His ride to the top was derailed when caught in a compromising situation with a female FBI agent. At the time, he was employed as one of the Soviet Union’s Senior Cultural Liaison’s at its Washington Embassy, working directly for the KGB Station Chief. It was the old “Honey Pot” in reverse, with many American diplomats having been caught in the same embarrassing situation. His expulsion from the country effectively ended his overseas career. Upon his return home, his superiors assigned him to a minor position at the KGB training academy in Volgograd. In effect, hoping Boris would just simply fade away. But Boris had an ace up his sleeve: his photographic memory. He could view a document for only a few seconds and commit the document to memory.
As the lead “spook” at the Soviet Union’s Washington DC embassy, he experienced many an opportunity to view “red” or “for your eyes only” documents meant for the Ambassador or KGB Station Chief. On one such occasion he was able to view an extraordinary document, one that would never leave the recesses of his mind. He knew the document would have immense value at some point in his future.
Boris despised what Russia had become in its downward spiral from its super power status only years before. Now she lay regulated to hovering between a second or third-rate nation. He had visions that possibly with a little push from his end; the real Russia could once again emerge and regain to its rightful position of power.
Boris had provided Peter with instructions to stand in front of the bench as a signal if being watched or followed that way Boris would simply walk by unnoticed. Boris’s years of undercover experience taught him never to relax. The one time you did, you’d get caught. Just like his Honey Pot sting.
Boris cursed silently as he exited the air-conditioned shop. He had never become accustomed to weather in the states, even after spending six long years in Washington DC.
In front of him the boardwalks pedestrian traffic maintained some resemblance of an American highway with both the right and left hand side’s moving according to roadway etiquette. He waited for a break in the flow before merging and walking toward the ocean side of the boardwalk. He continually scanned the crowd for anyone that may stand out from the ordinary tourist.
After 30 years of being in the business, Boris could detect someone who seemed out of place. Anyone sporting a “high and tight” haircut was usually the easiest to spot, this being the preferred cut for most law enforcement types. Suit and ties were a dead giveaway — inexpensive ones at that. Policing agencies in the United States were not known for being generous when it came to dealing with the clothing allowance. Such a shame thought Boris, scanning the crowd for any tell tale signs. The United States could learn a lesson or two from the Russian FSB. Maybe on his next trip to the US he could make a pitch to one of his old advisories in the FBI, maybe even teach a class on how criminals evade police surveillance.
Sweating profusely as he walked the remaining distance to his contact, Boris knew this would be the make or break point, the final few meters. Should he just walk past and drop the envelope near his contacts feet? Such a move would allow him to blend safely into the background and keep pace with the jostling crowd. No, he couldn’t take the chance of the envelope falling through the board’s cracks and to the beach below. This wouldn’t be prudent with several billion dollars worth of state owned product on hand!
Ever vigilant, he looked from side-to-side as he stopped to mop his brow. Satisfied the area was indeed clear — he sat down heavily beside his contact.
Initially caught off guard, Peter dropped his slice of his pizza on his pants before it slipped to the boardwalk.
Boris tried to conceal a slight smile not wanting to offend his young Muslim contact, realizing it was probably his first undercover operation.
Boris reached into the pocket of his white Panama shirt and pulled out a manila business envelope. He delicately wrapped it with a white handkerchief he had produced from his pants pocket, handing it to Peter as if to assist with the spill.
Peter realized what Boris was trying to do and willingly took the handkerchief, thanking the polite stranger that he was.
Using the handkerchief to blot the red pizza sauce off of his pants, Peter eased the envelope between his legs.
Boris glanced at Peter out of the corner of his eye, careful to keep his head aligned straight as if looking towards the beach. He sat there silently wondering if this young man were as brave and idealistic as his Syrian handlers stated he would be. The information Boris had received on his subject was clear; he graduated at the top of his class and excelled in every area. Boris wondered if he could follow through on an operation Boris himself had lost the nerve to perform several years before? He personally had no stomach for it— age does that to a man.
Within 3 days the whole world would know if his Syrian handlers were to be believed.
The simple exchange of the business envelope complete, Boris calmly bent down as if to tie his shoes. “We are off the communication cycle. No more meetings, phone calls or e-mails.” He now worked on the other lace. “I am disappearing after this. I do not want to be connected with this operation in any way. Do you understand what I am saying my young friend? I am a ghost.”
“Yes, all according to your plan sir,” Peter responded in flawless English, a product of his Frunze Military Academy training. “I have everything we will need right here,” patting the envelope Boris had delivered to him. “You can now retreat back to your safe house knowing you have performed a great deed with your actions here today. Allah and my country will be eternally grateful for your divine intervention.”
Boris pondered Peter’s response for a moment. Why did he make it a point to say safe house? What else did the Syrians tell this man?
Boris turned to face the young man for the first time since sitting down. “You’re right to assume I have a safe house. I maintain a small villa in Switzerland. It’s my insurance policy where I hope to live out my remaining days.”
Peter carefully picked up his pizza slice from the boardwalk, tossing it onto the beach near an unsuspecting pack of seagulls. He watched as the seagulls attacked the food in earnest then each other for the edible prize.
“There will be nothing to connect you with the events of the next three days. You have my word on that. My people are grateful for all you have done. We would never allow any harm to come to our friends. The only people you should fear are the infidels you associate with. They are the ones who will turn on you like Jackal’s — not my fellow brothers.”
Boris stepped over to the rail that separated the beach from the boardwalk, still confident he was with-in earshot of Peter. “In my youth, I studied the great Roman and Greek empires. I was fascinated with their histories, philosophies, and teachings they provided. One particular area of interest was myths, both of the Roman and Greek variety.” He paused for several seconds, looking back to see if he held his Muslim friend’s attention.
Peter nodded.
“Well here I am spouting off about something that may or may not interest you but here goes. The ancient Romans had a myth about the sea. A beautiful sea-maiden sits on a rock out at sea, blowing kisses to all sailors who happen by, trying to lure them into her domain. Of course, her beauty is so enticing they choose to sail closer. The closer they sail, the more her beauty becomes apparent. It’s at this point the vision suddenly disappears, changing back to reality; a rock. This happens all too late for the poor misguided sailors, for they collide with the rock and are tossed into the sea. The sea maiden then dutifully rises up to swallow the results of her actions.”