled from his ‘teip’, the collection of families belonging to the two small villages that he had been brought up in, and had been forced to move just north of Grozny, to start a new life with his new bride. Renting a small holding, on the outskirts of the city, he and his bride had started a poultry farm between them, growing vegetable and tomatoes on the side – selling their produce in the daily street markets of Grozny. They had both worked hard on their small farm, working long hours every day, building it up. And, while they had tirelessly built up the farm, Karen’s father and mother had remained celibate – just stealing the odd kiss, the infrequent embrace. Then, when the farm had become established, and had been providing them with something far more substantial than a subsistence living – then, and only then, did they come together as a couple. Karen was born just over nine months later to ecstatic parents. They had both been overjoyed with the gift of a daughter – a beautiful little baby girl with blond hair and blue eyes, just like her mother. Her father’s initial disappointment, in not having a son, had been quickly surpassed by his overwhelming love for his daughter…after all, it had been God’s Will – and God is Great. Over the following years, he had watched his daughter grow tall, straight and beautiful – long blond hair and vivid blue eyes. But he had not been the only man who had started to show an interest in his blossoming daughter.
On reaching her fourteenth birthday, Karen’s father had received a visit from the clan leader of the local teip, who had expressed an interest in marrying the young girl. Normally, this would have been considered to be a very great honour for Karen’s parents – to have a prominent powerful clan leader desire to take their daughter, to become his wife. But not this man. A widower, in his fifties, the man had notoriety for ill-treating and beating his previous three wives, the last of whom he had stalked and abducted directly off the streets, forcing her into marriage. She had died shortly afterwards – after a beating! He had required Karen for his ‘second wife’; to give him sons – his wife from his first marriage had still been alive, but she had been barren for a long time and: ‘He had a need to let his juices flow.’ While in front of him, Karen’s father had feigned enthusiastic support for the proposed marriage. To do anything else would have courted immediate hostility, and the distinct threat of his daughter also being abducted by the man. Keeping control of the emotions welling up inside of him, Karen’s father had suggested another meeting, in a few days time, where a suitable dowry might be discussed and agreed. The clan leader had been delighted, a young virgin bride – and money, as well. What more could a man ask for – apart from the size of the dowry that he was to receive. He had left a happy man…full of eager anticipation – but not for long! The very next day and Karen had been on her way to Saint Petersburg, to stay with her mother’s older sister – out of harm’s way and the clutches of the local teip clan leader.
Karen’s father had disappeared a week later. Local police involvement and investigation into his disappearance had been minimal and cursory. Fearing the worse, Karen’s mother had not said anything of her father’s disappearance to her, concerned that the teenager would come straight back home – and into the clutches of her unwanted suitor. Days had past, followed by weeks, but Karen’s mother, half expecting a ransom demand for husband – had heard nothing. Then, the naked headless body of an eviscerated man, mutilated beyond all recognition, had been found on the municipal city dump of Grozny. Karen’s mother had sensed that it had been the body of her beloved husband but, without the head, there had been little else for her to identify or recognise. Even though unable to formally identify the corpse, innate instinct had screamed out to her that this desecrated violated body had indeed been that of her husband. She had taken ownership of the body and had dutifully arranged for it to receive the immediate rites of a traditional Muslim burial, in accordance with her husband’s beliefs. All this she had kept from Karen, waiting until her daughter’s sixtieth birthday before visiting her in the comparative safety of Saint Petersburg, to tell her personally of her father’s brutalization and murder.
Out of fear of the possible ‘bridal’ abduction of her daughter, her mother had kept Karen completely isolated from Chechnya, the only communication between them having been by letter. As Karen’s father had been completely illiterate, it had been her mother who had written – regularly sending the girl her father’s love, keeping him alive in her daughter’s eyes and keeping his death a secret from her.
Karen’s first reaction, on hearing of her father’s death, had been to seek revenge on those who had so brutally killed him. However, according to her mother, the clan leader, supposedly responsible for her father’s death, had been killed shortly after the body of her father had been found – the man’s throat cut while he had slept in his own bed, by person, or persons unknown. His first wife had been arrested, but had been later released without charge – officially due to lack of evidence but, as is probably more likely, due to the lack of police manpower and resource. Despite the poetic death of her father’s killer, Karen had known full well that others would have also been responsible for his murder, and she had wanted revenge on them, too – but she could wait.
An extremely bright high school student, Karen had been able to enter the Faculty of Biology and Medicine, at Saint Petersburg State University, shortly after her sixteenth birthday. And, by the time she had reached twenty, she had attained her ‘Bakalavr’s Stepen’, a Bachelor’s Degree, in Biology and Medicine. This had been followed just two years later with a ‘Magistr’s Stepen’, a Master’s Degree, in Toxicology; resulting in an internship at ‘Laboratory 12’ of the SVR, at Yasenevo, on the outskirts of Moscow – the poisons and toxicology laboratory of the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service! Nevertheless, despite her clinical excellence in the development of new toxins and their delivery systems, the SVR had a better use for her. Within twelve months, she had been placed as head pharmacist at the Grozny Central Municipal Hospital – the only pharmacist, as it so happened. Karen had been an ideally suited for the position. As well as her academic background and extensive practical laboratory experience, she had also been a Chechen Muslim with an embittered vengeful hatred of her fellow countrymen – which had made her an ideal field agent to operate within Chechnya, for the SVR. Karen had moved back and stayed with her mother on the small poultry farm, on the outskirts of Grozny, taking up the role of a dutiful daughter, returning to help her mother and her fellow man. The Central Municipal Hospital had welcomed Karen with open arms. At that time, it had probably been the only hospital in Grozny, which had a regular dependable supply of water, electric and gas. But it had lacked proper medical equipment, facilities and medicines. Karen, purporting to use her contacts in Saint Petersburg and Moscow, had been able to replenish and restock the pharmacy with some medicines – all courtesy of the Russian Main Intelligence Directorate, the GRU! In spite of this, the Directorate did draw the line at providing anything more than
just basic medicines – no sophisticated drugs or anaesthetics. But they had supplied Karen with large amounts of adrenalin shots; after she had explained to them exactly what she had needed them for – she had needed them for the rebels!
Despite her overwhelming desire to avenge her father’s death, at that point in time, Karen could not bring herself to take life directly. It could have been all too easy for her to kill: drugs infused with lethal toxins – bandages contaminated with deadly bacilli…no one would have been any the wiser; people were dying all the time in Grozny. So, instead, she had become an angel of mercy, not revenge, supplying the Chechen rebels directly with the medical aid and supplies that they had needed – especially the adrenalin. The rebels would use the adrenalin to ‘shoot up’ prior to launching an attack on the Russians; supercharging and enhancing their natural levels of energy and physical power; increasing their Endorphins, and substantially increasing their threshold to pain and injury.
And, by becoming an angel of mercy – Karen had become an infiltrator within their very midst.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
It had been Colonel Dmitri K…who had introduced us on that cold wet April morning.
Karen had stood up as Colin and I had entered the hanger. Elegantly tall and slender, with shoulder length blond curly hair, her bright blue eyes had positively smiled as she had held out her hand for mine. Her hand had been soft to the touch and comparatively warm. Introductions over, the FSB Colonel had quickly outlined the work that he had wanted undertaken – ‘special action removals’, as he had called them.
“Similar to what you have done previously in Vietnam, Cambodia, Namibia, Central America and all those other places,” he had said smugly. “While the main force launches frontal attacks – you kill the big cheese rats as they leave the sinking ship by the back door.”
These Russians do so love to mix their metaphors.
“And which big cheese rats did you have in mind, Colonel?” I had asked.
“Oh, we have several that come to mind,” he had replied. “But I think that Karen is the best placed to explain your first target.”
By virtue of supplying them with medication and drugs, Karen had infiltrated many of the Chechen rebel groups, who had been operating in and around Grozny. She had known intimately about their structures; their hierarchy; their span of control and operation. But, most importantly, she had known the exact locations of their safe houses, and all the potential escape routes leading away from them. Karen had been more than capable of supplying all the intelligence and ground information needed to execute a strike – a ‘special action removal’. With just a trace of an accent, in a soft warm husky voice, she had described the first target location to us. The safe house had been a two story apartment block, located in the centre of Grozny, not far from the hospital, itself. With clear views from the front of the building, up and down the entire length of the street, any one approaching would have been easily spotted – the alarm raised long before an attacker could get within effective striking distance. The designated escape route, from the rear of the building, had been down a series of tight narrow alleyways – easy for just a few people to defend, if a major assault had been made from the rear.
But ideal to set up a tight ‘kill zone’ for us to exploit, I had speculated to myself.
In soft velvet tones, Karen had then indicated who, other than ‘fighters’, might have been there – a low ranking Mujahideen company commander and his deputy.
…small fry, but you have to start somewhere.
Finally, she had run through the numbers of armed hostiles that could be there, at any one time.
…nothing too challenging for us.
“When will the targets be at the location?” I had asked her.
“Depends, they move around frequently,” she had replied. “They never stay more than a night or two in the same location.”
“That’s a long time for us to sit in some dark and dingy alleyway, waiting.”
“You won’t have to,” she had smiled. “You, and your friend,” she had continued, nodding over to Colin, “will come and stay at my home with me and my Mom – until I can get a timeline fixed for you.”
“And how exactly are we suppose to get there – how are we suppose to travel to your ‘Moms’?” I had questioned.
Colin and I had several days growth of beard, and were wearing typical Chechen rebel camouflaged combat fatigues and the obligatory emerald green bandanas – we did not look like Russian conscripts, but, on the other hand, we had been anything but inconspicuous!
“Transport is all arranged,” Colonel Dmitri K…had announced, in matter of fact manner.
And so it had been, too.
***
A Mil Mi-24 Hind helicopter had taken us to a Spetsnaz military base, on the border.
From there, Colin and I had been ferried in an armoured Spetsnaz unit, to the outskirts of Grozny. We had been in the last armoured vehicle of the convoy, a BMP-2 IFV. Apart from the driver, commander and gunner, we had been the infantry fighting vehicle’s sole occupants. Approaching a tight sharp bend in the road, the driver had slowed up to a walking pace, enabling Colin and I to nimbly exit out of the rear doors of the vehicle.
Karen had been waiting for us in a battered white Russian Furgon – 4WD Van, its side and rear windows had been shoddily brush painted with white paint; to make them opaque – a broad red flash, incorporating the international ‘red cross’ symbol, had been stuck crookedly to its sides. As well as side arms, ammunition and equipment bandoliers, and satellite phones; Colin and I had both carried AK-104 assault carbines; a much modified blackened folding stock version of the Kalashnikov AK-47, primarily intended for Airborne and Special Forces troops. In addition to these, I had also carried a Dragunov SDV sniper rifle, equipped with telescopic sights and night vision optics; and Colin had carried a Saiga-12S Combat Shotgun – between us, we had been equipped for most occasions. Opening up the rear doors of the van, Karen had exposed the vehicle’s sparse interior – shelving and racking on either side, separated by a narrow aisle running down the middle of the van. At the end of the racks of shelving had been a white panelled bulkhead, separating the cargo area from the driver. But it had not been a bulkhead. Sliding the panelling to one side, Karen had exposed a small concealed compartment that had been hidden behind the ply board. In this very confined area had been two canvas seats, facing opposite each other, fixed to the sides of the van with coach bolts. It had been a hell of a tight squeeze, especially with all our weapons and equipment – but I suppose out of sight is out of mind. The couple of kilometres that we had travelled to the farm had been spine numbing. The shock absorbers and springs on the van had been completely shot and this, combined with Karen’s heavy foot on the gas, had bounced us about in the close restricted confines of our hidey hole. Karen had not been too gentle with the brakes, either – coming to a sudden skidding halt on a gravelled surface, sending both Colin and I slamming hard into the sides of our confined hiding place. The crude panel, separating us from the rest of the cargo area of the van, had suddenly been pulled back. Instinctively, my Makarov 9mm automatic had been in my hand, safety off, pointing directly into Karen’s face as she had stooped down to look at us both through the narrow opening.
“My driving that bad?” she had sniggered.
“Worst than fucking bad,” it had been Colin who had replied. “Just fucking shoot her – and we’ll walk the rest of the bloody way – I’m fucking finisheeed!”
“There will be none of that language, here,” had come the sound of a female voice, from just outside the van.
Karen had looked down at us and had positively beamed. “That’s my Mom,” she had proudly announced.
Karen’s mother had been an older version of herself, only not so tall, and not so slender. We had been driven into a gravel courtyard at the rear of a small single story farmhouse, on either side, a collection of wooden barns and tall sheds. Some of the sheds had open sides, just
under the eaves of the roof line, which had been covered in wire mesh. These had obviously been the poultry sheds; judging by the noise – and the smell.
Sheepishly, the ex-Spetsnaz Sergeant Major had apologised profoundly in Russian to the woman. I had acquired some Russian, enough to be conversational – and Colin had been doing his utmost to ingratiate himself with the woman.
“My Mom likes him,” Karen had whispered, sideling up to me.
“How can you tell?”
“She hasn’t hit him yet,” she had laughed.
Colin and I were billeted on the mezzanine floor of one of the barns that had contained farm equipment – and thankfully, not chickens. The rear area of the mezzanine floor, where we were to bunk down, had contained a few creature comforts like mattresses, water jugs, bowls, latrine buckets and soap; and had been discreetly hidden from direct view by a single wall of hay bales. Access had been my means of a wooden ladder, which we had pulled up after us – like medieval knights closing the drawbridge after them. Once settled in and having stowed away all our weapons – with the exception of our side arms – by invite, Colin and I had joined Karen and her mother in the kitchen of the main farm house. Dusk had already fallen and the night had been drawing in. On a large scrubbed wooden pine table, a meal had been prepared for us. A tray full of whole roast chickens, crisp and golden; sliced potatoes, fried in cheese and garlic; a large bowl brimming to the top with roasted potatoes, parsnips and red peppers; doorsteps of dark brown bread, smothered in butter; jars full of assorted pickles, eggs and relishes – and vodka!
Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family Page 40