a new book on hybrid war by Alex Alvarova

Chapter Ten — Samples

The conversation was deadlocked. They both suddenly felt that they wanted to say a lot, but neither of them knew where the agreed line of confidentiality for which they were paid was going.

“Do you like London?” She asked, completely confused because she suddenly hadn’t had a less neutral question. He, too, knew it was just a filled pause.

“Yeah, but I couldn’t live here. I wouldn’t get used to it. “

“I had to get used to everything,” she said, not even hiding the bitterness that had suddenly seized her.

“I thought so too. That nothing would surprise me. Until the last murder. She was like you. ‘Then I went to the CID, you know?’

“What murder?” Thousands of alarms sounded in her voice.

“Do you really want to hear it? It’s a story about a cop who got himself bough and one dead girl. “

She didn’t even blink. She was used to it. “Are there any other police officers? You know how many there are here… ”she realized that she had just gotten to where she didn’t want to be.

“I was a young fighter. There was nothing in the world I couldn’t do. The Pigeons sting was a big event. However, the one we were waiting for didn’t show up. He just served us the smaller fry. ”

Oksana stared at the story in amazement. She knew very well who he was talking about. She refused to believe. Why would Borya do that?

David Drabek couldn’t stop talking. “My deputy then found cocaine in his own car two days later. He hung himself in the cell. It was supposed to be a message for me too, I guess. Then I worked on murders. The worst was the disfigured girls, I somehow couldn’t handle it.

The last one, the fifth, near to the River Vltava, was so set up that we could never identify her. All we could see was a tattooed dove on her arm. It was clear to me whose brothel those girls with mutilated bodies were from. And then I quit. One has to fight against the evil he feels equal to stand up to. That’s what Palach said, do you know who it was? ”

She shook her head. No. She knew just the tattoo. It belonged to Lilya.

“The student who burned himself after the Russians came to Prague in 68 on tanks. And I knew I was absolutely not good at this. I didn’t want to end up like Kolar. I wanted a normal life. “

She breathed out slowly. The meaning of the sentences heard came to her gradually, but in the end, they had an effect. There was no point in resisting. Lilya is dead. She couldn’t catch her breath.

“Do you feel OK? I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to, “he said when he saw her face. “I’m an idiot.”

“It’s nothing, it’s an allergy,” she excused herself, but she felt she couldn’t lie today. “It was Kustić, wasn’t it? His people? Or Serge? ”

“Don’t get upset, but we never had this call together. OK?“

“OK,“ she said and lowered her eyes.

”You look…Strange.“

She slowly was regaining her self-control.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling in a practiced way. She was used to it.

He didn’t suddenly know what to say. “If you don’t mind,… I’d like to meet you again.”

She looked up. She was in control again.

“Actually, why not? When?”

“Tomorrow? Shall we have dinner? ”

“Sure, I‘d like to.”

On the way home, she put on black glasses. It was a little weird in the foggy, overcast weather, but she didn’t want to show red eyes.

It was half-past ten and there was a pleasant twilight in the hotel room. She pushed her leg gently out from beneath the duvet, then the other. They went to dinner from seven and were both so horny that they almost didn’t finish eating.

She was already ripping his shirt off in the hall. They rolled on the floor in the room, pounding her head on the leg of an antique chair, and she didn’t care. They loved each other as if losing their mind, as if it were the last moment of their lives.

She went to the bathroom. It wasn’t a bad day. She laughed out loud. A little hysterical. She let go of the water, twisted her hair in a knot, and climbed into the tub. She loved the bathroom silence with an echo. She watched the bubbles form and merge into foamy tufts like cotton berries.

She thought about how much time she needed. Time is now all that matters. No more mistakes. This night was the worst mistake she had made so far. She knew she would pay for it, but she didn’t want to pay early. It was a beautiful night. She needed time.

She came out of the bathroom in a bathrobe and thought of the name of the killer that David Drábek had revealed to her after a tumultuous love affair.


She got up at home in the morning. Serge ordered her for the evening. She knew she still had time to put a small can of juice to the park with a message for Grigori’s people.

She preferred not to write anything about the last party; she met both of Grigori’s co-workers among the guests and judged that they saw much more of themselves than she did. She left out David.

Early in the morning, while jogging, she placed the can in a niche under the bench as usual. The Russians were old-fashioned in this. Nothing electronically. Everything has to run as usual. She needed some more time. Time was suddenly all that mattered to her.

She thought of everything in her mind and was suddenly calm.


That evening, Serge was insatiable. There was obviously a great success, Serge was talking about a major breakthrough in American real estate and drinking champagne like a thirsty rainbow. She had to change several times, each time into different underwear. He wanted absolutely everything. After fucking on the kitchen counter, he finally staggered to the bed and fell asleep.

She dressed slowly. Quietly as usual. She has been a champion quiet dresser for years. She sat for a moment, watching him. The powder she had given him to drink was already making its impact; he slept deeply and snored like a rattling chainsaw. He lay naked on the couch, his pants thrown over the chair.

When she was sure, she dared to reach into his trouser pocket. There was a portable disk, which Serge was transferring information between his computer and Borya’s. They sent it by courier. She picked up the disk, went to the bedroom, and unplugged his laptop. Oksana took that too.

She opened the prepared box, wrote down the address, lined the bottom with a thick layer of newspaper, and put both inside. She added a folded sheet of paper. Then she pasted the box and took it to the post office with all-night operations. She preferred to send the package by courier. It was a matter of time. It was well after midnight.

Then she went home contentedly. She took the elevator to the fifteenth floor, opened the last bottle of port she had, and drank three glasses slowly. She tasted and smiled. The time for her freedom and retribution had just come.

She opened the balcony door and took a deep breath. The air from the river was pleasantly cool. It was dawn, a bright orange-white streak of morning light was already on the horizon, watering the window panes of the houses opposite.

She took off her shoes so she wouldn’t slip. She stepped on a chair, then on the metal railing. It was just an instant. The darkness came quickly.


That morning, a package appeared at the London Criminal Police mailroom. It was assigned to the Superintendent of the organized crime department. As Jeremy Appleby unpacked it, he saw a laptop, a black disk, and a letter. The letter was brief. It read:

“This laptop belongs to the head of the London organization of the Kustic´s mafia, Sergei Kravčuk. It will be clear in the morning that the laptop is gone. Sergei will definitely drive a car, he hates flying. He’s going to Dundee. Good luck.”

There was another sentence below that Jeremy Appleby did not understand. It was written in small print. One has to fight against the evil he feels equal to stand up to.

That day, British NCA specialists set to work. It didn’t take them much time to crack Sergei Kravchuk’s relatively primitive security. He didn’t expect anyone to get to him at all.


The British government has one department, the existence of which is not much talked about. The scope of its activities is rather embarrassing. It consists of investigating crimes committed by a police officer.

Everything was on standby that day in an elegant building on 2 Marsham Street, home of the Home Office. Dozens of civil servants, police officers and customs officials had no idea that their names would move from Sergei Kravchuk’s payslips to those under investigation and prosecution.

One of the high-ranking men on the list managed to pick up the phone and call a private number in the West End before he was arrested. He just said, “I’m afraid there’s an epidemic, I’m definitely not coming for lunch.”

The other party hurriedly hung up and began to communicate in all directions. Twenty minutes later, ten esteemed businessmen from the countries of the former Soviet Union hurried to the airport.

Oligarch Osipovich also flew away. For sure. SVR agent Grigori Kirov was among the hurried passengers. He was ordered along with the others. Clear the field quickly.

After two days and reassurance from the Kremlin that they were not in danger in London, they returned. It is not known exactly who assured the Kremlin of this. But he certainly didn’t lie.

That same evening, however, Sergei Kravchuk was arrested on the A68 towards Edinburgh.

Superintendent Jeremy Appleby called his subordinate and said:

“Kustic represents bigger trouble than expected. It follows from that disk that he has moved from the real estate business to a higher level. Buys banks and hedge funds. Inform the FBI, I think they have a really big problem. Something is going on in the Republican Party. “

Research of Russian disinfo, seminar leader and public speaker. Author of books on Information Warfare. www.alvarova.com

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