“You are right my friend — we are back in the marathon!”
Chapter Three
A light breeze blew across the ocean waves as they broke effortlessly for the beach. A refreshing seawater mist evolved, one that would no doubt dampen all objects in its path. The narrow wooden bench that Peter Zarinsko occupied was no exception, facing the ocean that lay before him, basking in the late afternoon sun.
Of medium height, rail-thin with an olive-skinned complexion resembling someone of Italian descent. He blended in perfectly with the middle-aged yuppies that abounded.
Gazing from side-to-side, Peter wondered if it were all a dream. He had arrived in Philadelphia only three weeks before. Once in Philadelphia, he had assumed the role of atypical tourist — following the script thoroughly detailed by his Syrian handlers during his training in Damascus.
As planned, he visited most of the usual historical sites located throughout the Delaware Valley; the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, Valley Forge and the Betsy Ross House. He hoped to lull any agents of the US Government into a state of complacency. After September 11th,they suspected all people of his faith, so knew he would be followed — at least initially. Hopefully, after seeing his dull routine they would deem him a “tourist” and leave him to fulfill his mission. Only then could he focus in on his primary targets.
With the mid-August temperature having breached 95 degrees, the beach that lay before him still had a respectable, yet dwindling population for the early evening hour. The remaining sun worshipers would soon roll up their cotton towels and heavy woolen beach blankets and head to their expensive rental homes.
On the boardwalk behind him, crowds thickened with toddlers manipulating parents from one amusement ride to another. Stuffing cotton candy in their mouths as they anxiously floated from ride-to-ride on a euphoria provided by the intoxicating combination of childish wonder and sugar. Not once did Peter notice a parent scold or reprimand his or her child for constantly wanting more. He had been forewarned before leaving his homeland of Chechnya, and then once again during his training in Syria, that this kind of behavior was to be expected in the land of milk and honey.
From his prone position on the bench, he couldn’t help but notice the scantily clad young women who plodded along. Coming from a strict Islamic society this was a shock at first for Peter but he slowly became accustomed to “the show” as the waning weeks of his mission flew by. He didn’t mind this part of his work. This was all “eye candy,” another American slang term he had heard on more than one occasion but alas, something he would never see in his homeland.
Peter turned back towards the beach in time to see a dog as it leapt into the air to catch a Frisbee in its mouth. Peter admired the dog’s skill for a few moments, waiting until the dog received a treat for his hard work. Yes, when my work here is complete that dog will be similar to Russia, catching all that we throw, responding to our simplest demands.
Peter Zarinsko had originally gone by his birth name, Muhammad Maizf, before assuming the new identity provided by his Syrian handlers for his mission to the United States.
He was born in the state of Chechnya to an uneducated tailor and a cleaning woman, the oldest of 8 brothers and sisters. At the age of 15, Peter’s father recognized the boy’s leadership qualities and pushed for the young boy to apply to the Frunze Military Academy, Russia’s equivalent of the American West Point. His father hoped Peter would someday become a military officer and escape the cycle of living in squalor.
Once enrolled in the Academy, Peter did not disappoint. He thrived in the Frunze’s esteemed traditions and camaraderie. Through hard work and dedication, he graduated at the top of his class and earned an assignment to Chechnya as his reward.
Once back in his homeland, he rapidly rose through the ranks, eventually assuming command of Chechnya’s only military armory in Grozny. When Chechnya declared its independence from Russia, it was Peter’s job to command the defenders of the armory until the reserve Russian Army units could arrive in force from their bases located on the outskirts of the city. It would be their job to remove the inventory of weapons for safekeeping. Though he was a Russian officer, his inner allegiance lay with his home state of Chechnya. Instead of fighting his fellow countrymen in its bid for independence, Peter instructed his troops to lay down their weapons and surrender to the mobs that soon gathered around the last bastion of Russia sovereignty in their city. Peter tossed open the doors of the armory to the masses and distributed the weapons and ammunition to aid its citizens in their fight for independence. Soon after, he fled to the hills and mountains of Chechnya, now charged with killing Russian soldiers instead of leading them.
He had to evict them from his country, for they were now the enemy.
After twenty long years of civil war, the battles that had ravaged his country were about to end, victorious for his country if he could follow through with his mission in the United States. The rebel leadership had already appointed Peter as the next martyr for their country.
Unfortunately for him, to attain martyr status—he would have to die.
Peter rested heavily on the bench, wondering if his Russian contact would ultimately show up for their meeting. He did say 8 pm in the last E-mail message? Not 8 am? Nervously fidgeting as he scanned the immediate area for any sign of his comrade.
Before arriving in the United States, Peter was provided with a list of Public Libraries in the area where he would receive further instructions. He simply accessed an Arabic web page run by Syrian intelligence, looking for a message posted under Muhammad Maizf for further instructions. Once he opened his message, it would provide a number from one to 10, a meeting time and an identifying object to wear. The first number was to be associated with a location. So for a typical meeting, the message was broken out as: 3, 8 pm, Beach Boys, 8/17. The number three stood for; Ocean City Boardwalk, Mack & Mancos pizza, bench against beach. Then the time: 8pm, then what type of shirt to wear for recognition and finally the date. The code was simplistic in its composition, yet unbreakable. The instructions and meeting times meant nothing to anyone reading them, unless you had the exact locations associated with the times. And these were only provided to Peter before he had left Syria, which he promptly memorized and ripped into pieces before disposing of them in the aircraft lavatory.
The Ocean City Boardwalk made for easy drop due to the masses of people that typically gathered on a Saturday evening. The more people, the easier to mingle in and get lost once the exchange was complete.
Boris Stevensky enjoyed living the good life since his retirement. Unfortunately, retirement had also added many pounds to his small stature, providing him with a Buddha-like girth. His shaven head only enhanced the look. His Swiss doctors pleaded with him to shed some of the weigh. He ignored them all, referring to them as “witch-doctors.”
At one time Boris was considered the top KGB agent for the old Soviet Union. Now, under the new Russian auspices, the KGB was better known as the Federal Security Service or FSB. He was “old school” KGB, having trained most of the FSB leadership now in place, knowing exactly where their criminal mindset and reputations lay.