After several seconds, a sense of relief surged over Rufa, his eyelids fluttering several times.
“Get over here and tell me who this man is!” demanded Captain Isinov to Sirna, tossing him harshly down beside Rufa. “He is in your unit. Now tell me who the hell he is!” He pushed Sirna’s head to within inches of Rufa Miliruid’s face. “Do you recognize this soldier?”
“I do not know him,” Sirna said unconvincingly. “He was placed in my unit at the last moment.”
Captain Isinov brutally pulled Sirna’s hair back, almost breaking his neck in the process. “You are a lying little pig. You answered too readily.” He tossed him to one side leaning down over the legless Rufa. “Can you hear me comrade?”
Rufa nodded.
“Good. I have provided you with some medicine to ease your pain comrade. Now, I have some questions for you.”
Rufa opened his eyes, surprised to see his brother at his feet, reaching out to him with his still functioning right hand.
Captain Isinov couldn’t help but notice the sign of recognition.
“Do you know this man my friend?” Captain Isinov inquired, leaning down to comfort Rufa, lifting his head gently and pointing to Sirna.
“Sirna Miliriud my own brother, our great field commander.” He tried to touch him before surrendering to the convulsions that raked his body.
Captain Isinov laid Rufa’s head gently down in the snow, whispering for him to rest now for his time with his God would soon be forthcoming.
Captain Isinov turned to Sirna. “As a humanitarian gesture I will provide you with a few seconds to say good-bye to your brave brother. Sorry, I must apologize but we can’t leave you two alone it wouldn’t be prudent now would it?”
Looking at Sirna for some type of response, sensing none, he continued on. “I take it that you choose not to participate in my gesture of good will?”
Sirna’s head remained bowed.
“Private Krimiv, I am losing my touch. I am becoming too soft in my old age,” said Captain Isinov jokingly, removing his weapon from his holster and placing it inches from Rufa’s left ear. “Are you sure you have nothing to say to your brother? Not many people would get this second chance?”
Again with no response from Sirna, Captain Isinov casually pulled the trigger ending Rufa’s life with a single bullet to his head.
“I can be generous and show compassion when it is warranted.” He re-holstered his weapon, smiling at Sirna. “It is Sirna Miliruid, is it not? A dying man would not lie to us would he? No, I don’t think so. Now if I remember correctly, Sirna Miliruid is the Field Commander for the Rebel Eastern sector.”
Sirna did not flinch, knowing his brother had already been taken by Allah’s hand.
“Corporal, signal our air team to be at the extraction point in 2 hours. Also inform them we will need immediate transport to Moscow after landing in Grozny.”
Sirna knew he had to escape or kill himself before they evacuated him to Moscow. If they brought him to Moscow alive he could surely betray his comrade’s plans. He knew the Russians used drugs and torture to assist in the interrogation process, making it impossible to hold back any information. Sirna and his compatriots had much to lose if he lived, including the principle operation in the United States.
The captain mockingly saluted Sirna before he turned to walk away.
The corporal laughed aloud as leaned over to feel the pulse of the prisoner.
Sirna saw the opportunity Allah had presented to him. He sprung up from his kneeling position as if a coiled cobra lunging at its prey, slamming his body heavily into the corporal, applying a sharp head butt to his exposed fore head, knocking the corporal unconscious atop his brother.
Captain Isinov turned in time to view Sirna sprawled overtop of the corporal.
Sirna desperately clawed with his cuffed hands at the corporal’s belt. “I will avenge your death my brother,” he said aloud as he pulled a grenade out of the belts webbing, struggling in vain to reach the metal release pin.
Fingering the grenade, he rotated it until he felt the metal hoop that signaled the pin. A smile broke across his face knowing his plan would succeed.
As he struggled to pull the pin, a sharp blow rendered him unconscious.
Chapter Five
Boris Stevensky mopped the perspiration from his brow as he left Peter sitting alone on the bench by the beach, trying to fade unnoticed into the crowded environment that the boardwalk had so conveniently provided. Boris smugly realized that he had just dropped off an envelope with a black market worth of between $2 — 4 Billion US dollars. Then again the price reflected just how badly a country desired the information and how much money they were willing to pay to become a nuclear nation.
The absurdity of it all caused a smile to appear. Everyone could always use a few extra dollars, especially an extra billion or two. Not that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. He wasn’t a greedy man, satisfied with the monies he had secreted in his Antigua and Swiss bank accounts.
As second in command of the Embassies KGB unit, Boris had access to a bank account the Soviet Union used to subsidize its US spy network. The bank account at any one time contained close to $25 Million American dollars. With Boris being one of only four people who had access to the account, he had the ability to manipulate the figures paid out to his network of spy’s, and skim some cream from the top.
Over the first part of his career, Boris never so much as took a single ruble or payout from anyone, choosing the straight and narrow course. But as he grew older he realized his meager pension would never be able to cover his retirement expenses.
Initially he removed small amounts from travel funds. Before long, he started falsifying the payments to his network of spies. If he listed a payment of $1,000 dollars, it was actually only $500. It was so simple, why didn’t anyone else think of it? Then again, who’s to say they didn’t?
Using this simple technique over a six-year period, Boris funneled $520,000 into a Swiss bank account. He then invested his money into the German and American stock markets. Netting a profit of $10.5 million by the time he withdrew his money in 2001.
Boris managed to walk only 75 to 100 feet from Peter before he paused in front of a large plate glass window that read “Styers Fudge” in gold and acrylic lettering. The window allowed Boris to view Peter through its reflection. He wanted to stick around to see what transpired with his young contact and maybe shadow him for an hour or two just to see if he still had some of his old KGB skills.
Boris watched Peter as he walked to a business no more than 50 feet from where he stood. He must be replacing the pizza that he dropped when I scared the crap out of him, thought Boris.
Boris scoured the crowd around him before noticing a man in a white dress shirt, minus the tie, put his hand to his ear, say something into his sleeve and walk to Mack & Manco’s Pizza Shop.
Boris didn’t need to think twice, with FBI being his first thought. There were probably 2 or more agents spread out on the boardwalk with two or more in the rear of the shops and one on the beach. That would be typical for an FBI espionage operation.
That damn rookie slipped up somewhere thought Boris as he tried to blend in with the casually dressed crowd, assuming a position beside a young family of five. He walked in line with the young family as if he were part of their tight little group hoping to be assumed as the family’s grandfather.
Boris strolled beside the family for a block or so before peeling off into one of the numerous Tee-shirt shops that plied their cheap wares along the boardwalk. Walking into one such shop, he quickly grabbed a hat boldly proclaiming, “Ocean City is for lovers,” a pair of aviator sunglasses, along with a black shirt that stated, “Motorcycles rule the Beach.”