Black operator complete.., p.37
Black Operator--Complete Box Set (Books 1-6), page 37
"Someone requesting an interview, Sir. From the Serbsky Center, what used to be called the Serbsky Institute."
His eyebrows rose. The Serbsky was a place he viewed with acute distaste. Once a center for experiments with clinical forensic psychiatry, it had been more of a torture chamber than a clinic. They'd fill a prisoner, although they preferred to call them patients, with drugs; drugs that brought about the most excruciating and horrific pain. While the subject writhed in agony, strapped to a table stained with blood, piss, and feces, they’d go to work on their mind.
If they failed to convey to the prisoner the error of their ways, when the treatments finally ended that person would be so insane they wouldn't be able to recall their own name. Which didn't matter, because the final stage was to dispatch them, cremating the bodies in a purpose-built incinerator. The ashes would be scattered over the ground of the Institute. No questions, no investigations, and everyone was happy. Except of course, the family of the dead person.
He personally didn't go along with such brutality, but not for any humane reason. Only that worldwide publicity about the Serbsky Institute had backfired on the Russian regime, and made them look like a nation prepared to resort to any cruelty. Which, of course, was nonsense. If they used cruel methods, it was because they worked. The Serbsky was a case in point. Why waste valuable resources driving a person insane? Why not just kill them at the start, and save everyone time and money?
The last person he wanted to speak to was a representative from the Serbsky. The fact they’d renamed it ‘Center’ instead of ‘Institute’ made little difference, he knew for a fact. They were all psychopaths, masquerading as doctors and nurses.
"Tell them to write and make an appointment. Tell them I'm busy."
His secretary sounded excited. "Sir, I'm sure you'll want to see her."
"Why is that?"
"You must see for yourself, Sir. I suggest you spare a few moments. You may be surprised."
"Very well," he grunted, "But no more than a few minutes. My time is too precious.”
Seconds later, there was a soft tap on the door, and it opened. A girl walked in, and he felt faint, struggling to suck in enough air to breathe. He was panicking, almost to the point of collapse, for he was staring at a dead person, a ghost. He didn’t believe in ghosts, yet the apparition was standing in his office, wearing the beautiful, angelic face of Katya Karpov.
"You!"
She gave him a quizzical look. "Me, yes. Who did you expect?"
"You’re dead. He killed you, the American, Rhodes."
Realization dawned, and she nodded. "You're thinking of my sister, Katya."
“Your sister? I didn’t know she had a sister.”
“My twin sister, yes. I am Kareena. We are identical. At least, we were identical. Now she’s dead.”
He began to relax. "You are indeed identical, in every way. For a moment there, I thought…”
A shrug. "No, I am not my twin sister. Mr. Ushakov, you may be wondering why I am here. It is because of that bastard that killed her."
"Yes, he did. What has the Serbsky Center to do with the death of your sister, the dissident Maria Tereshkova, or the American Cris Rhodes? They are all security matters.”
"Revenge.” She hissed the word like a drop of cold water falling on a hot plate, “Revenge, that is all. It is no business of the Serbsky Center. They don’t even know I’m here. This is personal business. I used the name of my employer to gain access to your office. I want your permission to go after them. They must die for what they did to my sister.”
He was already shaking his head. "The President has given me instructions to stand down. Too many resources have been wasted, valuable State resources, and he wants no more of it. The operation came close to besmirching the good name of the President of the Russian Federation, and that cannot be allowed to happen. No more, it is over."
"Did he say anything about a private operation?"
He was about to tell her the interview was over when he had second thoughts.
No, my boss made no mention about private individuals going after the fugitives. Why should he? It was, or at least it has been, a State-run operation. It was that State run operation he instructed me to stop. This is something different.
He regarded her keenly. She was waiting for him to speak, patient and impassive. Almost like a state executioner, anticipating the jailers bringing out the next victim to meet their end.
"It is true, the President said nothing about private individuals going after these people. However, you should remember your twin sister Katya failed, and she is dead. Why would you expect to succeed? She was a soldier, an operative of the FSB, and expertly trained in clandestine wet work. You are a scientist, is that not correct? They don't employ military personnel at the Serbsky. I know that for a fact.”
"At the Serbsky Center we treat dissidents and people with the wrong attitude to our government, traitors, troublemakers, that kind of scum. Frequently, they succumb to the treatment regime, which is severe. My job is to deal with those who suffer from terminal insanity."
"Terminal insanity?"
"Correct. Patients who have become so insane they are beyond help. There is a simple solution to end their suffering, and I administer that solution."
"You kill them."
"That is correct."
The way she said it chilled him, and he made a note never to allow him to get into this girl’s power. Despite the angel face, she was deep down, a stone killer, like her sister had been.
I get the definite impression she enjoys her work, and would probably have done it without pay had it been necessary to sate her…what is it I can see behind those eyes. Yes, I have it. Her lust, her need to kill, it’s inside her soul, dark and terrible.
“How do you kill them? I ask the question out of interest, no particular reason.”
“When there are drugs available, I administer a fatal dose, but drugs are expensive. A hypodermic syringe works well, filled with nothing more than air. Inject enough into the vein or artery, and the air bubble travels to the heart and stops it.” She smiled, her eyes far away as she savored the many deaths she’d presided over, “The system is cheap and effective, and the patient writhes in terrible agony for some time. It is interesting to observe, and I often have a crowd to watch.”
I’ll bet you do.
“But the quickest method is a sharp knife, one slash across the throat.” The gleam was in her eyes again.
“They can struggle for several minutes trying to suck in breath while they are drowning in their own blood. It is…” She thought for a couple of seconds, “Rewarding.”
“I see. Perhaps you do possess some of the skills to carry out a difficult kill. Although even if I agreed, you couldn't manage it alone."
"I have no intention of carrying out this operation alone. My brothers, Kolya and Kazimir would accompany me."
"Your brothers? Where are they, in Moscow?"
"They are under sentence of death in Moscow Butyrka Prison. It would be a simple matter for you to give the order for their release."
"They must have done something serious to merit a death sentence. What was the crime?"
"Murder."
"A single murder, and they sentenced them to death?"
"Multiple murders. Too many to list, some say more than a hundred."
"More than a hundred!" He gasped, "And you expect me to put these men back on the street?"
She was still impassive. "I do. What have you to lose? Sure, they'd be back on the streets, but not in Russia. They would be turned loose in America, and if you wish, you could cancel their passports once they are inside the country. Which means they would never come back."
"They would agree to that?"
"They would agree to life, is that not always a better option than death?"
He paused, thinking hard. First, he had to be sure in his own mind he could square any questions that came from the President’s office about going on with the operation he'd been ordered to stop. It wasn't likely he'd object, not too strongly. As long as there was no question of State involvement. Then there was the question of commuting the sentence of Kareena's brothers. He felt it was feasible, but something held him back. He'd sent some good men after Maria Tereshkova, and somehow, with the help of her friend Cris Rhodes, she'd always managed to stay one step from death. If these people went after them, he had to know they would achieve the desired result. To put these two people out of his misery, and the misery of the President.
"Do you think you can find them, Tereshkova and Rhodes? Without any State assistance?"
For the first time she smiled, as if he'd just pushed a saucer of cream toward the cat. "Yes, I can find them."
Still uneasy, he decided to put off the decision. "I will go to meet your brothers tomorrow. Then I will decide."
"Tomorrow will be too late. The execution is scheduled for tomorrow at dawn."
He sighed. "Very well, I will visit them this evening." He looked down at his desk diary and found he had a vacant one-hour slot, "You will meet me at Butyrka jail at 20.00, and we will speak to these brothers of yours. You may go. This interview is concluded."
“I have a busy schedule later. I may be a little late.”
“Plenty of patients to kill?”
“Yes.” She turned and walked out of the office. He felt his skin beginning to relax. For the last ten minutes it was as if insects had been crawling all over him.
Dammit, the Serbsky doesn't need chemicals to inject their so-called patients. Ten minutes with that angel-faced girl would be more than enough. A glimpse of the deepest pits of hell that drive her would put them on the road to insanity with no hope of ever coming back.
That evening, his driver parked the limo outside the Moscow Butyrka Jail, and the bodyguard opened the door. The staff was forewarned and waiting for him, and the governor met him at the gate. He shook hands, his face wreathed in smiles.
"This is indeed an honor, Mr. Ushakov. You mentioned the Karpov brothers, I take it you wanted to inspect them before they are executed at dawn."
He didn't like the man's ingratiating manner. He was like a sniveling serf bowing to his master.
Doesn't he know in modern Russia, life is equal for everyone? Okay, perhaps a little more equal for men like me, but still, it’s a reminder of the bad old days I don't need. Especially on this visit, which is beginning to fill me with disgust.
“Tell your men when Miss Karpov arrives, to send her on to the cell. Immediately.”
“Of course, Sir. Anything.”
The governor led him through long, dank corridors. Ahead of them, jailers unlocked steel-barred doors with huge bunches of keys. Their footsteps echoed on the ancient flagstones, and mingled with the cackling screams of unseen prisoners. He speculated as to what was going on behind the chipped paintwork of the heavy steel doors they passed. And then he put it out of his mind. Those men were criminals, and in Russia, that meant they were the damned. Damned to long sentences in fetid, overcrowded jails, unless unlucky enough to be condemned to the Siberian gulags. Or worse, the Russian prison system was riddled with an epidemic of tuberculosis; which meant a choking, terrible, and lengthy death, with little hope of drugs to combat the disease. They were prisoners, why would the State waste money on drugs to keep them alive? On rare occasions, when some enlightened politician insisted on treating sick prisoners, the governor would sell the drugs, and the sick died just the same. Perhaps that was why this man was so nervous and ingratiating.
What have you stolen, little man? What rackets do you have going on in this place?
Finally, they stopped. The keys jangled again, and the door opened. The stench was indescribable, as if someone had died there weeks before, and the body still decomposing. But there were no dead bodies, just two men, both alive, and chained to the opposite wall with heavy manacles fastened to their wrists and ankles. Their huge bodies were smeared with filth, and their faces like something out of a nightmare.
He corrected himself. Calling them men was not accurate. They were not men. They were monsters. He could imagine them in some horror movie, vast and unstoppable, shambling like zombies, almost machinelike. Plodding forward, arms outstretched. Staring at their next victim, until their hands locked around them, and they were no more.
He snapped his fingers and held out a hand. The governor passed him the records of their trials, and he speed-read each of them. One part of his mind was filled with the most appalling horror that these creatures could be allowed to exist, to breathe life in the Russian Federation. Their huge, muscle-bound bodies would be enough to strike terror into any man, and their faces nothing more than misshapen lumps. He could imagine people scattering as they passed along the street.
But the other side of him was trying, and failing, to squash a sneaking admiration for the sheer wholesale destruction they had carried out during their murderous careers.
“Your names are Kolya and Kazimir Karpov?”
Two voices spoke as one. “Yes.”
“You are under sentence of death.”
“Yes.”
He sighed. It was like talking to two robots. "How did you kill your victims?"
The slightly smaller monster spoke. By Ushakov’s estimate, he was still over six feet four inches tall. "Does it matter? We strangled them, kicked them to death, hacked them to death with a machete.” For the first time, he smiled, “That was the best. You should hear the screams. It was like listening to music.”
He fought down the urge to vomit his dinner onto the floor. “You’re Kazimir?"
"Kolya. He is Kazimir," he pointed to the bigger man. Bigger, and if it were possible, uglier than him.
"Kolya, how many did you kill? It says here an indeterminate number, but at least one hundred."
He scoffed. "I did much better than that. Wherever I went, I left bodies. Two hundred, three hundred, four hundred." His mouth opened again in a ghastly semblance of a smile, "Me and Kazimir, we treated it like a game. See who could kill the most. When they were dead, we used to hack off the limbs and nail them to trees, like trophies. We were hunters. Get it?"
He didn't reply and looked at the other man. "Kazimir, do you have anything to say?"
A shrug. "Nothing. I couldn't give a shit if they want to kill me. I've enjoyed every moment. Why don’t you fuck off and leave us alone, Mister?”
“You like it in here?”
A shrug. “It smells like home.”
"I’m sure it does. However, your sister wants your help."
“Kareena? She's left it a bit late."
"Nevertheless, she wants your help. What if I could arrange for your death sentence to be commuted?"
"Commuted to what?"
"You will be released to go to America, and you will help me.” He didn’t say the rest of it. Afterward, they could never come back to Russia. Not ever. They would become permanent exiles. He knew what exile would do to them, and wisely, said nothing.
"Do we get to kill anyone?"
"Yes."
The governor erupted, spluttering with indignation, his face growing red with anger.
I wonder if he is on a kickback from the executioner. Probably.
“You cannot cancel the executions. It is impossible. Everything is arranged. The executioner will be here later tonight, and they must die at dawn tomorrow. The courts have laid out the procedure, and…”
“Stop.” Ushakov treated the man to the full glare of his stare, and it carried all the power of his exalted office, “You will find a way to cancel the executions. If it is not possible, you may take their place, and the executioner will not have wasted his journey. Unlock their shackles. They're coming with me. Be quick, my patience is running low.”
They turned at a commotion outside, and Kareena rushed into the cell. She smiled and hugged each of her brothers. The contrast between them was astonishing. Beauty and the two beasts, the maiden and the two monsters, like a gruesome fairytale. The chains clanked as they responded to the hugs. Ushakov felt he was in the middle of something dark and elemental, as if the devil was paying a visit to this place. He was still trying to make up his mind which was the worse. The angelic Kareena, or the monstrous, deformed faces of her brothers. All he wanted was to get out into the open and smell clean, fresh air.
His bodyguard was next to the limo, and he called him over. “Arrange for passports, visas, and air tickets tomorrow morning. The Karpovs are going to America, and the two men will be on limited visas. They will expire after one week, and there will be no return visas. Their passports will also expire, is that clear? When they leave the Russian Federation, they will never return. Never.”
"Yes, Sir."
He shook the man off, pushed past him, and vomited into the gutter. The rank, fetid and stinking atmosphere that lingered in the cell seemed to have stuck to his clothing, like a blanket, and the clean, fresh Moscow air had never smelled better. Even the diesel fumes were sweet.
I never want to see those monsters again, not to go within a thousand miles of them, nor Kareena Karpov. The cold taint of death clings to her, surrounding her like an aura. I’ll arrange that she’ll also become persona non-grata when the operation’s complete. I don’t mind professionals, wet work operatives. They’re essential tools of the State, but ghouls? No.
With a final shudder, he returned to the limo, making a note to instruct his staff never to admit those people to his presence again. If they ever came near his office, they were to call the Kremlin guards and shoot them on sight. Even so, he knew he would have many sleepless nights before he leeched the specters of death from his nightmares.
Chapter One
The days passed in relative peace, and Cris found himself agreeing more and more with Maria's interpretation. The threat was almost certainly over. There’d been no signs of hostile activity, and if they had a complaint about anything, it was the appalling condition of Al Quinby's so-called ‘safe house.’ The place was more of a tool shed, although equipped with a few necessities. Like crude, rustic beds, a much-repaired table that slanted to one side, and chairs that threatened to collapse the moment a person put their weight on them.
