Svr Quotes

SVR,” he said, which meant Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, which was their foreign intelligence service. Like the CIA, or the DGSE, or MI6 in Britain. Then he said, “But we’re all still KGB really. Old wine, new bottles.

Then again, maybe the standard office space was already evil enough that villainy couldn’t improve on it.

The boys and girls in the SVR, many of them former KGB officers, weren’t holstering their Makarovs just yet.

Someone else knows,” I said. “The three most dangerous words in the secrecy business. But there it is. I know, and Ms. Nice knows. Which is why we came back with the RAF. Because where would your plane have landed? Guantanamo, maybe. But it didn’t, and we’re back in America, free and clear. And we know. I’m sure you could crush Ms. Nice’s career, but you’ll never find me. I’ll always be out there. And you know me, General. You’ve known me a long time. I don’t forgive, and I don’t forget. And I won’t have to do much. Talking might be enough. Suppose the SVR found out it was you who got Khenkin killed? Some of those IOUs might get canceled. And they might retaliate. Rumors might start, about poor old Tom O’Day, who got so desperate he came up with a cockamamie scheme.

SVR GOLUBTSI Blanche cabbage leaves, cook rice. Sauté chopped onions, carrots, and peeled and seeded tomatoes until soft, incorporate with the rice and ground beef. Fold cabbage leaves around two spoons of mixture to form large square envelopes. Fry in butter until brown, then simmer for one hour in stock, tomato sauce, and bay leaves. Serve with reduced sauce and sour cream.

On his return lo Langley, there would be medals, a promotion, choice of assignments, but in reality his career would be over. He would be considered too burned coverwise and too burned out psychologically. By then, he daydreamed, Dominika might be finished at SVR and would be ready to retire and disappear into idyllic resettlement with Nate. It was a hell of a long way around to finally start a new life together, but it would be worth the wait.

In the post-Soviet era, the KGB was disbanded, renamed, reorganized, and renamed again. Eventually, the basic elements of the old organization were split into two new services: the FSB and the SVR. The FSB handled domestic security and counterintelligence, and took over the KGB’s old central headquarters in Lubyanka Square. The SVR became Russia’s new foreign intelligence service. Headquartered in Yasenevo, it was essentially the old First Chief Directorate of the KGB with a new name.

SVR CAFETERIA CHICKEN KIEV Mix and chill compound butter with garlic, tarragon, lemon juice, and parsley. Pound chicken breasts into wafer-thin cutlets. Roll tightly around thumb-sized pieces of compound butter, tie with twine. Dust with seasoned flour, dip in egg wash, coat with bread crumbs. Fry until golden brown. 6 Dominika entered the SVR’s Academy of Foreign Intelligence (AVR) soon after her father’s funeral.

Everyone indeed had lost, but Dominika was running the SVR, and she moved inside the Kremlin, and astride President Putin, ironically back to her hated Sparrow roots in a hopelessly febrile world without her Neyt.

I can’t,” he said. “I’d always be on the run. Too many people want me dead.” That was true enough, he thought. Mogilenko and the Syndikat, even with their deal. Gorobets. Kulyakov and the SBU, the SVR, even the CIA. “A whole alphabet wants me dead. Even worse, they would use me against you.” He looked into her eyes. “It won’t work. Either you get on the plane to Frankfurt with me or we’re done. I can’t stay.” She leaned back and let go of his hands. “You work for the CIA, don’t you? That’s what they could use against you, us, isn’t it?” “No, I told you. I’m independent.” “But you were with the CIA at one time?” He nodded. “Of course. It had to be something like that,” she said. “Politically, it’s impossible. We’re impossible.

கருத்துச் சுதந்திரம் என்பது அவசியமான ஒன்று. என்னளவில் அதற்கு வரையறை தேவையில்லை. யார் வேண்டுமானாலும் என்ன வேண்டுமானாலும் எழுதட்டும், பேசட்டும். ஏன், உளறிவிட்டும் போகட்டுமே. உளறுவதற்கும் சேர்த்தே சுதந்திரம் இருக்க வேண்டும். ஒரு நாகரிக சமுதாயம், உனது மதத்தில் கலாசாரத்தில் இந்த மாதிரியான பிரச்னை இருக்கிறது என்று இன்னொரு சமுதாயத்தை விமர்சிக்கலாம். பதிலுக்கு அந்த சமூகம் இவர்களையும் விமர்சிக்கும். கருத்தியல் ரீதியிலானதாக வன்முறைக்குத் தூண்டாத எந்த ஒரு கருத்தும் பிரச்னை இல்லைதான்.

Rather, Putin cherry-picked a series of ideas that coalesced together and became his guiding star: ultra-nationalism; hatred of the other; contempt for a free press and free speech; intolerance of mockery and humour; profoundly conservative social values; an unfree market in hock to political power; a reverence for ‘the organs’, the KGB and its alphabetic spaghetti predecessors (Cheka, GPU, OGPU, NKGB, NKVD, MGB) and offshoots (SVR, FSB). Without articulating it, with no announcement, Putin was a Russian fascist.

she was faced with not only Pavel Kedrov, the director of the SVR, but with the president of Russia himself.

A special operations element known as Zaslon is reportedly directly subordinate to the SVR director. Zaslon is responsible for protecting senior Russian embassy officials and other Russian government officials when they travel to dangerous locations. For example, Zaslon officers provided security when then-Russian Vice Prime Minister Dmitriy Rogozin traveled to Syria in 2014. The element also conducts covert action missions. Little is publicly known about the group, but it reportedly was created in 1998 to replace special forces units that had been subordinate to the KGB First Chief Directorate during the Soviet era and moved to the Ministry of Security after the dissolution of the Soviet Union.

carried the Makarov outside to watch the fireworks. Thirty yards beyond the spot where Brendan Magill lay dead was a rock wall running on a north-south axis. Gabriel took cover behind it after a 7.62x39mm round shredded the air a few inches from his right ear. Keller hit the ground next to him as rounds exploded against the stones of the wall, sending sparks and fragments flying. The source of the fire was silenced, so Gabriel had only a vague idea of the direction from which it was coming. He poked his head above the wall to search for a muzzle flash, but another burst of rounds drove him downward. Keller was now crawling northward along the base of the wall. Gabriel followed after him, but stopped when Keller suddenly opened up with the dead man’s AK-47. A distant scream indicated that Keller’s rounds had found their mark, but in an instant they were taking fire from several directions. Gabriel flattened himself on the ground at Keller’s side, the Glock in one hand, the dead man’s phone in the other. After a few seconds he realized it was pulsing with an incoming text. The text was apparently from Eamon Quinn. It read KILL THE GIRL . . . 79 CROSSMAGLEN, SOUTH ARMAGH A MID THE HEAP OF BROKEN and dismembered farm implements in Jimmy Fagan’s shed, Katerina had found a scythe, rusted and caked in mud, a museum piece, perhaps the last scythe in the whole of Ireland, north or south. She held it tightly in her hands and listened to the sound of men pounding up the track at a sprint. Two men, she thought, perhaps three. She positioned herself against the shed’s sliding door. Madeline was at the opposite end of the space, hooded, hands bound, her back to the bales of hay. She was the first and only thing the men would see upon entry. The latch gave way, the door slid open, a gun intruded. Katerina recognized its silhouette: an AK-47 with a suppressor attached to the barrel. She knew it well. It was the first weapon she had ever fired at the camp. The great AK-47! Liberator of the oppressed! The gun was pointed upward at a forty-five-degree angle. Katerina had no choice but to wait until the barrel sank toward Madeline. Then she raised the scythe and swung it with every ounce of strength she had left in her body. Two hundred yards away, crouched behind a stone wall at the western edge of Jimmy Fagan’s property, Gabriel showed the text message to Christopher Keller. Keller immediately poked his head above the wall and saw muzzle flashes in the doorway of the shed. Four flashes, four shots, more than enough to obliterate two lives. A burst of AK-47 fire drove him downward again. Eyes wild, he grabbed Gabriel savagely by the front of his coat and shouted, “Stay here!” Keller hauled himself over the wall and vanished from sight. Gabriel lay there for a few seconds as the rounds rained down on his position. Then suddenly he was on his feet and running across the darkened pasture. Running toward a car in a snowy square in Vienna. Running toward death. The blow that Katerina delivered to the neck of the man holding the AK-47 resulted in a partial decapitation. Even so, he had managed to squeeze off a shot before she wrenched the gun from his grasp—a shot that struck the hay bales a few inches from Madeline’s head. Katerina shoved the dying man aside and quickly fired two shots into the chest of the second man. The fourth shot she fired into the partially decapitated creature twitching at her feet. In the lexicon of the SVR, it was a control shot. It was also a shot of

Her name was Dominika Egorova. She was a ballerina, an officer in the SVR, a Sparrow trained to bend others’ minds. She loved and was loved in return.

Polyakov and his fellow officers coached Jim on how to beat the inevitable polygraphs back at Langley. Jim and his SVR handler both knew the CIA would eventually run him through one of its routine lie-detector tests and ask him variations of the question most likely to trip him up: Have you

Two other men appeared behind Simpson, each holding a semi-automatic pistol aimed at the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service. A couple of passengers standing nearby suddenly noticed the drawn weapons, and a woman began screaming. Instantly, it seemed, chaos erupted in that particular section of the terminal. People were running and shouting, desperate to get away from these armed men standing near the Air France desk. But Holbeche, Simpson and the two other men remained stationary, seemingly oblivious to what was going on all around them. Holbeche ignored the two armed men confronting him, and stared only at Simpson. ‘I’ve had a good run, Richard,’ he said. ‘Twenty-odd years — nearly a quarter of a century — working my way up through the ranks in the service, and at the same time cementing my position as the most important single asset the SVR has ever had. Did you know that they’ve already made me an honorary general at Yasenevo?’ ‘But now it’s all over,’ Simpson snapped. ‘You’ve nowhere to go.

The first report from the Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti—the Federal Security Service, or FSB—concerned domestic threats, such as the latest on counterterrorism operations in the Caucasus. The next was from the FSO and contained recent information on opposition figures that displeased him. Another from the GRU outlined the directorate’s support to separatist militias in the eastern Donbass region of Ukraine. Finally, a report from the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki—the Foreign Intelligence Service, or SVR—kept him abreast of phone conversations placed from the hotels of the Ukrainian and American diplomats currently meeting in Berlin with his foreign minister, Uri Popoff.

On the main foredeck, two more crewmen readied diving gear, while inside the main-deck saloon, seven men pulled on neoprene suits. The operators were crowded, but they were accustomed to living and working in close proximity to one another. As members of the elite and secretive Zaslon (Shield) Unit of SVR, this very team of paramilitaries had helicoptered across eastern Ukraine and Dagestan on direct-action missions. They’d killed terrorists and kidnapped local rebel leaders in Chechnya after sitting huddled together in the back of armored vehicles for hours on end, and they’d parachuted into Syria to assist with the escape of a Syrian Army general from a position being overrun by rebels

...two of life’s singular pleasures: Running an SVR officer, and eating breakfast in bed with cunty fingers.

Page had been suckered. Podobnyy was a Russian intelligence officer working for the SVR, Moscow’s foreign intelligence service. He was part of a three-man spy ring that had been handed the assignment of gathering information related to potential U.S. sanctions against Russia, American efforts to develop alternative energy, and other economic topics.

Women haven't been allowed into the Academy for the last fifty years. I could waste six months trying to develop her for nothing. I think I should concentrate elsewhere." Gable leaned farther into the room past Forsyth's shoulder. "That's right, think it all through." He laughed. "Are you fucking kidding me? A knockout like that, plus a close relative to someone on the top floor of the SVR? You better check it out, good and hard. Never mind going after someone else. This is a fucking ripe plum just waiting to get plucked.