NKVD Orlov Confesses JFK And Zodiac Murders

K., Code Name Sasha

recorded by

In 1949, I learned of a mistake in trade craft: a Russian spy, a
KGB contact agent, had been sent to Suez and not returned. I was sent
to kill him. Most of the details are secret, punishable by death. I
was driven in a car. No one asked for papers at the border. I was
dressed as a porter and disappeared into a crowd of Arabs.
I took a room in a poor hotel in a poor neighborhood. I spoke
Arabic. Moscow Centre had given me his address and a phyical
description, in code. A picture would be too easy for an enemy agency
to find. He was an overt homosexual, and since I spied on him first, I
saw he used effeminate gestures. I went to shoot him at his house at
midnight. As an ex spy and a practicing homo, punishable by death in
Egypt, he was very fearful. He had two sentries, one in front and one
in back. I sneaked up behind them on tennis shoes. I had practiced
hand chops in Berlin and had it down: the angle had to be perfect.
They fell dead silently enough.
I went upstairs through the quiet house to his bedroom. He was
alone at his desk before an open window where he read a book. I shot
him and he fell backwards out the window. The straightened hair pin
that the gun shot had gone between two ribs, through his heart and out
the other side. I saw it blood encrusted on the floor by the bed near
the wall as I went to the window. Down in the garden, he lay as if
dead, but climbed to his feet as if to run. I shot him a second time
in the back of the skull through the brain. He fell face down. I went
and smashed his face with my fists until he was so bloody you couldn't
recognize him. I took money but left the wallet, to disguise the
nature of the crime and the cause of death. I had made the gun myself,
in Egypt. Due to advanced ballistics, it shot the straightened hair
pin with unusual force and left a hole that could not be traced to any
known caliber bullet. I threw the gun into the bushes and they never
found it, or the hair pin on the edge of the carpet upstairs.
During the 1920's, Moscow Centre had been searching for children
of a particular character type. I began at trade, or spy, school in
Russia at fourteen near Volgorod, Vladivostock in the Crimea. No one
knows you there. I learned to play baseball to help me act like an
American. I also learned assassination, "wet" technique, murder. That
is all forbidden to tell by the KGB. Death is the penalty. I married a
good Russian woman; we had a duaghter. I was placed in Germany, and
ordered to fight against Russia with what is now called the Vaslov
regiment from 1941 to 1945. I never want to speak about it. As a
commando, assassin and impersonator, I had a talent for evading battle
and duty.
After 1945, I spent three years as a prisoner of war in Berlin,
the Western Sector. Let out of prison, I had no apartment. I had a
girl friend, Helga, a nymphomaniac and frigid, weho liked to do it
standing up against the bathroom wall while she called me "Bastard "
and "Pig." Homeless, I had to do it her way. I was fluent in German
and the GI's thought I was German. I worked for them as a guide. This
went on for two years.
At a bar famous for panderers, I noticed a rich American wearing
a suit and tie, so I approached him. He said he was from the Central
Intelligence Agency. He looked old and fat and was Allen Foster
Dulles. I told him I was a guide. He said he wanted a girl for a
friend. I became a procurer for the CIA for ten years. Ten girls a
day, girls by the hundred: I made a million dollars in ten months.
I let a new girl friend of my own go to the British ambassador.
She chose to respond and after five times, he fell in love with her
and went crazy. They wanted to sack him to stop a scandal. They had
him shot with a Luger like a German revenge killing. He was found dead
in the street, like a robbery. The bullet was lodged so deeply in his
brain, they couldn't get it out, an FBI kill shot.
The American and British customs service thought the German
government had done it. They investigated for seven months and found
nothing; but made a lot of Germans angry. Also,American soldiers
whipped German prostitutes even after they slept with them and called
them "Jew killer bastard" which made them hate the Jews all over
again. Revenge on German and French women who coooperated with the
Third Reich some on news film might have affected a hundred thousand
to a million men and women, and the memories remain.
I next had to murder a Count who had become a problem to the
Italian government. An ad hoc group contacted me through the Russian
embassy. I went to Italy by train in December, 1949. I disguised
myself as the Italian ambassador to the US, whom the count thought he
was going to meet. I waited in the hotel room for three days. I shot
him in the abdomen because the payers had required it. I was the best
marksman in Europe. I was a Soviet soldier trained to hate those who
exploited the masses for profit or any other use other than social
justice.
I had a job from the Iranian government to kill some of their
diplomats in Paris. They were drunks running off at the mouth about
government secrets, and had been picked up by Soviet intelligence
which was nested in German society like the thread in the yarn of a
glove. I killed the Iranian foreign minister in the Bois de Boulogne.
I chopped his head off with an axe just to make sure he was dead and
buried him in a shallow grave. I covered it with leaves like the rest
of the famous floor of the Bois. They never found him.
1955, Onofrio Benitez was the president of Guatemala. Of
Portuguese descent, a Mexican by birth, he was an outlaw and a bandit
with an army of Mexicans; tough, but sort of wild. He spied for the
CIA from the beginning, when I had helped him for a few months. He had
lied to me and he had lied to the peasants. After the revolution he
defederalized their land so that it could be bought and sold as
private property again. He had accepted paramilitary aid from the US
who through CIA paid soldiers in Guatemalan and Panamanian uniforms to
slaughter peasants in the jungle to clear the way for the big
landbuyers from all over the world, France included, interested in
coffee, minerals and fruit. Benitez turned real communists in to the
CIA or liquidated them out of hand. It was a criminal enterprise and
that was why he had to be eliminated.
He was six feet tall and fat with a withering stare out coke
crazed eyes. He gave me almost as much coke as he took himself. I had
been close to him in the early days. We walked to an open field on a
Saturday afternoon. The sun was low in the sky ,so the birds were
quuiet and no one would notice we were there. I lifted his machete
from his belt and chopped his right arm off at the shoulder to stop
his gun arm. He looked sadly disappointed. I chopped his head off with
a right handed swing to the left. It fell at his feet, now looking
slightly disapproving. I kicked it like a football a hundred and
twenty yards down hill to the jungle edge. I threw the machete into
the woods nearby and walked away into the jungle for fourteen days all
the way to Ecuador. I bit a snake for its venom. If you work against
its paralyzing properties, you felt a rage to keep moving.
I went to North Africa to escape the heat for a while. A world
alarm had gone out because the police thought the Soviet Union was
somehow responsible; Benitez , having claimed he was a Communist, may
have run afoul of the Central Committee. I spent nine months in the
desert with the Arabs, tents and camels and no radios. I spoke only
Arab dialect. My assistant, a non professional Soviet agent, ran my
procurement business for the CIA and the embassy in Berlin.
A Colombian drug cartel sent for me through the embassy to
eliminate one of their employees thought to be a rat. An ambassador
type, he was supposed to pick up his shipment and his payment in
cocaine at a hotel in Bogota, alone. I waited three weeks for him to
appear; when he did, he looked like the dwarf, Herve Villechaise. I
jumped out the window and hit the street running all the way to
Ecuador. An assassin must react instantly: the one who arrived did not
fit the written description.
In 1958 I was in US so my Russian wife could have a child in an
American hospital, a daughter. A rich woman's son had offended a
Senator. CIA had scandalized and intimidated him but were not
satisfied. They had wrecked his car and poisoned his whiskey and he
was still alive. I had been told he was a Soviet contact who had been
sending misinformation to Moscow Centre. Dressed as an intern, I gave
him a lethal injection,. threw the syringe away, hung up the white
jacket and walked out of the hospital.
I did four murders that were not by contract. A West german pimp
tried to move in on my territory. He threatened me and I snatched his
hyoid bone out, the Adam's apple. The other was an American diplomat
who tried to steal my girl friend, the beautiful one he fell in love
with since again she gave her orgasm. I can not divulge how he was
disposed of; Russia considers it a trade secret.
The Mafia wanted to kill John Kennedy. A message was sent to
Langley from Moscow Centre that said Edward Kennedy was homosexual: I
had found out from Philby. The FBI intercepted the message -- this was
expected -- and showed it to Senator Kennedy, who had this illegal
source. He did not know that the Russians had found out and suspected
they had found out from surveilling his own brother, Jack Kennedy. Ed
told Angleton and Casey and they decided to give more high powered,
organized help to the Mob.
I was hired for the Kennedy assassination and beginning around
September, 1962, hid in the Western desert, Death Valley. At night it
was so cold, you had to zip your tent and sleeping bag, or you'd die
of exposure. In the day, you could not move between twelve and two PM
or you could die of heat prostration. By March, 1963, I thought they
would have done it. My contact at Langley -- I had shown up by
surprise -- said I still had to wait. I kicked him in the eye. I told
Dulles I'd wait one more month.
They kidnapped my wife, a good, true, beautiful woman who loved
me in a true Russian sense. I would not have done anything to hurt
her. Even in Russia, until 1945, while waiting for me to come back
from Germany, she had been under government surveillance, clouded in
fear by low level intimidations like being followed. But I'd been
ordered to fight to conceal my Russian allegiance. In jeopardy and
unknowing, you still had to act like a soldier and put your loyalty to
your country first. Thirteen years went by; then she'd had my daughter
in 1958.Now, in April 1963, the CIA kidnapped them both and brought
them to Langley: Dulles told me in the desert. We met in a ghost town
once a month. He mentioned homo escorts who fuck girls in the clit
until they come. He said they threatened her with death to make her
fellate non whites. He said she sucked the escorts cock so hard they
had to cut it off to get them apart.
Whether it was true or not, I swore I'd kill them all after I
went through with the Kennedy thing. I wanted the job to use the money
to start a business. but they wanted a strangle hold, the threat of
the death of a loved one. And shocking messages, even if untrue, work
on your mind. They needed the throat shot for the perfect plan. The
CIA hired all three gunmen for the Cosa Nostra, myself, Lucien Sarti,
behind the fence, who shot blanks, and Charles Hutchinson, in the
sewer drain further down who shot the exploding bullet that tore the
right side of Kennedy's head off and killed him.
The throat shot is supposed to paralyze the torso muscles, if not
hit the hyoid bone which paralyzes the lungs and causes asphyxiation,.
I was not in the Zapruder film. I was two hundred feet to the right of
the frame before Kennedy came out from behind the sign and turned
right. I was wearing a rain coat and carrying the umbrella, the gun
that shot the ice bullet that had been kept cold in a fake camera
with a sub zero refrigeration device. I had free run of the CIA labs
as soon as the Dallas trip was scheduled two months before which had
also alerted Jack Ruby, who coordinated the Dallas police and the
Mafia side of things, the shooters from the Dal Tex building, detained
by police and released without arrest.
When I fired, I only hit a muscle. He fell forward and to the
left. He straightened up. I felt my whole mission had failed. He must
have pushed up with his hands since the shot had destroyed his spinal
coordination. But then the sewer shot got him and it was over. I threw
the gun away and walked from Dallas, hightailed it to Mexico, cross
country. I screwed nineteen prostitutes in Tiajuana. I could have
fucked an elephant two or three times from the year and a half wait in
the desert.
The FBI and the CIA are still protecting themselves and the
public by not confessing the true criminals behind the Kennedy
assasination. Dulles still met me in the desert, himself now under
cover. He still described the sexual and plain torture of my wife in
terms I will not repeat.
In San Francisco, for the first time, I killed someone so it
could be discovered. I'd made a traceable life for myself in San
Francisco. I had a job as a machinist at a factory where I made the
gun I used, like a .22, but it made a larger hole so they coud never
be sure what had done it; but that would become for the police an
excuse not to solve it, to hide that they didn't know the gun. Whether
I would be killed during capture was always a tricky point, and
against all my training which had become automatic. I shot a couple in
a car and just walked away. In one's mind one thinks that justice will
ensue; like a clock, some authority will investigate and convict. They
would have to admit I shot John Kennedy before a jury and that they
were holding my wife and torturing her. I thought I would be
vindicated.
I shot a man on a park bench and walked from the scene with the
rifle over my shoulder, which was insanely suicidal. Two police cars
passed me and didn't stop or even slow down. Showing you have murdered
is a limit of reality, and when no one responds, it brings an extra
wave of frustration and you want to murder four or a hundred more. The
CIA must have told the police what was happenning.. The next one was
three people in a parked car. I left my fingerprints all over the
trunk and glove compartment as if I had tried to find valuables but
couldn't. The newspaper reported no clues, and I had been
fingerprinted to get my job in a defense related industry. No one
showed up, nothing happened.
Almost in a clown suit, I killed three people on a park bench,
then, without the wig, went to a phone booth with a noticeably padded
stomach. I thought it would cause publicity to get caught in an absurd
costume; but in America alarm over corpses and the inevitable
processes of justice were no longer there. My vision was to tell the
truth from the witness box so that the villains once known would be
prosecuted. It didn't happen.
I imagined some sensational way each murder would be reported but
it was always different. I walked within fifty meters of a car and
shot. I left one alive on a park bench with an inefficient kill shot,
and they still couldn't find me. To arrest a murderer of JFK should
have been a national scandal. I stopped on my own, professionally
bored. I had to retreat back to the desert.

My teen age daughter was murdered as if by a mysterious intruder,
her throat slashed. An intruder was described, but clothes were found
outside that did not match his supposed height and weight. I suspected
the CIA, but had no good clues. I had to stay in the desert and listen
to Allen Foster Dulles.
Moscow Centre informed me that CIA FBI wanted the governor of
Missouri dead. he had advocated gun control. A murder would show
everyone that gun control was necessary, a dramaticness to provide a
diversion and wash their hands of the second motive, he knew
something. They wanted a professional, who would leave the police
clueless and confused, unless you wanted a Mafia murderer, just brave
enough to shoot a gun.
I'd been given his address. map like directions, and a general
physical description. His tailoring was soft, his prissy features were
too fine and sniffily held. I had bought the gun the previous day,
easy in Missouri, with a false ID. I was dressed as a sewer repair
worker and he was the sewer I was sent to repair. I knocked and no one
answered. He was alone in the library. I went as though to ask a
question, and he didn't respond so I shot him with with the 9
millimeter pistol through the forehead at close range. The report was
muffled by the carpets and wall hangings. I wiped my prints off the
gun with a hand towel. I took a shower and a bath because no one was
around or would be until morning. I returned to the desert. (That
murder was alluded to in Three Days Of The Condor with Robert Redford.
I was played by a Swedish actor, Max Von Sydow.)
No one ever mentioned the San Francisco murders to me, the Zodiac
Killer,until 2004. lieutenant Dan Moldea came after me after a London
arrest. The air of the survivors hangs over my conscience, but I was
at war with capitalist society. I will divulge no details without due
process to bring justice on all related issues, though I know this is
non legal. Provocation, duress, is no excuse before the law; but that
in natural justice is how I wished to be judged before God, if he
existed, that is, my case, along with the previous actions of the CIA.
and the pressure they put on me over my wife. My wife never owned the
frame shop in Virginia, as they said, and died under unexplained
circumstances.

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