Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family

by M. T. Hallgarth

  The Vodka had been the first thing that Karen had poured out for us all, pouring equal measures into finely etched delicate glass tumblers – handing a glass to her mother, Colin and myself, before taking one herself and knocking it straight back.

  “I thought that you were a good Muslim,” I had casually remarked.

  “I am – I am a good ‘Russian’ Muslim,” Karen had laughed back. “And good Russians drink – and good Muslims pray. And I shall pray after I am drunk, not to drink again – that is, not until I drink again, next time.”

  Colin and I had joined Karen and her mother in the one drink…but only the one – we had work to discuss!

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  Grozny had been yet another example of the level of apocalyptic destruction and wanton mayhem that can be inflicted on a populace, through the devastating impact of civil war. Another Beirut…another Sarajevo – yet another city from Hell.

  Colin and I had spent most of the next day resting and relaxing, hidden in the snug warmness of the barn. Karen’s mother had supplied us throughout the day with steaming jugs of rich aromatic black coffee. Lunch had been a large flask of potato soup with thick black bread and a small basket of boiled eggs. I don’t eat soup, so I had been grateful for the bread and eggs. During most of the day, when not busying herself around the poultry sheds and the vegetable garden, she had sat in an old rocking chair on the back porch, which had directly faced the barn; almost as if she had been watching over us – guarding us. Karen had returned back from the Pharmacy at the Grozny Central Municipal Hospital just before dusk – she had been clearly excited. It had all been arranged. The ‘targets’, requiring removal, would be at the safe house, overnight. Using my sat phone, I had arranged for a Spetsnaz Unit to launch a frontal assault on the building at 0200 hours. After spending a deal of time studying large scale maps and satellite images of the area, I had already identified a good ‘kill zone’ and a suitable location for Colin and I to take up position. All that had been needed had been for Karen to transport us there in her ‘ambulance.’

  Safely hidden in the secret compartment of the ambulance, Karen had taken us out on her ‘drug run’ as she had dropped off medical supplies to various Chechen Mujahideen units, located throughout Grozny. For most of the evening, Colin and I had sat cramped in the restricted confines of the van’s hidden compartment, while Karen had delivered her ‘drugs’. From inside the van, we had clearly heard the banter that had gone on between Karen and the Chechen rebels she had been delivering to. Some of it had been in the confusing Chechen dialect of the Caucasus language – totally alien to me. Some of it had been in Arabic, which, in part, I had understood. But it had been clearly evident, from all the suggestive innuendos and obvious remarks, each and every rebel had been trying to chat Karen up! Eventually, a little after ten, Karen had pulled up in a side street; close to where the safe house had been located.

  There had been no street lighting, whatsoever. Electricity supply, when available, had been frequently intermittent and greatly restricted – especially during hours of peak demand, such as at night. There had been little in the way of natural light, too – what moonlight that there was had been covered by low heavy cloud. Nonetheless, we had been able to make our way in the dark to a derelict building, just a couple of hundred metres away from the safe house. In fact, there had been so many derelict buildings in the area; we had been quite spoilt for choice. So we had chosen one that had no roof. Being open to the elements and the cold, it had been unsuitable for those who had slept rough, and less likely to have been used as a toilet – but that point had been purely academic. The whole of Grozny had smelt like a toilet! For the next three and a half hours, Colin and I had remained there in silence, listening to the night and our own thoughts. Then, at 0140 hours, we had prepared to move out and take up our respective positions. Removing our emerald green bandanas, we had replaced them with black full face balaclavas – with holes only for the mouth and the eyes – taking care not to dislodge the tiny earpieces for our throat mikes. From their webbing cases, we had taken out our night vision goggles, placing and securing them over our balaclavas, ensuring that they had been firmly in position on our foreheads. Lastly, from underneath the necks of our blue and white hooped vests, we had pulled out the dog tag chains holding our ID’s and rank flashes, ensuring that they had been clearly visible on our chests – we were good to go!

  Dropping the goggles down over our eyes and switching on the night vision devices, we had left the cover of the derelict house – everything bathed in the luminescent green glow of the image intensifiers. The alleyway, designated as the potential escape route from the safe house, had been intersected by a larger alleyway some fifty metres from the apartment block, where the Chechen rebels had been hiding out. Slinging his Saiga-12S Combat Shotgun over his broad shoulder, and taking up his AK-104, I had left Colin guarding this intersection – effectively minding my back. I had gone down the narrow passageway a short distance, and had found myself a suitable doorway to hide in, about halfway down on the right. With my AK-104 already in my hands and the Dragunov SDV sniper’s rifle slung securely over my back – it hadn’t been required on this occasion, everything was going to be up close and personal – I had extended out the gun’s folding metal shoulder stock. Bringing the AK-104 up into my right shoulder, I had crouched down in the doorway…and waited.

  The distinctive clatter of tracks over tarmac, and the gruff bark of four-stroke V6 diesel engines, had announced the arrival of the attacking Spetsnaz Unit. I had been right about the timing for the assault. The scheduled 0200 hours attack had taken the whole surrounding neighbourhood completely by surprise, allowing the Spetsnaz BMP-2 Infantry Fighting Vehicles to virtually get up to the front doors of the safe house, before the alarm had been raised – and, by then, it had been too late. The slow rhythmic beat of the 30mm auto cannons of the BMPs, firing high explosive rounds into the building, had been in stark contrast to the rapid fire of their supporting coaxial 7.62mm PKT machine guns. This cacophony of noise had been quickly followed by the cough of concussion grenades and the rattle of AK-74s and 105s. Then had come the muted sound of gunfire, from within the safe house, as the rebels had returned fire. Edging out from the doorway, I had taken up a kneeling positing on my right leg, using my raised left knee to steady my left arm on, taking aim straight down the alleyway that had been bathed in the soft green light of my night vision. I didn’t have to wait long. Charging round the corner, at the bottom of the alleyway, had come two running figures, their faces highlighted brightly in the ghostly green light of my goggles. Unseen by them, I had waited in the middle of the alleyway. I had waited until they had been no more than five metres away before opening fire on them. From my kneeling position, I had squeezed off two rounds on full auto directly into the centre of the first man’s chest, causing him to pitch forward under the momentum of his flight. Another burst of two rounds, on full auto, and his companion had toppled backwards, crumpling in an untidy heap in the middle of the alleyway. Even though Colin had been no more than about twenty metres behind me, at the intersection of the alleyway, with a clear view of what had just happened through his night vision, over my voice mike I had informed him of my status – and that I was going to take photos! With my foot, I had rolled both men over on to their backs, so as to get a clear view of their upturned faces. Raising the goggles of my night vision device up away from my eyes – I had not wanted to get blinded by the flash from the small pocket camera, held in my right hand – I had taken photographs of the two Chechen rebels that I had just killed…their faces frozen in that timeless expression of bewilderment that the dead sometimes have.

  Still, taking photographs is far less messy than having to literally take their heads or hands – as I use to have to do, in Vietnam and South Africa!

  Having captured their images, keeping the AK-104 up to my shoulder and training it down towards the bottom of the alleyway, I had then walked slowly backwards up to the inters
ection where Colin had been. He had been using a building on the right hand corner of the intersection for cover. So, being ambidextrous, I had simply switched my AK over to my other shoulder and had taken up position on the opposite side of the alleyway, from him. No sooner than I had taken up position, then all hell had seemed to break loose down at the very bottom of the alleyway. The high pitched shouts and cries had announced the arrival of more Mujahideen fighters…only they had not been fighting – they had been fleeing! In the dark, the first of the rebels had stumbled and fallen over the bodies of his company commander and his assistant deputy. Others had also fallen and stumbled in the confusion. Waiting until they had picked themselves up and had started running again, I had let them get to within ten metres, before opening up on them. Initially, just short bursts of three rounds – a firm hold on the forward hand grip effectively countering the weapons recoil on full auto, and its inherent tendency to shoot progressively skywards. Well rehearsed, Colin had taken his timing from me. As soon as I had finished firing my first three round burst, then he had also fired a short three round burst, directly into the rebels fleeing headlong towards us. And then, we had alternated systematically. A burst of three from me – and then a burst of three from him. Just a few short bursts from our AK-104 carbines and it had all been over – all the rebels were dead. In the short quiet stillness that had followed, we had taken the opportunity to reload. Then, came the sound of soft soled military boots cautiously approaching from the bottom of the alleyway.

  “Stoy – Opredelit’ sebya!” Colin had shouted out, almost in a high pitch scream. ‘Halt – Identify yourselves!’

  “Matushki Gusyni – kto yebat’ ty?” had come the yelled reply. ‘Mother Goose – who the fuck are you?’

  “Mongoose odin i dva,” there had been a distinct controlled restraint in Colin’s voice. ‘Mongoose One and Two.’ Even more so when he had added: “Maĭor Martin i Starshina Vyacheslav Vissarionovich – F S Bee!” He had deliberately drawn out the ‘FSB’, for impact.

  “Avansovyye i dolzhny byt’ priznany,” the voice had called out. ‘Advance and be recognised.’

  “VY PEREDVINUTY VPERED I PRIZNANNOYE!” I had shouted out the order. If there was to be a double cross, it would be now. ‘YOU ADVANCE AND BE RECOGNISED!’

  From the bottom of the alleyway, a group of figures had come into view. Dressed similarly to us, they had held there assault rifles with the butts nestled into the crooks of their arms, the muzzles pointing harmlessly up in the air. I had stood up first, adopting a similar stance, the butt of my AK-104 in the crook of my arm with the barrel pointing upwards, but my finger still on the trigger. Slowly, Colin and I had advanced towards the Spetsnaz troops, carefully stepping over the bodies of those that we had just killed – eight in total, including the two Mujahideen commanders.

  One of the masked Spetsnaz troops had approached, the goggles of his night vision pointing directly at my chest and the solitary large Silver Star in the middle of my field flash. “Horoshaya rabota – Maĭor,” he had said, looking down at the corpses in the alleyway. ‘Good work – Major.’

  I had glanced down at his rank flash, clipped to the centre of his chest – a collection of four small silver stars in an inverted ‘Y’. “Spasibo – Kapitan,” I had replied in my best Russian. ‘Thank you – Captain,’ and then had added: “Vremya idti.”

  ‘Time to go.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  Over the next three weeks we had carried out two more ‘special action removals’, as Colonel Dmitri K…had called them.

  They had been identical in modus operandi: regular schedule airline service, from London to Moscow; internal military flight, to an air force base in Southern Russia; followed by short helicopter flight to a Spetsnaz base, on the border of Chechnya; then a ride with a Spetsnaz unit into Grozny. Staying at the poultry farm with Karen and her mother, Karen would then transport us to the target locations in the back of her ‘ambulance’. After the successful completion of the operation, we would hitch a ride back with a Spetsnaz unit, returning back to the UK in the reverse manner of our outward journey.

  Both operations had been totally successful, but I had called a halt – you can push your luck too far; so best quit while you’re ahead. In that respect, I had been thinking of Karen – I had not wanted to compromise the integrity of her personal security and put her life in jeopardy. If we had continued in the same manner – the same modus operandi, it would not have been long before someone had figured out that Karen had been the common denominator behind the targeted killings. Colonel Dmitri K…had agreed with me. Rather than place Karen at risk, we were to postpone special action removals, for a short while – ‘Just for a short while,’ the FSB Colonel had been keen to stress. Instead, between the beginning of May to the end of July, we had carried on normally, undertaking work assignments for other clients – we are never ever short of work.

  To all intents and purposes, to the Western world, the Chechen rebels had appeared to be one united cohesive force of freedom fighters, fighting to free themselves from the oppression and tyranny of Russian rule. Quite often based on ‘teips’ or clans, the Chechen rebels that had faced the Russians had been anything but united and cohesive – far from it, in fact. There had been the liberal Chechen Nationalists Separatist Movement, and the diametrically opposed extreme home grown Islamic Fundamentalists. There had even been a contingent of the Islamic Peacekeeping Army – the international unit of the Islamist Mujahideen. Along with these opposing factions, there had also been a huge influx of foreign fighters and insurgents into Chechnya, fighting for whatever – whomever they could…adding yet more chaos and confusion to the bloody civil war that was Chechnya. United and cohesive – they most definitely were not. Although supposedly fighting for a common cause, a common purpose, very often the political ideology of these various factions had been completely opposed and at odds to one another. Also, due to the fact that many of the rebel combat units had been created around the Chechen clan structure, there had been regular infighting between the groups – between rival clans; resulting in the proliferation of ongoing honour and blood feuds between them. So, not only had there been an ongoing conflict of political ideology, between the various groups; there had also been the deep seated distrust of one clan to another. And, while seemingly cooperating with each other against the Russians, there had been continual feuding between these various factions and clans – something that the SVR, the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, had sought to exploit.

  The targeted killings that we had carried out from the end of July, in Chechnya, with one notable exception, had all been conventional killings. Karen had broached the unusual SVR proposal over supper at her mother’s farm; one hot summer’s evening in late August. As well as providing us with local intelligence, safe housing and transport, first and foremost, Karen had been an active field agent with the SVR. Out of character for her, she had been quite subdued when she had explained what her SVR superiors had requested – a beheading! They had wanted to exploit the ongoing friction that had existed between a Grozny based Islamic Fundamentalist group, and the local Chechen clans and teips. The local clans, while fighting the Russians, had also still tried to maintain and safeguard their major source of income – drug trafficking. On the other hand, the Islamists, hugely funded by Saudi Arabian militants and Al-Qaeda, had done everything in their power to try to sabotage and disrupt this trade. This had been to the extreme annoyance of the local clans, who had frequently relied on Russian military convoys to transport their goods for them – convoys that sometimes would be attacked and destroyed by the Islamists! This particular group of Islamist Fundamentalists had ruled their area of influence, in Grozny and the surrounding districts, with a barbaric harshness that had caused some disquiet among several of the other Chechen rebel groups and clans – especially the mutilations and beheadings. The SVR had believed that by beheading a member of one of the Chechen clans, the ritualistic killing might serve to further agg
ravate the hostility existing between the factions. Their intended target had been the youngest sibling of the leader of one of the largest and most powerful clans in Grozny. The target, a young man of only junior rank within his clan – his principal role had been that of a courier, transporting heroin to and from suppliers and distributors throughout the Grozny area and local outlying districts. Both he, and his older brothers, had been warned on several occasions by the Islamist Fundamentalists to stay out of their territory. But, the drug dealing Chechen clan had ignored all the threats and warnings to them – it had been business as usual. At first, Colin had physically turned his nose up to the idea, but then he had quickly warmed to it…after all, Chechen rebels were beheading captured Russian conscripts all the time – so why not have a bit of pay back!

  Two nights later, in blatant defiance of warnings not to violate their territory, the young Chechen rebel had been taking a short cut on his way back from a delivery to Argun, a few miles to the east of Grozny. Late at night, he had been on foot, not wishing to give himself away by using a car or van to either the Islamist Fundamentalists or, worse still, the Russians. Instead, he had driven to the outskirts of Grozny, keeping to the back roads, parked up and had walked through the blacked out streets and alleyways – straight to where we had been waiting for him! He had been about to cross an open bomb site, when I had attacked him, from behind. With a hard blow of my upturned right fist, directly into his kidneys, stunned he had collapsed to his knees. Taking hold of his stubbly bearded chin in my right hand, I had pulled his head hard back towards me. Reaching around in front of his neck with my other hand, in one long clean stroke, I had brought the broad blade of my skinning knife swiftly across his neck, severing the carotid arteries and jugular veins – cutting through the trachea and the oesophagus, slicing straight through to his spine. On other occasions, I would have stopped exactly there – no need for anything more. However, the SVR had wanted him decapitated. Moving the skinning knife up his spine, I had quickly found the joint between two of his vertebrae, the sharp edge of the knife digging into the soft fibro cartilage tissue that had formed the joint. Twisting the broad blade of the knife slightly, I had cut through the cartilage separating the two vertebrae, severing the spinal column in two. Then, changing hands and tilting his head forward, I had cut in the opposite direction, slicing through the neck muscles of the Trapezius, taking the head clean off the shoulders. It had been so easy – so quick. Three – four seconds, at the most!